#coerce the fucking data types

[goodladyjess]

I wish who ever stored these dates as strings with different formats in the same column a very FUCK YOU

[crane-among-celandines]

Oh hey, that's the OS boot logo for Schaft Industry's experimental type J-9! I remember hearing about that back in the day! It was a really cool project, but it turned out that like, the project chief, Utsumi, was some shady guy from Hong Kong called "Richard Wong"?

And his test pilot was like, a random Indian kid he'd just grabbed off the streets and coerced into fighting the cops for combat data?

I tell you, this shit never would have happened at SHI. God, the Labor industry can be fucking nuts sometimes.

[sabraeal]

Modern AU: Obi calls back home for the first time in years.

The first nice day in April finds Obi out on the fire escape, elbows braced against his knees to keep his hands from shaking.

His phone has one contact pulled up, his thumb hovering over the call button. He’s paralyzed; every time his gaze catches on the name, it’s like being punched in the gut. Not like when he was in the ring, prepped and tense, but like when he was just some undersized foster kid, someone who would be leaving soon, someone no one would remember if you stuffed them in a locker or shoved them head-first into a toilet. Something he can never be prepared for, no matter how many times it happens.

Home, it reads.

He has no good reason to still have the number. He must have gone through four phones in the seven years since he’s lived there, but it’s somehow followed him through each other. First the pre-paid brick they gave him so his social worker could contact him; then the pay-as-you-go one he got to blend in at the gym; migrating into his first for-real, honest-to-god smart phone that he bought with his own money, with an actual service contact and everything; and finally his current phone, bought to replace the last when he dropped it in the Everglades and a very satisfied looking gator snapped it up.

Joke’s on him, that shit wasn’t even 4G.

He should have lost it somehow; he’d had to manually type in all his contacts between the first two, using just the number keys – that particular transfer predated interchangeable SIM cards, and migrating data was a laugh and a half. When the gator took his last one, he though that’d be it – turns out you can’t migrate contacts from gator stomach even if it gets service – but the number had flown from his fingers, easy as if he called it every day still.

And here he is now, wishing he had managed to forget it. Or, well, not really, he wants to do this, it’s just – he’s just –

Nothing about this is easy.

Obi takes a deep breath, head between his knees, and fucking calls. Because he’s got to be an adult at least once in his life, and even if – even if they hate him, they deserve better than wondering if he’s dead in a ditch somewhere.

It rings enough times for him to have second thoughts. Who says they want to hear from him after all this time? They were probably glad to be rid of him after all the trouble he caused –

The line picks up. “Hello!” a woman answers brightly, like she’s been interrupted mid-laugh. His eyes water just hearing it. It’s just how he remembered. “Hello?”

“H-hi,” Obi manages, breathless. He’s missed this; he never realized how much he’s missed just this.

The line is silent for a long moment. “Who is this?” she breathes, and she can’t possibly know him, not just from his voice, not after all these years.

There’s not enough air to breathe, like three floors up the air is as thin as Everest. “It’s Obi.”

“Mother Mary and Joseph,” Gayle gasps, “Obi.”

He’d be sure she hung up, if he couldn’t still hear her breathing.

“I, uh.” God, he should have actually planned on saying something. “This was – if this is a bad time, I could –”

“No!” He jerks away from the phone from how loud it is. “No, don’t go anywhere. I just –”

He hears another line pick up. “Obi,” a man says, firm yet calm. “How are you doing, son?”

He lets out a shaking breath, relief opening up his lungs again. Trust Bob to act like they talked days ago, instead of years. “I’m, um, good. Really good.”

“Good to hear.” There’s something in his voice that’s steely, something that clamps like a vice. “Where are you?”

“Florida. An hour south of Miami,” he says, and it feels just like he’s sixteen again, asking Bob to come get him from the woods at the edge of town because he’s too drunk to get home.

Bob lets out a chuckle. “I thought we raised you better than to end up in Florida.”

He huffs out a laugh at that. “I’m going to school here,” he explains, and now he remembers how words work, now that he’s gotten to the part he meant to call about. “I, uh, study turtles. Biology. I’m – I’m just finishing up my undergrad, but I’m going to get my PhD.”

“That’s great,” Gayle gushes, watery, and he feels his own eyes tear in response. God, who let him have emotions, what a pain. “Are you with anyone?”

“I live with my –” He knows the situation is simple; they’re friends, they’re roommates, but it somehow seems unfathomably difficult to explain. “With Shirayuki. She’s in the same program.”

“How long y’all been together?” Bob asks, in that same tone he’d get with any of the other kids when they brought friends home from college.

“Uh, we, um, met sophomore year.” He almost blurts out that she hated him, that he’d locked her out of the science building and he’d been coerced into joining all her classes as penance, but – he wants them to think he’s doing well. Giving them backstory is just going to make Gayle worry. “She’s really nice. She’s from Pennsylvania.”

Wow, what a stupid thing to say. Of all her good qualities, he chooses Pennsylvania.

“I love Pennsylvania,” Gayle offers earnestly, even as Bob smother a laugh on his line. “She sounds lovely.”

It occurs to him that maybe he’s given them the wrong impression, but – who could it hurt? It’s not like they’ll meet her. He’s just calling to tell them he’s alive. That’s he’s good because even though he didn’t stay, they never left him.

“She’s great,” he agrees, maybe letting too much show. It’s fine, they’ll never have to know that he’s in love with a girl in love with someone else. “I know this is a little out of no where, but I, uh, I just wanted you guys to know I’m okay.”

“We’re both glad to hear it,” Bob tells him. He lowers his voice, like he’s telling a secret. “Gayle’s a little overcome right now.”

“Bob.”

“Ah, it’s fine.” He shakes his head, even though there’s no way they could see. “I should keep this short anyway. I gotta get back to – to Shirayuki.”

“Of course you do.” He can hear the sly smile, the look that must pass between them. “How about you call back a little later? We’ll have a real talk then. Catch up.”

“I…” It’s hard to talk around the lump in his throat. “Yeah. That would be…nice.”

“Great.” He hears pages flipping. “How about…Wednesday? Doesn’t bump into anyone else’s day, I don’t think.”

“Y-yeah, that’s…that’s good for me.” His hands shake. “Until then.”

[bmalegal]

My Asian Roommate Stole My Handjob!

Welcome to Great Moments in Drunken Hookup Failure, where we showcase four heartwarming true stories of drunken love gone horribly awry. Off we go.

Hammertime:

Last year, I did a Junior-year exchange to a California school from college in Britain. It was my 21st birthday. We had a date party that night, and I invited a girl from our sister sorority, who I’d really liked when we’d had an event together, but drunkenly hooked up with her friend instead (oops). Regardless, she said yes, and since it’s a date party and my 21st, I figure I have it in the bag.

We’re flirting and making out the whole time, and she doesn’t want to go back to her sorority, so we stumble to my dorm room, both blackout drunk.

At that point, I lived in a 6 guy suite, three guys apiece in two bedrooms, with a shared living room. My roommates were all freshmen and sophomores, and all more studious than I was, and all in bed already that night. I don’t care that my roommates are asleep, drunk as I am, so we just climb into my bed (I have the only top bunk in the room, so I guess that makes it almost defensible). Bottom line is, we start fooling around, and then I simply pass out before anything good happens. So I managed to cockblock myself by drinking too much, which is not in itself that interesting or improbable.

The next morning I wake up surprisingly early, still a little drunk, and no sign of my date. I think this is a bit weird, but assume she left after I passed out. I hang out in the living room of our suite with the one roommate of mine I consistently talk to, and suddenly my date appears – from the other bedroom of our suite, not mine. I’m confused, but she needs to leave quickly and I lend her some clothes to ease her walk of shame (stride of pride?). One of my very studious Asian roommates then walks out of the same room, with a strange grin on his face, so I ask him what’s going on.

It turns out what happened that she woke up in the middle of the night, went to the bathroom, and climbed back into what she thought was my bed – IN THE NEXT ROOM OVER. My roommate, completely surprised and sober, didn’t object strongly enough to stop her (why would he?) and definitely didn’t complain when she gave him a drunken handjob (I presume she thought it was me?). Anyway, my studious Asian roommate, who never partied and who I had about 3 real conversations with, ended up getting more action on my 21st than I did.

Well played, Data.

Dave:

It was the summer of 2004 after my freshman year in college. A group of us decided to take the train into Chi-town to go to the Taste of Chicago. This group happened to include my ex-girlfriend from high school, who I definitely still wanted to hook up with whenever I had the chance. Obviously the only reason anyone would go to the hot, sweaty, overcrowded disaster that is the Taste when you’re under 21 is to get loaded, and we were no exception.

After ripping unhealthy amounts of vodka, I was putting on what I thought were decent moves on my ex. As the night progressed, the vodka took over and I felt like I was doing pretty good. And as it turned out, I must have said something right because somehow I convinced her to let me drive her home from the train station when we got back (mind you it’s about 1am and I can barely see straight). All is well as we decide to park on a side street by her house as we always used to do back in the day, and I figure I’m a shoe-in to rekindle the sex flame. After what seems like hours of coercing, I finally get her in the back of my Explorer and clothes are starting to come off.

Right as the action reaches an R rating, a bright light starts shining through my back window…cops. We dive into the front seats when the officer comes to the window. He doesn’t say anything, just points forward in front of my car. I was parked at a stop sign. Apparently the neighbors called the police reporting a suspicious vehicle, and I can’t say that I blame them. I reeked of alcohol, was slurring my words and was pretty embarrassed that I could be so stupid. But not as embarrassed as I felt when the cops (instead of giving me a DUI) called both of my parents to come pick our drunk asses up and drive us home at about 3am. Moral of the story: don’t park at stop signs. Oh yeah, and don’t drink and drive…especially in your dad’s car. Needless to say I never hooked up with her again.

Ouch. I’d almost rather be arrested. But not really.

Ray:

I’m 40 now. This happened when I was 18. This mess happened at a family Halloween party given by my aunt and uncle . Lots of family, aunts, uncles, parents and kids are there. My cousin, intros me to his "friend". He tells me that he is totally into her but I get the sense that she just doesn’t dig him in the way he wants since she keeps staring at me.

My cousin is the type of dude that has no game and gets no girl attention at all. On this night, he is ga-ga over this girl. Her costume consists of some sort of mechanic’s baggy overall-one-piece-suit. I can’t tell what her body looks like. The drinks start flowing and this chick starts pounding the Jungle Juice (every kind of booze you can grab mixed with red punch).

My cousin is all over this chick and he is getting nowhere, poor fucking guy. We’re all pretty twisted so when my cousin leaves her side to go dance with his mom (my aunt), she comes over to me, grabs my hand and leads me to the side of the house. I’m hoping nobody has caught on to this chick’s underhanded move.

Next thing you know, we are making out in bushes, in some cold dirt. I unzip her mechanic’s baggy overall-one-piece-suit to reveal the best rack I have ever put my face between. Amazing. These are the kind of tits you think of and get a hard-on in church. Within two minutes, I have her panties off, fingering her, my cock out and my face in her tits when my fucking aunt, mother of my cousin, catches us in the bushes. OH FUCK…….

As I’m ready to stick it in, my aunt starts kicking me and yelling at the both of us. The girl zips up her tits and pussy and she’s gone, running down the street.

As my aunt is yelling at me, she is fucking staring at my whipped out hard-on. My cousin hears the ruckus, comes over and starts punching me. Family comes over to break us up. The girl’s friend finds her down the street, throws her drunk ass in the car, they’re gone in seconds.

My late grandfather who is also at this family party comes over and sits me and my cousin down and tells us, in his words, "Don’t fight over pussy." I miss him.

Years later I ran into this chick at a Raider game with some dude, not my cousin. My cousin still hates me.

I bet he does.

Larry:

I went out drinking at a Russian-themed vodka bar last Saturday in my semi-large Southern college town. This is a place with a lot of techno and a lot of strobe lights where you either have to be on ecstasy or blitzed out of your mind to have a good time. Cheap well vodka and two-dollar Schlitzes made me a member of the latter group. I strike up a conversation with a cute blonde, Paula, who is standing at the bar by herself. I buy her a drink and things seem to be going well so I ask her to dance.

Paula REALLY liked dancing, so much so that I had to concentrate to keep up. We do our thing for a while then go back to the bar, where Paula introduces me to her friend Bitsy. I instantly recognize Bitsy as a card-carrying Cockblocker, because she keeps insisting to Paula that they should leave. I’ve seen this happen too many times, so I get them both multiple shots to buy time because I know Paula is in to me. Luckily, an angel sent from heaven in the form of a black guy who looked EXACTLY like Damian Marley asks Bitsy to dance. I grab Paula, go back on the dance floor and do enough to seal the invite back to her place.

Paula, Bitsy, Damian and I head back to the girls’ apartment, which is located in a sketchy part of town in between the bars and the college. Having already avoided one potential cockblock, I am instantly confronted with another. The girls’ cunt terrier has COMPLETELY trashed their apartment. I spend the next ten minutes picking up trash in their living room while Damian goes on and on about his reggae band and Paula yells at someone on the phone. I finish the clean up, get Paula off the phone, take her to her room (finally), where things proceed to get hot and heavy. We’re fully naked, third base rounded, when I hear a LOUD knock at the door. My drunk mind is praying it’s Damian who got kicked out and is trying to get back in. Thirty seconds later, her phone rings. Her boyfriend is calling and is at the front door. Of course he is.

She starts crying and runs to the front door while I find my clothes and prepare for the worst. As I exit her room, her boyfriend charges at me with a full head of steam. I go into fight or flight mode and end up wrestling him to the ground and getting enough punches in for him to stay there. I then proceed to sprint out of the apartment with a ripped shirt and "little Larry" at full attention passed a group of his friends standing outside, who then proceed to chase me. Luckily, my head start put me about a hundred yards ahead of them and I race into the nearby woods, where they lose me. After avoiding two potential cockblocks, I end my night spending a half hour in the woods at 4 am until a car full of dudes could pick me up.

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