#college student chicken pot pie

[bryanangeline]

Amazingly Easy, Surprisingly Tasty Broke College Student Chicken Pot Pie - Main Dishes

A chicken pot pie is made mostly from canned ingredients you can keep stashed away in your pantry. Even a broke college student can put it together and eat a hot meal in just a few minutes.

[wannnnnes]

Amazingly Easy, Surprisingly Tasty Broke College Student Chicken Pot Pie - Main Dishes

A chicken pot pie is made mostly from canned ingredients you can keep stashed away in your pantry. Even a broke college student can put it together and eat a hot meal in just a few minutes.

[jonahcarter]

Amazingly Easy, Surprisingly Tasty Broke College Student Chicken Pot Pie - Main Dishes

A chicken pot pie is made mostly from canned ingredients you can keep stashed away in your pantry. Even a broke college student can put it together and eat a hot meal in just a few minutes.

[lissbirds]

Amazingly Easy, Surprisingly Tasty Broke College Student Chicken Pot Pie The majority of the ingredients in a chicken pot pie come in cans, which you can store them in your pantry. In just a few minutes, even a broke college student can put it together and eat a hot meal.

[red-bloody-girl]

Pot Pie - Amazingly Easy, Surprisingly Tasty Broke College Student Chicken Pot Pie

[revivemyreverie]

I posted 472 times in 2022

That's 216 more posts than 2021!

235 posts created (50%)

237 posts reblogged (50%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@calderadorm

@the27th

@piraticusdorm

@twst-vampire

@witchinghouracademy

I tagged 458 of my posts in 2022

Only 3% of my posts had no tags

#twst oc - 240 posts

#twisted wonderland - 165 posts

#twisted wonderland oc - 148 posts

#ask game! - 135 posts

#calderadorm - 35 posts

#kendrick hellhaven - 31 posts

#twisted wonderland fandorm - 31 posts

#andreas hellhaven - 24 posts

#rosecrux - 21 posts

#aldrich edelweiss - 20 posts

Longest Tag: 65 characters

#the hair💐❤️‍🔥💖💐❤️‍🔥💖💖💐💖❤️‍🔥💐❤️‍🔥💖❤️‍🔥💖💐❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

“My savior just might exist..! I just need to find them through all these witches.”

Twisted from: Prince Florian (Snow White)

Aldrich Edelweiss

オルドリッチ・エーデルバイス

CV: Shouta Aoi (蒼井 翔太)

Technical info.

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Pansexual

Birthday: 04/27

Age: 19

Height: 5’7

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Black

Hand Pref.: Left

Homeland: Edelweiss Empire

College Info.

Year: 2

Class: 2A Set 3

Club: Track and Field

Favorite Subject: Biology

Other.

Hobby: Hunting

Likes: Camellias

Dislikes: Witches; Goblins

Favorite Food: Chocolate

Hated Food: Apples

Specialty: Acting

One Song: Can mimic the voice of another for exactly 3 minutes and 25 seconds

To Kill a Witch is to become a Prince

Having been born heir to a kingdom obsessed with order, Aldrich found life to be stressful and depressive. He began to attend church in order to find a savior in his life, and instead found comfort in a kind girl who worked in the Church’s choir. She saved him from a life of suffering, and Aldrich soon fell in love. But when the found out she would be engaged to his younger brother, Valentine, Aldrich felt like the world was going to crash in on him. He cut off contact with her, calling her a heretic and witch. The prince said he would never see her again, and it appears he kept to his word.

See the full post

124 notes - Posted January 14, 2022

#4

Hiding something?

129 notes - Posted November 14, 2022

#3

Past delinquent meets past delinquent…

145 notes - Posted July 6, 2022

#2

I walked with you once upon a dream

I know you

That look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.

————

“Whew~, what’s with you and that Vanrouge guy? You can’t even meet him in the eyes, ahahaha!”

“… My opinion of Vanrouge is none of your business, Brennen.”

162 notes - Posted October 10, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

“I don’t care how many takes we need or if this is wasting time! Just admit you can’t perform at my level and get off my stage!”

Twisted from: Erik, the Phantom of the Opera

Lucero Symphomia

ルーチェロー・シムフォミア

CV: Yoshitsugu Matsuoka (松岡 禎丞)

Technical Info.

Other Names: Luce, Monsieur Ange de la Musique (Mr. Angel of Music), Blobfish

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Pansexual

Birthday: 01/08

Age: 19

Height: 174 cm (5’8)

Eye color: Dual; Green and Blue

Hair Color: Rose Brown

Hand Pref. Ambidextrous

Homeland: Monolith Village

College Info.

School Year: 3rd

Class: 3-A Seat 29

Club: Film Studies

Occupation: Student, Countertenor

Other.

Hobby: Singing

Likes: Opera

Dislikes: Being treated unfairly

Favorite Food: Chicken Pot Pie

Least Favorite Food: Fried foods

Talents: Vocal Coaching

UM: Music of the Night

Using only his voice, Lucero can enchant those around him into following his every command. He prefers to not use this skill, as it requires him to sing the entire time.

See the full post

200 notes - Posted October 16, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[mugoflove2018-blog]

A night that I wont forget.

I remember one time my boyfriend and I went to go see his grandma in Canada. The second we got there she handed us TWO JOINTS, and said “these are for you, I got them for you two”... mind you my boyfriend and I do smoke the devils lettuce but I remember keenly his mom told us before we left “DONT SMOKE WITH GRANDMA” and I was thinking... “god how I am gonna break that rule so fast.” And so, the second night we were there my boyfriend, let’s call him “grape” grape bought the both of us captain Morgan rum... (god just typing the name is giving me PTSD) and we started to drink and smoke the joints that were given to us... while drinking the rum and watching brooklyn 99 I felt as though the rum wasn’t hitting me quick enough so I started chugging...(this was a horrible mistake) my dumbass forgot to account for the fact that I didn’t eat anything before I started drinking... HALF THE BOTTLE IS GONE. HALF. MY SMOLL ASS DRANK HALF. I DONT WEIGH MUCH. AND THIS RUM HIT ME LIKE A TON OF BRICKS.

Oh but honey...there’s more...

Grape and me got hungry so we went upstairs so rummage in the fridge for some food and we found some chicken pot pie... YUM. I proceeded to fumble for a plate (surprised I didn’t drop it) and microwaved that cunt. Then we hear grapes grandma come into the kitchen...(shit) but knowing her she’s not stupid she DEFINITELY knew grape and me were blitzed. But she was totally chill and began talking to us, it was a good conversation and I’m the end she told us to take the chicken pot pie downstairs for us to enjoy and we did along with some sparkling water...

The night...ended... with me throwing up into a garbage can with grape patting my back as I threw up my soul... he and I walked back into the bedroom to sleep... but however....

I couldn’t sleep because I forgot to drink enough water so my body was heating up from the rum and it. Was. Uncomfortable. As. HELL. Mind you grapes metabolism is a fucking steam engine so his body was RADIATING FIRE. I slowly inch away from him and to my demise it was unbearable...I got up took my shirt off and laid on the carpet hoping it was cool me down... NO. NO IT DID NOT. I rolled onto the wooden floor just waiting for the cool floor to help me fall asleep BUT NO. It like pemdas my body cancelled out the cold feeling of the floor and made it WARM. So...I got up BACK into bed and forced myself to sleep...I took sips of water throughout the night praying I don’t have a hangover. But Haha.... I woke up with a massive headache, stomach in a wreck, my eyes hurt like hell and loud noises were the end of me... so the moral of the story...

Imma do it again....

:)

[friendlyhufflepuff]

My favorite beginner friendly low effort meals

Hello! Every year I make various back to school posts, but this one may also be helpful to a variety of people-College students, anyone moving out on their own for the first time, and people like me who don't always have the mental bandwidth to put together elaborate meals. I am not a chef, or even a particularly skilled cook, so the recipes that you'll find below are as simplified as possible and use a lot of similar ingredients and techniques to each other. Note that all fresh produce can be substituted for canned or frozen if needed. I realize that the terms 'easy' and 'beginner friendly' are relative, but I hope that you'll find the meals below accessible.

*** I'm from the Mid Atlantic in the United States, so what you have in your area might differ.

***Note: I do not list specific measurements of spices because I do what my mom calls "the dump method". Usually I just season, taste, and add more if needed.

#1: Beans and Rice:

This one is a classic. There are other ways to make this are more traditional depending on where you are from, but the goal here is speed and easiness of techniques. I am not making claims about authenticity to any particular culture, but it happens to come close to something from your culture, that's awesome!

Ingredients: Canned beans, onion powder, garlic powder, salt, pepper

Prep work: Cut up tomato if desired

1. Put a can of black beans in a pot.

2.Season to taste with onion powder, garlic salt, and pepper (Some brands of beans are pretty salty already, so you may opt for garlic powder instead).

3.If you happen to have access to a fresh tomato, cut that up and throw in.

3. Pop steam in bag rice/frozen rice in microwave OR boil water and use to cook boil in bag rice.

4.Top rice with beans.

***Note: If you do not have access to a stove, you can cook the beans in a microwave safe bowl.

#2: Veggie Fajita Burrito:

As I said in #1: I am not making claims about authenticity to any particular culture, but if it happens to come close to something from your culture, that's awesome!

Ingredients: Canned beans, onion powder, garlic powder, salt, pepper, bell pepper, onion, tortilla, butter

Prep work: Cut an onion and bell pepper (frozen or pre-cut version may be available, although they might cost extra)

1. Put a can of black beans in a pot.

2.Season to taste with onion powder, garlic salt, and pepper (Some brands of beans are pretty salty already, so you may opt for garlic powder instead).

3.If you happen to have access to a fresh tomato, cut that up and throw in.

***If the above steps look familiar it's because these are the exact same steps used in the beans and rice recipe.

4. Heat up a pan with butter or butter substitute. Sprinkle garlic salt and pepper on top of butter in pan.

5.Once the pan is hot place the bell pepper in with the butter and occasionally stir

6.Once the bell pepper begins to soften add the onion. Cook until translucent. Taste and add more seasoning if needed.

7.Add the beans and vegetables to a tortilla.

****Note that if you have frozen veggies and two bowls this whole recipe can be made using the microwave.

#3: Quick and easy pasta

I really like how versatile this recipe is. You can switch up veggies, herbs, cheese, and even add bacon or other meat if you want.

Basic ingredients: Pasta, water, butter/butter substitute, garlic salt, pepper, parmesan cheese, frozen or canned vegetables

Optional: Basil, oregano, rosemary, bacon, fresh, tomato, left over meat from previous meal

1. Boil water and place noodles OR pop pre-cooked pasta pouch in the microwave

2.During the last 4 1/2 minutes cook frozen vegetables in the microwave(my favorite is broccoli, but mixed veggies or peas also work). Note that this also works with canned veggies.

3. Drain the water from the pot

4. Add butter or butter substitute and a splash of olive oil if desired

5.Season with pepper, garlic salt, parmesan cheese

***add basil, oregano, and/or tarragon for variety

***Note that if you do not have access to a stove and cannot find a the pre-cooked version you can boil pasta water using kettle or in the microwave.

#4: Pasta with Vegetarian Cream Sauce:

Now for a vegetarian cream sauce that cooks in the time that it takes for pasta water to come to a boil and cook pasta. This one is a little more involved than the other recipes, but if you have extra energy this sauce that can be made from easy to store items.

***Note that the recipe for the sauce below can be used as the base for other recipes such as chicken pot pie or a white pizza (Just sauté veggies, cut up one or two fresh tomatoes, and use it to top a pre-made pizza crust that has been covered with the sauce.

Basic Ingredients: Canned coconut milk, canned chicken broth, flour, basil, oregano, onion powder, garlic powder, salt, pepper, water, pasta, frozen vegetables, and olive oil

1. Pour a whole can of chicken brother and half a can of coconut milk into a pot and bring to boil

2. Put pasta water on to boil

3. Add basil, oregano, onion powder, garlic powder, and pepper

4. Whisk in flour to make the sauce creamy

5.Once the sauce has become creamy add a dash of olive oil

6. Once the pasta water boils add the pasta and time it to make it al dente.

7. Once you have 4 1/2 minutes left cook frozen veggies.

8.Combine the pasta, veggies, and sauce in the pot

#5: Pasta with Vegetarian Mushroom Cream Sauce:

This recipe is based on the sauce in the recipe for #4. Additional steps and ingredients have been bolded.

Ingredients: fresh mushrooms, parmesan cheese, Canned coconut milk, canned chicken broth, flour, basil, oregano, onion powder, garlic powder, salt, pepper, water, pasta, frozen vegetables

sauté some fresh mushrooms with butter, onion powder, garlic salt, and butter

Pour a whole can of chicken brother and half a can of coconut milk into a pot and bring to boil

Put pasta water on to boil

Add basil, oregano, onion powder, garlic powder, and pepper

Whisk in flour to make the sauce creamy

Stir in grated parmesan cheese

Once the pasta water boils add the pasta and time it to make it al dente.

Once you have 4 1/2 minutes left cook frozen veggies.

Combine the pasta, veggies, and sauce in the pot

#6: Beef Burrito

Disclaimer: As always, I do not claim any sort of authenticity. This recipe was inspired by Mexican American food, but was built around my allergies/sensitivities and ingredients that I had on hand right after I moved into my apartment. This is why you won't find chili powder or spicy peppers in any recipes.

Ingredients: Ground beef, Cinnamon, black pepper, garlic salt, 2 fresh tomatoes, bell pepper, onions, beans

***If you do not have access to fresh tomatoes you can used canned tomatoes

***If you do not have access to bell pepper and onions you can use frozen corn, just cook it in the microwave instead. This was actually what I used the very first time that I cooked it because I did not have much fresh produce at the time.

1: Put ground beef in the pan and cook the beef.

2. As the beef is cooking season with garlic salt, pepper, and cinnamon. (Make sure that the ground beef is cooked until it is brown).

3. Add fresh/canned tomatoes

4. Add more seasoning to the mixture.

5. Sautee bell pepper and onion with butter, garlic powder, and pepper OR microwave corn and then add butter salt and pepper.

6. Add vegetables to the mixture.

7. Put in a tortilla and serve.

[itsbeautifulhologram]

FatherHood [ch.2]

" This is happening so fast." 

[M/N] had wanted to go into the special child care courses they had at a college in Boulder or in Aspen and the possible idea of going all the way to Colorado Springs. They were costly, even with his two jobs, [M/N] knew a scholarship that he would get in the summer would pay everything from room and board to his parking lot badge. Though, only when he completed his hours working with kids and get a special letter from PC principal who would give it, after [M/N] helps a student in need for the whole summer: Babysitting, tutoring, cleaning, ect. Whatever the student in need was in need .

" It is happening fast." PC Principal said, he stood behind his desk as he talked to [M/N]. One of the good children at his school. " You're very fortunate that the student in need submitted a helper application this morning, and that it's barely the start of the brand new school year. So you have a long school year to work with them, they needed childcare so this should be easy as apple pie."

" Do I know them?"

PC Principal looked over the papers and nods his head, " Believe it or not, they are in your classes, same age and someone you have been with as a platonic friend." He said, reading over the chicken scratch and smiled a bit. " I have email their details and the meeting time, which is after school, and let me know through email if you accept the job. But remember, you're with them for the entire school year. If you chose to refuse then I have to wait for another application, and if only you can wait for that long. But then, you get your nice and juicy letter of recommendation."

" I got it, but I can assure you. I am more than willing to do this childcare, it's gonna be hard with my jobs but I'll do it." [M/N] said, smiling as PC Principal grins a bit, " Then you can go, have a nice day [L/N]." The teen stood up, he walked out his office and shut the door behind him and almost skips down the hallway, a bit bounce in his step. He didn't care who it was, but he literally got his ticket to the letter. Thank god for the stupid program.

He walked back in the door of his Chemistry class, the teacher practically sleeping at her desk as [M/N] took his seat in the middle table once more. " Did something happened with PC?" Stan asked, barely lifting his head up from the seat beside [M/N] they were table mates, the ravenette always cheated off him but [M/N] didn't care really. The poor thing always had a hangover headache during their second period. Plus, they were friends, why wouldn't he help him?

" I just got my first application." [M/N] said, as he looked at Stan who stared up at him. " Today after school, I'll be meeting with some adult or teen mom or something. I'll be working with them to take care of their kid." [M/N] felt giddy that he could have an opportunity like this. " Then I'll be far away from this fucking town."

" That's great, dude." Stan said, as he watched [M/N] practically sparkle as he spoke about his opportunity, the pure happiness made the ravenette feel some sort of envy. Not because he was able to work his way towards college and study whatever he wanted, no, it was just the pure emotion that Stan wished he could feel without the need for beer or weed. " Why do you want be a teacher again?" Stan asked, propping his head up with his hand. [M/N] glanced to Stan and opens his mouth only to jump a bit when he heard a loud bang ahead. They turn their gaze ahead and saw their teacher had fallen to the floor, dead asleep. She didn't even get up when she landed on the floor, instead she began to drool. 

" That." [M/N] gestures to the woman on the floor with a frown. " Is why I want to be a teacher, I can always fall back into daycare work if I need to. People are always plopping out kids." The bell rings and everyone stood up, hurrying out the door with their friends. [M/N] standing up and walked out the door with Stan, the other wobbling a bit and rubbing his temple. " what the hell did you drink this time around?"

" I can't remember, I think it was either bud light or cherry flavored vodka." Stan said as he looked at [M/N]. " You're not gonna tell Kyle, are you?"

" I'm not." [M/N] said as he glanced at the other, " He'll find out the second he smells your breath and your red puffy eyes." Stan groans, slouching a bit as he walked to their next class. Of course Kyle could smell the scent of alcohol a mile a way, and on Stan. He usually didn't drink this heavily but lately there had been reasons to drink. His dad for one, his mom ignoring everything around them, Shelly gone, Sparky getting old, his grades, pressure on the football team, everything seemed to be fucked up or going on to be fucked up.  The last thing he needed was to screw up his relationship with his friends. Wendy was gone and dating Token again, so that's a thing. Though, he wasn't really drinking because of that.

" I know, still, I hate it when he lectures me." Stan grumbled as they kept walking to their next class, kids bumping shoulders into his. He was even too tired to snap at them. " He acts more like my mom than my friend."

" He cares for you Lee," [M/N] said as he nudged the other with a smile, " Somebody has to care for your dumbass, I love you and all but I won't be around long." Stan gives the other a small smile. " See, you should smile more."

" And you should get laid more." Stan retorts and they both share a laugh as they entered their history class only to see their teacher eating a pot brownie, another movie day it seems. [M/N] rolled his eyes as he sits down, Stan going to his assigned seat behind him. [M/N] pulled his phone out like others as the teacher kept plugging the tv in and out of the power port. He was to high and hopefully it won't be something stupid. He was focused on the phone that he didn't hear the chair scrap next to him. 

" Hey, [M/N]." 

[M/N] mentally groans as he heard the voice beside him, he should've sit in the back with Stan. Since the junior year summer break, Craig had been a thorn in his side. He was annoying him, clinging to his side like a needy animal wanting to be pet and be given kisses. Everything he did, annoyed him. Craig first began asking about his day or try to converse with him in the summer, Craig then offers him extra things he accidently bought from stores, usually food. Free food, then it began asking to hang out but [M/N] actually couldn't do it because of work and college visits. Craig didn't know why he was suddenly too friendly but it kind of disturbed him. 

" Hey Craig." [M/N] said as he glanced at the ravenette. He looked still the same since he did when they were younger. Short black hair that hid underneath the dark blue chullo hat with a yellow puff ball on top of the dark blue hat. He wore his dark blue jacket with a bit of his black shirt peeking up and dark jeans as well. He also had black boots on too that replaced the dark blue converse he had as a kid. Craig still had his emotionless face but his dark eyes had edges of light grey in the corners. " How are you?" [M/N] asked politely. 

" Good." Craig replied as [M/N] nods, his eyes glanced away to the teacher who played with his pen, the movie read to be started as kids came inside the classroom. 

" I heard you got your first application." Craig said after a few minutes of awkward silence. [M/N] stared at him, wondering how he knew. " I was outside the office, I was late and I needed a pass. The door is super thin so I heard everything." Craig's eyes glanced to [M/N] who caught his gaze. " Congratulations." He said. 

" Uh, oh, thanks." [M/N] thanked the other, and looked back at the tv. " Though, it Is a bit rude for eavesdropping on conversations." He joked and Craig shakes his head a bit, a low chuckle made [M/N] smile a bit. 

" Well, maybe I like being rude to you." Craig said with a smirk as the bell rings, [M/N]'s cheeks turn a bit pink. " It's fun being rude to you too, you and your color changing cheeks." [M/N] scoffed, eyes rolling at the statement as the lights turn off and the history movie started. [M/N] kept watching the movie, leaning against his metal chair a bit but he could feel Craig watching him, he caught him a bit from the corner of his [E/C] eyes. Why is he watching me? Werido..

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The school day was boring, nothing really to learn from the teachers who were either crying, high or sleeping. That was High school for you in South Park. Another reason he wanted to be a teacher.

[M/N] walked down the sidewalk towards the meeting place at Tweek's coffeehouse. The person had said he would be late because their kid was having a fit. It must be a baby or toddler, [M/N]'s specialty. He kept walking down the street with a hum, seeing the coffee shop and hurried over. The smell of warm coffee and the sound of chatter was the first thing he had heard and smelled when [M/N] walked in. He can see Tweek twitching and taking orders, talking about the new specials and such. [M/N] sits his bookbag down as he sits down into a booth, he pulled out some math homework to do. 

He hated math but might as well get it over and done. He kept scribbling in the answers after figuring it out. His focus on the papers in front of him, his [E/C] eyes glancing up once in a while to see the possible parent and child but no one came towards him. He was getting a bit nervous and especially getting antsy. Maybe it was some rich socialite? Someone with too many kids and needed a lot of help? He didn't know and he wanted them to be there fas-

" [M/N]?" 

[M/N]'s head snapped up and smiled only for it to fall when he noticed who called him. His pencil falls and rolls off the table, Kenny noticed and a weak smile pulled on his pale lips. Yeah, I'm just as shock, Kenny thought as he  looked at his ex-boyfriend and opens his mouth but the baby who was sleeping in his make-shift sling began wailing when the door of the shop slammed closed with the jingle of a bell. People began sending Kenny dirty looks and teens gave them annoyed ones too.  [M/N] stood up once Kenny gently took the baby out, trying to calm him down and [M/N] grimaced. The baby was in clothes that was a couple months too big for him, he had Karen's smallest socks on his hands, probably to prevent himself from scratching at his face. 

" Hand the baby over, Ken." [M/N] ordered as he moved from the table and made grabby hands towards the blond who slowly hands his son over. [M/N] carefully took the baby, support his head and body. He cradles the baby against his chest and cooed over him, the baby kept crying as he stared up at the new person. His chubby arms moving around, the sock-gloves lightly graving [M/N]'s chin. " Hey, baby McCormick, don't hit me." [M/N] cooed as he looked at the baby, gently rocking him. " When was the last time you fed him?" [M/N] asked as he kept his gaze down on the baby. 

" Two hours ago." Kenny answered, as he watched [M/N] gently handle his son with wide eyes, he wasn't shock really, a bit that [M/N] went right to mother hen mode. Though, [M/N] was just natural with kids of all ages. " I need to get more formula." Kenny added, he had ran to the gas station this morning after dropping Karen off at her school. They had one can, but his son drank it all. 

" Go to Tweek, tell him you need baby formula." [M/N] said, " The one without meth too." Kenny checked his pockets and [M/N] sighs, using one arm to gently cradle the baby and Kenny watched anxiously as [M/N] used his now free hand, and pulled his wallet out of his pocket. " Here. Get me an ice vanilla coffee too." [M/N] throws the wallet and Kenny almost didn't catch it. [M/N] held the baby with both hands and arms just as Kenny hurried in line just as the last person left with their coffee. 

The baby kept crying, not as loud but it was still annoying people next to him. [M/N] smiled down at the baby and cooed, " Okay, Okay, get it out of your system." He smiled and the baby hand raised up, and grazed [M/N]'s chin with his gloved hands again. " You keep trying that, but you can't hit me little McCormick." [M/N] chuckled as he resumed his rocking, humming a bit.

"I'd heard there was a secret chord

That David played and it pleased the Lord But you don't really care for music, do you? Well, it goes like this The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift The baffled king composing Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah"

[M/N] began singing sweetly, almost in a childish tone to the baby. He still moved his arms around but his crying is slowly reduced to whimpers. His bright teal eyes staring up into [M/N]'s soft [E/C] eyes. Small tears ran down his pale cheeks from his small crying fit, but seemed to slowly calm down to [M/N]'s singing.

"Well, your faith was strong but you needed proof You saw her bathing on the roof Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew ya She tied you to the kitchen chair She broke your throne and she cut your hair And from your lips, she drew the Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah"

Soon the whimpers stop and the baby's arms stopped moving around, but his full attention was solely on the new person who smelled nice unlike the blond who held him. The stranger smelled way better than the woman too. His teal eyes watching him, and [M/N] smiled down at the baby. The smile made the baby smile back.

"Well baby, I've been here before

I've seen this room and I've walked this floor I used to live alone before I knew ya And I've seen your flag on the marble arch And love is not a victory march It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah, Hallelujah"

" Your voice has never lost it's pitch." Kenny said as he walked back from the counter, bottle in one hand and ice coffee in the other. He had heard the final verse of [M/N]'s singing and sat the coffee down. [M/N] sat down, using one arm again to hold the baby and used the other to grasp the bottle from Kenny's hand. He tested it against his arm before slowly feeding the tiny McCormick. [M/N] watched the baby drink the formula, holding him carefully. He was hungry, and probably startled when the door closed. " I didn't think they would send you for help, if you're the one I'm looking for." Kenny said, standing and watching his son eat. 

" Me either, nor did I think you'll have a son so soon." [M/N] said, not looking up as he fed the baby. " What's his name?"

" Uh, I..haven't give him one." Kenny said, watching his son eat. Smile on his lips, as his son ate instead of crying. He had been crying all day, used his diaper and ate. It was nice to see him eat and calm down. 

" Sit down Ken," [M/N] said as he placed the bottle down on the table once the baby finished eating half of his milk. [M/N] fixed the baby in the burping position and gently pats the baby's back and a large burp came out the baby boy.  " Good boy." [M/N] praised as he fixed the baby in his arms, he laid in his arms and kept watching [M/N] with bright teal eyes. [M/N] lifts his head up and looked at Kenny who pulled a chair from a random table. " I'm free in the mornings before school and I am willing to stay until 12 am at nights. Though, I can take him to my job at the daycare on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Friday." [M/N] explained, as he raised an eyebrow. " If you need me to watch him over the weekend then call or text me before hand. Because I may be hanging out with friends or-"

" We have the same friends." Kenny pointed out, and [M/N] narrowed his eyes at him which make the blond cringe. " Uh, you don't have to be formal with me either, I mean, I know you take child care seriously but jesus."

" Kenny, I have to." [M/N] said as he looked down at the baby, who immidealty gives him a toothless smile. [M/N] smiles back at the baby, " I want to keep us professional. Plus everything is paid for by the program at school which you would know, if you came." Kenny dropped out junior year after their broke up. He was surprise but then he heard rumors he dropped out for some hooker, [M/N] could be holding the hooker's son. 

" Low-blow, huh?" Kenny mutters to himself as he looked at [M/N]. He looked the same, Kenny had avoided the other for a bit after their break-up. He had his own things too, work, watching Karen, smoking, sex, and girls. [M/N] looked the same, minus the fact that he was bitter towards Kenny which made sense. " Uh, what's a good name for him?" Kenny asked, drawing circles with his fingers on the table top. Hoping [M/N] wouldn't be so cold when it went in the baby direction.

" I have no idea." [M/N] said, as he looked down, a smile still on his lips and the baby gurgled once the attention was on him again by the stranger. " He looks just like you."

" That's what Karen said. I think so too." Kenny said as he smiled, hearing his son gurgled happily. " I was thinking of Kenny Junior." [M/N] gave Kenny a bitch face and Kenny chuckled nervously. " Or not, if you think you can come up with a better name, then say it." So much for Kenny's idea of names. 

" I like Georgie." [M/N] said, as he waved his finger in front of the baby's face. The baby tried to take the finger but his gloved hands prevented him. " Georgie McCormick. I mean-" [M/N] glanced at Kenny and stared. "Like whatever, name him.." [M/N] didn't mean to say that out loud, the baby could have a name that the mom gave it but he didn't want to know the mother at all. She must've left Kenny after the birth since Kenny got him for help.

" No way," Kenny grins seeing [M/N] trying to keep his professional  tone and atmosphere. Kenny actually liked the name, it had a nice ring to it like [M/N] said with his surname. Georgie McCormick. " That's his name, it's cute." [M/N] nods his head as he sips his ice coffee, Georgie gently batting it with his gloved hand and [M/N] placed it down. He tried to ignore the buzzing and warm feeling of Kenny's approval, it has almost been a year and the feeling in him felt the same as it did when he was together with the blond.

" Anyway, do you agree with my terms?" [M/N] asked, as Kenny stared at the other than the look on Georgie's face. Peaceful, calm, safe. " Kenny?"

" Yeah," Kenny nods, a smile coming to his face. Safe, his son will be safe with [M/N]. " I agree. You're a life saver." 

" I know I am." [M/N] replied as he looked at the baby, another happy noise escaped from his mouth. Georgie moved, against [M/N]'s chest, a yawn escaping his lips and [M/N] smiled down at him. Even if he came from a hooker, [M/N] was kind of glad the baby looked more like Kenny than the mystery woman.

[peace-coast-island]

Diary of a Junebug

A relaxing riverside picnic

Today was a super relaxing day, the kind of weather that makes you want to snuggle up and get cozy with a hot cup of tea. Spring came a little early today so I wanted to make the most of it before winter comes back tomorrow. I don't mind the cold too much but sometimes it's nice to have a bit of spring peek through.

An occasional break from the cold winter: good, provides some variety, something that makes me look forward to the warmer weather. Sudden changes in weather going from cold to hot with no in between: bad, unpredictable, and usually ends up with me getting sick for like a week afterwards.

On a day like today, a riverside picnic sounds splendid! It's still a bit chilly, but it's nothing a steaming cup of chai tea can't help with. Lately I've been obsessed with this chai tea my mom brought for me from a small Indian store that's become one of her new favorite places. It's a wonderful blend of spices that's not too strong or unbalanced - just right! Add some oat milk and rock sugar and it's so much better than what they serve at most coffee shops, which are usually good but tend to be either too sweet or milky.

Jamie's visiting the camp, having dropped by a couple days ago for a long overdue visit. She also brought along Asher, who's all grown up now!

It's been years since I've seen Asher, who was kinda like Jamie's protégée/little brother back in the day. I think he still is, though he's flown the nest and taking on the world by storm. Jamie stuck with him through difficult times so that's why they have a special bond. I'm glad to hear that he's making strides as a writer - maybe one day he'll have his own show!

Asher's been through a lot - as in he's been through some shit. He was orphaned at a young age so he and his brother Marcel were raised by their aunt Cassie, who also raised his cousins Scott and Nolan, also orphaned around the same time. Sadly, it turns out that tragedy tends to strike more than once for the Woodley-Hiroko-Hamada family.

At fifteen, Asher was the youngest member of the entourage. With an IQ of 200, he graduated high school at fourteen and was a published writer, which caught Jamie's attention. He was originally going to join his brother and cousins at Seashore Path College, but after experiencing back to back tragedies, he couldn't see himself going there, not without his family.

In the span of a few months, Asher lost Marcel, Scott, and Nolan. The four of them were on their way home after homecoming at Seashore Path when a drunk driver - later revealed to be a professor and mentor of the latter three - crashed into their car. Marcel and Scott were killed while Asher and Nolan survived with serious injuries. The two fell into a deep depression and retreated in their own ways. Asher kept to himself while Nolan ended up getting tangled up in something that would set off a chain of deadly events.

Months later Nolan died in a mysterious fire along with another Seashore Path student in an abandoned church. The whole thing was mysterious - two people who as far as anyone knew were never seen interacting who somehow started investigating criminal gangs and end up being murdered. Their deaths were one of many orchestrated by two notorious serial killers that plagued Golden Sunset Hills in a series of events that became known as the Golden Sunset Hills Massacre.

Jamie was the one who not only helped Asher get through a tough time, but also get justice for Nolan's murder. Thankfully he and aunt Cassie were staying in Peace Coast when the massacre occurred and the neighborhood they live in was one of the few that wasn't too destroyed by the crime spree. The damage that took place in the city was devastating, all of that was in a span of a few days caused by a handful of some of the most dangerous criminals in the world.

That was a terrifying time. Hard to believe it was almost six years ago. I remember hearing about it on the news and being worried about friends who lived on the island or nearby. It was nothing but pure chaos and mayhem, a literal bloodbath. The friends who did live through that hell are doing fine right now but it's one of those things that haunt you for the rest of your life.

After graduating summa cum laude two years ago, Asher became a writer for Orla and Ozzie, a show created by fellow entourage member Levi Romero. When it's an Asher episode, expect wholesome fun with some unexpected feels and peak chaotic sibling energy. Some of my favorite episodes happen to be his - Stars That Shine being one of my absolute favorite of all time, not just from the show itself. Asher won an award for that episode and he rightfully deserves it because Stars That Shine is a masterpiece.

It's nice catching up with Asher since we kinda lost touch after he joined the Orla and Ozzie crew. I mean we follow each other online - he's one of the more active crew members on social media, making him a fan favorite - but obviously it's not the same as actually hanging out. It seems like only yesterday he was tagging along with Jamie on her many escapades on the island and now he's all grown up. I'd hate to think what would happen if Jamie wasn't there for him during those rough times.

Aunt Cassie and Matcha are doing well - Cassie's taken in interest in making ceramics and Matcha's up to usual cat stuff. Asher's considering the idea of adopting another (or three) to keep Matcha company but Cassie's on the fence about it. With Marcel, Scott, and Nolan gone the apartment feels a bit too big and lonely for the three of them. Since moving out is not an option - sentimental reasons - Asher wants to fill that empty space with cats to liven things up a little. Obviously that won’t fill the void his brother and cousins left behind but he thinks it’ll make the apartment a little less lonely. Basically, it's a win-win-win situation for everyone, or so he believes.

Jamie and Asher still hang out once in a while, though it's a little hard to meet up with their lives being so busy. This week's actually the first time Asher's had a break in a long time so he wants to make the most out of it. Likewise, Jamie's got some well deserved downtime from her many adventures, so she decided to drop by Golden Sunset Hills and catch up with Asher. Before coming to the camp, the two spent a couple days in Wizpire harvesting fruit and visiting the city.

Speaking of the city, I should make a visit there next time I drop by Wizpire. It's been a couple years since I last hopped on the bus and spoke with Kapp'n. Now that I think about it, I miss our bus ride conversations. It'll also be nice to run into some old villagers there and maybe (hint, hint) bring some new visitors to the camp. Yeah, I should be able to squeeze in a quick trip to the city one day. I'm even willing to check up on Redd and try my luck in buying a painting for the Wizpire Museum.

Since today's weather was so nice, it would be a waste for us not to be outside. I was running low on fish and bugs so we spent most of the day traveling between Lost Lure Creek, Saltwater Shores, and Sunburst Island. Jamie, as usual, was the master of catching bugs - no one can do stealth like her! Asher's pretty good at bug catching too as well as fishing, so I'll be well stocked for a while. We also stopped by the garden to cross pollinate flowers - something Asher seems to have a knack for since he accomplished getting quite a few blue tulip seeds.

In between fishing and bug catching we went for a short hike in the quarry and prepared food for a picnic by the river. I made tea - chai with rock sugar and oat milk - Mira made seafood salad sandwiches, Daisy Jane baked a chicken curry pot pie, Asher and Opal made strawberry daifuku, and Jamie made miso seaweed soup.

There's something so peaceful and soothing about sitting by the riverside. Lying in the grass under the gentle sun, listening to the water and enjoying the lovely picnic. It doesn't get better than that.

[grandpas-barn]

So I just hit over 1K?!?!

Thank you all so much for following! For those of you who are new here, have a little bit of info about me!

My name is Xander, and I use he/him/his pronouns

I am currently a college student studying business administration

I love playing guitar and learning folk songs

My favorite thing to bake is my Nana’s dinner rolls

My favorite thing to cook is chicken pot pie

This blog is where I put the things that make me happy. I spent a lot of time on my grandparents cattle farm growing up, so cottagecore/grandpacore/farmcore makes me feel very safe!

If you ever want to see more of something on this blog, or even just say hi, my ask box is open!

Once again, thank you for over 1K!!!

[faveficarchive]

The High Road to Low Expectations

Number 666 of the White Trash Series

By Vivian Darkbloom

Pairing: Xena/Gabrielle

Rating: Mature

Synopsis: In the final installment of the White Trash series, Cyrene fucks up the weed, Gabrielle is on a mad search for the right kind of weed, and not-so-surprising new facts arise when Eli starts a film project and chooses Dahak’s.

CW: There’s some off-screen sexual assault in this one. Two lines, but it’s there. 

You wonder why we're only half-ashamed

Because enough is too much

And look around…

Can you blame us? Can you blame us?

—Morrisey, "Interesting Drug"

1. The Mother of Peace

In 1967, just before she dropped out of the honors program at Berkeley in order to join Strawberry Alarm Clock on tour, Cyrene had participated in a student takeover of the president’s office on campus.

It was her finest moment: She was the Revolution incarnate. Wearing a beret, armed with a bullhorn, she lectured, cajoled, exhorted her fellow students to leave the past behind, to join with the Students Against Totalitarianism and Nostalgia (SATAN) in rebuilding the university for the future. The past was dead, she proclaimed. "Marx was wrong!" she spat into her bullhorn. "Religion isn’t the opiate of the people, it’s nostalgia!"

She was quoted for weeks, photographed for all the local newspapers and her FBI file, and propositioned by the grooviest guys on campus.

Thirty-three years later, the present was now the past, but it still looked pretty damn good. Especially when one lived in a day and age when Ché Guervara’s image was used to sell computers and a chain of stores selling bad coffee had taken over the planet. Now, Cyrene realized, she was beginning to understand nostalgia. She wanted to go back in a time capsule and apologize to nostalgia for all the mean things she said about it. Because now she was an old woman—albeit a relatively content old woman—reduced to selling pot to ungrateful young people who would just use it while watching cartoons and not as a break from fighting for the proletariat, or world peace, or the environment, or for an endangered species.

And then there was Gabrielle—who now stood before Cyrene, irritable and clad in her trusty old Carhart jacket. Once upon a time she thought her daughter’s main squeeze had enormous potential to do something—precisely what, the old hippie hadn’t the faintest idea. But ever since the trés sensitive poet had secured an academic career (with stripping on the side—some career choices were best left unexamined, thought the terminally unemployed Cyrene), she had become terribly dour and authoritarian. Gabrielle was now part of the problem, as they used to say.

"Got my dope, Cyrene?" A tad impatient, Gabrielle was shifting her weight from leg to leg.

The aging hippie sighed. "Of course, man." Cyrene pulled out her briefcase. While it was not a briefcase in the traditional leathery sense, she thought that the old Kung Fu lunchbox (which Zina had used for 3rd and 4th grade before advancing to the practice of bullying other children for food, money, and homework) served her purposes well.

"Here ya go, honey." She flipped a Ziploc bag of pot to Gabrielle, who examined it with the exaggerated self-importance of a nascent connoisseur.

Little golden eyebrows furrowed, like caterpillars plotting a coup. "Is this the Rhine Gold?"

"Absolutely!"

"It doesn't look like the Rhine Gold."

"Since when are you an expert?"

"Since you became my dealer—I've been smoking it for the past five years."

Cyrene squinted at the bag. And grew less convinced herself. She thought she had saved the last of the current crop for Gabrielle…unless she accidentally gave it to Eli. Which would explain why he was so fuckin’ happy at the food co-op last night! "Well, I'm pretty sure it's the Rhine Gold."

"'Pretty sure' doesn't cut it."

"Do you use that snotty tone with your students, man?"

Actually, yes, I do, Gabrielle thought, wincing. "Sorry, Cyrene. It's just a stressful time of year. The semester is over, I have finals to grade, not to mention the term papers. It's—"

"—it's coming on Christmas, they're cuttin' down trees, they're puttin' up reindeer and singin' songs of joy and peace—"

"Cyrene."

"Honey?"

"Christmas is over."

The old hippie smiled in the glorious, reassuring fashion that made her a darling of the counterculture for 15 minutes, that is, with a freewheeling, easy, bullshit charm that totally suckered the always-guileless Gabrielle. Cyrene patted the young woman’s arm. "Just give it a try for me, honey, okay?"

* * *

Zina discarded a sooty jacket and a well-worn helmet in a pile beside the door. Another hellish shift. How many kitty cats could get stuck up in a tree in one frigging day? And then there was another case of blatant fireplace abuse—it happened frequently during and after Christmas, the most festive and mindless time of the year. Somehow people failed to understand that the chestnuts should merely roast over an open fire, and not turn into splitting, hissing flameballs that freak you out and make you inexplicably throw toward the window so that the curtains light up as well.

She yawned, stretched, and ambled into the living room. Gabrielle was standing in the middle of the room, dressed in her standard lazy-ass Sunday gear: green flannel pajama bottoms and an Olympus County Community College t-shirt. "Hey bitch, where's my chicken pot pie?" the firefighter trotted out her standard greeting.

Instead of a playful giggle or a semi-sarcastic retort, the poet met this with stony silence and a baleful glare.

"Just kidding," the firefighter added lamely.

"Your mother dicked me over again."

Zina smirked suggestively. "Come again?"

"She gave me inferior weed, Zina. I'm not high. I'm not getting a good high." The poet blew out a frustrated breath. "This is not Rhine Gold."

"You sure?" The firefighter walked into the kitchen and pulled a bottle of Rolling Rock out of the fridge. "I though Mom woulda learned her lesson the last time she didn't give you Rhine." In response to the last time she did not get Rhine Gold as requested, the vengeful Gabrielle—perhaps over-inspired by Titus Andronicus—cooked a tofu casserole in chicken broth and fed it to the unsuspecting hippie. However, the only salient result of the incident was Gabrielle's overwhelming guilt and Cyrene's endless tirades on fucked-up karma.

"Obviously not. In fact, I'll prove it to you." The poet dropped her gaze. "Say it."

"I'm tired," Zina whined, as if four syllables would push her into physical collapse.

"Come on."

"Okay, okay." The firefighter took a breath, then wiggled her eyebrows for good measure. "Machu Picchu."

Half a minute lapsed into eternity. Gabrielle remained staring at her blankly. "Try again," the poet-pothead requested.

"Machu Picchu." This time Zina drawled it out a bit, sounding like a Pokeman on Quaaludes.

The silence continued. Zina frowned. Normally—meaning under the proper influence of Rhine Gold—upon hearing the name of the ancient Inca city, Gabrielle would dissolve into giggles that eventually escalated into hysterics and threatened the stability of her bladder.

Zina’s sooty brow furrowed with an almost genuine concern. This was indeed serious. She opened the refrigerator again to continue her reconnaissance mission for leftovers.

2. Somehow, Pacino’s Career Survived

Within the confines of Dahak's, Chad waved at an unusual sight: Eli, clutching a small, old film camera, was leaning nervously against the bar. He was intrigued enough to go over and speak with Sarcastic Hippie Video Store Guy.

"Welcome to the dark side," Chad purred mischievously.

"Hey man, how ya doing? Look, I'm not here because I'm gay."

"Sure, you’re not. I mean, where else can a straight guy indulge his love of 20-year-old dance songs?"

"No, really." Eli held up the camera. "This is for my semester project in Film 404. We have to do a short piece that remakes a Hollywood film about minorities. I chose Cruising."

"I see." Chad's eyes narrowed.

"No, you don't—I'm going to do it better, trust me."

"Good luck," Chad muttered.

"What?" Eli shouted. The sound of Dee-Lite's "Groove is in the Heart" now pounded over them, rendering embarrassed mumbling impossible.

"Never mind!" Chad yelled back. "But you better be careful."

"Why?"

"It’s contagious!" Chad laughed and pointed at a burly man on the dance floor, dressed in black Levis and a leather vest. "I mean, I never thought I'd see him here, but there he is! And I even got his number!" he crowed.

Eli watched as the magic man spun around. It was Artie.

"This is so going into the movie." He held up his super 8.

* * *

Zina had settled in on the couch to watch the latest offering from Fox: When Overeducated White Women Attack. The show was finally displaying some promise: After ten tedious minutes of observing a comparative literature professor balancing her checkbook—resulting in tears and a torn register—Zina now watched as a woman with a Ph.D. in art history from Yale contemplated sticking a butter knife into a still-plugged toaster.

"Do it, you dumb bitch!" the firefighter hissed at the TV, just as Gabrielle came in the house.

"Zina," the poet began breathlessly.

The butter knife hesitated about the toaster slot.

"Are you listening to me?"

The firefighter nibbled her lips with anticipation.

"Damn it, Zina!" Gabrielle latched onto a dark and brooding—yet terribly sensitive—earlobe, giving it a violent twist.

"Ow!" the firefighter roared. It was the first part of Gabrielle's fabled one-two punch: First the earlobe, then cranial battering with the world's ugliest throw pillow—a brightly colored, quasi-Pennsylvania Dutch mess of hexagons that resembled nothing so much as an Amish pap smear. Having the discordant colors so close to her face was worse than the actual physical pain.

Zina ducked a blow from the pillow and rolled off the couch to avoid further abuse. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she shouted. "Ever since you stopped smoking dope you've been out of your fucking gourd!"

"Bullshit!" snapped Gabrielle.

The firefighter rubbed her delicate, doughy earlobe. "Oh yeah? What about all those American Gladiators you were so hot to beat up, the other night when we went out for pizza?"

Gabrielle held up a menacing finger—and snarled. "I just didn't like they way they were lookin' at you."

Zina blinked. Shouldn't that be my line? Is this what it's like to live with me? Mommy, I'm confused.

"We got a problem, Zina. Artie beat up Eli, outside of Dahak's."

"What was Artie doin' hanging around—oh."

"Uh-huh. And it's Gay Night too. This adds to my theory that he's a big fat fucking closet case."

"Or it could support my theory that he's just horny as hell." So very proud of actually having a theory on anything, Zina folded her arms with a minor sense of triumph.

Gabrielle was pacing now. "Fuck the theories. All I know is that I'm gonna kick his ass. Are you in or not?"

Zina now slumped, defeated. In reality, she wanted nothing more than to drink beer in front of the TV until she fell asleep. And maybe mess around a little with her girlfriend on the couch. Add some pretzels to that pleasure equation, and thus an evening was made, nay, would achieve an unrivaled, unparalleled perfection. She recycled the only line she could think of that might get her out of this potential mess. "Violence is not the way, grasshopper."

"Don't you dare quote Lao Ma to me!" barked Gabrielle. She stopped pacing. "I want vengeance!"

A sharp buzzing noise and canned laughter from the TV indicated that the Yalie had just fried herself.

The firefighter sighed. What else could she do? "Will we be home in time for Smackdown?"

"Count on it." Gabrielle sailed out the door, expecting her backup to follow.

* * *

Artie swaggered down a quiet, peaceful main street while fragments of "Stayin’ Alive" provided a rather dated personal soundtrack within his mind. He felt good. Fifteen minutes of sin in a bathroom, easily absolved by lots of prayer and repentant tears, made him feel like a new man. He sniffed at his arm, drinking in the powerful yet sublime scent of cologne that was not his—a heady (oh yeah, baby! he thought), Proustian remnant of his earlier toilet-side encounter.

A lone car passed. Then it executed an abrupt u-turn and came toward him. Immediately he recognized the battered, ugly economy vehicle as Gabrielle’s. When it pulled to a halt near the curb in front of him and both women emerged simultaneously from the Escort—even slamming their respective doors in unison—he giggled. "Hey! Cagney and Lacey! Arrest me and molest me!"

In response Zina leaped over the hood of the car with magnificent, MacGyver-like grace. Somehow he couldn’t picture Sharon Gless doing that. Nonetheless, as usual, her beauty broke his heart, almost literally in this instance as she head-butted him in the chest. He stumbled backward, and she slammed him into a wall. "Zina!" he cried. "What gives?"

"You know what gives, you little shit. You beat up Eli."

Fist curled, Zina leaned in closer to Artie. She sniffed at him. He flinched. Then he noticed that her eyes had that old, familiar look, that look he thought he would never see again, in his wildest, wettest dreams: Desire. "What's that you're wearing?" she growled sensually.

"Um, I think it's called Aroma Mist—"

"You mean Aramis?" The height-challenged Gabrielle was trying to interject herself between them; if doing so physically wouldn’t work, she would settle for verbally. Aramis was dangerous stuff—this she knew from Chad. The demon scent could arouse anyone, her worldly friend had told her. And while a conflation of appetites was an unfortunate aspect of the firefighter’s character—the smell of fresh meatloaf could have Zina naked and ready to pounce within seconds—Gabrielle was quite certain that she did not want to know to what ends Aramis would compel her lover.

The firefighter’s nostrils flared again. Artie almost came on the spot.

"It's nice. Real nice," Zina murmured. Her pupils were obscenely dilated, as if giving birth to a new lust.

"Zina—" Gabrielle ground out the "you-are-on-the-verge-of-infidelity" warning between her teeth.

"Thanks!" Artie gushed. He grinned. "Say, ah, my place ain't that far away. How about we have a little drink, get caught up on old times?"

Zina grunted thoughtfully, like a sensitive orangutan making her TV debut on Nova.

It was the last thing she remembered clearly. For the intoxicating scent carried her away, she flew on the wings of night, her heart swelled and thundered like a storm. To paraphrase John Denver, it filled up her senses.

And then, the scent of the fabled cologne faded—or rather, was taken hostage and pummeled to death by the joint, brute force of stale TV dinners and ancient laundry that happily coexisted in Artie’s trailer. Now, sitting on a couch more wretched and stinky than her own, Zina blinked in confusion, wondering how in the hell she had gotten there.

Artie was smiling at her in his smarmy way from the entrance of his eat-in kitchen. "I’m makin’ ya a Long Island Iced Tea, baby," he crooned. Which meant that he was frantically throwing every kind of liquor he had into a blender.

That goddamn cologne. Geez, it's no wonder straight women fall in love with gay men all the time! Gabrielle is gonna kill me.

"An’ you just sit back and enjoy that cee-gar," he was saying.

Zina looked at her hands. A cigar was cradled between the first two fingers of her left hand. Not just any cigar, she realized, but a good one, straight from the Ghurkhan plantation in Cuba! Now that brought back memories, she thought. She cut off the tip with her switchblade, then lit up, making sure that he could hear the soft, sensual sound of her lips going puh as she puffed away. Might as well torture him while I’m here.

Artie cast a nervous look into the living room. Seeing her here once again, within his home, made him realize that he wanted her to be there, always. This AM radio sentiment prompted a decisive action. He wiped his sweaty palms on his black jeans, darted into the living room, and knelt in front of her. "Zina, I—"

"Where's my drink?"

"I'll get to it in a minute. I—" He made the mistake of looking into her cold, uncompromising eyes. Suppressing a sigh, he stood up and went back to the kitchen. After five minutes, some cursing, and a whirring blender, he was back with a frothy concoction that he hoped would lower whatever teeny inhibitions—like, say, incest or a certain blonde pussywhipper—that now prevented her from sleeping with him.

Gleefully she gulped down half the drink, her lip smacking and groans of pleasure a delightful torture to him.

"Zina, I got to talk to you about something. I've been doing a lot of thinking about you and me."

She burped.

"I can't deny how I feel about you any longer. I reckon my feelings for you never changed in the first place. No matter how much I fought 'em. So I got to ask you this." He lowered his head, sent a quick prayer to the Lord, then looked once again into her eyes. "Would you marry me, Zina?"

"Ain't that illegal, marryin' your kin?"

His face turned red. "They can't prove that, and you know it!"

Zina paused thoughtfully and tortured him some more as she fellated the cigar. "I dunno, Artie. What's in it for me?"

"A devoted, loving husband."

"Not the answer I want, and you know it."

It had been The Issue in their relationship; Artie had prayed that she would not remember. But, alas and alack, she did. "What you ask of me is unnatural," he mumbled, which had been his Standard Retort in the matter—and it was true, because the Bible never said a damn thing about It.

"My ass," she grunted. "I bet if I asked Gabrielle to eat me out every night, she'd do it." She neglected to add that this would most certainly be true only if chocolate and/or margaritas were involved in said oral activity.

His expression curdled. What you won't do, do for love. Then he scowled. Damn that song! "All right!" he spat. "You got it."

The firefighter blinked in surprise; she was impressed. "Okay. What about the housework?"

"Zina," he began patiently, "I am a working man. And the Lord dictates that the home is the woman's realm."

"I work too, asshole. So I would have to do all the cooking and the cleaning?"

His nostrils flared. He would not back down on this one. Never. Absolutely not. "We split it, fifty-fifty! And I'm not doing the laundry."

It was an admirable gamble, and a good offer, she thought. And she knew that Artie could never boss her around like Gabrielle did—he wouldn’t force her to eat vegetables, especially with some lowdown, dirty trick like hiding mushrooms under slices of pepperoni on a pizza! Still, her mind was made up; it always had been. She grinned and drained her drink. "Shit, Artie, Gabrielle already does all that cleaning stuff anyway." She stretched, patted his cheek, and stood up. "Thanks for the drink and the smoke."

As Zina left Artie's trailer, all the while marveling at how easy it was to block out the sound of his sobbing (which possessed a quality similar to the primal wailing of rhinoceroses in mourning), she realized that she had made a mistake. Even though nothing had happened, she had left Gabrielle high and dry, no doubt thinking that something was going on with her and Artie. Well, it wasn't her fault, really, that Artie had smelled so good. Still, Zina knew that one thing—and one thing only—mattered. Only one thing would rectify this mistake: One way or another, she would get Gabrielle the Rhine Gold.

3. Like a Bridge Over Troubled Kung Pao

On his first day out of the hospital, Eli agreed to lunch with Gabrielle at the Green Dragon. This, in spite of the fact that he felt embarrassed about how he looked: His shaven head was completely bandaged, and he resembled a partially bearded blue-eyed egg. But despite his tender condition, Eli was more concerned about his friend; he had detected a serious mood change in Gabrielle since she no longer had access to Rhine Gold. She was moody, irritable, and prone to violence. And maybe just plain weird: She was now arranging the peanuts of her Kung Pao Chicken into an impressive fortress around a particularly large floret of broccoli. She was about to send a lump of chicken careening into the peanuts when Eli announced his intention to speak by clearing his throat.

"So Zina's out of town?" He frowned as Gabrielle got the snow peas in on the action, creating a little drawbridge across the peanuts and into the broccoli.

"Yeah," the poet finally mumbled.

It was like trying to coax conversation out of an autistic child. "Where is she?"

Gabrielle sighed dramatically. Acting as deus ex machina in the culinary warfare, she stabbed the chicken battering ram with a chopstick. "Visiting an old boyfriend. Supposedly to get me some Rhine Gold." She devoured the meat.

Eli shuddered at this carnivorous act. "You don't trust her?"

"I dunno, Eli. I'm not sure anymore—not after the way she was sniffing around Artie."

"Well, geez—that was just Artie. This doesn't mean—"

"Why would she have to go all the way to New York to get the stuff?" Gabrielle burst out with exasperation.

The hippie cinemaphile attempted an explanation. "Gab, this stuff is actually pretty rare. It's powerful shit, and you should just count yourself lucky that Cyrene had a crop going for as long as she did. I'm not surprised Zina would have to go to a big city to score some."

This appeared to assuage Gabrielle somewhat. "I guess, but still…I don't know if I should trust this guy."

"Who is he?"

"His name is Marcus. I actually meant to tell you sooner, 'cause I knew you'd be interested in this—Zina says he's in the movies, like he works for a studio or something."

Eli's jaw dropped. "Holy shit!"

The poet furrowed her brows. "What?"

"Zina knows Marcus Pebble? Oh my GOD."

"Who is he?"

Eli shook his head in disbelief. Of course, he wasn't really surprised that she didn't know who Marcus was—most moviegoers today were so vastly ignorant of their cinematic heritage. He quoted directly from his own lonely, neglected unfinished dissertation: "In the early 1980s, Marcus almost revived the blaxploitation genre and almost returned it to its glory days in the 1970s with one amazing film: White Chocolate Comes to Harlem."

"'Almost?'" Gabrielle interjected skeptically.

"Okay, it bombed. But it's a great film, man. It provides a valuable and much-needed transition between classics like Shaft and Foxy Brown to the new genre of gangsta films which began with New Jack City."

"Is he still directing?"

Eli sighed sadly. "Unfortunately, no. He's leading a living death as a low-level Miramax exec."

Lao Ma stopped by the table to refill their water glasses. "You speak of Marcus Pebble," she announced.

"Ooooh, eavesdropping, how mystical!" Whereas Gabrielle was concerned, Lao never failed in stirring the sarcasm pot.

Nonetheless, Zina's ex ignored the temperamental poet and addressed her remarks to Eli. "I did feng shui for Marcus's townhouse."

Eli gazed at her, amazed, worshipful, and tempted to kiss her feet, even though her filthy New Balance sneakers were encrusted with old "Happy Royal Family of Prawns" sauce.

The proprietress of the Green Dragon merely shrugged. "It's a living."

4. The Face on the Cutting Room Floor

[A scene from White Chocolate Comes to Harlem. Zina, lying on a bed, is wearing a leopard-skin spaghetti string top and mauve hotpants. She has a typical Medusa-like early 80s perm, as perfected by the various members of the Bangles. She is pretending to be high or actually is; to this day no one is really sure. ]

[Marcus enters. His is a more restrained version of the classic pimp suit—black with a hot pink shirt and matching headband around his flying-saucer like hat.]

Marcus: Bitch, what did I tell you? Get your lazy ass on that street now! [He grabs Zina by the wrist and hauls her out of the bed. She stands before him, wavering slightly, glassy-eyed. Due to her three-inch stiletto heels, she towers over him.]

Zina: Huh?

Marcus: You heard me! [He slaps Zina—lightly—across the face. This snaps her out of whatever stupor—and pretense at characterization—she inhabits. Her eyes narrow with rage, she snarls, and knocks Marcus across the set with a vicious backhand. Off camera, a thud and a shriek of pain is heard. The camera follows the sound and twirls toward Marcus, now sprawled on the floor, clutching a bloody nose.]

Zina (off camera): Aw, baby, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to— [She totters over to him, kneels down and tries to help him sit up. Bleeding profusely, he tries, feebly, to crawl away from her.]

Marcus: GodDAMN, Zina! Remember that little discussion—ACTING? GodDAMNit. [To camera.] Floyd, turn off the camera!

Floyd (off camera): Huh?

Marcus: Fuck, are you all idiots? TURN OFF THE CAMERA.

Floyd: Sorry, man, I thought it was part of the scene. [Camera remains on.]

Zina: I'm sorry, honey, I really am. [Marcus is still crawling away from her, leaving a trail of blood. She is now crawling as well, right behind him.] You know how I get, I'm, like, more of a Method actor…I react, not act!

Marcus: I gave up a chance working with Pam Grier for this. [Still crawling, still bleeding. She watches helplessly, tries to approach him again. He is now off camera.] Do you hear me? PAM GRIER.

A Mercedes-Benz mired in traffic at the corner of Fifth Avenue and 76th, 6:42 PM EST.

Marcus drummed his fingers on the armrest, his cell phone glued to his head like the tumor it was probably already causing within his brain. "Right, Harvey. Right." He stared at the driver's thick pink neck and suppressed a sigh. "I'll take care of it as soon as I'm back in the office."

As Harvey droned on about the Gilligan's Island remake, Marcus gazed longingly toward Central Park, at the treetops that peeked over a long stone wall separating the green splendor from the sidewalk. His eyes widened when he saw a white hand appear at the top of the wall. A head, crowned with black flowing hair, followed this. A woman was pulling herself over the wall. Oh dear God. It can't be. Yet the pure grace of that body’s motion indicated it could only be one person, and one person only.

Marcus gasped; he couldn't find his voice. And even if he could have, the driver wouldn't have locked the doors in time anyway.

Gracefully, Zina zigzagged through the traffic, found the dark Mercedes, opened the door, and piled into the back seat. She grabbed Marcus's cell. "Hiya, Harvey. Yeah, I found him. Thanks a lot. Now promise me you'll think about that Billy Jack remake? 'Cause I tell ya, Harvey, that film is like my Bible, and I could be Billy Jack in my sleep, ya know?" A pause. "That Angelina Jolie weirdo as the hippie teacher, of course. Think about it. Okay, babe. Thanks again. Bye." Zina stared at the phone, couldn't figure out how to turn it off, and tossed it into Marcus's lap. "He'll never do it," she muttered to herself. "Damn shame." She sighed regretfully, but then, as she turned her attention on her ex-lover, the wattage on her smile increased exponentially. "Hiya, Marcus!"

Marcus, now plastered against the car door, wondered if he could possibly outrun her. Even if he could, the attention he might draw to himself would be questionable, at least to the easily confused members of New York's Finest. A black man running from a Mercedes? I don't think so. "Zina, what the hell are you doing here?" he barked.

She tried pouting. "Miss me, baby?"

"Like I would miss the plague."

"That ain't nice, Marcus."

"What do you want?"

"What makes you think I want somethin'?" Her eyes—those beautiful, beautiful eyes—went wide. "Couldn't I just stop by to say hi?"

Marcus held up a hand. "Girl, don't even. You always want somethin', Zina. There's always an angle. So just tell me what it is."

She attempted mixing in wounded, sullen pride with the pouting—which sometimes worked with Gabrielle, but only if you were already on your knees—yet he continued glaring at her until she finally broke down. "Okay, baby, you got me. I want some Rhine Gold."

"Rhine Gold!" he exclaimed. "What makes you think I still dabble in shit like that?"

Zina frowned. "Yeah, I guess you're right. You're playing with power suits now. It's all coke."

"Zina!" Marcus shouted. "I do not do coke! Don't oppress me with your assumptions."

"What?"

Remember that this is Zina, he told himself. "Don't be an asshole."

"Oh." Silence fell over them. He folded his arms and remained crushed against the car door, wondering just how the hell he was going to get rid of her. And how in hell was he going to talk Harvey out of a Billy Jack remake. For despite what Zina thought, when it all came down to it, Harvey was just a massive, balding spittoon for bad ideas involving recycled B movies.

"Marcus, you at least gotta know where I can get some," she remarked, disgruntled, for he was wasting her very valuable time.

"Well…" He pursed his lips in thought. Granted, it was dangerous, but it would get her off his back, and far, far away. But can she handle it? he wondered. Marcus looked at her again, into eyes so blue they’d make Joanne Woodward dump Paul Newman in a nanosecond, and so crazy that Robert DeNiro would cry with envy. "I know where you can get some, but it is dangerous, and you gotta go south. Way south." His gaze flicked to his driver. "I’ve give you the details when we hit my office."

"Oh yeah? Okay, I can deal with that." Now that this most difficult phase of her mission was complete complete, Zina stretched with both relief and an air of self-satisfaction. They rode for a while in contented silence. "Hey, Marcus?"

"Now what?"

"Can I drive the car?"

5. Our Dyke in Havana

The retinue surrounding Castro was as thick as flies over a garbage can. The group of heavily armed men surrounding the leader of the small nation pushed through the crowd toward the baseball field.

Castro paused for a moment to shake hands with his people—the workers, the children, the huddled masses longing for decent TV stations. And also because he wanted a better look at the tall, pale senorita in the tight, sheath-like black dress and sunglasses, who grinned at him like a beacon.

With his guards watching warily, the mystery woman inched closer to Castro. Suddenly she flung her arms around the Cuban leader, crushing him in an affectionate hug. Several guards already had their hands on their weapons, but Castro was laughing and patting the woman's back.

Then, just as quickly, she disentangled herself from his embrace, still smiling. The pressure of the crowd urged Castro on, and reluctantly he moved away from her, with a final, longing glance backwards. Only a minute later he was patting his secret pocket for his stash and realized it was gone. He stopped and turned around. In the distance he could see her kicking off her heels, tearing her skirt for better mobility, and running. "Consigala!" he shouted.

Zina was tempted to take a moment to taunt them by shouting "Viva La Rhine Gold!" but as the adrenaline pumped through her and her legs kicked up increasing speed, she became more invested in keeping her sorry ass alive. Shit, I hope this swimming-to-Miami thing is as easy as Marcus says it is, she thought.

6. Husker Don't

Vendela Van Hoek nursed a damp, cold Heineken while a stripper's boobs shook in her face. Unimpressed, the Swedish musician simply leaned back, the gesture dismissing the dancer, who—untalented yet nonetheless working hard for the money, so hard for it, honey—took her mammaries elsewhere.

She had left Sven and Benny at the garage, thoroughly disgusted with her cousins' inane arguments with the idiot mechanic who could not fix their Saab motorbus. Of course it would take a week for a new exhaust pipe to arrive in this American backwater, and all the screaming and Laplander obscenities in the world would not change that. She placed the blame squarely on the domineering Sven. If he hadn't insisted on touring more rural areas, they wouldn't be here, she thought angrily. Her thumbnail slashed into the soggy beer label.

"I knew I would find you here." Benny's voice floated from above.

Vendela glanced up. Her bandmate, a truly gifted guitarist, was cradling a Heineken himself. He sat down.

"Don't say anything, Benny."

He shrugged and said nothing. Yet Benny's flaccid lips were quivering as much as the dancer's hips. Vendela knew it was only a matter of seconds.

"He didn't mean anything by it," the guitarist blurted.

"Like hell he didn't," she snapped.

"Vendela, we are all under a great deal of stress right now."

"That is no excuse!"

"It was just because you were off beat—" Benny winced at her icy glare.

"Oh, so now you are taking his side."

"I'm not."

"Yes you are, you fat fuck! Go on, tell me—say it! You think I am a 'second-rate Geddy Lee' too—you think that, just like Sven does!"

"I didn't say that!" he shouted. Mortified, he noticed that some of the people in strip club were staring at them. He lowered his voice. "You are Keith Moon, Vendela. Purely Moon."

"Liar!"

"Keep your voice down! You're embarrassing me!"

"Fuck you and your embarrassment!"

Just when Benny thought it could get no worse, the opening strains of the Divinyls' "I Touch Myself," began over the sound system, hypnotic layers of guitar that, nonetheless, he detested and thought so clichéd, so ridiculous for a strip club. Could they ever think of anything new? Who, he thought, is this pathetic bimbo who dares to use such an old, gimmicky song?

However, his heart clenched inside his chest when confronted with precisely the kind of bimbo who would use such a song: a delicious, voluptuous woman of perfection, with short blonde hair and in a white fringe bikini, slithering seductively around the pole on stage. He could not tear his eyes away from her. She moved with such leonine self-possession and controlled grace that his imagination begged to see her unleashed in the throes of passion.

May the heavens forgive me for slighting you, o nameless American goddess!

The goddess was now in front of him, gyrating slowly, her eyes glowing with faint disdain as she stared down upon him, awaiting her tribute. By the time that he had the presence of mind to dig for money in his pocket, the impatient goddess had moved on to Vendela. And now, watching his cousin brush a bill along those perfectly sculpted abs, Benny saw that Vendela was just as enraptured.

* * *

Sid Moskowitz narrowed his eyes at the sight of the two out-of-towners loitering in front of the dressing room. He knew they had to be from out of town since they were wearing leather pants and were stupid enough to believe they had a chance in hell with Gabrielle. The fact that they were shouting at each other in Swedish was also a big tip-off.

"Can I help you?" he murmured suspiciously at them. His eyes traveled freely over the statuesque blonde woman, who did not seem pleased at his attentions.

The stocky fellow in the chain-mail shirt, who looked like a scruffy Jon Lovitz, decided to answer for her. Before he spoke, his chest puffed out dramatically, as if he were indeed Master Thespian. "We come to offer frottage to a fellow artist! It is a certainty that She is the most talented dancer in your valley, and it is common for all far and wide to pay tribute to the genius who is She with White Undergarments Resembling Spaghetti!"

Sid had to hand it to this one; usually the potential stalkers lacked any kind of chutzpah and freely admitted that they simply wanted another gander at Gabrielle's tits. Nonetheless, Sid's paternal, protective instincts outweighed his admiration of the creative freak. "Sorry, sweetcakes, but Gabrielle does not receive visitors after she performs, okay? Now run along and abuse the English language elsewhere."

"Who are you?" the blonde beauty growled at Sid.

"I own this place, dumpling."

"And why should we believe that?" she retorted loudly, placing her hands on her hips.

Sid was caught among arousal, indignation, and abject fear—for him, a common state of existence. "Because I do, honeylamb. Now listen, I was just beginning to like you and I was even gonna offer you a tryout—"

Suddenly the dressing room's door flung open. Gabrielle's Olympus County Community College t-shirt and her cutoff jeans undermined her diva turn. "What the hell is all the racket about?" she snapped. However, the underachieving poet's erect nipples held them in thrall.

The proprietor of the Shimmy Shack, however, was accustomed to this glorious sight and he found his voice first. "These foreigners have come to stare at you, sugar pop." He sniffed disdainfully at Benny and Vendela. "What are you guys? French? You're fucking rude enough for it."

The tall blonde woman ignored him. She took Gabrielle's hand. "I am Vendela Van Hoek, drummer for Gravid Havarti. My cousin and I have come to praise you. You have given us three minutes and forty-five seconds of pleasure despite our hatred of the Divinyls. I, in particular, wish very much to prove my great admiration for you." Her full lips brushed the dancer's knuckles.

Gabrielle was only momentarily impressed at the smooth move. "I'm not giving back the twenty dollar bill. Sorry."

"Twenty?" Benny blurted.

Vendela silenced him with a hiss worthy of the most commanding cobra.

Benny fumed. His English was not as precise and mellifluous as his cousin's. Nonetheless, he knew one phrase, and one phrase only, that might get him into Gabrielle's good graces, or maybe even her tight jeans. His barrel chest puffed out once again. "And I have killer weed!" he proclaimed.

He smirked as Gabrielle's green eyes flitted to him. "Wait—wait a minute." She pulled her hand away from Vendela. "Just what kind of weed is this?"

7. Love Songs, Nothing But Love Songs

Carrying a bucket of ice, Vendela tried creeping by Room 604 of the Red Roof Inn as quietly as possible. She, Benny, and Gabrielle had managed to elude Sven when they first came up to the room that she and Benny shared, but somehow the drummer knew she would not be so fortunate in avoiding the overbearing band leader a second time.

And she wasn't. The door of Sven's room swung open and the skinny lead singer, clad in his black silk silver-studded bathrobe and his hairnet, violently hissed her name. "Vendela! What do you think you're doing!"

Sven was the ultimate killjoy. Nothing sucked the life and desire out of her like the sight of his tight, disapproving face. It was like being caught masturbating by a maiden aunt. "Nothing!" she retorted defensively. "Leave us alone! We are adults, you know."

"You're horny idiots, both of you. I know who is in that room with you."

Vendela glared at him defiantly.

"Her name is Gabrielle and her girlfriend is a violent, sociopathic ex-convict." He smirked with triumph at the surprised look on her face. "Obviously, you weren't paying attention to the mechanic at the garage. He knows this Gabrielle—he used to be in love with her. She's off limits, Vendela. Get rid of her before you get us all in trouble."

"Go to hell!" she growled. He slammed the door shut as she stomped over to Room 606. She fumbled with the card, then, exasperated, pounded on the door. "It's me, open up!"

Benny opened the door. Vendela was relieved to see that he was still dressed, as was Gabrielle, who was sprawled on one of the two beds in the room. The poet wore a simple outfit of jeans and a hooded green pullover sweatshirt. Such clothing is an affront to the perfections of that body! Vendela wanted to shout. Most of their vodka had served as a chaser to the big, fat, primo Rhine Gold joint that the stripper had polished off earlier. She was now thoroughly trashed.

And still muttering about Zina. Always with this Zina person, Vendela thought with disgust. As far as she could figure out, Zina was a whore of epic proportions who watched bad TV and made a pretense out of atoning for a half-assed criminal record. I would treat you far better, my queen! Even Benny would, for God's sake.

Her bandmate was now noodling around on his guitar, plucking a simple repetitive chord and singing softly: "Gab-ri-elle/My heart will swell...."

"Don't quit your day job," muttered the poet in a rare—albeit stoned—moment of insensitivity. "Oh, wait...this is your day job." She burst into giggles.

Vendela felt a pang of pity for her sensitive cousin. "Benny, perhaps you should turn on the radio," she suggested. The guitarist nodded, and fumbled at the knobs on the nightstand's dusty, fake wood-paneled clock radio. "Gabrielle," she continued, "I have brought you ice, as you requested."

Like a reanimated corpse in a horror film, Gabrielle sat up all herky-jerky. "Excellent. Gimme." The Swedish drummer handed her the bucket of ice. Over the course of the next few minutes the musicians watched as Gabrielle—ice bucket balanced precariously on her lap—fumbled to remove her sports watch, a much-loved acquisition courtesy of 50 Cap’n Crunch box-tops. Finally she liberated it from her wrist and noisily buried it within the ice.

She handed the bucket back to Vendela, who exchanged a look with her cousin. Do you want to ask her? Vendela's look said. No. She's freaking me out now, Benny's retorted. The drummer took a breath. "Why," she slowly asked, "did you do that?"

Gabrielle's verdant, unfocused eyes locked with hers. "I'm trying to stop time."

She flopped back onto the bed and grabbed an empty bong near her head. She cradled it, humming, as if it were an infant.

Does she have any brain cells left? Vendela wondered. The drummer returned the ice bucket to the dresser. Emboldened by a tiny sliver of bare tummy visible from where Gabrielle's sweatshirt had ridden up, Vendela sat on the bed next to the poet. She was about to lie down next to that delectable body when, in sudden woozy distress, Gabrielle sat up. At the sound of sniffling, Vendela leaned forward and Benny knelt anxiously in front of his goddess. A large, glittering teardrop splashed against the bong that she held.

"Gabrielle, what is it? What's wrong?" Vendela cried.

More shiny, silvery tears fell from the poet's eyes. "This is…our song."

Radiohead's "Creep" was on the station.

The Swedish musicians gaped at one another. This was inconceivable. A love song? A love song was "Chiquitita." A love song was "Babe." A love song was "My Heart Will Go On." A love song was "You Light Up My Life." It was not this.

But Gabrielle could only remember the magic of that night at the Horn, when Zina—after seven Rolling Rocks—finally convinced Effie to let her sing the song while backed up by the Amazons, to Gabrielle and the tattered, late-night remnants of the crowd. Initially, the bar's patrons had actually grooved on the laid-back melody and Zina's soft, angelic alto. Then the drunken, menacing, six-foot tall lead singer snarled the beginning of the chorus at them: I wish I were special/You're so fucking special and Sally punctuated the mood's turn with that sinister, slashing guitar chord. By the end of the song, Gabrielle truly felt that Zina was only singing to her, only to her, and no one else. And she was: Everyone else had left, even Ray Bob, the bouncer.

The spirit of song, nonetheless, now infected the discourse at Room 606 of the Red Roof Inn:

"But she's a creep!" Vendela spat.

"She's a weirdo," added Benny.

Gabrielle jumped up. "What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here." The poet wavered. "I don't belong here," she repeated. The sudden lack of blood to the brain—and the pot and the booze—conspired like the three witches in Macbeth to send her toppling back onto the bed, utterly unconscious.

The salacious Swedes gazed upon the obtuse object of their desire, now snoring softly.

"Now what?" grumbled Benny.

Reluctantly, Vendela opted to do the right thing. "We take her back home. Sven wanted us to get rid of her anyway," she sighed.

"In this condition?" the guitarist asked nervously.

Vendela groaned in exasperation. "What other choice do we have?" She lifted one of the poet's deadweight arms by its wrist. "Look at her!" She dropped the arm, which fell on Gabrielle's stomach and caused an inadvertent squeak from the unconscious woman that startled them both. "Time to eat the doughnuts," Gabrielle murmured in a soft, dreamy singsong.

Benny's eyes lit up. "Krispy Kreme!"

His bandmate smiled in approval. "Excellent idea." Once more she gave the stoner poet a longing, wistful glance. "Benny?"

"Yes?"

"You don't suppose—I mean, how wrong could it be—?" The drummer's hand wavered above a tantalizing breast. "—just to touch them? Once?"

The guitarist's jaw dropped. "Vendela!" he hissed, appalled.

Vendela was not fooled by his outrage. She raised an eyebrow as temptation and sneaky lust danced across his face, his moral compass now crushed under their weight.

8. This is Not My Beautiful House. This is Not My Beautiful Wife.

In half-sleep, Zina sighed and squirmed. The bed felt good—too good. And the sheets were so soft. Must be that new fabric softener Gabrielle is using, she thought. Because they feel like silk. Just like when I used to sleep at Julie's…

Her eyes opened. The room was startlingly pristine, a crisp cream white. And it was not covered with faded blue wallpaper. And the dartboard was gone! And the sheets, which matched the walls, were truly spun from silk. Fuck. I am at Julie's! And I'm naked too! Gabrielle is gonna freak! She leaped out of the bed. Fuck! How did I get here? Fuck! I was just sitting at home—I didn't drink that much! Fuck!

The soft wall-to-wall carpet soothed her somewhat, and she took a deep breath. Don't panic. Find your clothes. Zina looked around the tidy room and its minimalist decor. Not a stitch of clothing was in sight. Not on the floor, or draped over the chair, or—she looked under the bed. Or under the bed. Frantically she opened one of the drawers of the teak dresser in the room. And found row upon row of neatly folded, clean t-shirts and jerseys. What the hell? Julie wouldn't be caught dead in stuff like this. She pulled out a large, Green Bay Packer jersey and slipped it on. Unless it's…The firefighter opened a second drawer, and saw many variations upon the standard, faded Levi's 501s that she always wore. Mine. This is my stuff.

And suddenly, like Saul on the road to Damascus, like Jimmy Stewart in It's a Wonderful Life, like Connie Selleca in Lifetime's But My Adopted Chinese Baby Has AIDS, she got it. She was doing the Alternate Universe Thingy, as introduced in the original Star Trek and expounded upon brilliantly in South Park. And she had no idea what to expect, except that Artie would not have a goatee and would be really nice and that Gabrielle would have a goatee and would be really evil. Right? The thought of Evil Goatee Gabrielle, she confessed to herself, was strangely, thrillingly scintillating.

She was now eager to see her brave new world. Zina padded through Julie's luxurious house—our luxurious house! She walked past a state-of-the-art weight room—in the blinding light of the chrome, she gasped with joy. Mine! Mine! Mine! She chanted this capitalist mantra as she dashed down the spiral staircase, past the big screen TV, the Mitchell Gold leather sofa, and into the kitchen. A middle-aged Latina woman in a sleek maid's uniform was cooking an omelet and ignoring her with the practiced coolness of hired help. Zina opened the refrigerator, and gasped once again at the most beautiful, most wondrous sight of all: Fields of shining, vivid green! Rolling Rock as far as the eye could see!

"Oh," she burbled, helpless with joy. Tears clogged her eyes.

Julie's stormtrooper staccato preceded her into the kitchen. Even so, Zina was not prepared for the affectionate nip upon her neck from the Culinary Fascist. "Good morning, darling. Sleep well?"

Zina said nothing, but remained staring into the nirvana of the open fridge.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetheart. You seem to be running a bit low. I'll put a call in to Latrobe right away."

The firefighter tried to say "thanks," but could only manage a childlike squeak of happiness.

Julie turned her attention to the maid. "Macarena, you did remember to cook Zina's omelet directly in the bacon fat this time, did you not?"

"Si, Signora Caesar," the woman replied serenely, while quietly entertaining thoughts of murdering them all.

At the mention of "bacon fat" Zina slammed shut the refrigerator door and spun around. "Excellent!" she growled, following Julie into the dining room.

Julie sipped coffee as Zina sprawled in a chair, lazily awaiting her food. "Darling, I'm afraid I won't be able to breakfast with you this morning," she began, as Macarena entered and placed the steaming omelet in front of Zina, who tucked into it without hesitation. "But I'll leave the Porsche for you, since the Mustang is still being repaired."

Zina's baby blues bulged. Porsche? Mustang? Dear God in heaven, it's all perfect!

"Perhaps we could meet up later for lunch."

Zina, always a mere step away from turning into a happily mindless Sybarite anyway, nodded vigorously.

Julie leaned down for a quick kiss. "'Bye, darling. Oh, and one last thing…"

Zina, gobbling furiously, looked up.

"The pool cleaner is here." Julie patted her puffed-out cheek. "Pay her with the money I left in the dresser, would you? And don't get too flirty, dear. I know you like blondes, but really!" Julie's forced laughter ricocheted off the chandelier and the crystal ware, then splattered quite appropriately against the original Julian Schnabel lithograph on the wall.

And then Zina's feeling of euphoria tucked itself into Julie's Coach handbag and left with her. Damn. The unease filled her. She tried to ignore it as she decimated the omelet, but it lingered, like Julie's Chanel No. 5. She got up, stalked through the kitchen and past Macarena—who deigned to raise a questioning eyebrow—and slid open the door to the patio.

There, in front of the glistening pool, was pure pulchritude: A blonde woman—nay, the blonde woman to end all blonde women—in a tight sports bra and lycra shorts. She sprayed her sweaty face with a garden hose. Zina thought for a moment that Macarena had put hallucinogens in her omelet, for the pool girl flung her head back in a Flashdance-like slow mo and drops of water fell from her skin like rare, translucent, glowing pearls.

You would have to show up this soon and fuck up everything, wouldn’t ya?

The pool girl smiled at Zina.

And one hour later, the pool girl was coming in Zina's face. Her orgasmic bellows for God, Jesus, and country were laced with tasty bits of profanity as she dug her chlorine'd fingertips into Zina's scalp.

When she finally relinquished her hold on the dark hair, Zina came up for air, pillowing her head on a firm, sweet thigh. Absently, she wiped her face with the back of her hand as the girl's breath caught up with her.

"Wow, that was incredible!" the pool girl cried.

"Why is it that, even in the parallel universe, I'm still dumb as a doornail?" Zina muttered aloud. Everything is perfect, I have money, sex, freedom, even a Porsche, and all the beer I can drink…and I have to fuck it up somehow.

This time the girl's touch was gentle, as she raked her fingers through the black strands. "Sorry, did you say something?"

"No. Nothing."

She was still breathing heavily. Then she giggled. "I didn't get a chance to tell you my name—well, you didn't give me much of a chance, actually. I'm Gabrielle."

"I know," Zina retorted glumly.

"Oh. I guess Miss Caesar told you." There was a pause, and Gabrielle drew a deep satisfied breath, and Zina knew well that postcoital rambling would follow. "Hey. Um…"

"Zina."

"Zina? That's a pretty name." The comely pool girl—gee, you really went far in this existence, Gabrielle—was propped up on her elbows. "Zina, um, would you…like to go out sometime? Like just for a drink, even? I mean, I know it's really weird...we hardly know each other. Except carnally—you know, sexually. Um, I know—well, I assume you've got something going on with Miss Caesar, but I kinda like you. It's—well, you just seem like a nice person. And even if you just wanted to be friends that would be cool. But really, I gotta tell you, that mouth of yours...." She shook her head in pure admiration.

Oh, hell. Go on and do it, look at her and say yes. You know you want to, you frigging wuss. And so Zina looked up at Gabrielle, whose eyes were not as clear and dazzling as a Rolling Rock bottle, but something there—perhaps her innate kindness—made the firefighter feel weak. "Okay," she said softly.

Predictably, the door flung open. It was the Evil Parallel Universe Lieutenant Sulu and three red shirts. Actually, it was merely Julie and Macarena, the latter cradling an impressive-looking Glock handgun.

"Zina," Julie sighed. "I thought you would at least wait until you got to drive your new Harley."

A Harley? Zina's mind screamed. She glared at the naked, satiated Gabrielle. Who shrugged apologetically.

"I'm sure Crassus would like some company in his unmarked grave."

"Hey!" Gabrielle yelled. "How did you know—"

Julie waved a dismissive hand. "Macarena, if you will…"

Zina was leaping forward, covering Gabrielle's body with her own, when the shots rang out…

…and she woke with a violent, gasping shudder, her body spasming at the memory of each bullet. And with each twitch of her legs, the channels on the TV were changing. What the fuck? It was then that she realized the remote was lodged between her legs. She pressed her thighs together. WWF Smackdown flicked onto the screen. Hey. Cool.

The phone rang. She growled in frustration, jumped off the couch, and grabbed the receiver. "Yeah?"

"Hi! Uhhhh...is this Zina?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Well, um, I'm the manager of the Krispy Kreme—"

"Hey, I paid off our account there." The account was her euphemism for the time when Gabrielle—needing sugar and short of cash—ran out of the shop without paying for a dozen.

"—oh, I know. So you are Zina?"

Zina chose for once to ignore the paranoid little voices in her head—some of which sounded suspiciously like her mother—that told her this chirpy woman was a CIA agent. "Yeah."

"Well, um..." The woman trailed off and giggled self-consciously. "I'm your cousin. My name's Eve."

"Who?"

"Eve."

"Never heard of ya."

"Artie never mentioned me?" The young woman sounded hurt.

"Nope. But listen here, if he ever says he's sterile, or that he never had the clap, he's lyin', okay? Save yourself some trouble."

There was a long silence. "Oh."

"So why the hell are you callin' me, Evie?"

"Well, um, it's your girlfriend...she's passed out in the parking lot."

"What?" Zina shouted.

"Some weird foreigners left her here."

Zina's eyes bugged with anger. Earlier in the day, upon arriving home from her Rhine Gold expedition, she'd stopped at Sid's place, deciding to spread the wealth of her newly stolen stash. Sid had mentioned the members of the strange Scandinavian speed metal band who had taken a collective fancy to Gabrielle, and who had offered her some dope.

"She was sitting inside for a while. Then she walked out the exit and conked out, like, the minute she got outside. But, um, the people she was with put some pylons around her, so she should be okay." Eve's bright, chipper tone slashed through Zina's thoughts, both convincing herself and the brooding firefighter that nothing less than patently bizarre could be expected when a pothead slacker lesbian and a mediocre rock band collide.

* * *

And thus, Zina sailed to the rescue on her Harley.

She found Gabrielle just as Eve said—lying within a parking space surrounded by four bright orange pylons. It reminded her of when Lao Ma was going through her Yoko Ono phase and started doing weird art installment things at a gallery in New Mexico ("Lao at Taos," it was called). Lao had placed a half-eaten chocolate brownie on the gallery floor, in between two pylons. The viewer had to lie on the floor to read the message in 7-point type: Will the pylons of your soul protect you from your desires? (Zina, responsible for eating part of the brownie, was billed as a collaborator on the piece.)

Frowning with concern, Zina knelt beside Gabrielle. Her companion looked unharmed and was obviously just sleeping it off. Upon closer inspection the firefighter saw that Gabrielle's breasts appeared strangely rumpled. She tugged at the sweatshirt and quickly discerned that the poet's bra had been unhooked.

Zina felt a psychotic flash of red rage. I'm going to kill those fucking foreigners! She knew that her lover—no matter how furious or hurt she had been with Zina—would never permit tacky strangers to feel her up. Or worse. If only because she knew that Gabrielle detested metal music and thought anyone in such a band was "grody." She shivered away the anger, shaking her head violently. Relax. Later. She bit her lip in worry. Then, as if to dispel all her fears, she leaned in and quickly kissed Gabrielle on the mouth.

Just like in the fairy tale, the poet's eyelids fluttered open and a series of expressions passed over her face: fear, confusion, bliss. "Zina."

Zina's face burst into a grin at hearing her name spoken so softly, so reverently. "Hey."

"Why do I smell motor oil?"

"You're in the Krispy Kreme parking lot. Your, uh, little friends dropped you off here, then you passed out. The manager called me to come get you."

Gabrielle's fuzzy brain had no choice but to accept this strange tale. "Oh." Slowly, she sat up.

"Let me help you up. You ready to stand?"

"I think so." The poet latched onto her girlfriend's strong arms, and stood up. She stretched, then took a few moments to get her bearings. Something felt odd—something limp hung from her chest. "Hey, my bra!" She shot a look at Zina, who was trying to blink herself into an innocent state. "Oh, honey," Gabrielle cooed, "you just couldn't wait till we got home, could you?"

Could Zina bear to tell Gabrielle that horny Eurotrash had molested her? The firefighter smiled sheepishly. "Nope. I couldn't, baby."

"So we got our groove back, then?" The poet's expression was timidly hopeful.

"Yeah." Zina watched her own feet shuffle nervously. "Hell, I don't think we ever really lost it, ya know?"

Once again Zina's lawyer, parole officer, and the judge of her court case were proven wrong—a little white lie could be an enormously rewarding endeavor: The lovely poet jumped into the firefighter's embrace, wrapping her legs tightly around Zina's waist, and from there they proceeded to make out as if the world were ending.

And, in a strange way, it was. As Zina playfully tried to barricade Gabrielle's tongue from entering her mouth, she heard the distant, repetitive sound of a police siren. Despite the serious turn-on of publicly groping her girlfriend in a Krispy Kreme parking lot, the firefighter resolutely decided that she did not want to be anywhere near law enforcement officials of any kind. With the limpet-like Gabrielle firmly attached to her, Zina began to maneuver them in the general direction of the Harley. But instead of backing up against the worn leather and warm chrome of her hog, she literally delivered her ass into the welcoming grasp of Officer Minya.

Zina's lips did a cease-and-desist with her beloved's. A wary blue eyeball found Minya grinning slyly at them.

"Hey guys," the amiable trooper drawled.

"Minya?" Gabrielle was breathless. "What's up?" The poet disengaged herself from Zina, which gave Minya the opportunity to do what she was, nonetheless, very reluctant to do: She snared Zina's wrists—somewhat surprised at the lack of resistance—and clapped a pair of handcuffs on the firefighter.

"What the fuck is going on?" Gabrielle demanded. She looked at her lover. "Zina?"

"Er, Miss Amphisyphilis is under arrest for arson—"

Zina dipped her head, silently acknowledging the truth of the charge. She had known that someday this particular crime would catch up with her.

"Arson?" Gabrielle echoed. She threw up her hands in dismay. "What is it with you and fire?" she shouted.

"—and one count sexual relations with a minor. Do I have to do the Miranda thing with you?" Minya asked Zina. "Seems to me you should have it memorized by now."

But the outraged firefighter was too distracted by the second charge. "Minor? Minor? That fucking bitch told me she was 21!"

Of course—another ex-girlfriend, thought Gabrielle. Zina was being dragged with little effort from Minya—the cop was surprisingly strong. Yet she was placed into the back seat of the police car with care, Minya's hand on Zina's dark head gently shoving her in, like a midwife returning the baby to its well-deserved womb. The cop slammed the door shut and ambled over to the driver's side.

Desperately, Gabrielle lunged at the door and spoke to Zina through the open window. "Explain," she snarled.

"It happened 10 years ago."

"Why did everything happened 10 years ago?"

"Harmonic Convergence?" Zina hazarded a guess.

More like Unharmonic Psychosis, Gabrielle thought. "Never mind. Just tell me what happened."

"I was just showing Kimmy my little firebreathing trick…"

"Kimmy?" Gabrielle couldn't help it—her voice oozed with sarcastic cuteness. You never showed me the firebreathing trick!

"Kimmy."

"God, with a stupid name like that, I hope she was good."

"Nah." Zina shook her head. "Phony virgin," she mumbled. It was the truth, and they both knew it. For Zina could never keep her mouth shut about former lovers: Lao Ma made her multiorgasmic, Boris couldn't be tantric to save his life, Hank would sometimes yell "touchdown!" after coming, spanking with spatulas proved to be Julie's favorite foreplay...the list went on with excruciating detail. There were times when Gabrielle feared that she might be just another bit of minutiae in Zina's Sexual Trivial Pursuit, that someday the firefighter would be telling a new lover about her old flame Gabrielle, who used her firefighting helmet in a multitude of wanton ways, who had a toe fetish, who would sing "Now I’m a Cowgirl" while riding Zina….

Gabrielle shuddered at the list of sexual depravities that Zina could use against her. This was one reason for keeping the ex-con around. That and the love thing. God, I’m an idiot. "Don’t tell me—for the firebreathing, you used…"

"…tequila." Zina confirmed sadly.

It was the most flammable of drinks. "Fuck, Zina."

9. When Obligatory Flashbacks Attack: Ten Years Ago in Yokohama, Japan

Boris returned from losing a match with the local chessmaster—a seven-year-old who had him in check within two minutes—to find that his lover was not alone in their bedroom. He had every intention of being cool about it—he had learned his lesson with Lao Ma, or so he thought—until he heard himself screaming and stomping out of the bedroom with a dramatic slam of the door.

He paced and seethed. A few minutes later, Zina stumbled out of the bedroom, dressed, yet with wild, seriously tangled bed hair.

"Shouldn’t you comb your hair?" Boris suggested with his usual yet unique passive-aggressive flair.

"Go fuck yourself."

"I suppose I will have to, Zeeena. Since I noticed that someone else is in our bed."

She guzzled her morning beer. "Oh—her. Boris, I know it looks bad."

"It smells bad, too. You could at least wash your face."

"Hey—" She grabbed his shirt and pulled him closer. He winced as eau de muff diving slapped him in the face, and her voice dropped to a menacing whisper: "This is a big opportunity for us. The girl's father is Yodoshi Hirohito, one of the biggest 'Hello Kitty' distributors in North America!"

"Hel-lo Kit-tee?" he echoed.

* * *

"Hello Kitty?" Gabrielle interrupted the flashback in an accent considerably less charming than Boris's. "You mean like that stupid t-shirt Ming Tien is always wearing?"

Zina nodded. "It just got out of hand. The warehouse caught on fire." She paused, and her voice dropped to a cracked, anguished whisper. "Forty thousand 'Hello Kitty' purses, gone."

There was a moment of silence for the dearly departed merchandise.

"Well good fucking riddance!" Gabrielle yelled.

"That's my cue to peel out, right?" Minya asked hopefully, from behind the wheel.

"No!" cried the poet. Her vision swam with tears, yet Gabrielle's resolve—her faithful, steadfast love—did not waver. She clutched the car door, white knuckled. And while original words of inspiration and solace failed to come to her, something did float through to the forefront of her troubled mind, and thus she intoned the following: "I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far, I will find you." No sooner were the sentences out of her mouth than she realized she was being Daniel Day Lewis in Last of the Mohicans.

Zina, however, was ill informed of her role in the make-believe and winced with both irritation and confusion. "Gabrielle, I'm just goin' to jail."

Minya hit the gas and the police cruiser pulled out of the parking lot.

10. Girlfriend in a Stupor

There were times when I could have murdered her

But you know I would hate anything to happen to her

—the Smiths, "Girlfriend in a Coma"

With a majesty possessed by those who are vastly ignorant of their own innate dignity, Gabrielle sat atop the Saab motorbus with a 7-11 Big Gulp. She felt bad about taking the Saab from Bob's Garage (Purdy, of course, had been quite compliant in allowing her to abscond with the now-functioning vehicle owned by the Swedes who had insulted him), but she comforted herself—rather, justified the theft—by recalling Vendela's touching words of devotion: What I have is yours, my love. For fate would have it, the motorbus's registration was in the drummer's name.

So far being a fugitive from justice was fun: She was an accomplice to a known felon, in a stolen vehicle no less, and with a large stash of dope and several peyote tablets in the glove department. Well, she thought with sanctimonious irritation, it was all Minya’s fault. If the sheriff hadn’t been so innately, irresistibly corruptible, and thus hadn’t succumbed to the temptation of a lap dance in exchange for Zina’s freedom, Gabrielle would still be a law-abiding citizen. Although Zina would be still rotting in jail.She hoped that Minya would be successful in at least convincing the Hirohitos to drop the charges; perhaps Eli’s offer of unlimited anime rentals would help soften their hard hearts.

Putting aside these tumultuous thoughts, Gabrielle reclined on the bus, eyes closed, drinking in the sun. Cyrene was right, there was nothing quite like sunbathing on top of a motor vehicle. She could feel the light and the heat sink deep into her bones, dissolving them. She was liquid, expanding, flowing free from the constraints of her body and from time. She was seeing and experiencing alternate time lines, the past, the future, and a new present.

In this vision of the present, Zina was still in jail and about to be executed for her crimes. All of her crimes, even sleeping with the 16-year-old girl scout. She was strapped into an electric chair, with a really bad, fucked-up Siousxie-and-the-Banshees kind of short hairdo. The switch was thrown and a gazillion bolts of electricity fried her lover into a pile of ashes.

"Zina," she whimpered aloud.

"Gabrielle."

The poet opened her eyes, attempting to blink away the effects of phosphene, even though multicolored dots and blobs and dashes remained floating in her sight. She was curled fetally, still on top of the motorbus, face to face with the Big Gulp. The voice came from the benevolent font of bubbling Sprite within the red container. "Zina?" she repeated.

"Gabrielle, what the fuck are you doing?" the Big Gulp demanded.

"Zina? Why are you there? Come back to me!" Lovingly she stroked the sweaty container.

The large red cup sighed. "Oh, for Christ's sake."

The world thundered, and the poet sat up with a gasp, knocking over the Big Gulp, spilling its sticky clear fluid all over the bonnet of the Saab.

Zina had jumped up onto the roof of the motorbus. Crouched like a panther, she grinned, pleased with herself. Then she shot a mock-scowl at the poet. "You ate a peyote tablet, didn't you?"

"I—" Gabrielle's eyes shifted guiltily.

"Eli told you to wait until we got into the Mojave."

"Aren't we?"

"Toto, we're still in fuckin’ Kansas."

"Oh."

"You probably got sunstroke now too."

The poet covered her eyes. "Do not."

Zina sighed and sat down next to her, yet as far away from the Sprite spill as possible. She pulled an old Oakland Raiders cap out of her back pocket and gently placed it on Gabrielle's head, shielding her eyes from the sun.

The poet basked in the musty, sweaty scent emanating from the cap. "Wow, you're letting me wear your Raiders cap. We must be in love or something."

"I reckon so." The firefighter sighed again, this time happily. They were quiet for a minute. "How long do you think before they drop the charges?"

"I dunno, baby. I figure it won't be too long. They'll soon get bored hanging around the county."

"Ya think? Hell, we never got bored hanging around the county."

"We’re idiots. They’re city types. They need neon lights and people driving badly."

Zina hummed skeptically. "So after we go to the desert, then what?"

"Oh, I don't know. We can go anywhere you want."

"We could go to Mexico!" Zina's blue eyes brightened.

"Don't you need a passport for that? I don't have one."

"I dunno—but we can get you one, easy. I know this fella in El Paso, he can put together a passport for you just like that." Zina snapped her fingers and pulled her own passport out of a back pocket. "He did one for me."

Gabrielle took the small document and opened its cover. The photo was Zina, sure enough, although the name read "Ellie Mae Ghurkhan." At the poet's look of puzzlement, Zina said, "Well, it always helps to have an alias, and Ghurkhan was my married name…" In a hapless attempt to take back the words, she bit the inside of her mouth. Oh fuck.

"You were married?"

"Just for a teeny bit..."

"Who's Ghurkhan?"

"It don't matter now, he's dead."

"How did he die?"

"Can we not talk about this now?" Zina tried furiously to work up some crocodile tears. "Let's just say I was the happiest woman in Denmark." When he died, that is.

Gabrielle scowled.

Zina patted the poet’s thigh. "Don't fret, baby, I just married him for his cigar plantation."

"Like that should make me feel better." Gabrielle put her arms behind her head. "So why do you want to go to Mexico?"

"I got an idea."

"That's what I was afraid of."

Zina ignored this and pulled out a picture of Harley—their niece, not Zina's beloved hog. "What we do is this: We get to some little town—a nice town—an' show this picture to all the locals, see, an' they'll think I'm in league with the Chupacabra, an' they'll, like, start payin' me tribute to protect them from the beast!" She grinned with maniacal pleasure.

"And then maybe if things go real well, we could buy our own boat. And we could sail around everywhere do a little, ah, tradin' here and there—or maybe not," she added quickly, at Gabrielle's disapproving look. "But there's quite a business in white slavery, ya know." Zina's eyes darkened, recalling the time that Boris knocked her unconscious with a bottle of Jack Daniels and tried to sell her to Lao Ma's uncle. She shook the thought from her mind. "Or," she continued, "we could just open a casino on board..."

Gabrielle stared at her. Was she serious? Was she joking? Was she crazy? The poet burst out laughing. Because it didn't matter. "God, you are so fucked up."

"But you still love me, right?" Zina dipped her head expectantly. She hesitated a second, perhaps wondering—and fearing—what Gabrielle's response would really be. Could you still love me, even though I put you through so much crap? Even though I ruined your original copy of On the Road, even though I dragged you across the lawn when your shoelace got caught in the weed-whacker, even though I knocked you unconscious while playing Frisbee with the lid of a crock pot? I still love you, but is that enough?

Gabrielle just smiled and lifted her head. Her answer was in the kiss.

The End

[megpie71]

This is why I strongly argue that one of the things the media is supposed to be doing in order to prepare people for elections is to start asking candidates how they’re planning to fulfil their campaign promises.  Every single candidate out there is in favour of Mom, Apple Pie, Kittens, Home Ownership, A Chicken in Every Pot, Truth, Justice and the $INSERT_COUNTRY Way - and other similar motherhood statements, so asking about what they want is not going to net you much.  The trick to ask is how they plan to get there. 

There is a very definite difference, for example, between the candidate who is suggesting we get “improving graduation rates and sending more kids to college” through things like smaller class sizes, better pay for teachers, more options for different learning styles, increased resources for all the schools in the district, and also promoting things like technical colleges and trade schools for those kids who either don’t want to go to college, or who aren’t suited to that particular learning style; and the one who is suggesting we’re going to get there by increasing the number of screening exams at lower grades, making graduation dependent on familial financial probity (e.g. if you ever have a lunch debt, or an overdue library book, you can’t graduate), more teaching to the test, less recess and playtime, and penalizing “bad” teachers if students withdraw from their classes.

Always ask candidates how they plan to implement their goals.  No matter what they say in response, it will tell you something important.  Particularly if they can’t or won’t answer the question - this means either they have no plan to implement this goal because they’re only saying it to get elected (it’s a “non-core promise”, to use the jargon of the Liberal Party of Australia); they have no plan to implement the goal because they’re completely incapable of planning anything from one end to the other (e.g. the Trump campaign, who weren’t prepared for anything); or they have no intention of telling you how they’re going to implement it because they know it would be an immediate vote loser (e.g. Book Banning Barbara, who knows book bans aren’t popular outside her particular little clique, and therefore wants to keep the information that she’s planning to ban anything more complex that “Dick and Jane” or “Tales from the Bible” from the school library).

HELP we had a woman in the library just now CLEARLY reading from a list of books being targeted for censorship in public & school libraries (presumably so she can read them & turn around to bitch about how they’re corrupting the children & need to be removed) & me, being an utter shit, checked out looking for alaska & the perks of being a wallflower for her, gave her a big smile and went “oh wow, you have GREAT taste—these were two of my favorites in high school!!!!!!” (which is true) and she looked like she bit into a lemon

listen she didn’t say why she was checking them out so i can only assume it’s due to her love of excellent 90s & 2000s ya fiction 😇😇😇😇

[acid-and-anime]

I remember when I was a college student, I made a lot of chicken pot pie. It was fast and easy because I used canned vegetables and canned soup for the gravy

Today I made actual homemade chicken pot pie! I used real vegetables, and I even tried making my own gravy. It turned out ok. I think next time I need to add less biscuit dough for the crust and more gravy. It was kind of dry. But the actual flavor was good. I’ll just remember for next time =)

[cielb]

Bro, why you be like that?

Bro, why you be like that?

“Like, everyone in America should basically change to adopt baseball hotdogs apple pie and Chevrolet as their cultural identity.” Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

“We need a unified cultural identity and to discourage the celebration of international cultures. America is a melting pot, not a simmering pot, we are all supposed to melt into the same substance.” Yes, Chad, we are all supposed to melt into straight white men who like football, deporting Mexicans, and fucking 18 year old college virgins.

Fuck, I turned nineteen and I still didn’t get fucked. Well I’m fucked, aren’t I?

But wait, shit, if we are all straight men, then there won’t be any women to fuck. There’s always the hole cut into an abused teddy bear to turn to. A female teddy bear. Of course she’s female, she’s fucking pink! What do you think I am, gay? You think I would center my cultural identity around fucking a male teddy bear? Hell no!

“Oh, when the Italians and Irish integrated into America, the racism towards them ended,” you say.

And have you ever been to Hawaii? Have you ever been to a place where surprise, most people aren’t fucking white? You want me to give up purple ube ice cream served with coconut, apricot, condensed milk, and navy beans? Give up shrimp tempura and steamed white rice and chicken adobo and anything other than microwave tv dinners with more sodium than the Dead Sea?  So you can assimilate? So you can feel comfortable? You want the black girl in your computer science class to stop coming to class in dreads? You want the Chinese foreign exchange students to stop using chopsticks and stop talking about how much better food at home tastes than the pathetic dry rice and cheap noodles soaked in soy sauce and labeled “Asian” at the cafeteria?

I have so much potential, I really think I do. My potential is mgh, and I want nothing more than to maximize my height and convert it to kinetic energy at 9.8 m/s^2.

“DON’T YOU GET IT YOU STUPID WHORE IT IS YOUR FAULT THAT EVERYTHING IS SO AWFUL IT IS YOUR FAULT EVERYONE WANTS TO KILL THEMSELVES AND EACH OTHER.” Fine, I’ll eat a fucking burger and fries, then. Are you happy? Does that make it all better?

“We’re all the same inside,” you say.

You’re full of shit. You never thought we were the same. You always knew you were better, because you’re not a snowflake who identifies as gay or bi or trans and you don’t write poems about the trauma of being a person of color because you never lived it and fuck you if you have; it’s all your fault because you didn’t want to get along and play the white man’s game.

[revivemyreverie]

“I don’t care how many takes we need or if this is wasting time! Just admit you can’t perform at my level and get off my stage!”

Twisted from: Erik, the Phantom of the Opera

Lucero Symphomia

ルーチェロー・シムフォミア

CV: Yoshitsugu Matsuoka (松岡 禎丞)

Technical Info.

Other Names: Luce, Monsieur Ange de la Musique (Mr. Angel of Music), Blobfish

Gender: Male

Sexuality: Pansexual

Birthday: 01/08

Age: 20

Height: 174 cm (5’8)

Eye color: Dual; Green and Blue

Hair Color: Rose Brown

Hand Pref. Ambidextrous

Homeland: Monolith Village

College Info.

School Year: 3rd

Class: 3-A Seat 29

Club: Film Studies

Occupation: Student, Countertenor

Other.

Hobby: Singing

Likes: Opera

Dislikes: Being treated unfairly

Favorite Food: Chicken Pot Pie

Least Favorite Food: Fried foods

Talents: Vocal Coaching

UM: Music of the Night

Using only his voice, Lucero can enchant those around him into following his every command. He prefers to not use this skill, as it requires him to sing the entire time.

The Angel Beneath the Skylight

A crumpled tabloid lays in a trash can…

Symphomia: Where is he now?

Lucero Symphomia, a former child star who took a sudden leave 4 years ago, is rumored to have reappeared in the famous magician’s school of NRC!

The now 19-year-old shook the opera world when he left his small town of Monolith Village to perform at one of Twisted Wonderland’s largest opera houses at just 12. His performance, which was just his debut, granted him multiple awards and a large fan base of hopeful fans. His existence proved to them that childhood fantasies can easily become reality.

Like a phantom, however, he disappeared as quickly as he arrived. During a country-wide tour, the young countertenor failed to arrive at a meet-and-greet (much to the disappointment of his fans). Almost without notice, his performances were cancelled, and his family announced an emergency that called the star back home. Rumors on popular chat sites spoke of the young man being attacked by a sudden stranger on his way to the event. Even a supposed nurse on one of the sites says to have been at the hospital Symphomia was at. Skeptic users, however, dismissed them. That was the last time the world had ever seen the actor’s face.

That is, until now.

In a photo provided to us from an anonymous source, the image depicts what appears to be an older Lucero in the NRC’s uniform. Looking closer, his face also is hidden by a mask.

So are the rumors of an attack on the star true? Look at the image and determine for yourself…

The page is torn… you can’t read any further.