#exaggerated swagger of a teenage girl

[bootzthebat]

Two cents and some pocket lint and I will give every drone paw pads

[m1ng1ology]

mommy kissed santa

parents! yunho x fem!reader

song : i saw mommy kissing santa claus by jackson 5

"i saw mommy kissing santa claus. underneath the mistletoe last night. she didn't see me creep. down the stairs to have a peep. she thought that i was tucked up In my bedroom, fast asleep"

warnings: fluff, almost caught by your kids lol.

wc : 875

synopsis : on christmas eve, yunho dresses as santa to surprise his kids. when they catch him kissing their mom, he scrambles to keep the christmas magic alive in this warm and playful holiday tale.

a/n : listen, this was so last minute. yunho posted him in that outfit and i HAD to write it.

it was christmas eve, and the house was alive with the sounds of excitement. the smell of freshly baked cookies lingered in the air, the tree sparkled with colorful lights, and stockings were hung neatly on the fireplace. your two kids, 8 year old son and 5 year old daughter, had just been tucked into bed after a loud and energetic rendition of “santa claus is coming to town.”

the promise of santa’s visit had been enough to quiet their excited chatter—for now. you and yunho were finally able to steal a moment of peace.

“okay,” you whispered, leaning against the kitchen counter while yunho struggled into his santa costume. “remind me why you insisted on doing this again? the kids won’t even see you.”

yunho pulled the red coat on with a confident grin, adjusting the belt so it sat snugly around his trim waist. his broad shoulders filled out the costume in a way that was almost distracting. he tugged on the fake white beard and gave you a playful look.

“because the kids will love knowing santa left all these presents for them,” he said, smoothing down the jacket. “and, let’s be honest, i look good in red.”

you folded your arms, trying to fight the smile tugging at your lips. “you’re ridiculous.”

“and yet you’re staring.”

“oh, please,” you scoffed, though your cheeks warmed as his dark eyes glimmered with amusement.

“you love me for it.”

“unfortunately,” you teased, grabbing the box of wrapped gifts from the counter.

yunho, now fully transformed into “santa,” strutted into the living room with exaggerated swagger, his boots thudding lightly on the hardwood floor. you followed him, trying not to stare too hard at how the costume fit him perfectly.

he knelt to place the last of the presents under the tree, arranging them just so. when he was done, he stood and turned to you, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “now, what’s santa gotta do to get a kiss from the beautiful mrs. claus?”

“yunho,” you said with a laugh, shaking your head. “you’re too much.”

“come on,” he said, grabbing a sprig of mistletoe from the table and holding it above your head. “it’s tradition.”

with a roll of your eyes and a smile, you stepped closer. yunho’s arms slid around your waist, pulling you against him. the fake beard tickled your cheek, but you didn’t care as he kissed you softly, the warmth of his lips making you forget about everything else.

for a moment, the world felt perfect.

then came a sharp gasp from the stairs.

“oh my gosh! mommy’s kissing santa!”

you jumped back like a teenager caught sneaking out, spinning to see your kids standing at the top of the staircase. your son, with his messy bedhead and wide eyes, looked utterly scandalized. your daughter, clutching her stuffed bunny, stared with a mix of confusion and awe.

“uh, kids!” you stammered, your heart racing. “what are you doing out of bed?”

“we heard noises!” your son said, his voice high-pitched with excitement. “and now mommy’s kissing santa!”

yunho, ever the quick thinker, put his hands on his hips and let out a booming laugh. “ho, ho, ho! well, it seems you caught me!”

“but why is mommy kissing you?” your daughter asked, her little brows furrowed as she clutched her bunny tighter.

“because your mommy is very special,” yunho said, staying in character. “and she helps santa deliver presents to good boys and girls like you!”

your son narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “you sound like daddy.”

a flicker of panic crossed your face, but yunho didn’t miss a beat. “santa and daddy are very good friends,” he said, his voice light and cheerful. “sometimes we sound alike!”

the kids seemed to mull this over, their expressions slowly softening. your son still looked skeptical, but your daughter's face lit up with wonder. “does that mean daddy knows santa?”

“exactly!” yunho said, shooting you a quick wink. “now, back to bed, you two! santa has to finish his work before morning.”

“can we open one present now?” your daughter asked, her voice sweet and hopeful.

“nice try,” you said, gently herding them back up the stairs. “you’ll get your presents in the morning. now off to bed, or santa might have to skip this house!”

the threat worked, and after some whispered giggles and promises of a magical christmas morning, the kids finally returned to their room.

when you came back downstairs, yunho was leaning against the couch, the fake beard dangling from his fingers. his grin was wide, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“that was close,” he said, his deep voice rich with laughter.

“close? that was a disaster,” you whispered, though you couldn’t help but laugh as well.

yunho stepped closer, pulling you into his arms again. “at least we got our mistletoe kiss.”

“you’re lucky you look good in that costume,” you murmured, resting your hands on his chest.

“oh, so you admit it,” he teased, leaning down to kiss you again.

this time, you made sure to glance over your shoulder for any little spies before letting yourself get lost in the moment. because as chaotic as it was, this was your family, and christmas wouldn’t be the same without moments like these.

[backtothefanfiction]

It’s A Right Of Passage | tasm!peter/dad!peter imagine

Warnings: none, fluffy embarrassing parent stuff

Word Count: under 1k (it’s another quick I’m not counting)

A/N: been itching for a while to contribute to dad Peter content and feel like there is a lot of dealing with young kids stories but not enough about dealing with teenagers. So here is their eldest son Ben bringing a girl home for the first time. (Also the gif really just sparked an idea to raise this even more)

“Peter, what the heck are you wearing?” You hiss at your husband as he enters the kitchen in a Hawaiian shirt and straw hat.

“Don’t worry, don’t worry, it’s all a part of the plan.” He says, moving round the back of the kitchen island to place a kiss on your cheek.

The doorbell goes and there’s a thundering of feet racing down the stairs, your son calling out, “she’s here!” and you start to put two and two together.

“No.” You turn to your husband. “No.” But he’s got a devious smirk on his face, his eyebrows raising at you mischievously.

“Oh yeah.” He counters with an exaggerated head nod.

“No, Peter. This is the first time Ben is bringing a girl home. He finally trusts us enough and you’re gonna embarrass the poor boy.”

“Poor boy? I’ll have you know that poor boy was the one who started a prank war with me when he was 9. Do you know how many pairs of underwear I had to throw away because the itching powder just wouldn’t wash out.”

“Uh huh.” You listened as you continued to chop the cucumber and tomatoes for the salad.

“And let’s not forget the time he put eggs in my shoes. Or the time him and his friends tee peed my car. My car babe.”

“Yes I remember.” You reply unenthusiastically to your husbands reasoning. “But Pete,” you say, putting down the knife in your hands and turning to him, “he’s 15 and this is the first girl he’s brought home. You do this and he’ll never forgive you.”

“Of course he will.” He says, already laughing about the thought of the future conversations he’ll have with his son about this. “Come on Babe, it’s a right of passage. I’ve been waiting for this day.” You turn away from him and give him the silent treatment. “You seriously telling me your parents didn’t embarrass you or your brother when you first brought a date home?” You begin to soften as you think back to a memory from your childhood. “Besides, this is still way better than what Uncle Ben did the first time I brought a girl home.”

“Dad? Where’s the TV remote?” Ben’s voice calls from the living room.

You watch as his face lights up. “This is my moment.” He says before swaggering towards the door.

“Just take it easy- and I want to hear the whole story about what your Uncle did to you later!” You call to him. He gives you a knowing nod of agreement before he leaves the room.

“Sooo, who’s ready for lu’au night.” You hear him say as he enters the living room and you can’t help but roll your eyes, already mentally preparing yourself for the damage control you’ll need to do after the poor girls gone home, later.

[kammartinez]

By John Banville

The 1990s were a boom time for fiction. In those days — and this is not an exaggeration — a teenage girl could secure a half million pound advance for a one-page outline of her first novel. Those of us who had been in the business since of old viewed the transformed present with bemusement and bitter envy. These new kids, we said, have no idea what it was like back then, when only a handful of novelists could make a living from their work, and the rest of us had to slave away in academe, or journalism, or even, God help us, the civil service.

You get nothing for nothing, of course. In the scramble for publicity, the high-octane fuel which drove the boom, even the lowest of us had to work for our pittances.

A Punch cartoon at the time summed up the new dispensation. Three men sit around a table. In the centre is the publisher’s PR man. To his left, a lugubrious figure resembling Philip Larkin on a particularly bad day. To his right, a burly chap, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, big-haired, in manly tweeds and bravura bow tie. The PR man is pointing to Mr Muscle and saying to Phil Pipsqueak: "This is the chap whose photograph will be appearing over your name on the jacket of your next novel."

Then dawned the day of the book tour. Literary stars and the authors of blockbusters, the Norman Mailers and the Frederick Forsyths, had always been swaggering about the world touting their wares. Now the rest of us, poor moles digging away in the dark of obscurity, were hauled up into the light and sent abroad to appear before live audiences and pretend to be a more or less plausible and if possible entertaining version of ourselves.

One day in 1990, I was flown first class from Dublin to Phoenix, Arizona, to read at the Irish Cultural Centre there. Five people turned up to listen to me. None of them had read my books, and it was clear that none of them had the slightest intention of doing so. They were the sons and daughter of Irish immigrants, and were there simply to see a real, live son the Oul Sod.

That was the beginning of a tour that would take me to ten cities in nine days. Here are some of the highlights, or lowlights, of that jaunt and others like it.

Chicago, the Windy City, was extremely windy that raw autumn evening as I walked from my hotel to the nearby branch of the now defunct Borders bookshops. I was greeted by the store’s beaming and breathtakingly beautiful Chinese-American manager. She led me to a far corner, past the Self-Help section and next to the Occult shelves, where there waited for me a brave little band of readers in overcoats and mufflers, shuffling their frozen feet and blowing into their fists. Twenty-odd, say, a few of whom were distinctly odd, as usual —every reading, as every writer will tell you, attracts at least a couple of maniacs.

As I was shedding my gloves and trying to find my place in the book I was to read from, the manager whispered to me that I was the second Irishman to visit in recent days. "Last week we had Roddy Doyle," she confided proudly. "National television covered the event. We had to send out for a hundred extra chairs. Good luck!"

A decade and a half later, in the same city but at another store, I was to read from my novel The Sea, so naturally there was a big display of Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea. I was too polite, or too timid, to point out the error. No one noticed.

It was in New York, though, in one of that city’s sprawling emporia, Rizzoli, perhaps, or Barnes & Noble, that I was properly put in my place. My reading was at an end, and I was signing for a half dozen or so devotees — such enthusiasm! such dauntless loyalty! — when an alarmingly large and glossily grinning plutocrat elbowed his way forward and, ignoring the stack of my as yet unbought books, thrust a great furred paw at me and boomed: "Sir, let me shake the hand that shook the hand of Seamus Heaney!" The hand that shook the hand of Heaney sadly shook his, and he was gone.

For the lower order of writers such as I, with modest readerships and more modest sales, the small independent bookshops are best. Three Lives bookstore in New York’s Greenwich Village is my favourite. I have read there on a number of occasions, and almost enjoyed myself each time. The Village people who came to hear me were laid back as far as they could go without falling over. Also, they managed to make it seem that they were not there intentionally, but had drifted in from the street and stayed only out of mild curiosity.

It is not so relaxed at all the independents. In a small town somewhere in the Rust Belt I read one rainy autumn twilight in a pokey little shop at the edge of a cramped car park. It was run by an excitable gnome with fur in his ears, dressed Huck Finn-fashion in checked shirt and faded dungarees and scuffed cowboy boots. When I arrived, it was plain that he had no idea who I was.

The audience, such as it was, attended to me in an earnest hush, frowning and occasionally sighing. When I had finished, they applauded politely and shuffled off without delay into what by then had become night. I can’t remember how I found out—it certainly wasn’t from Huck himself—that they had thought they were coming to a reading by John Boyne.

As I was leaving, Huck, smiling distractedly, presented me with an orange.

Then there was Florida. Ah, Florida, most beautifully named of all the states, according to Elizabeth Bishop. I was in Miami for the Book Fair. The reading took place in a vast, glass and steel store. My partner for the occasion had the day before been presented with the Pulitzer Prize, so I had the benefit of his audience.

Afterwards, there was a book signing in a courtyard in front of the store. Two tables side by side, one piled with his books, one with mine. Two queues formed. His stretched off into the sunlit Floridan distance. I had three people. One was the inevitable madman, this one in a raincoat. The second was a student who was writing a paper on the work. The third was a smiling oldster in golf shirt and baggy shorts, who leaned down to me and murmured, "I’m not going to buy your book, but you looked so lonely I had to come and say a word to you."

[kamreadsandrecs]

By John Banville

The 1990s were a boom time for fiction. In those days — and this is not an exaggeration — a teenage girl could secure a half million pound advance for a one-page outline of her first novel. Those of us who had been in the business since of old viewed the transformed present with bemusement and bitter envy. These new kids, we said, have no idea what it was like back then, when only a handful of novelists could make a living from their work, and the rest of us had to slave away in academe, or journalism, or even, God help us, the civil service.

You get nothing for nothing, of course. In the scramble for publicity, the high-octane fuel which drove the boom, even the lowest of us had to work for our pittances.

A Punch cartoon at the time summed up the new dispensation. Three men sit around a table. In the centre is the publisher’s PR man. To his left, a lugubrious figure resembling Philip Larkin on a particularly bad day. To his right, a burly chap, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, big-haired, in manly tweeds and bravura bow tie. The PR man is pointing to Mr Muscle and saying to Phil Pipsqueak: "This is the chap whose photograph will be appearing over your name on the jacket of your next novel."

Then dawned the day of the book tour. Literary stars and the authors of blockbusters, the Norman Mailers and the Frederick Forsyths, had always been swaggering about the world touting their wares. Now the rest of us, poor moles digging away in the dark of obscurity, were hauled up into the light and sent abroad to appear before live audiences and pretend to be a more or less plausible and if possible entertaining version of ourselves.

One day in 1990, I was flown first class from Dublin to Phoenix, Arizona, to read at the Irish Cultural Centre there. Five people turned up to listen to me. None of them had read my books, and it was clear that none of them had the slightest intention of doing so. They were the sons and daughter of Irish immigrants, and were there simply to see a real, live son the Oul Sod.

That was the beginning of a tour that would take me to ten cities in nine days. Here are some of the highlights, or lowlights, of that jaunt and others like it.

Chicago, the Windy City, was extremely windy that raw autumn evening as I walked from my hotel to the nearby branch of the now defunct Borders bookshops. I was greeted by the store’s beaming and breathtakingly beautiful Chinese-American manager. She led me to a far corner, past the Self-Help section and next to the Occult shelves, where there waited for me a brave little band of readers in overcoats and mufflers, shuffling their frozen feet and blowing into their fists. Twenty-odd, say, a few of whom were distinctly odd, as usual —every reading, as every writer will tell you, attracts at least a couple of maniacs.

As I was shedding my gloves and trying to find my place in the book I was to read from, the manager whispered to me that I was the second Irishman to visit in recent days. "Last week we had Roddy Doyle," she confided proudly. "National television covered the event. We had to send out for a hundred extra chairs. Good luck!"

A decade and a half later, in the same city but at another store, I was to read from my novel The Sea, so naturally there was a big display of Iris Murdoch’s The Sea, The Sea. I was too polite, or too timid, to point out the error. No one noticed.

It was in New York, though, in one of that city’s sprawling emporia, Rizzoli, perhaps, or Barnes & Noble, that I was properly put in my place. My reading was at an end, and I was signing for a half dozen or so devotees — such enthusiasm! such dauntless loyalty! — when an alarmingly large and glossily grinning plutocrat elbowed his way forward and, ignoring the stack of my as yet unbought books, thrust a great furred paw at me and boomed: "Sir, let me shake the hand that shook the hand of Seamus Heaney!" The hand that shook the hand of Heaney sadly shook his, and he was gone.

For the lower order of writers such as I, with modest readerships and more modest sales, the small independent bookshops are best. Three Lives bookstore in New York’s Greenwich Village is my favourite. I have read there on a number of occasions, and almost enjoyed myself each time. The Village people who came to hear me were laid back as far as they could go without falling over. Also, they managed to make it seem that they were not there intentionally, but had drifted in from the street and stayed only out of mild curiosity.

It is not so relaxed at all the independents. In a small town somewhere in the Rust Belt I read one rainy autumn twilight in a pokey little shop at the edge of a cramped car park. It was run by an excitable gnome with fur in his ears, dressed Huck Finn-fashion in checked shirt and faded dungarees and scuffed cowboy boots. When I arrived, it was plain that he had no idea who I was.

The audience, such as it was, attended to me in an earnest hush, frowning and occasionally sighing. When I had finished, they applauded politely and shuffled off without delay into what by then had become night. I can’t remember how I found out—it certainly wasn’t from Huck himself—that they had thought they were coming to a reading by John Boyne.

As I was leaving, Huck, smiling distractedly, presented me with an orange.

Then there was Florida. Ah, Florida, most beautifully named of all the states, according to Elizabeth Bishop. I was in Miami for the Book Fair. The reading took place in a vast, glass and steel store. My partner for the occasion had the day before been presented with the Pulitzer Prize, so I had the benefit of his audience.

Afterwards, there was a book signing in a courtyard in front of the store. Two tables side by side, one piled with his books, one with mine. Two queues formed. His stretched off into the sunlit Floridan distance. I had three people. One was the inevitable madman, this one in a raincoat. The second was a student who was writing a paper on the work. The third was a smiling oldster in golf shirt and baggy shorts, who leaned down to me and murmured, "I’m not going to buy your book, but you looked so lonely I had to come and say a word to you."

[pocketseizure]

It’s Free Real Estate

After having released the Great Sea from its curse, Tetra must now defend New Hyrule from the nefarious schemes of yet another terrible old man. 

( Also on AO3 )

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Tetra sat on the throne of the audience chamber of her castle.

Admittedly, “throne” might be a bit of an exaggeration, and “castle” even more so. Her seat of power wasn’t much to look at, not yet, but she had plans.

A former deckhand whom she had appointed as a royal guard led in a gaunt man wearing a tattered and threadbare coat. He was tall but stooped, with small eyes sunken into a sallow face.

“Presenting the noble and distinguished Captain Linebeck,” the guard announced, which was hardly necessary. Still, one did have to keep up appearances.

Linebeck approached with a swagger and almost tripped on the fringe of the carpet laid out over the stone floor.

Tetra suppressed a smirk. The fool hadn’t gotten his land legs yet. He’d probably just washed up onshore at the tail end up of yet another unsuccessful venture. Smuggling, most likely.

“Linebeck, what a surprise to see you again. And what a pleasure, I should say.”

“It’s a pleasure to see you as well, lass. It seems the climate agrees with you. You’re looking less… chalky.”

“Indeed.” Tetra leaned back, resting her elbow on the dragon-claw armrest of her throne. She had forgotten how vile this rat-faced little man was, but he seemed keen on reminding her. “Tell me, is your ship still named after yourself?”

“Is that not a reasonable thing to name a ship?”

“Fair enough. So what brings you here, Captain?”

“I hear you’ve been having some trouble with monsters in these parts.”

“You could say that,” Tetra replied, careful not to let her face betray her annoyance. The Lokomo had welcomed her and her crew to this land, and the least she could do to repay their hospitality was to join their battle against a so-called ‘demon king’ named Malladus. It was nothing she hadn’t dealt with before, but the conflict was no trifling matter.

“I could protect you,” Linebeck offered, ever the gallant. “All I’d be asking for in return is an estate in your fair kingdom. A small plot of land, perhaps a minor title. Nothing more.”

So that was his game, was it? How had Link put up with this cad?

Tetra cleared her throat. “Link has told me of your exploits in service of the Ocean King, and I’m sure he informed you of the many trials we faced together on the Great Sea.” She rather doubted he had, actually, as Link tended to clam up like a shellfish when even she herself mentioned what they had seen under the waves of that cursed stretch of ocean. It amused her to watch as Linebeck scrambled to come up with a suitable response.

“Ah, well, um, yes. Certainly. A great many trials, and whatnot. But the challenge ahead must surely be even more dire.”

“Of course. That’s why it’s important to be prepared. Link is a formidable warrior, and his skill with a sword is unmatched. I’m honored that he’s agreed to contribute his blade, but this kingdom has no dearth of weapons at its disposal to provide backup, should he need it.”  

Tetra reached for the cup of tea on the table beside her throne, discretely adjusting the saucer to reveal a large pistol.

“You’ll find that my ship is equipped with the latest in canonological equipment,” Linebeck said, puffing up his chest despite the sheen of sweat that had appeared on his forehead. Tetra was almost impressed by his bravado. Almost.

“Let me assure you that we have no shortage of firepower,” Tetra replied, taking a sip of tea and replacing her cup in its saucer. She allowed the tips of her fingers to linger on the barrel of her gun. “The Lokomo have been most generous. We have no fewer than half a dozen fully operational steam engines riding the rails across New Hyrule, all armed to the teeth.” She grinned and leaned forward. “And every single engineer is prepared to fire on my command.”

Linebeck’s face went pale. His obsequious smile faltered.

“Well, it… sounds like you’ve got your protection in order, then.”

“I can assure you we do, but I’m grateful for your concern.”

This was Linebeck’s cue to leave, but still he stood in front of her, rooted in place like a barnacle. “It’s just that I’m starting a family,” he stammered, “and this, ah, strikes me as a good place to settle down.”

Tetra sighed. Had Jolene finally caught him, then? It was impossible to know for sure, and it was none of her business. Regardless, the pathetic coward in front of her was Link’s friend, and she did technically owe him a debt.

“That’s fantastic news. In that case, I think I may just have the perfect ‘estate’ for you. The talents of a brave man of the sea such as yourself would be wasted on dry land. There’s a small settlement out on the Papuchia shoreline that could use a trader and ferry service.”

Linebeck’s face fell. “A… ferry service, Your Highness?”

Tetra nodded. “It’s not a position I can give to just anyone. Those waters are infested with sharks and octoroks and Nayru only knows what else. The territory in the vicinity of the southeastern train depot is vital. Keeping it safe is a solemn responsibility. I’m relieved you volunteered your service, Captain.”

She picked up her teacup again, crossing her legs so that the hem of her skirt rose to reveal her second pistol, which was strapped to her calf. Linebeck’s eyes darted from her face to her leg and then around the room, checking for other hidden surprises. Tetra did in fact have a third gun on her person, but there was no reason for Linebeck to ever know about it if he could manage to behave himself.

“I’m honored by your largesse, Your Highness, but, you see,” Linebeck sputtered. He hadn’t gotten what he wanted – he’d gotten something better, but he didn’t want to admit it.  

Tetra flashed her teeth in a wry grin. “Come now, Captain. There’s no need to be modest. There’s a big, beautiful tract of coastal land out there just waiting for you. It’s got your name on it, and all you have to do is claim it. I’ll have my staff draw up a contract right away. You don’t need to do anything but show up and sign your name. There’s nothing to lose. What do you say?”

Linebeck muttered something unintelligible and bowed before exiting her audience chamber.

She had won, and they both knew it. It must have been embarrassing for someone with such an inflated opinion of himself to be bested by a teenage girl, but he had no one but himself to blame. Tetra shrugged and finished her tea. He wouldn’t be the first, and he might as well get used to it.

[scaryscarecrows]

What are your OCs most embarrassing moments?

Kitty: Soooo when we were...twenty-one? I think we were twenty-one, definitely in uni. ANYWAYS. When we were twenty-one, I got this...I dunno, really. Lace and ribbon. So many ribbons. It was cute and I looked good in it! But. Anyways. Ribbons. Ribbons were a mistake. So I put it on, yeah? Takes me a YEAR. But I get it, settle in to wait for Jonathan to get out of class. He gets out of class, comes home, and we’re now very interested in the cheap wine we could afford at the time and this ribbon monstrosity.

WE CAN’T GET THE FUCKING THING OFF.

I don’t know what happened, I don’t know what I DID, but the ribbons will NOT come undone, we’re both more than a little tipsy at this point and I look like some sort of...never mind. That’s not the worst of it. Oh no. The worst of it is that Eddie, he-who-never-knocks, DROPS BY. So there we are, half-naked (well, me, I’m in that thing), well on the way to drunk, and. Yeah. It was awful. AWFUL. That’ll teach me to fall for purple lace and lots of ribbons, hm?

Dove: This was forever ago. Batman didn’t exist yet, okay, it was FOREVER ago. So.

Penguin can’t lift things. Like, at all. He grew up spoiled, first of all, and second of all, that leg of his is half-useless and I have personally witnessed it give out when he picked up a box. Dropped him on the ground. :( So way back when, I used to do a lot of the lifting because I’m not weaker than spilled milk. Whatever. I’d rather lug boxes than...yeah. So there we are, moving into this sketchy duplex because the boss hasn’t reached Peak Crime Lord yet, and me and two men are moving all the stuff. And I was wearing a skirt, because why not? I can lift stuff in a skirt, it’s fine, and my only pants at the time were really expensive and not worth the potential sacrifice.

Not so much. The sketchy duplex had a slick stair; oil spill or something, I don’t know and I don’t care. So I was holding this box and going up and the next thing I knew, I was flying backwards, the weight of the box pulling me back and down, and my damn skirt betrays me and goes up over my shirt, and that’s how I flashed my boss and my coworkers my really cute polka-dot underwear. Kill me.

Antoine: Short and to the point: I had a girl in my room when I was eighteen. You know. Girl. In my room. Naked. With me. Also naked. And, we were, um. Connected. My parents HAD been out of town, but they got back early and that’s the story of how I couldn’t make eye contact with my mother for about a week.

Trent: I was charging at this cluster of people, right? Full-on Trojan War RAAAAAAAAA charge. It was gonna be so cool.

IT WAS NOT SO COOL. I fucking tripped-not even on, like, a fallen enemy, ON MY OWN DAMN FEET-and went rolling towards them, ass-over-skull, like a giant, screaming bowling ball. I hit them, and you’d think that’d be enough to redeem myself, right?

NOPE! I’d rolled down a hill. And, uh, that made me really, really dizzy. So I get up, try to make the world stop spinning, and hurl all over this poor bastard on the ground.

And then I fell down again and bruised my tailbone. It sucked.

Jimmy: Okay, this is actually the boss’s fault, but it was still horrible.

SO. When we were set up in the jungle, I did a lot of my work at night; the air conditioner was good, but the computers were still fragile and they did a little better when it was two degrees cooler or whatever. That’s fine. So there I am, alone, with nothing but my screens and my rubber ducky for company, when this big-ass shadow falls over me. And you gotta realize that animals sometimes got inside. Like, dangerous animals. Eat-computer-nerd animals. Uh. Nerdivores. Or whatever. So I’m just going oh shit oh shit oh shit, and then I spot the baseball bat I use to smash up old motherboards so they can’t be used against us later. And then I go-and okay, I’m not proud but I was panicked-’NOT TODAY, SATAN!’, grab the bat, and swing it at what I think is, like, a jaguar or whatever. And it moves out of the way, and it’s got these AWFUL glowing eyes, and I…

I screamed like a little girl, tried to wheel away, and knocked myself unconscious when I fell out of the chair and smacked my head on the desk.

Mark: Ugh. So I’m sixteen, and I’m at this party, and everyone wants to play spin the bottle/seven minutes in Heaven, right? Whatever. I’m thinking, ‘whatever, we’ll not and just say we did’. I’m still convinced that everybody’s exaggerating how much fun making out is at this point.

Welp. I get this girl-hi, Janet!-and we go, and we stand in the closet for about a minute before she’s suddenly IN MY SPACE, going, ‘aren’t you going to kiss me?’

First of all, no, second of all, SHIT WHAT DO I DO. I’m sixteen, okay, teenage boys are dumb. I was one. I remember. It was awful. Now, what I should have said was, like, I don’t know…’I’m just coming off of a cold’, or SOMETHING. What came out of my mouth was, ‘blimple!’ I don’t know what I was going for, either, shut up. And she looks at me and goes, ‘what?’ and in an attempt to salvage...something...I go, ‘lip pimple. Can’t do it. Sorry.’

Turns out she HAD a lip pimple-makeup and darkness hides all, I guess-and she was not happy with me. Whoops. (She got over it. But STILL.)

Riley: Either that time I choked on rice and my grandma had to do the Heimlich on me and nearly kicked me out of the family after, OR that time that…

Okay. I was a cocky twenty year-old. And really dumb. And I was home on leave, and CONVINCED I was hot shit, and I’d gone to the mall. Got myself a coke. And I’m walking past this group of girls, and they’re giggly, and I’m gonna go over there. Yeahhhh.

Nahhhhh. I wink, and I’m swaggering over, and two things happen. One, I take a drink of my coke and it goes down the wrong pipe. Two, as I’m trying to deal with THAT, I swagger into the fountain. Dates: none. Pride: gone. Boots: wet as shit, but they were rubber ‘cause it was a rainy day. Small favors.

Frank: My wife will confirm this. She was there. She saw it all. She was pregnant at the time. And one weekend, I was mowing the lawn. And it was SWELTERING out there, man, the damn mosquitos were holed up. It was HOT. And my wife comes out. So I take my shirt off, because it’s hot and also hey, pretty lady. And she waves, and I wave back, and then I get this brilliant idea to be, like, Sexy Lawn Boy. So I’m winking at her, and I take an arm off the mower to flex it…

And the fucking mower makes a hard left, chips a rock, smacks into a tree and goes up in smoke.

[mastrrt]

The Tigress Dilemma *fanfiction*

Usually, fanfic writers (such as I) have a hard time depicting complex characters such as Tigress, ergo this lack of this understanding about our characters can lead us to defile their original personalities and characteristics. I'm pretty sure most, if not, all of us are victims to the Tigress Dilemma, and this problem can only be resolved once Dreamworks has finished Tigress's arc. The Tigress Dilemma is basically what I mentioned above. We misinterpret Tigress and that could lead us to writing imposters instead. Now I have seen many fanfics, and all of them vary in the extent of how terrible their Tigress imposter is. I would say that for my fanfics, my Tigress imposter is pretty far off from the original character, but I feel I am getting there... it's a very slow progress, but every increment of time is making me better as a writer. Anywho, I'll be addressing some Tigress Imposter stereotypes. These stereotypes are the ones we want to avoid as much as possible. And if we do so, we can get closer to the original Tigress. Now, disclaimer, I am not here to tarnish the pride of any of you fanfic writers. I'm just here to point out my opinions and hopefully my opinions can do more good than harm. Also, to bring this blog a more positive vibe, I will be writing some Tigress stereotypes that we should all follow. But that'll be on the next post. 1. The 'Punk Girl School Bully' Type of Tigress. (LoA Tigress) Sleeves are for wimps... fat muscles... I got huge front teeth... i'll put your head on the toilet... pig anatomy on the facial region... you punk!... ILLL BEAT YOUUU UP!... girl that looks like a man... Those lines are all inside the ambit of any typical Buff School Girl Bully. And yeah, these types of people aren't the most likeable. Mainly because of their terrible ego and pride, their unmanaged temper, their constant screaming, and the fact that they bully. And these types of characters usually act upon their anger, and these types of characters are usually defeated by their own caprices. Now a lot of times, people usually confuse 'Punk Girl School Bully' as Tigress's characteristics.

For example, a lot of fanfictions tend to write this: Tigress was clouded with anger. How dare this cocky prick make fun of her name like that? She charged at him, trying to land a double fist strike on her belly, but it has seemed that her muscles were so angry that she suddenly turned into an amateur fighter and totally missed the cocky mite's stomache. Now she was even angrier. She gave a frustrated yell and pounced at the prick, driving her feet into a powerful tornado kick, but the man has sidestepped and she was too angry to use that momentum to execute another kick upon landing. Oh she was so so SO angry that everything turned red. Even though the man was merely a stranger, his smart remarks was enough to somehow make Tigress want to tamper him, as if her anger was derived from personal matter. Oh yes, Tigress was so weak that her peace has succumbed so easily to something as superficial as an empty insult. It isn't like she's a warrior who learned integrity, who lived by virtues and proverbs, and learned to swallow her pride the hard way. Nope. She was just the average hot head. "You! You idiot!" She yelled, driving her fist into arbitrary turns and twist with the speed of a toddler's fist in a fit of frenzy. And yet, after delivering such 'efficient' attacks, the man had avoided her punches the Muhammad Ali way. What's next? The rope-a-dope? Is that how weak Tigress became because of her anger? Oh, and since she's sooo angry, she also became majorly stupid! Since she's losing, she might as well become more desperate to win and because of this, she kinda lost 9/10 of her damn brain. It isn't like she had experienced worst before. It isn't like she's been in a tower surrounded by hundreds of adversaries, outmatched, outgunned, out everything, and still managed to escape through a genius idea to catapult her and her Enterprise out the flaming tower THROUGH the toppling flaming tower.

Look, Tigress can be hot head, but she doesn't allow it to manifest in a way that hampers her during battle. She's a warrior who for sure learned patience. Yes, she might have let herself succumb to her anger during the first movie (by trying to fight Tai Lung despite her master's efforts to stop her) but do understand that it was because of that cursed snow leopard that her father was just outright terrible to her, and 20 years of desperation and overwhelming commitment to kung fu led her to think that defeating Tai Lung is the key to Shifu's heart. Watch the Second movie through and through, with the eyes of a scrutenizing critic. If she is angry, it is usually to appear intimidating or lethal. It's a great strategy, escpecially now that her opponents would surely hold back once they hear the low baritone of her growl. But never, never, never, never, I assure you, did she appear angry and let that rage make her a haphazard, stupid, mess.

Also, fanfic writers tend to also write this: Tigress crossed her arms and growled. Po was so annoying! He wouldn't stop babbling about his new dumpling recipe. If he says 'broccoli broth' one more time, she is sure her dormant side would burst. "SHUT UP PO! YOU ARE AN IDIOT! YOU ARE SO CHILDISH! YOU DON'T DESERVE TO BE THE DRAGON WARRIOR!" And then, Po cried and ran away from the kitchen. The rest of the five gave her a look that could compare to the menacing glare of a thousand men, and they all left her to find the weeping Po. She sneered, she didn't need them anyways. She didn't have a family. And they were no friends of hers.

Tigress is not like this! She values her friends, and she talks to them like friends. Do no potray her the LoA way, because she's not always grumpy... and she is, by chance, grumpy, it's mostly for a reason. When the other five are irritated or even disgusted of Po, you can see that only Tigress smiles. And when she is in an argument, she usually deliver herself in a calm and threatening. Yeah, calm and threatening can be together. Tigress works as a paradox. I think the problem here is that people mistake seriousness and grumpiness as neigh synonyms. DON'T mistake those two different words with the same definition. Tigress is serious, but rarely grumpy in the way LoA/ fancfictions potrays her (just compare KFP 2 Tigress to LoA Tigress (there's a big difference I tell you that (mostly because she doesn't haphazardly turn into a big bish (is this even grammatically correct?))))

2. The Morally Deficient Tigress. I hate you!... you've always been terrible to me Shifu. So I hate you too!... you guys are not my family!... i have no family!... brat times twenty... your spoon is stupid... everyone is stupid... I don't wanna do this anymore... i'll turn evil in six seconds if you don't assuage my ego... cold hearted... insults everywhere... long sullen silences followed by mean comments followed by even more long sullen silences... angst angst angst for no reason... teenage i-have-20-pounds-of-eyeliner-under-my-eyes prototype. this type of imposter Tigress is probably one of the worst forms of Tigress out there. You cannot just ignore that she has been raised by two kung fu masters, one has morals that are so polished and perfect, and the other one with flaws but regardless still wiser than most. She's also follows a regimented schedule of supreme discipline throughout the course of her twenty-eight years, so surely she has been taught hardwork, patience, determination and other virtues that any average olympian athletes would typically have. Despite being called cold-hearted, stoic, perhaps even mean, do remember that she is also a HERO. With a hero's heart and the strength of a hero's mind. You can not simply ignore that she's a good person who had saved, quite possibly, thousands of lives, expecting nothing in return except the heart of her father and a place to reside. Do not mistake badassery with idiocy. Do not make her morally deficient like she's a little child with the mindset of a brat on a bad day.

Here's some examples of this nightmare: "Why do you keep these stuff? You're so childish, you don't deserve to be the Dragon Warrior!" Tigress looked around his loft, threatened by the action figures and the posters of the masters that adorned it.

Po frowned, "But... but... items like these have very big value to me Tigress. Especially my action figures, I cherish them because it's a large fragment of my childhood memories!"

Tigress did not understand. Of course she did not, not only is she whimsy, grumpy, angry and stupid, she also lacks understanding and lessons that can usually be self-taught at the age of twenty. She acts like a little child and that's all her morality is limited to. "No! They're wooden things with no value whatsoever. Stop being a fanboy. Stop being yourself! I can't support you! You idiot."

And she left the room with grandeur ---Sharpei Style with the hint of swagger. Five days later... "It's all your fault why we're here Po! All your fault. It isn't like you made a wonderful plan and I kinda destroyed it after this cocky douche made me angry and I decided to fight him and ditch your plan. And since my dignity got the best of me, it isn't like I'm blaming you 100% on our unfortunate demise when I know 200% that i'm to blame." Po tried to speak, but Tigress continued, "Ya'll should have listened to me! Me me me me! Me me me me!" The end!

Okay okay, it's a little too exaggerated, but you get the point right? Tigress doesn't act like this. She is kind and nice, she's truly supportive even with her doubts, and she loves and values her friends, albeit these traits are not exposed because it's overshadowed by her stoic demeanor. Whatever... sometimes light filters through her facade and you can see her vulnerabilities.

3. The Profesional Becomes the Biggest Amateur. Gets defeated by a few alligators who could barely fight... can't get unstuck from a rope THAT ISNT EVEN KNOTTED NOR THICK ENOUGH TO CARRY TWO POUNDS... can't get out a sticky situation even though she has been through worse... pathetic tiger... no longer has super strength that she has been gifted with. Now I'm just a thread's breadth away before typing a full fledge rant. Yes! I get it. She has been defeated by people who Po can defeat. She has been defeated by Tai lung and Po was able to defeat Tai Lung. But that was because Po was in a special situation, and it was truly only Po who could defeat Tai Lung (I'll adress this in a new post.) Have ya'll ever of this rule, in both film making and book writing, that authors must refrain from degrading everyone's intelligence so that a single character can appear in the caliber of a genius? Basically, what I'm saying is that you cannot make the five (escape Tigress) leagues weaker than their original selves just for the sake of making Po or your main OCs appear stronger. One, that's a terrible illusion that even a blind man can see through. And two, that's just disrespectful for a The Five. Not only are the five overshadowed, but ya'll also heavily disregarded the fact that they are warriors that did a lot. You're forgetting that Tigress can do this

Do not forget that she is the person who can do so much more. If you want a story where Tigress becomes a damsel in distress, and Po is the one to save her, DO NOT get her kidnapped by five wolves. Or ten. Or even twenty. Because this tiger can handle of them easy. Make sure she is defeated by a whole fudging army, or a bunch of hooded warriors who are thousands of years old and are as good as Shifu in kung fu. Make sure her defeat is reasonable and respects what she can do. KNOW what she can do, so that you learn her limits. Give her a challenge, give her a run for her money. Don't make her pathetic just because you want someone else to seem not pathetic. Us fan fic writers say that Tigress is hardcore. Awesome. Badarse. So maybe we should write her that way. Some fan fics I read write that Tigress got defeated because she was hungry or tired and couldn't fight against a few adversaries. I roll me eyes. Bro! You cannot make hunger the reason why she's defeated😂 have you seen what she ate during the first KFP movie? Her meals consists of tea and a small, chewy block of tofu. Please. She had trained her body and mind to resist pain in a way that wouldn't affect her during battle. And don't go destroying her stamina either. If she can go the whole night just battling a bunch of wolves, without even so much as passing out then pulease, don't make tiredness as an excuse. But there are some exceptions though. Like maybe she got tired because she drained her chi. Then that's understandable. So much work.

[nervouscreatordreamercowboy]

Cracks

Cracks

It started with her fingers: the skin dried out as the cold months settled in and the costumes came out. If left untreated the patches would begin to crack open until crimson peaked through the gaps. The scabs spread up her arms, on the soles of her feet, into her scalp until the bleeding kept her from school for days. Her mother used to warn her each night before bed, “take care of your hands, they’re your God-given tools to take care of those around you. You must never let them crack, understand?” The question was left hanging in the air to haunt Paisley’s thoughts until sleep would finally relieve her. Superstitions were not uncommon in Meriden, but the belief in cracked skin was one that seemed to appear in the Hudson’s family alone.

Paisley had grown up on her Grandfather’s knee, pestering him with countless questions while he retold the story of their cursed bloodline. Deep down she knew he was exaggerating, by then she was big enough to phane the innocence and curiosity that used to linger on her mind. Her Grandfather would play up the great “horrors” their old relatives possessed, the most frequent being cracked skin that hid the truth beneath. Paisley drew those stories, reinventing the villains as misinterpreted beauties. Her Mother even bought her a book of geodes as a comparison to the hidden layer beneath their skin. Paisley often caught herself dreaming of these creatures, wondering what magnificence had been smothered by human’s irrational fears.

“Remember, princess,” he would always begin, “it’s only a fairytale. No one could ever be such a monster, not now not ever. Do you understand pumpkin?” She’d squeal as he tickled an answer out of her, laughing along with his granddaughter until their sides ached.

“What if there were a monster?” She’d manage once the game had ended and her imagination got the best of her tongue.

Her Grandfather considered the idea for a moment, then released a long sigh. “If there ever were another,” his twinkling eyes darkened with his words, goosebumps raced up Paisley's arms at the sudden change in tone. “If there ever were another beast,” he began again, steadier this time. “I would take my shotgun off the wall, hold it up to him,” his frail arms lifted into position as if with their own intentions. His limbs shook with the effort it took to hold them steady, fingers poised on an invisible trigger as he slowly continued, “and say ‘you got no place with us, and we ain’t afraid of you!’” With a tremendous shout, her Grandfather’s body shook with unseen fury as he fired the gun.

It took a moment for Paisley to realize that the tears welling in her eyes had slipped down her cheeks. Her stomach twisted, threatening to return her breakfast up onto the bearskin rug beneath them. Sliding off her Grandfather’s knee, she scrambled to the bathroom down the hall and promptly vomited. They didn’t go back to her Grandfather’s for the rest of the summer.

The trees had a mind of their own, bowing low in the wind and snapping back upright as the thunder rumbled solemnly in the darkening sky overhead. Paisley shivered, tugging her rain jacket tighter around her shoulders as she jogged to catch up with the others before the downpour could separate them completely. Katherine glanced back, dropping into a slow walk to join Paisley.

“You don’t have to come with us, you know.” Her perfect curls hung soaked in the rain, mascara stained her pink cheeks. “The cars are still unlocked if you want to turn around.”

Paisley considered the girl for a moment. It had only taken a single night for the girl to decide that perhaps the freak in the back of the classroom could be worthwhile, a bit of last minute fun before senior year drove her friends halfway across the country in search of overpriced schools and cramped living quarters. The invitation to join them had been simple, although Paisley wasn’t overly fond of the idea of passing notes in class, it would have been a crime to turn down Katherine White. The details of the excursion had been left unshared, not that Paisley minded. But finding herself tucked in Meriden’s most unpleasant hiking trail whilst stumbling through the freezing rain sometime after two am was not what she had in mind.

“I don’t want to turn around,” she managed through clenched teeth. “I’ll be okay, I promise.”

A flash of disapproval smeared over Katherine's features. Her red lips curled into a sneer, but before the words could top off her look, Michael called from up ahead, dragging her attention back to the group. “Where here!” His voice was a muffled shout through the sheets of rain.

“Fantastic!” Katherine chided back, grabbing hold of Paisley’s jacket as the faint outline of a cabin came into view. “Just try not to mess up too much,” she added as the pair reunited with the others on the steps of the house.

Michael tried the door handle, swearing as the lock refused to budge. Taking a slow step back, he surveyed the shattered windows and molding siding for a new entrance. Paisley felt Katherine’s grip tighten, “didn’t you mention a cellar entrance last time we were here, babe? Maybe one of us could go check it out.”

He considered the option a moment, pushing past annoyed couples to scan the side of the rotting building. “It could work,” he finally admitted, “but I don’t think the gap is big enough for any of us to get through.”

“Paisley is small enough,” the blonde beamed with delight, ushering their newest recruit down the steps. “It’s just to the right, the doors shouldn’t be too much of a squeeze for you. Once you’re inside just unlock the door for us and we’ll be ready to get this party going.”

Paisley kept her mouth shut as she trekked through the slick mud to the cellar doors. A rusted padlock hung on the handles, and one of the faded white doors had caved in at the base. Tentatively Paisley applied pressure to the weakened boards with her boot, easing her weight on until a satisfying snap sent more wood chips tumbling down the stone steps into the black room below.

“Any day now!” Katherine’s voice floated through the storm, pushing Paisley to reluctantly slide into the narrow gap.

The passage down was slick with fresh downpour, and the musty smell of aged memories invaded Paisley’s senses until she could hardly breathe. A quick try at the lights confirmed her suspicions that the home had been alone for quite some time now. Each creak of the wooden supports overhead reminded her of the grieving cries of an abandoned child, left alone in the woods to crumble apart.

Reaching into the depths of her jacket pockets, Paisley retrieved the flashlight Michael had lent her back at the parking lot. Flicking the switch, the damp room revealed its secrets, which mostly consisted of molding sitting chairs and forgotten dinner platters. Following the stairway leading up, Paisley let herself into the living space and promptly unlocked the door.

Michael swaggered into the room, arms open as he breathed in the smell of the cabin. Turning to the group, he grinned. “So, who’s up for a game of truth or dare?”

Paisley picked at the frayed end of the blanket as the teenagers giggled around her. The game had been dragged out an unnecessarily long time after Cindy and Ryan had decided that their dare was better off done away from the others, leaving Katherine, Michael, and Paisley to listen to the rain until it became apparent that the pair would not be rejoining them for quite some time.

“Alright then,” Michael sighed, taking a swig from one of the brown bottles Ryan had insisted on bringing, “truth or dare, Katherine?”

Katherine threw her head back in thought, sending a wave of golden curls down her nearly bare back. “I think I’ll go with truth this time,” she shared a wink with her boyfriend, “sorry to disappoint.”

Paisley felt her dinner threaten to find its own way out of her body.

“Tell us about your Dad.” He chuckled over his drink, “I don’t believe you’ve shared that yet.”

The color faded from the girl’s cheeks, her fingers dug into the blanket as she shook her head. “No, are you insane, Michael?”

“Aw baby, don’t be like that.” Michael frowned, “it’s just part of the game. Why do you have to be such a-”

Katherine held up a perfectly manicured hand, wrapping the other around herself as she stood. “Don’t call me that. I’m going back to the car.” All grace evaporated from her walk, Katherine managed to the door before facing them once again. “Can I have the keys, Michael?”

“Not until you give us the truth.” He snarled back, his rancid breath hitting Paisley like the heat of a roaring fire: unpredictable and dangerous. Katherine’s frame shrank at the sound of his voice, lowering to the base of the door until she sat shivering on the floor.

“I have a secret.” Paisley mustered, her hands trembled against her ruined jeans. She cast Katherine a hopeful look, sent a silent prayer that the girl wouldn’t tell the world, and lifted her cracked hands to her face.

She’d only managed the trick once in the seventh grade when her Mother wanted to prove a point to their pastor, and even then scars lined where the skin had broken. Paisley reminded herself of the worn book of geodes on her desk, imagined the beautiful crystals hidden beneath layers of grey rock, and dug her nails into the dry patches of her scalp. The skin beneath her fingers began to peel away, pulling strings of mucus along with it. Pink flesh curled back to reveal slick darkness beneath, green eyes blinked away the slime to peer at the screaming boy beside her. It felt incredible to be free again, even if only for a moment.

When Ryan and Cindy came rushing down the stairs, pulling their sneakers and jackets back on, Paisley was at the door escorting Katherine down the stairs saying something about leaving her phone in the car. Michael stared at the door as it shut, mouth agape as he attempted to form words that would never be believed.

As Paisley wrapped her jacket around her new friend, Katherine couldn’t help but wonder what she’d tell her parents when Michael McClain came pounding on their door claiming that he’d seen a demon, when all she’d seen was a new friend.

[rotwhyler]

it was my first time in the city. i stepped out of the car and thought, here i am world. come and get me. i forget about the piece of glass inside my bedside drawer, and i forget about food. i am fully engulfed in my outfit, the way my tights cling to my legs, the way my tanktop billows off my torso. confidence blossoms in my chest like an oozing sore. do i look like the models in the magazines? in the ads plastered around times square? i walk in a swagger. i want them to be attracted to me and scared of me. confused lust. i feel in charge of my body. a teenage boy passes next to me, and we make eye contact. his doe eyes look me up and down and his mouth curls in disgust. "you need to eat more chicken" he screams. the girls walking beside him giggle. confused, not processing, i ask, what? he repeats it, louder. makes exaggerated gestures with his arms, gestures of bewilderment, calling for everyone to look at the circus in tights and a tank top. they do. i say "no thanks" when i really wanted to say "you need to eat more shit". i am brutally reminded that this body is in fact not mine, i merely control it. my body is the world's and everyone else's. when a strange man asks to borrow my cigarette, i let him. when he hugs me and kisses my head, i let him. i do not cry.

[bootzthebat]

Adding 70 filters over your own art is like a reward like hell yeah dawg

[matthewhorton]

Pet Shop Boys, Introspective: An introduction

It took some time for house music to get to the UK, let alone make it up the A41 from the London clubs to the suburbs. I grew up in Berkhamsted, tucked into the Chiltern hills between Hemel Hempstead and Aylesbury, out on the north-west limb of Hertfordshire that poked (and still does, in fact) into Buckinghamshire. It wasn't a hotbed of musical endeavour and couldn't have dreamed of being at the vanguard of dance music even if it knew what it was. But, you know, some commuter-belt teenagers were switched on enough to realise things were changing, and once we knew something thrilling was afoot, we wanted to share it with our friends. The tentative proddings of hip-hop had made a difference to us and when Run-D.M.C. made a fantastic mess of Aerosmith or Melle Mel sexed up Chaka Khan we had something fresh to cling onto. But house only started to make its presence felt when the mainstream succumbed too and plonked Steve 'Silk' Hurley's Jack Your Body right on top of the UK singles chart at the start of 1987. This was alien stuff, sparse, hypnotic and like nothing we'd heard before – it took electro, something we were vaguely aware of, and drained it of melody, hope and street-swagger, replacing it with harder beats and blank-eyed repetition. If nothing else, this was dead cool. And it was Number One! Well, the floodgates were open now. The higher reaches of the singles chart soon fell to M/A/R/R/S's Pump Up The Volume, Bomb The Bass's Beat Dis and S'Express's Theme From S'Express as sampling rapidly became the lingua franca of cutting-edge dance and scratchier, less refined house music found an audience of some power. Mind you, these were the poppiest extremes. In the hands of a canny producer, sampling could sound cartoon-like and you have to wonder how many of the hordes of buyers were picking up these records because they amused them rather than moved their purist feet. House, techno, whichever Chicago, Detroit or New York enclave floated your boat – these movements had spread their commercial wings with alarming speed. Of course, we didn't really know the difference at the beginning, but all that changed in the summer of 1988 – the Second Summer of Love, to adopt the nickname thrown at a loose scene by the music and style bibles. It was an extraordinary experience, even without the drugs or the sweaty London basements or even the right clothes. The backdrop to a day of realisation was almost unbearably prosaic. In fact, it was the day of our GCSE results, our passports to a professional life or a couple more years of school beyond the age of 16. Some brave soul was throwing a party a few miles outside Berkhamsted and, although our own little crowd didn't know her, we had enough mutual friends to be able to stride in, no questions asked. It was an enormous house with huge gardens but – on a close, sticky August evening – everything was happening in the garage. This was almost too good. Weren't all the best New York parties garage parties? We're not sure they were thinking about a space big enough to fit a Ford Escort, a gardening implement or two and some empty cans of paint, but what the hell? This garage would do, and it was pumping out sounds deep enough to rival any Manhattan warehouse. These sounds were almost too deep though. If Steve 'Silk' Hurley had sounded stark and austere, this was barely even music. It was an unassuming little cassette squirting out loops and bleeps, and in the middle of the garage one of the hipper lads in our year was giving an accidental dancing lesson to a crowd of amused acolytes. He'd grown his hair since term finished a month or two earlier, pushed out a pair of massive sideburns and discovered a new fondness for washed-out denim and vast badges with smiley faces on them. His name was Tom and he had a copy of Acid Tracks. Phuture's acid masterpiece has its firm place in history now, but out in the Home Counties in August 1988 it was a bewildering curio, potent and divisive. The boys and girls who laughed or scoffed that night probably carried on laughing and scoffing throughout the nineties and continue to now – if they ever give dance music a second thought. The more welcoming remainder felt their doors of perception opening, and they were high on little more than cheap cider and even cheaper cigarettes. Naturally, I can't speak for everyone else, but I never looked back after that night. My GCSE results were underwhelming – the inevitable result of boundless arrogance and minimal revision – but they were good enough to send me back to school for another couple of years; two years that were followed by another four years of lazy and undeserved achievement at university, and a career that gradually slipped into focus. Whatever, I'd fallen hard for the dance music bug and every week in sixth form was a drawn-out drag of a warm-up for another weekend party I could light up with my amazing mixtapes. No one else had been bitten quite so deep so there was no competition for the stereo – whatever the quality of my compilations, I was the only one who was going to get the dancefloor (usually the kitchen floor, let's face it) jumping. The collection I built up and the knowledge I amassed gave me the keys to the university decks too, launching a semi-professional (or, more accurately, quarter-professional) career as a DJ with no actual technical skills. Good God, what about the Pet Shop Boys? Well, they took dance music to the masses in 1988 too. They'd been heading this way, of course. From the early electro burblings of their nascent career in the first half of the eighties, Neil Tennant and Chris Lowe had been fashioning a curiously English take on the dance music coming out of the United States. More strictly, they had been taken with Hi-NRG, where disco met euphoric electronic climaxes on the gay scene, and particularly New York's Hi-NRG producer-supreme Bobby 'O' (Bobby Orlando to his mum). Tennant and Lowe had already written many of the songs that would become polite pop classics later in the decade, but they didn't lay down serious recordings until they found an audience with Orlando. With their main man in the chair, they made an early, disco-orientated version of their breakthrough hit West End Girls in 1984. It created waves in the right circles but failed to hit commercial paydirt, not even managing a full UK release. No matter – pop triumph could wait; the first fumblings were all about implanting pure dance chops in their DNA. The route to the UK charts and ensuing international fame took hard-nosed ambition and a small dose of compromise. The producer Stephen Hague had tasted some success with the poppier ends of electro personified by The Rocksteady Crew and Orchestral Manoeuvres In The Dark's less challenging synthpop, and his safe hands repurposed West End Girls for the late 1985 Number One slot that made the Pet Shop Boys' name.  Sharp lyrics and a craftsman's way with a pop tune saw Tennant and Lowe build on that quick winner to consistently race to the top of the singles chart over the next couple of years and achieve similar results with their first two albums, 1986's Please and 1987's Actually. The dry titles suited their sardonic manner and unshowy presentation, but there was real heart to the Pet Shop Boys' music too. No genuine cold fish could come up with the delicate Love Comes Quickly, the at once pointed and ambiguous Rent or the breathtakingly poignant What Have I Done To Deserve This?, also a remarkable revamp of the career of sixties blue-eyed soul legend Dusty Springfield.  But underneath this golden age of British pop that the 'Boys were almost singlehandedly ushering in (no exaggeration), there was a bubbling subculture that could not be ignored – and Tennant and Lowe had no intention of ignoring it. Rare were the bands who curated alternative versions of their own music, but the Pet Shop Boys threw themselves right in, second-guessing fans who might attempt to convince naysayers with the old "Yeah, but you have to hear their remixes" gambit. Wedged between Please and Actually was a companion piece that pointed the way to a parallel universe. Disco, released in autumn 1986, was officially endorsed and presented as beautifully as any 'regular' Pet Shop Boys album. It consisted of remixes of hits like West End Girls, Opportunities (Let's Make Lots Of Money) and Suburbia alongside fan favourite (and Suburbia B-side) Paninaro, the sort of track whispered about by the in-the-know Pet Shop Boys aficionado. They'd blown apart the cachet of rarities like that but at the same time took a hold of their own destiny and shaped a 360-degree market for pop's more canny operators. The next imperial pop star to shove out their own remix album was Madonna, You Can Dance arriving a year after Disco. That second album proper, Actually, came out in September 1987 and threw the Pet Shop Boys' chart dominance into sharp relief. It housed two Number One singles in the obliquely confessional It's A Sin and the more straightforward Heart, and even took the time to stand back in between as non-album single Always On My Mind (a cover of the country standard made glorious by Elvis Presley) took the 1987 UK Christmas top spot. As 1988 dawned, the Pet Shop Boys could do whatever they darn well pleased. That's what they did and that's why we're here. Introspective turned up in October 1988 and turned the entire remix album concept on its head. What if we release the extended versions first and cut the radio edits later? That, near enough, is the off-beam question that struck Tennant and Lowe. They could finally be the dance act that made the odd concession to the pop market, not the other way around. It was a dazzling thought. Introspective's closest antecedent was The League Unlimited Orchestra's Love And Dancing EP in 1982, a collection of Human League remixes handled entirely in-house by their producer Martin Rushent. But that was the accidental result of fulfilling 12" obligations – with Introspective, the Pet Shop Boys wanted to trump that thinking, to make the full-length track the thing, the single mix the obligation, even the afterthought. This new thinking was symphonic, a new way of looking at dance music, or at least a return to Giorgio Moroder's intentions. What could have seemed like an interim album in the vein of Disco became a genuine opus in its own right. All it needed was the public to think beyond its relatively few tracks – six of them, but in their extended form still topping 48 minutes – and accept that it stood alone. Ostensibly the sales bore this out as it ultimately became the Pet Shop Boys' biggest selling album, but appreciation of its artistic status was a tougher challenge. With its bold striped sleeve – human images confined to the inner sleeve or card – Introspective seemed to be reaching out to the anonymous dance spheres, a white label in Technicolor, bright but austere and, yes, inhuman. Inside, however, was a concept album that truly hung together as a piece, disparate parts joining up in an exploration of that most human of conditions: loneliness. Introspective was the sound of the dancefloor in your head.