#except I go to college four days a week and smoke a pack of cigarettes a week and he act in movies and do photo shoots

[literallyalbertcamus]

As a college student who will live with her mom probably past 25, I find 21 years old Oscar nominee movie star Dominic Sessa also living with his mom very real and relatable. Truly a peoples princess

[writingbliss]

Syndrome

Fingers against her own throat as if a fight for breath. Once upon a time, if she had seen another like this, she may have deemed it dramatics though now, in the midst of her feelings she found herself unable to breath. Each day the air grew heavier, each day her lungs wanting to give. Under the weight of the world she felt as though she was moments away from succumbing, that the end of her line was here. That after three years in that basement and finally after breaking free, that once again she could find herself and fly though now, her body ached for the security and safety of it. Hands moved to a green pack, lifting a cigarette from the carton to bring to her lips and light it. A deep exhale. She could do this right? She could stand her ground and stay away. The smoke burned her dry throat, her stomach ached for something other than nicotine or liquor to enter her system for the first time within two weeks.

Glassy blue hues met their own within the reflection of the rearview mirror, dark circles protruding and swelling her under eyes. When was the last time she slept more than just an hour or two? Two weeks ago. In his bed. Was it that she had just grown dependent on a man who had been entirely dependent on her or could it just be the anxiety– the overwhelming possibilities of where life could take her now that she was able to leave? To go out to a bar for a drink with a friend or go out on a real date? To see family without the anticipated guilt and bombardment of text messages and calls hearing about how he felt excluded? Even she felt pathetic lately with the silence in her life. Without the yelling, without being told to change nearly everything about herself from her weight to her hair, to being told she couldn’t buy herself a pair of sneakers because all she had were winter boots because he wanted a new toy and she was his ‘access to the world’. And as sad as it seemed, she missed being told she was crazy and maybe she was. Maybe he was right. 

A drag of the cigarette, the daylight dimmed by the reddish hue of smoke from wildfires, the air from it rough already. Yet all she could think about was him. What was he doing? Would he be shooting today? Should she be? Did she make a mistake? Who was she? For three years, with little to no identity except for his. To be forced to bite her tongue, to not have an opinion nor live. Her life was his and she became lost each day as friends slowly stepped away because of him, as her family began to look at her differently. And now, she had no idea where to start. The world hitting her like a train off track. It felt and looked as though she had woken up in a world of her own personal hell and now she was just lost. Insecure, incapable, lost, unsure of herself in every which way. She only wished to be back up there– with him. In a basement of chaos and mess, with him in control of everything about her because it was the only way she knew to live. Another drag of the cigarette, a wandering mind.

“It would only be twenty four hours without me and I promise I’ll call whenever I have service to check in!” 

Her words were soft though laced with confusement. In his driveway, a laundry basket in hand. Though she stood small at 5’2, she had never felt smaller than that moment as he leaned over. His hands attempting to remove the laundry basket. 

“So you leave me alone with Sam and you get to go get drunk with random people and I am supposed to be okay with that? Are you crazy? You must be. You’re already on thin ice.”

His words stung. Thin ice. A threat she heard whenever he did not get his way or she tried to refuse. It was what he used to always get her to cave. Her face had been red by this point, but she did not know if it was from anger or sadness. Was what she was trying to do really that bad?

“Random people? It’s my fucking cousins, Steven. I am going to Lancaster with my MOTHER and GRANDMOTHER for my cousin’s college graduation party. It is literally a fucking tradition for my cousins and I to go to Downtown Lancaster when I’m in the area– do you really think my cousins would let me go home with a random guy? Why are you so fucking insecure? I can’t stand here all day, I need to go home and pack for it.”

His hands dropped from the basket. She turned away from him, placing it in the backseat of her small car. His hand on her shoulder, a rough turn. Her hues met his. 

“What am I supposed to do with Sam alone all weekend? How am I supposed to get cigarettes? Will you be able to Doordash us or will you be unreachable?” 

Why bring his son into this? Did he not survive nine years as a father without her? Was he unable to hold responsibility?

“You will figure it out. I’m sure of it.” 

An eye roll escaped her. She knew it. And she knew he wouldn’t like it. 

“If you go, I swear to god. Don’t bother coming back.” She stood silent. Afraid. Was a graduation party really worth the end of this? Could she live without him? Her mind ready to leave, her body in disobey. The basket out of her car before she even knew it. Tears down her cheeks as she made her way back inside. There would be no travel for her that weekend, instead, the basement. Listening to him tell her about how irresponsible and disrespectful it was that she even thought of going. 

Her reflection held hatred toward herself. That was only two weeks ago and that was when she should’ve pulled away and never returned. She had learned fast to disassociate and go through the motions with him in a way that even had him convinced that things would be okay. Whether it was him allowing his son to verbally abuse her or himself. The constant ridicule for everything. Yet, if she were to say no or refuse a single thing, she would be the bad guy. 

Her fingertips burned. The cigarette was down to the filter. She dropped it to the gravel from her open car door and lit another one. The office, though only holding three other people, felt too small like there were too many people. Most of her work day had been spent outside lately. Smoking cigarette after cigarette until her throat grew numb. Her mind wandered, trying to only make sense of how she came to be like this. How she grew to be an empty shell, unsure of daily motions she once knew so well and trusted. Her body ached. A part of her wanted the work day to be over so she could go home, yet like every day for the past week, she fought the instinct to drive up to him. 

“Are you hungry?”

It was 8:30 pm. It was the first time they met. She didn’t understand why he wanted to meet at his house. She thought it was because he just wanted a quick hook up– and that after she would turn him down, she’d never hear from him again. 

Instead the night was full of conversation about movies and shows. The shock on his face when his favorites growing up were some she never even heard of or never watched. Though with seven years spaced between them, it had made sense. While he was watching shows like Lost, Heroes and more, she was still on Disney channel. 

It was innocent that night. “I’m good, but if you’re hungry get yourself something, please.” Her words were soft. Food. Something she did not handle well to begin with, especially in front of those she did not know well. She thought he would just order for himself and she would be okay in her own world for the tiny bit it would take him to eat when it got delivered .

“If you don’t eat, I won’t.” Maybe that should have been the red flag she listened to years ago. The pushiness, the way he forced her to order and guilted her into getting something. But she thought it was just him being cute and she caved after twenty minutes of him complaining of how hungry he was. And when the food came, she got to listen to how she wasted his money when she barely touched it. But she told him she was not hungry and she thought it was clear that she only ordered to satisfy him. 

Memories coming and going. Some that she once labeled as cute memories, the he’s the one type of memories, now came across as red flags to her. What if she had stood her ground that first night and refused? What if she had the strength to say no? Maybe the whole relationship was her fault, possibly she was the reason for everything that went wrong. He trained her to believe she was always at fault, most of the time for just existing and trying to be herself– to hold onto her own identity while with him. But could it also be the fact that since high school, she tried to be a people pleaser. Always going out of her way for others hoping it would help? For the longest time, she felt like she needed to over compensate for her weight. And now, though she lost more than half, she still saw her old self in the mirror. Maybe he was the best she could do? Or maybe he saw someone still learning who they truly were and took advantage to mold her into what he wanted? Was any of this really her fault? She knew that she was to blame as well, no matter what anyone around her kept telling her.

Her hand scrolled on her phone through messages. 

Fri, Jun 2 at 6:20 pm to Sean

You’ve been asking me since Wednesday to tell you I’m 100% in and it’s something I haven’t been able to do and I don’t think I can. It isn’t your agoraphobia and it isn’t necessarily Shane. For the past two years (and while I admit it’s my fault), I’ve given up so much time with my family and I’ve lost myself. And it isn’t fair. I don’t regret the time we’ve spent together, I’ve loved 99% of the time we’ve had, but I’m not happy and I don’t think I can be until I find myself and put myself first. I really do think we need to break up. This is turning toxic in my mind, and I spend so many days feeling sick because I feel like I can’t be myself or put myself first. THere’s nothing either of us can do to fix this with how I’ve been feeling. I am so sorry. And maybe one day we can be friends but like I can’t be with you or around you right now.

Fri, June 2 at 6: 21 pm to Rachel

Call me don’t text about this kind thing.

You can at least respect me enough to do that.

Fri, June 2 at 6:25 pm to Sean

I’ve tried and you’ve made it hard for me to do it that way.

I tried Wednesday and you wouldn’t listen.

I don’t want to talk to you right now.

Fri, June 2 at 6:25 pm to Rachel

You’ve said to me in the past that breaking up over a text is something you’d never do.

Fri, June 2 at 6:25 pm to Sean

And I felt like I had no choice here.

Fri, June 2 at 6:25 pm to Rachel

I need my fucking medication Rachel. We need to sort out all of your belongings.

His medication. A slight laugh did leave her lips at that message. Just as it did the night she broke up with him, surrounded by her family as they fed her liquid courage to take this step. How she thought she would back down, that she wouldn’t be strong enough. But she put her phone on Do Not Disturb and she went to her Uncle’s and waited until she felt like she would be able to truly walk away. At first she thought she may cave– possibly attempting to go up there to talk to him, but then he showed his colors of only caring about himself and she stood her ground. 

Maybe it was the liquor or her family in the background turning this small event into a party, but for that night she felt strong. Until she didn’t. Until hours later, a few bottles down, she broke down. What did she do? The fear of her future came crashing down. Her mind was ready to sleep for the night but unable to shake the feeling that she was not meant to be in this location, but rather up with him in his bed. It was what she knew. Her family tried to talk sense into her about it. One moment she would agree with them and start to feel okay, but then a switch would turn and she would be sticking up for him. Fighting for him. Eventually they got her to sleep though. And in the morning when she woke up, she felt like her world was on fire around her. She felt as though she was burning into oblivion. She needed him back.

—

A month of therapy. A month of acting as though she was moving on before she returned. 

I think I have Stockholm Syndrome– get it because you live in Stockholm?

[yooseung]

( park jimin, cis man ) have you seen YOOSEUNG HO ? i heard HE is a WAITER at MAL’S DINER. they’re TWENTY-FIVE years old and they’ve been living in san verto for SEVEN YEARS. they tend to be CLEVER & DOGGED, but rumor has it they can also be SPITEFUL & SELF-CENTERED.

basics

name: yooseung ho

nicknames: yoo, seungie

pronouns: he/him/his

birthdate & age: 1st of november, 25 years old

current residence: living with yohan park at a spacious apartment

sexual orientation: bisexual (leans towards  men :nauseous_face:)

childhood home: brooklyn, new york

strengths:

+ quick-witted

+ loyal

+ straightforward

weaknesses:

– obnoxious

– dogmatic

– quick-tempered

likes: black coffee, overwatch, sunday roast, cotton candy, caramel, trashy pop music

dislikes: early mornings, sports, heights, clowns, horror films, books, sea food

tattoos: yes :~)

piercings: multiple piercings on his ears and a navel piercing

fam background that i copy and pasted from my notes app </3 (tw: brief mention of abuse)

- yooseung’s childhood was polarising, to say the last. in the eyes of yoojin and junghoon ho, both more convinced by the prospect of heirs than the prospect of children, their son was little more than a vague annoyance on his best days and an intolerable menace on his worst. though extended family and close friends threw around words like “charming” and “handsome”, yooseung was every bit as likely to be beaten with his mother’s velveteen slippers and his father’s belt as he was to have his cheeks pinched and his praises sung.

- their lives were ruled by tradition – a very unhealthy amount of it, and some very backward views. eight-year-old yooseung felt awkward at family gatherings and was unable to form bonds or conversations with his family.

- for all his too-clever comments and small acts of rebellion, however, yooseung secretly longed to please his parents. more than anything, perhaps, he wanted to make them happy in the hopes that it might sway them to affection. needless to say, that dream was never realized and yooseung, to the surprise of no one, became an arrogant and volatile product of his upbringing.

misc

- yooseung moved to san verto as soon as he turned 18,  coerced by his parents to pursue a bachelor’s degree in business administration, except he dropped out of college after failing most of his classes. he isn’t smart, he hates reading, absolutely hates studying, and enjoys spending most of his time playing computer games and shopping

- his parents got Absolutely Pissed and financially cut him off, which prompted yooseung to begin working at mal’s diner RIP

- he is very materialistic and has a habit of splurging on expensive clothes and living a lavish lifestyle ,,, doesn’t really have self-control ,,, mans probably got a sugar daddy/mommy somewhere ngl because he only works at the diner four times a week and streams himself playing overwatch for fun (he’s steadily gaining followers because he’s really good at it)

- can’t live without a pack of cigarettes. when he began smoking as a teenager, it was just something that he had picked up from the other kids in an effort to fit in. however, he quickly found himself attached to the sensation, finding temporary relief and relaxation in the bad habit. throughout the years this has switched from a casual, social habit to something that he gravitates towards whenever he’s stressed, anxious, or needs to occupy his mind

- he doesn’t really have a dream as of the moment, but is flirting with the idea of becoming an e-sports player

- he’s v arrogant, is practically in love with himself, and makes fun of people all the time :sob: it’s how he protects himself from getting hurt, though it’s a very unhealthy method

- that being said, he’s had a pretty bad record with relationships. no matter how serious things became, he dated with an emergency exit strategy in place. despite the trail of broken hearts he’s created, he finds comfort behind the walls that keep him emotionally guarded

- but as mean as he is, he values and is extremely protective of the close friends he has

- also a potty mouth. :/

wcs? <3 rly rackin my brain rn these r all i can come up with for now im sorey

- smth spicy, like exes that ended on bad terms (i doubt yooseung would end a relationship on good terms honestly) or fwbs that kind of got serious so yooseung dipped because he hates Feelings awh </3

- !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! the one (1) person who curb stomped on his heart n is practically one of the causes of yooseung’s fear of commitment :flushed: could be someone he knows from high school, or could also be someone he met after moving to san verto (he was still shiny and dumb and easy to trick) haha who gnna give me this... <3

- a childhood friend from brooklyn (or somewhere else i can change stuff up)!!!!!!!! could be estranged, could also have kept in touch with yooseung bc facetime calls & letters are real cute

- neighbors!!!!!!!! maybe a neighbor yooseung likes to annoy bc he thinks they’re hot and he wants to sleep with them <3 UIERUIEWROUEWUR

- platonic stuff like unlikely friends, someone he met in university that he still speaks to, a mal’s diner regular? someone he plays overwatch with?

- a good influence... he needs it. He Really Needs It. he needs someone who can tell him that its ok 2 b nice to strangers sometimes <3

- yooseung is usually the devil on his friends’ shoulders but mayhaps it’d be fun if he had someone to be Bad with we can plot this out 4 more details

- enemies <3 he is Very easy to hate <3

- i have a wcs tag here <3

IF ANY OF THESE INTEREST YOU, HIT ME UP! SOME ARE MORE DETAILED THAN OTHERS BUT ALL OF THEM ARE OPEN TO MODIFICATIONS TBH, WE CAN DEVELOP THEM HOWEVER WE WANT :) FEEL FREE TO  CHOOSE MULTIPLE PLOTS TOO..,.,. GO CRAZY

ps if u have any wcs yooseung can snag please im/dm me <3

[gothic-safari-clown]

The Mind’s Power Over the Body

Part 15: The Nicotine Crutch

Story summary: They only ever had each other. It had been that way since high school, ever since Elianna transferred to dreary Arlen and took Jonathan under her wing. They go separate ways for college, and when they're reunited at Arkham Asylum professionally, Elianna comes to find that they've both changed during their time separated. Can she look past the promise of danger and stay by Jonathan's side as they slide further and further into the darkness while she grapples to come to terms with the truth about herself? Can she accept what needs to be done in order to hold onto the only person who holds any meaning in her life? This is a very self-indulgent AU that draws from several different canons of the DCU and ignoring others, starting in the Batman Begins Nolanverse. This will follow the plot of the movie, although the timeline has been very slightly tweaked.

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine  / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve / Part Thirteen / Part Fourteen 

Word count: 1328

TW: smoking

"No more favors," Jonathan began, sitting across from Carmine Falcone, the man himself. "Someone is sniffing around." The mobster leaned forward aggressively.

"Hey, I scratch your back, you scratch mine, Doc." Jonathan repressed an eye roll. Falcone always seemed to insist upon calling him that, regardless of the fact that he had a perfectly good name. "I'm bringing in the shipments." That did succeed in irritating him visibly; Jonathan's eyes narrowed slightly, and he pushed his head forward in a mirror of Falcone's body language.

"We're paying you for that."

"Maybe money isn't as interesting to me as favors." The older man shot back with no hesitation. Both exasperated and amused, Jonathan sighed and removed his glasses.

"I am more than aware that you are not intimidated by me, Mr. Falcone."

Yeah, how could he be?

Keep quiet, you.

"But you know who I'm working for," Jonathan continued, "and when he gets here-"

"He!" Falcone interrupted, his sudden nervousness manifesting in the sharp way that he raised his hand. "He's coming to Gotham?"

Good. That was the exact reaction Jonathan had expected. Ra's Al Ghul was indeed coming to Gotham, and soon. "Yes, he is. And when he gets here, he's not going to want to hear that you have endangered our operation just to get your thugs out of a little jail time."

At that, Falcone nodded solemnly, suddenly taking the visit very seriously. "Who's bothering you?"

Finally. "There's a girl at the DA's office." Again, Falcone nodded; he was familiar with this problem.

"We'll buy her off."

"Not this one," Jonathan shook his head. If only Miss Dawes were that simple.

Oh, I wouldn't say she isn't simple, just stubborn.

Jonathan chose to ignore that comment, regardless of his agreement.

"Ah, idealist, huh?" Falcone shrugged, entirely unaware of Scarecrow's antics. "Well, there's an answer to that too."

"I don't want to know," Jonathan replied truthfully. Scarecrow was bound to get overzealous of whatever was in store for the infuriating woman and become even more of a chore than usual.

"Yes, you do." It was clear by the look on the older man's face that he thought he was doing a power play by insisting upon an explanation.

Does arrogance come with ignorance or the other way around?

It didn't matter either way; he sat through Falcone's childish power trip, and just as expected, Scarecrow loved every second of it. How tedious.

Once finally on his way back home, Jonathan reflected on how wholly pointless Falcone's rambling was. He couldn't for the life of him figure out where the old man had gotten the idea that he held any power in the operation; if he hadn't agreed to bring in the shipments, someone else would have. He was easily replaceable.

His thoughts turned to El waiting at home. He was sure now that she wouldn't try to administer the toxin to herself, but this morning he had sensed a return of her previous reservations for the project. It was to be expected; he had known of her psychopathy for a long time, but it seemed that she remained unaware of it. It was just like her to be aware of everyone else's problems except her own; he supposed it was easier to integrate that way. And after all, she had been repressing it for decades; it was hard to overcome that sort of thing in a few days.

It didn't matter anyway. Jonathan was confident that she would accept it by the time this was all over. All that was left to wonder was how long it would take.

.xXx.

Meanwhile, Elianna found herself smoking on the fire escape. Once Jonathan had left the apartment, she had gone to the window to watch for his car leaving, and as soon as it did, she had taken an errand of her own to the gas station down the street.

She had forgotten, however, to watch for her friend's return. Upon hearing the door unlock, she cursed to herself. She had never had to sneak around when smoking before; she forgot to be on the lookout. However, at this point, it was too late to hide it, so she took another long drag off of her third cigarette, mentally kicking herself.

"El?"

"I'm out here." She sighed, rubbing her forehead with her free hand. She could almost hear Jonathan's confusion as he approached the window, replaced quickly by mild irritation.

"What are you doing? I thought you quit years ago." He inquired, carefully climbing out onto the fire escape with her.

"I did." Another deep inhale. "Turns out that stress is a hell of a relapse trigger." Jonathan sighed as he sat next to her.

"I know I don't have to tell you that it's bad for you..."

"Then don't."

"But there are other things you can do to relieve stress." He waited for a response as she took one last long drag before extinguishing the now used up cigarette as she blew out slowly.

"I don't care. This helps. Not actually, obviously, it can't take away the stressful situation, but it's something I can control." She flicked the butt out onto the street below before opening the carton for another, lighting it smoothly.

El thought that she knew better than to offer one—Jonathan had never smoked anything a day in his life—and was shocked when he reached for the little box and removed a cigarette. She turned to look at him sharply, the first time she had looked at him since he had gotten home, and he took the lighter from her hands.

"What are you doing?" He shrugged in response and lit the stick between his lips, making a face at the taste.

"Believe it or not, I'm stressed too." He explained as he took it from his mouth and breathed out. "That tastes awful, though." El laughed.

"Yeah, it helps if you squeeze the filter." She reached over and did so, hearing the pop between her fingers. "Not much, but still." Jonathan took another experimental puff; she was right on both counts.

"I don't see the appeal," he said, raising it back to his lips for another hit. El chose not to comment on this.

"So, is everything taken care of?" He nodded.

"As good as. From this point on, we should focus on mass production and getting it into the water main. We should have enough, but I'd rather be prepared."

"Prepared for when?" El watched his face, cigarette forgotten.

"We're scheduled to go into operation in a few weeks."

El was surprised. That soon? She felt that she had only barely dipped her toes into the project; she needed to earn her way into the shared immunity that Jonathan had offered her. Would a few weeks be enough time?

"Then I need to get used to the toxin; we have to do it again," she insisted, trying and failing to keep the urgency out of her voice.

"You just did last night. You need a break!"

"Did you take breaks when you were experimenting on yourself?" Jonathan floundered for a moment.

"No."

"That's what I thought. We're doing it again."

"Fine. But we're going to work tomorrow. It'll have to wait until Friday." El thought about arguing for a moment, but she knew that her friend was just as stubborn as she was, and judging by his tone of voice, this was not an argument that she would win.

They sat on the fire escape for hours, chatting about mindless things and eventually finishing the pack, at which point they finally went back inside.

Elianna went to bed that night knowing that the next few weeks would be big. She wondered again if she had made the right decision by moving to Gotham and fell asleep running through the moral quandary that her actions presented and wondering why she couldn't bring herself to really care about the destruction and chaos that she was abetting.

[hellimagines]

Love and Death -- Patrick Hockstetter

Masterlist

Request: “Hi I didn’t know where to request but could I pretty please with a cherry on top have an imagine of reader looking back at times of her and Patrick before he died and kind of working their way up to how she reacted to his death. I’m bad at explaining it but would you please be able to kind of song prompt it to the acoustic version of Katy Perry’s ‘The One That Got Away’ (listen to it while thinking of Pat it will bring you to tears. I don’t know if I did this right but if I didn’t explain it enough just send me a message. :) - @realclassact  ”

Summary: You and Patrick were June and Johnny. Nothing could separate that, except love and death.

Warnings: angst, major character death

Pairing: Patrick Hockstetter x fem!reader

Word Count: 2,130

A/N: The timeline is different than the movie/book, so RIP that. Also, I left out some of the song, because I figured it wouldn’t work with the rest of the story.

Summer after high school

When we first met

We make out in your Mustang

To Radiohead

Patrick Hockstetter was a concoction of chaos. You had been friends with him, and the rest of the self-proclaimed Bowers Gang since the beginning of sixth grade. It wasn’t as hard as everyone made it seem to run with the Gang. A couple sly smirks, a roll of the eyes, and being able to watch as they pummeled their latest victim. A lack of moral and a lot of patience scored you your spot in the group. And you loved it.

You were closest to Patrick, out of all of the boys. He was the one who dragged you into the group in the first place. So nobody was truly surprised when they found out that the summer after 8th grade, you and Patrick got together. It was early June, and the five of you were outside Mr.Keene’s, arguing over what to steal, and what to buy. You needed tampons, but none of the boys were willing to steal you any. And Patrick needed a pack of smokes, but nobody was willing to steal those, either. So, the two of you came to a deal.

“I’ll get you your fucking cigarettes if you get me my damn tampons,” you said to Patrick, staring him down with a glare. An oh-so-familiar, wicked smirk crossed his face as he dragged his eyes up and down your form.

“Fine… if you kiss me,” he bargained triumphantly, winking at the boys. You had never shown any interest in a boy, or a girl for that matter, so all the boys figured you were a stuck-up prude. Needless to say, Patrick’s eyes almost fell out of his head when you leaned over and gave him a long, rough kiss to the lips.

Whooping and hollering echoed from the Trans Am as Patrick pulled you closer, having you practically straddle his lap. Vic coughed and groaned in the corner, desperately trying to shrink into the seats. You pulled away from Patrick with a grin and bit your lip as you shook your head.

��Better get me my fucking shit, Hockstetter,” you whispered, before crawling out of his lap, and slipping through the front seat to leave the car. Henry, Vic, and Patrick were quick to follow (Belch staying back as the getaway), and the four of you made your way inside.

“We’ll create the diversion, you two grab the shit,” Henry ordered, and all of you nodded.

You and Patrick mingled in one aisle, while Henry and Vic made their way to the back corner of the store. With a simple shove from Henry, Vic was toppling into the shelves and displays, knocking everything to the floor. At the sound of a crash, and the sight of two ragged boys, Mr.Keene was all-but jumping over the counter and rushing over. You took your chance and dashed to the counter, grabbing four packs and hastily shoving them into your pockets. Patrick grabbed your tampons, and a few other things, before grabbing ahold of your hand and pulling you out of the store. You two jumped into the Trans Am quickly, and a few seconds later, Vic and Henry came dashing out of the store, grins on their faces as they too jumped in.

Radiohead’s ‘Everybody Knows’ blasted through Belch’s radio as the car sped down Mainstreet, while you and Patrick pulled out your stealings. You tossed the smokes at Patrick, and he tossed you your tampons, as well as a chocolate bar, before giving Henry, Vic, and Belch their desired items. You smiled at the chocolate in your hands, before grabbing Patrick by the back of the neck and pulling him in for a kiss.

“Hm, guess this is a thing now,” Patrick snickered against your lips, before pulling you closer while the rest of the boys groaned in disapproval.

And on my eighteenth birthday

We got matching tattoos

It was your sixteenth birthday, and as you sat in Patrick’s basement, shirt-sleeves pulled up, you couldn’t have been happier. You and Patrick had been together for three years now, and as a birthday present, Patrick had gotten his hands on a tattoo machine. He had given the boys tattoo’s a while ago, but you could never decide what you truly wanted- so you never got one. Until now. You were getting a lighter on your shoulder, and Patrick was going to give himself a can of hairspray on his thigh, to symbolize your relationship.

“Ready?” Patrick asked, pressing the needle of the gun against your shoulder. With an affirmative nod, Patrick got to work. Two hours later, you and Patrick were supporting matching tattoos, chaotic grins on both of your faces.

Used to steal your parents’ liquor

And climb to the roof

Talk about our future

Like we had a clue

A few months later, you and Patrick found yourselves on top of his roof, a bottle of Grey Goose and Jack Daniels placed between the two of you.

“Whiskey and vodka is not a good mix,” you shuddered, taking another sip of the amber liquid.

“Grey Goose is your favorite though,” Patrick hummed, gulping down said liquor.

You nodded, watching him with a smile. “Yeah, and ‘Daniels is yours.”

“You know me so well,” Patrick purred, moving the bottles so he could tug you to lay down with him.

After a few minutes of silence, your mouth began to move of its own accord. “What do you think college will be like?” Patrick looked over at you, startled at your sudden question.

“Fuck if I know,” Patrick shrugged, wrapping an arm around your shoulders, pulling you to lay on his chest.

“Are you going to go to college?”

“Probably not. But with you, little Ms. Harvard, I may just hitch a ride to Massachusetts with ya,” Patrick snickered, and you huffed out a laugh.

“Yeah? You and the boys sneakin’ into my dorm?”

“Sneaking? Oh no, we’d all live with you.”

“Oh, that’s just bloody fantastic, really. You all better get jobs,” you sighed, shaking your head in mock-disapproval. Patrick grinned down at you and squeezed your body against his.

“Whatever keeps ya around.”

I was June

You were my Johnny Cash

Never one without the other

We made a pact

Everybody knew, that where ever you were, Patrick Hockstetter was sure to be right behind you: he’d be at your locker, waiting for you after every class, he and the boys would walk you to every class, and pick you up every morning, and at the end of every day. For six whole years, it was (Y/N) and the boys, and then (Y/N) and Patrick.

You remembered the day you realized you were in love with Patrick Hockstetter. You had been sitting on the hood of the Trans Am, beside Vic, watching Patrick and Henry square off in a beer-drinking competition. It was probably midnight, and there was a heavy bonfire going, thanks to yourself. You had been watching Patrick closely; the way his head tilted back to allow the alcohol to slide down his throat, the way his long, black hair was tossed out behind his shoulders, a few stray strands sticking to his wet face, the way his over-shirt hung loosely around his black tank-top. It was all too perfect, and quickly, your heart stopped.

“Vic,” you suddenly whispered, turning to him in a flash, with wide, fearful eyes. “I think I’m falling in love with Patrick Hockstetter, and this is the most painful thing I’ve ever gone through in my life. It is like I’m in a ring of fire, and I’m never coming out. I’m going down, down to the bottom of this thing. It’s going to kill me, because I would never have the nerve to tell him, nor do I want to tell him, and I know he’d never love me back.”

“(Y/N), you fucking idiot,” Vic whispered back, his own eyes wide. “Of course Patrick cares about you, in his own fucked up way. But love? I don’t think he even knows what that is.”

“That’s my point! I just signed a one-way ticket to hell,” you whined, slamming your face into your hands. Vic reached over and rubbed your shoulders, biting his lip while looking between you and Patrick.

All this money

Can’t buy me a time machine

Can’t replace you

With a million rings

It didn’t take long after your realization, for things to go downhill. You had confessed to Patrick about how you truly felt, and as expected, it went up in flames.

“No, you can’t love me,” Patrick ordered, sticking a finger in your face.

“But I do and I know you don’t love me back, but it’s fine, okay? I don’t want this to come between us!”

“It already has, (Y/N). I can’t be with you, knowing that you love me. That’s not how this works,” Patrick snarled, before he was marching out of your house, and out of your life.

Looking back on that day, you wished you could change it all. Your fingers lazily twirled the ring on your index finger, the one Patrick had given you a year prior. You were sat in class, slouched in your chair, and hands in your lap. It had been a few weeks since the breakup, and it was now mid-September. Kids were still going missing left-and-right, and you had almost forgotten about all of it, being so caught up with the boys.

But then, you saw the posters.

I should’ve told you

What you meant to me

Cause now I pay the price

Your heart shattered, into a million unfixable pieces. Your body stood frozen, staring up in absolute horror at the piece of paper stapled to the lamppost.

Patrick was missing.

Patrick had joined the other dozens of Derry kids that had been taken the past year. Patrick, the love of your life, was gone. You showed up at Vic’s house, in absolute hysterics, not even bothering to say ‘hello’ to Henry and Belch, who were sat on the couch. Your eyes were swollen, cheeks inflamed, and nose running. You couldn’t form words, you didn’t know what to even say. So, you let Vic pull you into his arms, in a desperate attempt to shush and console you. Belch joined in, hugging you from behind, while Henry stood to your side, hesitantly petting your hair.

“We’ll get him back, (Y/N), okay? You know we will,” Vic whispered, kissing the top of your head. You shook your head furiously, a quiet gasp escaping your lips.

“No, no. Something is different. Something is wrong,” you cried, hands balled into fists as you tried to quiet your sobs. Something wasn’t right, you just knew it.

In another life

I would be your girl

We’d keep all our promises

Be us against the world

In another life

I would make you stay

So I don’t have to say

You were the one

That got away

Your whole body was numb. From the tips of your ears to the bottom of your toes, everything was numb. You weren’t filled with icy rage anymore or boiling sadness. Everything was just gone. Just like Patrick.

“We are gathered here today, to mourn the loss of Mr.Patrick Hockstetter. At the young age of 17…” You zoned out once the pastor started preaching, your eyes hazing over to Patrick’s closed casket. You sat between Henry and Vic, your hands fisting the skirt of your dress until your knuckles turned white.

It didn’t seem like anybody in the church was actually crying. Patrick’s mother and father sat at the end of the pew, holding one another’s hands, solemnly looking at their final son, laid to rest. Patrick’s relatives sat in the pews next to, and behind you, none of them shedding tears. Patrick had never gotten along well with his family, other than his one grandmother, who passed away a few years back. Henry, Vic, and Belch had sat as your support beams the past few weeks, letting you lean, cry, and punch on them when you needed to. So now, as they sat by you, they looked like soldiers returning from war, but ready for another one to begin. If your body didn’t feel so foreign, you probably would’ve been crying.

Nothing was ever going to be the same again. Patrick was gone and had left you behind. Your last moments together was a fight that should’ve never happened. And now, you were never going to see him again. Never touch him again. Never kiss him again. Never love him again. Because Patrick was the one that got away, and he was never coming back.

[garamonder]

Chosen Peers

(During a field trip to Central University, Havoc sees the possibility for a different future for Ed.)

Jean Havoc hadn't been in a university library in ages. He stared around the quiet rows of high wooden shelving with a sort of fond nostalgia, finally squashing the weird reservation he had about being there. School buildings always seemed like the property of students, and he had to admit to himself he felt a little like a trespasser. He was seated at a sturdy long table, tipped back in his chair and waiting on the boss to collect the materials he wanted here before they dropped in on Professor Haggerty's chemistry office.

A stack of books landed before him with a thump that made one of the librarians frown their way. "Here," said the boss.

The lieutenant sighed at the load and craved a cigarette.

"Don't look so morose, we have a cart," said Ed. He retrieved a two-wheeled metal book cart from the librarian, who briefly regarded him as though she was not sure he'd bring it back.

"Why don't we have an Alphonse?"

"Because Alphonse has a job, and now we have a Havoc."

At this moment, Al was probably up to his helmet in stuffed animals and teatime. He was babysitting Elicia Hughes, allowing poor Gracia an evening with her sister. Havoc hoped they were having a good time. It was good of Alphonse to offer.

In truth, Havoc didn't mind the field trip. Sometimes he liked a change of scenery and the boss was entertaining company. Once in a while they struck up a quick game of cards. The kid's promise not to tell Hawkeye that Havoc had taught him poker was nearly four years old and he was old enough now to make it moot. Ed was ever grudging of his time, but Jean liked the moments when he wheedled a few minutes of downtime out of the young major.

It wasn't as often these days that the Elrics dropped in to town, Ed getting his assignments on the road as often as not. Things seemed to happen faster now than they did a few years before. Sometimes Havoc felt events escalating in a way he couldn't express except in the increase of cigarettes he consumed too quickly every day.

Then the boss had collected Havoc to act as the extra pair of arms for lugging Ed's research from the school. "They let you check this stuff out?" he asked.

"The watch helps," Ed said smugly.

Right. The watch did it all. Jean clapped his hands to his knees and stood up, dutifully wheeling the cart behind Edward as they trundled out of the library and down a long path through one of the leafy campus squares. Students were taking advantage of the fine weather to sprawl along the grass on picnic blankets. Some had brought along books to study; others had abandoned pretense and were loafing about.

Every so often someone would send Havoc a curious look. He was wearing his usual blues and was clearly identifiable as a military officer. They must have wondered what he was doing on their campus. Colleges were sequestered communities in a way that few places were now, and anyone not recognizable as a student or faculty stuck out like a cowlick.

Ed got fewer glances and it suddenly occurred to Havoc that Ed looked like he belonged here. How odd.

They paused at a little crossroads of diverging paths as Ed squinted at the directions Professer Haggerty had scribbled. "Does this say 'Norrey Hall' or 'M—Murray?' Murray Hall?" He frowned at the paper. "This is chicken scratch."

It was probably about as decipherable as Ed's own handwritten reports, which Hawkeye had tactfully requested be typed out from now on. No one gave him too hard a time about it because it wasn't hard to guess he'd had to relearn to write left-handed and it seemed bad sport to make jokes. Ed shoved the note under Havoc's nose, who couldn't make heads or tails of it either.

A gaggle of chattering students were passing by, weaving around Havoc and his cart. "Hey," Ed waved a hand at them. "Any of you know where Haggerty's office is? Chemistry department."

The students paused with expressions of surprise. "Actually," said one girl with long blonde hair, "we're headed to his class. We're picking up some exam results."

"Is it Norrey or Murray? I can't read this stuff."

One of the other kids giggled. "Is it his handwriting? It's so bad. The teacher's aide has to decipher it for us half the time. It's Norrey. Come on, you can follow us."

They started walking again, Havoc bringing up the rear. Now that Edward was definitely associated with the military officer, they glanced curiously at him too.

"Are you a student?" the first girl asked.

"No. Just need to drop in on Haggerty."

"Do you know him?"

Havoc knew Ed and Haggerty spoke periodically and flapped their gums a lot about chemical reactions whenever they passed within a twenty-foot radius of each other. Haggerty wasn't much for alchemy, even disparaging its use in Ed's presence, but somehow they collaborated quite well. Ed seemed to relish lecturing the professor that alchemy acted as the ultimate authentication for mathematical and chemical theorems. If it was bullshit, he was fond of saying, a rebound will tell you sure enough.

"Yeah," said Ed, "I see him around."

He was clamming up as he did sometimes around interested strangers. It was funny, reflected Havoc, how he could be so cocky around people who others found intimidating, but he shut up in the presence of—well, those who would ordinarily be peers.

Come to think of it, he never saw Ed with anyone his own age save for Alphonse or his mechanic.

"Are you…with the military?" asked a bespectacled boy dubiously, eyeing Havoc.

Before Ed could give a one-word answer to a spectacularly complex question, Havoc mischievously replied for him. "Major Elric? Is he ever."

He grinned at Ed's sharp look. If he was going to drag around a heavy cart of books, he'd have some fun with it.

"Major?" repeated a few of the kids, exchanging glances. Ed shrugged and slowed to keep pace with Havoc, who was leisurely strolling along steering the cart with one hand and smoking a cigarette with the other. When they approached a large, red brick building, Havoc took a last few drags and regretfully extinguished it on an ashtray outside the hall. A few students taking a smoke break nodded at him and Havoc rolled his eyes at the implied solidarity.

"Back in my academy days, I knew a girl who went here," he told Ed conversationally.

"Of course you did."

"'Course, military curfew's bit of a damper on young romance. She ended up ditching me for some dip in the sociology department."

"What, she wasn't into boys with a bedtime?"

Havoc sniggered and Ed shook his head, smiling despite himself. The hallway was congested with students coming and going and Havoc weaved his cart upstream, feeling like salmon. At last they pulled up to a handsome wooden door where "Professor Haggerty" was neatly engraved. Haggerty definitely had tenure.

The blonde girl ducked her head in the office. "He's probably in the classroom," she informed them. "It's just this door over."

They obediently followed her and her classmates into the room next door. The classroom was set up stadium style, with all the seats ringing a half-moon around the space where a professor would hold court. On a green chalkboard up front, some chemical formulas were laid out and the beginnings of a alchemical array was sketched out on the wall. Ed glanced at it and snorted.

A stout, balding man looked up at the sound and roared in a deeper timbre than anyone would have credited at sight alone: "Elric! There you are. I have a bone to pick with your alchemy."

Ed dropped the book he'd been carrying onto the desk. "It's not my alchemy, and I'm sure it's your fault."

"It damned well isn't, that array is faulty and—"

"—Don't blame science, if you're going to use alchemy to test theorems you might actually bother learning to construct a proper array." Edward flapped his hand at the chalkboard. "Just what the hell is this?"

"It's a perfectly cogent formula, is what it is—"

"Cogent, my ass. You don't even have all the elements represented on the array!"

"I don't need all the elements!"

"You still have to denote them! How many times do I have to tell you? Even if you're canceling it out—"

And they launched into squabbling, punctuated by words Havoc supposed to be alternately scientific and profane. This was their way, picking up each time as though they were resuming an interrupted conversation from the last word. That conversation was usually an argument, and both were always trying to get the last word.

The students they'd arrived with stared with growing amusement. Their grins widened as both Elric and Haggerty grabbed stubs of chalk and began brandishing them at the incomplete array and then each other.

Havoc leaned against a desk in the first, lowest row. The stadium setup put him in mind of a gladiator arena, with these two as the premiere match. The blonde girl said dryly, "I guess they do see each other around."

"Like ships passing in the night, except they bicker across the way." Havoc counted the smokes remaining in his pack. He'd sneak by the commissary on base before reporting back to the colonel. He looked forward to that night, when he'd be wining and dining his date at a swanky cafe he'd had to reserve a table at weeks ago. Sometimes the military blues came in handy, especially in the big city.

"What do you need all those notes for?" asked another of the students, who hadn't yet addressed them directly. He had neatly combed hair, a faintly aggressive tone and generally reminded Havoc of the sociology student Harriet had ditched him for years ago.

Jean shrugged. "The boss needs 'em," he indicated Ed, "I just carry 'em."

"Is he really your boss?" the boy asked skeptically.

"Technically, he's my superior officer," said Havoc. He never minded clarifying the fact. The 'Major' title made Ed sour, which took the sting out of referring to a younger soldier as such. "We have the same boss."

"Oh."

Haggerty drew breath from the argument to address the milling students. "Yes, yes, your exams are here," he said. He reached into a drawer of his desk and retrieved the papers, shuffling through them and handing them out to their respective owners. "Good job, some of you."

Havoc snickered as a few of the faces paled. Then Haggerty took a positive brick of paper from the desk and dropped it in Ed's hands. "Here, you ingrate. Write me an array and we'll call it square."

"That could be the problem with your arrays," said Ed, "they're always square."

And they launched into a fresh round of quarreling before more students piled into the classroom for the afternoon lecture. By the time most of them had settled into their desks, watching their professor squawk at the kid engaged in scribbling furiously on the chalkboard, Ed had fixed the array and both men were covered in chalk dust.

Haggerty seemed satisfied. "Equivalent exchange," he announced, and the two parted with a last few amiable insults. Ed waved a hand over his shoulder as he followed Havoc out the door and into the hallway.

"You do have array with people," Havoc told Ed slyly.

The major rolled his eyes. "How long have you had that waiting in the wings?"

Neither of them noticed that the students they'd arrived with had filed back into the now-clear hallway with them. "Any more stops on the tour?" asked the bespectacled kid, and Havoc glanced at Ed, who shook his head. By the looks of their cart it appeared as though they had dangled the university by its ankles and turned out every pocket for relevant notes.

"It seems we've emptied the mines for now," said Havoc. He leaned on the cart and caught sight of a scuff on his boots. He'd have to take care of that before picking up Bianca that night. Thank God his military curfew had for the most part ended after academy.

"Tell Haggerty I'll send this stuff back with an aide," Ed told the students. He'd probably conscript Sheska if he could peel her away from headquarters long enough. In fact, Havoc suspected he'd rope her into copying most of the notes. Ed couldn't take every page with him on the road, but he loathed parting with research documents and liked knowing they were all within reach of Sheska's recollection.

"Hey," said the blonde girl. Ed turned to her. "Do you guys want to come to lunch with us?"

"Lunch?" repeated Ed blankly as if he'd forgotten what the word meant.

"Yeah. I mean, it's cafeteria food, but it's not the worst," she said. The others snickered in universal disparagement of cafeteria fare. It was probably a common joke among the students, something in which they were all initiated freshman year. One of those silly little things that was oddly bonding because it belonged to a shared experience.

"Ah. Thanks, but we have to get back to the office."

Havoc winced. Ed sounded so official. How long had the boss been talking like them before they'd realized it?

"Are you sure? Even soldiers have to eat," said one of the other girls with a smile.

The words were out of Jean's mouth before he even considered them. "I can drop this stuff off at the office," he offered.

He didn't think that merited the glare Ed leveled at him. "I have to file a report," Ed lied shamelessly—shameless because he had no report to file at the moment and because his reports were famously terse and probably took all of five minutes to write. "Thanks anyway."

Gone was the easy belligerent rapport he'd had with the older professor. Like a switch had been flipped.

"Oh. Yeah, I get it. Okay, see you around," said the girl, and her companions gave them awkward little waves as they moved away.

Ed moved to secure everything on the cart, and made sure the unbound stack of papers Haggerty had given him wasn't going anywhere.

"Why don't you go with them, Ed?" Havoc said wistfully, gazing after the departing students. "I won't tell the colonel if you want to play hooky for a while."

Ed snorted. "I don't. Let's go."

"You sure, boss? Wouldn't kill you to go with them. You might even like it."

The teen conveyed his doubt of this with a flat look and went back to checking over the notes he was bringing back. At last he was satisfied that he had wrung out all that the school could offer and they wheeled back down the hallway, out to the fine sunshine. Havoc thought about the wonderful weather he'd have for his date tonight, but he felt distracted for a reason he couldn't put his finger on.

The automobile was parked in a place of somewhat dubious legality not far from the main campus. Military plates stalled the hand of anyone who might be tempted to write a ticket. The two rolled up to the car and Havoc unlocked the trunk while Ed began unloading the cart. As he sorted it out, Jean filched another cigarette from his pack and lit up, gazing around at the college scenery. Maybe the nice day was affecting his sentimentality.

"Come on, I'm starving. Let's grab lunch from that one place on the corner. Military's paying." As though on cue, Ed's stomach distinctly rumbled. He pointed to it as confirmation and shoved the last of the books in the car.

Havoc protested. "You just turned down lunch with those guys!"

"Doesn't mean I'm not hungry," said Ed. He slammed the hood and made to wheel the cart back to a librarian who probably thought she'd said her goodbyes to it for good. "What, aren't you?"

Sure Jean was. His stomach was rumbling right along in sync with the major's. He dragged on the cigarette while Ed took the book cart to the library, returning with an expression that said he didn't think the librarian's relief was necessary or polite. Havoc didn't know why he couldn't let it go that easily.

"Why didn't you want to eat with them?"

"I'm on the job," said he who notoriously never cared whether he was on the job.

"Don't you ever want to be around people your own age?"

"No," said the boss distastefully.

And that was the simple truth. He did not envy or resent other young people for their ordinary lives. He did not think about them at all. It was not that he looked down on their simpler, everyday concerns, but he could not relate to them.

Ed raised an eyebrow and leaned against the car. "What is this?" he twirled a finger to indicate the general matter of Jean's concern. "You nostalgic for school or something?"

"No," said Havoc truthfully. Military academy had represented the end of his formal education and he'd had a good time there, but he wouldn't shave away a few years now even if he could. The fact was, grown women were—well, they were just tops. "It's just that this might be the only time you get to experience this stuff."

"Experience what, cafeteria food?" Ed deadpanned. "Thanks to the military, I get plenty."

"You know what I mean."

"Okay. You mean bitching about professors, midterm exams, and student government."

"I mean dorm life, making friends you'll have forever, late night pizza runs, hanging out and laughing…without the pressure to like, stop a murder or bust some smuggling ring. I know those are little things," he said to Ed's skeptical frown, "but they add up to something greater."

"And what good will one lunch do? Aside from the good this lunch will do, because I'm still starving and we're not moving."

Obediently, Jean stubbed his cigarette and they started walking. Maybe it wasn't too late. Ed was still young; there was still time to finish the job he'd started and turn his eyes to every experience he'd been ignoring. Havoc realized suddenly he wanted this for Ed, and he wanted Ed to want it.

At first they walked in silence but Ed seemed exasperated. "I don't know what you want from me here," he said finally.

Havoc blinked, then laughed. "I don't know either. Sorry."

.

.

Jean put the incident out of mind for a few days, until next he ran into Al at HQ and felt strangely compelled to relay it. "I feel a little bad," he admitted to Alphonse. "Sometimes I wonder if we're the reason he can't relate to anyone his age."

If a helmet could smile, he was sure Alphonse would be smiling then. "It's not your fault, Lieutenant," he reassured Havoc. "The truth is, Brother was never really interested in other kids, even when we were little."

Littler, corrected Havoc's guilt instinctively.

"He didn't pay much attention to them at school. He mostly just talked to me and Winry."

"Why is that?" Havoc asked.

Alphonse shrugged. "Brother's always been ornery, and too clever for his own good. He just didn't relate to anyone our age." Sensing Havoc's hesitation, his voice gave that smile again with his words. "Not everything about Brother boils down to—what happened. Actually, a lot of it doesn't. He's just Ed."

Of course he was. Havoc was almost embarrassed. It was hard to separate Edward from what had happened to the brothers that day, and easy to assume the harsher parts of his nature originated from trauma. But then there would be so little of Ed left, and that wasn't fair.

"How did your date go, Lieutenant?" asked Alphonse politely. Havoc groaned.

"A little too well. She wants to go there again next week. My wallet can't take it."

Ed's yellow hair and red coat popped around the corner. Colonel Mustang was matching him stride-for-stride and the two were bickering about a detail Edward had conveniently left out of his latest report. The colonel expressed a stony opinion that it constituted a misrepresentation of events.

"Do you really want it on military record?" Ed told Mustang flatly, who reconsidered his position in light of the detail Jean was sure he was better off not knowing.

The colonel harrumphed and paraded into the office, Ed following with rolling eyes. Behind them filed Hawkeye, in whose professional countenance Jean detected a flicker of amusement.

Havoc was reminded of the major launching into easy debate with Haggerty, and for a moment felt glad their little office fell onto the comfortable side of the fence Ed had built around himself.

.

.

I’d forgotten to post this here

[keywestlou]

THE INCREASED COST OF FOOD NOT WHAT YOU THINK

Most people think the incense in eh cost of food is because the supermarkets are ripping off the public. To a degree, yes. Not that much however in comparison to some other businesses/reasons..

Some find a way to benefit from a crisis such as the pandemic.

In this instance, food producers. Those who manufacture the canned goods, meats, and anything else sold in a supermarket.

Notice how certain food stuffs are absent for weeks on the shelves. The items always return. However at an increased price.

The producers have learned to play the gouging game.  They intentionally hold on to goods they produce so as to manipulate prices. The game again is to keep a product off the shelve for several weeks and then have it return at a higher price.

Then there is the cost of shipping/delivery of goods.

Shipping prices have gone out of sight! Which of course increases the final cost to the consumer.

Tucking rates have soared despite a demand below prior years.

Diesel #2 prices are up. Twenty percent from November 2020 through February 15, 2021. A big jump in a short period of time.

Crude oil is up 64 percent during the same time period. Wild!

Shippers, such as retailers and manufacturers shipping goods to the customer, have experienced a 20 percent hike from January 2020 through January 2021. The steepest increase since 2011!

Only a few examples contributing to increased transportation costs have been provided. The statistics/data involving the increases in various types of shipping were too much for me to understand. Wow! The only thing clear was that there is an increase in every area. Reasons generally different. My opinion is do not blame everything on the supermarket. They are responsible to some degree. The examples set forth herein are responsible to an even greater degree.

Texas. A disaster!

Hopefully Texas has learned a lesson. The lesson also is a warning to other states not to go the “independent” way Texas did.

There are two national grids. The East and the West. Then there is Texas standing alone. Texas knew how to provide power more efficiently and cheaper.

They bull shitted themselves.

If you are going to run your own business, it must be run properly to avoid something as has occurred in Texas.

Once set up, Texas failed to do the necessary to keep structures up to date and failed to pay attention to anticipated wild weather developments.

“Once in a hundred years” has become common in everything involving weather.

However, if you have a neoliberal austerity State which has spent 40 years deregulating and privatizing public infrastructures, and downsizing public service into incapability, you end up with a gigantic bad situation. A problem where people cannot depend on the State for water, food, and power during emergencies.

There are adverse weather events to prepare for. Texas did not prepare.

Set aside State damages for which Texas is responsible, most of which probably are not insured. Another way to save a buck.

Home owners and businesses normally are insure. I m confident many Texans are insured for the damages wrought by the snow and ice. Note however that insurance companies are a business. They claim they are available to protect their insureds. No! Most are corporations and worried more about their bottom lines.

So insurance policies are written with various exceptions. Happenings where coverage is excluded. Take for example water driven by wind. The insurance companies will play with that one big time. How about an act of God? Can one argue the cause of snow and ice other than an act of God. Insurance companies try and do.

There are numerous other examples. The poor homeowner and businessman is going to have a hard time getting paid actual damages incurred or getting paid at all.

And what of the time factor involved between the time the claim is made and the insurance company pays. Could be a year or two or more.

Billions of dollars are involved.

The news keeps saying Biden definitely is not in favor of an increase in the minimum wage to $15 in this stimulus package. I sense it is something he will consider at another time. Biden cannot be expected to do everything at one time.

Biden is in favor of a $15 minimum wage for federal employees. Evidence he is aware of the problem and is working on it.

Joseph Anthony Pizzo died recently. He was 88.

I first met Joe when I came to Key West some 30 years ago. He and his wife Beth wee already here. We became friends.

Joe was a happy person. Always a big smile when he saw you. Beth likewise very personable.

Joe was into things that grew from the ground. A botanist/horticulturalist.  He taught life science classes for 30 years at Chicago City College. In addition, he and Beth opened Floral Consultants, a business they were able to expand to multiple Chicago locations.

Rest in peace, Joe!

Key West has had many citizen who have been responsible for what Key West has become. Good, bad, or indifferent, Key West would not be what it is today without their genius and hard work.

One of those persons is David Wolkowsky. David died a few years ago.

On this day in 1967, David began construction of the Pier House Motel. On that Motel site, today’s Pier House sits. Developer over the years by David.

David was my friend. I unfortunately met him in his later years. I enjoyed his company. He was respectful to all. Everyone loved him.

Enjoy your day!

—

DAY 26…..Greece the First Time

Posted on June 22, 2012 by Key West Lou

Not easy to communicate via internet from the middle of the Aegean Sea. Equipment here all old. Connections not dependable. Things keep getting lost. I spend more time looking for lost material than writing.

None of the above is intended as a complaint. I expect no more nor no less from an island so remote as the one I am presently on. Amorgos. It is almost nowhere. Access is by boat only. The boat comes and goes. The boat arrives two times a week.

I share the preceding with you for a particular reason.

Recent blogs have contained many errors. Paragraphs repeated, misspelled words, capitalizations missing, etc. I cannot help it. I reach a point where I have spent 4 hours doing the blog, 2.5 of which were spent finding the blog when it has disappeared.

I reach a point where I say I must publish before I lose the blog in its entirety for good. So I publish. I must admit when I am at that point, I am also very tired and say screw it.

Forgive me. The substance is good, even though the form may be lacking on occasion.

Which brings me to my present abode. A small white cottage with blue trim. Trim includes windows, shutters and doors. Sitting about 12 feet from the ocean. Yesterday I described the area between me and the water as a road. I was mistaken. It is a stone foot path.

Amorgos is one of the far out of the Greek islands. Off the beaten path. Few visitors. Not on the tourist routes. No big fancy hotels. Nothing but you, a couple of neighbors, and God.

If 2,000 people live on this island, I would be shocked.

My little house sits at the end of the path previously described. After that, nothing but water.

Sunsets terrific. Like Key West. Across the water from me. Over the peak of a mountain. Glorious!

I bought a bottle of Beefeaters yesterday. Enjoyed a couple of drinks from my terrace watching the sunset.

I was shocked I could buy Beefeaters. It has been almost non existent at my previous stops. Not only was it available on Amorgos, it was also cheap. About half the cost compared to the U.S. I suspect it is the taxes. If the Greeks taxed alcohol as much as it is in the U.S., it would dramatically help their financial condition.

Cigarettes. I took 4 packs with me. I have been gone 2 days shy of four weeks. Just finished the fourth pack yesterday. I am not doing bad in smoking little. I know. I should not be at all.

I bought a pack yesterday. $4.10! No way in the U.S.A. Another example of where Greece might help alleviate its financial problem. Increase substantially the cigarette tax.

There is a Chora on Amorgos. You will recall there was one in Mykonos. Chora is also referred to as Hora. It means old place. The old places on most islands are federally protected in Greece. Much like our historical buildings.

The Chora here is a large number of buildings constructed during the middle ages. Most at least 1,000 years old. Typically Grecian. One to 3 stories. Small terraces. White. Blue trimming. Narrow walkway, 3-4 feet wide.

Whereas Mykonos’ Chora was full of people, stores, bars and restaurants, the one on Amorgos appeared deserted. I saw no more than a dozen visitors.

Every 200-300 feet there is a restaurant or coffee house. Few or no customers.

Stairs. To the sky! Just what I love! Steps everywhere. Up, up and more up! Each one a stress test for me.

Chora was six miles away. On the top of a hill. The cab ride was straight up. The return trip straight down. How these cars do it, I will never understand. I consider it physically impossible for a car to keep its wheels on the road under such conditions.

Somewhere along the way yesterday, I found out what the windmills were for. There are many here as on Mykonos.

Olives were and still are big. The windmills were used to crush the olives. Where there were vine yards, the grapes were likewise crushed by the windmills.

Last night the wind returned. Cold. Very cold. I had to wear a sweat shirt.

I had a late dinner. At Demetrius’. After dinner there the night before, I could eat nowhere else. I was not disappointed.

Eggplant is big here. I had a warm appetizer of eggplant, tomatoes and onions. All cut up and cooked together. To die for!

My entre surpassed everything! My friends in Utica will especially enjoy that which I am about to share. I had lamb chops. Thin. The bone intact, not cut from the chop’s body. Fatty and juicy.

Just like Pelletieri Joe’s.

I got up with the sun this morning. Walked down the road a bit to buy coffee, a loaf of hot bread and butter. Then back to the cottage and my terrace. I watched the sun and water move a bit. Nothing else.

A bit later I was playing around with my tablet. A very lovely young lady walked by. Ann. Swiss. 18. Blond hair. Trim body. White blouse. Short jeans.

We talked. She was back packing it. Was looking for a cheap place to stay. Elini’s was too expensive for her. She moved on to continue her quest.

By the way, I think Elini’s is dirt cheap. Everything on this island costs next to nothing. For example, my dinner last night cost 11 euros. About $14 American money. Tip built in. Tip is 16 per cent of a bill.

I had another visitor while sitting outside.

I heard clinging bells. Saw nothing. Got up and looked over the terrace wall. There were three ducks walking along. Each had a bell around its neck. Looked like a family. Two big ones, one little one. Obviously house pets out for a stroll.

I have no idea at this point what today will bring. Maybe a trip to the monastery. Maybe nothing.

Enjoy your day!

  THE INCREASED COST OF FOOD NOT WHAT YOU THINK was originally published on Key West Lou

[devilishlyvintage]

The Text-to-Speech Man (A Big Hero 6: The Series Fanfic)

Name: The Text-to-Speech Man

Fandom: Big Hero 6

Words: 4,209 (okay that’s a lot, like ten pages xD)

Summary: Nobody knows who the Text-to-Speech Man really is, only he knows that.

Note: we call bangs fringes in the UK. Just thought i’d clear that up to avoid any confusion.

OC VOICE CLAIMS (I tried to include well-known voice actors/actresses amongst the cartoon community, though included some other famous faces as well):

Daniel Henney as Sunny Elemente

Nolan North as Sunny’s Text-to-Speech watch

Dolly Parton as Aspen Murdock

Greg Cipes as Zach Evans

Jonah Hill as Ted Baxter

Ashly Burch as Natalie Worth

and finally Tara Strong as Danika Kurosawa

It was pressing on into morning, the clouds and sun mixing together to create dusk, the colours of the sky a concoction of reds, oranges, yellows and light pinks.

“Hello, my name is-”

No, that’s not right, thought the man, turning the screwdriver once more. Come on, you’ve got this. You can do this.

“Hello, my name is Sunny-”

Come on, work you stupid thing! God damn it, cursed the man, programming was one of your top subjects, this shouldn’t be so hard!

“Hello, my name is Sunny Elemente.”

The young adult came to a standstill when he heard those words, the words he had been wanting hear for the past four hours. He pressed the tiny button on the silver metal, erasing the current sentence displayed on the holographic screen and typing something else in its place using the keypad.

“I understand that me not talking has caused some concern, but you do not have to worry about that anymore. With this little watch, I can speak to all of you whenever I want. Pretty great, right?”

Unfortunately, the computer didn’t recognise abbreviated language (much to the dismay of its inventor) but, it was better than no result at all. Sunny Elemente relaxed into his spinning chair with a sigh of accomplishment, lighting a cigarette to celebrate his victory.

You did it, man. You did it.

The clock struck 4 AM, a time were people were usually asleep. But no, not Sunny. As much as he wanted to, he was unable to sleep. He thought that things were bad during the day, though at night…

At night, it was a living hell. The flashback, the memories, the screaming echoing in his ears…it was far from soothing. Leaning his head back, Sunny blew smoke out from his mouth and placed the cigarette between his lips, watching the paper burn.

“Sunny?” his friend questioned him as she stopped in the doorway, causing him to quickly sit upright and put his prize out in the ashtray on his work bench. “Is that you?”

Sunny nodded out of habit, though his shielded eyes glanced at the watch on his wrist. He didn’t hesitate in putting it to use, inserting a response so that he could talk with his housemate.

“Yes. It is me. Hello Danika.”

Danika was startled at first; she hadn’t expected to hear a robotic male voice address her so casually. She raised a brow, now more confused than anything.

“How are you doing that?” she asked, walking over to him. Sunny tapped the glass of his modified watch, and then motioned to her to look up. Danika did so, in awe at what her friend had been able to do with just a few simple tools and components.

“Awesome, right? Now I can talk to you and the others without even having to move my lips.”

“Yeah…” Danika said with a nod, a smile spreading across her lips. “Yeah! Sunny, this is fantastic. I can’t believe you were able to make something like this in such a small space of time…except, that’s wrong, isn’t it? You’ve been up for hours, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I have been working on this bad boy for four hours straight; have not gotten a wink of sleep. Now before you say anything, yes, I know I need to rest but…I cannot. Things have not been easy for me recently.”

Danika’s happy expression soon turned to a frown when she heard that. The fourteen year old grabbed a chair and sat opposite her care giver, her dainty hands meeting his padded shoulders.

“You’ve been acting strange for weeks now.” she said, becoming serious. “This isn’t good, not at all. You haven’t been eating or sleeping properly for a while now, it’s…it’s scaring me. You’re scaring me, Sunny.”

Sunny could see the pain glisten in her chocolate eyes; it hurt him to see her like that. It hurt him more than text-to-speech could ever describe. His gloved hands made their way to her face, cupping her cheeks. Their foreheads lightly touched, thumbs brushing away heartfelt tears.

“Do not cry, Danika. Please.”

Danika’s breath hitched, she couldn’t help how she felt. She was worried for someone she cared deeply about, a friend who she would do anything for. Smaller hands rested over larger ones, though not even that could stop the emotions that were falling.

“I-I’m sorry,” she apologised, if anyone should have been crying it was Sunny, he was the one who was suffering. “I-it’s just that…y-you’re my f-f-friend and I…I care a-about y-you. It hurts, you know…I wanna h-help but I…I d-don’t know h-how.”

Sunny said nothing, instead bringing her into a hug. His chin sat on the top of her head, the tears wanted to come out but they simply couldn’t do so.

“You being here is enough. Thank you, for wanting to help me, but there are some problems that you cannot fix. I know that might be hard for you to hear, though it is true. What I am going through is something that I have to help myself recover from, though with you and the others by my side…I feel like I can do anything.”

Lifting his scarf down from the bottom half of his face he kissed Danika’s forehead before pulling it back up, looking at her through his sunglasses.

“You should head back to bed; we have a pretty big day ahead of us.”

“Oh yeah,” Danika remembered, she had completely forgotten until now. “We have the presentation at that college tomorrow, the mutant awareness one, right?”

“Right.” Sunny replied, moving away from her. “See you at breakfast, Danika.”

Danika kissed Sunny’s cheek, humming with content. “See you at breakfast, Sunny.”

Sunny saw the teenager leave from the corner of his eye, a regretful breath passing him as he gently shook his head.

Why…why am I such a coward?

-Mutant Awareness Presentation Day-

“So what’s this presentation Professor Granville wants us all to go to?”  wondered Hiro, holding the straps of his back pack as he walked alongside his friends.

“Beats me.” GoGo shrugged her shoulders. “But, people have been getting pretty hyped about it. Whatever it is, it’s gotta be good if everyone is making such a big fuss.”

“You guys haven’t heard?” Honey Lemon asked, saying a quick ‘hello’ to a passerby she knew. “Apparently people with 'special talents’ are gonna be there, how true that is, i’m not sure. If I had to guess, they’re probably just some really, really smart scientists.”

“I agree with Honey Lemon,” said Wasabi, 'special talents’, his ass. “All their gonna do is show off some top of the range invention and try and convince the audience that it’s gonna 'change their lives’. To be honest, I think i’m just gonna skip it and get breakfast instead, I haven’t eaten anything all morning and i’ve got a really bad headache coming on.”

The muscular rule follower rubbed the side of his forehead, trying to settle the twinges of pain that would make his eyes twitch every few seconds. Hiro could see that Wasabi wasn’t having the best start to the day and stopped, taking his bag off of his shoulders and rummaging through it, handing the darker skinned male a container and plastic fork.

“Here, you need this more than me.”

Wasabi declined; he couldn’t take Hiro’s breakfast.

“I appreciate it the gesture and all, Hiro, but this is your breakfast. I don’t think your aunt would be too happy.”

“Wasabi, I insist.” Hiro said, a small smile on his face. “I wouldn’t want you to get sick. I can get something when we get to SFIT. Please, take it.”

Wasabi glanced at the container of food, a warm expression settling onto his features.

Just like Tadashi.

“Thanks, Hiro.” he thanked, putting the plastic case in his satchel. “Don’t expect me not to buy you lunch for this. Next time, i’m treating you to breakfast”

Wasabi ruffled Hiro’s hair in a friendly manner, earning a toothy grin from the adolescent.

When the nerd gang arrived to SFIT, the presentation was under last minute preparations. The stage was decorated with a large banner saying 'Mutant Awareness 2k32’ and students were setting up the speakers and projectors.

This must be important, thought Hiro. Really important.

“Are you guys hyped or what!?” exclaimed Fred, startling everyone when he arrived. “Sorry i’m late; I was at a comic signing. I met three awesome dudes while I was there; turns out we’re in most of the same fandoms! We exchanged our PS4 ID’s too, so we can play online any time!”

“That’s great, Freddie.” Honey Lemon beamed, happy her friend had met some new people. “I’m glad you made some new friends!”

“Yeah, that sounds awesome, Fred.” Hiro said. While not a huge comic book fan, he couldn’t deny that he enjoyed a light read once in a while. He had been reading some of Tadashi’s old comics from when he was around his age, and good lord did they make him cringe. His older brother definitely had some weird tastes as a fourteen year old. “If they’re at the presentation, maybe you could introduce us to them.”

“You got it, dude.” Fred smiled; he couldn’t wait to keep in contact with his new buddies and beat their butts on multiplayer. It was going to be sweet!

“I don’t know about this you guys,” said Sunny and Danika’s friend, Aspen, with uncertainty. “What if they don’t like it?”

Aspen was nervous about having to talk in front of a huge crowd of people, though Sunny simply took her hands and offered her reassurance.

“It will be okay. Do not worry so much. If anyone wants to poke fun at you, I will kick their asses.”

Aspen chuckled when she heard that, she had become used to her friend’s choice of words that she no longer called him out on his swearing.

Typical Sunny.

“Thanks, hon.” she replied, going to take a look around. She and her friends had a few minutes to go before the presentation began, so she figured she would use the time she had to get a better look of the venue.

“I can’t believe we’re presenting this at my dream school.” Danika looked at SFIT from the distance; she wished she could have applied to study at the college, but the fees were simply too high. Someday, she hoped. Someday.

“You’ll get there, Dani.” her best friend, Natalie, linked her arm. “With your know-how and charm, you’ll be the best for sure. Come on, let’s go with Ted and Zach, they said they wanted to meet that Fred guy the three of us met at the comic store.

Danika smiled sadly, no matter how hard she hoped, no matter how hard she wished, she knew that deep down her dreams were never going to come true. Though she always applied herself to any situation when it came to robotics, having to present an invention of her own at a showcase seemed too daunting, and she had no doubt in her mind that she would freak out and mess up.

"Look who it is,��� grinned Ted, gaining Fred’s attention. “Our buddy from the comic store. Didn’t think we’d see you here, man.”

“Dudes!” Fred greeted the two, fist bumping. “Guys, these are my buds Ted and Zach.”

“Hi!” waved Honey Lemon.

“Nice to meet you.” said Wasabi.

“Great, more nerds.” GoGo rolled her eyes, folding her arms. One Fred was bad enough already, she didn’t need to get to know two more.

“And what’s wrong with being a nerd, hm?” Ted put his hands on his hips, raising a brow. Compared to Honey Lemon who was rather tall for a woman, he was huge! “Are you..nerdist?”

Zach gasped dramatically, it all made sense now! “You’re a nerdist!”

“Nerdist!” Fred defended his pals. “Nerdists aren’t cool, dudette!”

“Nerdist!” Natalie joined in, turning away from GoGo with a 'hmph’. “Come on, guys, let’s go talk somewhere else. We shouldn’t have to be around someone who’s a nerdist.”

“I’m not a nerdist!” protested GoGo, she was puzzled as to what was even happening right now. “What even is that!?”

“Now that…” Hiro paused before speaking again. “Was the most confusing thing i’ve ever seen. I guess Fred was right when he said being part of a fanbase is like being a member of a family. Who knew?”

“They’ll cool off in a couple hours; they don’t stay mad for long.” Danika reassured the gang. “Hi, nice to meet you, i’m Danika. Danika Kurosawa. I’ll be one of the presenters for the Mutant Awareness presentation.”

“Mutant…Awareness?” Hiro asked, he could have sworn he’d heard her right. “What’s a…mutant?”

“Yeah, I don’t think i’ve ever heard of them before.” Honey Lemon added. “I mean, i’ve watched movies about heroes with special talents and…no…no way!”

“Yes way.” Danika grinned, if she could she would have given a demonstration, but she had to save it for the show. “I know it may seem hard to believe, but if you watch the presentation later you’ll see it all for yourself. I’m sorry, I know we’ve just met but i’ll have to get going, the presentation starts in ten. It was nice meeting all of you!”

Danika dashed like a bolt of lightning, fast on her feet. Honey Lemon squealed a little in excitement.

“She seems so nice!” she spoke giddily. “And those jeans, I need to find out where she got them!”

Hiro was thinking about Danika’s surname, it somehow seemed familiar to him.

Danika Kurosawa…hmm…have I heard that name before?

***

“I am aware that a lot of you have been looking forward to this and I apologise for the lack of information that was given, I will be sure to fix that error for future events.” Professor Granville spoke into a microphone, clearing her throat as she stood on the stage. “Without any further ado, I would like to introduce you to Mr Sunny Elemente and his friends.”

Granville put the microphone back onto its stand and stepped aside, applauding along with the audience. Sunny appeared from behind the curtain, as did his mutant companions.

“Thank you, Professor Granville.” he said via his watch. “As you already heard, my name is Sunny Elemente and these are my friends. I would like you to meet Aspen Murdock, Zach Evans, Ted Baxter, Danika Kurosawa and Natalie Worth. We are here today so that we can spread awareness about the mutant community and hopefully help give you a better insight about who we are. For your safety, I would advise that all of you each take a step back, because things are about to get hot.”

Cupping both of his palms, Sunny presented a big ball of fire to the audience. It appeared out of thin air and hovered over his skin, which immediately got the attention of those attending the presentation.

“Are you really doing that?” a member of the crowd asked, with Sunny nodding.

“Yes. What am I doing is real, it is not magic of any kind. Unless, you consider mutants to be magical, that is up to you.”

“Amazing…” Hiro trailed off, in complete amazement.

“Tell me about it.” Fred agreed, he’d never been this interested in a public show before.

“That is not all I can do.” Sunny said, making the fire ball disappear. “Watch closely.”

With a click of his fingers he was able to light up candles that had been put on a table for the demonstration. The crowds were close to going wild, but they kept their cool out of respect and a want to see more.

“That’s cool n’ all, but I got a few tricks up my sleeve as well.” Danika smirked, a hand on her hip. “What do you all think of this?”

Granville was not a woman who smiled often, (let alone at all, really) though on this particular occasion she allowed a small one to settle on her lips. She could tell that Danika was a talented individual, a girl who had hopes and dreams just like everyone else.

A young woman who is wise beyond her years. Very good.

The audience went ape like fans at a concert, watching Danika zip and zoom through the air with purple shocks of electricity following her every move and occasionally firing the odd bolt or two. Landing back on the stage gracefully, she gave a bow and blew a kiss to those standing in the audience.

The presentation lasted for a good hour and a half with Natalie, Ted, Zach and Aspen demonstrating their powers. Metal, plant, light and air manipulation were what they individually possessed, and it was amazing to watch. Light made everything seem that extra bit brighter, and with a cool breeze the warm weather was becoming more bearable by the second. The wind blew in Honey Lemon’s hair, catching Ted’s attention. He began blushing, though was able to hide it well from the crowd.

Except from Zach.

“Ooo, someone’s in love.” he teased with a whisper, laughing when Ted playfully punched his arm.

“I am not.” he answered. “Come on; let’s just go answer some questions. Sunny’s getting kinda bombarded, we should go help him out.”

After things had died down and people were going to get their lunch, Sunny and the other mutants had been given the opportunity to have a private tour of SFIT. Professor Granville was being polite to the guests, showing them the different facilities that were offered.

“And this is the lab that belonged to one of our popular students. He unfortunately passed away in a horrific fire, though his legacy lives on in the hearts of his peers.” Granville explained, noticing that Sunny had stopped dead in front of Tadashi’s lab. “Mr Elemente? Is everything all right?”

Sunny could feel the tears coming and this time, he would be unable to stop them. He hated making scenes like this in public, but he couldn’t help it. His breath caught in his throat and his legs felt like jello.

“May I? Please?” he asked the professor, seeing her hold her clipboard to her chest. “Tadashi was an old friend of mine…I…I used to be a student here a long time ago before I dropped out. Other priorities, you see.”

“I was not aware that you were a former student, Mr Elemente.” Granville said. Despite the way Sunny got his words across, she could sense that he had a great deal of pain going on inside. “All right, I will give you a few minutes. But please, try not to break anything. I would like everything to stay exactly how it is, for Mr Hamada’s sake.”

“Of course.”

Sunny walked into the lab, closing the door behind him. Danika was about to go in after him, but Granville stopped her.

“He needs a moment alone, Miss Kurosawa. To remember his friend.” she told her, proceeding on with the tour. “Over here is where our students are working on the next best selling equipment, an upgrade for current virtual reality systems.”

“Wow…” the mutants looked on in unison.

Sunny stood in the centre of the room, enjoying the blissful silence. Unable to hold back any longer, the eighteen year old fell to his knees and cried, burying his face into his hands as he did. He wanted to fight it, he wanted to fight the sadness, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“Why…why, why, why!?” he kept asking himself over and over, the burning sensation in his eyes should have caused him distress, though it was nothing of the sort. “Why did this…why did this happen!? Things shouldn’t have been like this…they shouldn’t have!”

Sunny cried and cried, tears sizzling and evaporating into the floor due to their heat. He wanted to stand up and rejoin his friends, though he didn’t have the energy to. His whole self felt numb, deathly numb. It was like time itself had frozen as he reflected on memories, memories of much happier times. His hair hung in front of his face, the sunlight shining on the red streak that was in his fringe, a little touch he had added to make him feel a bit better about himself. Plus, regulars at Good Luck Alley always dyed their hair; he was no exception to the rules of that God forsaken place.

Good Luck Alley…Good luck at getting out alive.

There were times Sunny had feared for his life in that alley. Running away from Yama and his gang of thugs to accidentally using his powers on an innocent civillian who had done no wrong. The Mutant Awareness presentation made life for the gifted seem easy, but in reality it was just as hard as being a regular human being.

“Mr Elemente? Are you all right now?” Professor Granville interrupted Sunny’s moment of peace, the onetime were he could have had some quiet, and she had to ruin it. “Your friends have grown quite worried about you; perhaps you should consider rejoining them.”

“I will rejoin them when I am ready. Please, just a few more minutes.”

“Mr Elemente if you are having personal issues I would highly recommend talking to the people who care about you.” Professor Granville suggested, her conscience telling her to run for some reason. “If it is a mental health problem you are suffering from, I know people who may be able to help.”

“That will not be necessary. Now get out.” Sunny demanded, who did this woman think she was? Telling him that he needed help? He didn’t need help of that kind, he was perfectly fine!

“Mr Elemente, please, there is no need to get angry. I was simply recommending seeing a doctor for your own benefit.” Granville’s hand was searching for the handle, her heart beating faster. “If I have offended in you in some way, then I apologise-”

“GET OUT!” Sunny screamed at her, getting to his feet. Fire surrounded him and fresh tears stayed still on his cheeks; Granville had succeeded in pissing him off even if she hadn’t intended to. “GET OUT! YOU THINK YOU UNDERSTAND ME!? LIKE HELL YOU DO! GET OUT!”

Granville was shocked, lips quivering. Taken aback by the fire mutant’s outburst, she noticed that he was trying to calm down by the way his breathing sounded. Clenching onto her clipboard, she did her best to compose herself, but it was no use.

“So…you can actually speak?” she asked, attempting to break the ice a little. “If you are able to communicate, why do you use text-to-speech? I’m confused.”

“Are you always so nosey?

"Are you always so rude?” Granville retorted, putting her clipboard to the side. “Mr Elemente, you strike me as the type of man who has been through a lot in life. It may surprise you, but I do have feelings. I have emotions just like you or anyone else. I think that behind this act of yours, you are simply someone crying out for help. As I have said, I know a few people who specialise in dealing with matters of the mind.”

“And as I have said nothing is wrong with me. Please, leave me alone.”

Sunny pushed passed her, leaving Tadashi’s lab. He shoved his hands into his pockets, not bothering to join Danika or the others. He couldn’t be bothered with people right now; all he wanted was to be left alone. Was it really too much to ask for?

***

“He just left, without telling anyone?” Aspen asked a student, she was becoming worried for Sunny’s well-being. She knew he hadn’t been himself for a while, and she was scared that his problems were only going to get worst if he kept silent about it all the time.

“Yeah.” replied the student, feeling bad that she wasn’t able to help out more. “I don’t know where he went though, sorry about that. I wish there was more I could do to help. If I see him around, i’ll let him know you’re looking for him.”

“Thank you.” Ted said, hand on Aspen’s shoulder. “Take care.”

“You too.” smiled the student, going back to her friendship group.

“Maybe he went back home?” Natalie suggested, the situation wasn’t getting any better, she could tell that much. “Then again, I think he would'a told us if he was planning on it.”

“Natalie’s right.” said Danika, worried about Sunny just like Aspen was. “Come on, guys, we gotta go look for him. I don’t think…I don’t think he’s in a good state of mind right now.”

Without a second thought, the mutants went to look for their friend, hoping it wasn’t too late to stop him from doing something he would end up regretting later on.

To be continued…

Author’s Note: I apologise for any mistakes in this. I’ve been writing this since 12:00 PM (GMT) today and it’s now 9:15 (so 8 hours worth of writing). I will go back and fix any errors that I think need fixing, and there will be a second part to this. I’m not sure when that will be, but it will happen.

[bermudaroad]

Personal History:  Summer of ’91

My kids Walker Roe and Clayton, ages 18 and 20, his girlfriend Adrian and their friends Reed, Shelby and Trevor spent the covid spring and summer of 2020 hanging out together, swimming, kayaking, watching movies, lamenting their lost semester and generally not following recommended guidelines for social distancing. Clayton was able to continue work while the rest finished spring classes online, which was a total bummer.  With businesses and restaurants shuttered for quarantine, there hasn’t been much else to do.  Walker and Reed had internships lined up that were cancelled.  Adrian did some housecleaning and as soon as a few restaurants did open back up, she and Trevor, who both used to work at the pub, got part-time jobs.  Reed cuts grass. The rest of their time is spent mostly at leisure.  

In seeming unrelated news, Thomas, one of my oldest friends, became a grandfather last week.  Because of covid, no visitors could go into the hospital, so when the baby was born, the new dad held her up to the hospital window and the grandparents all held up posters and signs of congratulations outside.  It was shared on Facebook, so I sent Thomas a text.  I could tell from his response how giddy he was. They didn’t get to actually hold the new baby for three or four days.

The quarantine, my kids’ spring and summer getting derailed and Thomas becoming Pawpaw got me thinking about the summer after our first year of college, back in Many, the summer of 1991.  I spent that time mostly with a small group with whom I had been friends since first grade: Thomas, of course; Ginger who was home from school in Oklahoma, Jeff and Andy who, like Thomas and me had been going to Northwestern State, and Ginger’s brother Clay who had just finished 10th grade and had finally stopped being a complete jerk.  Sometimes there would be one or two others, but that was the core group. 

Except for Clay, we were 18/19 and had just got our first big kid jobs.  Thomas and Jeff went to work at the mill in Florien, Gin got a job at the radio station and I was tellering at Sabine State Bank. I can’t remember what Andy was doing, probably working for his grandpa, and Clay, who was 16 and fast growing into a giant of a man, tooled around in his truck and worked out at the gym.  We no longer had curfews and seldom felt the need to ask our parents for anything.

We were all single, too, which probably explains why our group was small and close.

Ginger had come home from Oklahoma unsettled.  The previous Christmas, she had appalled her family by getting engaged to her long-time boyfriend Nathen, the same person who had been fooling around with our other friend Jamie behind Ginger’s back for most of the time they were dating.  Ginger found out about it in the middle of our senior year which was pretty much wrecked after that, but she and Nate stayed together, even though neither was happy. Her parents had hoped that when she shipped out for Oklahoma and Nate left for LSU, things would fizzle between them, so their surprise engagement at Christmas 1990 was less than joyous. By February, Ginger had come to her senses. She mailed Nathen back his pitiful little ring and he decided to stay in Baton Rouge for the summer, thankfully bringing that awful drama to an end. Also, she had met someone new in Oklahoma.

Clay’s girlfriend Anna had broken up with him right after Prom.  She was a classy girl, also a friend of ours, and she returned the jewelry Clay had given her, which Ginger divided up with me. Thomas and Jeff had recently split with the girls they dated through and beyond high school. Andy was always single, even though he carried a torch for Jamie for years. They were funny, affable guys and great pals.

I was fractured, too. My first love Patrick and I had outgrown each other and he had broken up with me in the spring, which was for the best, but I missed him terribly.  He was already seeing someone else. I was on a mission to get over Patrick, lose the freshman 15 I had packed on and have fun with my friends – Thomas being chief mischief-maker and proponent of fun.  

Riding around town, “making a drag” as we called it, wasn’t for us anymore as we tried to avoid our old flames, which was hard to do in Many.  Most of our friends had significant others to absorb their spare time and several had jumped straight into adulthood, going to work in the oilfield, joining the military or getting married.  We, on the other hand, aside from work responsibilities, could do pretty much whatever we wanted.  

Often after work, we would meet up and go hang out somewhere on Toledo Bend, the long pier at Pendleton or my parents’ place down near Quiet Cove, to drink wine coolers and talk nonsense.  Weekends we went swimming at LaNan or San Miguel and a couple of times Andy drove his grandpa’s barge across the lake to the cliffs on the Texas side where kids used to shinny up a frayed rope as thick as my arm to the top of the bluff and jump off.  The boys listened to the Beasty Boys, N.W.A., Sir Mix-A-Lot and Color Me Bad (I wasn’t a big fan of any of it) and Ginger had discovered Garth Brooks. We went to our friends’ weddings, stayed out too late, crashed at each other’s houses, made it to work on time and irritated our parents.

There were some long serious talks, too, as we commiserated and sorted out our broken hearts. Clay even opened up about his lost love.  It was a bonding period for Clay and Ginger who had spent most of their childhood fighting, and for he and I as well.  

I hope my kids aren’t as stupid as we were and I’m eternally grateful that social media did not exist.  One night – I don’t know what go into us - we got a wild hair and vandalized a dumpster with spray paint.  Thomas and Jeff frequently made a contest of pitching empty beer bottles at road signs going 4/60 down the highway headed to the lake. Under a full July moon, Andy took us armadillo hunting at his grandpa’s farm.  Riding four-wheelers and armed with .22s and homemade pipe bombs, we crisscrossed the pasture in the moonlight firing at will in the humid night that was thick with recklessness.  Another time Thomas and I were headed to Natchitoches in his monster old Bronco when I told him I wanted to smoke a cigarette. Thomas habitually swiped packs of Marlboro Reds from the carton his dad kept on top of their fridge. He offered me a light and told me what to do.  And so it was that I smoked the inaugural cigarette – the very first one -- in the drive-thru at Maggio’s, coughing and turning green and reveling in my rebellion. I even remember the music we were listening to: a cassette single of “I Wanna Be with You” by Pretty Boy Floyd. I don’t know why that detail has stuck with me.

At some point, Jeff and Andy both noticed charms about Ginger that had never been obvious to them before.  This was typical of Andy but surprising for Jeff. Thomas and I were greatly amused. Jeff made the first move, asking Ginger on a date that Clay offered to chaperone.  They went to see “King Ralph,” and the rest of us chased them down at Hardee’s after the movie.  I remember gathering around Jeff’s white Dodge stepside in the parking lot and snickering because Gin was sitting next to him in the cab. We all knew it wasn’t going anywhere; it was just a lark.  It wasn’t long before Ginger’s beau from Oklahoma couldn’t stand the separation anymore and hauled it down to Louisiana for a visit, which is how I met Brent and was maid of honor at their wedding a year later.  

With Ginger unavailable, Andy turned his attention to me and was rebuffed again.  But he wasn’t too disappointed.

As summers do, it went by in a blink and in mid-August, it was time to get back to business.  Clay started two-a-days, Gin packed up for Oklahoma and I, who had starved myself down to a wafer, moved back to Natchitoches. Thomas and Jeff were supposed to commute together, but Jeff dropped out of school to work full-time.  Andy transferred to LSU.  Thomas fell in with my college buddies and we share those memories as well.  It wasn’t our last summer of fun – we had a few more in store before adulthood really caught up with us.

Now we are in our late 40s – the summer of our lives. Thomas and Jeff still work together. They are deacons in their church, volunteer coaches and planners of wholesome youth activities.  Ginger and Brent have been over in Nacogdoches for over 20 years and active in ministry in their community.  Andy married a girl from Baton Rouge and lives on his family’s farm.  Clay went on to play football at Louisiana Tech, but personal troubles have always dogged him, even unto today. I married a nice guy I met in journalism class and have lived in Natchitoches ever since. We have seen each other quite a bit over the years, most recently when Ginger and Clay’s dad died, an occasion marked by the same old sense of camaraderie, nostalgia and some measure of sadness.  

It’s been a strange year, this spring and summer of covid.  It’s nice to see Clayton and Walker spending quality time together.  Interestingly, during the pandemic, Walker and her college friends have been writing old-fashioned letters and mailing them to each other, a true novelty for them.

It brings to mind the contrasts between the now and then.  In 1991 we had no cell phones, no email, no Internet, no Netflix, no Twitter or Snapchat.  Our parents had no idea where we were or what we were up to most of the time.  We had to make plans and sometimes locate each other by that peculiar friend-radar teenagers used to have.  We could buy alcohol and never wore seatbelts. Most blessed of all, youthful indiscretions were not splashed all over the social media, although I do have some lake photos boxed up on a high shelf.  It seems like our freedom was much greater in many ways. Some things change and some things stay the same.

It’s hard to believe it was almost 30 years ago.  Summers always go by too fast.

[hammaditation-blog]

Meditate Your Intentions Into Reality

This year, why not consider giving some muscle to your New Year's resolutions? What if you could add some extra oomph to your intentions and tilt the scales of your manifesting energy to the positive side? Even if it's not time for New Year's resolutions, this technique will power your intentions into manifestation more effectively than most other techniques any time of the year.

The muscle I refer to is meditating between 2:00-3:00 a.m., a practice strongly encouraged by the Edgar Cayce readings. Now, before you flip to another article, thinking, "Oh no, I'm not getting up at 2 in the morning to meditate" - consider the fact that every 20 minutes of meditating gives you the equivalent rest of one hour's sleep. Seriously, isn't this worth some real consideration?

If you already meditate regularly, it's just a matter of changing your regularly scheduled time(s). If you aren't meditating regularly, but want to, then this becomes a golden opportunity to install the practice into your routine AND couple it with a desired goal.

Let me tell you my own experience with the 2:00 a.m. meditation practice and why I believe it is an untapped power source for manifesting not only your New Year's resolutions but any worthwhile goal you set for yourself at any time of year...

I'd begun smoking cigarettes in the 1960s in college and, except for a few years in my twenties, the habit of one to two packs a day was well established. Like most other smokers, I knew it wasn't good for me and over the years tried various approaches to stop, from hypnosis to will-power, nutrition to mind-over-matter - all to no avail.

Frustrated at my lack of success and annoyed with myself because smoking wasn't a very "spiritual habit," I struggled to taper off the habit over the years. Even a half pack a day would have been a step in the right direction, I thought.

Then it was by Providence that I moved to Virginia Beach in 1978 and discovered the Edgar Cayce readings. Inspired by the high level of truth they contained, I eagerly applied as many of the physical remedies and spiritual practices as I came across. Then, it came time to try the 2:00-3:00 a.m. meditation.

I'd already learned that "facing the east" [in reading #2072-12] was the best for polarity and now found out that "the best hour for meditation is two o'clock in the morning." [#2982-3]

Then another reading told me that one hour is good but 30 minutes also works well. As for how many weeks to do the practice, that seemed to vary, depending on the individual and their goal. I decided on a lunar cycle and set it up in my schedule to start on the next new moon.

I thought I'd just stay up until 2:00 a.m., do the meditation, then go to sleep, until I came across another reading which said that it was vital to sleep first, then rise and meditate, because "the activities of the physical body are... between the physical, the mental and spiritual activities..." [reading #1861-19] Whatever that meant exactly, it felt like it was something special that distinguished it from regular meditation during any other time of the waking day.

With my research now complete on how best to apply this practice, I began on the next new moon. Then one morning, about three weeks into the meditations, the cigarette smoking issue bubbled up into consciousness, along with the history of many of my frustrating attempts to stop.

As I was observing the thoughts rolling across my mind, the voice of guidance chimed in with a suggestion: "You've done everything but ask your body for help."

Oh. Right. I'd tried will, mind, physical aids, but never once had I considered enlisting my body's cooperation. And, after all, that's where the habit had been "living" for the most part. This was a real light-bulb moment for me.

So, as though rotating my inner vision from my third eye downward into the core of my body, I asked my body, "Will you help us achieve the goal of less than half a pack a day?" A little Yes seemed to bubble up from deep down.

Sure enough, as the days went by, I noted happily that some days I only smoked seven or eight cigarettes, other days maybe only three or four. I was quite pleased. While I would pre-pack my nine for the day, I rarely ever got to that last one. Until one day...

It was one of those higher-than-normal stress days and I was feeling pretty cranked up inside. On my way home from work, I was on #9 and after dinner found myself reaching for #10. With an all-too-familiar feeling of resignation, I lit up, only to find by the third puff that I was becoming quite nauseous.

"Oh my God," I thought, "what's going on? Am I getting sick?"

Well, ask and ye shall be answered, and the answer came from deep within my body: "You did ask for our help." Stunned, I realized that I never specified what kind of help I was asking my body for, but the nausea was definitely effective! At that realization, I relaxed with a begrudging chuckle and reflected with renewed appreciation on the powers that be -- both without and now apparently within.

Could I have achieved the same results in any daily meditation? Perhaps. But I've come to believe that extra supporting factors are available to us in the 2:00 a.m. meditation time. It may be the relative quite of the earth around us at that time. It may be, as Oriental medicine posits, that the period from 1:00 a.m. to 3:00 a.m. is the high point of function for the liver, an organ that the Cayce readings regard as most vital in the body's design. It may just be, as reading #1861-19 says, the special vibratory relationship that is operating then between the levels of our several selves.

I share my story with you -- awful as it is to remember that I was ever a smoker (I did finally stop completely a few years later) -- to suggest that, whatever resolutions you are entertaining, this one meditation practice may empower them more than any other technique you could imagine.

Of course, you may choose simply to use this as a more powerful attunement time. But if you have a desire for your physical health, bring that issue into one of your meditations (preferably after you've been doing the meditations for a while), and make the appeal directly to your body. Offer your body a partnership, and trust in its inherent wisdom to help you to achieve your desired outcome.

[demonwriterx]

Tremors Zootopia Ch 1 “Welcome to Perfection”

Chapter 1. “Welcome to Perfection”

In a town called, Perfection, one would expect it to be a paradise, at least that’s what Nick Wilde expected. When Nick and his mother first moved in, being a young pup he imagined it to be an oasis with pups the same age as him to play with. Instead, Perfection was a small, rickety town, in the middle of the Nevada desert, with the population of fourteen animals.

The town was built in 1889 for mining and was originally called “Rejection”, which Nick thought the residents should have kept. Now, as an ex-mining town, it now held old buildings, a leaky water tower and only one convenience store within thirty miles, called Grey’s Market. The store was the only place to get a cold drink, when the cooler is working. That’s where Nick comes in. Over the years, Nick accepted his fate in the small town and after his mother died, he continued to stay, working in odd jobs, as a Handy-Animal, like fixing the cooler during the long and burning summer.  

In a remote valley and in the flat-end of a rusty-blue pickup truck, laid a small tan fox. The fox was resting in his sleeping bag, outside of a farm where the dairy cows lived. Asleep, he failed to hear the small footsteps of his friend and partner, Nick Wilde, sneaking up on him. As a shifty fox, Nick was annoyed that his friend slept the whole night while he played look out for the nervous dairy cows and oxes. Nick lost in a game of rock-paper-scissors against him and now that it was morning, needed to wake up the quick-tempered fennec fox.

Nick tucked in his dirty white tee into his jeans before leaning against the edge of the truck, resting his paws on the cold metal. He looked down at his snoring companion and spoke in a smooth and quiet voice.

“Good Morning, Mister Sleepy-Head, this is your wake up call. Please move your tail.” He said, and got no response, except more snoring. He sniffed and glanced at the cows, who woke up and were enjoying their breakfast in the dry pasture. He grinned when he got an idea. Nick climbed onto the truck’s running board and began bouncing and shaking it violently, screaming as he does it.

“Stampede! Stampede! Finnick, get out of the way!” Immediately, as Nick predicted, Finnick woke up but constrained in the sleeping bag, tried to make a run for it. Instead, the small fox fell out, face-first, sleeping bag and all, with Nick laughing uproariously as Finnick widely tried to get out of the sleeping bag. Finnick managed to claw himself out and the fear in his eyes swiftly disappeared when he saw the motionless cows, eating hay in front of him. Finnick whirled and growled at Nick.

“You dumb piece of-!” Finnick stood up and dusted himself off before putting his sleeping back back at the bed of the truck. Finnick is what Nick called a drifter, going in and out of odd jobs like him. He lived in Perfection longer than Nick had by eight years, even if Finnick looked like a pup. His deep and rough voice always throws animals in a loop when they first meet him, when in fact, he is forty years old. Being older, he was the one who taught Nick everything in each odd job they bounce to. Finnick also tried to spread a little wisdom to Nick, but found out that he is a lost cause, since he refused to take his advices. Finnick snatched his boots from off the ground and slipped them on.

“I was in a stampede once.” Finnick began as he grabbed his hat from off the truck. “Over 300, and that little joke of yours was not funny, Nick!” He said sternly and put on his hat, to shield himself from the warm rays. Nick chuckled when he jumped off the truck and leaned against its frame.

“So how many cows make a stampede, Finny? Three, four, is there a minimum of a stampede?” He asked with a grin, not even trying to hide his sarcasm. Finnick snorted.

“I hope a stampede runs over your tail.” Finnick retorted as he dug his paws into his brown, worn out coat, taking out a pack of cigarettes. Immediately, Nick pulled out his silver lighter holding it up to him as if it was a grand prize. Finnick rolled his eyes. Each of the two had half of what the other wanted, Finnick had the cigarettes and Nick had the lighter. When Finnick traded him one of his cigarettes, Nick thanked him by lighting up Finnick’s before lighting up his own. With a sigh, he jumped back on the truck, taking in the nicotine and blowing it out in a puff a smoke. Nick adjusted his white cowboy hat and slipped on his jean-vest before taking a few puffs of his cigarette.

Finnick glanced around their small campsite and noticed that something was missing when he picked up the empty metal coffee mug.

“You didn’t make breakfast?” He asked with the cigarette in between his fingers.

“I did it yesterday.” Nick replied in a matter-of-factly tone. “It was cricket and beans.” Finnick placed the cigarette back in between his lips as he stared off into the horizon, trying to recall the past twenty-four hours.

“No…” He began and turned back to Nick. “It was eggs, I made the eggs.”

Nick scoffed. “Like hell you did, it was cricket and beans. Are you trying to hustle me? It’s your turn.”

Finnick smirked and raised a fist up to Nick. “Nope.” he replied. “But let’s make a bet, loser makes breakfast.” He said. Nick scowled and let out a huff before putting up his own fist. They shook their fists up and down three times before moving their fingers to signal their final answer. Nick pulled out paper and Finnick pulled out scissors. Nick’s paw fell in defeat and took a deep breath of his cigarette as Finnick snuffed out his.

“Well, I guess when I was your age, I forgot too.” He smirked and placed the coffee mug into Nick’s arms. Nick gave him a scowl before walking off to make their breakfast as Finnick fell back to enjoy another few minutes of sleep. Now that they finished their job with the dairy cows, after watching them over because they felt uneasy, were paid and the two foxes moved on to their next job. Fixing fences, barb wired and all.

“Ow! Gosh-!” Nick turned when he heard Finnick let out an array or profanity from having stabbed his sensitive paws against the needle like barbed wires. Finnick cast aside the gloves to tend to his wounds as he hissed in pain. “This isn’t a job for an intelligent animal.”

Nick sniffed when he finished wrapping the loose wire around the wooden post. “Why don’t you find me one and I’ll ask him.”

“Ha.Ha.” Finnick said. He wiped the sweat off his brow and kicked the dirt in frustration. “If we were really serious with our money, we would quit being hired foxes!” He exclaimed while he helped Nick hammer in the wire into the wood post.

“Handy Foxes, Finny. We are “handy” foxes.” Nick corrected, tapping the head of the hammer against the nail as he said it.

“Yeah, yeah...one of these days, we’re going to find some real employment.”

“And give up all this personal freedom?” Nick replied, motioning to the hot and desolated valley.

“I’m serious, maybe...maybe we should open a popsicle shop, a traveling one.”

Nick snorted at the idea. “Sure, or maybe an amusement park.” He slammed the hammer down on the nail head and once the wires were in place, they packed their tools in their non-air conditioned truck to their next assignment.

Nick held tightly onto the steering wheel as he drove over the rocky terrain before driving up to the smooth dirt road. Clouds of dust covered the windshield, and their lungs, making the two foxes cough slightly, before the dust settled and disappeared into the hot air. Nick glanced at Finnick, who was sitting on a pile of phone books, to reach Nick’s eye level and to see over the dashboard. Finnick was reviewing a sheet of paper that held their list of jobs they have to complete.

“What’s the agenda today?” Nick asked in a dull tone. His life was starting to feel repetitive. Doing all of the same jobs over and over again, was making him become stale. Being paid less of how hard they work didn’t help soften his boredom. He did not enjoy that, which made his desire to leave fester inside him.

“Garbage Day.” Finnick replied, he turned with a brow raise when Nick let out a groan.

“Garbage Day?-I hate that day, how much are we getting paid?”

“Fifty bucks. That’s forty six dollars more than what we got last time.”

Nick bit his cheek and strummed his fingers on the wheel. “What if we move that to aluminum day? They’re in the same junkyard.”

Finnick slammed the paper down over his lap and whirled at him. Nick held back rolling his eyes for the rant he was about to receive.

“Damn it, Nick!” Finnick began harshly. “We don’t pick the days, Lionheart won’t be here tomorrow, and I don’t need to remind you that he is the one that is paying us. If we don’t do it today, we don’t get paid!” The truck rocked making them bounce slightly in their seats as Nick drove down the lonely road towards the town. He squinted his eyes as the sun’s glare was beginning to affect his sight but his hearing was working perfectly from Finnick barking into his ear.

“You need to be smart, the more money, the faster we can get out of this place.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nick replied, breathing out a sigh. His eyes suddenly shifted to an object in the vass desert. From driving for year, he knows when something is out of place, and what he saw was a red truck. His gaze slowly fell of a form walking out of the truck.

“Hey...is that whats-his name?” Nick asked. There was a male college student who was out collecting plant species as his final project for months but Nick thought he left since he wasn’t around for weeks. Finnick didn’t bother looking up as he tried to come up with a schedule for their mountain of work.

“Uh...no, he left. This one is the new one they sent over.”

Nick’s ears immediately went up. “Wait...it suppose to be a girl.” He turned the wheel making a hard left, leaving the smooth road and onto the rocky terrain. FInnick lurched back in his seat, clutching onto the armrest from the sudden jolt of the vehicle. The truck shook them but that didn’t bother Nick as he held a large grin and started putting out a list.

“I bet she has green eyes, beautiful red fur! A tail of temptation, long legs, and a great face!”

Finnick tightened his seat belt. “You and your stupid mating hormones!”

The truck stalled into a stop, right behind the red truck and next to what appeared to be the campsite. There was a yellow tent built for one, a smothering fire, and only one chair. Nick scanned the area and found her on the ground, tending to a small pit that held her equipment. He watched her stand up, with her ears raised up to the sky. His face fell when he noticed how long they were. Finnick couldn’t help but chuckle when he saw a young female bunny, wearing male khakis, a red flannel shirt and a glob of white sunscreen over her nose.

The young bunny, who was in her mid twenties, walked up to them with a friendly smile.

“Hi!” She perked, putting out her paw towards Finnick, who shook her hand. “I’m Judy Hopps, I’m up here for the semester.”

“Yeah, Geography right?” Finnick said.

“Geology.” Nick corrected.

Judy opened her mouth. “Actually its Seismology, I’m studying earthquakes!”

Nick grinned. “That makes sense, since you're a bunny, is that why you're digging here?”

“Well sure, but just because we bunnies live in burrows doesan’t mean anything. I just find Seismology interesting.” She said, her face lighting up. “You must be Finnick and Nick, right? I heard all about you two.”

“We deny everything.” Finnick chuckled making her laugh at his small joke. Nick silently scoffed and shook his head.

“I actually got a question for you two, do you know that there anyone doing any drilling, or setting off explosives?”

“Around here?” Nick chuckle at her words. “No way, Carrots.” Perfection didn’t have anything important about it or in it. Tourists wouldn’t even stay for a day, usually they drive right on through to the next town that had more to offer, like a working air conditioner. There was nothing in the land either, unless an animal wanted to live in isolation. There is no oil underneath the earth which makes it useless to the government.

Judy frowned.

“Well, I am monitoring these seismographs.” She said. Finnick and Nick gave her a blank look which made her slowly explain. “They measure vibrations?”

Nick gently tapped Finnick in the shoulder. “Vibrations in the ground.” He explained which made Judy smile at his understanding.

“Yes, and I have been getting these strange readings and I was wondering if you two had heard anything?”

Finnick tipped his hat at her. “We haven’t but, we’ll ask around to see if anyone else in town had heard something.”

“I would appreciate that, I just hope it’s not broken.” She nervously said, looking towards her equipment. The school had the machines out in the desert for three years. Being out in the elements could have caused the machine to malfunction. Judy hopped that it was not the case. Finnick glanced at Nick, motioning his head at Judy while his eyes did the talking.

‘Don’t you want to say anything?’ Nick gave him a look of disbelief, motioning back with his brows.

‘No!’

They both turned back at Judy who at the same time meet their eyes, having not notice their silent conversation.

“Anyone, sorry to bother you two.” She smiled, giving their car a tap before stepping back. Finnick smiled widely at her. Something about her made him instantly like her.

“No problem.” He replied. Nick turned the truck back on and driving off. Finnick leaned his head out and waved his paw. “Nice meeting ya, see you around!” He called before sitting back against his seat. Judy waved back and watched them get back on the main road. She unconsciously touched her nose and gasped when she saw the white sunscreen on her fingers. The whole time she had been talking to them with sunscreen still on her face. It made her cheeks turn warm.

Finnick leaned his head back, feeling the wind of the open window brush against his fur.

“You know, if you want, we can ask about those seismographs thing?” Finnick said, turning his head lazily to Nick, who muzzle contorted, as if he smelled something awful.

“What do we know about that stuff?” He said bitterly, still disappointed that Judy wasn’t a vixen. She was easy to look at, he could admit that. He noticed she had amethyst colored eyes, something that was quite rare to have. Most bunnies had green, brown, and gray.

Finnick shrugged. “Nothing, but it would be a nice way to get to know her better.”

“Why would I waste my time doing that?”

“Damn it, Nick, you won’t go for any girl unless she fits that list of yours!” Finnick put up his paw and counted down with his fingers, mockingly imitating him. “Vixen, red fur, long legs, great face-!”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Let’s not forget dumber than my tail, like that vixen, Bobby Lynn Grounds.”

Nick fumed and pulled down the truck’s sunvisor, where he had a collection of photos of identical vixens that fit the description on his list and pointed to one in the middle.

“Tammy Lynn Grounds.”

Finnick waved him away. “It doesn’t matter, they were all dead weight. “Oh my nail, I broke it!”, “Oh I can’t work in these shoes!” “ He said in a high pitched mocking tone of Nick’s last mate.

Nick frowned. “I’m a victim of circumstance.”

“Really? Because I thought you were being picky. Look, don't make the same mistake I made, kept looking for the perfect girl for years and you know where it got me?....to you.”

This time Nick rolled his eyes. “Give me a break.”

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

Chapter 1 completed!  I hope you guys like it! 

please like and share! tell me what you think!

[heliosfinance]

What My Ridiculous Parents Taught Me About Money

[Please welcome one half of the duo from DukeofDollars.com today, as Jack spills his heart here on all things financial he learned from growing up in a helluva toxic household, ugh… As a parent this KILLS ME, and I wish this upbringing on no kids out there! What is wrong with people????]

********

The first time I rode a four wheeler as a kid, my dad plopped me down on the machine without a helmet and pointed me at the trailhead. This same guy — we’ll call him Ronald, because he’s kind of a clown — then hopped on his mechanical high horse and proceeded to take off down the trail, yelling “Follow me!” behind him. A 90-degree corner immediately greeted me, and with my limited 20 feet experience of riding so far, I was bucked off the machine as it proceeded to climb straight up a tree. I cracked my head, and the four wheeler landed right on top of me.

After waiting a minute or two, I realized I was all on my own with this problem as Ronald was long gone. I mustered the strength to kick off this heavy burden, climbed back on top of that mofo, and then sped passed Ron while flipping him the bird.

That’s pretty much how my financial life started too: flat on my ass with an enormous weight holding me down and no parent in sight.

Lesson #1: Don’t Sell The Shares You Inherited and Blow The Proceeds on Four Wheelers!

Those same ATVs mentioned above? They were purchased from stock my parents inherited. I wasn’t privy to all the details, but the sum I guestimated they received was in the $50k – $100k range: invested in what my parents called “blue chips,” which was the first time I’d heard that phrase before. What I do know, however, is that a $15k chunk started its brief life under the tutelage of my parents as the bluest of blue stocks on the market: IBM.

In 1992, a single share of IBM was worth about $88 unadjusted for splits, meaning my parents possessed roughly 170 shares. Let’s assume that instead of rushing down to Honda Motorsports before the check even cleared, Ron and his wife had the foresight to hold onto this small fraction of their inheritance and just let it ride. They could’ve spent almost $29,000 in dividends to date and still be sitting on a split-adjusted 680 shares, which would now be worth over $95,000; the annual dividend for 2017 and beyond is projected to be > $3,800.

That’s a lot of Power Wheels.

When I draw lessons from this mistake, I look at not only the hypothetical end-result, but also what kind of mindset it would take to ride IBM from 1992 to 2017. Seven years into the experiment, IBM experienced a meteoric rise powered by the turbo booster of the tech bubble. The shares reached a high of roughly $138 in 1999, right about where the price sits today, nearly 20 years down the road. During the ensuing crash, IBM dipped below $60.

Depending on your mindset, it might’ve been tempting to sell at both the high and the low phases: lock in gains in the former, or salve your fear of further losses with the latter. The company was considered the unassailable stalwart of tech during the 90’s, but its waning market position redefined the business in investors’ eyes. Declining revenue and a lack of innovation has transformed the perception of IBM from a shining star to a washed-up has-been.

I try to focus much of my investing efforts on the hold part of buy-and-hold. In the case of IBM, a dividend powerhouse, I’d pool the dividends and invest in a different, more stable sector. Diversify not through selling, but by redirecting the increasingly fat dividend stream into other businesses.

Lesson #2: Maintain Your $hit or It Becomes Worthless

They lasted just two years. No, not my parents’ faltering marriage, still talking about those damn ATVs. It turns out that engines have this weird substance called “oil,” and it needs to be changed every now and then. Three gently-used automobiles later, my parents finally discovered that cars, too, also have this same strange substance in it.

The three cars: 1) Ford Explorer, 2) Mercury Sable, 3) Lincoln Town Car – all bought with < 40k miles, and all dead by 75k miles because of engine problems.

A dear relative of mine gifted me a granny car when I was 16. I loved and appreciated the crap out of that vehicle, old people smell and all. When I scurried off to college, a school that banned freshmen from parking vehicles on campus, my parents decided to reappropriate my car to my older sister for a year. She begrudgingly returned it with a dead inspection sticker soon after the school year ended. Yes, I got a ticket on my ride home.

Surprise, surprise: she too had never learned about oil. Within a week, I heard the familiar sound of a seizing engine. Fortunately, I was able to limp the car to my friend’s house where his girlfriend was palling around with this hot chick in a bikini who happened to be a mechanic’s daughter. Though I’d learned the lesson already, I pretended to be ignorant about checking fluids while she “assisted” me.

She’s now my wife.

The first time I met my future father-in-law, he towered over me, crushed my handshake, and told me, “Boy if you ever hurt my daughter, I’ll rip your head off and cram it up your ass.” The most productive man I ever met, he was always tinkering on something. When he helped me with a plumbing issue, I asked him how he knew what the problem was. He replied, “I had no idea. I just figure out how to take it apart and then figured out how to put it back together.”

That’s perhaps the best repair advice I’ve ever received. Everything comes apart somehow, even if it’s not obvious at first. As far as maintenance tasks go, I rely on reminders. Google calendar is set to nudge me whenever air filters need to be replaced, batteries charged, gutters cleaned, and yes – especially when oil needs changing.

Lesson #3: Cheating and Refusing to Pay Taxes Are – Go Figure – Illegal

Leave it to my parents to find a silver lining in a DIY storm cloud. They ended up donating all four totaled vehicles to a registered charity. Pretty generous, right? Except for the part where they forged the receipts to show that the cars were in pristine condition and worth 4x the correct stated value.

Tax time for ol’ Ronnie was a game he played with TurboTax – fudging every number until the exact moment that the software threw a red flag. It was an endless game of chicken with the IRS. Unclaimed income, fictitious and overstated donations, illegal claiming of dependents, falsified businesses, enormous home offices: if you can think of a way to cheat taxes, my parents did it.

Before I cut ties for good, I learned that they were outraged to have received a thick envelope from Uncle Sam. Those IBM divvy’s probably would’ve come in handy around the time Ronald & Company decided to burn the mysterious contents of that package.

Determined to be their antiprotégé, I once filed an amended return when I realized that tips weren’t automatically included in my pizza delivery summer job W2 to stay on the “good” side.

Lesson #4: Cigarettes and Drugs – A Surefire Path to Financial Ruin and Misery

Legal correspondence wasn’t my family’s favorite fuel. That award would be split between the cigarettes and the drugs. At the age of fourteen, I sneaked one of my parents’ cigs to see what the fuss was about. I ratted myself out with a nasty gagging fit on my first couple draws and was promptly scolded right after: par for the course for teenage mischief.

The next day, however, my parents gave me a pack of my own cigarettes so that I wouldn’t have to steal theirs. I smoked for four formative years until I landed my first office job and realized how much the habit would hold me back in the workplace. And by that time, the free cigarette train had run out of track.

With an hourly pay rate just a smidgen above minimum wage, it didn’t take me long to figure out how expensive it was to roll up and burn a $5 bill every day.

While cigarettes seared a massive hole in the household “budget,” at least they were legal. My drug dabbling experience, getting caught, and the resulting parental guidance all adhered to the same pattern as the tobacco. Drugs, however, were difficult for my parents to find. In me, they saw a budding conduit to the black market.

My relationship with my parents had been strained, to put it kindly, up until the moment they realized that I had nefarious connections. That revelation ushered in a brief golden age between father, mother, and son. They were oh-so-friendly during my mid-teens. Bless their hearts.

Ron was pulling in a solid income by this time frame, helped along by his thievery from the taxman. He approached the drug market much like a soccer mom at Costco – preferring to buy in bulk to secure the discounts. Behind the force of his seed capital, along with the entrepreneurship of the local high school slinger, a small narcotics empire quickly rose in my town. Faster than it had risen, the entire enterprise crashed down hard right after, tossing a few people straight into prison along its demise.

Miraculously, neither Ron nor I emerged with a scratch on our records. He employed me as a delivery driver specializing in felonious interstate transportation, nearly ruining my life before adulthood was even on the horizon. I was a child. His child. For this, forgiveness isn’t in the cards.

Between the ages of 15 and 18, I did glean a few useful money lessons throughout these illicit business ventures though. I learned about cost of goods sold, profit margins, inventory, goodwill with vendors, shrinkage, the compounding power of addictive consumerism, etc. One of my top investments to this day is an alcohol purveyor.

Most of all though, I started to learn about risk. I’ve read that the human brain doesn’t reach its full risk-processing power until age 25, and I know from experience that I was nearly blind to the concepts of probability and consequences as an adolescent. Nearing my mid-twenties, I began to realize just how mind-bogglingly reckless my teenage endeavors were regardless of whether I’d acted at the behest of my parents or not.

The whole clusterf*ck set into motion a deep-set sense of personal responsibility. I learned that I needed to take control of my own life, live up to my own standards, and then reap the rewards of my own hard work, while accepting the consequences of any misdeed that I committed on my own.

The Fallout

I eventually got out of the drug game. The first person that I ever cut out of my life was a young man I considered to be my best friend. He also happened to be the founder and CEO of my parents’ personal apothecary. Little did I know at the time, the night I watched a movie with him, shook his hand, and told him to never contact me again was also the beginning of the end of my parent-child relationship. What precious little of it remained, anyway.

As my underworld connections withered and died, my parents’ addictions grew ravenously. They latched on to as many mind-altering substances they could find to escape from the reality that their house was falling down all around them. And I mean that quite literally, not a metaphor at all.

Their master bathroom had sprung a leak, causing the tub to partially fall through the kitchen ceiling where it remained for a number of years – completely suspended above a mountain of dishes that stared back at the foreign visitor from upstairs, each neglected task accompanied by its own steady drip drip drip of water that seemed to spend all night debating with its counterpart over which quagmire would be resolved first.

I didn’t stick around long enough to find out who won.

One by one, major appliances choked out their last efforts. Water heater, washer, A/C, furnace: all met their demise over a $200 repair bill that Ron refused to pay, instead opting for a $200 baggie in its place. All the while, he pulled in a six figure income.

With financial ruin creeping up from behind, my parents found a frugal alternative to visiting the ghetto: they could manufacture the drugs themselves! I’m not aware of a federally sponsored comeuppance for this crime, but it’s only a matter of time. I still have nightmares of black helicopters and predawn raids.

Lesson #5: Running a Puppy Mill Inside Your House Might Not Be a Good Idea For Side Income

In a last-ditch effort to support their drug habits over their children, my parents turned to exploiting something even more defenseless: dogs.

Because affording a kennel was out of the question, the clown committee determined that the operation should be run indoors. Eventually all manner of canine bodily fluids spread across the floors and down the walls as up to 20 helpless, unvaccinated, creatures were forced to reproduce inside the crumbling confines of my parents’ nightmare.

One poor soul died of a perpetual and untreated kidney infection; he’d bay woefully as he urinated blood behind my father’s overused recliner. They were heartless enough to have named that dog Cash. I’d moved out well before the breeding began, and my bewildered parents wondered why I never came to visit any more.

Lesson #6: “I’ll Just Come Live With My Adult Child” Is Not a Valid Retirement Plan

When the eviction was finally enforced, my parents — considering themselves victims of the gravest injustices — turned to me for help, requiring assistance which absolutely must be delivered in the form of $30,000 cash.

I’ll never forget hearing the words on the phone from my mother, “You have good credit, right?”

Invitations from me to them became exceedingly rare, so they continuously strategized ways to drop in unannounced. Once when I was still under their roof and underage, my father decided to spend an entire year without speaking a single word to me. He returned to this antisocial mechanism later at my own house as he sat on my couch, uninvited and scowling, while his wife tried to coax a few dollars out from my pockets. And if I didn’t have any, then certainly I might have some drugs they could borrow, right?

That day didn’t end pleasantly, and the next time I heard from them, my parents extended an invitation for me to celebrate dear ol’ Dad on Father’s Day.

I didn’t show up. That single inaction, one decision of defiance, was my sole moment when I’d finally had enough. It unleashed a torrent of hatred. He compared my absence — my refusal to fete the fool — to the terrorist attacks on 9/11. My inbox, voicemail, and mailbox overflowed with verbal vomit. I responded with silence.

In the years that followed, I spoke just eight total words to him on two separate occasions: “Never contact me again” and “Leave my wife alone.” I didn’t owe him the time of day, much less an explanation.

Where We Are Today – A Position of Strength

That’s the origin of my quest for financial independence. Ronnie knew that my separation from my parents had something to do with money, but his thoughts on the matter were completely twisted. In his magnum opus on the fantasy of filicide, he wrote,

“I am sorry I didn’t save money for you, blahahahahaha. You did nothing to earn it. Parents owe their children nothing.”

The fact was I wanted nothing from my parents but love and respect. I may as well have asked for the moon. When I was 18, I discovered that I could leverage frugality and a decent income to build a fortress that no person could disturb. Money was my ticket out from under the thumb of an abusive upbringing, and I still get chills when I watch Mr. Collins’ rendition of “F*ck You Money.”

Now, I’m close to that position of ultimate financial strength. I live in my own house with my beautiful, loving wife, and our pets whose healthcare rivals that of a senator’s. All my appliances and vehicles work flawlessly, and I pay gobs of taxes each year. Every single person in my inner circles shares with me a mutual love and respect, and I’m not beholden to any addictive or destructive force whatsoever.

Life is good… And I don’t own any damn four wheelers!

*********

The Master Dukes of Dollars are the dynamic duo from The Duke of Dollars Kingdom. The two bloggers held court frequently, delving into lifestyle and personal finance discussions as they searched for ways to live an optimal life, eventually deciding to invite a global audience into their mindsets by establishing their own blog together. Chris is the younger of the two and recently launched his Great War on Debt soon after achieving a positive net worth, while Jack – the author of this guest post – is further down the road towards FIRE and is seeking a cure for onemoreyearitis. Their primary mission is to help others build their financial kingdoms, providing the world with a road-map that leads to a fortified personal monetary policy.

Want more stories like this? Check out these posts next:

My Life (And Finances) After Escaping a Cult

What Being Homeless Taught Me About Money and Happiness

Seeking Financial Stability as a Gay, Non-White, Man of Muslim Faith

[Photo up top NOT of Jack’s dad – it comes courtesy of zachandlinz on Flickr]

What My Ridiculous Parents Taught Me About Money published first on http://ift.tt/2ljLF4B

[fesahaawit]

What My Ridiculous Parents Taught Me About Money

[Please welcome one half of the duo from DukeofDollars.com today, as Jack spills his heart here on all things financial he learned from growing up in a helluva toxic household, ugh… As a parent this KILLS ME, and I wish this upbringing on no kids out there! What is wrong with people????]

********

The first time I rode a four wheeler as a kid, my dad plopped me down on the machine without a helmet and pointed me at the trailhead. This same guy — we’ll call him Ronald, because he’s kind of a clown — then hopped on his mechanical high horse and proceeded to take off down the trail, yelling “Follow me!” behind him. A 90-degree corner immediately greeted me, and with my limited 20 feet experience of riding so far, I was bucked off the machine as it proceeded to climb straight up a tree. I cracked my head, and the four wheeler landed right on top of me.

After waiting a minute or two, I realized I was all on my own with this problem as Ronald was long gone. I mustered the strength to kick off this heavy burden, climbed back on top of that mofo, and then sped passed Ron while flipping him the bird.

That’s pretty much how my financial life started too: flat on my ass with an enormous weight holding me down and no parent in sight.

Lesson #1: Don’t Sell The Shares You Inherited and Blow The Proceeds on Four Wheelers!

Those same ATVs mentioned above? They were purchased from stock my parents inherited. I wasn’t privy to all the details, but the sum I guestimated they received was in the $50k – $100k range: invested in what my parents called “blue chips,” which was the first time I’d heard that phrase before. What I do know, however, is that a $15k chunk started its brief life under the tutelage of my parents as the bluest of blue stocks on the market: IBM.

In 1992, a single share of IBM was worth about $88 unadjusted for splits, meaning my parents possessed roughly 170 shares. Let’s assume that instead of rushing down to Honda Motorsports before the check even cleared, Ron and his wife had the foresight to hold onto this small fraction of their inheritance and just let it ride. They could’ve spent almost $29,000 in dividends to date and still be sitting on a split-adjusted 680 shares, which would now be worth over $95,000; the annual dividend for 2017 and beyond is projected to be > $3,800.

That’s a lot of Power Wheels.

When I draw lessons from this mistake, I look at not only the hypothetical end-result, but also what kind of mindset it would take to ride IBM from 1992 to 2017. Seven years into the experiment, IBM experienced a meteoric rise powered by the turbo booster of the tech bubble. The shares reached a high of roughly $138 in 1999, right about where the price sits today, nearly 20 years down the road. During the ensuing crash, IBM dipped below $60.

Depending on your mindset, it might’ve been tempting to sell at both the high and the low phases: lock in gains in the former, or salve your fear of further losses with the latter. The company was considered the unassailable stalwart of tech during the 90’s, but its waning market position redefined the business in investors’ eyes. Declining revenue and a lack of innovation has transformed the perception of IBM from a shining star to a washed-up has-been.

I try to focus much of my investing efforts on the hold part of buy-and-hold. In the case of IBM, a dividend powerhouse, I’d pool the dividends and invest in a different, more stable sector. Diversify not through selling, but by redirecting the increasingly fat dividend stream into other businesses.

Lesson #2: Maintain Your $hit or It Becomes Worthless

They lasted just two years. No, not my parents’ faltering marriage, still talking about those damn ATVs. It turns out that engines have this weird substance called “oil,” and it needs to be changed every now and then. Three gently-used automobiles later, my parents finally discovered that cars, too, also have this same strange substance in it.

The three cars: 1) Ford Explorer, 2) Mercury Sable, 3) Lincoln Town Car – all bought with < 40k miles, and all dead by 75k miles because of engine problems.

A dear relative of mine gifted me a granny car when I was 16. I loved and appreciated the crap out of that vehicle, old people smell and all. When I scurried off to college, a school that banned freshmen from parking vehicles on campus, my parents decided to reappropriate my car to my older sister for a year. She begrudgingly returned it with a dead inspection sticker soon after the school year ended. Yes, I got a ticket on my ride home.

Surprise, surprise: she too had never learned about oil. Within a week, I heard the familiar sound of a seizing engine. Fortunately, I was able to limp the car to my friend’s house where his girlfriend was palling around with this hot chick in a bikini who happened to be a mechanic’s daughter. Though I’d learned the lesson already, I pretended to be ignorant about checking fluids while she “assisted” me.

She’s now my wife.

The first time I met my future father-in-law, he towered over me, crushed my handshake, and told me, “Boy if you ever hurt my daughter, I’ll rip your head off and cram it up your ass.” The most productive man I ever met, he was always tinkering on something. When he helped me with a plumbing issue, I asked him how he knew what the problem was. He replied, “I had no idea. I just figure out how to take it apart and then figured out how to put it back together.”

That’s perhaps the best repair advice I’ve ever received. Everything comes apart somehow, even if it’s not obvious at first. As far as maintenance tasks go, I rely on reminders. Google calendar is set to nudge me whenever air filters need to be replaced, batteries charged, gutters cleaned, and yes – especially when oil needs changing.

Lesson #3: Cheating and Refusing to Pay Taxes Are – Go Figure – Illegal

Leave it to my parents to find a silver lining in a DIY storm cloud. They ended up donating all four totaled vehicles to a registered charity. Pretty generous, right? Except for the part where they forged the receipts to show that the cars were in pristine condition and worth 4x the correct stated value.

Tax time for ol’ Ronnie was a game he played with TurboTax – fudging every number until the exact moment that the software threw a red flag. It was an endless game of chicken with the IRS. Unclaimed income, fictitious and overstated donations, illegal claiming of dependents, falsified businesses, enormous home offices: if you can think of a way to cheat taxes, my parents did it.

Before I cut ties for good, I learned that they were outraged to have received a thick envelope from Uncle Sam. Those IBM divvy’s probably would’ve come in handy around the time Ronald & Company decided to burn the mysterious contents of that package.

Determined to be their antiprotégé, I once filed an amended return when I realized that tips weren’t automatically included in my pizza delivery summer job W2 to stay on the “good” side.

Lesson #4: Cigarettes and Drugs – A Surefire Path to Financial Ruin and Misery

Legal correspondence wasn’t my family’s favorite fuel. That award would be split between the cigarettes and the drugs. At the age of fourteen, I sneaked one of my parents’ cigs to see what the fuss was about. I ratted myself out with a nasty gagging fit on my first couple draws and was promptly scolded right after: par for the course for teenage mischief.

The next day, however, my parents gave me a pack of my own cigarettes so that I wouldn’t have to steal theirs. I smoked for four formative years until I landed my first office job and realized how much the habit would hold me back in the workplace. And by that time, the free cigarette train had run out of track.

With an hourly pay rate just a smidgen above minimum wage, it didn’t take me long to figure out how expensive it was to roll up and burn a $5 bill every day.

While cigarettes seared a massive hole in the household “budget,” at least they were legal. My drug dabbling experience, getting caught, and the resulting parental guidance all adhered to the same pattern as the tobacco. Drugs, however, were difficult for my parents to find. In me, they saw a budding conduit to the black market.

My relationship with my parents had been strained, to put it kindly, up until the moment they realized that I had nefarious connections. That revelation ushered in a brief golden age between father, mother, and son. They were oh-so-friendly during my mid-teens. Bless their hearts.

Ron was pulling in a solid income by this time frame, helped along by his thievery from the taxman. He approached the drug market much like a soccer mom at Costco – preferring to buy in bulk to secure the discounts. Behind the force of his seed capital, along with the entrepreneurship of the local high school slinger, a small narcotics empire quickly rose in my town. Faster than it had risen, the entire enterprise crashed down hard right after, tossing a few people straight into prison along its demise.

Miraculously, neither Ron nor I emerged with a scratch on our records. He employed me as a delivery driver specializing in felonious interstate transportation, nearly ruining my life before adulthood was even on the horizon. I was a child. His child. For this, forgiveness isn’t in the cards.

Between the ages of 15 and 18, I did glean a few useful money lessons throughout these illicit business ventures though. I learned about cost of goods sold, profit margins, inventory, goodwill with vendors, shrinkage, the compounding power of addictive consumerism, etc. One of my top investments to this day is an alcohol purveyor.

Most of all though, I started to learn about risk. I’ve read that the human brain doesn’t reach its full risk-processing power until age 25, and I know from experience that I was nearly blind to the concepts of probability and consequences as an adolescent. Nearing my mid-twenties, I began to realize just how mind-bogglingly reckless my teenage endeavors were regardless of whether I’d acted at the behest of my parents or not.

The whole clusterf*ck set into motion a deep-set sense of personal responsibility. I learned that I needed to take control of my own life, live up to my own standards, and then reap the rewards of my own hard work, while accepting the consequences of any misdeed that I committed on my own.

The Fallout

I eventually got out of the drug game. The first person that I ever cut out of my life was a young man I considered to be my best friend. He also happened to be the founder and CEO of my parents’ personal apothecary. Little did I know at the time, the night I watched a movie with him, shook his hand, and told him to never contact me again was also the beginning of the end of my parent-child relationship. What precious little of it remained, anyway.

As my underworld connections withered and died, my parents’ addictions grew ravenously. They latched on to as many mind-altering substances they could find to escape from the reality that their house was falling down all around them. And I mean that quite literally, not a metaphor at all.

Their master bathroom had sprung a leak, causing the tub to partially fall through the kitchen ceiling where it remained for a number of years – completely suspended above a mountain of dishes that stared back at the foreign visitor from upstairs, each neglected task accompanied by its own steady drip drip drip of water that seemed to spend all night debating with its counterpart over which quagmire would be resolved first.

I didn’t stick around long enough to find out who won.

One by one, major appliances choked out their last efforts. Water heater, washer, A/C, furnace: all met their demise over a $200 repair bill that Ron refused to pay, instead opting for a $200 baggie in its place. All the while, he pulled in a six figure income.

With financial ruin creeping up from behind, my parents found a frugal alternative to visiting the ghetto: they could manufacture the drugs themselves! I’m not aware of a federally sponsored comeuppance for this crime, but it’s only a matter of time. I still have nightmares of black helicopters and predawn raids.

Lesson #5: Running a Puppy Mill Inside Your House Might Not Be a Good Idea For Side Income

In a last-ditch effort to support their drug habits over their children, my parents turned to exploiting something even more defenseless: dogs.

Because affording a kennel was out of the question, the clown committee determined that the operation should be run indoors. Eventually all manner of canine bodily fluids spread across the floors and down the walls as up to 20 helpless, unvaccinated, creatures were forced to reproduce inside the crumbling confines of my parents’ nightmare.

One poor soul died of a perpetual and untreated kidney infection; he’d bay woefully as he urinated blood behind my father’s overused recliner. They were heartless enough to have named that dog Cash. I’d moved out well before the breeding began, and my bewildered parents wondered why I never came to visit any more.

Lesson #6: “I’ll Just Come Live With My Adult Child” Is Not a Valid Retirement Plan

When the eviction was finally enforced, my parents — considering themselves victims of the gravest injustices — turned to me for help, requiring assistance which absolutely must be delivered in the form of $30,000 cash.

I’ll never forget hearing the words on the phone from my mother, “You have good credit, right?”

Invitations from me to them became exceedingly rare, so they continuously strategized ways to drop in unannounced. Once when I was still under their roof and underage, my father decided to spend an entire year without speaking a single word to me. He returned to this antisocial mechanism later at my own house as he sat on my couch, uninvited and scowling, while his wife tried to coax a few dollars out from my pockets. And if I didn’t have any, then certainly I might have some drugs they could borrow, right?

That day didn’t end pleasantly, and the next time I heard from them, my parents extended an invitation for me to celebrate dear ol’ Dad on Father’s Day.

I didn’t show up. That single inaction, one decision of defiance, was my sole moment when I’d finally had enough. It unleashed a torrent of hatred. He compared my absence — my refusal to fete the fool — to the terrorist attacks on 9/11. My inbox, voicemail, and mailbox overflowed with verbal vomit. I responded with silence.

In the years that followed, I spoke just eight total words to him on two separate occasions: “Never contact me again” and “Leave my wife alone.” I didn’t owe him the time of day, much less an explanation.

Where We Are Today – A Position of Strength

That’s the origin of my quest for financial independence. Ronnie knew that my separation from my parents had something to do with money, but his thoughts on the matter were completely twisted. In his magnum opus on the fantasy of filicide, he wrote,

“I am sorry I didn’t save money for you, blahahahahaha. You did nothing to earn it. Parents owe their children nothing.”

The fact was I wanted nothing from my parents but love and respect. I may as well have asked for the moon. When I was 18, I discovered that I could leverage frugality and a decent income to build a fortress that no person could disturb. Money was my ticket out from under the thumb of an abusive upbringing, and I still get chills when I watch Mr. Collins’ rendition of “F*ck You Money.”

Now, I’m close to that position of ultimate financial strength. I live in my own house with my beautiful, loving wife, and our pets whose healthcare rivals that of a senator’s. All my appliances and vehicles work flawlessly, and I pay gobs of taxes each year. Every single person in my inner circles shares with me a mutual love and respect, and I’m not beholden to any addictive or destructive force whatsoever.

Life is good… And I don’t own any damn four wheelers!

*********

The Master Dukes of Dollars are the dynamic duo from The Duke of Dollars Kingdom. The two bloggers held court frequently, delving into lifestyle and personal finance discussions as they searched for ways to live an optimal life, eventually deciding to invite a global audience into their mindsets by establishing their own blog together. Chris is the younger of the two and recently launched his Great War on Debt soon after achieving a positive net worth, while Jack – the author of this guest post – is further down the road towards FIRE and is seeking a cure for onemoreyearitis. Their primary mission is to help others build their financial kingdoms, providing the world with a road-map that leads to a fortified personal monetary policy.

Want more stories like this? Check out these posts next:

My Life (And Finances) After Escaping a Cult

What Being Homeless Taught Me About Money and Happiness

Seeking Financial Stability as a Gay, Non-White, Man of Muslim Faith

[Photo up top NOT of Jack’s dad – it comes courtesy of zachandlinz on Flickr]

What My Ridiculous Parents Taught Me About Money posted first on http://ift.tt/2lnwIdQ

[heliosfinance]

What My Ridiculous Parents Taught Me About Money

[Please welcome one half of the duo from DukeofDollars.com today, as Jack spills his heart here on all things financial he learned from growing up in a helluva toxic household, ugh… As a parent this KILLS ME, and I wish this upbringing on no kids out there! What is wrong with people????]

********

The first time I rode a four wheeler as a kid, my dad plopped me down on the machine without a helmet and pointed me at the trailhead. This same guy — we’ll call him Ronald, because he’s kind of a clown — then hopped on his mechanical high horse and proceeded to take off down the trail, yelling “Follow me!” behind him. A 90-degree corner immediately greeted me, and with my limited 20 feet experience of riding so far, I was bucked off the machine as it proceeded to climb straight up a tree. I cracked my head, and the four wheeler landed right on top of me.

After waiting a minute or two, I realized I was all on my own with this problem as Ronald was long gone. I mustered the strength to kick off this heavy burden, climbed back on top of that mofo, and then sped passed Ron while flipping him the bird.

That’s pretty much how my financial life started too: flat on my ass with an enormous weight holding me down and no parent in sight.

Lesson #1: Don’t Sell The Shares You Inherited and Blow The Proceeds on Four Wheelers!

Those same ATVs mentioned above? They were purchased from stock my parents inherited. I wasn’t privy to all the details, but the sum I guestimated they received was in the $50k – $100k range: invested in what my parents called “blue chips,” which was the first time I’d heard that phrase before. What I do know, however, is that a $15k chunk started its brief life under the tutelage of my parents as the bluest of blue stocks on the market: IBM.

In 1992, a single share of IBM was worth about $88 unadjusted for splits, meaning my parents possessed roughly 170 shares. Let’s assume that instead of rushing down to Honda Motorsports before the check even cleared, Ron and his wife had the foresight to hold onto this small fraction of their inheritance and just let it ride. They could’ve spent almost $29,000 in dividends to date and still be sitting on a split-adjusted 680 shares, which would now be worth over $95,000; the annual dividend for 2017 and beyond is projected to be > $3,800.

That’s a lot of Power Wheels.

When I draw lessons from this mistake, I look at not only the hypothetical end-result, but also what kind of mindset it would take to ride IBM from 1992 to 2017. Seven years into the experiment, IBM experienced a meteoric rise powered by the turbo booster of the tech bubble. The shares reached a high of roughly $138 in 1999, right about where the price sits today, nearly 20 years down the road. During the ensuing crash, IBM dipped below $60.

Depending on your mindset, it might’ve been tempting to sell at both the high and the low phases: lock in gains in the former, or salve your fear of further losses with the latter. The company was considered the unassailable stalwart of tech during the 90’s, but its waning market position redefined the business in investors’ eyes. Declining revenue and a lack of innovation has transformed the perception of IBM from a shining star to a washed-up has-been.

I try to focus much of my investing efforts on the hold part of buy-and-hold. In the case of IBM, a dividend powerhouse, I’d pool the dividends and invest in a different, more stable sector. Diversify not through selling, but by redirecting the increasingly fat dividend stream into other businesses.

Lesson #2: Maintain Your $hit or It Becomes Worthless

They lasted just two years. No, not my parents’ faltering marriage, still talking about those damn ATVs. It turns out that engines have this weird substance called “oil,” and it needs to be changed every now and then. Three gently-used automobiles later, my parents finally discovered that cars, too, also have this same strange substance in it.

The three cars: 1) Ford Explorer, 2) Mercury Sable, 3) Lincoln Town Car – all bought with < 40k miles, and all dead by 75k miles because of engine problems.

A dear relative of mine gifted me a granny car when I was 16. I loved and appreciated the crap out of that vehicle, old people smell and all. When I scurried off to college, a school that banned freshmen from parking vehicles on campus, my parents decided to reappropriate my car to my older sister for a year. She begrudgingly returned it with a dead inspection sticker soon after the school year ended. Yes, I got a ticket on my ride home.

Surprise, surprise: she too had never learned about oil. Within a week, I heard the familiar sound of a seizing engine. Fortunately, I was able to limp the car to my friend’s house where his girlfriend was palling around with this hot chick in a bikini who happened to be a mechanic’s daughter. Though I’d learned the lesson already, I pretended to be ignorant about checking fluids while she “assisted” me.

She’s now my wife.

The first time I met my future father-in-law, he towered over me, crushed my handshake, and told me, “Boy if you ever hurt my daughter, I’ll rip your head off and cram it up your ass.” The most productive man I ever met, he was always tinkering on something. When he helped me with a plumbing issue, I asked him how he knew what the problem was. He replied, “I had no idea. I just figure out how to take it apart and then figured out how to put it back together.”

That’s perhaps the best repair advice I’ve ever received. Everything comes apart somehow, even if it’s not obvious at first. As far as maintenance tasks go, I rely on reminders. Google calendar is set to nudge me whenever air filters need to be replaced, batteries charged, gutters cleaned, and yes – especially when oil needs changing.

Lesson #3: Cheating and Refusing to Pay Taxes Are – Go Figure – Illegal

Leave it to my parents to find a silver lining in a DIY storm cloud. They ended up donating all four totaled vehicles to a registered charity. Pretty generous, right? Except for the part where they forged the receipts to show that the cars were in pristine condition and worth 4x the correct stated value.

Tax time for ol’ Ronnie was a game he played with TurboTax – fudging every number until the exact moment that the software threw a red flag. It was an endless game of chicken with the IRS. Unclaimed income, fictitious and overstated donations, illegal claiming of dependents, falsified businesses, enormous home offices: if you can think of a way to cheat taxes, my parents did it.

Before I cut ties for good, I learned that they were outraged to have received a thick envelope from Uncle Sam. Those IBM divvy’s probably would’ve come in handy around the time Ronald & Company decided to burn the mysterious contents of that package.

Determined to be their antiprotégé, I once filed an amended return when I realized that tips weren’t automatically included in my pizza delivery summer job W2 to stay on the “good” side.

Lesson #4: Cigarettes and Drugs – A Surefire Path to Financial Ruin and Misery

Legal correspondence wasn’t my family’s favorite fuel. That award would be split between the cigarettes and the drugs. At the age of fourteen, I sneaked one of my parents’ cigs to see what the fuss was about. I ratted myself out with a nasty gagging fit on my first couple draws and was promptly scolded right after: par for the course for teenage mischief.

The next day, however, my parents gave me a pack of my own cigarettes so that I wouldn’t have to steal theirs. I smoked for four formative years until I landed my first office job and realized how much the habit would hold me back in the workplace. And by that time, the free cigarette train had run out of track.

With an hourly pay rate just a smidgen above minimum wage, it didn’t take me long to figure out how expensive it was to roll up and burn a $5 bill every day.

While cigarettes seared a massive hole in the household “budget,” at least they were legal. My drug dabbling experience, getting caught, and the resulting parental guidance all adhered to the same pattern as the tobacco. Drugs, however, were difficult for my parents to find. In me, they saw a budding conduit to the black market.

My relationship with my parents had been strained, to put it kindly, up until the moment they realized that I had nefarious connections. That revelation ushered in a brief golden age between father, mother, and son. They were oh-so-friendly during my mid-teens. Bless their hearts.

Ron was pulling in a solid income by this time frame, helped along by his thievery from the taxman. He approached the drug market much like a soccer mom at Costco – preferring to buy in bulk to secure the discounts. Behind the force of his seed capital, along with the entrepreneurship of the local high school slinger, a small narcotics empire quickly rose in my town. Faster than it had risen, the entire enterprise crashed down hard right after, tossing a few people straight into prison along its demise.

Miraculously, neither Ron nor I emerged with a scratch on our records. He employed me as a delivery driver specializing in felonious interstate transportation, nearly ruining my life before adulthood was even on the horizon. I was a child. His child. For this, forgiveness isn’t in the cards.

Between the ages of 15 and 18, I did glean a few useful money lessons throughout these illicit business ventures though. I learned about cost of goods sold, profit margins, inventory, goodwill with vendors, shrinkage, the compounding power of addictive consumerism, etc. One of my top investments to this day is an alcohol purveyor.

Most of all though, I started to learn about risk. I’ve read that the human brain doesn’t reach its full risk-processing power until age 25, and I know from experience that I was nearly blind to the concepts of probability and consequences as an adolescent. Nearing my mid-twenties, I began to realize just how mind-bogglingly reckless my teenage endeavors were regardless of whether I’d acted at the behest of my parents or not.

The whole clusterf*ck set into motion a deep-set sense of personal responsibility. I learned that I needed to take control of my own life, live up to my own standards, and then reap the rewards of my own hard work, while accepting the consequences of any misdeed that I committed on my own.

The Fallout

I eventually got out of the drug game. The first person that I ever cut out of my life was a young man I considered to be my best friend. He also happened to be the founder and CEO of my parents’ personal apothecary. Little did I know at the time, the night I watched a movie with him, shook his hand, and told him to never contact me again was also the beginning of the end of my parent-child relationship. What precious little of it remained, anyway.

As my underworld connections withered and died, my parents’ addictions grew ravenously. They latched on to as many mind-altering substances they could find to escape from the reality that their house was falling down all around them. And I mean that quite literally, not a metaphor at all.

Their master bathroom had sprung a leak, causing the tub to partially fall through the kitchen ceiling where it remained for a number of years – completely suspended above a mountain of dishes that stared back at the foreign visitor from upstairs, each neglected task accompanied by its own steady drip drip drip of water that seemed to spend all night debating with its counterpart over which quagmire would be resolved first.

I didn’t stick around long enough to find out who won.

One by one, major appliances choked out their last efforts. Water heater, washer, A/C, furnace: all met their demise over a $200 repair bill that Ron refused to pay, instead opting for a $200 baggie in its place. All the while, he pulled in a six figure income.

With financial ruin creeping up from behind, my parents found a frugal alternative to visiting the ghetto: they could manufacture the drugs themselves! I’m not aware of a federally sponsored comeuppance for this crime, but it’s only a matter of time. I still have nightmares of black helicopters and predawn raids.

Lesson #5: Running a Puppy Mill Inside Your House Might Not Be a Good Idea For Side Income

In a last-ditch effort to support their drug habits over their children, my parents turned to exploiting something even more defenseless: dogs.

Because affording a kennel was out of the question, the clown committee determined that the operation should be run indoors. Eventually all manner of canine bodily fluids spread across the floors and down the walls as up to 20 helpless, unvaccinated, creatures were forced to reproduce inside the crumbling confines of my parents’ nightmare.

One poor soul died of a perpetual and untreated kidney infection; he’d bay woefully as he urinated blood behind my father’s overused recliner. They were heartless enough to have named that dog Cash. I’d moved out well before the breeding began, and my bewildered parents wondered why I never came to visit any more.

Lesson #6: “I’ll Just Come Live With My Adult Child” Is Not a Valid Retirement Plan

When the eviction was finally enforced, my parents — considering themselves victims of the gravest injustices — turned to me for help, requiring assistance which absolutely must be delivered in the form of $30,000 cash.

I’ll never forget hearing the words on the phone from my mother, “You have good credit, right?”

Invitations from me to them became exceedingly rare, so they continuously strategized ways to drop in unannounced. Once when I was still under their roof and underage, my father decided to spend an entire year without speaking a single word to me. He returned to this antisocial mechanism later at my own house as he sat on my couch, uninvited and scowling, while his wife tried to coax a few dollars out from my pockets. And if I didn’t have any, then certainly I might have some drugs they could borrow, right?

That day didn’t end pleasantly, and the next time I heard from them, my parents extended an invitation for me to celebrate dear ol’ Dad on Father’s Day.

I didn’t show up. That single inaction, one decision of defiance, was my sole moment when I’d finally had enough. It unleashed a torrent of hatred. He compared my absence — my refusal to fete the fool — to the terrorist attacks on 9/11. My inbox, voicemail, and mailbox overflowed with verbal vomit. I responded with silence.

In the years that followed, I spoke just eight total words to him on two separate occasions: “Never contact me again” and “Leave my wife alone.” I didn’t owe him the time of day, much less an explanation.

Where We Are Today – A Position of Strength

That’s the origin of my quest for financial independence. Ronnie knew that my separation from my parents had something to do with money, but his thoughts on the matter were completely twisted. In his magnum opus on the fantasy of filicide, he wrote,

“I am sorry I didn’t save money for you, blahahahahaha. You did nothing to earn it. Parents owe their children nothing.”

The fact was I wanted nothing from my parents but love and respect. I may as well have asked for the moon. When I was 18, I discovered that I could leverage frugality and a decent income to build a fortress that no person could disturb. Money was my ticket out from under the thumb of an abusive upbringing, and I still get chills when I watch Mr. Collins’ rendition of “F*ck You Money.”

Now, I’m close to that position of ultimate financial strength. I live in my own house with my beautiful, loving wife, and our pets whose healthcare rivals that of a senator’s. All my appliances and vehicles work flawlessly, and I pay gobs of taxes each year. Every single person in my inner circles shares with me a mutual love and respect, and I’m not beholden to any addictive or destructive force whatsoever.

Life is good… And I don’t own any damn four wheelers!

*********

The Master Dukes of Dollars are the dynamic duo from The Duke of Dollars Kingdom. The two bloggers held court frequently, delving into lifestyle and personal finance discussions as they searched for ways to live an optimal life, eventually deciding to invite a global audience into their mindsets by establishing their own blog together. Chris is the younger of the two and recently launched his Great War on Debt soon after achieving a positive net worth, while Jack – the author of this guest post – is further down the road towards FIRE and is seeking a cure for onemoreyearitis. Their primary mission is to help others build their financial kingdoms, providing the world with a road-map that leads to a fortified personal monetary policy.

Want more stories like this? Check out these posts next:

My Life (And Finances) After Escaping a Cult

What Being Homeless Taught Me About Money and Happiness

Seeking Financial Stability as a Gay, Non-White, Man of Muslim Faith

[Photo up top NOT of Jack’s dad – it comes courtesy of zachandlinz on Flickr]

What My Ridiculous Parents Taught Me About Money published first on http://ift.tt/2ljLF4B

[heliosfinance]

What My Ridiculous Parents Taught Me About Money

[Please welcome one half of the duo from DukeofDollars.com today, as Jack spills his heart here on all things financial he learned from growing up in a helluva toxic household, ugh… As a parent this KILLS ME, and I wish this upbringing on no kids out there! What is wrong with people????]

********

The first time I rode a four wheeler as a kid, my dad plopped me down on the machine without a helmet and pointed me at the trailhead. This same guy — we’ll call him Ronald, because he’s kind of a clown — then hopped on his mechanical high horse and proceeded to take off down the trail, yelling “Follow me!” behind him. A 90-degree corner immediately greeted me, and with my limited 20 feet experience of riding so far, I was bucked off the machine as it proceeded to climb straight up a tree. I cracked my head, and the four wheeler landed right on top of me.

After waiting a minute or two, I realized I was all on my own with this problem as Ronald was long gone. I mustered the strength to kick off this heavy burden, climbed back on top of that mofo, and then sped passed Ron while flipping him the bird.

That’s pretty much how my financial life started too: flat on my ass with an enormous weight holding me down and no parent in sight.

Lesson #1: Don’t Sell The Shares You Inherited and Blow The Proceeds on Four Wheelers!

Those same ATVs mentioned above? They were purchased from stock my parents inherited. I wasn’t privy to all the details, but the sum I guestimated they received was in the $50k – $100k range: invested in what my parents called “blue chips,” which was the first time I’d heard that phrase before. What I do know, however, is that a $15k chunk started its brief life under the tutelage of my parents as the bluest of blue stocks on the market: IBM.

In 1992, a single share of IBM was worth about $88 unadjusted for splits, meaning my parents possessed roughly 170 shares. Let’s assume that instead of rushing down to Honda Motorsports before the check even cleared, Ron and his wife had the foresight to hold onto this small fraction of their inheritance and just let it ride. They could’ve spent almost $29,000 in dividends to date and still be sitting on a split-adjusted 680 shares, which would now be worth over $95,000; the annual dividend for 2017 and beyond is projected to be > $3,800.

That’s a lot of Power Wheels.

When I draw lessons from this mistake, I look at not only the hypothetical end-result, but also what kind of mindset it would take to ride IBM from 1992 to 2017. Seven years into the experiment, IBM experienced a meteoric rise powered by the turbo booster of the tech bubble. The shares reached a high of roughly $138 in 1999, right about where the price sits today, nearly 20 years down the road. During the ensuing crash, IBM dipped below $60.

Depending on your mindset, it might’ve been tempting to sell at both the high and the low phases: lock in gains in the former, or salve your fear of further losses with the latter. The company was considered the unassailable stalwart of tech during the 90’s, but its waning market position redefined the business in investors’ eyes. Declining revenue and a lack of innovation has transformed the perception of IBM from a shining star to a washed-up has-been.

I try to focus much of my investing efforts on the hold part of buy-and-hold. In the case of IBM, a dividend powerhouse, I’d pool the dividends and invest in a different, more stable sector. Diversify not through selling, but by redirecting the increasingly fat dividend stream into other businesses.

Lesson #2: Maintain Your $hit or It Becomes Worthless

They lasted just two years. No, not my parents’ faltering marriage, still talking about those damn ATVs. It turns out that engines have this weird substance called “oil,” and it needs to be changed every now and then. Three gently-used automobiles later, my parents finally discovered that cars, too, also have this same strange substance in it.

The three cars: 1) Ford Explorer, 2) Mercury Sable, 3) Lincoln Town Car – all bought with < 40k miles, and all dead by 75k miles because of engine problems.

A dear relative of mine gifted me a granny car when I was 16. I loved and appreciated the crap out of that vehicle, old people smell and all. When I scurried off to college, a school that banned freshmen from parking vehicles on campus, my parents decided to reappropriate my car to my older sister for a year. She begrudgingly returned it with a dead inspection sticker soon after the school year ended. Yes, I got a ticket on my ride home.

Surprise, surprise: she too had never learned about oil. Within a week, I heard the familiar sound of a seizing engine. Fortunately, I was able to limp the car to my friend’s house where his girlfriend was palling around with this hot chick in a bikini who happened to be a mechanic’s daughter. Though I’d learned the lesson already, I pretended to be ignorant about checking fluids while she “assisted” me.

She’s now my wife.

The first time I met my future father-in-law, he towered over me, crushed my handshake, and told me, “Boy if you ever hurt my daughter, I’ll rip your head off and cram it up your ass.” The most productive man I ever met, he was always tinkering on something. When he helped me with a plumbing issue, I asked him how he knew what the problem was. He replied, “I had no idea. I just figure out how to take it apart and then figured out how to put it back together.”

That’s perhaps the best repair advice I’ve ever received. Everything comes apart somehow, even if it’s not obvious at first. As far as maintenance tasks go, I rely on reminders. Google calendar is set to nudge me whenever air filters need to be replaced, batteries charged, gutters cleaned, and yes – especially when oil needs changing.

Lesson #3: Cheating and Refusing to Pay Taxes Are – Go Figure – Illegal

Leave it to my parents to find a silver lining in a DIY storm cloud. They ended up donating all four totaled vehicles to a registered charity. Pretty generous, right? Except for the part where they forged the receipts to show that the cars were in pristine condition and worth 4x the correct stated value.

Tax time for ol’ Ronnie was a game he played with TurboTax – fudging every number until the exact moment that the software threw a red flag. It was an endless game of chicken with the IRS. Unclaimed income, fictitious and overstated donations, illegal claiming of dependents, falsified businesses, enormous home offices: if you can think of a way to cheat taxes, my parents did it.

Before I cut ties for good, I learned that they were outraged to have received a thick envelope from Uncle Sam. Those IBM divvy’s probably would’ve come in handy around the time Ronald & Company decided to burn the mysterious contents of that package.

Determined to be their antiprotégé, I once filed an amended return when I realized that tips weren’t automatically included in my pizza delivery summer job W2 to stay on the “good” side.

Lesson #4: Cigarettes and Drugs – A Surefire Path to Financial Ruin and Misery

Legal correspondence wasn’t my family’s favorite fuel. That award would be split between the cigarettes and the drugs. At the age of fourteen, I sneaked one of my parents’ cigs to see what the fuss was about. I ratted myself out with a nasty gagging fit on my first couple draws and was promptly scolded right after: par for the course for teenage mischief.

The next day, however, my parents gave me a pack of my own cigarettes so that I wouldn’t have to steal theirs. I smoked for four formative years until I landed my first office job and realized how much the habit would hold me back in the workplace. And by that time, the free cigarette train had run out of track.

With an hourly pay rate just a smidgen above minimum wage, it didn’t take me long to figure out how expensive it was to roll up and burn a $5 bill every day.

While cigarettes seared a massive hole in the household “budget,” at least they were legal. My drug dabbling experience, getting caught, and the resulting parental guidance all adhered to the same pattern as the tobacco. Drugs, however, were difficult for my parents to find. In me, they saw a budding conduit to the black market.

My relationship with my parents had been strained, to put it kindly, up until the moment they realized that I had nefarious connections. That revelation ushered in a brief golden age between father, mother, and son. They were oh-so-friendly during my mid-teens. Bless their hearts.

Ron was pulling in a solid income by this time frame, helped along by his thievery from the taxman. He approached the drug market much like a soccer mom at Costco – preferring to buy in bulk to secure the discounts. Behind the force of his seed capital, along with the entrepreneurship of the local high school slinger, a small narcotics empire quickly rose in my town. Faster than it had risen, the entire enterprise crashed down hard right after, tossing a few people straight into prison along its demise.

Miraculously, neither Ron nor I emerged with a scratch on our records. He employed me as a delivery driver specializing in felonious interstate transportation, nearly ruining my life before adulthood was even on the horizon. I was a child. His child. For this, forgiveness isn’t in the cards.

Between the ages of 15 and 18, I did glean a few useful money lessons throughout these illicit business ventures though. I learned about cost of goods sold, profit margins, inventory, goodwill with vendors, shrinkage, the compounding power of addictive consumerism, etc. One of my top investments to this day is an alcohol purveyor.

Most of all though, I started to learn about risk. I’ve read that the human brain doesn’t reach its full risk-processing power until age 25, and I know from experience that I was nearly blind to the concepts of probability and consequences as an adolescent. Nearing my mid-twenties, I began to realize just how mind-bogglingly reckless my teenage endeavors were regardless of whether I’d acted at the behest of my parents or not.

The whole clusterf*ck set into motion a deep-set sense of personal responsibility. I learned that I needed to take control of my own life, live up to my own standards, and then reap the rewards of my own hard work, while accepting the consequences of any misdeed that I committed on my own.

The Fallout

I eventually got out of the drug game. The first person that I ever cut out of my life was a young man I considered to be my best friend. He also happened to be the founder and CEO of my parents’ personal apothecary. Little did I know at the time, the night I watched a movie with him, shook his hand, and told him to never contact me again was also the beginning of the end of my parent-child relationship. What precious little of it remained, anyway.

As my underworld connections withered and died, my parents’ addictions grew ravenously. They latched on to as many mind-altering substances they could find to escape from the reality that their house was falling down all around them. And I mean that quite literally, not a metaphor at all.

Their master bathroom had sprung a leak, causing the tub to partially fall through the kitchen ceiling where it remained for a number of years – completely suspended above a mountain of dishes that stared back at the foreign visitor from upstairs, each neglected task accompanied by its own steady drip drip drip of water that seemed to spend all night debating with its counterpart over which quagmire would be resolved first.

I didn’t stick around long enough to find out who won.

One by one, major appliances choked out their last efforts. Water heater, washer, A/C, furnace: all met their demise over a $200 repair bill that Ron refused to pay, instead opting for a $200 baggie in its place. All the while, he pulled in a six figure income.

With financial ruin creeping up from behind, my parents found a frugal alternative to visiting the ghetto: they could manufacture the drugs themselves! I’m not aware of a federally sponsored comeuppance for this crime, but it’s only a matter of time. I still have nightmares of black helicopters and predawn raids.

Lesson #5: Running a Puppy Mill Inside Your House Might Not Be a Good Idea For Side Income

In a last-ditch effort to support their drug habits over their children, my parents turned to exploiting something even more defenseless: dogs.

Because affording a kennel was out of the question, the clown committee determined that the operation should be run indoors. Eventually all manner of canine bodily fluids spread across the floors and down the walls as up to 20 helpless, unvaccinated, creatures were forced to reproduce inside the crumbling confines of my parents’ nightmare.

One poor soul died of a perpetual and untreated kidney infection; he’d bay woefully as he urinated blood behind my father’s overused recliner. They were heartless enough to have named that dog Cash. I’d moved out well before the breeding began, and my bewildered parents wondered why I never came to visit any more.

Lesson #6: “I’ll Just Come Live With My Adult Child” Is Not a Valid Retirement Plan

When the eviction was finally enforced, my parents — considering themselves victims of the gravest injustices — turned to me for help, requiring assistance which absolutely must be delivered in the form of $30,000 cash.

I’ll never forget hearing the words on the phone from my mother, “You have good credit, right?”

Invitations from me to them became exceedingly rare, so they continuously strategized ways to drop in unannounced. Once when I was still under their roof and underage, my father decided to spend an entire year without speaking a single word to me. He returned to this antisocial mechanism later at my own house as he sat on my couch, uninvited and scowling, while his wife tried to coax a few dollars out from my pockets. And if I didn’t have any, then certainly I might have some drugs they could borrow, right?

That day didn’t end pleasantly, and the next time I heard from them, my parents extended an invitation for me to celebrate dear ol’ Dad on Father’s Day.

I didn’t show up. That single inaction, one decision of defiance, was my sole moment when I’d finally had enough. It unleashed a torrent of hatred. He compared my absence — my refusal to fete the fool — to the terrorist attacks on 9/11. My inbox, voicemail, and mailbox overflowed with verbal vomit. I responded with silence.

In the years that followed, I spoke just eight total words to him on two separate occasions: “Never contact me again” and “Leave my wife alone.” I didn’t owe him the time of day, much less an explanation.

Where We Are Today – A Position of Strength

That’s the origin of my quest for financial independence. Ronnie knew that my separation from my parents had something to do with money, but his thoughts on the matter were completely twisted. In his magnum opus on the fantasy of filicide, he wrote,

“I am sorry I didn’t save money for you, blahahahahaha. You did nothing to earn it. Parents owe their children nothing.”

The fact was I wanted nothing from my parents but love and respect. I may as well have asked for the moon. When I was 18, I discovered that I could leverage frugality and a decent income to build a fortress that no person could disturb. Money was my ticket out from under the thumb of an abusive upbringing, and I still get chills when I watch Mr. Collins’ rendition of “F*ck You Money.”

Now, I’m close to that position of ultimate financial strength. I live in my own house with my beautiful, loving wife, and our pets whose healthcare rivals that of a senator’s. All my appliances and vehicles work flawlessly, and I pay gobs of taxes each year. Every single person in my inner circles shares with me a mutual love and respect, and I’m not beholden to any addictive or destructive force whatsoever.

Life is good… And I don’t own any damn four wheelers!

*********

The Master Dukes of Dollars are the dynamic duo from The Duke of Dollars Kingdom. The two bloggers held court frequently, delving into lifestyle and personal finance discussions as they searched for ways to live an optimal life, eventually deciding to invite a global audience into their mindsets by establishing their own blog together. Chris is the younger of the two and recently launched his Great War on Debt soon after achieving a positive net worth, while Jack – the author of this guest post – is further down the road towards FIRE and is seeking a cure for onemoreyearitis. Their primary mission is to help others build their financial kingdoms, providing the world with a road-map that leads to a fortified personal monetary policy.

Want more stories like this? Check out these posts next:

My Life (And Finances) After Escaping a Cult

What Being Homeless Taught Me About Money and Happiness

Seeking Financial Stability as a Gay, Non-White, Man of Muslim Faith

[Photo up top NOT of Jack’s dad – it comes courtesy of zachandlinz on Flickr]

What My Ridiculous Parents Taught Me About Money published first on http://ift.tt/2ljLF4B

[fesahaawit]

What My Ridiculous Parents Taught Me About Money

[Please welcome one half of the duo from DukeofDollars.com today, as Jack spills his heart here on all things financial he learned from growing up in a helluva toxic household, ugh… As a parent this KILLS ME, and I wish this upbringing on no kids out there! What is wrong with people????]

********

The first time I rode a four wheeler as a kid, my dad plopped me down on the machine without a helmet and pointed me at the trailhead. This same guy — we’ll call him Ronald, because he’s kind of a clown — then hopped on his mechanical high horse and proceeded to take off down the trail, yelling “Follow me!” behind him. A 90-degree corner immediately greeted me, and with my limited 20 feet experience of riding so far, I was bucked off the machine as it proceeded to climb straight up a tree. I cracked my head, and the four wheeler landed right on top of me.

After waiting a minute or two, I realized I was all on my own with this problem as Ronald was long gone. I mustered the strength to kick off this heavy burden, climbed back on top of that mofo, and then sped passed Ron while flipping him the bird.

That’s pretty much how my financial life started too: flat on my ass with an enormous weight holding me down and no parent in sight.

Lesson #1: Don’t Sell The Shares You Inherited and Blow The Proceeds on Four Wheelers!

Those same ATVs mentioned above? They were purchased from stock my parents inherited. I wasn’t privy to all the details, but the sum I guestimated they received was in the $50k – $100k range: invested in what my parents called “blue chips,” which was the first time I’d heard that phrase before. What I do know, however, is that a $15k chunk started its brief life under the tutelage of my parents as the bluest of blue stocks on the market: IBM.

In 1992, a single share of IBM was worth about $88 unadjusted for splits, meaning my parents possessed roughly 170 shares. Let’s assume that instead of rushing down to Honda Motorsports before the check even cleared, Ron and his wife had the foresight to hold onto this small fraction of their inheritance and just let it ride. They could’ve spent almost $29,000 in dividends to date and still be sitting on a split-adjusted 680 shares, which would now be worth over $95,000; the annual dividend for 2017 and beyond is projected to be > $3,800.

That’s a lot of Power Wheels.

When I draw lessons from this mistake, I look at not only the hypothetical end-result, but also what kind of mindset it would take to ride IBM from 1992 to 2017. Seven years into the experiment, IBM experienced a meteoric rise powered by the turbo booster of the tech bubble. The shares reached a high of roughly $138 in 1999, right about where the price sits today, nearly 20 years down the road. During the ensuing crash, IBM dipped below $60.

Depending on your mindset, it might’ve been tempting to sell at both the high and the low phases: lock in gains in the former, or salve your fear of further losses with the latter. The company was considered the unassailable stalwart of tech during the 90’s, but its waning market position redefined the business in investors’ eyes. Declining revenue and a lack of innovation has transformed the perception of IBM from a shining star to a washed-up has-been.

I try to focus much of my investing efforts on the hold part of buy-and-hold. In the case of IBM, a dividend powerhouse, I’d pool the dividends and invest in a different, more stable sector. Diversify not through selling, but by redirecting the increasingly fat dividend stream into other businesses.

Lesson #2: Maintain Your $hit or It Becomes Worthless

They lasted just two years. No, not my parents’ faltering marriage, still talking about those damn ATVs. It turns out that engines have this weird substance called “oil,” and it needs to be changed every now and then. Three gently-used automobiles later, my parents finally discovered that cars, too, also have this same strange substance in it.

The three cars: 1) Ford Explorer, 2) Mercury Sable, 3) Lincoln Town Car – all bought with < 40k miles, and all dead by 75k miles because of engine problems.

A dear relative of mine gifted me a granny car when I was 16. I loved and appreciated the crap out of that vehicle, old people smell and all. When I scurried off to college, a school that banned freshmen from parking vehicles on campus, my parents decided to reappropriate my car to my older sister for a year. She begrudgingly returned it with a dead inspection sticker soon after the school year ended. Yes, I got a ticket on my ride home.

Surprise, surprise: she too had never learned about oil. Within a week, I heard the familiar sound of a seizing engine. Fortunately, I was able to limp the car to my friend’s house where his girlfriend was palling around with this hot chick in a bikini who happened to be a mechanic’s daughter. Though I’d learned the lesson already, I pretended to be ignorant about checking fluids while she “assisted” me.

She’s now my wife.

The first time I met my future father-in-law, he towered over me, crushed my handshake, and told me, “Boy if you ever hurt my daughter, I’ll rip your head off and cram it up your ass.” The most productive man I ever met, he was always tinkering on something. When he helped me with a plumbing issue, I asked him how he knew what the problem was. He replied, “I had no idea. I just figure out how to take it apart and then figured out how to put it back together.”

That’s perhaps the best repair advice I’ve ever received. Everything comes apart somehow, even if it’s not obvious at first. As far as maintenance tasks go, I rely on reminders. Google calendar is set to nudge me whenever air filters need to be replaced, batteries charged, gutters cleaned, and yes – especially when oil needs changing.

Lesson #3: Cheating and Refusing to Pay Taxes Are – Go Figure – Illegal

Leave it to my parents to find a silver lining in a DIY storm cloud. They ended up donating all four totaled vehicles to a registered charity. Pretty generous, right? Except for the part where they forged the receipts to show that the cars were in pristine condition and worth 4x the correct stated value.

Tax time for ol’ Ronnie was a game he played with TurboTax – fudging every number until the exact moment that the software threw a red flag. It was an endless game of chicken with the IRS. Unclaimed income, fictitious and overstated donations, illegal claiming of dependents, falsified businesses, enormous home offices: if you can think of a way to cheat taxes, my parents did it.

Before I cut ties for good, I learned that they were outraged to have received a thick envelope from Uncle Sam. Those IBM divvy’s probably would’ve come in handy around the time Ronald & Company decided to burn the mysterious contents of that package.

Determined to be their antiprotégé, I once filed an amended return when I realized that tips weren’t automatically included in my pizza delivery summer job W2 to stay on the “good” side.

Lesson #4: Cigarettes and Drugs – A Surefire Path to Financial Ruin and Misery

Legal correspondence wasn’t my family’s favorite fuel. That award would be split between the cigarettes and the drugs. At the age of fourteen, I sneaked one of my parents’ cigs to see what the fuss was about. I ratted myself out with a nasty gagging fit on my first couple draws and was promptly scolded right after: par for the course for teenage mischief.

The next day, however, my parents gave me a pack of my own cigarettes so that I wouldn’t have to steal theirs. I smoked for four formative years until I landed my first office job and realized how much the habit would hold me back in the workplace. And by that time, the free cigarette train had run out of track.

With an hourly pay rate just a smidgen above minimum wage, it didn’t take me long to figure out how expensive it was to roll up and burn a $5 bill every day.

While cigarettes seared a massive hole in the household “budget,” at least they were legal. My drug dabbling experience, getting caught, and the resulting parental guidance all adhered to the same pattern as the tobacco. Drugs, however, were difficult for my parents to find. In me, they saw a budding conduit to the black market.

My relationship with my parents had been strained, to put it kindly, up until the moment they realized that I had nefarious connections. That revelation ushered in a brief golden age between father, mother, and son. They were oh-so-friendly during my mid-teens. Bless their hearts.

Ron was pulling in a solid income by this time frame, helped along by his thievery from the taxman. He approached the drug market much like a soccer mom at Costco – preferring to buy in bulk to secure the discounts. Behind the force of his seed capital, along with the entrepreneurship of the local high school slinger, a small narcotics empire quickly rose in my town. Faster than it had risen, the entire enterprise crashed down hard right after, tossing a few people straight into prison along its demise.

Miraculously, neither Ron nor I emerged with a scratch on our records. He employed me as a delivery driver specializing in felonious interstate transportation, nearly ruining my life before adulthood was even on the horizon. I was a child. His child. For this, forgiveness isn’t in the cards.

Between the ages of 15 and 18, I did glean a few useful money lessons throughout these illicit business ventures though. I learned about cost of goods sold, profit margins, inventory, goodwill with vendors, shrinkage, the compounding power of addictive consumerism, etc. One of my top investments to this day is an alcohol purveyor.

Most of all though, I started to learn about risk. I’ve read that the human brain doesn’t reach its full risk-processing power until age 25, and I know from experience that I was nearly blind to the concepts of probability and consequences as an adolescent. Nearing my mid-twenties, I began to realize just how mind-bogglingly reckless my teenage endeavors were regardless of whether I’d acted at the behest of my parents or not.

The whole clusterf*ck set into motion a deep-set sense of personal responsibility. I learned that I needed to take control of my own life, live up to my own standards, and then reap the rewards of my own hard work, while accepting the consequences of any misdeed that I committed on my own.

The Fallout

I eventually got out of the drug game. The first person that I ever cut out of my life was a young man I considered to be my best friend. He also happened to be the founder and CEO of my parents’ personal apothecary. Little did I know at the time, the night I watched a movie with him, shook his hand, and told him to never contact me again was also the beginning of the end of my parent-child relationship. What precious little of it remained, anyway.

As my underworld connections withered and died, my parents’ addictions grew ravenously. They latched on to as many mind-altering substances they could find to escape from the reality that their house was falling down all around them. And I mean that quite literally, not a metaphor at all.

Their master bathroom had sprung a leak, causing the tub to partially fall through the kitchen ceiling where it remained for a number of years – completely suspended above a mountain of dishes that stared back at the foreign visitor from upstairs, each neglected task accompanied by its own steady drip drip drip of water that seemed to spend all night debating with its counterpart over which quagmire would be resolved first.

I didn’t stick around long enough to find out who won.

One by one, major appliances choked out their last efforts. Water heater, washer, A/C, furnace: all met their demise over a $200 repair bill that Ron refused to pay, instead opting for a $200 baggie in its place. All the while, he pulled in a six figure income.

With financial ruin creeping up from behind, my parents found a frugal alternative to visiting the ghetto: they could manufacture the drugs themselves! I’m not aware of a federally sponsored comeuppance for this crime, but it’s only a matter of time. I still have nightmares of black helicopters and predawn raids.

Lesson #5: Running a Puppy Mill Inside Your House Might Not Be a Good Idea For Side Income

In a last-ditch effort to support their drug habits over their children, my parents turned to exploiting something even more defenseless: dogs.

Because affording a kennel was out of the question, the clown committee determined that the operation should be run indoors. Eventually all manner of canine bodily fluids spread across the floors and down the walls as up to 20 helpless, unvaccinated, creatures were forced to reproduce inside the crumbling confines of my parents’ nightmare.

One poor soul died of a perpetual and untreated kidney infection; he’d bay woefully as he urinated blood behind my father’s overused recliner. They were heartless enough to have named that dog Cash. I’d moved out well before the breeding began, and my bewildered parents wondered why I never came to visit any more.

Lesson #6: “I’ll Just Come Live With My Adult Child” Is Not a Valid Retirement Plan

When the eviction was finally enforced, my parents — considering themselves victims of the gravest injustices — turned to me for help, requiring assistance which absolutely must be delivered in the form of $30,000 cash.

I’ll never forget hearing the words on the phone from my mother, “You have good credit, right?”

Invitations from me to them became exceedingly rare, so they continuously strategized ways to drop in unannounced. Once when I was still under their roof and underage, my father decided to spend an entire year without speaking a single word to me. He returned to this antisocial mechanism later at my own house as he sat on my couch, uninvited and scowling, while his wife tried to coax a few dollars out from my pockets. And if I didn’t have any, then certainly I might have some drugs they could borrow, right?

That day didn’t end pleasantly, and the next time I heard from them, my parents extended an invitation for me to celebrate dear ol’ Dad on Father’s Day.

I didn’t show up. That single inaction, one decision of defiance, was my sole moment when I’d finally had enough. It unleashed a torrent of hatred. He compared my absence — my refusal to fete the fool — to the terrorist attacks on 9/11. My inbox, voicemail, and mailbox overflowed with verbal vomit. I responded with silence.

In the years that followed, I spoke just eight total words to him on two separate occasions: “Never contact me again” and “Leave my wife alone.” I didn’t owe him the time of day, much less an explanation.

Where We Are Today – A Position of Strength

That’s the origin of my quest for financial independence. Ronnie knew that my separation from my parents had something to do with money, but his thoughts on the matter were completely twisted. In his magnum opus on the fantasy of filicide, he wrote,

“I am sorry I didn’t save money for you, blahahahahaha. You did nothing to earn it. Parents owe their children nothing.”

The fact was I wanted nothing from my parents but love and respect. I may as well have asked for the moon. When I was 18, I discovered that I could leverage frugality and a decent income to build a fortress that no person could disturb. Money was my ticket out from under the thumb of an abusive upbringing, and I still get chills when I watch Mr. Collins’ rendition of “F*ck You Money.”

Now, I’m close to that position of ultimate financial strength. I live in my own house with my beautiful, loving wife, and our pets whose healthcare rivals that of a senator’s. All my appliances and vehicles work flawlessly, and I pay gobs of taxes each year. Every single person in my inner circles shares with me a mutual love and respect, and I’m not beholden to any addictive or destructive force whatsoever.

Life is good… And I don’t own any damn four wheelers!

*********

The Master Dukes of Dollars are the dynamic duo from The Duke of Dollars Kingdom. The two bloggers held court frequently, delving into lifestyle and personal finance discussions as they searched for ways to live an optimal life, eventually deciding to invite a global audience into their mindsets by establishing their own blog together. Chris is the younger of the two and recently launched his Great War on Debt soon after achieving a positive net worth, while Jack – the author of this guest post – is further down the road towards FIRE and is seeking a cure for onemoreyearitis. Their primary mission is to help others build their financial kingdoms, providing the world with a road-map that leads to a fortified personal monetary policy.

Want more stories like this? Check out these posts next:

My Life (And Finances) After Escaping a Cult

What Being Homeless Taught Me About Money and Happiness

Seeking Financial Stability as a Gay, Non-White, Man of Muslim Faith

[Photo up top NOT of Jack’s dad – it comes courtesy of zachandlinz on Flickr]

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