#first dyke road and now this

[red-might-be-dead]

????/??:??/???2337/:,,::..//./..

[prttylilbunny]

hiii i was wondering if i could make a fic rec for hazel where hazel and reader go to a party and reader gets hit on by a jock that won’t leave her alone and hazel gets jealous and protective of reader

JEALOUS GIRL

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plot: some jock won't leave you alone and hazel has to intervene

warnings: men, harassment, also not proof read

word count: 0.6k

notes: this is my first request I literally did 4 backflips when I got the notification, I hope you like it anon!!🫶🏼

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you had no idea why you were here, you hate parties, they're loud and smell like sweaty teens who are apparently allergic to deodorant. hazel had dragged you here so you could have some fun, the "fun" you were having was sitting on an uncomfortable couch waiting for your girlfriend to be done talking with some old classmate.

you felt the left side of the couch sink, 'oh good hazel's back' you thought, you turned your head and saw some guy on the football team, are you fucking kidding me. he introduced himself and you gave him a nod and a dry hello, he kept and kept talking, 'hey sorry I gotta go now' you gave him a small smile before getting up from the couch just to feel two hands grab your waist and pull you back down. you immediately pushed yourself off of him and backed up.

hazel had been keeping an eye on you from afar making sure nothing like that would happen, when she saw him do that she mumbled a curse under her breath and quickly said goodbye. finally out of the corner of your eye you saw hazel say goodbye and walk back over to you, as she was walking back he was still trying to "talk you up", he put his hand on your thigh and that was hazel's last straw. she ran up to you guys and pulled you up from the couch.

'hey what the fuck dude' the generic looking jock shouted, hazel scoffed and rolled her eyes, 'you know not every girl is at your dispose' she shouted back, she slid her hand around your waist and stared to walk away holding you tight, 'have fun dykes!' he yelled back at her, hazel quickly turned around and walked back up him, punching him square in the nose, you covered your mouth in shock let out a chuckle, hazel hissed in pain and saw her knuckles turn red. when he got back up hazel saw the anger in his face grabbed your hand and sprinted away.

you ran out of the party and quickly unlocked hazel's car and jumped in the front seat, she turned on the car and started driving away, her hair still messed up and still laughing, you looked in the review mirror and saw him behind your car with a bloody nose, you turned to hazel and she still had that rush of adrenaline, 'hazel you punched him!' you tried to hold your laugh. when her laugher died down she put her hand on your thigh, 'hey I hope you know I'll always defend you, even against buff assholes like him' she said keeping her eyes on the road.

when you eventually got to your house she parked in your drive way, you unbuckled your seatbelt and she opened the door to you bowing, you giggled and got out of the car gently closing the door to not wake your parents, at your front door she pulled you into a tight hug. 'I'm gonna miss you soo much' she mumbled into your neck, you chuckled and let her go from your embrace, 'hazel your gonna see me tomorrow at school' she put her hand around your hips and with the other one gently cupped your face with her hands. she kissed you with passion, still holding you tight, your lips stay connected for a couple more seconds before pulling away. you looked into her eyes and just giggled.

'what's so funny?' she questioned with a grin on her face, 'nothing I just love you so much' her gaze softened and stoked your soft cheek with her thumb, 'i love you too'.

[lives-in-midgard]

🎄Beautiful Miracle🎄

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x reader

Summary: When your car breaks down in a small village you luckily find a bakery to stay in.

Word Count: 1095

A/N: Hey everyone! This is my first fic for my Christmas special hosted by the lovely @buckys-wintersoldier. I hope you like it! 💗

Dividers made by @saradika 💗

Prompt 1: Bakery AU

Masterlist | Fluffcember Masterlist

It’s the first day of December and it has just started snowing. You were driving through a small village you had never been to before when suddenly your car broke down in the middle of the road. You were just able to pull over to park your car in an empty parking lot. You tried to start the car again, but it didn’t work.

“Noo, that can’t happen now. Not now when it’s so cold outside.” You said to yourself. After another try, you decided to call a car service station. They told you that it would take an hour or more for them to get here. So, you decided to take your bag, get out of your car, and look for somewhere to stay. You took a few steps and then saw that there was a small bakery.

Maximoff’s Sweets

You smiled and opened the door to the bakery. The air was filled with the smell of cinnamon and vanilla. Everything was decorated with Christmas decoration and a Christmas carol was playing. You walked around and noticed that this place looks really cozy and beautiful. You couldn’t see the owner of this shop, but you could hear someone singing.

“Deck the halls with boughs of holly.” You heard the soft voice more clearly now and had to smile. Then a door opened and a beautiful young woman with red hair walked out of a room from the back. She had a plate with cookies in her hand and immediately smiled when she saw you.

“Hello and welcome to my bakery.” The owner smiled at you and placed the cookies in an empty spot.

“Hi, this is a really wonderful place here.” You confessed and looked around and then back at her.

“Thank you. This really means a lot to me. Especially because it’s my first Christmas here.”

“Oh, congrats on that.” You said and the woman had to chuckle. She looked so beautiful and lovely.

“What can I offer you?” She asked and you looked at it all deliciously.

“Umm, I’m not sure. This looks all so delicious, what would you recommend?” You asked her nervously.

“How about these cinnamon rolls? They are really good and a new recipe I tried.” She pointed to the cinnamon rolls, and you nodded.

“Sounds good. I’ll take this and a coffee please.” You answered and Ms. Maximoff turned around to make you a coffee. She put the dessert and coffee on a plate and then walked with you to a table. You sat down and she placed everything in front of you.

“Do you mind if I join you?” She asked shyly.

“Of course not.”

“Okay, great, because my new cookies just came out of the oven and need time to cool. I’ll be with you in a moment.” She went back, made herself a cup of coffee and then came back to you. She sat down across from you.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I haven’t introduced myself yet. I‘m Wanda Maximoff.”

“Hi Wanda, I‘m Y/N.“

“So, what brought you to my bakery?” Wanda asked and you told her the story of your car and how you luckily found her warm and cozy bakery. Wanda listened intently as the two of you drank your coffee and ate your dessert.

“Wow, that tasted so good.” You complimented her after eating the cinnamon roll.

“Thank you, love.” You blushed and looked out the window for a second and saw that it started to snow more.

“What do you like to do when you’re not at this wonderful bakery?” You asked Wanda as you looked back at her.

“Well, I love spending time with my brother and some friends, I love finding new recipes for all kind of stuff, and oh I really enjoy watching sitcoms.”

“Sounds really cool. What’s your favorite sitcom?”

“The Dick Van Dyke Show. I loved it when I was a kid and I still do.” Wanda told you.

“And what do you like to do when your car doesn’t break down in front of a bakery?” Wanda asked and you had to chuckle at her question. You told her about your hobbies and talked for a while until you got a message on your phone.

“Sorry.” You apologized and looked at your phone.

“Oh, no.” You mumbled when you saw the message from the car service station.

“What’s wrong?” Wanda asked.

“It’s the car service station. It will take them a few hours to get here because of the snow.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, but hey, you’re lucky you ended up here.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” You smiled at her. A few minutes passed before Wanda said something again.

“Hey, I have an idea.”

“I’m all ears.”

“If you're interested, maybe you could help me with some cookies.”

“Yeah, sounds great.” You said and Wanda smiled happily. She showed you the kitchen where she makes all her desserts. Wanda then gave you an apron and you tied your hair into a ponytail. Then she showed you the recipe and started to put everything you needed on the table. You had fun helping Wanda bake the cookies and when you were done you put them in the oven and Wanda gave you a cup of hot chocolate. You stood next to her and talked for a few minutes until Wanda got the idea to decorate the cookies she had baked before you arrived. When you were almost finished, you received a message that the car service station will be here soon.

Wanda decided to give you some cookies and when you wanted to pay, she said that wasn’t necessary. You insisted that you wanted to pay, but Wanda was a little more stubborn than you, so she won. You put your jacket on and were a little sad to leave now, but you know where this bakery is so you could come back anytime.

“Goodbye, Wanda.” You said before opening the door.

“Wait.” Wanda shouted and ran towards you. You turned around and looked at her confused.

“I really enjoyed this afternoon with you and thought you might like to meet me again.” Wanda asked.

“I also really enjoyed it. I can give you my phone number, so you can text me.” Wanda nodded with a smile, and you gave her your phone number.

“See you soon, Wanda.” You said before walking out.

“See you soon. “You walked out with a smile, happy that your car broke down here and not somewhere else. Otherwise, you probably would never have met Wanda.

Taglist:

@marvelogic | @eviebuggg | @yelenasdiary | @youralphawolf72 | @severelyuniquereview | @mrs-bucky-barnes-73

[grand-theft-carbohydrates]

[behind the scenes: this is the first piece i ever wrote for lu zhi! i was still figuring out her voice and the direction i wanted to take with her character, so the tone is a lot more comedic and lu zhi is a lot more blunt in her communication.]

Liu Bang knew from experience that the best way to assuage his wife's temper was to debase himself first. The math was simple; grovelling*time/gifts= forgiveness. He did not regard this as an act of emasculation the way a normal man should--though you couldn't have beaten that admission out of him with iron cudgels. In his mind, the path of least resistance was always the correct choice, and this inborn laziness easily trumped forty-eight years of Chu society instilled chauvinism. Why fight your way through a twenty-li thorn bush when there was a perfectly good paved road right there? Thus, he approached his humiliation with the level-headed calculation of a city engineer who was about to open the dykes for an approaching monsoon. Better to suffer some moderate flooding than to have the dam burst and flatten your city. When Hurrican Lü blew through, you could either get out of her way, or hunker down and minimize damages.

Liu Bang eyed the short, fat woman carefully from his periphery and wracked his skull for something appropriately stupid to say. What he came up with was exceptional, even by his standards;

 "Wife, be honest. Me and Xiang Yu… y'reckon I've got a chance?"

The shuttles of the loom abruptly screeched to a halt. Lü Zhi stared at him in disbelief for a long moment. "My god, your arrogance is breath-taking. Let me spell it out for you, old man. Xiang Yu is a hegemon-king and a hero of our times. You are a small-town populist with a handful of soldiers and barely two pieces of silver to rub together. What could you possibly offer him except a half-decent face and a willingness to debase yourself?"

"…So that's a maybe?"

"Maybe my ass!"

Liu Bang was preening a little at his face being called half-decent, even into his advanced middle age. The rest of his shortcomings rolled right off him like water off a duck's back.

"I think you're spot on, wife." He said thoughtfully. The longer he played this out, the more effective it would be.  "Debasement is the key here! Men like to feel powerful and in charge. I'll just act as pathetic as possible and let Xiang Yu dominate me! I got his type all figured out. He might not have a taste for boys, but he loves conquest. I'll convince him it's a show of strength to bed a man, especially a venerable senior who is in awe of his youth and valour. Haha, it's perfect! I'll have that arrogant young stallion pushing me down before the month is out, I guarantee it!"

By now, Lü Zhi had wizened up to his game. She was both furious, and struggling not to laugh--which made her angrier. "Were you not fed enough as a baby?" Lü Zhi snapped, half disgusted, half in awe of her husband's shamelessness. "How could a grown man end up so bent? I've seen whores have more dignity."

It was unnatural for an older men to take the submissive role in bed. If word got out that her husband was letting some brat who was young enough to be his son climb all over him, her reputation would be in the gutter.

Liu Bang replied shamelessly, "you're just jealous of what I can do, even without a girl's natural advantages." He even had to gall to draw his sleeve over his face in a parody of coquetry, "it takes skill to turn a man's head! It's not enough to have a pretty face, you must also be sweet and have an enticing personality."

That struck a nerve. Demure and sweet were antonyms to the name 'Lü Zhi.' "Maybe he'll take you as a concubine, dear husband. You'd enjoy it, I wager."

"A concubine?" Liu Bang didn't need to pretend to be deeply affronted by her words, "how could you think so little of your husband? I'll have you know, I'm consort material through and through!"

Lü Zhi sighed and rolled her eyes skywards, as if praying for divine lightning to pierce the ceiling and end her suffering. Either by striking herself, or Liu Bang--she wasn't picky. "Even if you have no regard for propriety, can you at least spare some pity for your family? Such ignominy is no hardship for myself, of course, it is a woman's duty to stand by her husband, even if she is torn limb from limb. It's your venerable old father I fear for. If he were to hear the filth coming out of your mouth, he'd surely die of shame."

Liu Bang replied  shamelessly, "oh, we both know my mouth's been in dirtier places."

Lü Zhi spluttered and flushed scarlet, for a moment she was too enraged to even speak, "why you revolting, shameless…!"

"That wasn't what I heard last night!" Liu Bang roared with laughter--from the safety of a three zhang away. A wooden shuttle went whizzing past his head and he retreated another zhang as a precaution.

—----------

Liu Bang had been speaking in jest before, but bit by bit his voice had gradually changed. It had lost none of it's pleasant, conversational tone, but now it contained an undercurrent of thoughtfulness, which made it a hundred times more dangerous. Like the invisible eddies that formed below waterfalls, tranquil on the surface, but waiting to drag you under if you got too close."He's fatherless, y'know, the poor, sad little pup. And that venerable uncle of his? So stuffy and uptight. He loves that horrible brat nephew of his--Heaven bless that old soul, you couldn't find a more filial younger brother--but he's a real tight-wad when it comes to praise, or any emotion really. Never smiles or frowns. You'd have better luck squeezing water from stone. Our Hegemon-King may prowl like a tiger when he's on the battlefield, but deep down inside he craves the adoration of older, respectable gentlemen. I've seen it in his eyes. Sing a few praises, and he puffs up like a little mantou. He measures himself against the glory he's won, just like a little boy marking a doorframe to see how much he's grown. And he's a greedy bugger too, he'll never be satisfied with the inches he's already put on. The next goal has to be bigger than the last. Each cheer has to be louder than the last. He needs the attention of others to survive, like the wheat-sprout needs frequent rain, not one drop less, or he'll wither up and die. He's sick to death of all these advisors and generals trying to tie him down and keep him humble. Always telling him to say this and do that. So I'll be the one to raise him up. I'll stoke his big, hot ego and use my silver tongue to leave him smiling and sated. I'll blow him up bigger and bigger until his head brushes the clouds, right until the whole thing collapses under it's own impossible weight. Let him think I'm just a harmless old leacher. By the time he realises I'm far from harmless, it will be too late. Mark my words, Old Liu will be the one who finishes on top in the end."

[crazyhickofftheirrocker]

my opinion of you is that i haven’t followed you for long but i find ur observations smart & interesting. especially about corrie so actually this is a double ask (if you want) what are your top 5 headcanons and or unpopular opinions about the ship? you can also do the individual characters if you want

Well this was delightful to find in my inbox, thank you 🥰 always here for a ramble about corrie!

This could be tricky, but oh well , I'll give it a go. I'm not typically very off the wall in my opinions on Coronation Street so this will be a mix.

Top 5 headcanons/unpopular opinions of the Swarla ship.

1. I am a proponent of the "Lisa fell first, but Carla fell harder" school of thought. Swain knew what was going on but wrote the whole thing off as a statistical improbability (plus *coughs* low self-esteem and unprocessed grief*) right up until she suddenly didn't get dressed. And we all saw the panicked mess that replaced Carla Connor for a couple of weeks there. She was 95% hearteyes and it was just too much.

2. This one comes after Monday 13th Jan and is very much a HC. As well as the little toy sports car, Carla acquired a toy police car that's hiding out of sight that she got as a gag gift for Lisa (and also maybe herself cause god she is silly over this pocket rocket of a police detective) But then Lisa mentioned how Betsy can get triggered by them in general sometimes and then Carla insists on putting it away in a drawer but she can't bring herself to return it cause it makes her smile every time she looks at it and thinks of Lisa.

("Carla, you do know I don't actually drive one of those, right?" "I know, but come on, it's a tiny cop car! You're practically the same size if I squint!")

3. Despite how nice it would be to see it, I don't think there should be a Swarla wedding in 2025. Even though they've sped ran a few of the major relationship milestones and are going at a pace that could conceivably see that happening in the current schedule, for this once, they should scrap the usual timeline of convenience and actually have them all deal with their respective traumas cause frankly, they could use a team of psychologists to help sort them out, never mind one therapist. It'd certainly make the show more interesting.

4. HC #2 Carla may or may not have bought a sneaky third festival ticket on the off chance that things worked out well enough for her and now that she's seen drunk!Lisa sing, she CANNOT miss the opportunity to see her waving her hands in the air like she just doesn't care- and honestly, neither can I 😂

5. HC #3 Lisa briefly entertained the idea of joining the Roads Policing Unit but after getting into a motorbike crash during training (and having not-yet-gf-or-wife Becky tear strips out of her for picking something so high-risk in the first place) Lisa decides to switch to CID instead. But the silver lining was that this dyke banned from a bike happened to gain a girlfriend out of the experience when Becky decided to look after her while she was out of commission.

[multigenderswag]

Multigender Survey Results Dec 2023: Anything else relevant

Participants were asked "Share anything else about your multigender identity that you find relevant" and had the option to respond with long answer text. Some notable responses include:

As a m+f bigender person who uses he/she pronouns, I sometimes feel like the "he" refers to my female side, and the "she" refers to my male side

I am no longer religious/Christian, but the expression “God is Change” resonates deeply with me and my approach to gender as experience. I accept that my gender (holistically) is an amalgamation, something that breathes new life into itself repeatedly and often unexpectedly, sustained by its own willingness to grow past its bounds and taste richness anew. Teaching is part of my work, and as such I consider myself an eternal student: gender is just one avenue for discovery and learning for me.

I feel so boring but it is what it is, name wise I use one (completely feminine) with group A and one (completely masculine) with group B and hope and pray that they never interact

I identified as a 'tomboy' (gender wise) as a child and transmasc as a teenager. As an adult part of my being multigender is honouring these past versions of myself and acknowledging that who I was is an important part of who I am today.

I like to describe my gender like this: imagine there’s a house on a street. the house represents being a boy/male, and being *in* the house means you’re binary male. The road represents a neutral, non-male/female gender. My gender is like the driveway — both part of the road *and* the house

i think this is relevant-ish, but the way i experience gender kind of feels like. there's a man and a woman in my head at all times, not in a system way so much as a (this is very obviously stupid but i can't find another comparison to articulate it) inside out way. they're both always there, and they're both separate, but at the same time, they come together to make the same person, me! nonbinary is a label i understand and identify with, mostly to simplify the matter for others, but in reality, it kind of feels like a... superbinary of sorts. i'm 100% a man, and 100% a woman, but because the binary only "allows" you to choose one, nonbinary is technically correct, isn't it?

I'm multigender in the "one gender that fits into several categories" way than being multigender in a "has multiple genders" way

My gender is the intersection of butch dyke and trans man. I'm questioning things right now, but I'm somewhere in that region, with a foot in both at once. I've always been drawn to butchness and sapphicism as well as transmasculinity. I think most of my journey to understand my gender has been a balancing act between identifying as enough of a guy to feel comfortable in my skin but non-binary enough to not have to abandon my identity with butchness. Recently I've adopted the label multigender, and it's helped a lot. I'm only even a little bit a girl if I can be a boy first and foremost, and I could be just a boy or just a dyke but I would have to kill part of myself to do so. I'm trying to find a way to exist in my gender without blood on my hands. I think I'm getting there. It's hard but I'm getting there.

It is complicated but I love it

Yay I love multi gender people we are so cool. <3

A number of participants also referenced being autistic and how that has influenced their multigender identity, so it is possible that autism may be included as a question on the next survey.

[mattnben-bennmatt]

Ben Affleck's interview w/ Premiere (2000)

Adventures in the Celebrity Trade

In which the author faces a dread beast of epic proportions (his own alter ego), perils that would destroy a lesser man (e.g., worldwide fame), and uncouth fans, all whilst shamelessly promoting his new movie

By Ben Affleck | Photography by Sam Jones

Oscar Winner Affleck talks to himself about the hazards of fame, the art of publicity, and why you should see his new movie.

-

I'm promoting my movie. in doing so, it is incumbent on me to do an interview for a movie magazine. I've asked the good people at PREMIERE to let me contribute an article rather than be interviewed, in an effort at a little break from the norm. I've run the first draft past the studio whose movie I'm hawking, and they were kind enough to give me some feedback. In general, I believe they found my pithy little attempt at a first-person description of what it's like to actually do publicity and my own idiosyncratic deconstruction of said process mildly amusing. But they had some notes. With those in mind, let me say this: Every man, woman, and child on this earth must drop everything and run to their local multiplex to see Reindeer Games. Well, there might be a title change in the works, so maybe it won't be called Reindeer Games, but pay that no heed! Whatever the marketing folks decide to call the movie, it is absolutely imperative that you see it immediately, two or three times if need be. Watching this movie will make you smarter, more successful, and a (much) better lover. I implore you, for your own sake, pay to see this movie. It is, quite simply, the single greatest dramatic narrative of the modern era.

Now, on to the irrelevant part.

I. A DRIVE-BY

"Affleck, you suck!" was all I made out as a full can of beer sailed by, inches from my head. I believe that was the precise moment I knew things had changed.

It was a drive-by beer-canning—a little-publicized-but-all-too-real hazard for the working actor in L.A. It was June of 1997, somewhere around midnight. I was coming out of a record store on Sunset Strip, and in retrospect, I guess I should have seen it coming.

I hadn't been subject to public stoning by Budweiser since my high school days, in Boston. I remember thinking that in this new context, it was a fairly artless, albeit effective, form of what in acting class we used to call "a critique of the work." That was the first day it occurred to me that there is a side of fame that might be unpleasant. It was a peculiar induction—one Jason Patric has aptly characterized as "baptism by flashbulb"—to a strange club whose membership requirements are simple: People you've never met, seen, or spoken to develop opinions (occasionally quite negative and almost always judgmental) about you, your work, and whether or not you "suck." Though my holy water was alcoholic and carbonated and gunned at me by strangers, I suddenly had an affinity for how Mr. Patric must have felt.

Before Good Will Hunting and Armageddon, I did quite a few movies, but nobody saw them. In fact, the entertainment press corps in general seemed aggressively disinterested. When I went to Atlanta to promote Chasing Amy, I clearly remember that the few journalists who showed up to interview me seemed bored (with me), dejected (at having such a low-rent assignment), and desperate (during the actual interview) for a reason—any reason—to write anything. Later, the movie became a minor cult hit, and occasionally I would be confronted by a stranger or two (oddly, these interactions also tended to happen in record stores). But instead of berating me, these guys usually wanted to know, "Did you really nail that girl?" "Was she really a dyke?" and "Do you have her number?" While deeply flattering, these rare interactions didn't prepare me in the least for what I was to face down the road.

That night, I wondered if perhaps this was something that even the great ones have had to endure, but I could never quite convince myself that there was some rangy teenager standing outside Brando's house, hectoring the deaf masonry with the likes of "Why'd you pimp Kabuki-style gear in Moreau?!" Surely there is a point at which one is accorded some space, respect, and privacy. I just wasn't there yet.

The gangly kid's harangue at a thespian about his play is a fair confusion of character and actor. But the words and pictures that provoked the beer-flinger were not of a character in a film; they were representations of me in the press-specifically the tabloid press, coverage in which I had taken no part. So I decided to become the captain of my own destiny, or at least of my own image. I decided to stop avoiding or passively enduring press coverage; instead, I would start a conversation with the public by engaging the press, thus having control over the words and images representing me.

This was, to put it mildly, a blunder. I had underrated the forces at play in the creation of celebrity media and overrated my own ability to withstand and control them. As if that weren't bad enough, I also discovered that I was my own worst enemy.

It wasn't until my third or fourth interview was published that I began to suspect something. I would run into people who know me fairly well (like my mom) and they'd fix me with an uncertain and dubious stare. I began to anticipate the inevitable: "I read your thing in [insert name of rag here] . . ." Then their voices would trail off. I knew the sentiment. I'd experienced it before. Earlier in my career I'd get that. People would say, "Hey, I saw Phantoms. . . ." Though I understood the comment in the context of a movie where I played a sheriff in Colorado battling an ill-defined but vaguely menacing sewer monster, I didn't see the connection with the interviews. But when I asked my girlfriend what she thought about the mixed reviews I seemed to be getting, she let me have it. "I don't even recognize that person." "Who?" I lamely asked. "The guy in that interview, in any of your interviews . . . Interview Guy."

Sonofabitch. Interview Guy.

What I found when I read back over my own inanities was as phony a frat-boy-chucklehead as you're ever likely to encounter—and someone who, I hope, bears little resemblance to the guy typing out these words. Somehow I'd inadvertently given birth to a monster. Interview Guy liked to come off as a cross between a pseudo-intellectual college sophomore who'd just read his first chapter of Proust, a drunken motorcycle fanatic, and an all-around, aw-shucks-can-you-believe-I'm-just-a-regular-Joe ham bone.

The idea here is to set this gruesome record straight. I'll bring Interview Guy face-to-face with myself. The transparent difference will dissolve Interview Guy; the remaining image will be me. Either that or it'll be another in a long series of publicity disasters. At this point, I don't have much to lose.

II. INTERVIEW GUY

INT. MY HOUSE-DAY: INTERVIEW GUY, 27, bearing a striking resemblance to Ben Affleck, but wearing Prada stretch plastic trousers, comes running into the room with a beer. He does a handstand, slams his beer, and slouches into the sofa. Ben Affleck, a.k.a. ACTUAL BEN, sits across from him. Actual Ben is not nearly as good-looking as Interview Guy and seems a little taken aback.

INTERVIEW GUY: I take Viagra and I think the kids should try it at home, the little ones! [Interview Guy runs around the room twice, then heads outside. After a beat, he comes crashing back through the door on a motorcycle. He wipes out.]

INTERVIEW GUY: (Cont'd) [Re: motorcycle] I'll get another one. [Re: nothing in particular] Acting is a journey, right bro?

ACTUAL BEN: Not really. Most of the time it seems like a gigantic press junket, where I talk about my "arc" and decry the invasive nature of the press in my life—then go and have my woes translated into Korean and beamed via satellite to Asia. [A beat]

[There is another awkward beat.]

ACTUAL BEN: (Cont'd) Are you unable to smile or behave normally when having your picture taken? I mean, do you have a particular aversion to looking normal, or are you satisfying some innate urge to look like an idiot?

INTERVIEW GUY: Hey, man, I'm just a regl'r guy who likes to have fun-

ACTUAL BEN: Also, in your photographs you seem to clench your jaw, squint your eyes, and suck in your cheeks. Is something wrong with you physically? Do you have TMJ?

INTERVIEW GUY: [Flushing red] I . . . That's my strong, leading-man jawline and laser intensity coming through. . . . I can't help that! That's not on purpose. . . .

ACTUAL BEN: This isn't going anywhere; let's go to the questions. . . .

[Ed Note: During this segment of the interview, both Interview Guy and Actual Ben have agreed to answer a list of prepared questions. A tape recorder was placed in the room, and the following is a verbatim transcript of their answers.]

QUESTION: What is your favorite magazine?

INTERVIEW GUY: Maxim . . . no PREMIERE! This is for PREMIERE, right?

ACTUAL BEN: I don't have a favorite.

QUESTION: Who is your favorite actor?

INTERVIEW GUY: Arnold, Sly, your mom . . . just playin', guy. . . .

ACTUAL BEN: Morgan Freeman, Denzel Washington, Benicio Del Toro, Sean Penn, Meryl Streep, Cole Hauser, Casey Affleck, Jay Lacopo, Vince Vaughn, Joaquin Phoenix, Don Cheadle, the brothers Wilson, Ed Norton, Nicolas Cage, Robert De Niro, Marlon Brando, Zeljko Ivanek, Dennis Franz, Julianne Moore, Steve Buscemi, Frances McDormand—there are really a ton of actors I think are great and whom I admire. And I honestly believe after seeing The Talented Mr. Ripley and All the Pretty Horses that Matt Damon is one of, if not the, finest young actor around.

INTERVIEW GUY: That Ripley thing, that's a gay picture, right?

ACTUAL BEN: Well, no, it's not. . . .

QUESTION: In the wake of the massacre at Columbine High School, there has been greater scrutiny on the level of senseless and gratuitous violence in movies. What role do you think movie violence plays in influencing real people, and what is the responsibility of filmmakers and actors?

INTERVIEW GUY: I'm so sick of that question. Some idiot kid who played too much Mortal Kombat and can't get a girlfriend decides to shoot up his school . . . that's not Sylvester Stallone's fault for making Cobra. The guy was trying to make a kickass Marion Cobretti biker picture. Forget about teaching masturbation in schools; they ought to hand out twenty bucks and a map to Korea town. You get yourself a little massage-parloring down there, you feel a lot less inclined to blow up your lunchroom!

ACTUAL BEN: I disagree.

INTERVIEW GUY: 'Course you disagree; you smoke cock.

ACTUAL BEN: No, I don't "smoke cock," I just think there is some responsibility to be had by those of us who have some impact over the content of movies and how violence is presented. Doubtless, there is blame aplenty to go around. But the exploitation of mindless violence for the sake of titillation, without any attention paid to the genuine trauma that real violence does cause, is irresponsible.

QUESTION: What qualities and/or attributes do you find attractive in a woman? What would your "ideal woman" be like?

ACTUAL BEN: I can't say I have any one "type." I have dated and been attracted to all kinds of women. I tend to be able to look past first impressions and am usually attracted to a woman whom I like and want to be around. No matter how "hot" some woman is, I'd find her very unattractive if I couldn't stand to have a conversation with her.

INTERVIEW GUY: You done, Jake-O? Okay. That's bullshit. Everybody goes by appearances. I got nothing against the homely broad, I just don't care to give her a jump, you follow me? As far as what type of chick I most like, I'd say I'm your basic, red-blooded, Claudia Schiffer-Pam Anderson type of guy. And, you know, her beaver doesn't have to be shaved but . . . I don't mind it!

[Ed. Note: There is a five-minute segment of the tape where Interview Guy runs around the room, high-fiving no one in particular and repeating porn dialogue to the tune of the theme song from Martin. Finally, he cracks open a beer and sits back down.]

QUESTION: Are movies important?

INTERVIEW GUY: I think they can be. You go see Anaconda and you know you can't take a river trip with Owen Wilson, a rapper, and the guy from Deliverance, 'cause it's gonna end badly. So that's a public-health message, in a way. Fuck, come to think of it, that was the second bad rafting experience for Jon Voight. There's a fucker you really don't want on your Outward Bound crew. . . .

ACTUAL BEN: No.

QUESTION: Can you define your relationship with Gwyneth Paltrow?

INTERVIEW GUY: Well, she's my friend. She's very smart, very sweet, really just a good, decent person, and someone I both respect and admire. She's also a dynamite actress. As it happens, we just did a movie together called Bounce, which will be out in summer 2000 at a theater near you.

[Ed. Note: At this point there is a second lengthy pause on the tape and sounds of a struggle. Then nothing. It's the Blair Witch of Books on Tape. . . .]

III. BEING SEAN PENN

There's a reason that the National Enquirer has the highest circulation of any paper in the country. People like it. And people like it because, despite what most actors tend to imagine the general public is fascinated by (i.e., every subtlety and nuance of their latest performance), it concerns that very thing that drives most people to the movies in the first place: sex. And not just sex but gossip-who is having it with whom, who's been jilted, who gets the kids, who's getting above their station, who threw a fit on their show and fired a bunch of people. All of it. The movie business has become a kind of ongoing soap opera. The same characters move from one story to another, augmented by bits of background titillation from newspapers and magazines, and people go to see how the latest installment in the Schwarzenegger serial will turn out. Therefore, it should be no surprise to actors that their private lives seem inexorably entwined with whatever perception people have of their performances, and vice versa. In fact, that gossip, that tabloid fodder, is an organic part of the perceptions people have when they go to the movies.

The majority of famous actors are not famous because of roles they've played. The random passerby, when asked, will tell you they've heard of a particular actor but will have difficulty naming more than one or two movies he's been in. What people do see, far more than the movies, are the television shows and magazines in which actors promote their films. This creates a strange dynamic, where celebrity becomes the goal, publicity the means, and the actual work takes a distant backseat.

If one takes for granted that the goal of an actor is to assume the identity of another person, then doing publicity as oneself seems absolutely the wrong thing to do. The less people know about you, the less apt they are to project some preconception onto your performance. There are actors who seem to understand this conundrum and have managed to deal with it in a sensible way.

There are powerful forces at work that compel an actor, after appearing in a movie or two, to whore out every last detail of their gonorrhea treatments, incestuous experiments with grandma, shock therapy, and the time they had one too many and got a five-dollar hand job in T.J. And later the same bunch that threw you to the press will tell you not to give so much away. You can't win.

So what, then, is the lesson? I really don't know. You can lie to the press (my brother, Casey, once told Interview magazine that he had a Ph.D. in eugenics from Columbia), you can bullshit a little (whereupon your friends from home tell you you've changed and you're full of shit, and you're mom is ashamed of you), you can go ahead and talk about the "touching game" you played with Uncle Ted (and then your mom really is ashamed of you). Or you can go the route of the dignified and be Sean Penn. Just watch out for the backlash—it gets ugly.

Whenever I've run this theory past the cocktail-party crowd, the response is always a Pollyannaish "What's wrong with the truth?" Or "Just be yourself!" Now, while that may be sound and novel advice, in this case it misses the mark, for two reasons. First, after you've had to distort and misrepresent yourself for every producer in town (e.g., like the time you had to pluck every emotional chord you've got to muster up some semblance of passion for your Beverly Hills 90210 crying-scene audition), you hardly know who or what the real you is anymore. Second, no one really wants to "be themselves" in public. We are reluctant to expose ourselves even to friends, much less to a jaded public with an eye for scandal and an unquenchable thirst for hubris and its attendant fall. So I, like every other sensible person thrust into (or thrusting themselves toward) the glare of the public eye, tried to project an improved version of myself. Big mistake.

Before anyone imagines that this is some kind of lamentation of a great evil in the world, let me say this: Any actor who has had any success whatsoever ought to count his lucky stars that he turns over enough bread for the Enquirer to even consider including him on the "worst dressed" list. Clearly, successful actors (and particularly those who, even for a fleeting moment, are anointed "movie stars") enjoy wealth, power, and privilege wildly beyond their station. We should take what we get and like it—I don't contest that. I do, however, find the situation of "promoting" myself and my movies curious and contradictory.

But in the end, it is probably not worth deconstructing. It's a pretty straightforward thing: Talk to somebody, brag on your movie some, and hope that a few more people go to see it because they're intrigued with what they've read. And, hey, maybe they've gotten to know the actor a little better. In that spirit, let me end where I began: Who I am, and why you should see my movie.

I'm somebody who probably has too many mirrors in his house, but doesn't much like what he sees when he looks into them. I try to be generous, try to be kind, and try to remember how lucky I've been, but I've been known to fall short in all three regards. As far as fame and fortune go, I generally believe one should understand that none of it is deserved, but try to take as much advantage of it as one can in good conscience. I like quiet and the idea of rest, but can't seem to stop moving. I like people (as someone once said), but I hate gatherings. I try to expose myself to diversity, change, and new experiences, but when alone in my car, I end up listening to the same song over and over on the CD player. I know that fame and fortune are fleeting (as Matt recently said in GQ, "the phone stopped ringing for better actors than me"), but I can't help hoping that I can do this forever. I believe in the friends and family I've known since childhood, but I've already lost touch with too many. I love company and the security of love, but most days I feel alone. If I had to choose between being held in high regard by those in the movie business or esteemed by those around me whom I admire, respect, and have known through thick and thin, I'll opt for the latter: a life where people still talk to you even if the phone rings only occasionally, and where your friends don't mind if you haven't made it onto the cover of a flashy movie magazine in quite some time. Oh: And go see the movie I made with John Frankenheimer. It's pretty good.

Ben Affleck, actor and Oscar-winning writer (Good Will Hunting), blew his deadline but only misspelled two words in this piece.

[scotianostra]

On 4th June 1694 the Merchant Maiden Hospital was established in the Cowgate, Edinburgh.

Mary Erskine and the Company of Merchants Edinburgh co-found the Merchant Maiden Hospital to house and educate the destitute daughters of Edinburgh's merchants. 'Hospital' was a term given to an endowed charitable foundation at this time.

The Hospital (school) was initially housed in the Company of Merchants' own halls in the Cowgate. In 1696 the first girls took up residence in the Merchant Company's Cowgate building, lodging in the gallery above the Great Hall.

The Hospital moved to Bristo Street in about 1706, to a site purchased by Mary Erskine. However, by the start of the 19th Century the governers were resolved on the contruction of a new hospital. Robert Reid, Richard Crichton and a Mr Harvey supplied plans for a hospital in Lothian Street, This was never built; instead, in 1816, the new building in Lauriston was commissioned. The Merchant Maidens resided here from 1818 until 1870, when they removed (as the 'Edinburgh Educational Institution for Young Ladies') to Queen Street.

From 1870 to 1933, the premises were occupied by George Watson's Boys College.

However, the site was purchased by the Royal Infirmary for its expansion plans, and the College moved to Colinton Road. Burn's building was demolished, and the Simpson Memorial Maternity Pavilion and Florence Nightingale Nurses' Home built in its place.

Since 1944, on the 250th anniversary of Mary Erskine’s original foundation, the school has been known as The Mary Erskine School and currently caters for some 750 pupils. It is one of the oldest all girls’ schools in the world. It’s sister school of the all-boys Stewart Melvilles share a co-ed nursery and junior school up to and including 11 year olds.

The school has had several premises through the centuries and is now based at Ravelston Dykes..

[mothlau]

how do you think butch f1 driver!max’s journey to figuring out his gender identity went like?

my thoughts are sort of jumbled up so apologies for that

well she's always been a tomboy and never really cared for the whole girly things so she's been on this road since birth basically. i think jos didn't try to push her towards anything feminine either, because in his eyes (and in max's for a bit sadly) femininity meant being weak. but! he tried to steer her away from the gay masculinity basically. yes, she was allowed to have shorter hair and to dress like a boy, but he still wanted her to be a girl, not a lesbian. so bc of that, max had to work through not only internalised misogyny but also internalised lesbophobia

growing up her chest got bigger (I think she has a very complicated relationship with it) and, subsequently, she started getting sexualised a lot. not only because of her chest but bc she was a girl and well, that usually comes with the role. so she started to bind (unsafely, ofc) to take attention away from what she thought to be the biggest issue. she was convinced that if she didn't have tits anymore men would no longer look at her like that (spoiler, it didn't work). but over time she realised that she does feel more comfortable with a flatter chest, which did send her spiraling for a bit because she can't get rid of them, that's not allowed for a girl (in my notes she gets a top reduction surgery later on, after she worked through everything)

to avoid being sexualised and seen as a girl, she also adopted a more violent persona. she took less care of her appearance, wore baggy clothes, refused to put on make up of any kind. she was aggressive to prove herself and her worth, she started biting (metaphorically) to prove she should be in the sport

now, that's how she presents herself to the world, aggressive max, who looks like a man and who doesn't care when people talk shit about her and call her a he-she and who throws away her femininity at the first chance she gets. but in her private life she is trying so hard to understand herself. she's not a man, she knows this, she doesn't want to be one. she doesn't want to be with a man either, she knows that much too. but she is so confused about how she should feel, about the emotions going on inside of her when she is near girls who aren't afraid to be girls

and ofc, charles enters the sport and they're the complete opposites and max absolutely hates that she can still be feminine and take part in this sport. this adds even more feelings to deal with for her and she spends a lot of their first years together in the sport bad mouthing charles and being a dick and hating herself and charles both

ok and heres where the ooc bit comes in: I think max would come across stone butch blues and read it out of curiosity. and things sort of just click

I mean it's still not fully resolved, and it takes her a long time to accept that she's a butch, but she's starting to crack. another ooc thing is that she's getting therapy (crazy ik), so she brings this to her therapist and they start working through it together. it's her therapist who makes her realise that she doesn't care about pronouns that much, but she still can't really be vocal about it so for a while it's something he keeps to himself. they start referring to themselves with different pronouns in their mind and it feels good. it feels right

he still dresses the same, she still acts the same, but things are starting to feel good. she reclaims the he-she's thrown at her, does it with a smile even

and in this whole thing, charles is also figuring shit out as a femme lesbian who thought she was straight until a while ago

ofc, they don't tell each other they're dykes, but their relationship changes. they're also growing older and maturing, and they realise that they should stick together in the sport. no one else will have their back anyway, may as well help each other out

it's relatively easy to fall into a butchfemme dynamic for them. it feels natural. and max feels comfortable enough to share with charles that pronouns aren't his thing necessarily and charles has no problem switching back and forth. having someone else acknowledge that also helps max work through their identity, because they no longer have to perform one that's accepted by the masses. it's just max now, who is a butch and proud of it

the public isn't as accepting, obvs, but she reaches a point where she doesn't care about it anymore. she's max and he knows what that means for him

[amoxicillin-tangent]

"her · it · age"

property that is or may be inherited; an inheritance.

i visit my hometown for the first time in a decade. i have never felt more or less like me. before today, i was no one because i had nowhere to remember and nothing that was truly mine. and now i feel like someone again. someone with roots.

my roots are filthy, nasty, rotten. set in a town with more bayous than banks, backwater, backwoods. my roots are set in trailer parks with moon crater puddles of stagnant water. my roots are set in putrid places where flowers refuse to bloom.

but at the corner right past the railroad that goes on forever, there is a trailer home without air conditioning where the hummingbirds fly. that is where my murky, trashy, broken roots begin and they are mine.

i buy a french vanilla cappuccino from a corner store that's open all night. the cashier takes one look at me and say "that'll be a dollar forty-nine. yer one-a dem Gauthier girls, aintcha?" and I nod politely, say yes ma'am i am, though i'm a Gauthier in face and not name. i pay a dollar bill and 2 quarters for my drink. she gives me a dime in change. by the time i realize she got it wrong, it's too late for me to turn back. i pocket the 10-cent piece. maybe I'll frame it.

there's a man selling peaches by the basket on the roadside. i buy a single one. it drips down my chin and tastes like heaven like home, and the scent won't leave my breath. i turn the car around and go back, understanding now why he sells them in batches of 20.

the clouds are fallen angels turning their backs on the world. everything prays for the south-- the grass, the grain, the dirt. eventually the angel clouds turn back around, casting their shadows at the rusted crucifix on Margie's purple wall. 

there are no towers on the horizon, no mechanical sepulchers sinking their teeth into the ground to drink the oil like parched soil drinks the year's first rainfall. there are no towers here, just trees for miles and angel clouds and rickety train-cars fallen on their sides.

the roads are almost empty, where they exist at all. there is more traffic at night. some of it is ghosts. no one questions this.

the neighbor ladies sip sweet tea and their gossip sounds like ice cubes clinking against smudged glasses, "didja hear Jessica's baby ain't right in the head?" "sure ain't. and who would be, under the circumstances? can't believe she married Chantelle." "funny, i never reckoned she'd be a dyke." there is an edge of disdain in their tea-glass voices, overshadowed by boredom.

strange things happen in the church on 1st street. the trains rush through the town. before anyone hears or sees them, they make their presence known by shaking the ground. everything is dilapidated now. the buildings are broken like a child's lincoln log castles. the families are shattered like mother's good vases.

the morning light comes and dew glistens over everything, spiderwebs stretch out bigger than my face, clover fields and dove feathers and honeysuckles litter the ground. 

everything has changed but its all the same, there are still pieces of me scattered through the world. at least i have this one back.

it's time for me to leave.

[ebp-brain]

ficlet: Dean Winchester is a butch lesbian and has way more game that way

[I told myself: it's been ages since you've written fic. just write a ficlet to get back into it. it can be about literally any character. just pick one. this is what my brain did.]

Dee takes the waitress out to the back on her break, around the alley by the dumpster. It smells like old oil and trash, but hey, there’s a breeze. The waitress is looking at Dee in a way that makes Dee suspect she’s never been kissed by a girl before, at least not a dyke with a buzzcut—maybe some “experimenting” at slumber parties, maybe that much. She’s blonde and cute and skinner than Dee usually likes ‘em, but beggars can’t be choosers and hunters can’t either. Usually Dee’s more likely to be run out of a small-town diner for flirting with the waitress, Sam shaking his head in exasperation as he leaves a ten on the table and follows, but she got lucky today. Or she’s about to.

“So you’re, uh. On a road trip? With your…?”

“Brother,” Dee says. The girl looks nervous. She looks more nervous when Dee steps close to her. “Just passing through.”

“Right.”

“Right. You got real pretty hair, you know that?”

The waitress—Alison—flushes. “Thanks.”

“What’s that lip gloss?” Dee asks, getting in close and smelling something fruity. “Cherry?”

“Cherry Coke.” Alison licks her lips, little pink tongue darting out, then says, a hint of bravado in her voice: “Want some?”

Dee grins, and kisses her. She tenses and then melts, back up against the brick wall of the diner, letting Dee crowd her. Good kisser. Might be her first time with a lesbian, but Dee’s willing to be it’s not her first time with a customer who’s just passing through. She makes a little noise in her throat—Dee is certain it’s calculated but couldn’t give a shit—and Dee grabs her hips and hoists her legs up around Dee’s waist. Alison gasps.

They make out, breathless and already sweating from the heat. Dee has to set her down after a bit but she takes the opportunity to grab Dee’s wrists and puts them up under her shirt. Dee feels a warm stomach, then a lacy bra.

“I only got a ten minute break,” Alison whispers.

That’s about how long till Sammy starts getting restless anyway and wants to get back to the hunt. “Better make it count,” says Dee.

“Only five minutes left now, probably.”

Dee presses her hard against the wall, their bodies flush, Dee’s knee between Alison’s legs. “I work fast,” Dee says, and feels Alison’s grin against her lips.

[quadalupita]

Today, my wife and I begin our exit from our shitty, wannabe fascist state to a hopefully better one. Feeling pushed out of the place where we first made a home for ourselves, our home state where we have both lived for over 25 years, is generating a lot of complicated emotions that I’m too spaced out to sort through at the moment. So I’m focusing on excitement instead.

Besides, now I get to see @dyke-pollinator’s garden. I know she takes such good care of it!!

The road trip to greener pastures starts today baby!!!

[youhideastar]

first and last lines

Rules: go through your last 5 fics and share the first and last line. No context.

I was tagged by @sunshine304, thank you! 😄

Fit for Purpose

First: Wei Wuxian knows he can’t stay forever. No more than Lan Zhan could have tossed aside all his responsibilities, on that road away from Guanyin Temple, and come roaming with him.

Last: He's so good, Wei Wuxian thinks, and he smiles as he slips out of the waking world.

End Racism in the OTW

First: When Wei Ying had started teasing Lan Zhan (approximately 30 seconds after meeting Lan Zhan for the first time in their music therapy seminar) it was totally costless, because it wasn’t like she was fucking up her chances at dating this beautiful, expressionless, chic alpha dyke – obviously someone like that wouldn’t be caught dead on a date with a dorky goth disaster like Wei Ying to begin with.

Last: From the smile on Lan Zhan’s face as she rises to join Wei Ying, Wei Ying thinks she knows that. And somehow, that’s not embarrassing at all.

Tender

First: Lan Wangji arrives in Yiling as the sun is setting. He had hoped to arrive at midday, but the delay makes little difference. He will seek out Wei Ying tomorrow, instead.

Last: Lan Wangji, in the midst of his sorrow, smiles—then he turns away and walks down the narrow road into the dark.

Concord

First: Lan Wangji is not consulted as to whether he wishes to marry.

Last: “Come to bed with me, husband,” says Wei Ying, with a sketch of a sweet and secretive smile. “If you would please me. Lan Zhan. Come to bed.” Lan Wangji does.

Untitled Current WIP

First: Wei Ying walks into the strategy meeting late, unapologetic, head high, wearing a faint smirk and surrounded—as he always is, now—by a choking cloud of alpha pheromones, heavy as a gathering storm. The betas around the table—Jiang Wanyin and Jin Zixun—hunch their shoulders and dip their heads. It is likely, Lan Wangji thinks, that they do not even themselves understand why.

Last (for now): “Wei Ying will no longer go into battle without me at his side.”

Postscript: I was really expecting all the last lines to be someone falling asleep--I am so prone to that! And yes, there was one of those. 😂 But apparently my new default ending is... smiling?? The more you know. The beginnings are also interesting - both of the WWX POV fics begin with WWX stating that he/she can't have the thing that, by the end of the fic, WWX is totally going to have. The LWJ POV fic beginnings, by contrast, emphasize exposition rather than emotion, and have a pretty matter-of-fact tone. So yeah - a fun and interesting exercise all around!

If you'd like to play, I'm tagging @queenofattolia, @travelingneuritis, @chrononautintraining and @stultiloquentia!

[moreads5]

On The Road: dykes to watch out for (1987)

En route to the march on Washington, our stalwart band of travelers pauses briefly in the heartland of America.

“Ugh! This chili has meat in it!” Clarice flicks her spoon back into her bowl, sending a splatter of greasy red sauce across the tabletop. Mo slides into the booth next to her, fresh from a harrowing encounter with the diner bathroom—flickering lights, questionable fluids on the sink, and, worst of all, a creepy pigtailed child staring at her outside the door. Mo suppresses a shiver.

Lois, undeterred, reaches across the table, narrowly avoiding the water glasses as she scoops up Clarice’s abandoned spoon and shoves it into her mouth. “What’d you expect at Hojo’s? Tempeh?” she says, smacking through a mouthful of chili.

Mo pointedly ignores Clarice and Lois’s squabbling, instead focusing on the warm brush of Harriet’s knees against hers. Harriet sits across from her, gazing at Mo with such unguarded kindness that it makes Mo blurt out, “I hate using the bathrooms in these places. Some five-year-old just asked her mother if I was a boy or a girl.”

It’s far from the first time. The frustration should have worn off by now, but it hasn’t. The first time Mo remembers it happening, she was seven, standing in a grocery store checkout line. An old man had clapped her on the shoulder and called her “son” after catching sight of the choppy self-inflicted haircut she’d given herself the night before. Mo had begged her mother for short hair for months—not for fashion, just for practicality. Mo’s hair, to her, seemed nothing but a nuisance and a constant reminder of her inferior gender. No more bows, no more ponytails, no more braids. She used to fantasize about waking up one morning and finding it all gone, reaching up to run her fingers over nothing but a scruffy, efficient crop.

Harriet lays her hand atop Mo’s, pausing her rapid thoughts about hair, “So? You shook up a little kid’s assumptions. It was good for her.” 

“Yeah,” Clarice piped up, “think of yourself as a walking educational experience. You should try being the first black person one of these corn-fed kids has ever seen.” 

Lois leans forward, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I dunno, rest stops give me the creeps.”

Toni, glancing over both shoulders, nods in agreement. “These people look like escapees from Heritage USA.”

Then Harriet’s gaze flicks up behind Mo’s head. Her eyes widened just slightly. “Don’t look now, but there are two cowboys headed straight for us.”

Of course, everyone looks.

Striding toward their table are two men, the living embodiment of the American heartland—rugged, square-jawed, dust from the road still clinging to their boots. The younger one is blonde and blue-eyed, sporting a cowhide vest that makes Mo’s vegetarian stomach turn. The older a mustachioed gentleman who looked a bit like Tom Selleck in a cowboy hat.

The blonde steps up first, planting a hand on the table just in front of Harriet’s plate of toast and eggs. He leans in. “Howdy.”

Harriet levels him with a stare. “Hi.”

The mustachioed man clears his throat, clapping a hand on the blonde one's shoulder. “You all look like you’re headed for D.C.”

“Yeah,” Harriet snaps. “And what of it?”

Harriet then reaches forward and grips her fork at the base—subtle, almost imperceptible. But Mo sees it. And she feels it, too. A sharp thrill shoots through her, right to her groin. Is Harriet actually preparing to stab this cowboy in the neck with a diner fork? And, Goddess help her, is Mo enjoying it?

She can already picture the headline: CO-ED STABS HOMOPHOBE AT HOJO’S.

The table holds its collective breath.

Then the mustachioed man speaks again. “Well, so are we! All the way from Iowa. You folks have a good trip and enjoy the march.”

With that, the two men turn and walk away. Mo watches as the blonde carefully hooks his thumb into the mustachioed man’s back pocket.

Back on the road, Lois’s tiny yellow Volkswagen rattles along the highway, packed to bursting with bodies and baggage. The women are still laughing, recounting their near brush with—what? Danger? Embarrassment? Heteronormativity? 

“Hoo boy! Was my face red!” Toni hoots, raking a hand through her mullet.

“I know!” Harriet grins. “Talk about assumptions.”

Then, in her second act of bravery that day, Harriet throws an arm over the back of Mo’s seat. Mo settles in, letting its warm weight rest there on her shoulder.  Mo suddenly felt a rush of thankfulness for the crowded conditions of Lois’s tiny yellow Volkswagen. 

[caranelguild]

May 1-4, 2IY 1

After a devilishly clever idea from Brindi and Roy results in less immediate peril for the demon-pact-bound Sage, our adventurers anchor the UFO, have Coriander land the Legacy, and rest as day breaks.

When he has rejuvenated his divine connection, Roy uses a powerful mind-manipulation spell that is paired with the convincing gaslighting of Brindi to convince a consenting Sage that she is still working hard to enact satisfying and complete revenge upon our adventurers - but she's just playing the long game now, weasling her way into hearts and learning everything she can learn to make the revenge that much more devastating and comprehensive.

Her illness immediately abates as the spell takes hold. No longer having to worry about her, our party sets off as evening sets in, traveling the last few miles towards the village of Ogkikh before the sun sets.

The rice paddies are seen first, and here they anchor. Morama heads along the dykes to do some quick recon, asking after her parents. She is told that her father has become a valued elder, and is unable to leave the village due to health complications, but her mother is on a religious mission to the north.

When the farmer learns to whom he is speaking, he is beyond excited to lead our adventurers to Ogkikh. Their welcome is ebullient - a gaggle of young children sent to old Olmthu's place to wheel him out to reunite with his long-lost daughter.

Ogkikh is populated by folks over forty and under fifteen - a generation having been lost to the military manipulations of the demon Marilith.

A party is thrown for the crew of the UFO, though Brindi, Rip, and Coriander remain behind with the ships, the former communing with her extraordinary magic tome, the Octavo.

Sage and Morama are given a comfortable annex for the night, and Morama seems to have no qualms about intimately reuniting with a wife who wholeheartedly believes she is only sleeping with Morama in order to better betray her later.

The others sleep in a kitted out stilthouse over the marsh.

In the morning, Brindi joins them. They are directed towards an immigrant wetland halfling, when they ask after legends about the Drowned Lands.

This halfling tells them the tale of a seafolk Halfling princess from ancient times - no more than a fairy tale, but it infers a number of the elements from Gal's translation of the Resh-Khan's throne parchment: namely, the princess was courted by a god, but married a foreign prince before dying mysteriously on the road.

The halfling then points our adventurers towards two destinations to learn more: the largest city of the coastal halflings, Galumfh, and the major cathedral and its school of paladins roughly a day away from it.

After sending a raven to the north to call Morama's mother back to Ogkikh, our adventurers depart to the south, heading to Galumfh first.

This city of narrow streets and delicate spires sits almost at sea level and occupies the whole of its flat delta island. The UFO is anchored across the water, and our adventurers take a ferry in.

Here, Zilybar almost joins a high school literature club in a pub called the Crystal Coffin. Nothing else exciting occurs, but information is collected.

It is learned that the city sits upon the flattened head of a gargantuan statue from a bygone era, and one can take a submersible tour of this statue's face.

The cathedral is the hub of the Church of Istishia, and many halflings find it grossly ironic that this deity of freedom and neutrality has been confined within rigid doctrine. The city itself is anarchic, collected into communities, so this opposition to a hierarchical church makes sense. The "arm of justice" from the throne parchment might suggest this church, then - and that becomes our adventurers' next destination.

[tenobelisk]

Tired Old Dyke Describes Harrowing Ordeal With Appointments Roads and Departments #141

Today I rather fittingly began my journey toward a diagnosis of ME/CFS with a black cloud over my head, feeling like a walking bruise after three appointments in a week, each involving long walks down london streets before Talking To People whose job it is to help me.

Despite being able to easily afford public transport worry-free for the first time in my adult life (i am in my forties), the time pressure involved with lining up for the scanner, getting off at the right stop, navigating crowds, Unskippable Ads (leaflet person, noisy strangers or shop audio) and taking a Route I Have Not Taken Before results in a walk being preferable and most likely healthier.

So there's me sitting down with the GP and going through the symptoms of the condition to see where i diverged. When she asks me how my symptoms compare to "pre-illness" I inform her that I do not recall a time when I did not have these symptoms upon exertion and/or exhaustion. This is then met with measurable silence.

My entire life i have put 100% effort into keeping up with others who seem to do the same tasks with maybe 60% and have room left for.. talking? eating? laughing? afterwards. I have always worn out quicker, been weaker and had less motivation to do anything physically effortful. Perhaps with the exception of bedroom shenanigans.

I think of the scene in the movie Gattaca when the brothers have a swimming race at a beach with a point way out in the depths as the finish line. The "normal" brother beats the genetically modified one. When asked how it was possible, the unmodified brother confesses he did not save any energy for the swim back. That is how I have attempted to keep up with the expectations and standards of those around me. I have changed diets, changed lifestyles, changed countries, changed partners and changed nothing.

I have had to smile and shrug my shoulders at suggestions that it will get easier or I just need to stick it out or oh it must be your (insert diagnosis) and so on. Nope. I have been waiting for the thing people told me would happen when I went back in for another try. Again and again.

As it turns out, my brain fog and post-exertional malaise have been so constant and consistent with any effortful activity that I genuinely believed it to be something everyone goes through but just Puts Up With Better. So now let's see what an actual label for a lifelong short fuse means for me. Maybe i will feel justified in having a lie down the next time I am drunk and slurring words with no alcohol in sight.