#however I suffer from Chronic Embarrassment

[mycological-mariner]

There’s a writing workshop I go to every two months where we write short pieces and read them out. I think I’ve just come up with the most horrible, hilarious, devastating, embarrassing and bitterly hopeful story and I’m writing it right now, it’s making me emotional

[berryshipbasket]

I've been feeling really sick recently, so to help myself I'm gonna write down a bunch of Jim.iny X Berry stuff I have so far! As well as some general Berry info and Jim.iny headcanons,,,

Proship / Exclusionists DNI

Jim.iny is visually impaired. Multiple times he's shown to own a pair of glasses when reading and just generally getting a better look at things, so I definitely think he's far-sighted. I also headcanon Jim.iny as being colour blind, specifcally red/green colour blind (suggested by a friend)

Being where Pino.cchio takes place, Jim.iny knows some Italian! I hc he's half-Italian

Him and Berry would've met before the events of Pino.cchio's adventure, officially getting together sometime afterwards, both of them viewing Pino.cchio as a nephew of sorts.

Berry's specifc species of bee is a white-tailed bumblebee

Berry often carries around a messenger bag, one of the objects they carry in it is a hot water bottle in the shape of a honeycomb. They have PCOS and often suffer from chronic stomach pains. They also carry around medication such as iron deficiency tablets.

Berry is bigger than Jim.iny in both height and weight.

Both of them are very tired and sleepy bugs, however Berry has trouble falling asleep at the same time he does. Usually Jim.iny falls asleep first, while Berry is always the one who wakes up first.

Berry goes by she/they/he pronouns and is bigender (Nonbinary demigirl), while I don't really have any identity headcanons for Jim.iny other than just he/him pronouns. Both are bisexual though!

I often refer to Jim.iny as both my boyfriend and husband, despite not officially having wed Berry and Jim.iny yet.... but I have plans : ) Although it wouldn't be a typical wedding. I and my sonas have Kosmemophobia meaning I'm uncomfortable wearing jewellery.

Berry lives in sort of a false hive. It's smaller than a regular beehive and they live by themself (till they met Jim.iny) Their bed is surrounded by pillows and other soft items, kinda looking like a blooming flower.

Jim.iny's nicknames for Berry are very bee-scentric. Calling them things such as: Honey Honeypot Honeycomb Buzzy Meanwhile Berry likes to call him names like "Cuddlebug" and "Bedbug"

Berry has spots and scars on their legs which she is very self conscious about, to help them feel better Jim.iny always refers to them as "Stars"

Jim.iny has a big sweet tooth, Berry doesn't

Berry often likes to eat alone as they would feel embarrassed by their eating habits, but he's become more comfortable eating with Jim.iny

They can be drawn during any time period mostly. Whether it be during the original 1940 movie or modern day

Berry often prefers flying instead of walking due to having a weak ankle.

Despite Berry not being one for physical touch, both of them are big cuddlers. They feel safe with Jim.iny and he respects their boundaries, always asking if it's okay first. Jim.iny loves soft things and often cuddles with Berry, finding their bee fuzz very soft.

They've had the odd disagreement on things now and then, but they turn it into more playful teasing and joke arguing while actually talking things out.

Jim.iny loves to dance while Berry isn't much of a dancer, always claiming they have two left feet. Jim.iny often likes to show them how to slow dance in private though, knowing they're uncomfortable dancing in public

Berry is an artist! She often carries a sketchpad around with them. And despite his raggedy and worn clothes, he's learning how to stitch and sow, wanting to design outfits one day.

One sign of affection they both do is bumping noses together

That's it for now, might edit and write more later. < : ]

[poisonedapples]

Headcanon: Husk has always had some sensory issues, but after his demon form gave him enhanced cat senses, he now gets more overstimulated than he ever did when he was alive. So, 80% of the time that Husk seems to be in a never ending pissy mood, the only fix is to put him in a dark, quiet room until further notice. Husk will rarely admit that he desperately needs some quiet time and will definitely just suffer further unless someone stops him

Niffty, Angel, and Charlie will all do elaborate schemes to “trick” him into winding down somewhere quiet. It’s a loose definition of “trick” because Husk absolutely knows what they’re trying to do, he’s just beyond the point of giving a fuck. Also, Niffty has never known subtlety once in her life. She just leads him off to his room in a vaguely threatening manner, and Husk is not about to put himself on her bad side, so he just follows along while vaguely intimidated

Alastor deliberately makes it worse because he thinks it’s funny. He sees Husk’s anger as a game so he loves to deliberately upset him and then punish him for his bad attitude. Angel, however, is NOT contracted to Alastor and has no problem with yelling at Alastor to turn his fucking radios down because they’re making the walls thump. It also pisses Vaggie off and makes Charlie upset, so Alastor has kept his games to a minimum since joining the hotel

Vaggie straight up sends Husk to his room like a disgruntled mother. She understands the most out of everyone how he must feel, since she’s also a chronic introvert and can get overstimulated if her social battery is low. So she will kick Husk out of the bar and make him go back to his room, which ALWAYS results in them getting into a fight because he’s a grown ass man, not a teenager who can be fucking grounded and sent to his room, thank you very much. But then he comes back down hours later, in a much better mood but definitely embarrassed about the whole thing, and Vaggie elects to spare him any further embarrassment from her saying “I told you so”

[writing2sirvive]

Remembering my senior year, during tech week for Guys and Dolls, I was not only exhausted but also having a really bad flare. I was talking with my friend (who was one of the leads of the musical) and I was talking about how being so tired was causing a flare and making my life even harder. Like I kept dropping things, could barely walk, and most notably my speech was terrible. And I was known for speaking so fast that my words and sounds got jumbled (read: I have ADHD). He admitted he noticed and was very concerned and confused as to how my having a flare, which had to do with my feet since I was dancing and such, was causing my to speak as if I was drunk.

I tried to explain that as someone who suffered from chronic pain (was first diagnosed with AMPS at 11 and a few month after this would get diagnosed with fibromyalgia) the more pain I’m in the harder things, even basic things like motor skills and speech, went out the window.

However due to my speech having stopped for dulce de leche at El Cafe Cubana in Havana (HaVaNa?!?!??) what came out was:

“Words get hard the more ow.”

My friend clearly amused repeated “words get hard the more ow?” To which I tiredly lowered my head and let out a sigh in defeat.

Keep in mind: I’m the funny friend with ADHD. I will bare the most embarrassing parts of myself for the bit, to the point I have trouble getting people to take me seriously. I’m not above self mockery if it means people find me funny. And yet, this time I did not lay myself out like A Fool™️ on purpose. This was solely my barely functioning last brain cells trying to make a point, but not having enough brain power to do so properly.

Never in my life could I have accurately described the essence of being in so much pain that you can barely speak properly yet continue to go about your day, so perfectly, despite being in so much pain that you can barely speak properly. And by accident.

[abalathia]

- basics.

B A S I C S

Name: Florence Armstrong Corlieux.

Nicknames: Flo, Ren.

Age: 29.

Nameday: 10th Sun of the 2nd Astral Moon.

Race: Ala Mhigan. Half Highlander, half Midlander.

Gender: Female.

Orientation: Pansexual (femme preference).

Profession: Sell-sword. Now that the Resistance has prevailed, Florence escorts a merchant ship to and from Thavnair, splitting her time between there and Gyr Abania.

P H Y S I C A L     A S P E C T S

Hair: Naturally raven though occasionally dyed.

Eyes: Amber. 

Skin: Sun-kissed. 

Tattoos/scars: No tattoos. Plenty of scars, her facial scar the most prominent.

F A M I L Y

Parents: Ada Armstrong, a retired dancer, and Frederick Corlieux, an Ishgardian soldier. She maintains a close relationship with her mother. The only knowledge she has of her father, however, is his name which she adopted in order to spare her family the embarrassment of being linked to her unsavory transgressions.

Siblings: The twins, Emmett and Elias.

Grandparents: Unknown/estranged.

In-laws and Other: None.

Pets: A street cat.

S K I L L S

Abilities: Years as a soldier for the Crystal Braves and subsequently the Ala Mhigan Resistance cemented her strong skillset with varying melee weapons, most notably swords and lances. Her prowess in close-quartered combat makes up for her lack of practice with ranged and magical armaments.

Hobbies: Fishing, jewelry crafting, and reading are a few of Florence's beloved hobbies. Following the war, however, she drowns herself in drink and work, eager to eliminate as much downtime as possible lest her demons rage.

T R A I T S

Most Positive Trait: Ambitious and passionate, she is a hell of an addition to any roster. Failure will never be an option, and Florence will stop at nothing to succeed.

Most Negative Trait: Florence is reckless, impulsive, and hedonistic. You can give her a command, but it's a coin toss whether or not she will follow through. If it does not benefit her, you can assume the latter.

L I K E S

Colors: Jewel tones with a preference for oranges and blues.

Smells: Leather, tobacco, and spices.

Textures: Metallic and jagged textures.

Drinks: Anything stiff and neat.

O T H E R    D E T A I L S

Smokes: Yes.

Drinks: Daily. Florence suffers from survivor's guilt and PTSD, and inebriation is the only source of relief she allows herself. Unwilling to divulge what she considers to be her weaknesses, she refuses to seek help and instead drowns her symptoms until their sting is inconsequential.

Drugs: Frequently. (See above.)

Mount Issuance: A lilac-plumed chocobo.

Been Arrested: Caught many a time for petty crimes such as thievery, Florence is no stranger to the law. Her capture for her complicity in the events at Baelsar's Wall nearly cost her her life, but she has remained at liberty since negotiating her release.

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

Tagged by: I lost the post I stole this from. :')

Tagging: Anyone! i'm chronically late to the party.

[the-ravens-requiem]

Plague-Tober 2023 #1 - Safe

DOCTOR'S NOTES - #666

- - -

There are many small towns and villages scattered amidst the forests and rivers in the Middle Kingdom. In one such village to the north called Pine Hollow, there is a clinic nestled amidst tall trees.

Those who are suffering from a malady or illness seek the physician out, well known for his bedside manner and kindness. Walking through the dark wood and coming across the small clinic is not an easy task for the afflicted, nevertheless the pilgrimage is often completed.

Tales of his healing magic curing symptoms of illness that plague the afflicted in just a few sessions are far and wide, and many come from other lands just to see him work. A miracle worker, by most standards.

I recently visited the physician so that I too, may see his work. Curious by nature, I found myself fascinated by the tales and wondered how one could capture such success. We share the same goal, after all: To help people.

Making the trek was an easier task for me than some, and soon I found myself in front of the healer's dwelling. It was a small place, much like my own. Though the nature of his work was slightly different than my practice. As such, once I stepped inside, I was not surprised when I found that he had partitioned parts of the clinic off for the infirm to rest. Only four beds, but I was told that it is because he does not often need more than once or twice to completely heal even the worst illnesses.

When speaking to the physician -- whose name was Marbas, one of the cat-shaped folk of the Faewild -- I found him to be quite charming and soft-spoken. The voice which came from his lionesque muzzle was deep and sonorous, almost melodic. I found that listening to him speak was quite pleasant and was easily persuaded to see how such a demeanor put ill persons at ease.

We spoke for a while. I asked him a few questions about his practice, though the longer I was there the more captivated I became. And yet, something was off. My long and well-honed instincts told me that there was more to Marbas than meets the eye. I did not think him a charlatan, but still. A nagging sort of feeling. I finally gave in once my surface level interview had been completed and requested a more private conversation once the clinic was closed, and he seemed to be agreeable.

I watched him work the rest of the day. The joy on the patient's faces when their suffering had been eased. He confided in me, off-the-record, that although he could cure afflictions he could not completely cease the pain of more chronic sort of illnesses. He was not the miracle worker of tales in the sense that he could not make a blind man see again, or make one whose legs were weak to stand or walk again. Such was out of his field and the nature of his magic. He could only return one to their natural state, and some things just were. I appreciated this honesty, and he noted that at the height of his fame he had to turn so many away because of this that it nearly broke his heart.

When I watched him work, however, I noticed that I was unfamiliar with the sort of magic he used. It did not appear to be any healing magic I had ever encountered on any of my journeys. It had the feel of something far more ancient. When we were able to speak privately, I asked him about it.

Marbas seemed startled that I had noticed, but after a moment or two he reached out to touch my hand. In that moment, I think we both understood the nature of the other. This sparked an honest confession.

I remember Marbas' eyes being golden in color. He looked at me through my mask as if he could see me completely, underneath. And when I looked back, I began to piece together what I had saw that day. The words were soft and mumbled, as if he were embarrassed by them.

"I feast on their suffering."

The catfolk visage was a clever illusion. Marbas was something far older than The Known World itself. The Old World would have called him a demon, and I was unsure of what they would call him now.

He confessed that he had started this venture a long time ago, simply as a means to eat. Suffering of the afflicted was sweet, he explained. His domain was disease, both in the giving and taking sort of way. When he discovered that more people would come to him if he healed them, he decided to pose as a physician and open a clinic. Over time, the joy of the healing took the place of his hunger, though he still fed upon the suffering because that is how he survived. But instead of causing it himself, he would absorb what would come through the doors of his humble clinic.

Marbas confided in me that he knew some of his regular patients began to see through his charade, but his service was so successful and eased so much of their pain that they chose to look past it. They felt safe with him, and the eating of their suffering was his payment when they could not provide coin. An open secret, essentially.

It was a secret I would keep with me, as well.

Who am I to deny a fellow healer with a secret? It would be hypocritical of me to sound such an alarm. And if he is not doing any harm, who am I to stop him?

- - -

Also inspired by this post.

[fairyniceyeah]

11 and 17 for the writer asks??

Hey Anon^^

Thanks for the asks!!!

Ask 17 is answered here: Asks 3, 6, 17

You really made me sweat with question 11XD

I spent half my morning re-reading fics to be able to answer this! It’s a really interesting question though, so thanks for choosing it!

11. Do you have a comfort fic that you always come back to? What is it?

Well, here we are again with hyperfixations on fandoms! I don’t necessarily have a specific comfort fic I will always read because it’s just not the fandom I am interested in currently. Below, will follow a list with a few fics I really like and find comfort in re-reading.

But, first of all. This must sound super arrogant and self-centered but there are two fics I do come back to regularly that I wrote for myself:

One is Red - The Blood of sick men, focused on Les Misérables’ Enjolras suffering from Ulcerative Colitis. As somebody who has this awful and potentially embarrassing chronic illness (and had a lot of health complications due to it), it does comfort me when I start to feel awful physically or mentally due to it. It’s bittersweet because I am writing about a lot of my own personal issues, things that have really happened to me but with the twist of his friends knowing and caring about him. Basically it’s Enjolras getting the comfort I need(ed).

Same goes for Black - The Colour of Despair, where I make Combeferre deal with his parents getting a divorce – and yeah, it’s basically a retelling of my parents divorce… but it helped me deal a lot because I was able to finally write down my thoughts and figure out my feelings towards my parents.

But as promised:

Shadowhunters

The first fic that comes to mind is Tea of Every Flavor by IntrovertedRavenclaw. It teaches about the various uses of tea and it’s generally very sweet. Especially Chapter Seven with this dialogue

Alec sips the tea carefully, testing out the temperature. "It's bland." "You threw up. You don't need sugar." Magnus says.

is my roman empire.

Les Misérables

I just love The Peace of Wild Things by ariadneslostthread. The way Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac care about each other is very sweet and what I wish for I had as a friend group (not that I am not happy with my friends but this is the kind of thing I do yearn for as somebody who is used to getting yelled at by my mom for being sick). It’s very well written and, while long, I never get bored.

Now, back to K-Pop!

SEVENTEEN:

I absolutely adore most of kaiteki’s Seventeen fics (all those not containing anything NSFW). They focus on Jihoon and are always very well written. I tend to come back to Simultaneous, Observational, Difficulty in Falling and Who Else? They are either sickfics or (emotional) hurt/comfort. Though again, there are some NSFW and 18+ fics on that account so proceed at your own risk!

ATEEZ:

I am in love with the series 8 Makes 1 Family by aambass. The fics are so well written an each part focuses on one member specifically. Seonghwa who struggles with being the oldest, Wooyoung with self-esteem issues, San’s insecurity about his place in the team, Jongho’s struggle with being maknae, Hongjoong overworking himself and realizing he barely spends time with the members, Yunho pushing himself too far, Mingi’s insecurity and anxiety and Yeosang refusing to speak because nobody ever listens to him anyways. However, that blog also has some NSFW contents, so be careful when scrolling through. I am pretty sure that the series is safe though.

I come back at times to THE WEIGHT OF LOVE by matz_love. That fic is not SFW but you can anticipate where it starts and stop/skip like I do. Generally the author has a really nice writing style that I love to read, but check the tags on the fics! It's about Jongho figuring out his sexuality and the way Hongjoong and Seonghwa speak to him is so comforting I nearly cried when reading it.

Random fics:

I am neither MoA nor Shawol but these fics also caught my eye and I re-read a lot.

All three ShinEE fics by justalittlehoarse, especially Day 6.

fever only makes the cuddles warmer by honeybeomgyu is very sweet.

Lots of love,

🧚🏻‍♀️

[live-fast-pet-frogs]

The Good Lawyer, hopes and peeves

I heard the Good Doctor is looking to produce and episode that can possibly be a backdoor spinoff to the show titled "The Good Lawyer". Apparently it will feature a young female lawyer who has OCD. This was a surprise for me, as I expected that not unlike The Good Doctor, TGL would also be adapted from a korean show and my bet was Extraordinary Attorney Woo.

As a person with OCD I am quite sceptical about this choice though. While OCD is underrepresented in the media, it is also misrepresented and in most cases confused with OCPD (obsessive compulsive personality disorder, with vastly different symptoms eg. keeping rigid schedules and experiencing distress at the slightest change in their routines), autism, or just general cleanliness or quirkyness.

In reality, OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) is an anxiety disorder that consists of obsessive, intrusive thoughts that are disturbing and distressing (in some cases can be of violent, religious or sexual nature), and compulsive actions that can be but are not limited to self-harming behaviours. It is also an incredibly debilitating illness that can ruin relationships and make the sufferer isolate, harm and doubt themselves. Without the correct psychological help OCD can become chronic and can lead to the person becoming essentially housebound, or worse. It really sucks, take it from me. It is however treatable to a degree, and therapy can make a massive difference and bring back quality of life. I can say that finally after twenty years of suffering and three years in therapy, I am scheduled to come off my medications soon as I am finally feeling like my intrusive thoughts aren't directly interfering with my everyday life.

So now that we established that this is a serious mental illness, NOT a cute personality quirk, not a developmental disorder or neurodivergence, read this:

Do not get me wrong, the fact that it is role that's open to female identifying actors of any ethnicity and ability is great, and hopefully they cast an actress who has/had OCD and can bring some nuance in the role. But some of the wording around this synopsis really ticks me off.

"Joni's OCD symptoms take a severe toll on her personal and professional life."

This is good and realistic. As mentioned above, people with OCD can struggle with jobs, especially if they are in highly stressful workplaces, for example a law office.

"Joni (...) is often embarassed of her symptoms"

Again, visible compulsions can be a characteristic of someone with OCD. The thing about compulsions is, they are often unreasonable and the sufferer can feel the need to exhibit compulsions at random times and cannot always control themselves (even if they can it is very distressing to them). To give an example, one of my compulsions was knocking on wood, 40 knocks exactly with both hands, and then twisting my wrists 40 times. The intrusive thought that brought these actions out mostly had to do with the wellbeing of my brother who was severly ill at the time. I thought that, if I didn't carry out the compulsions, something would happen to him. Unreasonable, but at the time it feels so real that it doesn't matter whether you are in your room or in the frozen food aisle in Tesco, you have to do your compulsions. It is embarrassing when you feel other people's judgement or being misunderstood.

"She is a great lawyer, using her attention to detail, compulsive over-thinking and analytical skills as a superpower"

Here's where it gets icky. First things first, intrusive thoughts are not something you can control. You can't "turn on" ruminating when you want to, and definitely cannot use it as a "superpower". This was a point that was argued in OCD support groups but the majority of OCD sufferers including me think that it is rude and dismissive to refer to OCD as a superpower, or asking to focus on the "positives". Yes, in my case OCD gives me a higher sense of morality and a bigger attention to detail, but it wasn't usually in the positive aspects of life. I would refer to it more like a curse I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy rather than a superpower. It's an illness that needs treatment. The symptoms ease up following treatment. So portraying OCD like a superpower or something that makes you "special" can be harmful and get in the way of healing. This particular mindset and use of words is usually characteristic of those who aren't well informed on the topic.

Overall, I will make the final judgement AFTER I have seen the respective episode, but so far I am worried that this too will fall into the category of the misused "OCD trope" and fail to represent accurately. A lawyer with OCD is an interesting concept but I would rather watch the character managing her illness, and seeking treatment for it rather than try to use it to her advantage at work.

rant over.

[spectrumsistersblog]

Spectrum Sister here (if you hadn’t already guessed) and I’m ready to open up my mind an put all things Autistic, ADHD, mental illness and chronic illness OUT THERE!

That’s right, I am an Autistic ADHD’er with mental health issues, Fibromyalgia and Joint hyper mobility syndrome. My disabilities are as invisible as they get, but I’m here to MAKE you see them for what they are. The good, the bad and the extremely uncomfortably UGLY!

Now firstly, Let me introduce myself a little bit more formally before I start, my name is JD, I’m 35yrs old, born and raised south Londoner who is also a single mother to a gorgeous 11yr old boy. I was late diagnosed ADHD at the age of 34 and Autistic at the age of 35 and due to the lateness of my diagnoses I’m sure you can imagine my life has been a bit of a BLEEPING mess, hence the development of mental health issues in my teens that I’ve carried with me ever since.

Saying all this, Im not one to throw a pity party, so let’s get that out the way. I’m here to tell it how it is, straight forward with honesty and facts. The doom and gloom, but also the funny and quirky side of life too, because you can’t get one without the other. To truly embrace and appreciate happiness, one must also know the feeling of true sadness. So I’m here to feed you it all, in true Virgo style ♍️

Just to get you up to speed I’ll explain a little about each condition I have been diagnosed with:

Autism

Autism is a spectrum condition which effects people in different ways. It effects our social interaction and communication skills, can inflict repetitive and restrictive behaviours, cause over OR under sensitivity to light, sound, taste or touch, can cause extreme anxiety, melt downs and shutdowns and also highly focused interests and hobbies.

ADHD

ADHD is a disorder which affects peoples behaviour. People with ADHD have issues with executive functioning, concentration & focus, and also impulse control. There is ALOT more to it and I intend to go into more detail in future blogs.

EUPD

EUPD – Emotionally unstable personality disorder (formerly known as Borderline personality disorder) is a mental health condition that affects how you think, feel and interact with others. One major symptom the sufferer experiences is being emotionally unstable. Intense emotions, ranging from highs to lows, which can change rapidly throughout a single day.

FIBROMYALGIA

Fibromyalgia syndrome (FMS) – Fibromyalgia is a chronic (long term) condition that causes pain all over the body. As well as the widespread pain it also causes increased sensitivity to touch and pain, muscle stiffness, insomnia & Fatigue, issues with mental processing and concentration (fibro fog), irritable bowel syndrome, headaches and depression.

JOINT HYPERMOBILITY

Joint hypermobility syndrome – JHS is where your joints are extra flexible and move beyond the range that they are suppose to. This causes pain, stiffness and unstable joints. The joints and the tissue within in them are loose because they are weak. This also means increased danger of seriously injuring, spraining or dislocating your joints.

And there you have it, my wonderful array of chronic conditions and disabilities 😃

Now I do intend to go into a lot more detail in future posts and blogs, so look out for those if you want to learn more about each condition, purely for educational purposes or wether you may think you have one of them yourself.

For my fellow Spectrum family and Fibro Family, you may know an awful lot about these conditions already, so I definitely will have posts coming that I’m sure you will be able to relate to.

If you made this far then I greatly appreciate you…..also heres little embarrassing golden nugget of information for you, I was finishing this post off on the toilet, however my lower legs went numb and as I went to stand up I nearly face planted the door because I couldn’t feel my legs. I then had to grab my toilet frame (mobility aid) and drop myself back onto the toilet seat and wait here for a good 5 minutes until the feeling came back to my legs and feet 😩😂 Oh what a life eh! At least you weren’t all here to see it, that I am greatful for haha!

Anyways, got to love you and leave you (anyone else’s aunties use to say this every time they left your house?) and until next time, keep my legs in your prayers.

Air kisses

Your Spectrum Sister 🪩

[starsincline]

🍉Please don't skip !!🍉

Hello,❤

No one donates to me😢 please help me to make them donate to me share my link👃

I'm Ethan's friend,🤝 make sure I'm telling the truth.

I am a young man,🙌 23 years old, and I do not have anything to help me in life,☠ such as rebuilding my house, getting married, and completing my education.😭 I only have fatigue, worry, and suffering.😢 Please help me share my story and donate to me,👃 even if it is a little. I am very embarrassed to ask people for help,🤦‍♂️ but what should I do🤷‍♂️? I am forced to do this. Forgive me.😓

I am Mohammed, 23 years old,👨‍💼 I used to live in Khan Younis,💚 I was a university student studying information technology👨‍💻 at the Islamic University of Gaza,🏫 but my entire university was destroyed,💣 this was my passion in life, but it evaporated in this difficult war,😭 even my home where I spent my childhood and all my happy memories turned to ashes,😵 I became homeless, so how can I continue my life😢? Please support me so that my passion returns,👃 and so that I can achieve my dream of studying again,👃 I would like to inform you that we are living a crisis of no detergents or winter clothes, knowing that winter is coming🌧 with its severe cold that eats the body severely,🙏🏻 I cannot complete this message because of the many tears and pain,😢 your simple help💸 will make a big difference in my life😙.

my survival fund has been vetted by global mutual a!d collective @beesandwatermelons🍉.

https://www.gofundme.com/f/g9kap-help-mohammed-rebuild-his-home-in-gaza

campaign is vetted by association. They are (132 on the Bees and Watermelons verified fundraiser list, shared by 90-ghost, #255 on the verified fundraiser sheet vetted by el-shab-hussein and nabulsi), see post here for proof.

Please help me👃

I urgently need money💸 as winter is coming🌧 and there are not enough clothes and blankets😓

because our clothes and blankets are still under the rubble❔.

https://www.instagram.com/mohammed.m.siam?igsh=ZGUzMzM3NWJiOQ==

This campaign is vetted by association by @/yousefjehad3 (proof below) who is vetted here (line 132) and here (line 255). Donations to this campaign have been very slow, so please reblog and donate if possible. I know some people probably feel that the ask being anonymous may make it a scam, but please don't let that stop you from helping this family.

$536 USD raised of $25,000 goal

The journey of displacement has been long and arduous, stretching over ten months. We have endured hunger, the constant threat of violence, and the agonizing lack of essential medications. This shortage has created a desperate situation, particularly for those with chronic illnesses who struggle to find the treatment they need. Our home, a testament to the love and hard work of my family, was shattered beyond repair. My brother, who had only recently begun his life with his wife, lost everything – their home, belongings, even their dreams for a future together. My father's shop, the cornerstone of our family's livelihood, was also destroyed, leaving us with nothing but the painful memories of what we had lost.

We are now left with nothing but the clothes on our backs and the unwavering spirit to rebuild. My plea is for assistance – any help, however small – to rebuild our homes, our lives, and to restore the future we have lost. I long to complete my education outside of Gaza, where I can pursue my dreams in safety and peace of mind.

[myrefall]

𓆝⋆ ┊ general oc post #1 - Angelo, Katsuya, Ripley, and Laine

because viktor has terminal “I can’t talk about my ocs that’s so embarrassing” disease.

These characters are CURRENTLY? the more important of mine, but I intend on fixing my focus upon others or adding them to this group in the future.

𓆝⋆ ┊Relations

Angelo Laureano is a 19 year old living with their.. friend? partner?, Katsuya. Angelo holds few interests and is generally aimless about his future. He suffers from paranoid delusions and struggles to be present in his own life, especially so after he returns from being missing for several weeks.

Katsuya Aiso is 21 and met Angelo through a mutual midnight shift at their local gas station. Katsuya makes a point of appearing sociable and open, but most people couldn't say more than that about him. He suffers from chronic joint pain and spends much of his off time asleep.

Katsuya is fond of Angelo, but entirely uncertain how Angelo feels about him. He finds Angelo difficult to read.

Ripley/Ridley Valliant is a 20 something vampyre with too much money and no job. They live recklessly and are both a good and terrible influence on Katsuya and Angelo depending on the situation.

Ripley and Angelo met in high school. Despite Ripley’s age, they were in the same grade as Angelo. They also shared a majority of their classes. Ripley is Angelo’s oldest and closest friend.

Ripley and Katsuya know each other mostly through Angelo. However, they have become pretty good friends in their own right. Despite this, Ripley enables some of Katsuya’s worse self destructive behaviors. Katsuya does similarly for Ripley, though she likely would behave this way regardless.

Laine Laureano is Angelo’s older sibling. They are 21. They suffer from agoraphobia and religious delusions. Laine is the sole developer behind Heartwire, a horror game series they created in order to work through their skewed perception of reality. Laine strongly believes in the existence of angels and their ability to communicate through electronic devices.

Laine and Angelo’s relationship is strained. Angelo is aware of Laine’s unusual beliefs, and often avoids talking about them. Angelo suffers from similar paranoid tendencies. He believes indulging in Laine’s beliefs will worsen them.

Ripley and Laine were extremely close in years past. While Ripley and Angelo were friends, Ripley and Laine were something different entirely. In current days, both avoid speaking about the other when the topic is brought up.

𓆝⋆ ┊ Individual Details

Ripley - any/all

Extroverted . Energized . Assertive . Childish

Visual Symbolism - Sharks . Aliens . Bright neons + 2000s internet visual motifs . Furbies . Garfield . Sonic

Smells of cheap, sweet perfume and weed.

Katsuya - he/his

Friendly . Easygoing . Emotionally walled off . Impersonal

Visual Symbolism - Cats . Crucifixes . Chains . Fences . Winter + Snow . Arctic foxes (?) . White tigers . Black + Vibrant blues . Self torture/imprisonment

Smells of cucumber, honey, and cigarette smoke.

Laine - they

Diligent . Empathetic . Paranoid . Neurotic

Visual Symbolism - Computers . Wires . Telephone poles . Angel wings . Old TVs . Machinery . Old web . Robots . Owls . Angels

Smells of dust, coffee, and sweat.

Angelo - they/he

Direct . Polite . Placating . Stubborn

Visual Symbolism - Metamorphosis . Teddy bears . Insects . The body . Nervous system . Forests . Decomposition . Fungi

Smells of petrichor, powdery perfume, and cigarette smoke. The latter settling in his clothes as he lives with Katsuya.

𓆝⋆ ┊CURRENTLY CONSIDERING LINE OF PLOT. ?

Laine is contacted frequently by an entity through their electronic devices. Initially horrified, Laine assumes the entity to be someone attempting to harm them, playing on their delusions to do so. However, through the entity's persistence, it gains both the trust of Laine and access to them directly. It begins making contact within dreams and visions, consuming more of Laine's time.

Angelo takes notice of Laine's worsened behavior and questions them about their beliefs becoming further detached from reality. Angelo is also victim to certain delusions and paranoid thinking. He believes Laine's developing behavior to be directly related to similar factors. In response, Laine is insistent on them being of sound mind. Angelo does not further press the issue.

Despite their words, Laine comes away from this encounter unsure. As they begin to question their beliefs, Laine's entity presents them with a concerning and difficult to decipher omen regarding the safety of Angelo.

Laine is sent into a panic. They are certain they must do something to protect Angelo, but entirely unable to discern what they are supposed to protect him from.

Throughout this, the four have been planning a road trip to visit Katsuya's mother for the holidays. Despite the tension between the two, Angelo and Laine agree to go. Laine hopes their presence will allow them to ensure Angelo's safety. Angelo hopes traveling will help Laine ground themself.

The day of the trip begins with little issue, but as the night draws on, tensions rise between the four. With Ripley in the drivers seat, she and Laine are mid argument when a large animal runs in front of their car. Distracted, Ripley barely manages to swerve past it before the vehicle loses stability, unable to return to their lane soon enough. Their car slams through the guard rail and plummets past the edge of the incline they were driving up.

Rushed to the hospital, Ripley, Laine, and Katsuya are met with confusion about there being a fourth passenger in the vehicle. According to paramedics, it was only the three of them present at the crash site. The three argue vehemently about Angelo's presence, as well as the severe nature of his injuries. He is reported missing that night.

During their hospital stay, Katsuya and Ripley begin to experience otherworldly contact not dissimilar to Laine's. This contact results in a severe deterioration of their mental states.

Katsuya additionally begins to have night terrors during his stay at the hospital. They primarily revolve around Angelo. In one, Angelo crawls over Katsuya's hospital bed, melting to reveal something chitinous under his flesh.

After several weeks, Katsuya is discharged from the hospital and returns to the apartment he shared with Angelo. Though things are smooth for the first few days, Katsuya's night terrors quickly return. Most notable is the very first of them, in which Katsuya enters Angelo's room to find their bathroom light on. Further investigating, he is met with their shower being occupied by a writhing mass stuck directly to the tile and glass.

Horrified and unable to discern dream from reality, Katsuya swears against entering either room. He refuses to confirm or disprove whether this truly was a dream. He hopes that he won't ever have to.

Days later, Katsuya is woken up by Angelo crawling into bed with him, just as they would before the accident. Katsuya's horror at this is met with confusion by Angelo. He remembers nothing of the accident, or what may have happened to him after.

Those not present at the accident also seem to forget Angelo's disappearance. His parents reference times he wasn't present as if he was, and his employers behave as if his absence was entirely of the same nature as Katsuya's. Katsuya, Ripley, and Laine find themselves as the only ones capable of remembering the time he was gone for.

Angelo's behavior does little to ease tensions as well. He displays extremely dulled responses to painful stimuli, and far more listless behavior than he would have in the past. He additionally wakes at odd hours, disappears for long periods of time, and most strange, begins to unnaturally change in appearance...

The three find that only they- outside of Angelo himself- are capable of noticing these things. They are forced to either accept their new reality, or accept being seen as detached from it. Though, they may have to accept this eventually either way, as the entity contacting them continues to escalate in method and frequency. blah blah whatever.

[thewestern]

Chapter 18

The terrible twosome of Wellington Terriers had the complete run of the office at Wolffenbeir Company HQ, and their incontinence was getting worse by the workday. Both suffered from oscillating bouts of constipation and diarrhea, brought on by what the vet diagnosed to be chronic non-bacterial prostate inflammation, itself brought on by dietary irregularities. (The boys were fond of eating furniture, among other inanimate, nonfood items.) The nutritionist concurred. Their private trainer, however, speculated it was aggravated by acute onset separation anxiety. Because, you see, they doted on Hildy day and night, and while she professed to love them as if they were human sons, and perhaps moreso at that, at times she felt suffocated by their clinginess. As such they were periodically eighty-sixed from her corner office, left unattended to lethargically maraud among the rows of cubicles, pissing and shitting wherever they well pleased. Rummaging through trash cans for leftover sandwich crusts was another favorite passtime. (One of the few remaining legacies of Wilhelm I’s tyrannical managerial reign was that all office workers [read: non-union] were contractually mandated to take lunch at their desks.) Then there was barking at the still drastically underrepresented employees of color, of course. (Holdover hiring practices also courtesy of Big Willie.) Sniffing folks’ butts from beneath their ergonomic chairs. 

No one broached the subject to Hildy directly, but word got back to her through the semi-anonymous complaints to human resources — she personally audited these every Friday afternoon as a treat for making it through another week, like it were her own personal tabloid gossip column — that the dogs waddling amok had affected company morale for the worse. It was likewise brought to her attention how they were routinely cited in exit interviews as an overwhelming detriment to productivity and a primary reason to settle for career alternatives, even if they were lateral moves. Tell of their escapoops had even trickled onto an online employer review portal, where they were attributed to tanking the company’s Happiness Rating. This, or any other embarrassment by association, Hildy would not abide, as Billy could well attest. Rather than take appropriate measures to correct her most beloved companions’ poor behavior, she called on him, Billy, to see that all such libel be scrubbed from the digital record. These were the kind of condescending tasks she relished in delegating to her biological son. He in turn passed it off to his guy, Yayo-L. 

Presently, they were both sentried outside her office, whimpering to pretty please be allowed back inside to see mummy. Hildy had company, so this would not do. Irritated by the sounds of their manicured paws scratching at her door, she pressed the summoning button under her desk connected to a flashing red lamp on the receptionist’s desk outside. (Wilhelm I had it installed after once accidentally seeing a hockey game. To his mind, Sport, like most all music that wasn’t Wagner, was a childish distraction. However he couldn’t help but admire this Ice Hockey for its moral code of self-governance as adjudicated via vigilante justice. To that end, he strongly considered implementing a policy of settling internal company disputes through some form of hand-to-hand combat, but settled for the flashing red light.) Regrettably she recently had to let go of her receptionist of five years, Aaron, due to payroll cutbacks which hit administrative personnel the second hardest of any division behind maintenance. Also, although she would never be so rude as to say, Aaron had begun aging out of his aesthetic utility.  

Therefore, her private security agent, Ari, was reluctantly manning the secretary’s desk on what was supposed to have been an Interim basis. So far as Hildy was concerned, he had the handsom presence she needed to spare and then some. More than enough to make up for his answering the phone in a bordering-on-hostile-sounding Yiddish accent. Worse still, whereas Hildy took high tea, he only knew how to brew that ghastly instant coffee. Come to think of it he made for a crap fucking assistant indeed. Ask him to scan a few documents, and he was plenty liable to shoot the photocopier. 

Per longstanding company policy, he knocked three times firmly, but never obnoxiously so, before entering. 

I’m coming—come in, I mean. 

Reunited with their mumsy at last, the dogs breached contain, bum rushing around Ari through the cracked open door. 

You two — out. Ari, sweetheart, how would you feel about taking the dogs down to Five for some exercise? 

The fifth floor was the territory of Accounting and Legal. Under Wilhelm I, the accountants and lawyers were the nerve center. Which is to say they practically ran the place, held in higher esteem internally than anyone, save perhaps the brewing engineers. The old man revered working with ones’ hands, just so long as it was done without collective bargaining. One of the many reasons he kept the JDs and the CPAs so close at hand, stationed at the ready to quell any unrest, or absent that, to financially steward the company through a labor stoppage, respectively, on the sixth of six floors, adjacent to the executive suites. However, when Hildy took over she bumped them down a level, symbolically as well as literally, to Five. (She would have stowed them away in the basement if her presence weren’t so frequently required to oversee various corporate crisises.) With the bean counters out of the way, she had carte blanche to reconstitute the coveted Sixth Floor toward chartering her own bespoke in-house advertising agency. A View of Madison Avenue from the West. Cubicles were gutted and replaced with contemporary(-of-the-time) Scandinavian furnishings. Grays and taupes were swatched out for neons and pastels. Her Memphis Design inspirations were the places kids would hang out on popular television shows of the period — The Peach Pit on 90210, the Max on Saved by the Bell, Pee Wee’s Playhouse, etc. Because Hildy wanted a space that would attract the top creative talent away from the Coasts. Back then, when the cartoon wolf was still a cash cow, the board rubber-stamped her every indulgence. Over the years though, as returns diminished from that maturing brand, interior decoration budgets waned. Today the office was a mosh pit of clashing motifs, caught in the aesthetic netherworld between modern and retro. 

At Hildy’s command, the dogs tucked tails on out of there. Most dogs don’t respond to passive aggressiveness. Their ears aren’t tuned to that pitch. But that’s what made this noble English breed so special. True, they didn’t heed to a damn word anybody else said, but when the Mistress ordered you can bet your sweet-smelling ass they obeyed. Ari was beginning to take after them in this regard, learning an important lesson that Billy never had. In the Family Wolff, affection was a zero-sum game.  

When the door closed behind them, Mayor Mockingbird emerged from beneath her desk, folding his tie from back over his shoulder, wiping his mouth and picking a short hair from between his new veneers, paid for semi-legally out of his campaign coffers. It was a grey area, like his teeth used to be.

You know, I really wish you wouldn’t hold office hours when I’m down there. For Pete’s sake Hildy, I’m running for governor. Not to mention all you’ve got on your plate. The last thing either of us needs right now is a sex scandal.

Oh Larry, dear, don’t be daft. He couldn’t see you. Even if he could he’s not one of your constituents.  

Hildegard, darling, I mean that he saw me come in the office. 

Well he didn’t see me come anywhere, I assure you. And so what if he did? Isn’t yours the party of sexual liberation and female empowerment? 

I don’t know where you get off condescending me like I’m some bleeding heart. How many times do I have to tell you that I’m a pragmatic moderate? 

I haven’t gotten off anywhere, as has been established. And I hope you don’t truly believe all that rubbish about the spirit of bipartisanship. It’s quite boring. Besides, what even was the last compelling political sex scandal? Just the thought of it … it’s so … so nineties.  

We could bring it back in style though, couldn’t we? You know, Matilda is away with Carter at a soccer tournament this weekend in Tuscon. What say you swing by City Manor? Come on … it’ll be like one of your British miniseries … a tawdry affair between a noblewoman and her humble parliamentarian. If you really want a thrill, I can even have my Sheriff's detail sneak you in through the old bootlegger tunnels. 

What, like I’m your whore? I know what those tunnels are for. Don’t be crass. No, I don’t believe I’ll be snuck anyplace, thank you. Leastwheres City Manor. I can’t believe in this day and age of money in politics, one would suffer the humiliation of running for public office, only to wind up consigned to some dilapidated old shack. In point of fact, only the Governor’s Mansion is in more dire need of a remodel. Outright demolition, would be preferable still. Particularly if the current occupant happened to be home. So, anyway, you have that to look forward to. 

Well, then what about the Wolffenhaus? You know how I’ve been dying to see the famous lair. 

Is that so? Then I’m afraid you’ll have to sign up on our website for the official tour. They’ll take you as far as the driveway. Further than you’ll ever get with me. Certainly not on some tryst, to quite possibly the least romantic residence on the planet earth. And for what? A finger blasting in my teenage bedroom? Please, be serious.

To the mayor, that sounded divine.

Okay, fine. Your townhouse then. 

Oh, I don’t know, Larry. I feel a fatigue settling in. Don’t ring me. I’ll have Ari phone you after I’m rested.

Lovescorned, Larry slipped on his tassel loafers to leave. Hildy made him remove them before crawling under the desk.  

Now hold on for just a minute. You don’t think I summoned you all the way out here for That, do you? If you wouldn’t mind, I would very much like to know where we stand. As your distinguished campaign finance chairwoman I think I’m entitled to an occasional status update.

Oh, Hildy, I would never hold out on you. Truthfully, there are no updates on my end. Everything has been confirmed and re-confirmed with my Office of Economic Development. 

Oh, but do humor me. I’d like to hear you say it — exposition and all, please. Rest assured I’m not recording you. I had all the bugs stripped when the old gaffer had Gone for a Burton, as they say.

Here she was referring to her grandfather’s death by suicide. Gone for a Burton is a British English expression that was popularised by the RAF around the time of World War II. It was considered bad luck to say a pilot had gone missing or worse died in action, so this was a polite euphemism, although the exact etymology is disputed. Back to Larry with the details.  

As you wish. Buying the New Frontier will entitle Wolffenbeir and any future acquisition partners to our full suite of corporate relocation and foreign investment incentives. For all intents and purposes — tax purposes notwithstanding, of course — the Wolffenbeir Company, Inc. will have unadulterated access to all the advantages afforded to companies that operate within the city limits.  

Fabulous. That’s a good boy. Off you go then.

Larry lingered on that. Maybe she would say something else, like I love you, for example. But alas she didn’t. He took a beat before exiting through the large wooden double doors. Putting back on his politician’s face. The one that says to all passersby, I Know You. Ironically, depending if you concurred with his medical diagnosis of prosopagnosia (face blindness), the odds were he had no earthly idea who you were. 

His bodyman from the sheriff’s department had returned from the men’s room. (One perk of this otherwise shit detail was wherever he chauffeured the Mayor, there was usually a much nicer bathroom than they had down at the station. Certainly nicer than the one at county lockup, which he would only stoop to use for removing illicit drugs and other contraband from his rectum, to be resold at a markup to inmates. Truthfully, he did a lot of business in restrooms. His fiber-rich, iron-deficient diet necessitated that he pass bowels four-to-six times per day.) Waiting dutifully in Hildy’s foyer, he made a quick ocular assessment of the office before following his subject, codename Traveller, down the hall to the elevator bank. 

The Deputy Sheriff would have seen into a sanctum that had changed only slightly since its previous occupant, Wilhelm I, had vacated. Hildy’s complicated-if-you-could-call-it-that relationship with her Grossvater was such that she keenly felt a push and pull between contradicting desires: to at once preserve and wipe away all remnants of his legacy. His portrait still hung there on the north wall, facing the opposite direction from where he would have been seated at his desk so that he could quote, see what the bastards had hidden behind their backs. Like the banquet hall at the Wolffenhaus, he had portraits in all rooms where he desired that his essence be felt in his absence, and by extension, doubly so in his presence. (Boy, you’d think they’re were two of him, was something a labor representative once reflected upon departing the old man’s office, following a rather terse labor negotiation-if-you-could-call-it-that.) Conference rooms, guest rooms, break rooms, bathrooms. (That was the one thing the deputy sheriff could have done without — the scary old man staring at him from the stall door.) Just one of his little authoritarian quirks. Despots, dictators and tyrants … they’ve all got ‘em. Historically, they were wont to express their individuality via their garish military wardrobes. Fatigues, aiguillettes. Service medals, combat boots. Berets, fezes or some other funny hat. Stolen valor chic. You may have noticed how contemporary oppressors (of both the public and private sector persuasions) make a point of dressing less conspicuously, so that they may blend in amongst us. The emperors still have clothes, but they’re more minimalist. Blue jeans, gray sneakers, black turtleneck … anyone? In this and only this regard Wilhelm I could be considered a fashion trendsetter. In a kind of anti-fashion, albeit. For a fact, he wore the same suit — a charcoal gabardine purchased off the department store rack — in every one of his portraits. However, not because he had only the one suit. (He also had it in brown.) Rather, it was he refused to waste time sitting more than once for multiple portraits. So, he had commissioned several artists to work in concert over a single grueling session. As they were all given strict guidelines to paint within, each painting was eerily similar to its other. Perhaps then, what became more unsettling, were the barely perceptible differences between the interpretations. Subtle variations in expressionlessness. Displayed together, in mosaic maybe, they would have made for a provocative fucking exhibit indeed.

Even if she’d wanted to, Hildy couldn’t have removed his face from the office, or for that matter any other surface, short of tearing down the wall itself to its very studs. He’d had all his oil-on-canvas likenesses drilled into the foundation and encased in bulletproof glass. So she settled for commissioning her own portrait to be positioned on the wall opposite of Wilhelm. No, not of herself. That would be gauche. It was her terrier, of course. Neither of the current brood though. Her firstborn of five. Old Chauncey. He had been the best of them. 

(All five were males — growing up her Aunt Sarah had a bitch Weimaraner, and her big personality clashed head-on with Hildy’s. She always had two at a time, thinking wouldn’t it be nice for them to have a brother? In theory, maybe. In practice, however, they related more along the lines of an old gay couple, trapped in a loveless domestic partnership. Nonetheless they were codependent, quite desperately so, if only for to share the burden of one another’s myriad maladies and neurocies. Also to keep the lease on their rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side. 

Billy always wanted a brother, for his part.) 

There Chauncey was immortalized, his mouth agape, a tongue waging a losing war against gravity. Brown eyes starry and every-so-slightly crossed. One ear was floppy, t’other pointy, standing at attention like one of Wilhelm I’s starched collars. (The uneven ears were an aesthetic signature of the Wellington Terrier. Perhaps it’s what allowed them to pick up on sarcasm in human voices. They were the most British of dogs.) Locked in an eternal staring contest with him, the Great Man, who said of all domesticated animals: a waste of perfectly good food. 

Whereas Wilhelm I and Hildegard had both marked their territories, there was nary a trace of the men that linked them in the inbetween generations. The late Wilhelm II and his wayward grandson, Wilhelm III, Billy. This was intentional. Long-term losses, past and future, were irrelevant to the short-term returns of the present moment, to which they each enslaved themselves, embarking on an indentured servitude of indefinite term, escaping some deeply-owed emotional debt or other.

All of a sudden, Ari burst through the door (without knocking thrice, per protocol). Pointed at the hardwood floor, in his right hand he held his Desert Eagle .50. (Rather than being issued a standardized service weapon, Perlmutter agents were granted a sidearm stipend [deducted from their paycheck]. Most went with a  Glock 19. Nothing fancy, but modded out with enough flair so as to express oneself. His colleagues in arms made fun of Ari for packing such a high-caliber, nickel-plated, fucking hand cannon of a pistol. Dirty H-Ari, they called him, behind his back. Fucking cowards.) In his left hand, he held a torn-out piece of graph paper with pasted-on letters cut out from a magazine. (Ari would have no way of knowing this without conducting a more thorough forensic analysis, but these letters were actually cut out from various flyers for local bands and food truck menus. The alleged kidnapper[s], in this case, had no idea where to even find a magazine. None of them had ever subscribed to one.) 

w E   H A v E  t h E   w o L F f   

 ###

So far as Class One Felonies go, kidnapping is just about as funny as it gets. But hold on now, buddy. To be clear, not the kidnapping of Children. That is incorrigible. Not funny, at all. But the kidnapping of Adults … for ransom. Played for laughs, it has the potential to be outright hysterical. Certainly more so than say first-degree murder, or child abuse resulting in death. Treason could be funny, depending on the circumstances. Maybe a bit high brow. Kidnapping though is broadly funny, almost every time. (Almost.)

Think about it though. Let’s just for a second consider killing somebody, like conceptually, for comparison’s sake. The act of murder is one of horrific violence. Take gun deaths, by far the most common form. For a fact, according to data collected by the FBI from a crosssection of fourteen thousand homicides in a single American year (out of sixteen thousand total), more than ten thousand were committed using a firearm as the primary murder weapon. (The dataset is broken down state-by-state and includes instances of homicide committed without a weapon. Can you guess in which U.S. state someone is most likely to kill you with their bare hands, proportionally speaking as compared to other kinds of murder? Vermont! Eighteen percent of cases. Close second place is Alaska, which makes marginally more sense.) More than half of those gun deaths are wrought at close range, by pistols. A 9x19mm parabellum round — the most ubiquitous of handgun cartridges —  will travel at a velocity of let’s say eleven hundred feet per second, obviously dependent on muzzle length, bullet weight, the Coriolis effect and a whole range of ballistic variables. But ballpark average, that converts to 750 mph. That’s a short and curly hair’s shy of the Speed of Sound — surely fast enough to shred through any human tissue in its path like a hot load through Kleenex. If the hemorrhaging isn’t stopped with some type of tourniquet, and that’s provided none of your vital organs or main arterial passageways have been compromised, you got maybe five minutes before you bleed out, kemosabe. Any of that sound funny to you? Didn’t think so. 

What about hiding the body though? Suppose that could be funny in a slapstick kind of way. A corpse is much heavier than you think, insofar as it is quite literally dead weight. Awkward, too. Like moving a couch up a flight of stairs. That’s why so many murderers are keen to chop up their victims’ bodies. Taking a bone saw to the extremities. Right there’s a pain in the rear in and of itself, because you better believe that removing somebody’s arm requires some serious elbow grease. And decapitation … dude … now that’s a separate matter entirely. Your head is screwed on there mighty tight. Sawing alone won’t do the trick. Takes some serious hacking away, like you’re felling a tree.   

And now we’re right back to this not being very funny. 

Kidnapping, on the other hand … the moment you commit the crime, well, the fun has only just begun. Now you’ve got a live person to mind after. You’ve got the dual responsibilities of both a captor and a caregiver, and that raises all manner of tough questions. Where do you keep your hostage? What does the hostage like to eat? Does he or she have any food allergies? Has the hostage ascertained the identity of his abductors? Is there anything we can use as a blindfold? Should we the co-conspirators come up with code names for one another, so as to not accidentally let our real names slip in the flow of casual conversations? There’s all these things to consider and more. It’s sort of a comedy of manners. 

But that’s not even the best part. Negotiating a ransom, now that is funny. There’s the aforementioned note, which is like an arts and crafts project for career criminals. Probably you’ve got to run down to the drugstore for a glue stick and some construction paper. Nobody just has those laying around. Then once you make contact, you have to somehow maintain a dialogue. Which means phone calls, which means you get to use the little voice modulator thingy that makes you sound like a monster. Sounds awful scary in the movies, but those scripted conversations are played for suspense, and therefore don’t have any of the awkward pauses or exchanging of pleasantries that talking on the telephone. Oh, sorry, were you about to say something? No you go.  

Here’s something else silly, and also somewhat of a pro tip. They always begin by requesting some absurd sum. (Who you think you kidnap, Chelsea Clinton? Chris Tucker, Rush Hour II. Billy’s favorite movie.) That’s called anchoring — a tried and true negotiation tactic. It’s also important to insist that it be sorted by some nonsensical denomination. (No big bills. We want X amount in Tens, Y amount in Twenties and Z amount in traveler’s checks.) Sort of like how rock stars demand on their backstage riders that the bowl of chocolates be color-coded by their candy-coated shells. (It was Van Halen who was most infamous for this. To hear them tell it, though, the reason behind the request was more nuanced than their simply being petulant celebrity assholes, but likely that had something to do with it too. VH were among the first of the outfits of their oeuvre to tour with an intricate stage show, you see, a production that was centerpieced by a lighting design that at the time, would have made little kindergarten Chris Kuroda cream his underoos. For a fact, their rig was so dern heavy, that before one gig, the stage sunk a full eight inches into the gymnasium floor below. No rock stars were harmed, but it was a mighty close call. Thus, henceforth, to prevent any further potential disaster from fucking befalling them, thereby ensuring that the yahoos at the venue read the full goddamn contract, — which in addition to the stupid dressing room grocery shopping shit, dictated all safety requirements — the band’s manager buried that throwaway clause about picking out the chocolates. If he walked into the green room and saw even one single brown shell [seems redundant anyway], then he knew somebody had gone and fucked it up, and they were going to have to pour through that contract line-by-line, all fifty-two fucking pages, to see what else they skimmed over.)  

What kind of luggage is best? Nothing looks sweeter than popping open up one of them metal briefcases of neatly arranged USDs. Probably a duffle bag would be preferable for convenience sake, or in case you have to toss it off a bridge. But like a nice high grade leather, or like a wax canvas weekender. Not a sweaty old gym bag. Show some class. 

(Meanwhile, back to murder for a moment. Good luck finding a suitcase big enough you can stuff a dismembered body into it. Sure, you could use a big contractor bag, but all those liters of coagulating blood are gonna start seeping through the plastic, getting on all the upholstery in your trunk. Not to mention the smell of rotting flesh. Pee-ew! That’s why the professionals — narcos, mobsters etc. — use oil drums or some other type barrel. But, let’s be honest — where the hell are you going to find one of those? Unless you work at a place that has them just laying around. As in, per say, a craft brewery …)

As for the exchange itself, it's pure Marx Brothers. Give us the money, then you get the girl. No, give us the girl, then you get the money. Okay, fine, we’ll do it at exactly the same time. On the count of three. One … two … three … Aha! You weren’t going to do it! No, you weren’t!  (Or would that be more like Abbott and Costello? The Three Stooges? Hey … who gives a shit!)

But let’s get real, shall we; well before any cash trades hands, everything is going to fall apart in some tragicomic fashion. Say, there’s a breakdown in negotiations. Maybe the hostage’s rich prick of a father is a cheap old bastard who refuses to pony up the dough. We don’t negotiate with common criminals, he’ll say. Sure, guy. Whatever. Or maybe it’s that the hostage who’s a miserable piece of shit in his or her own right. So then daddy’s like, uh, what’s that? You’re holding Schuyler for ransom? And for how much was it you said you wanted again? Oh. Yeah. Actually, I’m sorry, but I think have the wrong number. No, no, it’s no problem at all. Yes, you have a pleasant evening as well. Bye bye now. 

And what about Stockholm Syndrome? We haven’t even talked about Stockholm Syndrome! Sympathising with, perhaps falling in love even, with the person who is bartering with your very life. Could anything possibly be funnier? A dark romantic comedy. A Meyers x Coens collab. (Ft. DJ Roger Deakins.)

To write a compelling screenplay, Joel, Ethan and Nancy will all tell you, it comes down to character motivation. Why’d they do it? Reconsider murder. They say that more often than not, it starts with domestic violence. (Hilarious.) A crime of passion then. Who did it? Nine times out of ten it was the Husband, the Boyfriend or the Ex. Case closed. Not much of a whodunnit, is it? 

Okay, how about theft, then? Everybody loves a good heist movie. Thomas Crown Affair, Ocean’s Eleven, The Italian Job. (All sixties flicks that have pretty solid remakes in the late nineties, early two-thousands, for what it’s worth. One could make the case that they actually surpass the original texts, which is kind of unheard of. Maybe that speaks to the timeless nature of the genre. Billy in particular was fond of TIJ, which starred three of his five favorite screen actors: Mark Wahlberg, Jason Statham and Seth Green. The Mick also quite liked all three of these films, although his favorite heist movie was probably The Usual Suspects, which was immortalized in poster form on the wall of his college dorm room, where he and Kitty slept together for the first time. Her favorite was Bottle Rocket, if that counts.) As for the act of stealing itself, we can all agree that larceny is a crime of necessity. Desperation. Whether you’re Jean Valjean stealing his daily bread, or your Billy Wolff compulsively jacking graphing calculators. They got something You need, man. You Gotta Have It. You’ll take that shit without batting an eye. It might as well already be yours. Was it ever even theirs to begin with? Property is theft, Kitty once heard in passing. 

Therefore, stealing is socialism. (Maggie Thatcher famously said the problem of socialism is eventually you run out of other people’s money. The IRA, for their part, once said about their failed assasination attempt on Maggie Thatcher, today we were unlucky, but remember, we only have to be lucky once. You will have to be lucky always … They talked that shit in a press release. Sick!) Or, rather, a more direct form of wealth redistribution. 

Kidnapping, then, for the sake of this exercise, would be capitalism. And you can’t steal from a free market. Now, there are exceptions. Perhaps you’ve been taken political prisoner by radical ideologues. Okay, but that style of political violence went out of fashion when the Berlin Wall fell and the world’s beauty died. Besides, those bleeding heart pussies probably weren’t actually going to kill you anyway. These days that type of thing really only happens if you’re an aid worker or some embedded journalist in the Mid East, and you get scooped up by some fringe jihadist sect, in which case you can bend over and kiss your ass-salamu alaykum. 

More likely though, it’s all about the money, like everything else today. Kidnapping has sold out. Gone corporate. For real though, in many Developing Nations, it is a Legitimate Business. A primary driver of GDP. The Perlmutter Agency has an entire global division dedicated to executive protection and travel security. 

(Although it doesn’t drive revenue compared to the more profitable verticals, such as active shooter response and corporate intelligence. Corporate intelligence, by the way, is a fancy management consultant way of saying, spying on your employees, which is how Perlmutter Detective Agency made its bones back around the turn of the previous century. Infiltrating union organizers, strike-breaking and the like. Nowadays, though, since most of that work can be done electronically, the Perlmutters have been somewhat put out; software is not a core competency. [Make no mistake, employers are monitoring your every keystroke. From the email you fired off to the rep from Local 69, to the keyword search terms you’re entering on Cum Depot dot Com. {Billy browsed a selection of almost exclusively acronym-based pornos. Of recent there had been PAWG, occasionally BBW or BBC, but never both and, of course, his all-time favorite, old reliable, which should come as no surprise to anybody that’s been paying attention — uh, paging Doctor Oedipus — mother f’ing MILF.}])

And if for some reason they fail to foil the plot to kidnap your company’s CEO, then they’ll just upsell you on their Human Asset Recovery package. The way it works is that Perlmutter — or one if its many competitors — will sub-contract the negotiation or if necessary exfil (exfil = exfiltration = extraction) with a K&R insurance brokerage (K&R = kidnapping and rescue … keep up). Here is where the real money is — we’re talking billion-dollar industry with a capital B. (Bradt.) For a fact, assuming they’re not fucking amateurs, the kidnappers will specifically target executives from publicly traded companies, with the explicit pre-knowledge that they are almost assuredly insured, thus increasing the probable likelihood by some multiple that they ever receive payment, and making for an altogether more frictionless customer experience. Or, think of it this way: wouldn’t you rather work with fellow professionals than your hostage’s rich Aunt Julie, or even worse, the pencil-pushing/dick diplomats down at the embassy?

So, if you’re the EVP of Emerging Markets for MegaCorp., flying to the Republican Democracy of Timbuktu, for to oversee the groundbreaking of a new dick-sucking mine, you’d be wise to double-check that your company has a robust K&R policy before you touch down in country. Otherwise, when some ex-guerillas mercenaries come repelling off the face of a cliff, shoot your driver in the face, throw a burlap sack over your head and haul you off to a yurt somewhere at a paramilitary camp in the jungle highlands, with a bunch of trained killers doing jumping jacks and the fucking monkey bars … well then you, my friend, are SOL. 

However, if you do a lot of business in the Horn of Africa, and you just so happen to be hijacked on the high seas by a jolly band of Somali pirates, you should actually consider yourself very lucky indeed. Because, statistically speaking, they are the safest of all the world’s most prolific kidnappers to be taken captive by, insofar as they aren’t likely to kill you. Their hostage return rates considerably exceed the industry standard. The Mick heard that on public radio once in Kitty’s station wagon and for some reason he would never forget it as long as he lived. Maybe in case the whole brewing thing didn’t work out after all, and he ended up crewing a container ship in the Gulf of Aden. Or, perhaps more probably, a pirate skiff. 

Furthermore, if your business travel is of the domestic variety, you don’t need to worry about any of this whatsoever. Nobody gets kidnapped anymore in America. Only a certified whack job would hazard to try such a thing. (Rest assured anybody that crazy is probably already an FBI informant.) And if you’re wondering, but what about all those times an Amber Alert so rudely interrupts your scheduled programming? Almost always it’s a parent, locked in a bitter custody dispute, absconding with their own child. That’s some sad-ass shit, homes. Now, there is an off chance it’s your classic Pervert in a Panel Van, but that’s not anywhere near as commonplace as popular media would suggest. 

All the same, his whole childhood, Billy had been terrified of just such a scenario. With good reason, mind you, given how his own grandpa, Wilhelm II, was killed in an attempted abduction that was thoroughly botched. (Kidnapping ceases to be so funny when it crosses over into cold-blooded murder, it should go without saying.) Perp was some petty conman, lowlife drifter-type. Hatched this half-baked plan to nab him on his way to work. After a misspent lifetime of knocking over soda fountains and defrauding grandmas out of their social security checks, this was going to be his Big Score. He pulled the broken-down-car routine, — one of the oldest tricks in the kidnapping book — setting his trap on a covered bridge, the part of Wilhelm II’s route to the brewery from the ranch that was pretty as a postcard. That morning was picturesque in particular, since winter’s first snow just so happened to be gently falling, The big wet flakes accumulating on the tree limbs. A crystal brook babbling below. Junior pulled over to aid his fellow traveler, partly because his car was obstructing the throughway, but also because that’s just the standup sort of guy he was. His father — Senior, The First — would’ve … well you could speculate he’d have rammed him off the road, but truthfully he wouldn’t have been in that situation to begin with. Most nights he slept fifty feet from his office at the brewery. Commuting back home to his children would have constituted a waste of time.  

The assailant emerged from beyond the popped hood and produced a Luger P08 that he purchased from a sporting goods catalog. (Those were the days.) A struggle ensued. Wilhelm II, perhaps too proud to comply, was gutshot in the fracas. He bled out in the trunk en route to his final resting place, a drainage ditch way down valley, just above the treeline. It wasn’t until the following spring, after the snow melt, that his personal effects and skeletal remains were happened upon by a local goat herder. Of course his body had been torn assunder and scattered every which way but loose by some or other opportunistic critters. They could only recover about the half of him. 

Hildegard was all but ten years old at the time. It was her who answered the phone when the kidnapper first Established Contact, before anyone knew her father was missing from the first. They hadn’t come out with those special kidnapping gadgets that make you talk like a monster, but this guy got by fine without one. His voice had a nasally hiss which haunted Hildy the rest of her days. 

Hello, young lady. Um, this is a friend of your Poppa speaking. Do you know happen to know where he is presently?  

Obviously, with his hostage dead in a ditch by his doing, this kidnapper had forfeited his leverage. Nonetheless he managed to string everybody along a fair bit. No, he never got that big payday he was after. Surprise, surprise … Wilhelm I refused to negotiate with who he presumed to be a communist pervert. (Only the latter was true, although that was incidental.) He did however evade the G-Men and their hellhounds on a trans-continental goose chase. As a personal favor to his dear friend Willy, as only he dared to call him, Hoover had set his boys on the largest manhunt in the history of law enforcement. Hard target searches of every gas station, residence, warehouse, farmhouse, hypehouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse for a hundred miles in every de-rection.

Lot of fucking good it did too. Only by pure happenstance was the suspect apprehended at the Aéroport international Montréal-Dorval, subdued by Mounted Police following a heated argument with a French-speaking gate agent that escalated to just short of physical violence. He had specifically requested a window seat on his flight to Heathrow. See, this last thing hadn’t gone like he planned, but this next job was foolproof. He was on his way to London where he would infiltrate the Palace Guard, and somehow rip off the Royal Family. Maybe learn from his mistakes (lesson number one: kidnapping an adult may be funnier, but it ain’t easier) and snag that little creep Prince Andrew. Or something. He had the whole flight over to work out the details. But how was he supposed to think in the middle seat, you stupid French bitch!

When all the dust settled, Wilhelm I forbade any form of tearful rembermance, processed grieving or mere mention of Wilhelm II in his presence. (Recall, that he was everywhere.) Hildy’s mom took his directive for her cue to crawl into a bottle, from whence she was never to resurface. Her son, Hildy’s brother, was meanwhile beckoned to the Wolffenhaus to live with his Grossvater, thus commencing his beer baron apprenticeship and home scholarship under Fräulein Loebl. (Wilhelm II would have never allowed for his father and the Fräulein to have unfettered influence over his own offspring. That was partway why he spurned his own father, naming his grandson Werner instead of Wilhelm. [Take that, Dad. Adding insult to injury, whereas all the other men in the family bore the same middle name, Josef, Werner’s was Stetson.] Ernie was going to have a normal childhood, growing up on his father’s fifty-thousand-some acre ranch, The Double W. Over his dead body would the Old Man turn him into another of his human capital investments. But damn if it didn’t happen just like that. And boy was he long on Werner.) Hildy was sent off to live with her Aunt Sarah and continued on attending Canaan School for Girls. (So it was called before it merged with the nearby boys’ school, City Country Day.) 

Hildy never did explain to her son what had happened to his maternal grandfather. (Genuinely, she thought this to be in his best interest. She didn’t want for him, or anyone, to hear that wretched voice which echoed inside her head.) So Billy read about it on the Internet. Browsing an encyclopedic blotter of popular crimes, compiled from online submissions that were rather unscrupulously crowdsourced. (It is exceedingly difficult to crowdsource online submissions scrupulously.) Like a trail of delicious candies, the hyperlinks led one to the next — Lizzie Borden > Leopold and Loeb > Lindbergh baby > Crime of the Century (disambiguation) > May refer to: The Wolffenbeir Plot. If only he could have skipped straight to online porn. At that point in his sexual self-discovery he had still been plenty smitten by the television simulcasts of the Howard Stern show and the scrupulously blurred out infomercials for Hot Babes Get Butt Naked For Money. 

Henceforth, between heavenly wet dreams about Carmen Electra being coerced to mount a vibrating masturbation saddle, Billy had a recurring nightmare about being kidnapped. He was in an all-white space. No walls. No shadows. But he wasn’t weightless. He was sitting, cross-legged, in the middle of all that nothing. Hildy was there too, standing off to the side, arms crossed, impatient-like. Then someone drives up in a teal four-by-four with a soft top, identical to the one his granddad had drove to the bridge that day. It was Baba Booey, alias Gary Dell’Abate, beloved producer of the Howard Stern show. Without even stopping he scooped up Billy. Hildy didn’t make any attempt to resist. She just watched him go.

###

Turns out that dream was something of a premonition. Billy would be kidnapped. Twice, actually. First time was those assholes from the Wilderness Academy, on Hildy’s behalf. Now he would get her back by kidnapping himself. Man, are some families messed up or what? Eat your heart out, Hawthorne.   

[evershinedentalclinic]

How Do I Get Rid Of Bad Breath?

Bad breath (the medical term for which is halitosis) is an embarrassing but incredibly common oral health problem. In fact, it is estimated that bad breath impacts more than 50% of the general population around the globe. Yet many people who suffer from halitosis are completely unaware of their condition until it’s pointed out by someone else, often leading to uncomfortable social exchanges.

There are an immense variety of products on the market that promise to eliminate bad breath: Everything from mouthwashes to chewing gum, breath mints, and dissolving tongue strips. In most cases, however, these products only provide a temporary solution. Foul smelling breath can be caused by a number of underlying conditions; only by treating the root cause can chronic halitosis be stopped for good.

Experiencing a serious case of bad breath that won’t go away despite your best efforts?

See us at Evershine Dental Clinic as soon as possible to rule out more serious oral health issues.

What Causes Bad Breath?

We all know that bad breath can develop if you don’t brush your teeth – but do you know what’s happening on a molecular level? Bad breath takes place when volatile compounds are formed and released orally, whether or not those compounds originated in the mouth. These volatile substances may contain sulfur- or nitrogen-containing compounds, amines, alcohols, or ketones, all of which have a particular molecular structure that your brain registers as an unpleasant smell.

The majority (90 percent) of halitosis cases originate in the mouth; the other 10 percent may be caused by gastrointestinal, respiratory, or other non-oral diseases. If you experience bad breath only on occasion, it’s probably nothing to be concerned about: Most likely, it has to do with something you ate, a lapse in brushing or flossing, or simply a lack of flowing saliva (which plays a major role in ‘morning breath’). Luckily, adhering to proper dental hygiene habits is typically sufficient for combatting the average case of halitosis.

The following are some of the most common causes of bad breath:

Poor Oral Hygiene: If teeth are not brushed and flossed regularly, particles of food will tend to remain lodged between them. As these particles begin to decay, they release molecular compounds that lead to bad breath. In addition, microbial deposits that build up on the tongue function as bacteria-rich harbors; this is another common source of unpleasant-smelling breath. As long as good oral hygiene is put into practice – including brushing or scraping the tongue and regular flossing – these instances of halitosis will be reduced.

Certain Foods: Foods such as garlic, onions, pickles, radish, and certain spices and condiments contain odor-causing compounds. These compounds are absorbed into the bloodstream and later released when exhaled. Halitosis caused by food is temporary, typically lasting only a few hours.

Dental Problems: Certain dental problems can also lead to bad breath. Gingivitis, periodontal disease, cavities, dry socket, oral ulceration, and pericoronitis are possible causes. If you notice inflammation of your gums or are experiencing any tooth pain or pain when chewing along with bad breath, visit Evershine Dental Clinic in Mumbai to address any possible dental conditions.

Tobacco and Alcohol: Tobacco and alcohol both influence bad breath by introducing volatile compounds into the bloodstream. In addition, tobacco products tend to dry out the mouth, making bad breath even worse – since saliva is what keeps your mouth flushed and clear of residual food particles, insufficient saliva production has a considerable impact on halitosis.

Dry Mouth: Caused by certain medications, health conditions, or excessive alcohol, tobacco, or caffeine consumption, dry mouth is indicated by a decrease in natural saliva production. As mentioned, saliva production is incredibly important to oral health: It keeps your mouth clear of debris and provides disease-fighting substances that help to ward off cavities and other infections. A lack of saliva means more food particles will decay in the mouth and the likelihood of other dental issues is increased, thereby increasing the risk for bad breath. This is another reason why many individuals experience ‘morning breath’ – simply because dry mouth can occur overnight due to the lack of hydration and saliva production during sleep.

Non-Oral Health Conditions

It is possible for bad breath to be caused by an associated health condition that plays a role in the release of volatile molecules on the breath. Dieting, snoring, stress, age, and hormonal changes – including menstruation – can also impact your breath.

The following diseases, among others not listed here, have been known to cause or worsen halitosis:

Respiratory tract infection

Tonsillitis

Sinusitis

Gastrointestinal disease

Gastroesophageal reflux disease (GERD)

Hepatic failure

Renal (kidney) failure

Diabetic ketoacidosis

Leukemia

Acute fever

How Can I Prevent or Reduce Bad Breath?

The majority of halitosis cases are easy to prevent. Implementing healthy dental habits, avoiding odor-causing foods, and regularly visiting Evershine Dental Clinic for professional cleanings and examinations will all help keep your breath fresh. However, if bad breath persists despite these preventative measures - and underlying health problems and diseases have been ruled out - there are a few additional measures you can take to mitigate the problem:

Use Approved Oral Hygiene Products: When purchasing toothpaste, mouthwash, and other oral health products, use fluoride-containing toothpaste to brush at least twice per day; floss at least once per day or use an interdental cleaner to remove food particles from between teeth.

Chew Sugar-Free Gum: Look for sugar-free chewing gum to mask bad breath and stimulate saliva production. However, avoid sugary mints or sugar-containing gum, which can increase the risk for tooth decay.

Try Tongue Scraping: Don’t just use a toothbrush to clean your tongue. A specially-designed tongue scraper that removes the coating of bacteria accumulated on the tongue can reduce bad breath-inducing sulfur compounds by up to 75 percent. Toothbrush bristles, on the other hand, only reduce these compounds 45 percent according to a comparative clinical trial.

Keep Dentures, Retainers, and Mouthguards Clean: If you wear dentures or have a bridge, clean the device thoroughly at least once a day – and make sure to remove it before going to sleep. Use the same cleaning protocol for dental retainers and mouth guards, both of which can harbor odor-inducing organisms and bacteria.

Stay Hydrated: The best way to avoid dry mouth and keep saliva flowing is by staying hydrated throughout the day. Drink plenty of water and try to cut back on caffeine and alcohol, both of which can be dehydrating. Remember to consume a large glass of water before bed to help prevent morning breath.

Replace Your Toothbrush: When your toothbrush starts to get frayed or the bristles appear worn, it's time to get a new toothbrush. An old toothbrush won’t do a sufficient job in keeping teeth clean and clear of debris. Evershine Dental Clinic Mumbai recommends replacing your toothbrush every three to four months.

Final Thoughts

Bad breath happens. Don't stress! While it may be humiliating, most cases of halitosis can be remedied with simple changes to your lifestyle and oral health routine. However, if the problem persists or is accompanied by other symptoms of dental disease, it is recommended you visit a Evershine Dental Clinic Ghatkopar, Mumbai as soon as possible to rule out more serious conditions.

[healthyanozo]

Permanent toenail removal pros and cons

When it comes to foot health, toenail issues can be a persistent source of discomfort and frustration. For some individuals, the idea of permanent toenail removal might seem like an attractive solution. However, like any medical procedure, it comes with its own set of advantages and disadvantages. In this article, we will delve into the pros and cons of permanent toenail removal to help you make an informed decision about whether it's the right choice for you.

Pros of Permanent Toenail Removal

Elimination of Chronic Toenail Problems One of the primary benefits of permanent toenail removal is that it puts an end to chronic toenail problems. If you've been suffering from recurring ingrown toenails, fungal infections, or other persistent issues, removing the toenail might be the most effective solution.

Pain Relief Ingrown toenails can be excruciatingly painful. Permanent toenail removal can provide immediate and lasting relief from this pain. Say goodbye to throbbing and discomfort.

Improved Aesthetics For those with severely damaged or discolored toenails, permanent removal can lead to improved aesthetics. You won't have to worry about hiding your feet in embarrassment anymore.

Faster Healing Compared to some other treatments for toenail problems, permanent removal typically results in faster healing. This means you can get back to your normal activities sooner.

Reduced Risk of Infections Ingrown toenails and fungal infections can lead to serious complications if left untreated. Permanent toenail removal reduces the risk of these infections, which can be especially important for individuals with diabetes or compromised immune systems.

Cons of Permanent Toenail Removal

Loss of Natural Protection Toenails serve as a natural barrier that protects the sensitive nail bed. Their removal can expose the nail bed to potential injuries and infections.

Long-Term Aesthetic Changes While some people appreciate the improved aesthetics, others might miss having toenails. It's essential to consider whether you're comfortable with the permanent changes in the appearance of your toes.

Surgical Risks Permanent toenail removal is a surgical procedure and, like all surgeries, carries some risks. These risks include infection, bleeding, and complications related to anesthesia.

Post-Surgery Pain While the procedure can provide long-term pain relief, there can be discomfort and pain during the initial stages of recovery. You'll need to manage this pain as you heal.

Potential Regrowth In some cases, toenails can partially regrow after permanent removal. This might necessitate additional procedures or ongoing maintenance.

Conclusion The decision to undergo permanent toenail removal is a significant one that should not be taken lightly. It offers relief from chronic toenail problems, pain, and aesthetic concerns, but it also comes with potential downsides. Consult with a qualified podiatrist or healthcare professional to discuss your specific situation and determine if permanent toenail removal is the right choice for you.

FAQs

Is permanent toenail removal reversible? No, permanent toenail removal is typically irreversible, and the toenail will not grow back.

How long does it take to recover from permanent toenail removal? Recovery times vary, but most people can resume normal activities within a few weeks.

Can I paint my toenails after permanent toenail removal? Yes, you can paint your toenails if you're comfortable with the appearance of your nail bed.

Are there non-surgical alternatives for toenail problems? Yes, there are non-surgical treatments available, such as laser therapy and oral medications. Consult with a podiatrist to explore your options.

What should I expect during the permanent toenail removal procedure? The procedure typically involves local anesthesia, and the toenail is carefully removed. Your podiatrist will provide detailed instructions for post-operative care.

For those considering permanent toenail removal, it's crucial to weigh the pros and cons carefully and seek professional guidance to make an informed choice.

[emilieautumnarchives]

Stark Raving Sane: 100 Things You Don't Know About Me

Archived from EA Online. Posted July 21, 2022.

Your girl during the Opheliac recording sessions. I’d been wearing the cheek heart for a couple of years already.

Dearest Inmates,

It’s been quite a (past several) month(s), and I’ve had so many “important” things gavotting in my brain that I couldn’t decide which ought to come out first. And so, I’m choosing the only sensible option and not posting any of them. Instead, let us take refuge in a moment of flippant frivolity with this list of, yes, 100 things you definitely don’t know about me (and one you might).

If you follow along below, you’re going get all sorts of knowledge treats, from bizarre jobs I’ve had to achievements of profound embarrassment (see the piano bar thing). Is this worth your time? No.

Shall we begin?

I’ve been skydiving three times.

My fingers are double jointed (I’ve had to come up with some violin techniques of my own to manage).

My first job was at age 7, refilling the ink in the markers at an art studio. (I could fill hundreds of pens without spilling a drop, so I clearly missed my calling.)

I am chill as ice in a crisis.

However, I am terrified of swimming pools (that’s going to be a problem later this year, wait for it).

I passionately hate sweating.

The very first time I travelled anywhere was to perform in England at age 12. (I vividly remember the painfully shy and friendless me going wild at being away from home for the first time, running up and down the hotel hallway all night long, trickling tea out the 20th floor window to get people to look up at me, and getting into a great deal of trouble for all of it. To which I ask, HOW was I not diagnosed as bipolar until age 27?)

My favorite flowers are gardenias.

I’ve been “asked to leave” an upscale piano bar and was “not welcome back.”

One of my greatest dreams is to go to the tea fields in China and be allowed to help pick the leaves. I don’t know if that’s a thing, but I’m determined.

I’ve never smoked a cigarette or done drugs of any kind, and can confidently state that I never will. (Do people still say “done drugs”?)

I am extremely introverted by nature and still have occasional trouble leaving the house to encounter other humans (though I try not to indulge myself in this).

The Opheliac album was written and recorded before I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and sent to an asylum, not after.

I suffered from chronic, blinding migraines from my early childhood until my early adulthood (which means that I’ve had to do a good many violin competitions without being able to see). The migraines morphed into ulcers by my early 20s because your girl had zero stress/anger management skills at the time (solved).

I love reptiles, and have raised iguanas, chameleons, and frogs.

I was supposed to die of leukemia at age 2 (or so the doctors forewarned). I didn’t. (This is the “thing about me” you might already know.)

I was given my first pair of tweezers at age 11 (but not told what to do with them, which lead to many, many years of questionable eyebrows, and I think I’ve only just now figured them out, she says nervously).

I used to design and program websites for a living (before I could survive from music alone).

I’ve written two screenplays and the pilot for a TV series (you’ll be hearing more about this soon;).

When I was small and my family was losing their home, I offered to make jewelry and sell it in the driveway to help raise funds so we could stay. (My offer was not received kindly, so we’ll never know if I could have single-handedly saved the proverbial farm with my beaded earrings, will we?)

Back to eyebrows, now that I’ve nailed them (she says now oddly arrogant), if I’m having my makeup done on a film set or photo shoot, I’ll let the makeup artists do everything up to the brows, which I’ll then do myself.

I plan to get a PhD in neuroscience in my much wiser age, say perhaps 80-ish.

I’ve had one massage ever and being touched absolutely freaked me out and I’ll never do it again.

I am absolutely obsessed with crosswords (but only the most difficult ones, meaning that, if I can solve it without cheating, I’m not interested).

If you call one of the most prominent corporations in Chicago, the voice you’ll hear on all of the automated prompts is mine (it takes an entire 2 days to record ALL numbers, letters, commonly used words, phrases, etc.)

I once very nearly burnt down a house doing a “magic spell” in bed.

My father was raised in an orphanage in Germany before immigrating to America. (That one wasn’t about me was it, but hey ho.)

I’ve been full-blown punched in the face, bloody nose and all (school bully didn’t appreciate my sticking up for another girl).

I locked myself in the bathroom and cried when Carl Sagan passed. (Also for Jim Henson, also for Steven Hawking. Yes, I am always looking for a father, I’m aware, no need to point it out.)

Oh! How could I forget! Years later, I was punched in the face AGAIN and given a fractured nose, this time in a stage combat class with a less-than-conscientious gentleman student for a fight partner (this is why my snout is a bit crooked).

At 8, I shoplifted a bar of surfboard wax just to see how easy it was (it was very easy, and I turned right around and brought it back).

I was temp working as the receptionist for a major radio station when I received an email from the music programmer and show host, asking if “EA’s album” (my teenage one) could be sent to him at the station so that he could play a song from it on air. The next morning, I handed the CD to him personally as he passed my desk to go to his office. I’ve never seen anyone more baffled.

I’ve never kept track of my periods, preferring, apparently, to be surprised. I always am.

As a child, I rarely wore shoes, and would show up to orchestra rehearsal barefoot. It was only when a conductor said to me in front of everyone, “we really have to find you some shoes” that I even noticed.

I have the math skills of a 5th grader (at best).

I temp worked for two weeks as the head of reception for the Starbucks headquarters. (Pros: I got to go into the testing room on breaks and concoct my own drinks, my signature being an iced soy mint thing. Cons: I had to physically make the coffee for the entire office. Not stressful.)

I’m a maximalist who dreams of being a minimalist but accepts that it’s never going to happen.

I used to make all of my own clothes before time became scarce/non-existent, all because I had it in my head that I could never wear the same thing as anyone else, but must always be utterly unique. (It would take me a few more years to learn that what made me unique had nothing to do with what I wore.)

I used to make my own kombucha (as in three months ago, when I thought I’d have time for one more task - turns out I don’t). All of my cultures were called Jeffrey. The last batch is on the Asylum kitchen counter, and Jeffrey has grown to fill the whole jar. I don’t know what to do with him.

I’ve had apartments I’ve lived in broken into and robbed three times (one of which I was in when the intruders...um...intruded).

I’ve passed an entire night in a booth at a 24-hour Dunkin’ Donuts (following one of the break-ins mentioned above, when the sledgehammer the intruders had used left me without a doorknob and I knew they were going to come back - they did).

All of the costumes I made/wore whilst performing with Courtney Love were sewn by hand using scraps from curtains, bedsheets, and a wedding dress obtained from a Salvation Army shop on Chicago’s South Side where I lived at the time. (The wedding dress creation became the cover of my “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun / Bohemian Rhapsody” EP.)

I once worked as a house painter (interiors).

When I meet a really nice stranger (which is often), I’m buzzing about it the rest of the day. (I feel like it’s my reward for pushing myself out of my introverted comfort zone.)

I’ve bought something off of a 3AM infomercial (it was a makeup airbrush system and it broke).

I once (alright, several times) hid in a small closet for three hours so that people knocking on my room (when I lived with four gentlemen in a basement) would think I was out. Fun fact: They knew I was in there the whole time. They always knew.

My childhood idol was Queen Elizabeth I. I particularly admired that she never married or had children.

My favorite Shakespeare play is Twelfth Night (everything thinks it’s Hamlet for obvious reasons).

My favorite authors are Virginia Woolf, Daphne du Maurier, and Shirley Jackson (that they are all women is nothing more than a joyous coincidence).

I plan to live in Somerset (UK) in the future, which happens to be my ancestral home on my British side.

My first crush was on Felix Mendelssohn, who had been dead since 1847.

I once went to a New Orleans psychic to ask about my sexuality. (And then performed at the House of Blues three hours later.)

I was hanging out in a jazz club with violinist Nigel Kennedy (eons ago, aged 16-ish), and he handed me his kazillion-dollar Stradivarius so that I could have a turn soloing with the house band. And guess what? I couldn’t accept it because I’d just had my hand bitten trying to save an eel’s life and had temporary nerve damage in said hand.

I don’t have a driver’s license because, whilst on my learner’s permit, I was plowed into by an SUV running a red light through an intersection, and I determined not to try again. (With so many other challenges I’d like to rise to, I think it’s fair to pick my battles.)

I still have the hospital gown and the red crayon from my psych ward stay where the Asylum book was written. Also the spiral notebook. Also an IV tube and a teabag wrapper.

I cook for my dog twice a day. Alright, mostly Scorps does, but I do when he’s away, such as right now.

My favorite color is sage green.

I grew up swearing that I would never sing, and only started because I had developed vocal nodes (don’t ask) and, unable to afford the surgery recommended at the time, thought I might try to heal myself by strengthening my throat somehow, i.e. singing my own secret compositions strictly in private (not science based, just had a hunch, I was a teen without internet, and also it worked).

The “dog who found me” was a Weimaraner called Ernie.

Until I was 25, I thought that literally everyone had synesthesia (which I didn’t know had a name) and saw/heard/thought things in exactly the same way I did. (I still don’t believe that the number 8 isn’t green to everybody.)

I am a gold belt in Karate.

The quality I most value in a person is loyalty.

A higher-up at Ford Models once approached me/gave me her card/asked me to call her about pursuing modeling. I thanked her for the compliment, but told her she needed to see something. And then I stood up. “Ohhhhhh,” she said. (I’m 5’4”.)

While on a US tour, I was stopping into a Walgreens when a scout from American Idol approached and tried to get me to join the auditions being held across the street. He never asked what I did for a living.

The first thing I ever won was an art contest at age 6. The prize was a Christian Bible. I read it.

The second thing I ever won was a grade 4 school typing competition.

Which should confirm your suspicion that I have never been popular.

Or had actual friends.

Until my 20s.

I wrote much of the Opheliac album in a tiny notebook whilst working as a greeter in a real estate office. I would show people the building models, write in a corner when they left, then go and record all night.

I still have the tiny notebook. I’m holding it right now. It has “I Know Where You Sleep” in it.

During that time, I supplemented my greeter income to pay my basement apartment rent by making sarcastic collage art and selling it on eBay. I still can’t believe anyone bought them. A massive thank you to those misguided people.

I recorded all of “Marry Me” in my basement bedroom years before I met any of you.

I’m often told I sound South African. I always say “thank you,” then explain that I’m just eccentric.

Annie Lennox is the only singer I have, in my youth, consciously tried to copy.

As a child, I was utterly determined to solve the puzzle in the Kit Williams book Masquerade, and spent countless hours toiling over it. I was devastated when I learned that someone had already dug up the treasure.

I used to have a golden stripper pole in my living room because I was developing an act where I pole danced whilst playing the violin. When I moved house, I couldn’t get the pole down. The landlord charged me for it.

I’ve studied broadsword fighting.

I struggle not to break a dish each time I see something published without an Oxford comma where an Oxford comma NEEDS TO BE FOR THE SENTENCE TO MAKE ANY SENSE!

That said, I no longer actually get annoyed at almost anything because I have come to experience every moment as a flipping miracle that took 4.54 billion years to create, whether I actively “enjoy” what I am experiencing or not.

I have a weird technique to get things done when I am overwhelmed and getting everything done seems/is actually impossible: I add another thing. Learning German for example. That way, the newly added thing will be the thing to go in a pinch, not everything else. Another example: I am more overwhelmed than I have ever been ever, which is why, starting TODAY, I am committing to a daily blog post here at SRS for one week. Can I do it? Probably not. But that will mean that I am most likely getting all the other things done.

I dislike sports or even games where there is a winner because that means someone has to be a loser and that makes me sad.

Which is one of the reasons I really like puzzles.

Having already lived far longer than I ever expected to, I’ve become completely fascinated by the fields of health span and longevity, and have changed so very much about my daily life by putting what I have learned into practice. Focusing on, heaven forbid, sleep is an enormous part of this. (I may write about this further in another post, but in the meantime, check out these books by Matthew Walker and David Sinclair.)

As a child, I performed in retirement homes quite often, to entertain the residents and gain performance experience. It was wonderful.

I also often performed at inner city schools in Los Angeles, where I had the privilege of playing for/learning about/getting to know kids my own age who might not have had the opportunity to see a violin up close or listen to Mozart live before. It was incredible.

My favorite word is “rubbish.”

My favorite biscuit is a McVities Chocolate Digestive. Sadly, I never eat them anymore because no sugar. But I do wear them as a watch.

I once took a hip-hop dance class. I don’t want to talk about it.

One night, whilst walking in Russia with my crew (still one of my greatest honors to meet the Russian Plague Rats on tour), two men appeared behind us and grabbed the sweatshirt hood of one of my crew members, then attempted to pull him into a dark alley. Without thinking, I lunged at them and shouted “BACK OFF” in a voice that sent them running. My crew member still believes I saved his life. And I still believe there is a demon inside me.

I was once told I looked like a horse. I was so confused by this that it didn’t even hurt my feelings. Also, I’m a horse person.

Speaking of which, I’ve trained a three-year-old thoroughbred ex-racehorse to jump 5-foot+ Olympic-grade fences and not kill me.

I’ve never been on a vacation.

I once prank-called the operator using a payphone at an ice-skating rink (I very honestly just wanted to know what it would feel like to do something “bad” at age 7). We ended up talking for 20 minutes. I hope she’s doing well.

I also play the viola (which I learned only so that I could play Bach’s Brandenburg 6th), as well as the treble viola de gamba.

I once asked the school librarian for the scariest book she had (I practically lived there). Bless her, she very, very reluctantly handed 8-year-old me Pet Semetary. I loved it.

I’ve been told multiple times that I have a great handshake (it’s apparently “very firm and comforting”).

When I ask people how they are doing, I legitimately mean it, and always feel honored if they entrust me with an honest answer.

I’m terrified of the telephone (traumatic stalker experience as a teen, working on it though because it’s getting quite old), and I don’t do email. If someone needs to find me, they’ll find me. But it won’t be easy.

My nom de plume is Lydia deWinter. And now I can never use it again.

Bonus Fact: I have no regrets.

I now pass the spoon to you, my dear Ratties! What are 100 things people don’t know about you?

For me, the secret value of this exercise has been the recollection of things that I had forgotten, and my little “story of me” seems richer for the remembering.

[sakis-sweets]

Can I get a platonic Sakura x Otohiko please? By the way your writing makes me very happy.

🥺🥺🥺 omg ;-;-;-;-; i'm so glad you like my oneshots!! thank you for the request, i don't usually get platonic ones, so this should be fun :D heartbreaking because omfg, but fun all the same

Otohiko looked up from his phone at the sound of a soft knock on the door. “Come in.”

The door opened a just crack, but a crack was enough for Sakura’s small body to slip through. “Surprise!” she whispered.

Otohiko smiled brightly and put his phone down. “Sakura! Thank god you’re here. I’m bored to tears.”

“I’m sure you are. I brought you some of your favorite books and your Miyuki collection. We can marathon until visiting hours are over.” Sakura walked over to the bedside table and set down the large stack.

Otohiko looked at his friend with admiration. “You’re the best.”

Sakura giggled. “It’s the least I can do! Usually you’d be the one visiting me after an attack.”

“Yes, well, it seems that rock had different plans for me. Was it funny watching me tumble down the hill?”

“Only after you got checked into the emergency room. How’s the leg feeling?”

Otohiko winced at the mention of his leg, glancing at the plaster cast wrapped around it. “The painkillers are helping, but it’s still really uncomfortable and sore.”

“I’ll bet. Let’s take your mind off of it already.”

“Please.” 

Sakura slipped the first disc of Magical Girl Pretty Miyuki into the hospital room’s DVD player and sat at the chair next to Otohiko’s bed. After a couple of episodes, Otohiko sighed. “Remember watching this together as kids?”

Sakura laughed. “Oh yeah. If the nurses knew at all what was happening in this show, they never would have let us watch it.”

“They finally figured out that it wasn’t for kids after that ending traumatized us!”

“Gosh, don’t remind me!” Sakura had to pause the show so they could get over their giggle fit. However, the moment was short-lived; a wheezing cough soon erupted from Sakura’s throat. Otohiko tried not to panic; it would upset her more if Sakura thought she was distressing him. She reached into her bag and pulled out a specialized inhaler, trying her best not to cough so she could use it. After a few moments, the fit subsided.

“Do you want me to call a nurse for you?” Otohiko asked.

Sakura shook her head. “That was nothing. I should have been more careful, anyway.”

“Still, if you need treatment...”

“If I do need treatment, I’ll tell you immediately, okay? But right now, I promise you that I’m alright.” Sakura smiled as if nothing had happened. “Want me to unpause the show?”

Otohiko set his mouth into a tight line and nodded. It was hard not to worry about Sakura when something happened; no matter how many times he saw it, it scared him. That fear was what inspired him to approach her in the first place; they happened to be hospitalized at the same time as children, and when he noticed her suffering from a fit by herself, he was the one who called a nurse over and stuck by her side. He became obsessed with the idea of saving her; if he just clung to her side tightly enough, then the universe would stop making bad things happen to her. But his prayers went unanswered. Even after he was discharged, Sakura stayed in the hospital for many more months.

Growing up together, Otohiko slowly realized that no amount of hope or determination could save her. Someday, maybe not even a decade from now, their days of visiting each other in the hospital would end. Years ago he might have been embarrassed at being visited by her now; all he’d done was not pay attention, but she was looking after him despite having a chronic and fatal illness. But he knew now that Sakura didn’t want to be viewed like an hourglass, with each second representing a grain of sand closer to heartbreak. She didn’t want to be pitied or babied; she just wanted to live her few years on this earth as a normal girl. Otohiko tried his best to let her do that; that was why they were best friends. But his empathy only made it more difficult.

The rest of the visit went on without incident. A nurse knocked on the door and informed Sakura that visiting hours had ended. Sakura paused the show. “I’ll leave your stuff here. Is there anything that you want me to bring you tomorrow?”

“Um... I really can’t think of- oh! Can you bring some of my hair stuff? There’s no conditioner here.” Otohiko held up a frizzy curl and pouted.

Sakura gasped. “Oh no! I was wondering why your hair didn’t look brushed. I’ll make sure to bring all your products. You’re still using the same stuff, right?”

“Yeah, but you don’t need to buy anything. My mom knows where I keep anything; she can give it all to you.”

“Why hasn’t she brought it to you herself, yet? Is she too busy with work?”

“Yeah... it hasn’t been long since the last time something like this happened, so she has to work overtime now.”

Sakura frowned. “Hey... don’t be too hard on yourself. You know it’s an accident.”

“That’s what she said, too...” Otohiko looked up and smiled. “Don’t worry about me; I’m too stupid to be harsh on myself like that.”

Sakura’s frown deepened, and she threw her arms around Otohiko’s neck. Otohiko simply froze. “I have to go now... but tomorrow, let’s talk about it. I’ll visit you after school.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m doing it for my sake, too. I can’t get stuck in here with you after worrying too much.” Sakura smiled.

“That’s why I said not to worry!” Otohiko exclaimed with a grin.

“Don’t give me a reason to worry, then!” The two laughed at each other. They’d always cared too much about each other. There’d never been any expectations for something more, just endless concern. For people with uncertain futures, it was a perfect arrangement.

Sakura said her goodbyes and left. Otohiko imagined what tomorrow might look like. Maybe they’d forget about their conversation and go back to watching anime. Maybe they’d both break down about the unfairness of it all and cry together. Maybe Sakura really would get hospitalized. But no matter what happened, at least they would have each other. Otohiko was happy with that, even if it meant they’d eventually have to part ways.