#i am not american but my heart breaks for all who are impacted by this

[drugsorgasmsandcheese]

my blog is NOT a safe space for trump supporters by the way so if you voted trump or just lick his ass unfollow me thank you kindly

[iamred-iamyellow]

⋆ ˚｡⋆౨ৎ˚ The Last Great American Dynasty

♥ masterlist | request rules | based on this request

♥ pairing: logan sargeant x fem!driver!reader

♥ synopsis: logan gets replaced at williams mid season by you, his girlfriend. luckily his racing career and f1 story is not over yet.

♥ smau - fc: women on pinterest - as always none of the pictures are mine <3

♥ warnings: swearing, hate comments, and james vowels slander !!!

♥ a/n: logan gets the happy ending he deserves (by taking james' job lol).

-August 26, 2024-

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri, susie_wolff, and 3,592,602 more

williamsracing Y/n L/n to race for the remainder of the 2024 season

view comments

logansargeant proud of you ❤️

yourusername thank you logie. I can't wait to see where racing takes us both. I love you ❤️

user6 the fact that he's still so supportive of her... I love them your honor 🥺

alex_albon You gave it your all brother and it’s been a pleasure being teammates with you. I know whatever you do next, you’ll be awesome. I can't wait to race along side you as well @/yourusername. Lets make history.

user9 HOW ARE WE FEELING LOLEX NATION 😭

user1 the tears that are coming out of my eyes right now

user2 😧

user7 I felt my heart break in real time

user4 ... james I am in your fucking walls

user5 I am so proud of y/n but damn.

user21 can someone explain please??

user7 logan, the driver y/n is replacing is her boyfriend

user9 I cried.

user60 imagine taking your own BOYFRIENDS job. he deserves so much better

user51 poor logan 💔

user10 lets not let the sad news about logan leaving impact our support for y/n. shes the first woman to race in f1 in a VERY long time and that's an incredible achievement

user3 say it louder for the people in the back

user12 this !!!

user4 James vowels is the common enemy

user8 @/user4 TRUE

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

-Logan's Insta Story-

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by logansargeant, susie_wolff, lilymhe, and 609,427 more

yourusername oh look i’m winning

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user1 yes you are queen

user2 you don’t have to brag 😔

user5 POINTS

landonorris @/logansargeant maybe you should get her a dog

pierregasly 💀

user1 landooo 😭

user8 how is she so gorgeous

user9 oh to be y/n

user6 prove the haters wrong !!!

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by yourusername, patriciooward, Indycar, and 984,582 more

logansargeant back in blue

tagged; @/andrettiindy

view comments

yourusername 🩵

logansargeant 🩵

patriciooward good to see you again

user7 SHUT THE FUCK UP NOT ANDRETTI SIGNING HIM FOR 2025

user9 HAHAHA

user3 the personal beef andretti has with f1 is inspiring 😩

user8 WHAT THE FUCK IS A KILOMETER 🦅🇺🇸

user5 lets go logan

user1 oh we are SO back.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri, andrettiindy, and 2,459,302 more

logansargeant today I got the privilege of marrying the most talented, beautiful, and kind woman I have ever met. you have stood by me since the beginning of my career and I am honored that you chose me to support you throughout the future of yours. I love you so much

comments are limited

f1 our favorite paddock couple

indycar double it and give it to the next motorsport

alex_albon congratulations to the both of you!

lilyzneimer thank you for making me your maid of honor 🥹 you looked absolutely stunning today

yourusername lilyyyy 😭🫶

williamsracing so who caught the boquet? 👀

yourusername lily mhe 🤭

lilymhe we might be needing those brides maid dresses again soon

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

-December 2035-

It has just been announced that former F1 driver Logan Sargeant and his wife, Y/n L/n will be the new team principal and CEO of Williams Racing.

The F1 American Dynasty

If you're unfamiliar with the story of Sargeant you may not understand the significance of this change for Williams. He had a spot on the grid during 2023-2024 before being dropped mid-season and replaced by his now wife Y/n L/n. He then went on to drive for Andretti, an American Indycar team and Y/n won four championships during her time in F1. The two of them have continued to carry on the legacy of American drivers in Formula 1, encouraged by the Andretti family.

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

liked by andrettiindy, susie_wolff, oscarpiastri, and 1,362,503 more

yourusername CEO life

view comments

lilymhe GORGEOUS

yourusername no YOU <33

williamsracing glad to have you back @/logansargeant

user2 even admin is a logan fan

user4 oh FUUUCK YEA

user7 stop the middle picture-

user9 I want what they have 😭

user1 their ULTIMATE revenge

user12 fuck james vowels

user3 all my homies hate james vowels

✧˖ °. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁‧₊˚ . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁˖°✧

end notes: thank you so much for reading! even though logan isn't on the grid I'll still have a few fics coming out for him soon <3

[magpiemagica]

Disability in the US: A Masterpost

DISABLED AMERICANS CAN’T EVER CATCH A F*CKING BREAK?!

Sorry for yelling; just very scared and upset at the state of my nation right now. And the fact that the only people I see standing up for the disabled community right now is teachers, doctors, and adults of disabled children! I will be using this post to document and educate on disabled issues.

Note from March 25, 2025: Some stuff near the top might be out of date, specifically regarding the state of The Department of Education. I will however still keep those (pre-closure) links up as they are still relevant. Just be aware of the timeline while reading; I started dating my updates around Early March.

(Note: In this post, I will be going over a bunch of stuff concerning the disabled community. I am an adult diagnosed with autism (and some other stuff) who although being Lv1, needs support. These issues will obviously affect more than just Americans with developmental disabilities (autism, cerebral palsy, Down syndrome, etc.) and I will try to be as inclusive as I can to ALL disabilities in this post. This is just the personal experience I am bringing in.)

RFK JR. (he is a whole pile of worms, no pun intended)

17 states are in a lawsuit to eliminate section 504 of of the Rehabilitation Act of 1973, this would allow public schools to discriminate education against disabled students. This includes removable of disability accommodations. 504 applies to other government assisted services as well such as hospitals and doctor's offices. This possible removable is a big civil rights issue.

Below are Section 504 itself and the lawsuit.

Speaking of disability and education, the dismantlement of the Department of Education. Just like stated in GOP plan Project 2025, Donald Trump plans to eliminate the Department of Education. This is a horrible idea for so many reasons but especially for disabled students and their parents. The DOE funds special education or "SPED" programs in schools. According to the National Center for Education Statistics, (in 2022-23) 7.5 million students in America receive special education or related services.

Obviously, the pulling back and demonization of DEI will be a big negative for the disabled community, one that already struggles with finding employment, belonging, and support. But most people are already aware of it.

Problem Presidential Actions/Executive Orders. There are many; some linked below. These are specifically ones that impact disabled Americans; lots of ones not mentioned are just as if not more concerning for other reasons.

KEEPING EDUCATION ACCESSIBLE AND ENDING COVID-19 VACCINE MANDATES IN SCHOOLS: will endanger communal health, especially that of the immunocompromised

AMERICAN HEART MONTH, 2025: Magpie, wanting to raise awareness for heart disease is obviously a good thing! Why put this in here? "And we will fulfill our pledge to investigate what has caused the decades-long increase in health problems and childhood diseases — including obesity, autoimmune disorders, infertility, and autism." Yes and, my main concern is their inclusion of "autism". Ignoring the fact that they referred to it as a heath problem or childhood disease, I am autistic adult who has lived on this earth for around 20 years now. For me, this screams Autism Speaks. Autism is a genetic disorder and there have been many studies about its potential causes. This administration has rejected and censored the medical world; this will only result in misinformation being spread.

Update: April 6, 2025: more autism stuff.

WITHDRAWING THE UNITED STATES FROM THE WORLD HEALTH ORGANIZATION: This one should be self explanatory.

There is more.

There's more concerns I have but I'm tired :/. So tired. Just wanted to raise awareness. I'll post something fun next.

UPDATE: MARCH 11, 2025

Soo...it gets worse, like it always seems to do nowadays.

CDC is planning on doing a nation wide study, studying "the link" between autism and vaccines. The link that seems from the debunked and medically controversial 1998 Wakefield study. Anyone who has a valid medical degree, did basic research on the topic, or is educated on autism can tell you that you cannot "get" autism from vaccines. It is important to note that developmental, neurological, and mental delays due to things like lead poisoning, injuries to the brain, and medical issues like diseases or strokes. However, this is not the case for autism. Autism is a condition you are born with, similar to other developmental disabilities. It seems to be only really questioned because unlike other disorders like down syndrome and fragile X syndrome, autism does not display any physical deformities or traits. You cannot tell if a baby is autistic at birth, only later on as it goes through stages of development. Autism is a genetic disorder with some suspected environmental risks.

So, why is the CDC spending this amount of energy on a theory from a disgraced man who got his medical license revoked and has been fact checked by the medical community multiple times? Short answer, money. I talked on this weeks ago in the American Heart Month section. This is plan to transfer money away from important services and spend it on something meaningless. I don't want to call it embezzlement but that is what it is currently looking like to me :/.

I would be incredibly upset if this happened anytime but now?? The worst time. Antivaxx has been gaining more and more popularity over the years and I have seen a sharp increase of medical misinformation since the confirmation of RJK Jr. The United States government themselves pursuing this theory only validates medical denialism. And with the very real threat of a nationwide Measles outbreak; people need to be vaccinated against MMR more than ever. No more kids need to die because their parents didn't give them the proper vaccines.

Oh and also big Medicaid cuts.

Ugh. Signing out for now <3

UPDATE (March 31st)

UPDATE: MARCH 21, 2025

So, it’s happened. The Department of Education I mean. Not surprised, I’m one of the few who sat down and read Project 2025 (Section 11 linked). But God.. it doesn’t feel real. I’m scared, especially for disabled kids, especially in poorer areas. These families. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what to do. God bless the teachers of America.

UPDATE: MARCH 25, 2025

Back to bullshit. Sorry if that's too harsh; I'm just not really in the mood for pleasant formalities. Due to the Department of Education being destroyed (including OSERS), as mentioned above, the responsibility of Special Education will be transferred to Robert F. Kennedy in The Department of Health and Human Services. He and his department not qualified to handle SPED at all. In fact, looking back at when I originally wrote this post, he was one of the leading threats I identified in this administration relating to disability justice.

UPDATE: MARCH 28, 2025

So, about the The Department of Health and Human Services...

Another link. And another link, more specifically about disability and these cuts (from Disability Rights Education and Defense Fund).

Sorry that there is no description on this update; hopefully I will fix that in the future. I am writing this in a hurry.

UPDATE: APRIL 17, 2025

RFK Jr. Another link. This shit is really bad. I'll add more details when I have the energy.

[cosmicflw3rr]

can you write something where r comforts dom when he loses a big title match? 💘

did your best.

dominik mysterio x fem! reader

summary: after dominik loses the north american championship you’re there to help pick up the pieces.

A/N: thank you too @rheas-ripley and some others my request are stacked!! tysm🫶🫶 so I am trying to get to all of them! but I’m in Columbia rn w no service, I only get service at the air bnb, and I’m here for a week so yea! but I am trying!

you were on the edge of your seat, watching dominik's title match. anxiously biting at your nails, your foot jittering up and down anxiously.

your gaze was locked on the monitor as dragon lee executed his finisher, you flinched at the hard impact. your hands instinctively moved to cover your mouth.

and as the ref began to count, time felt like it was dragging, each second stretched out. it was like it was all in slow motion.

1!

you were hoping for dom to escape the pim, understanding that holding the championship meant the world to him. that this was his chance to show he's not just some character they fans boo at.

he wanted to silence the everyone, to prove he's earned his spot, and to show just how far he's come since turning on his dad.

2!

you clasped both your hands in front of your lips. muttering a quick prayer under your breath, "come on, dom, kick out," urging him on silently.

3!

ding! ding! ding!

your jaw dropped, watching as dragon lee celebrated. rushing over to embrace dominik's dad, rey mysterio, who was seated at ringside.

you felt a bitter taste creeping up inside you.

your mind racing, you watched the crowd cheer for dragon lee. all praising him. the camera panned to dominik, rolling out disappointed but scowling at lee and the fans.

you stood backstage waiting for him in the gorilla. dominik pushed past the curtain moments later, looking exhausted. a few of the crew gave him words of encouragement, he acknowledged them before moving to you. he gave you a small kiss on the cheek

he wiped his face with a towel, breathing heavily. his body was drenched in sweat from the intense match.

when he saw you, his expression softened. but you could tell he was upset. "I'm gonna go shower." he muttered into your ear before giving you another quick kiss and walking away.

you knew that dominik was putting on a brave face, he wanted to show everyone that he wasn't going to let losing the championship affect him. but you could tell that he was frustrated and upset.

your eyes followed dominik as he went towards the showers, and you felt your heart break at just how upset he looked. he was putting on a brave face for everyone else.

even though dominik was young, he constantly strived to meet the expectations placed on him. the expectations that came with being a wwe legends son. he didn't want to look weak in front of everyone.

but at the end of the day when you’d both leave and go home, you knew the truth. you knew how much the loss affected him. how much it hurt to lose the championship that meant so much to him.

and you hated that he was acting like he wasn't affected by it. that he couldn't even let his feelings out to the one person he trusted the most.

you sighed running your hand through your hair frustrated.

——-

you were talking with roxanne when your phone buzzed in your pocket. you excused yourself as you checked it seeing a message from dom.

you checked your phone, seeing you had a text from dom. "I'm ready to go back to the hotel, I have your stuff just meet me in the parking lot when your done."

you sent him a quick text back, letting him know that you'd be there soon.

and finally, you told roxanne that you had to head out. she didn't ask too many questions, just giving you a quick smile before nodding.

you began the walk to the parking lot. you checked your phone again as you walked, seeing that dom had replied, letting you know he'd be waiting at his car.

once you reached the parking lot, you began looking for where you two had parked the car earlier. as soon as you spotted it, you began to walk towards it.

you quickly approached dom's car, seeing him leaning against it. his arms folded, and his gaze directed at the floor. he looked pretty exhausted, and you felt a small pang of empathy for him.

you couldn't help but frown as you got closer, wanting to help him feel better in any way you could.

"hey..." you said softly.

dom's head snapped up, turning to look at you. he was silent for a moment, before finally speaking. "hey.”

he tried to put on a smile, but it was clear from the look in his eyes that he was still upset. "you ready to go?"

"yea i am." you said, he opened the passenger door for you before passing over to the drivers side

as you settled yourself in the passenger seat, he quickly got in the driver's side and started the car. for a few moments, neither of you spoke. he was clearly lost in his own thoughts.

you were also quiet, just watching him driving. finally, you decided to break the silence. "are you okay”

"yeah, I'm fine.” he muttered, his voice coming out quiet and hoarse. he didn't seem convinced when he said it. he kept his eyes on the road, his gaze straight ahead.

there was a heavy silence in the car, as if all air had been sucked out of the car. you tried to think of something to say, to break the heavy tension. but your mind was completely blank.

dom was still staring straight ahead, not seeming to want to look at you at all. it was clear that he was trying to hold back his feelings.

he pulled up outside of the hotel, turning off the engine and unbuckling his seatbelt. he looked over at you, finally looking at you once again. his expression was still stoic, but there was a hint of sadness in his eyes.

he climbed out of the car, walking over to your side and opening the door for you.

you got out the car, waiting for him as he grabbed both of your bags out the trunk. you both went over to the hotel entrance, and he opened the door for you once more before following after.

once inside, the lobby was mostly empty besides a few hotel workers busy behind the front desk. however, you could faintly hear music and laughter coming from one of the rooms.

dom led you over to the elevator, pressing the button before leaning against the wall. he looked he looked exhausted, keeping silent.

he let out a long breath, his eyes still directed at the floor. he seemed like he was completely lost in his own thoughts and didn't want to speak about it.

as the elevator doors doors opened to reveal the hallway of your floor, you both made your way down to your room. he fished out his keycard from his wallet to unlock the door. you both walked in grabbing your bag he'd left by the door.

the room was quiet and clean, much like a hotel room should be. dom closed the door behind him, and you could hear the lock clicking loudly before the room fell silent once again.

dom sat down on the edge of the mattress, seemingly exhausted as he begun to take his shoes off.

you laid your suitcase on the bed, going to your knees to look for pijamas. you looked behind you seeing dom, your heart tightened as you stood up. you walked over to him sitting down next to him, you rested your head on his shoulder taking his hand in yours.

"babe talk to me."

he turned to look at you, his gaze still downcast. he gave you a small, tired smile, seeming almost relieved that you were there.

"i'm fine. everythings alright.” he muttered, giving your hand a quick squeeze.

you looked up at him, "but you're not fine."

he stayed silent, not moving an inch. he was clearly still trying to hide his feelings, putting on a brave face.

"i'm fine.” he repeated again, sounding slightly more convincing this time. the tension was palpable.

"dom please." you pleaded softly, you just wanted to be there for him. you just wanted him to let you be there for him.

you could see the strain of trying to stay strong slowly starting to crack. he let out a heavy sigh, his gaze going back to the floor. he stayed quiet for a moment, before finally speaking again.

"it just sucks-" he muttered, his voice coming out hoarse. not being the champion anymore seemed to be weighing on him.

"it feels like i've failed. I failed you; I failed the fans; I failed everybody." he muttered, a mixture of exhaustion and sadness in his voice.

"oh, baby, you didn't fail me; you did the best you could."

"and the best i could do wasn't enough." he replied, still keeping his gaze cast to the ground. he was clearly frustrated and upset, disappointed with himself.

his free hand moved restlessly, and you saw that he was tightly kneading the fabric of his pants.

you begin to trace patterns on his hand, looking down at your intertwined hand. "dom listen to me, you gave it everything. I'm proud of how hard you fought. this isn't the end. you'll get through this-we'll get through this. together."

he stayed silent for a moment, his gaze going up to meet yours. his expression softened, and you could tell he was trying his best to believe your words.

he swallowed, and his hands relaxed a little bit, though you still saw some tension there. "I don't know, y/n/n, I just- I just feel so defeated right now.”

your eyebrows furrowed, your heart hurt seeing him hurt. you gently turned his head so he'd look at you. "dom." you said softly, searching in his eyes, you wanted to say something instead you just wrapped your arms around his neck. pulling him into a hug.

he leaned into the hug, finally burying his face in your shoulder and letting out a heavy breath. he held on to you tightly.

he was lost in his own thoughts, the weight of having failed again weighing him down. it was clear that, although he was trying to stay strong and move on, he needed some comfort right now.

"I don't know any way to convince you that you deserve everything you've gotten and so much more." you mumbled into his shoulder, "dom you're gonna get so much more title opportunities, I just know you will."

he stayed silent for a moment, his head staying buried into your shoulder as he took in your words. he was still trying to process the loss, trying to convince himself he would have other chances.

finally, he spoke. “I'm just scared. that this is the start of the end, y'know?"

"this isn't." you reassured, "you’re so young, and your career is just starting. you have so much more to do."

he stayed silent again, but you could see him slowly believing what you were saying. he was still disappointed with having failed to keep the championship, but he was coming around to the thought that he would have more opportunities.

he looked up at you, and his expression softened a bit. "I appreciate you being here for me, amor..." he said quietly.

"you dont have to thank me, ill always be there for you."

he smiled softly, giving you a quick kiss on the cheek. "I know you will... and I love you." he said quietly, his hand moving to hold yours.

“I love you too," you told him. his fingers laced with yours, his gaze now fully on you.

he smiled softly, and for the first time since his match, he looked genuinely happy. as if all the worries had momentarily washed away, and he was now in the present with you.

your eyes moved to the stray hair that had fallen on his forehead, you moved it away gently. “you ready for bed?” you asked your gaze going back onto his eyes.

he gave a small chuckle, and looked back at the bed. he nodded, seeming relieved that the mood had shifted. "yeah.” he said, letting go of your hand. “I'm beat."

you stood up tying your hair up. “same, but I’m gonna go shower first.”

he gave you a small wink, moving over to you, letting his hand trail down your side. he leaned down, whispering into your ear. “I know a way to save water.”

you rolled your eyes, “no dom.” you said playfully.

he chuckled, a slight grin spread across his face. "pleaseeeee?" he whined, making it sound like a child asking for candy. he tried to give you his best puppy dog face, his eyes looking at you hopefully, the two of you making eye contact.

after a moment you caved, “fine.” you said, “hurry up.” you laughed out running away from him into the bathroom.

he let out a small laugh at your reluctant agreement, chasing you into the bathroom.

[deceit-and-knowledge]

Another diary/journal entry this time about pv and smilk, written by pv per request

cw: minor obssessive behaviour

Also date format used, day, month, year (blog owner is from the country that lost a war against a bird aka I'm not American)

Warning might be kinda long?

journal entry #xxx 5/3/xxxx

Dear journal

Today is the 5th day of spring so I took the time to sheer off the costs the cream sheep built up over the winter, it's still cold here. So I'm keeping warm by moving around and doing tasks around the kingdom. I stated many entries back that I was in possession of a particular blue cookie. Shadow milk cookie, his body is rather cold it's self so he'll be a wonder come summer. But that's not the point here. I am yet to write out about our complicated relationship.

He's a tough nut to crack. He's a cookie that's built up walls around himself so much it's hard to see through his feelings and emotions and true reason behind his actions. But I understand him.i understand his actions and why he's the way he is, it's true. We've walked similar paths. He's clearly been hurt in the past by someone, he's lost his sense of self and love, friendship and kindness. He was hurting so much that lies were something he discovered as a means of comfort.

I dread the idea that I nearly became that myself many times, refusing my truth for deceit. Deceit is like a forbidden fruit. Delicious yet bad for you. The truth is like a sour candy. Hurts you in the beginning but becomes sweet to you later. I'm glad shadow milk cookie is beginning to learn who he was again. Even if it's a slow process.

How did this occur again? He just showed up on my doorstep one day. He claimed to want vengeance and that I'm "nothing but a pathetic marionette on a string, he'll play like fiddle until I give up what I stole." So I gave him a whole speech about friendship and why I want him to accept it. He "pretended* to get it but I knew. He accepted it from the start. He came here already wanting my friendship but because he's so scared to be vulnerable he has to lie and pretend he's not "weak" or "soft" when really he is.

He has his moments of "weakness" where he allows himself to open up to me and even cry. He's afraid of being judged and while I wish he wasn't I understand why he is. He's the "master of deceit" the once fount of knowledge, I believe even a king. He has many important titles and roles and clearly played a huge role in this world's development. Everything he did had responsibility and immense impact. A cookie as important as that couldn't be "weak" or show "immaturity" let alone be submissive and just give in his emotions. A cookie that claims to be a master of all lies, that governs all truth, deceit and knowledge can't be shown sobbing. It breaks my heart that he can't let his walls break.

But little does he know I've been breaking them slowly, love and kindness is what he needs to build trust in someone to let them see him cry. See him at his lowest which is all the time. He hasn't had a high in maybe eons. I feel horrible for him.

I'm so glad to be the cookie guiding him, being his friend and making him happy. I'm aware he's harmed me, harmed my friends, some probably worse to others. Elder faerie gave up his life to white lily cookie so she could stop shadow milk cookie. Remembering that gorgeous faerie form she took makes me feel. Strange.. she looked pretty, yes but now when I look back I feel nothing. I don't feel love the way I do. I suppose I no longer possess feelings for white lily cookie. I still love her as a friend however, besides. Our paths stray much different from one another. A relationship with her would stop one of us from being happy and feeling fulfilled. I want her to be happy and if that means our paths don't align I accept that.

Admittedly my previous behaviour about her was rather concerning. A giant lily garden made from mourning isn't normal. I recognise that. It's always been an issue for me, I get so overally attached to something or someone it makes me feel ill not to have it. I'm addicted to the scent of lillies. I know. It's a problem but now I'm slowly developing a particular fondness for the milky scent of milk crown flowers. Yes. It means exactly what you think it means.

But at least it's not one sided. I see right through that liar. He's so obvious about it but I'm unsure how much longer I can wait for his walls to break down enough he admits it to me and tells me his feelings. I love shadow milk cookie. I understand him and care about him more than I've cared about the other heroes, white lily cookie and the kids. We even literally share a soul in a way. Could that be anymore perfect? Our paths align perfectly, it's mere fate. I never thought it would be this way but he's just like me. Despite the past, I want to move past it and show him empathy for his hurt. I hate to sound so enthralled despite the past but the thrill rubs me the right way.

He's still cruel but it's kinder now. He calls me names but it's because he's scared to admit how he truly feels, luckily I get it. He doesn't think I do. For the once fount of knowledge, he's not great at realisation. It's quite humorous. He doesn't even realise how much I admire him. I can't help but stare, those silly blue eyes pierce right through me, he even likes the same things as me. Yes I'm gushing. I love the thrill, I love watching a cookie so angry with life finally smile. Learn to care about someone that's not him, today he yelled at me for not eating. Before he'd just point it out and pout but today he screamed at me. He was so worried about me he used his little strength to cook. He then threw a pie at me but it's the thought that counts. Can't be too kind now can he?

every moment with this cookie feels amazing all over. I need him, I'm getting quite impatient. I need him all over me. I want to be.

tomorrow i plan to take him to do some gardening, last time he offered me a flower and it was so sweet. I love watching him warm up to me. We've gotten so far and there's no going back now. This cookie will forever be my dear friend I met through strange means but he'll forever be important to me as a show of my compassion.

I must sleep now. Tomorrow I will write again.

[befuddledcinnamonroll]

Spare Me Your Mercy - final thoughts

I was out of town last week, so didn't have a chance to watch the SMYM finale until today. But wow, what an experience this show was. I have a few minor criticisms, but overall, I found this to be such a nuanced and heartfelt watch.

You can tell how deeply those making this series cared about the topic of euthanasia, and creating a venue for discussion. The emphasis on people's autonomy and right to dignity, the callout of class disparity and how it impacts the end of one's life, the inequity in health care and how people with few resources are disproportionately burdened with caring for dying family while still trying to survive day to day. How the trauma and pain of it all grows exponentially, continually leading to further tragedy.

I know there are criticisms of the Kan and Thiu relationship, but honestly, it worked for me. To me, it felt like what was needed for the story. Thiu is clearly a deeply internal character. He may not necessarily hide but he is not remotely forthcoming about his inner world, whether it be his sexuality or his affections or his worries about Kan. Kan is much more open and extroverted, but at the same time, he was willing to lie to Thiu for their entire lives due to his convictions. These are not men who are going to be doing grand romantic gestures for each other; it's a quiet, and honestly, quite realistic form of love. At the same time, it was supposed to feel slightly off, because there was a giant wall between the two of them. There were too many secrets, and too much pain, and none of it was being dealt with in the open. They couldn't be genuinely honest and intimate with each other. Until the very end, when Kan shows he is willing to give up everything in an act of love for Thiu, and Thiu is finally able to say what he feels. It may feel dark, but the wall is down, and I think they will weather what comes next.

What I particularly appreciate about this series is the emphasis on how harmful it is when you cannot talk about a difficult subject. It is likely that many of us fall into slightly different places on the spectrum of what is moral and ethical when it comes to euthanasia, but the vital thing is being able to communicate about it. Thiu's mother wasn't able to tell her son that she was ready to die, so he became mired in his regrets and his grief, rather than understanding it was her choice. Rin wasn't able to talk to her father, to know that he was self-determining his end (and thinking of her), so she was left to wonder and feel rejected. Somsak wasn't willing to listen to his lover's wishes, due to his entrenched beliefs, so missed being there for his final moments. Boss couldn't come to Kan directly, and ended up on a misguided and fatal path. And none of them had an avenue to process their pain. It all needed to be talked about, to be brought into the light of day without fear or shame. We all need to be able to talk about it.

It's really interesting to watch this show as someone who grew up in America when the furor around Kevorkian happened (for the non-Americans, a doctor who went to prison for euthanizing a terminally ill man), and experienced what it's like when euthanasia breaks in as a topic of news cycles and everyday conversation. I am also someone who lives in a state where assisted dying is legal. My parents are elderly, and we have talked about their end of life wishes. Living in a state where they could make their own decisions was paramount to them. It's incredibly challenging, and it hurts to even think about, but it is so very necessary to communicate with those we love.

My heart goes out to everyone who has had to personally grapple with this topic, and had to deal with a lack of legal options for a peaceful end of life. May we come ever closer to a world where we all get full autonomy, and can be open with those we love about what we need, both now, and at the end.

[saphirepony66]

US Election

The election has been called by The Associated Press, one of the most reputable sources of election data. Trump has been declared the winner and is the 47th president of the United States of America.

I am Australian, and I only recently voted in my first election. It utterly breaks my heart to see how many people are scared for their autonomy, their safety and their freedom following this election.

I don't know much about the American voting system but I do know that unlike here in Australia, people cannot vote for multiple candidates and show their preferences. I know that the voting system there creates a lot of tension amongst third party voters and those who vote for the two major parties and cannot help but wonder whether the results would be different if the American system was the same as ours.

I also know that people may attack me for talking about this and expressing my disappointment at these results. I would like to remind them that I am aware that this election is not one in my country. However, that does not mean that these election results will not impact me at all. The US is extremely important to our economy. Any impact that Trump's presidency has on the American economy could also impact Australia, especially as a lot of our trade is with the US.

Another way this election could impact Australia is as an ally to the US. Anything America does is something Australia tends to copy to build a stronger partnership, as we rely on the US for military aid.

The main impact of this election will still be on the US and its citizens and my heart breaks for anyone who is targeted by the policies Trump intends to implement.

To anyone who avoided voting. I am sorry that you don't feel that any candidates represent you.

To anyone who voted Third Party. I am sorry that you are blamed for issues caused by your voting system.

To anyone who voted for Harris/Walz. I am sorry that your voices weren't heard by those who needed to hear them.

And to anyone who voted for Trump/Vance. I hope that you know exactly what will happen during this presidency, because as some of us know, politicians are known to lie.

[batsarebetterthanpeople]

So I am drinking for the first time in months because I have taken an accidental break from my evil medication and I'm taking advantage of that. But I'm here in the club pondering Lestat on this fine afternoon. Full disclosure I've been watching 2.07 and 2.08 in gifs, because the person who's link I have has not updated their Google drive. But I think most of the ramble I'm about to go oh about Lestat and race is contained within season 1.

So Lestat is an interesting case in terms of portraying a racist character because I think when you correct for the gothic horror shock value he's more true to what most racism actually looks like than like 97% of cases where it's depicted, but also there's a lot of people in the fandom who will insist that hes not racist, despite the fact that Claudia explicitly calls him out on it multiple times. And I think the reason for that is actually more complicated and interesting than standard issue Blorbo apologia or that they see a white person and are automatically more sympathetic to the white person, I'm not saying that both of those aren't part of it but I am saying that there's also a third genre of it.

So like, Lestat starts out as the nice white guy. He's not white he French, as Louis said. He thinks the way that Louis is treated by American white people is appalling. And then as they carry on, Lestat is horrifically racist in some places and kinda chill, never great, but on Louis' side, in others, and in other places he writes race off as a mortal affair and considers both his and Louis' race to be "vampire". And I actually think that's the closest we get to Lestat's actual beliefs on race. He thinks he's solved racism for Louis by giving him the dark gift, because now Louis can just eat people who are racist to him.

Lestat is very much a modern white person transplanted into the Jim Crow era in this way. He doesn't think he's racist. Racism isn't ideological for him the way it is for the other white people we meet in Louisiana who think that they are superior to Louis by virtue of their skin color. He doesn't see Louis as sub human (or sub-vampire). He even feels more affinity to Louis than to other white people by virtue of Louis being both a vampire and his partner.

However he is still racist. Because Lestat at his core is selfish. Louis is the superego and Lestat is the Id. Lestat is operating on a race blind mentality, but he will use other white people's racism to his advantage no matter how much it hurts Claudia and Louis, I would argue with only partial understanding of what he's doing at all.

That's not a defense of him. He knows he's hurting his family. He's doing it on purpose for the benefit of himself because that's who Lestat is. That's what makes him awful and abusive. He takes it to genre typical extremes, but I think sometimes the racial angle to whats going on completely escapes him, meanwhile Louis and Claudia remain hyper aware of it, because they have to be to navigate their lives in black bodies, undead or otherwise. This hurts Louis and Claudia just as much as it would hurt them if Lestat was a white hood wearing Klansman who thought he was superior to them. It doesn't matter in his impact that in his heart he is doing this because he cares about himself before anyone else, rather than because he thinks he's better because he's white. The impact is the same whether he's race blind or a Nazi. He is still weaponizing his whiteness against his loved ones. A person could argue it's worse than if he was a capital R racist because if he was Louis and Claudia would never have become loved ones in the first place

I think this is why a lot of people get incredibly defensive about Lestat being called racist. Because good liberal white people in America are raised to not see color. They're raised to think that MLK solved systemic racism and that treating someone different because of their skin color is appalling behavior. But they still use the systemic racism that exists around them to their advantage while maintaining this mindset, because like pavlovs dogs they know when certain behavior will benefit them but never stop to question why that behavior benefits them or wonder if it's hurting people around them. They will throw poc, even poc that they love and respect, under the bus without realizing that's what's happening.

Lestat holds a dark mirror up to those people. The writers show them a white man who is nice and colorblind and appalled by the treatment that Louis is receiving who still weaponizes the color of his skin against Louis. The first episode makes white people who care about POC want to like and relate to Lestat who is quickly developing a romance with Louis, and then it shows his horrible racist tendencies in subsequent episodes. Because of this white people who are allies and unfamiliar with the story will at first like Lestat but realize around episode three what's up with him and not defend him. But people in the more colorblind lane will defend him from the racism allegations to the death even if they acknowledge his other crimes because they don't want to admit that they themselves have done what Lestat is doing on a much smaller scale without the domestic abuse and vampire style violence.*

Consequently I think they had to make Lestat this type of racist because if they made him an ideological racist he couldn't have gone back to Louis with a satisfying ending the way we know he's going to and if he was actually not racist the way a good ally is (which is to say makes mistakes but owns up to them and corrects them) it would be wildly untrue to his characterization in the books. He must be selfish.

*I of course acknowledge that white people who are not ideologically racist fall along a gradient between ally and color blind and just because someone can recognize this behavior in others doesn't mean they don't occasionally ignore it in themselves but for my purposes I am making a binary. Nuance. You understand.

[lucyav13]

Hey guys!

Today I'm gonna do something different...

An analysis of the translation of the Japanese memories, so let's get started!

This is all thanks to @mochilorddrakeinferno, who compiled all this data into a folder. I'll have a very pleasant read thanks to you :)

It should be noted that these are all my assumptions and my ideas, so I invite you to create your own =)

Memory 1:

Japanese:

Blumiere (narrating): “That day… That room was warm and calm. Complete tranquility.”

Blumiere: “U-Urgh…” Timpani: “You’re awake…?”  Blumiere: “Where… am I? Is this… a human’s home…? Gah!” Timpani: “Don’t move. I found you unconscious beneath the cliffs. You must have fallen.” Blumiere: “You’re human, aren’t you? Do I not frighten you? I’m from the Tribe of Darkness…” Timpani: “What are you talking about? You can’t just ignore someone when they're injured, right?” Blumiere (narrating): “That was the day we first met… It was also… When tragedy began to unfold…”

So, first of all, the way that Blumiere

The way Blumiere narrated at the beginning gives us to understand that the place where Timpani was taking care of him gave him a feeling of peace and security, perhaps unlike his own familiar environment. 

Besides, Timpani in his next dialogue says "cliffs" in plural, perhaps giving us the idea that the tribe of darkness created those cliffs to separate themselves from the human world.

I also feel like this point is lost by the impact of Tippi’s words, as here she simply assumes that anyone with common sense would help him, whereas the American version shows that a person with a heart shouldn’t ignore someone who is hurt. And this point is something that is developed later on in the game, precisely when the Count Bleck appears to the heroes in Chapter 6-2, as it shows how much he has fallen into despair over his loss and how at that point in the game, he says that the heart is useless, as if to somehow negate what Timpani told him here.

In this case I'll stick with the American version.

Memory 2

Japanese:

Timpani: “You’re late… Did something happen?”

Blumiere: “My father saw me trying to leave the castle, so it took me a while to do so…” 

Timpani: “…I thought you might not have come. I was a little worried.”

Blumiere: “You’re a strange one… Are you not afraid of meeting with someone from the Tribe of Darkness?” 

Timpani: “None of that matters to me… I just wanted to see you… Is that… wrong?”

Blumiere: “No, not at all… I wanted to see you too…”

Timpani: “Blumiere… May I sit next to you?”

Blumiere: “Of course, Timpani. Let’s continue our conversation from before. I want to know even more about you…”

At the beginning of the Japanese version, it seems that Blumiere’s father “punished” him in some way, and that Blumiere rebelled against him, just to see Timpani. And then, it seems that Timpani was really worried about him, maybe because it’s not the first time this has happened, as if she knew the threat that Blumiere’s father represents, instead, the English version shows Timpani’s fear that his love is not reciprocated, that he was going to stand up her. 

And then, in the Japanese version, it is shown as if Blumiere knew that his tribe is dangerous and is surprised that Timpani would want to see him, despite what that entails. And in the English version, along these same lines, the difference with the Japanese version is shown, because, it seems more that she says it because of her physical appearance, as if emphasizing the dividing line that exists between them: “You are a strange girl… You know what I am and yet you don’t seem to be afraid.” 

But, as Timpani answers him, it is clear that she does not care at all about that barrier, and questions if that is SO bad to break the rules of their tribes to not see each other. In Japanese, this same line shows that Timpani does not mind taking the risks involved in seeing a member of the tribe of darkness, and there is more of a romantic side since she wanted to see him, and she questions if those rules are so important that they could not see each other. 

And what Blumiere answers in the next scene shows that he is more rooted in his customs, and sees it from a more technical side, if it is wrong, but, deep down he feels that it is okay, because he also wanted to see her; his mind tells him it's wrong, but his heart tells him otherwise. And in English, Blumiere's romantic side is seen.

But now, in the next expression that Timpani says: "Do you mind if I sit next to you" and "Can I sit next to you" there is a clear difference. In the first one it seems that Timpani wants to know if Blumiere accepts her, and if he has the same conviction of wanting to know each other better. And in the Japanese version, it seems Timpani wants to emphasize that despite their obvious differences, she asks for permission to connect with Blumiere on a deeper level. 

Now, what Blumiere says in English clearly shows their mutual interest and how he is somehow desperate to get to know her more. And in the other version, you can see how he has paid attention to her and is eager to get to know even more this girl who has captivated him and also that their past conversations have been very meaningful to him.

Some other differences I saw in the Japanese version, in general, of this memoir, is that both communicate with many ellipses, showing in a more direct way the romantic tension; as if both think a lot about their answers because they want to be liked by the other. They seem more nervous, but at the same time more convinced.

Here I think I'd lean more towards the Japanese version. But tell me what you think. And wait for the analysis of the other memories. Ciao!

[lilacs-and-earl-gray-tea]

Lukewarm, garbage-ass answer from Suzan DelBene, my Representative when I sent in letters asking her to support a ceasefire. I'm fucking pissed. Not necessarily surprised, but pissed as hell. How hard is is to say that genocide is wrong??!? Fucking cowardly behavior. Shame on you, Representative DelBene. Maybe shaming you on the internet publicly will get your head out of the sand.

Plain text below the cut. Recipient info redacted for my privacy.

Sorry for any weird formatting, I had to crop this together from 3 screenshots of my email, because I am a caveman who couldn't figure out how to get the damn thing downloaded right.

REP. SUZAN K. DELBENE

1st District, Washington

2330 Rayburn House Office Building Washington, DC 20515 (202) 225-6311

450 Central Way Suite 3100 Kirkland, WA 98033 (425) 485-0085

www.delbene.house.gov

WAYS AND MEANS COMMITTEE

Subcommittee on Tax

Subcommittee on Trade

Subcommittee on Oversight

December 15, 2023

[Redacted] Dear [Redacted],

Thank you for contacting my office regarding the conflict in Israel, Gaza, and the West Bank. I appreciate hearing from you.    

I have struggled with what to say in response to the ongoing violence that speaks to the pain and suffering of all those impacted by what is going on in Israel, Gaza, and the West Bank. I have heard from many members of our community who are mourning family members and loved ones they have lost to this war and to the broader generational conflict. At least 30 Americans have been killed since the initial attacks, including a graduate of the University of Washington. My heart breaks for the millions of innocent civilians who have been caught up in this horrific violence through no fault of their own. This violence has inflicted long-term consequences on innocent Israeli and Palestinian citizens, including the youngest generations.

First, I want to underscore my appreciation for writing to your elected representative on this difficult subject. While we ultimately may not agree on everything, I pledge to listen to and learn from the perspectives of all my constituents. As this conflict continues, I will take your views into account as best I can to serve Washington’s diverse communities in Congress. Second, I want to make unequivocally clear that the targeting and murder of civilians is wrong. Taking innocent families and children as hostages is wrong. Committing acts of hate against anyone, including our fellow Jewish, Muslim, and Palestinian neighbors is wrong. We must all speak with a decisive voice in condemning violence and hate and hold those who perpetrate these horrific acts accountable.  

It is undeniable that Hamas slaughtered thousands of innocent people and continues to hold over one hundred hostages, including Americans. I grieve with those families and with our Jewish community who are struggling in response to this brutality. Israel, like the United States and all other sovereign nations, has the right to defend itself against terrorism, ensure the safety of its people, and hold its attackers accountable. This means dismantling Hamas’ military capabilities and working to free hostages.  

At the same time, Israel has a responsibility to adhere to the rules of war and do everything in its power to protect civilians. President Biden continues to push Israel to take all possible precautions to avoid harm to civilians, including by successfully negotiating a temporary ceasefire agreement with Israel and Hamas in late November that led to the cessation of violence for over a week, the release of over one hundred hostages, and allowing access for increased humanitarian aid. President Biden and administration officials also continue to emphasize to their Israeli counterparts the importance of protecting civilian lives. Recently, Defense Secretary Lloyd Austin stated: “I have repeatedly made clear to Israel’s leaders that protecting Palestinian civilians in Gaza is both a moral responsibility and a strategic imperative.” It is all the more challenging as Hamas continues to embed itself within civilian infrastructure and put innocent people in harm’s way. 

Thousands of Palestinians have been killed or injured in Gaza, and many more are in desperate need of food, water, medicine, shelter safe from war, and other humanitarian assistance. Palestinian civilians living in the West Bank have also been the victims of attacks by Israeli settlers. I grieve with our Muslim, Arab, and Palestinian communities who have lost loved ones and who are struggling due to the violence.

In the face of these challenges, President Biden has taken decisive action to assist Israel in its defense against terrorism while prioritizing the safety of innocent people. In addition to President Biden’s efforts to protect civilians, the administration is continuing to work nonstop to secure the freedom of the remaining hostages, especially American hostages, and deter additional adversaries from joining this fight. President Biden has also committed more than $100 million in life-saving humanitarian aid to Gaza and the West Bank and has requested additional funding from Congress to support anti-terrorism activities and provide more humanitarian assistance to Palestinian and Israeli civilians. He also imposed sanctions against Hamas officials as well as settlers who have attacked Palestinian civilians living in the West Bank and demanded accountability from the Israeli government for these acts of violence.

The enormity of these challenges can be daunting. The history of this broader conflict is complex and there are significant differences that must be resolved to achieve a lasting peace that is agreed to by both sides. It is my sincere hope that, in time, Israelis and Palestinians can come together to construct a more durable peace. I strongly support a two-state solution and agree with President Biden that a “concentrated effort” by world leaders is needed to move towards that goal.

Sincerely,

Suzan DelBene

Member of Congress

[struggle-but-its-all-ocean-floor]

Out of curiosity, I know that some kpop companies (hybe, jyp, maybe etc.) are trying to start these international groups trained in the kpop mold but from all countries and all singing in English. Do you foresee there being an appetite for this? Is this still kpop to you? (full disclosure I was the anon that accidentally got hooked on dream academy and, though they don't show it, I'm really fascinated by the behind the scenes of it all bc it's really heart-warming how they've all seemed to develop such strong bonds despite many language barriers and many national backgrounds)

Somewhat relatedly, I'm interested to see how the genre is impacted long-term by the increased international focus, including doing more English tracks and an increasing preference for English-speaking trainees, potentially resulting in less focus on the korean market. The siloing of kpop to the korean market was of course bad in one way bc fewer people were exposed to it and got to experience the genre, but I wonder what the genre, to the extent that it can be readily defined, might stand to lose by focusing outward. Maybe nothing of course, and it's just another example of linguistic imperialism. It'll be interesting to see. I don't expect you to predict the future! I just wanted to put down some thoughts

I remember you! Welcome back!

I don't know if what I feel is right, but I don't really want to see people who aren't of Asian descent in kpop? Actually, my problem is more with white people from more privileged countries. Kpop's recent popularity in the West means Western countries, especially the US and in Europe, are being exposed to a different culture, and Asian communities in those countries are seeing themselves represented. Having songs with Korean lyrics such as LGO and the Savage Love remix reach number 1 on the Hot 100 is so cool. We're all so used to English we forget that it's just a language and that other languages are valid. I used to feel insecure about my English, despite it being great, because it isn't perfect and I don't sound like a native. BTS showed me how "random" it all is. In Kpop, Korean is the dominant language even if us outsiders don't speak it, and it's such a cool language. I became interested in Korean and less interested in English through Kpop. Most idols don't speak English that well and it's all cool, thus I was able to take pride in how fluent I am and stop regretting the fact that I'm not an English native speaker. I literally used to dream that I was born in the US or Canada, just because I would be a native English-speaker (nevermind the fact that English in an official language in other countries...). I still love English, but I don't worship the language anymore. Seeing a group form a small, ignored country become so famous that people even started learning more about it and its language felt like representation even to me who is from a "popular" European country - Portugal has grown a lot recently, but when I was younger no one talked about us, and a lot of people to this day think we're a Spanish colony or something. I used to feel so invisible and insignificant, especially being from a small town...

I don't know, I don't really want to see a bunch of privileged white Americans in kpop. They already have a whole industry for them. Maybe kpop will be like hip hop? It's still dominated by black artists but so global. Of course, there is the issue of culture appropriation... I don't know much about this topic, but my issue is: aren't most songs already in English? We need "kpop" groups singing in English too? Part of the beauty of kpop is breaking what you called the linguist imperialism. There's a difference between Asian artists singing in English to expand their reach, because that allows for representation, shows that Americans and Europeans aren't the only ones who can become famous, and inevitably exposes the artists' fans to their own culture and language too, and international groups singing in English. What do we even mean by international? If the groups are truly diverse that could be great in terms of representation, introducing audiences to different cultures and languages, etc. Are these groups mostly going to be made up of people from privileged countries? These companies will likely privilege native English speakers or fluent English speakers (more common in Western countries, I think?), and also white or of East Asian descent...

I'm thinking aloud but I don't really know the kinds of groups that are being put together, since I don't watch survival shows. I don't know if I'm being small-minded and trying to gatekeep kpop. I wonder what Koreans and Asian communities in general think about this?

But this is an interesting topic you've raised! I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of discourse about it. For now these groups are just starting out, right? We don't know how successful they'll be. We already have XG who sort of fit this concept, but they're all Japanese so it's different. I wonder how confusing it will be for Western audiences who are just being introduced to kpop and now have kpop without Asians (or with non-Asians). And Asian countries where kpop is mainstream, would they care for these groups? They might be indifferent to them? It might not make a difference the language they're singing in or how they were trained?

Thanks for the ask! I'm too ignorant to answer you. These are more questions than opinions! I'd love to hear your thoughts, as someone with an actual understanding of how these groups are being created!

[thegreyjester]

On Wednesday's, We Kill (Wednesday/American Psycho) Chapter 2

Fandom: Wednesday (TV 2022), American Psycho (2000)

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence

Relationships: Patrick Bateman/Wednesday Addams (NO LONGER Platonic! I've made my mind.)

Additional Tags: Patrick Bateman & Wednesday Addams Patrick Bateman Wednesday Addams Tyler Galpin Lucas Walker (Wednesday TV) Jonah (Wednesday TV) Mentioned Noble Walker Mentioned Donovan Galpin - Character Larissa Weems Carter (Wednesday TV) Platonic Relationships Ambiguous/Open Ending Patrick Bateman is an Asshole internally Violent Thoughts Obsessive Behavior Existential Crisis Internal Conflict Unreliable Narrator Patrick Bateman is at Fault Wednesday Addams is Bad at Feelings Lucas Walker Tries Barista Tyler Galpin Character Study

Summary: “But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve. For daws to peck at: I am not what I am.” - Iago from William Shakespeare's play, "Othello."

A self-loathing, narcissistic loser meets his match with a stuck-up, unlikeable goth.

Comments: GAH! I spent too much time on this—much more than needed! SORRY! Anyway, I was listening to a lot of Michael Jackson while writing this, so it definitely influenced the music monologue in the beginning. Though my favorite song from the Invincible album has to be "Heaven Can Wait", and my favorite from all his albums has to be "In the Closet"—but I definitely can't see Patrick listening to either.

Word count: 13,000+

Fic under the line break, and it can be read on AO3 and Fanfiction.net under the same name.

AO3: Woe Baked in Every Bite

Fanfic: Woe Baked in Every Bite

──────◇──────​

"Guess I was angry that my dad got humiliated on Outreach Day. Wanted payback. But then after we did it, I kind of felt like crap. I realized I needed to wipe the board, you know? Start over. If that makes any sense." — Lucas Waker

"At first, I'd wake up naked. Covered in blood. No idea what happened. But over time, I started to remember. Everything. The sound of their screams. The panic in their eyes. A fear so primal I could taste it. And it was delicious." — Tyler Galpin

"It's so much worse (and more pleasurable) taking the life of someone who has hit his or her prime, who has beginnings of a full history, a spouse, a network of friends, a career, whose death will upset far more people whose capacity for grief is limitless than a child's would, perhaps ruining many more lives than just the meaningless, puny death of this boy." — Patrick Bateman

"... That's kinda scary." — Lucas Walker

──────◇──────​

"You can't believe it, you can't conceive it..." Do you like Michael Jackson's last studio album, Invincible? I personally enjoyed it. I found his early works to be a bit too indulgent for my taste, although I am able to recognize their undeniable impact. Thriller and Bad are undeniably iconic, highly revered by the music industry, and practically untouchable—no one can or is denying that. At least, no one with half a functioning brain would argue otherwise.

"And you can't touch me, 'cause I'm untouchable (you can't touch me)..." They are commercially groundbreaking, with Thriller selling a million copies in its first week, more so after the "Thriller" music video was released, solidifying its place in history as the best-selling album of all time. And Bad? Bad—that album sold over 2 million copies in its debut week, and later went on to be one of the best-selling albums ever, it was, of course, to be expected, after all, it was bound to be a success due to audience anticipation, with it being primed to be the successor to Thriller.

"And I know you hate it, and you can't take it (yeah)..." Yet, despite being a commercial success, Bad is viewed as constantly living in Thriller's shadow. Some critics even dismiss it unfairly because it falls short of inflated and near-unattainable expectations set by its predecessor, which many consider to be Jackson's magnum opus. It's as if they wanted Jackson to compete with himself.

"You'll never break me..." What they fail to even realize is that Bad surpassed Thriller in certain aspects, such as having more number-one hits (five in total, if I recall correctly) compared to Thriller which only had two, those being "Bille Jean" and "Beat It". Yet, despite that, people continue to overlook Bad's accomplishments, brushing them aside in favor of comparing it to the juggernaut that was Thriller.

"You can't let it break, 'cause I'm unbreakable..." Bad, especially, has suffered undeserved criticism over the years, especially when compared to Thriller. Sure, Bad may have sold 30 million copies less compared to Thriller, but so what? It doesn't diminish the greatness of the latter's. That's like sneering at Michelangelo because he couldn't top his paintings on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It's like criticizing Da Vinci for not painting another Mona Lisa. Some people simply can not separate Bad from the utter monster that is Thriller's overwhelming success.

"You can try to stop me, but it won't do a thing..." But when Invincible came out in 2001, that's when I thought Jackson really came into his own again, both artistically and commercially. Of course, it's easy to understand why people didn't or even fully appreciate the album—why the reception was lukewarm. It was Jackson peeling back the layers of his public persona, revealing something much more intimate, but that's what makes the album so intriguing.

"No matter what you do, I'm still gonna be here (Be here)" It possesses such great tracks too. Tracks that have been easily lost compared to the frenzy of his previous hits. For instance, tale the song, "Threatened". I can not help but be enamored by its inclusion of lines borrowed from Rob Sterling's Twilight Zone. Specifically, it's from the episode "It's a Good Life," Season 3, Episode 8, to be exact.

"Through all your lies and silly games..." But, If I were to give my honest opinion, I would much prefer the opening track of the album, that being "Unbreakable". Sure, while both songs criticize the media and center on themes of isolation, "Unbreakable," in my personal opinion, just takes the lead. There's something about the lyrics that resonates with me on a deeper level, or maybe I can relate to it given its closer relate date compared to Jackson's other albums.

"I'ma still remain the same, I'm (Uh) un—(Uh)—breakable (What? Uh)" It's different. It provides such a powerful statement, perfectly fitting for the difficult moment in his life when he was anything but invincible.

"A lime to a lemon, my D.C. women..." My hand reaches for the shower handle, gripping it tightly. There was no real satisfaction from the polished smoothness of its chrome coloring. It is strange, a valve whose appearance looks more like a door handle or maybe a faucet's lever. Either way, it serves its purpose like any other. I turn the handle, stopping the flow of hot water.

The temperature changed from hot to cold for a moment, a jarring contrast I could feel across my skin. I stop there unmoved, letting the water run and drip down my body. A pool formed briefly at my feet before spiraling into the drain, a testament to the impermanence of my presence. It was a process, a mundane process, a habitual act, thoughtless by nature.

If I had to make a critique about the song "Unbreakable," it would be Christopher Wallace's portion. Michael makes an exemplary attempt transitioning into it, and I will give him credit for that—he really does try to make it work within the song's structure, likely forming it around it. But, personally, I don't think rap has a place in the song, let alone the album. Not because I don't like rap—I don't—but because Biggie's verse wasn't even made for the track. It was sampled from an already existing song, "You Can't Stop the Reign" from 1996, by Shaquille O'Neal.

I pulled the white shower curtain, the fabric of it sliding against the rod, making a slight rasp. It served as a barrier to ensure that no water pouring from the fixed shower head escaped the shower. The shower head itself was far more engaging, its brand wasn't identifiable, though judging by the cheap adjustable dial, it must've been something garish—like a Waterpik or Glacier Bay. As for the curtain, I'm far more accustomed to glass panes as shower partitions, but I'm adapting. It's an unfortunate minor adjustment, but not unbearable.

It's a bit inconvenient though. There is no towel bar attached to the shower. There is one, but it is mounted on the far side of the bathroom. Thankfully, there is a wall hook near the curtain, providing a somewhat practical substitute. I assumed such—rightly—when I had placed my towel there earlier. Reaching for it now, I pulled the towel down before wrapping it securely around my waist, ensuring my modest before stepping outside of the shower.

I approached the sink. The mirror is foggy, and my reflection is obscured.

The music continues to play. I listen, idly.

But I am unable to hear a thing.

My hands moved to slick back my hair, each motion deliberate—removing the obstruction my hair posed from my face, even though I could not see it in the mirror. I don't need to. I am aware of every strand, of every misplaced imperfection. I know it. There is no hesitation in my movements as I move on to my routine. I am methodical, swift, and precise.

Once I felt satisfied that my hair would not be a problem, I reached for La Mer's "Essence Foaming Cleanser". I've been told that the bottle was redesigned with sustainability in mind, with it being recyclable. But what truly matters is the formula: Miracle Broth, Tourmaline, The Comforting Ferment. Excellent. According to the manufacturer, it promised to purify the skin and free it from dirt and pollution.

Just earlier, in the shower, I used Agustinus Bader's "The Cream Cleansing Gel". It is a dual cream and gel, non-foaming and non-comedogenic type of texture. There is no fragrance. None of that nonsense. It cleanses impurities without stripping the skin of its natural oils, it hydrates without leaving any residue, it tightens pores, and it maintains skin elasticity. TFC8 (Trigger Factor Complex) supports cellular renewal. These words mean absolutely nothing. These words mean absolutely everything.

The results matter.

Anyway, my hand squeezes the bottle of cleanser, producing a measured amount in my palm, roughly the size of a quarter. I place the bottle down on the porcelain countertop as my hands move toward the faucet. I turned the valve, and water began pouring out in a thin stream. Cold. I splash the cold water onto the cream, and then rub my palms against each other, transforming the cream, emulsifying it, and thinning it into a frothy consistency.

I apply it to my face with a clinical level of meticulousness. My fingertips move in a slow, circular motion, avoiding the tender areas under my eye. Instead, I focus on my face's natural lines. My fingers linger on my temple, pressing lightly, as if I could knead away the tension. I do not push. I do not allow myself to push harder.

I can't see myself. Not clearly—only a vague outline, a blur, a presence without definition—just a smear of colors, a smudge. I lift my hand, dragging the back of it across the glass in an attempt to wipe it clean, but it refuses, resisting. It becomes even more of a blur, and the condensation continues to cling to the mirror, and I grimace.

I opted to rinse my hands under the tap. The cold water, still running from when I applied the cleanser, bites at my skin—sharp, almost painful. I withdrawal. Droplets clung to my fingers. I shake them off, flicking them in a practiced manner. Some splatter against the sink, these tiny blots of moisture dotting the porcelain. Gradually, the warmth returns, albeit delayed and unwelcome. The whole thing felt chaotic. Messy. I regretted not using a towel.

I wipe the mirror again, this time using my palm. Pressing harder. Having it drag against the glass, smearing the moisture that clung to it. Almost aggressively.

A face emerged.

If it could be called that.

There is a feeling that envelopes me. It's not a jolt of shock or an assault of fear—no, something worse. Something slow. It seeps, burrowing deep, and settles. Its tendrils curl around me, coiling around my ribs, like rot settling into the marrow of my bones.

It's unpleasant.

The face I see in the mirror is nothing more than a mockery, a grotesque and wrong approximation of human anatomy. It is not human, not really. It is a perversion, a parody of what should be natural. Its features are where they should be, with it being arranged in a manner that should inspire a sense of familiarity, but they don't. The proportions are correct, the structure vaguely makes sense but there's a disconnect, an undeniable dissonance between what I see in the mirror and what I expect to see. Something is missing.

It was not a mask, it isn't. Though it should be. Despite its uncanny resemblance, at least a mask makes an attempt to conceal or deceive. It's a face, but even calling it that felt dishonest. A face should appear natural, its expressions and emotions appearing in its entirety. A totality that gives an audience an idea of a position. This thing, shaped in the mirror, conveyed nothing. Lacking in both intent, meaning, and emotion. Only displaying a level of abstraction, far removed from what it tries to present itself as.

The skin, if it had any, was smooth. Stretched tight over the rigid structure that was not flesh or bone. The color? Uncertain. Pale, pink, gray. There was no pores to be seen on its complexion that lacked any hair, not a single strand. I could make out only a faint, yet distinct line that ran from the bridge of the nose to the forehead, resembling something like a frontal suture. A detail that means something. Though I can't quite grasp what.

It's familiar. Almost uncomfortably so.

And the eyes.

There aren't any.

Just hollow, empty, gapping sockets. Despite that, it isn't a skull. No, not quite. The nose is there, straight, nothing crooked. Beneath it, the mouth is there—its lips shut and pressed into a thin, yet colorless line. Shut, expressionless, not quite a frown, not quite a smirk. There's a hint of a curve around the corner of the mouth but there's nothing that can be read, nothing substantial. It suggests an expression but contains none. A mockery of an expression.

Red.

Not streaking. Not dripping. Not bleeding into the skin. Just there. Drenched, pouring, smeared. The rest of the face remains untouched—the nose, the mouth, the jaw, the chin. The contrast is stark. Red against pale. Against pink. Against grey.

And still—

Something is missing.

The upper portion, saturated. The lower, vacant.

I stare. The thing in the mirror, lacking any eyes, stares back. I do not mock it. That would imply that I am, at some level, engaged by it. Instead, I mock the idea that this could have ever belonged to me. That this could be mine. That this could, in any sort of way, be a reflection of myself.

It is not.

I do not recognize it as such.

There would have to be something. A feeling. An understanding. Some profound realization that claws its way into my consciousness. A demand for acknowledgment. A weight. Shaped as an epiphany. A revolution that should, by all accounts, be arriving—for me to even consider this to be myself.

But there is nothing.

The red coloring remains. Still saturated. Still poured. Still smeared. The grotesque "mask", lacking meaning, lacking in context, lacking in consequence, remains. The thing in the mirror does not move. It does not breathe. It does not recognize me any more than it should.

It is separate from me.

It displays a level of individuality that I lack.

It is a horror. Primal. Primitive. Stripped of any pretense, of anything that could make the image more palatable. I should feel disturbed. I should be unraveling. I should be someone else after seeing this monstrosity.

But I don't.

I am not someone else.

There has never been anything.

I tilt my head. The reflection follows.

"I've never looked better."

──────◇──────​

I currently reside in the Sinclair Inn Bed & Breakfast Hotel—a quaint little 4-star establishment.

Now, don't you misunderstand me; it's not terrible. Let's get that clear.

But, let's not kid ourselves, it's no Pierre Hotel.

How could it be? It pales in comparison to the utter grandeur of the Pierre Hotel. The Pierre practically oozes sophistication, its rich and illustrious history—dating back to 1930. Its halls are and were graced by the likes of prestigious residents. Icons like—Jacqueline Kennedy, for God's sake. Jacqueline Kennedy.The history, the prestige, the iconography.

I mean, come on.

Sinclair couldn't possibly compete.

You simply can not replicate that level of prestige. You can try, but you'll fail. Miserably.

By comparison, the Sinclair Inn might as well be a Motel 6.

And yet, here I am.

Lodged at the Sinclair Inn, a four-star hotel. Four stars. A solid rating—until you realize it could've been five, should've been five. If not for some shitty mediocre reviews by losers with poor taste.

By technicality, it's rated 4.9 stars. And I'm supposed to pretend it's the same. Generously, you could round it up to five, but deep down, we all know better. That's pity math. A lie people tell themselves to feel better about their mediocrity.

The situation just gets worse.

I couldn't even secure the room I wanted. Room 1. The Victorian-themed room. A room far beyond the utterly laughable mediocrity offered by the Sinclair. It had a real bathroom. Spacious. Large. Expansive. The kind that had a roll-in shower, practical, with grab bars because apparently, some people require that kind of accommodation.

Not that I needed it, of course. I wanted it because it was larger, and far more refined.

Naturally, it was booked out. Completely.

Instead, I'm assigned to Room 6. A "family-friendly" suite. Multi-bed, the kind with extra beds (What the hell am I supposed to do with an extra bed? Stare at it?). It's the kind of room that is desperate to cater the lowest common denominator—the type you'd find in an airport motel.

The only solace I could find was that I was depriving a family from spending the night here (though, considering I booked it out for a year, it felt more like a small victory).

And yet, even that solace is fleeting.

It's still offensive, really. In particular, I found it to be an affront to my entire existence. Reduced to admiring utter redundancy? A direct, and personal attack.

I did not want this. I did not choose this. It was forced upon me. Dressed up as a choice, disguised as an option, but it isn't one. A cheap compromise masquerading as an equivalent exchange. A compromise that placed me into a position that was beneath me.

And now I'm stuck in a residence that doesn't suit me.

It is as discomforting as an ill-fitting Zegna suit, tight in all of the wrong places, loose where it matters.

But—no. It doesn't matter. Not really. It shouldn't matter. So it won't.

I will leave. I will remove myself. From this place. From this farce of luxury. From its transient, ridiculous connections. I will discard them all. Like I always do. They are temporary. The room. The walls. The people. All of it.

I sit down on the chair by the window.

It's fairly simple—a parson's chair—ergonomically designed, with four study, dark wooden legs. No armrests. Both the seat and backrest were upholstered and stitched in a manner that gave the illusion the cushion of the chair was separate from the frame.

It possessed a floral-patterned print. An explosion of feverish vivid colors. A monstrosity.

One of the flowers—no. It wasn't a flower. Not really. The shape, the design looks oddly like a peacock.

Unintentional. I'm certain. But the thought lodges itself in my brain, flooding it.

I continued to stare at it.

Studying it. Scrutinizing it. Observing it.

Pink, red, green—no, dark green, light green. The leaves were detailed. To an unnerving degree. I could make out the veins, the midribs, the petioles. Every portion of the blades was transitioning from green to light green. The designer seemed to be obsessed with minute details.

But for what? Why? Why?

It was unnecessary. These shitty flourishes. Pointless in terms of intricacy—it's nothing but a hideous and utterly meaningless embellishment.

My gaze shifts. The extra bed.

It just sits there. Taking up space.

But I suppose that's fine

I imagine, briefly, tearing the sheets—gripping the fabric, feeling as it stretches and strains, before finally giving, the threads snapping, and the floral quilt frays. Watching on as it gave under my hands. I could scatter it apart around the room like what it tries to display. Petals. Pointless.

Maybe I could take the chair—that horrible, awful chair—and throw it. Watch as it skids across the flooring, harshly scraping against the hardwood.

There are only three lamps, all equally hideous. They're situated around the room. One is on the nightstand to the right of the full-size bed, one is in the corner, and one is also on a nightstand by the queen-size bed. Bland. Forgettable. Taunting. I could rip the one from the bedside table, and feel the weight of it in my hand—cold, smooth porcelain with that gaudy floral pattern. I could throw it. Throw it as hard as I can. Watch as it sails across the room, practically feel the split-second moment of tension, the brief, electric anticipation before its impact.

Crash. The sound would be deafening. Shattering the silence, scattering sharp shards across the floor, like jagged teeth. The porcelain would break, splinter into pieces, uneven bits. The sound—now, that would be something. It would tear through the stillness of the room, just for a moment.

For a second, just for a second, there would be a release—a small, insignificant moment where something is happening. Where something has changed.

But then what?

It's fleeting.

It wouldn't last.

The bed would still be there. The sheets, crumpled, ruined—it would still be there. The chair, the lamp—even in its shattered pieces—it would still be there.

That ugly, cheap, floral-patterned lamp. It mocks me. It always has.

Sean called last night. Or, rather, his phone did. It was a pocket dial. I could hear him in the background—slurring something, laughing, babbling to people I don't know. Music was playing, he was probably at some party. He won't remember the call. I didn't bother hanging up immediately. Just listened for a while. Not sure why.

I've been here for too long.

The novelty is fading. Everything is becoming a routine, a cycle that keeps repeating.

Nothing would change.

It's fine

None of it matters. It's all just noise. Temporary. Another action, another thought, another impulse, another moment that will dissolve into the same quiet, same crushing, same meaningless existence.

It doesn't matter anymore.

It never will.

Maybe I'll break the lamp. Maybe I won't.

But then—a noise filled the room.

My iPhone's ringtone.

"Reflection". The default ringtone. An instantly recognizable and popular tone. Melodic. Distinctive. Familiar. Engineered for clarity. An iconic sound for Apple. I haven't bothered to change it.

I listen.

And for now, that is enough.

I let the first ring pass. If I answered immediately, it would show that I was desperate—eager for whatever minuscule connection the caller offered. If I waited until the last ring, they would give up.

Answering on the second ring was optimal.

I reached for my phone, resting atop the small, wooden table. It sat beside my Michael Jackson's 'This Is It' 10th Anniversary Box Set.

However when I had "invited" Jonah and Carter over—really they intruded into my residence—they ignored the collection of Michael Jackson memorabilia, the most blatant sign of my impeccable taste.

That's four hundred and seventy-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents worth of limited-edition collection. Actual lenticular concert tickets for the July 24, 2009, performance of 'This Is It' at the O2 arena. Limited to 1,000 copies. It even comes with pictures from the 'This Is It' rehearsal.

Incompetent morons.

Anyway. I reach for my phone. My eyes flicker to the screen. Lucas Walker.

I pause. I internally debated my options. Ignore it? Let it go to voicemail? Answer it just to curse him out? Let him know how little I care in the most colorful way possible?

Tempting. All of it was tempting.

But, against my better judgment, I swipe at the screen, answering. The call connects before the third ring.

"Hello?" I say, my voice smooth. And then, with an exaggerated cheerfulness, I add. "Lucas, is that you?" I state the obvious.

There's a pause on his end. Hesitation. It was as if he was suddenly reminded he was on the phone.

"Hey! Um. Patrick, I—I need a favor." Lucas babbles.

Of course, he does.

A favor. Something to hold over him. Accepting wouldn't just be helping—I would be making him indebted to me. This is an investment, a leverage point. A future IOU. Hell, if I played my cards right, I could even make it sound like an act of kindness.

I let the silence stretch. Long enough to make him feel uncomfortable, to squirm.

Then, ever so casually, "Of course, I can," I say as I lean into the hideous chair, crossing my legs. "How can I help you, buddy?" I asked condescendingly, even using a term of endearment to belittle him.

He hesitates, stumbling over his own words.

"I was wondering. Um." He fumbles before taking a deep breath. "Do you... Do you want to make cookies?" Cookies?

Cookies.

That was his big request? That was the favor? I was expecting something serious—blackmail. Walk the dog. Hell, I was even willing to spot him cash.

Let it be cash.

But no.

Cookies.

He barrels on before I can process the sheer absurdity of the situation.

"—um. Thanks to you, Tyler is talking to me again. He's even willing to help me make cookies for my girlfriend! But. I'm kinda nervous? I want to use this chance to hang out with him. But I'm too nervous to go alone. He said you can come to his house too." His words tumbled out as an anxious, frantic mess. I barely recall whatever insignificant, offhand comment I made to make Tyler acknowledge his existence. Something trivial. A shrug, a passing comment, a sarcastic thumbs-up—who the hell knows?

And this is the result? Cookies?

A long beat of silence.

Then—

"Sure. Why not?" Let him believe, for a fleeting second, that I actually care.

──────◇──────​

I don't know why I even bothered to come.

"I'm glad you guys managed to make it here!" Tyler says, his voice filled with genuine enthusiasm. He looks as if he is trying to keep his expression neutral, but the corners of his mouth betray him. At least purse your lips to better stifle it, bastard.

He wore a men's olive-green corduroy button-down long-sleeve shirt, featuring a rounded patch pocket sewn to the left side. The shirt had seven white buttons, with two more to secure the button-down collar, a design choice that I could begrudgingly accept. Knowing his bland taste and fashion sensibilities, the shirt was most likely purchased from L.L. Bean.

Tyler's outfit was offensive—not particularly because of what he wore. But because of how he wore it.

The front placket of the shirt? Left undone. Exposing the maroon, heavy cotton T-shirt underneath. Cheap. Probably from Michaels.

The olive-green shirt was meant to be worn untucked, an act I don't agree with, but it doesn't excuse the sheer negligence of the careless way he wore it. If you're going to wear a button-down shirt, then button it up properly! The contrast between his neatly fastened collar and his unbuttoned front was maddening, and it only served to further infuriate me.

He wore a dark blue pair of Wrangler jeans. Serviceable. Nothing particularly remarkable, the jeans had a standard five-pocket design, which was nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the lack of a belt.

If you're going to wear jeans with belt loops, at least have the common decency to use them.

The only item in his outfit that he wore right—baring the maroon T-shirt—was his shoes. A pair of black low-top sneakers. Smooth, clean, and uncreased. The soles were white rubber with a thin black stripe running along the edge. The padded tongue bore a small Nike tag. If I had to make a guess, they were NIKE SB Chron 2 Canvas Mens Shoes. Functional. Simple.

I scoffed, shaking my head as I looked him up and down.

"You absolute asshole."

Tyler raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed, though he had the gall to smirk.

"What?"

I couldn't help but gesture at him, my hand waving over his torso, as if I was attempting to swat away an unpleasant smell.

"This..." I began, my voice tinged with barely hidden disdain. "This god-awful excuse of an outfit."

He glanced down at himself, feigning ignorance, but the smile on the bastard's face only grew wider. He probably dressed the way he did solely for the satisfaction of infuriating me.

"What about it?" he asked, his tone practically dripping with amusement.

Fuck you, Tyler.

I let out a dramatic sigh.

"Let's start with the obvious. Your corduroy button-down. Olive green? Fine. Do you button up? No, of course not. You leave the front wide open, like some kind of—some kind of unhinged free spirit. And to make it worse, the collar is neatly fastened, but the rest of your shirt just hangs there. It's like you got halfway dressed before losing the will to continue."

Tyler wore the shirt like how one would wear a cardigan.

A cardigan. Tyler rolled his eyes.

"It's casual."

"It's lazy." I shot back, before punctuating my words by jabbing a finger at his chest. "Either button it up properly like a functioning adult or take it off and accept your fate as a maroon T-shirt guy."

Lucas, who was standing awkwardly beside me, tried to stifle a laugh.

Lucas was wearing a jacket, either a dark brown or a deep taupe kind of color. A utility-style jacket, with a removable lined interior. That interior being a beige, maybe light tan fleece.

As expected, the jacket had multiple pockets, but two in particular caught my attention. They were slanted hand-warmer pockets on its exterior, with the brand name, Legendary, subtly embroidered into the left pocket patch. Lucas must be wearing a men's jacket from Legendary Whitetails.

He, unlike Tyler, had enough sense to zip up his interior and exterior zippers.

It was frustrating to see his sensible decision while standing next to Tyler, who clearly had no excuse for his sloppy appearance.

But I ignore him for now. Turning my attention back to Tyler, continuing my tirade.

"And those jeans," I continued. "Wrangler. Plain. Classic. Boring. And your shoes—Nike low-tops. A respectable choice, but even those can't salvage the absolutemesshappening from the waist up."

Tyler, the smug bastard, smirked, clearly reveling in my scathing criticism.

Freak.

He then opened his door wider, gesturing for us to step inside. "You done?"

I sniffed, crossing my arms. "I'm very happy. Thank you for inviting me."

I even offer him a smile, making my voice tinged with excitement.

An award-worthy performance, I know.

My choice of attire was infinitely more better compared to theirs.

I was wearing a black woolen cashmere tailored overcoat, with a Burberry check collar. Beneath it, is a Polo Ralph Lauren Fair Isle wool sweater in the Camel Combo coloring. The sweater possessed an intricate, Fair Isle design, it was a complex tapestry of geometric patterns of deep browns, burgundies, navy, and hints of beige. It's horizontally banded motifs, ribbed cuffs, and a hem that really put it all together to create a stunning ensemble. Very high-quality knitting, great embroidery.

Underneath my sweater, I had on a regular-fit white shirt from Giorgio Armani, featuring nine mother-of-pearl buttons. The shirt possessed a crisp French, semi-spread collar that was buttoned properly. The collar was neatly tucked and pinned beneath the sweater, ensuring that it did not disrupt the sweater's clean, circular neckline.

The shirt's length was neatly tucked into my Charcoal Smoke Calvin Klein structured trousers—pure cotton, tailored. The flat-front trousers had a solid waistband, offering structure to compliment my body's natural shape. The waist possessed a standard fly front, but it was discreetly concealed by a placket. The straight legs were not excessively baggy or tight. They fell neatly to my ankles without cuffs.

At the waist, I was wearing a beige Palmellato-leather La Prima belt from Giorgio Armani. Although I wasn't particularly fond of it, it was the best of what Armani had to offer. The other belts they offered had unnecessary studs or rope-like detailing that I found absolutely tacky.

Lastly, my shoes were black leather-sole longwing brogues from Thom Browne. Polished.

I brushed past Tyler and entered his home. I shuffled to the side to take off my overcoat, placing it on the nearby coat rack. Lucas, instead of doing it himself, handed me his jacket in a display of what I could only assume was helplessness as he and Tyler made their way to the kitchen. The silent expectation of me to hang it.

Dick.

I didn't bother taking off my shoes. Tyler had a dog—either a Belgian Malinois or a Dutch Shepherd, I had no clue. Tyler, who claims to love the dog, named after the artist who made "Hound Dog" back in 1956, yet he doesn't even know the exact breed.

Even with that canine out with Tyler's father, doing God knows what, I refused to take off my shoes—not wanting to risk that rapid hound coming back and eating them.

To my surprise, Lucas didn't even bother to take off his shoes. And, to further my bewilderment, neither did Tyler.

Who the hell wears shoes in their own home?

After I placed Lucas's jacket on the coat rack, a notch level below mine, I made my way toward the kitchen.

The moment I passed the floor's transition strip and stepped in, a sharp, acrid scent of bleach hit me. It wasn't mild. It was pungent. Unlike the normal, lemon-scented variety for casual household cleaning. No, rather this was an industrial-strength type. The kind that would burn the back of your throat if you inhaled it too deeply.

My nose wrinkled at the sterility of it. The harsh bleach stench practically assaults my nostrils. It was a scent that just clung to the air, too fresh and strong, overwhelming whatever was there before.

Tyler, having glanced up from the counter, caught my disgruntled expression.

"Sorry! I was cleaning earlier!" he called out, his voice too casual for being in an overbearingly chemically saturated room.

As he spoke, he pulled an apron over his head, an apron I recognized quickly. Ralph Lauren Home. Coffee Striped Cotton, a full-body bib apron that I had halfheartedly picked up for his birthday.

The fabric possesses an off-white coloring that bore evenly spaced, vertical green stripes. I would say it was, frankly, wasted on him. But given the fact that he used it often due to his job as a barista, at least the gift saw proper use.

With the dark green neck straps looped around his head, he adjusted the metallic slider buckle above the bib to better fit him before moving to tie the long waist straps behind his back. His movements were practiced, his hands going through the motions absentmindedly. A routine ingrained into his muscle memory, having performed it countless times before.

The apron's single, centered pocket had a faint rectangular outline beneath the fabric. Tyler probably had stuffed his phone in there. The pocket was meant for a kitchen towel, maybe even utensils. But Tyler never used it properly, beyond its aesthetic appeal.

Still, I suppose I should be thankful he even bothered to wear it properly. He even is trying to look like a seasoned chef.

A comical sight. Both myself and Lucas know better.

"Hey, Lucas, did you find the measuring cup set?" Tyler asked as he laid out an assortment of ingredients from a nearby cabinet.

A five-pound bag of King Arthur all-purpose flour. A four-pound bag of Great Value granulated sugar—kosher, if I recall correctly. A container of organic coconut palm sugar from BetterBody Foods. A two-fluid-ounce box of McCormick pure vanilla extract—gluten-free. A container of sodium bicarbonate from Nutricost, which I could only assume was baking soda. Lastly, there is a bag of King Arthur chocolate chip wafers. Guittard. It's semi-sweet.

"Yeah? I think so?" Lucas returned, this time holding an assortment of measuring cups. Thankfully, he didn't grab the liquid measuring cups—the one that looks like a jug with handles. Instead, he brought dry measuring cups, the kind meant for scooping powders and solids.

"Yes! Thank you." Tyler smiled genially as he carefully took the cups from Lucas's hands and placed them on the countertop. "Patrick, can you grab the butter and eggs from the fridge? Please?" he asked, already moving toward another cabinet, probably searching for bowls.

"Sure," I replied in an even tone, not wanting to be the odd man out.

I approached the refrigerator. It was one of those models that didn't even have an ice dispenser. Opening the door, I pulled out a carton of Great Value 18-count eggs and a block of Plugrà salted butter.

I closed the fridge door, and I returned to the counter, placing the eggs and butter alongside the other ingredients. Tyler, who had been busy rifling through the cabinets for bowls, nods approvingly at my choice of butter. There was another option available, some extra creamy variation, but I didn't pick that one.

"Good call," Tyler commented, finally pulling out a mixing bowl. "The extra creamy one is a mess to work with—too soft, falls apart too easily." He remarks, setting the bowl down before dusting his hands.

Lucas, eager to keep the conversation going, nods as if Tyler spouted some valuable insight. "Yeah, that makes sense. Texture's probably important. right?" He interjects.

Tyler chuckled. "Oh, definitely. You need the right consistency, or things get out of hand fast." He asserts, his delivery possesses an air of finality.

I leaned casually against the counter, watching as he grabbed one of the measuring cups and scooped the flour. It was almost funny, how much thought he put into this. Like making cookies was some form of high art, some intricate ritual instead of just following basic instructions.

But Lucas was eating it up, nodding along, fidgeting just slightly, testing the waters. Trying to salvage what remains of their friendship. His need was painfully obvious.

"You're really good at this," Lucas ventures, timidly glancing between Tyler and the pile of consumer brands. His tone was uncertain, likely trying to grasp the situation. "I mean, I knew you baked sometimes, but I didn't realize you were, like... actually good at it."

Come on, Lucas. That barely counts as a compliment.

It could even be considered an insult.

Tyler beamed, a wide smile tugging at his lips. Self-satisfied, really. "Really? I practice all the time. Just trying to get a feel for it, do it enough to know exactly what works—what to add, what to leave out." His words attempt to carry some kind of assurance.

Lucas hummed in agreement, and I figured this was a good time to add a word in.

"Baking is an art," I said, my voice injecting enough awe and enthusiasm. "Really, you can't, say, overbake. Patience is crucial." I offered a platitude, attempting to seem interested in the topic. I wasn't. Not at all.

Tyler lets out a short laugh, nodding his head. Confusing my comment for genuine conviction. "Exactly! Rushing justruins everything. You have to know when to stop, when to pull back before it all gets too tough."

Lucas, having seen that Tyler was done measuring the flour, opened the carton of eggs. He hands one over—although there is hesitation, uncertain if he is doing it right.

Tyler took the egg with a flourish, rolling it between his fingers. "See, there's a trick to it. Finding the right amount of pressure," he explains, almost absentmindedly. "Too little, and it slips right through your fingers. Too hard, and—" With a swift and decisive motion, he cracks the egg against the bowl's rim. The shell split, its contents spilling cleanly into the bowl. A controlled cascade. "It gets messy," he adds as if the demonstration didn't speak for itself.

Lucas chuckles softly. "Yeah, I always mess up cracking eggs. Either I press too gently, or I end up picking bits of shell out for minutes."

Tyler smiled as he grabbed another egg. "It's all about control. You have to feel for that perfect breaking point—that spot where the shell just gives way beneath your fingers." He pressed his thumb against the egg, applying pressure, just enough without cracking it. "You don't want to rush it. The moment has to be just right."

I watched the scene, wondering what the point of this was. I knew how to open an egg.

Lucas nodded slowly, unsure how to respond. I decided to echo his uncertainty.

"Uh... yeah. Makes sense."

Tyler then cracked the final egg, splitting it apart with practiced ease—a small piece of shell dropped into the bowl. Proving his advice was shit. He fished it out with his fingers.

Lucas exhales quietly, rubbing the back of his neck. "... Thanks for inviting me, by the way. I... I missed this," he murmured, his eyes fixated on the floor. The kitchen tiles were hardly impressive.

Tyler's smile widens, visibly flattered by Lucas's admission, his words coming out quickly. "Y-Yeah! Of course!" He was more than touched—positively giddy—as he continued. "We don't do this nearly enough anymore—you know, just hang out. Baking. Relaxing." His tone carries a wistful tone, before adding, "You guys are always welcome." His eyes flicker briefly in my direction, extending the invitation.

I glance back at him, then back at the bowl. The eggs just sat there. A task Tyler started but left incomplete in favor of this sappy talk. I wanted this to be done as soon as possible. So, I decided to do something productive. Turning toward a nearby drawer, I open it. Thank God—it's stocked with various kitchen utensils. Quietly relieved, I pull out a whisk before handing it to Tyler.

"I'd like that," I say, feigning amusement. "It's good, you know, having some kind of routine together. Kind of like a... a team-building exercise, right?"

Tyler's shoulders sagged, a quiet release of tension that betrayed his anticipation of my possible refusal. Relief softened his features as he muttered, "Exactly," while whisking the eggs. "A little bit of a bonding moment," he added, giving me a grateful look.

Lucas glanced between us, and I could see the taut tension within him gradually unraveling. "Yeah. Bonding. That sounds nice," he said, his voice shedding its earlier uncertainty. As if he were finally settling into the moment.

A long, thoughtful silence followed, filled only by the rhythmic and steady sound of eggs being whisked. My thoughts, however, were anything but subdued.

I found myself contemplating two vastly different courses of action. One was a simple request, casually broaching the topic of Tyler buttoning up his shirt. The other? Grabbing a knife and living a visceral fantasy.

Fleetingly, I imagined it. Finding it almost appealing.

I would need a knife, of course. And I knew the drawer that I'd just opened for the whisk—while containing an assortment of kitchen utensils—lacked any knives.

I'd have to stroll around the room and go through every drawer in search of one. Doing so would surely cause Lucas and Tyler to question me and my motives. I imagine fabricating some excuse, something frivolous and mundane.

"Oh, you know, just looking for a cookie spatula," I'd say casually.

They'd nod and accept my excuse, not question me further. Why wouldn't they? I'm charming. I'm personable. I positioned myself as friendly and conversational. I'm someone they trust, they had no reason not to trust me. I'm someone they'd never suspect of, say, contemplating an act of unspeakable violence.

Eventually, I'd open a drawer containing the cutlery—knives, forks, and spoons. They were all lined up in that order. I'd grab a knife at random—some chef's knife. Definitely pick up a Santoku. Tyler seemed the type to own one from Faberware.

I lift the blade, scrutinizing it closely. High-Carbon Stainless-Steel. It was supposed to be shiny and reflective, though Tyler's neglect was evident judging by the scratches on the blade. The scuffs ruined its supposed pristine image, it even bled into the evenly spaced indentations on the blade's surface. Those grooves were supposed to prevent food from sticking. Disappointing.

I focused on the tip. It was disappointingly blunt, it lacked that sharp, penetrating point that would make for a clean, effortless stab.

If I were to even attempt stabbing with it, I'd have to drive it in at an awkward angle and force it through Tyler's flesh again and again. Like some deranged butcher hacking away at a particularly stubborn cut of meat. A tedious waste of effort.

The belly of the blade curves upward from a well-defined and sturdy heel to the rounded tip. The bolster is almost imperceptible—discounting the different shades and protruding shape—and seamless, but I find that wildly unremarkable.

The spine was linear. The handle was black and made of something other than a synthetic polymer like high-impact plastic (maybe a steel alloy), and it felt heavy and uncomfortable in my hand. I wouldn't spend long hours holding it. There were these three rivets that secured the tang to the curved handle. The end of the handle is slightly rounded.

I grabbed the knife and slipped it into my left side pocket, careful to push it down just enough to hide it—and more importantly, so that it doesn't puncture my two-hundred and twenty-eight dollar trousers. I close the drawer with a soft click and move toward another. One that is conveniently located near the exit of the kitchen that offers a view to the living room and toward the front door. The windows are positioned adjacent to the door, they have their blinds open, providing an easy, plausible excuse to pull Lucas away.

"Hey, Lucas, isn't that your father outside?" I say, squinting slightly as I peer out.

Lucas looks over, his expression momentarily flickering with unease as he begins to move toward the door. A hesitant shuffle, torn between both curiosity and an unspoken guilt, as if he felt the weight of anticipation come over him. In his mind, perhaps, he was wondering if he was somehow in trouble. If he had done something terribly wrong.

After all, why else would his father—the Mayor, a man with an overflowing schedule—find the time to be standing outside?

Trailing closely behind him, my steps synchronized with his tentative ones. I watch as he takes a shaky breath as he reaches the door, fumbling with the lock before finally unlocking it.

"Hey, Pat, I don't see hi—" his words are cut off as I push him outside, the momentum of it causing him to stumble and sprawl onto the porch.

I shut the door swiftly, securing the doorknob and locking the deadbolt. There is a small moment of silence before heavy, frantic knocks follow.

I could just barely catch his voice calling my name, but it was muffled and indistinct from the other side. I ignore it. It doesn't matter.

Turning away from the door, my feet moved briskly and purposefully towards Tyler.

I don't bother screaming or calling him a derogatory remark. There was no need to.

My fingers curl around the handle of the knife in my pocket, clasping it tightly. My heartbeat is slow.

I am in front of him.

Tyler doesn't notice.

He was preoccupied with the mixing bowl, his eyes fixated on it as he stirred. He asks a question, something casual, but I don't hear it. My ears are full of static. My mouth tastes like sand.

I draw the knife free.

No words are spoken. I move without hesitation.

There is intent. I want to swiftly slice his neck.

The blade meets his throat.

For a fraction of a second, the skin clings—its natural elasticity offering a brief, momentary protest, desperate to remain intact. But the steel separates. It bites into him, parting the flesh. The dermis gives way to it, and its tearing sensation vibrates up my arm. The parting muscle reveals a grotesque, yawning wound.

A hot, wet warmth splattered against my wrist.

Tyler's body reacted before his mind could catch up. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating before finally, it washed over him. Pure, unadulterated, all-consuming terror. His mouth opens, lips parting, only to make a wet strangled gurgle. Red was pouring from his throat like a fountain.

The blood surges fast. His fingers flew to his neck, clutching and pressing, trying to do anything to staunch the bleeding. But he couldn't. The blood painted his hands, his trembling fingers becoming slick, slipping uselessly against his gaping wound.

The blood just kept coming. It seeps between his knuckles as he tries to hold himself together. A thick rivulet spills down his apron before spilling onto the kitchen tiles, creating a crimson pool.

Did you know that once the carotid artery is severed, it's nearly impossible to stop the bleeding without help?

And I severed both of them! Not one, but both!

The pressure is too great, the blood loss is catastrophic. Tyler's body, in its panic, in its adrenaline-fueled desperation, cannot muster enough force to counteract the arterial flow. His heart, in its blind, misguided devotion, completely unaware of the breach in his system, just keeps pumping dutifully as it floods the rooms with arterial spray.

He stumbles backward, staggering, his arms flailing. He is drowning in his own blood. He was fighting to breathe through his ruined throat. Making this bubbling, choking, drowning noise. He searches the room for someone—anyone—to help him.

But there was no one. Just me.

And I am not helping.

Why don't you ever fight back?

His knees buckle, his body sways, and he crumples. He hits the floor with a mediocre thud.

I exhale.

He looks ridiculous.

I mean, really—face down in his own pool of blood, his arms sprawled out like some drunken idiot. Like father like son. All he was missing was an empty Amstel Beer Lager can.

I nudge his shoulder with the tip of my shoe.

Nothing.

Jesus.

My gaze shifts—down to my sweater.

And then I realize something.

Blood.

Everywhere.

I sigh. "Tyler, you inconsiderate fuck," I muttered, shaking my head. "Do you have any idea of how hard it is to get blood out of Ralph Lauren?"

He doesn't respond.

Rude.

He, of all people, should know. He was wearing a Ralph Lauren apron.

The moment passes.

I blink. The knife is gone.

In my hands, I am holding a white ceramic bowl filled with melted Plugrà butter. The bowl and butter were warm. I couldn't make out any fat. It was melted completely.

My sweater is clean.

Tyler Galpin is still alive.

He is stirring. Humming.

I stand there, gripping the bowl.

I swallow.

The taste of sand lingers in my mouth.

"Hey, Patrick, you can just pour the bowl in," Tyler states as he moves to the side, his tone upbeat despite my bewilderment.

"Right," I murmured, my tone flat. I tilted the bowl forward, letting the butter pour out, into the mixture of eggs, sugars, vanilla extract, and baking soda. The mixture's consistency is thick and gelatinous. I am reminded of custard. The pale yellowish liquid of the butter seeps into the dark brown well-whisked mass.

Lucas was preoccupied with preheating the oven to precisely 140 degrees Celsius.

Tyler misinterprets my stare and silence as eagerness. He plucks the bowl from my hands and replaces it with a whisk. "You can whisk if you like. You'll know when to add the flour when the yellow coloring from the butter is completely gone," he blathers, his tone was light.

Without missing a beat, he moves toward the sink, placing the bowl down before moving to another cabinet, his fingers wrapping around the handle. He opens it and pulls out a box of Reynolds Kitchens cookie baking sheets—the packaging boasting something about its non-stick properties—but I struggle to muster even the faintest interest. The words blur.

Tyler then crosses over to Lucas, retrieving a baking sheet pan from the drawer beside the oven. The brand's GPED, I think. Stainless-steel, rimmed edges. Great weight distribution.

I begin to whisk. Counterclockwise.

I don't whisk hard. By doing so, the melted butter would no doubt spill over the rim and out of the bowl and onto the cuffs of my Fair Isle sweater. I am careful and controlled. My motions are slow and steady. The butter, it's coloring now mingling with the brown mixture, but it's still not smooth. There's this resistance. It's not blended in yet, nothing uniform. I know it won't be for a while but surprisingly, it doesn't irritate me. In fact, it's almost satisfying, to see how the butter moves and shifts into the mixture, building in yet never quite becoming part of the whole.

It's almost therapeutic. I wonder if Tyler took up baking because his shrink told him to. Maybe as some sort of as a distraction.

I kept whisking, the rhythmic motion dulling my irritation. But the silence in the kitchen stretched on as if they were trying to annoy me. Lucas had assured me over the phone that he would use this opportunity to reconnect with Tyler. But they weren't talking. Lucas is not talking. Not at all. Not one single word.

Did I seriously have to carry the entire conversation? While Tyler busied himself with lining a goddamn baking sheet? While Lucas stood there fucking fiddling with the oven? It was absurd.

I inhaled sharply through my nose. "So, Tyler, how is your day?"

"Oh, Patrick, I've actually been having a fantastic day. Like, one of the best I've had in forever." Tyler says as he places a baking sheet over the sheet pan.

That. That's actually sad.

Get a life, Tyler.

"You ever have those days where everything just works? Like, no traffic, no delays, everything just... clicks?" He asks, trying to relate to me.

I blink at him. "No."

Lucas snorts, but Tyler continues, unperturbed. "Well, I do. This morning was fantastic. I wasn't late to school, I actually got up early to eat breakfast for once, and—get this—the snack bar had these, chocolate raspberries... damn it, the name of it just escapes me."

"Ghirardelli?" I guess.

Tyler shakes his head. "No, it's not a candy bar. The chocolate—it was coating the raspberry."

I mull over the potential options based on Tyler's description, but before I can answer with Trü Frü, Lucas, who had finally finished preheating the oven, cuts in.

"Raspberry cordials?" Lucas guesses.

I'm left mildly irritated.

Tyler snaps his fingers at Lucas. "That's the one! And then, the highlight of my week, besides you guys coming over of course, is that I finally got my dad to grill with me," he says excitedly.

Lucas perks up at the mention of Tyler's father, he arches an eyebrow. "Your dad?"

Tyler hums, leaning against the counter. "Yeah! And not just me watching him grill—I actually got todoit. Like, manning the tongs, flipping the steaks, everything." He shakes his head with a grin. "It took, like, an hour of convincing, and he definitely hovered the whole time, but still. Progress."

Lucas's brows furrowed. "Huh. That's surprising."

Tyler just laughs, waving a hand at the remark, playing it off. "Right? I was expecting a whole 'you're gonna screw it up' moment, but nah. He just stood there, beer in hand, giving me a 'make sure the sear is even' speech." He mimics his father's voice, it's a passable impersonation.

I kept whisking. "Sound's thrilling."

Lucas crosses his arms. "Guess he's trying to make an effort."

Tyler places a hand on his chin, reminiscing the moment with Lucas's perspective in mind. "Effort. Sure. That's the way to put it." He closed his eyes before letting out a long sigh. "Probably won't happen again anytime soon, but whatever. It was nice. I had fun." He bemoans.

Lucas obliviously nods. "Sounds like a good time."

I glance at Lucas, then at Tyler, before setting my eyes back at the batter, I continue whisking.

Lucas had an off-base interpretation of Tyler's relationship with his father. Likely basing it off of his own, or trying to be well-meaning.

Tyler grins as if he hadn't just admitted that a single hour of grilling with his father, in who knows how long, was the highlight of his week. Comparable, mind you, to Lucas and I visiting him.

Tyler shakes his head. "Anyway! It's a huge win in my book. And get this—" he leans in slightly in our general direction, his voice dropping to a mock whisper as if he was going to tell some great secret—"I didn't even burn anything." I roll my eyes. "You want a medal?"

Tyler staggers back while clutching his chest. "Patrick. That is exactly what I want. Preferably gold, with my name engraved."

I laugh. "Alright. And what? Now you think you're a grill master?"

Tyler lets out a dramatic gasp. "Patrick, how dare you. I've always been a grill master. My dad just refused to see it." He exhales while shaking his head solemnly. "But now? He knows the truth. I've proven myself."

Lucas chuckles. "God help us all."

Tyler cackles.

Looking back at the batter now, the yellow coloring of the butter is gone. The white bowl's contents possesses a thick, smooth, glossy dark brown texture. It's not chunky. Some amount of it clings to the side of the bowl as the whisk goes by, and it's viscous. My movement with the whisk, while a bit difficult compared to before, creates visible swirls and the mixture is able to hold these patterns for a moment before it fades.

Distinctly, I remembered Tyler's advice. The flour comes next.

Before adding it, I remove the metal whisk. I didn't want to obstruct the flour. I grab the measuring cup and carefully pour the flour. It blankets the dark brown surface. But not entirely. I could make out a small corner of the batter where the brown coloring was left exposed.

Tyler peers at the bowl. He goes to open a nearby drawer, before pulling out a grey, silicone spatula from ThermoWorks. "Moment of truth," he says while offering me the spatula in one hand, the other hand splayed, he wanted to take the whisk. "You're gonna wanna fold now, not stir. Unless you like overworked, super tough cookies."

I raise an eyebrow. I'm almost tempted to continue stirring. These cookies were for Lucas's girlfriend. I wasn't going to eat them. But, I take the spatula anyway, giving Tyler the whisk. "Folding it is."

With the spatula in my hand, I gently spread the flour over the exposed areas of the batter until the surface was fully covered. Once I felt satisfied, I scraped the spatula along the edge of the bowl, getting rid of the excess flour. Then, carefully, I attempted to fold the batter.

An up-and-over circular motion. Flicking my wrist as I lift the batter before turning it over itself.

Tyler stares intently at the bowl, before nodding in approval. "There you go. Nice and gentle. Treat it like... I dunno, like you actually care about it," he says before adding, "You're a natural Patrick. You might have a future as a baker." A baker.

Was... Was Tyler making fun of me? That word just lingers in my mind. Grating my ears as I replayed it.

A baker. Like I'd ever.

A baker. The very occupation, let alone the idea of it, when applied to myself—it's laughable. Which is surprising, given that Tyler's jokes usually fall woefully flat.

I have plans. Six figures before twenty-six. Seven, if I actually put in the effort. Not that it'll take much—just go to the right schools, take the right internships, and maintain the right connections. Really it's all formality. A process. I go where I'm expected to go, do what I'm expected to do, and, in return, I get the life I'm supposed to have. And Tyler—Tyler—thinks I should throw it all away? Settle for less? As if. That's like suggesting I should take a part-time job at Hawte Kewture, folding crocheted snoods or stacking knitwear. (And yes, Lucas, I know your friend works there—do you ever shut up about it?)

I will not settle. I refuse to waste my time catering to the whims of losers whose choice of outfits are entirely out of season—people so tasteless, so utterly devoid of meaning, that I could strangle them under the runway lights, and still, still, still, they wouldn't grasp the severity of their offenses.

I could throw it at him. The bowl. I could watch as the batter just splattered across his smug face. I could watch as his face contorted to shock as his brain short-circuited, unable to process the sheer audacity of my reaction.

But I don't.

I really, really wish I did.

Instead, I flash him a tight-lipped smile. "Really? Gee, thanks." Then, I add, "Hey, I think the batter is ready for the, uh, chocolate wafers?" I shove the bowl towards him.

Let it be his problem.

Tyler takes the bowl in one hand, his other hand reaching into the batter without a second thought. He pinches a small piece between his fingers, and lifts it into his mouth, before popping it in. He lets out a hum as he chews.

"This is great," he states, licking a smudge of batter from his thumb before reaching for the bag of chocolate wafers. Disgusting. Unhygienic. At least wipe your slobber with a handkerchief.

Without so much as a glance at the nearby, and unused, measuring cups, he rips open the bag before unceremoniously pouring a ridiculous amount. The smooth, thin disks plunked into the batter, some sinking in while others remained visible on the surface.

Tyler gives the bowl a few light shakes before a hand moves to grab the spatula. He then slides the spatula through the glossy batter before folding it in itself just to spread the chocolate wafers.

For a few moments, he repeats this motion. There's this audible, soft sound of the spatula. Then, suddenly, he strides over to the refrigerator. Opening the door, he carefully places the bowl, all the while removing the spatula. He then closes the refrigerator, an act punctuated by the soft clink of the door. He then walks to drop the utensil into the sink.

Turning back to us, Tyler grins, it's all teeth, the kind of smile that belongs in a toothpaste commercial. "We're in the home stretch now."

I watch him, noting the way his gaze flickers toward the refrigerator like an addict eyeing his next hit. He wants another bite of the cookie batter. I decided not to call him out on it. I'm feeling generous today.

Lucas nods, and for a moment, there is another brief silence.

Then, Tyler lets out an exhale, almost as if he can't control himself. "I... I have to admit. This is the most fun I've had in a while."

Something flickers in Lucas's eyes before he looks at Tyler and offers him a smile. "... Yeah, I've had fun too."

I place a hand on Tyler's shoulder. The contact is tangible, skin against fabric. I know him well enough to get away with this—vicinity-wise, familiarity, and through routine interaction. "Well, let's make it a habit then." I blatantly lie to his face.

Tyler glances between us. There's something in his voice I don't like, the softness of it. "You guys ever think we'd end up baking together?"

I hate that he asks. I hate that he wants an answer. I wish I had worn gloves.

"Not exactly," I say entertaining Tyler's question. "But hey, not the worst way to spend a day."

It is.

"Not complaining though," Lucas adds.

Tyler beams, his shoulders loosening, like he's satisfied, "Neither am I."

I pivoted before this conversation got any more sappy. "Hey, Lucas, how is your evening so far? Or did you do something notable in the morning?" I asked because Tyler doesn't.

Lucas brightens. He likes the attention I'm giving him. "Yeah, actually—my shift at Pilgrim World was actually kind of fun today."

"Really?" I say, attempting to coax more information out of him.

I need him to keep talking. The longer he talks, the less I have to acknowledge the agonizingly slow passage of time. I do not want to glance at my phone. I do not want to count down the minutes until the cookie batter is ready. I do not want to be aware of how long I have to stand here.

Lucas thankfully elaborates. "Oh yeah, I was helping set up for the Harvest Festival—getting all the decorations out, making sure the booths are ready to go. You guys should come. It'll be a lot of fun." By the end of it, he looks smug.

Now, unlike Tyler's invitation, I can not brush past this one.

"Definitely, sounds like a blast," I accept, nodding my head to reinforce it.

Tyler perks up at the proposition. "Oh, yeah! I've been meaning to check it out. Might as well try going this year."

"Nice! You guys won't regret it." Lucas radiates enthusiasm. It's unsettling.

Regret.

Why did he say that? Am I going to regret saying yes?

"Anyhow! After work, I was hanging out with Carter and Jonah. We were talking about baseball practice, so we figured, why not? I'm gonna meet up later with them to get some practice in." Lucas says while miming a bat swing, as if the visual aid somehow enhances or supplements the statement. It doesn't.

Tyler doesn't react. Or rather, his face doesn't. But my hand is still on his shoulder, and I feel the shift, which is just barely there. A slight straightening of his back. Lucas doesn't notice. He's too caught up in himself, too comfortable.

But I do.

Tyler is nervous. Odd. I would have assumed he'd be eager to talk about them. Wasn't he asking about them just the other day?

"That sounds cool," Tyler says, his tone a bit strained. He claps his hands together and his thumb rolls against the knuckle of his other hand.

Oh, come on, Tyler. Don't you know that by being nervous, it can cause problems with your vocal cords? Tension in the larynx disrupts airflow, making it harder to be articulate. You sound terrible. Take a Communication class.

Lucas, in his infinite unawareness, continues. "Yeah, it'll be nice, just getting back into the swing of things. Literally." He laughs at his own joke. "I haven't practiced in a while, and Carter was saying he's a little rusty too."

Tyler nods. His fingers keep moving, now fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve. He tries to be subtle. It would be—if you weren't looking for it.

I am.

Lucas is still riding the high of his own conversation. "You guys should stop by for that too. Just to watch, no pressure."

Tyler hesitates. It's not a purposeful pause, not one of those meaningful ones used for emphasis.

He swallows. "Yeah, maybe."

Lucas grins, taking his hesitance for enthusiasm.

My hand is still on Tyler's shoulder. I press down, then squeeze. Enough to be felt, not enough to be questioned. "Sounds like a solid plan," I say, because it's the response expected of me.

Tyler lets out a small breath. Lucas doesn't catch it.

I do.

And I don't like it.

I don't like being this perceptive of him, of all people.

"I think the cookie dough is ready?" I say, watching Tyler closely.

Tyler looks at me, confused.

"Huh?"

"The cookie dough is ready." I repeat, this time with more certainty, giving him an opportunity to retreat from this conversation before he embarrasses himself further.

He finally catches on, though not without looking at me strangely. "Yeah! Yeah. I'm just going to check." He quickly strides toward the refrigerator.

Lucas glances at me, tilting his head to the side. I shrug, offering a sympathetic expression before mouthing the word loser. Lucas mumbles something about loners and how he wants to hang out with Tyler more.

Tyler returns with the bowl of the now-chilled cookie dough. He sets it down near the baking tray. Lucas heads towards him, and I step to the side, toward the drawer where I had retrieved the whisk earlier. Opening it now, I find an array of cookie cutters—same design, same color, the only difference being the size.

"Hey, Tyler, do you want me to grab a cookie cutter or—?" I ask, attempting to anticipate his answer.

"No, it's fine, we are going to be using this cookie scooper." Tyler says.

I close the drawer before moving to them. I stop halfway. I see the supposed cookie scooper in Tyler's hand.

A kitchen utensil with a grey, rubberized plastic handle, I'm guessing silicone. The scoop itself was a shiny silver color with nothing clinging to its metallic surface. It's slightly concave, the tip being rounded. It was purposefully designed for one thing.

I stare at him.

"Tyler?"

"Hmm?"

"That's an ice cream scoop."

"Huh." Tyler said dumbly. "Aren't they the same?"

"No. No. What you're holding is an ice cream scoop. Look at the handle's coloring—it's a muted grey. Scoops are color-coordinated. Grey handles are for mashed potatoes, jumbo cupcakes, and ice cream. What you're looking for is a plum-colored handle." I pause before amending, "Unless you're making large cookies, then it's pink." I nod slightly, "I think."

Lucas interjects. "... I think I saw an ad saying a scoop like that could be used for cookie dough?"

"There are dishers and then there are ice cream scoops. Dishers are used for cookie dough and fruit. You could use it for ice cream, but it is not recommended. Ice cream scoops—" I glance at Tyler's hand, at the object that derailed what should have been a simple task "—are used for ice cream."

They stare at me blankly.

Something is wrong.

A realization settles in—I haven't answered Lucas's question. A mistake. A misstep. A failure. My throat tightens. Panic rises. I need to fix my mistake.

"You could use the ice cream scoop for cookie dough," I say hurriedly. "But not a disher to scoop ice cream. Unless explicitly stated by the manufacturer."

There.

The world steadies itself.

"That's... That's actually an interesting tidbit! I'll keep that in mind the next time I buy a scoop." Tyler claps—well, it's more like he presses his wrists together because he's still holding the scoop. It's such a strange gesture, just put down the scoop if you want to clap. But I let it pass because he used the correct terminology for scoop.

He places his left hand on the rim of the bowl, grasping it, before scooping with his right. Once. Twice. It's excessive.

"So, Lucas, how many cookies do you want? Two? Four? Six? A dozen?"

The scoop hovers over the baking pan, and he shakes it slightly until the dough drops.

"I think... four is fine? Wouldn't want it to be a chore to eat." Lucas responds as Tyler scoops again.

Tyler huffs in mock disappointment. "Lucas, really? Believing that cookies are a chore to eat? Patrick, tell him he's wrong."

"You're wrong," I say, flatly.

"Thank you." Tyler nods, using my words as credibility.

Lucas rolls his eyes. "Chrissy doesn't have a sweet tooth."

"A shame. Truly. A tragedy." Tyler says sadly.

"Anyway—can I use your restroom, Tyler?" Lucas asks, shifting on his feet, his expression flickering between discomfort and urgency. Or pain.

"Hm? Oh! Yeah. Use the one upstairs, the other one doesn't have any toiletry." Tyler said as he scooped another heap of the cookie dough. That's what, eight times now?

"Thanks!" Lucas hurriedly made his way out of the kitchen and up the stairs.

"... So, how is your day, Patrick?" Tyler grabs the baking tray and waltzes over to the preheated oven.

The question catches me off guard. He's asking? Me?

"Great," I say automatically. And then—silence.

Think of something. Anything. I'm thinking.

"I've been eating..." I dragged the word out, my brain was scraping for topics. "Uh. A continental breakfast." The sentence feels foreign in my mouth. "A plate of blueberry pancakes. Powdered sugar. Alongside a small bowl of sliced strawberries and blackberries." A pause. "There was also a pat of butter on that plate." I-want-to-cave-in-your-skull.

"The plates had these floral patterns of cream, green, and pink." The words kept coming, and I barely registered them. "Kyle—the owner—is great. Recommended that I try eating at the Jericho Café & Tavern. Did you know they have the best food in the immediate area?"

I smile, politely. Was he even listening?

"Pancakes are always great. I've eaten at the Jericho Café before. If you do go, you should try the steak or Reuben," Tyler suggests as he sets down the baking tray for a moment, slipping on a red oven mitt onto his right hand.

Grudgingly, I made a mental note to do so—just to get it over with in case Tyler decided to pester me about it.

"Is there any trouble making reservations there?" I ask, my stomach curling with trepidation. There aren't a lot of people living in Jericho, and even fewer restaurants. Jericho Café, to my knowledge, is the only restaurant in Jericho. Hell, I have to take an Uber out of Jericho to eat at a McDonald's or a Dunkin' Donuts.

Tyler clears his throat. "I... don't know?" He opens the oven, grabs the baking tray, and slides it inside.

"You... don't know?" I repeat. This is ridiculous.

"I do walk-ins," Tyler says as he closes the oven door.

I blink. "Don't you have to wait around twenty minutes for a table?"

"Yeah. Why?"

...

I am appalled.

Make a goddamn reservation next time, Tyler.

"Never mind. Yesterday, I went to Frocks with Lucas, after his shift," I say, deliberately omitting Carter and Jonah. They didn't even go inside, instead, they wandered off to some antique shop, aptly named ANTIQUE SHOP. I continued. "We were looking at their display case, trying to find something for Chrissy. Eventually, he got her an Aether ribbed cashmere scarf in the bitter orange coloring."

I had to force him to get it. It paired well with her skin tone—she'd gotten it tanned recently, she has a warm undertone, for Christ's sake! And Lucas, in all his infinite wisdom, wanted to buy her a white polka-dot blue pullover sailor dress (I'm positive it's a bouffant) by Laura Ashley because she likes vintage clothing. Because she likes the color blue. Stupid. If it were me, I'd have gotten her a Hermès Nepali cashmere stole, also in orange. A better choice.

"After that, we went to the Farmer's market. Then I went to the Weathervane," I say. And for some reason, a nameless dread starts to creep in.

"Oh? Did you do something interesting there?" Tyler asks, suddenly amused.

"No? I ordered baked goods—you know this." I answer, frowning.

"Are you sure?" He asked in this teasing tone. "Didn't you meet someone there?"

A beat. Something shifts.

A cold sweat breaks over me.

He knew.

He knew.

He knew.

Tyler knew.

He probably served her—Wednesday—her expresso. He probably knows her name. He probably watched me, saw me leaning in, saw me talk to her, saw me write my number on that goddamn napkin—with that terrible pen.

He saw everything.

And now, he could talk.

He could tell Lucas. He could ruin me.

"Hey, Patrick, relax," Tyler says, his voice edged with a concern that I couldn't tell was real or fake. "It's fine, okay? I mean, I think it's great, actually." He lets out a breathless laugh like he's actually happy about this. "You, uh—so you like her?"

I should stand up straighter.

Good posture oozes confidence. Chin up, shoulders back, and chest forward. That's what I should be doing. Right now. Right this second. I am in control. That's how it works. That's always how it works. I should not be slumping.

But my hands are spasming.

"I mean, seriously, Patrick—it's cool," Tyler continues his earnest tirade, completely oblivious to the fact my lungs are collapsing in on themselves. "I think she's—y'know, she's kinda weird, but in, like, a good way? She's, uh, definitely a step up from, like, half the girls around here. Kooky?"

I should have worn a tie.

An Armani. Burgundy, maybe? Or a deep navy. A Windsor knot—no, a half-Windsor. Or Pratt. Anything but an Eldredge. Eldredge knots are for men who try too hard.

"I promise, I'm not gonna say anything," Tyler says, trying to be sincere. But I don't believe him.

I can't.

He will blather to Lucas.

I can see it.

Lucas would look at me with a distant expression. Something I can not fix. Carter would raise an eyebrow, his lips curling into a knowing, self-satisfied smirk. Jonah would scoff, shaking his head like he always knew I was off.

He would destroy everything.

Every single careful step I've taken, every deliberate word of flattery, every subtle move I've ever made since the beginning of the school year. Torn down in an instant.

I would be a deviant.

Tyler has a way back in.

Jonah and Carter would let him slip back into their good graces, they would gleefully welcome him back with open arms, if only for the sheer delight of watching me fall.

"Patrick, you look like you're gonna pass out," Tyler's voice cuts in again, genuinely worried. "Breathe, okay? Just—Just sit down or something? Do you need water?"

I should kill him.

Decapitate him. Hollow out his skull. Turn his skin into a lampshade—leather treatment. Bone bleach his skull, just polish the edges. Set it in my room at the Sinclair. Make it a conversational piece.

"My God, Patrick, where did you get such a cool lampshade?"

"Oh, that? Etsy. By, uh, Tyler Galpin. You should see my bedposts."

Tyler is looking at me now, his brows are furrowed, his voice quieting, I think.

"Patrick. You're shaking." A pause. "Hey, c'mon, man. I mean it—I won't say anything. I'm happy for you, okay?"

My throat tightens, my stomach twists, and nausea rolls over me in a choking wave. I'm dry-heaving. Dry-heaving. My vision begins to blur. I blink rapidly, willing myself to get a grip, to stop shaking, to—

God.

God, I wish I had my overcoat on.

Not because it's cold. Not because it makes my shoulders broader.

But because in its left—no, right—pocket was Valium.

But it's fine.

It's fine.

I force a slow breath.

Inhale. Hold. Exhale.

I don't bother counting to five, I won't make it past three.

"You're happy for me?" I say, leveling Tyler with a look, my voice was smooth and steady.

Tyler doesn't respond, he studies me like he's waiting for me to keel over. But then he nods. "Yeah, dude. I mean, Wednesday, huh? Never thought you'd go for the, uh—" he waves a hand vaguely. "Goth, stab-you-in-your-sleep type, but, hey, I respect it."

I'm irritated at that last comment.

I tilt my head, pretending to consider it. "You think so?"

Some of the tension eases from his shoulders. "Yeah, man. And look, you don't need to freak out—I'm not gonna say anything, I promise."

I laugh, the idea of me freaking out is absurd. "Tyler, please. I wasn't freaking out."

He raises an eyebrow. "Dude, you looked like you were about to collapse. You're still kinda pale, again—do you wanna sit down? Get some water?"

I wave dismissively at him while shaking my head. "Honestly, Tyler, you worry too much." I flash a smile. "But I appreciate the concern."

He didn't look entirely convinced, but he let out a sigh, nodding. "Alright, if you say so..."

I pull out my phone and glance at the time.

I want to get out of here.

"Speaking of concerns," I say, as if a thought just occurred to me, "I have to make an appointment with my dentist. Nearly forgot. Very Important." I glance at him with a serious expression. "You know how much care I put into my teeth."

It works—Tyler snorts before rolling his eyes. "Yeah, Patrick, we know. The whole school knows. The, uh, fluoride monologue really made its rounds."

I let out a good-natured hum. "And rightfully so. Teeth that aren't properly taken care of, can and will, be a deal-breaker."

"Alright. But, like... seriously, are you good?" He asks.

I exhale, stepping out to the kitchen, Tyler follows me. I move toward the coat rack by the door. My hands are steady as I grab my overcoat from the notch and slip it on. The familiar weight settles over my shoulders. It helps. Somewhat.

My fingers find the right pocket.

The Valium is there. A small comfort.

I smooth out the cashmere fabric, exhaling through my nose. I glance at Tyler. "Tyler. I am excellent."

It's a lie.

But I say it so smoothly, so easily, that even I almost believe it.

Then, before he can scrutinize me, I unlock the door and step outside.

──────◇──────​

It's cold. I shut the door behind me; it makes a clicking noise.

Immediately, I reached into my pocket, my fingers curling around the familiar bottle. Prescription (I had no clue whose, I stole it). CVS. My palm presses against the cap, a quick twist, the soft rattle of pills against the plastic. Then, once open, I pop two into my mouth. Five milligrams each.

A necessity.

No water.

I should've planned better. Should've grabbed a bottle of water before stepping outside, but there was no way in hell I was taking it in front of Tyler. His father's a deputy. And while Tyler himself is a harmless wimp, he still has that grating sense of morality. That persistent, bleeding heart of decency.

He would've asked about it.

He would've thought about it.

And I would've been an idiot to let him see me do drugs.

So now, I have to do it raw.

I work my tongue, gathering spit in my mouth (really, the correct term is saliva), tilting my head back as I force the pills down. The chalkiness of it clings to the back of my throat, but I managed to swallow anyway. It burns.

I tuck the bottle back into my overcoat's pocket, my fingers pressing against the fabric for reassurance that it's still there.

I sit on the white patio steps. Tyler's house should be blue. Not brown.

I remember it being blue.

Blue is a better color anyway.

I close my eyes. The Valium will kick in soon.

Any second now.

Maybe I should've just taken the whole bottle.

Not for any dramatic, self-destructive reason. I'm not stupid. I know what would happen. But if I did, I wouldn't have any left. And that's far worse.

I hear the door creek open behind me. I hear footsteps crunching against the patio. Lucas.

He steps beside me, his hands shoved into his pockets, his posture loose. Casual. It's cold, and Lucas agrees with me. He was wearing his Legendary Whitetails jacket.

"You good?" he asks.

"Hmmm." I offer vaguely.

Lucas hums, rocking back on his heels.

Then, adding casually, "Hey... Thanks, man."

"For what?" I say, confused.

"For—y'know." He gestures vaguely with his hands. "Helping me with Chrissy's gift yesterday. And for today. Hanging out with Tyler." He pauses, then adds, "You being here helped. I got to reconnect with him."

I process this. It isn't an unfamiliar feeling, receiving gratitude—I get it often enough—but something about Lucas's sincerity makes me pause.

I am flattered.

Tilting my head slightly. "You were going to buy her that polka-dot disaster. I saved you from ruining your relationship."

Lucas groans. "I knew you were gonna say that."

"It's true."

"Yeah, yeah, fine." He mutters, shaking his head. "Still—thanks."

I nod. "You're welcome."

Lucas watches me, expecting something, then sighs. He pulls something from his right jacket pocket—a ziplock bag—and he holds it out.

"Here," he says. "Take 'em."

I glance down. Cookies. The ones we made.

I don't reach for them. My fingers feel detached and heavy.

"Why?"

Lucas shrugs. "Dunno. Maybe I'll just get Chrissy something else. Or ask Tyler to bake more." He shifts on his feet, looking uncertain. "I guess I just... wanted to."

It's a flimsy explanation, to the point it's bordering gratuitous.

Slowly, I take them.

Lucas nods to himself, then mutters something about cleaning up before stepping back inside.

The bag of cookies sits in my hand.

I stare down at them, frowning.

I still don't know why he gave them to me.

Maybe he did it out of generosity.

Maybe he did it to get out of owing me a favor.

Maybe he read the new issue of STAND in the Changi magazine. I think there's an article in one of its pages (Page 6 or Page 14) covering the rise of gifting culture, male friendship, and the importance of tangible gestures.

I made a mental note to ask him later.

──────◇──────​

Comments: I had like, three choices for the hotel/inn/place that Patrick would stay at: Sinclair Inn (cause I really loved it), the Ellis Inn (cause of the name), and Apple Blossom Inn (actual inn from Wednesday). I really wanted to make this chapter about baking! I remember Tyler making a cake for Wednesday on her birthday, and I remember that sausage scene where Patrick was crying because he didn't know if he was cooking it right.

ALSO! I FOLLOWED THIS COOL VIDEO FOR COOKIE STUFF(Tell me if the link isn't working!)!

THANK YOU FOR READING! COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED!

[misscammiedawn]

Miss Cammie Dawn Masterpost

Introduction:

Hi all! Welcome to my combination psychology, fandom, hypnokink, fandom and personal blog!

We're a middle-aged trans woman in our 40s. We're diagnosed with DID and type about it sometimes. We are American but have a British accent and we simply type too dang much.

People seem to like us, I guess? We're a system of 5 and have a huge draw to writing about dissociative disorder representation in fiction. If that's something that interests you then check out our Media Essays tag.

-

Our Tagging System:

Last updated: 4/17/2025

I am addicted to tags. If you ever want to find my original content or my fandom posts you will be able to easily here. Just click on the links below and all shall be neatly organized.

Also there are secret tags which are not advertised. Those ones are for me. A little personal treat.

General Tags:

Cammie Posting - tag for a soft and playful girl. Camden Posting - tag for a traumaqueer. Dawn Posting - tag for a flirty and extravagant Fae. Craig Posting - tag for the boy that lives in the heart of a girl. Utility Tag - Wynn's tag for a survival part who is learning to live. Cammie Core - tag of posts that exude Cammie energy Camden Core - tag of posts that exude Cammie energy Dawn Core - tag of posts that exude Cammie energy Craig Core - tag of posts that exude Cammie energy Wynn Core - tag of posts that exude Cammie energy

Original Content:

Artwork Commissions - Any time I pay a lovely creator to do some art for me <3 Cammie Photos - Photos which feature this beautiful ginger in all her glory. Cammie Stories - My hypnosis related short stories. Fictional ones this time, though sometimes inspired by reality. Hypnokink Original Content - My little submissions of audio, visual or written hypnosis stuff. Hypnokink Writings - My personal opinions, info and resources on Hypnokink. Madison and Belladonna - Our series of hypnokink stories slightly based on reality going over a pair falling in love while one navigates their dissociative disorder Media Essays - A tag for my own big lengthy posts breaking down media (sometimes includes reblogs of other people's commentary) Media, Myself and I - Dawn's essays on DID representation in media. Photos We Took - We don't often share our proper photography work on Tumblr but sometimes we do and tag them here. Camden and Craig tend to share credit for photos. ReadOnlyMind - External link to my full length stories shared on ReadOnlyMind Scene Stories - Posts where we describe a scene that we did IRL. If I use this tag it is a recounting of real events. Story Time - Wynn's tag for telling stories about our life and experiences. We typically voice act them. Suggestion Suggestions - Ideas for hypnotic scenes. Video Posts - Posts where we are on video. Voiced Posts - Posts where we record stuff and say it with our mouth words.

Personal Topics:

Asexuality - We are a kinky ace. We don't do sex or orgasms but sometimes do horny. BPD Specific - BPD is difficult to live with and impacts our relationships with others. DID specific - DID is difficult to live with and impacts our relationships with ourselves. We try to educate on the topic. Mental Health/DID/BPD Topics - Watch Me Post My Trauma In Public. Mental Health Memes - We have to meme or we'll cry. Personal Posts - Ones which are just me venting or talking specifically about my life and experiences. Plural Posting - Plurality memes. Trans specific - This Is My Gender and I am Proud of It.

Meme Tags:

Bites You Bites You Bites You - Cammie has a tag entirely for biting people <3 Camus Posting - One must imagine Sisyphus memeing Fae Posting - Our loyalty lies with the Seelie Court and we must meme about it Puns - Craig likes puns and we put up with it. Shitposting - tag for when we're being silly. We Have To Meme or We'll Cry- Mental health/plurality jokes

Hypnokink Tags:

50 Days of Fetish Masterpost - Easy links to all 50 posts about why I love hypnokink with examples, audios, photos and videos. 50 Days of Fetish - Tag list of 50 different scenes and suggestions in hypnosis that gets me going and reblogs of other folx who participated in the challenge. Community Resources - Educational resources in hypnokink. Community Safety - Topics discussing dangerous topics and predators Con Recaps - Convention recaps for Charmed! and Beguiled Hypnokink conventions General hypnosis tag - General tag for all hypnosis topics. Hypnokink -General tag for all hypnokink posts. Hypnokink Art - Artwork featuring hypnosis. Hypnokink OC - Our hypnokink content Hypnokink Writings - Our posts and essays on hypnokink Hypnosis on Display - Audios, videos, demos and photos of hypnosis. Hypnosis Events - Convention information Hypnosis Fiction - Stories featuring hypnokink.

Thirst Tags:

Hypnokink Art - Did I mention we have a hypnokink? Redheads - We like redheads. We are redheads. Sapphic Art - Speaks for itself <3 Stage Magicians - Stage magic is hot. Do not @ me. Sword Lady Thirst - I just want my chin lifted by a sword so I have to meet their gaze... Vampire Thirst - Cammie Likes Vampires

Friends and Loved Ones:

Daja - Beloved. Double Grinch - Absolute sweetheart. Fellow Secret Mod. EllaEnchanting - Inspiration for asexual hypnokink, cool person and opinion haver. Lady Ru'etha - Goddess, Beloved. Linny Bee - Sweetheart. Hypnokink craft lady. Nath - Incredible writer. Good opinion haver. Metamour. Paperboy64 - Absolute sweetheart. Puppet - Counterpart. Metamour. Fellow Sleepyhead enjoyer. Skaetlett - Inspiration for plurality based hypnofiction. Superb person. Secret Subject - Boss. VTuber extraordinaire and good friend. Sleepyhead - Beloved. TennFan - An inspiration in asexual hypnokink content

Ask Tags:

Cammie Asks - Asks answered while Cammie is fronting. Camden Asks - Asks answered while Camden is fronting. Dawn Asks - Asks answered while Dawn is fronting. Craig Asks - Asks answered while Craig is fronting. Wynn Asks - Asks answered while Wynn is fronting. Ask Memes - Ask based games. We try to link the source but sometimes forget. Hypno Themed Asks - Asks about hypnosis.

[godhasheardtruthfully]

Please feel free to read their responses here. I am grateful to Rep. Pettersen, Sen. Hickenlooper, & Sen. Bennet for responding.

I'm glad to know where my elected representatives stand during this crisis. I continue to advocate for a permanent ceasefire.

Britanny Petersen

Dear Ms. Bailey, Thank you for contacting me about the war in Israel. I am grateful to hear from you as I continue the work of representing our district in Washington.

On October 7, the terrorist organization Hamas launched an unprovoked and vicious attack against Israeli civilians. The group targeted civilian communities with rockets, gunfire, sexual violence, kidnapping, and other brutalities. Thousands of innocent people have been killed, including at least 31 Americans, while many others are still being held hostage.

My heart breaks for the families and communities impacted by these violent and barbaric attacks. As a mom, there is not anything more heartbreaking than thinking about the families, children, and even babies who have been senselessly murdered.

The United States stands in solidarity with Israel and unequivocally supports its right to defend its people and restore security throughout the country. Terrorist acts perpetrated by Hamas have brought death and despair to the region, and my thoughts are also with the Palestinian people who continue to live in terror under their brutal regime.

Congress and the White House are continuing to closely monitor the situation. I support the actions of the Biden Administration, who are coordinating with Israeli leaders to provide military and humanitarian assistance, including aircraft presence, ammunition, and resources to repair and fortify the Iron Dome. 

I have signed onto two bipartisan resolutions, including one led by House Foreign Affairs Committee Chairman Michael McCaul of Texas and Ranking Member Gregory Meeks of New York which affirms U.S. support for Israel and its right to defend itself, publicly condemns Hamas, and calls for an end to the violence. 

In the future, I am committed to working with my Congressional colleagues to quickly provide all diplomatic, military, and intelligence aid necessary to restore peace and stability in the region. 

Thank you again for reaching out. If you or a loved one are currently in the region and need assistance from the federal government, please call my office at 303-274-7944. American citizens seeking to be in touch with the U.S. Embassy in Israel can fill out the following form  (https://cacms.state.gov/s/crisis-intake) or call 1-833-890-9595 or 1-606-641-0131.

For the latest updates, please monitor the messages to U.S. citizens from the U.S. Embassy in Israel: https://il.usembassy.gov/u-s-citizen-services/security-and-travel-information/ Any U.S. citizens in Israel should enroll their contact information in the Smart Traveler Enrollment Program (STEP): https://step.state.gov/step/.

I'm here to fight for Colorado families and your message makes a difference. To better stay in touch, please visit my website at pettersen.house.gov or follow me on Twitter and Facebook. I hope to hear more from you soon.

Brittany Pettersen

Member of Congress

John Hickenlooper

Dear Ms. Bailey,

Thank you for taking the time to contact us regarding the ongoing conflict between Israel and Hamas. We always appreciate hearing from Coloradans, as it helps us better represent our great state in the United States Senate.

We support Israel’s right to defend itself in the face of Hamas’s terrorism, hostage-taking, and massacre of innocent civilians. Israel must defend itself against this threat, but the civilian death toll in Gaza is growing rapidly. A humanitarian pause would get food, water, and medical supplies to the civilian population and permit foreign nationals to leave Gaza. We are actively considering the Biden Administration’s supplemental funding request, which would support Israel and provide billions in life-saving humanitarian assistance to civilians in Gaza.

Hamas is an Iranian-backed terrorist organization that does not speak for all Palestinians. The Israeli-Palestinian conflict is both tragic and complex, and we must find solutions while always condemning the killing of innocent people.

Please know we will keep your thoughts in mind as we continue to monitor this devastating situation.We always value hearing directly from Coloradans and hope you will continue to share your thoughts as we work together for Colorado and our country. For more information about our priorities, please visit our website at www.hickenlooper.senate.gov. Again, thank you for reaching out.

Michael Bennet

Dear Ms. Bailey,

Thank you for contacting me regarding the war in Israel and Gaza. I appreciate hearing from you on this important topic.

On the morning of Saturday, October 7th, Hamas terrorists launched a deadly terrorist attack in Israel. Hamas killed over 1,200 people, primarily Jewish Israelis, and kidnapped over 250 people, including children, women, the elderly, and nine Americans. In response, Israel declared war on Hamas, and since October 7th, thousands of innocent civilians in Gaza have been killed or injured amid the violence. 

On November 24th, Israel and Hamas agreed to a four day truce, conditioned on the release of at least 50 hostages. During this time, there has been a significant increase in humanitarian aid delivered to Palestinians in Gaza. On November 27th, the parties agreed to extend the truce for two days to release additional hostages and to deliver additional aid to Gaza. The U.S. has played a strong role in these negotiations and should continue to ensure all parties honor their commitments during this truce.

I am hopeful that both parties will again agree to extend the truce to release additional hostages and deliver additional aid to Gaza. Should the truce end, Israel must meet the highest standard in its conduct of war and do everything in its power to prevent the loss of life among civilians.

My heart breaks for Israelis and Palestinians, whose lives will never be the same after October 7th. Like many in Israel, Gaza, and the West Bank – Palestinians, Israelis, Arabs, Jews, Muslims, and Christians – I believe that a two state solution, predicated on the ability of all people in the region to live in safety, is still feasible, and in fact, necessary. But this only can be achieved after terrorism and terrorists are no longer part of the equation.

As the situation continues to evolve, I will be sure to keep your thoughts in mind.

I value the input of fellow Coloradans in considering the wide variety of important issues and legislative initiatives that come before the Senate. I hope you will continue to inform me of your thoughts and concerns.

For more information about my priorities as a U.S. Senator, I invite you to visit my website at http://bennet.senate.gov/. Again, thank you for contacting me.

Sincerely,

Michael F. Bennet United States Senator

Advocating for peace & ceasefire: An open letter to my representatives

Hi I am Sam-Amina Matthew-John Bailey, a lifelong Coloradan, I'm sending you peace and goodwill Senators Michael Bennet, John Hickenlooper, & Representative Brittany Pettersen I must join the lively chorus of voices demanding we all do our part to unite for peace - as manifested by a deescalation of military force, advocating for Israel to cease fire, and defunding of the United States militaries role in the conflict occurring to this day in Gaza. It is so urgent for us to take action to save the lives of innocent people of all ages. We have no business encouraging or spending our tax extracted dollars on this senseless violence. Let's refocus on righteous ways we can benevolently spend our wealth that may benefit the health of our global community, such as enhanced public transportation, healthcare access, and housing unhoused peoples. As an artist among political scientists I've found the people who you serve as a sitting Senator in Colorado generally share a passionate zeal for righteousness. There's a transcendental coalition of humans all across this state that, regardless of if they identify as Democrats, Republicans, or Independents, who are sincerely God fearing people. People who long to do good to others and love our neighbors. Thus I both strategically recommend and supplicate myself to you as a voter in this state that your office becomes a vocal bastion of peace, demanding Israels ceasefire and the cessation of our peoples part in fueling genocidal missions in any part of the globe. Cori Bush, Rashida Tlaib, André Carson, Summer Lee, and Delia Ramirez are leading such a movement in the House. Thank you so much for your time, service, and consideration, Happy Holidays Senator Bennet, Senator Hickenlooper, & Representative Pettersen

I will be praying for the wellbeing of you & yours, Sam-Amina Matthew-John Bailey

Inshallah I'll share with y'all if my neighbors & elected representatives respond. May they be well, experiencing luxurious peace in their lives.

[oo-hazel-oo]

tw: gun violence (this is a long and detailed discussion of gun violence, so please don't read if that makes you uncomfortable!)

i don’t normally talk about this kind of stuff on here, but i’m frustrated and sad and am hoping that some people who read this will find it helpful. if you don’t have time to read, then feel free to skip to the last three paragraphs which contain the big takeaways from all this.

i grew up in a city that many people refer to as the “murder capital” of the united states and that has one of the highest rates of gun-related homicides in the entire country. i heard my first gunshot when i moved to the midwest at age 10 and i couldn’t tell you how many i’ve heard since then.

during the first few years of high school, we had annual 'intruder' drills, where we'd turn off the lights, close the blinds, and huddle in a corner until the teachers told us we could stop. after the parkland shooting in 2018, they started calling them 'active shooter' drills and we had them twice as often. our teachers stopped telling us to hide in a corner of the classroom and instead encouraged us to break the windows and run, do anything in our power to save ourselves if something ever happened.

over the years, there were a few public safety scares that caused our building to be locked down, but i found that the majority of the gun violence that affected our school manifested in ways that i wasn’t prepared for in the slightest. i had a classmate come to school with an untreated gunshot wound. i would see my friends wearing handmade shirts featuring the collaged images of relatives who’d fallen victim to gun violence. even since graduating, three former classmates have passed away after being caught in the crossfire of our country's gun epidemic. there were no drills or prep courses to teach us how to deal with the effects of that.

one the most horrible encounters with gun violence that i have personally experienced happened when i was sixteen. i was attending a neighborhood memorial for a five year old boy who had gotten ahold of his parents’ gun and sadly sustained an accidental and fatal gunshot wound. halfway through the memorial service, which was taking place in a local park, we heard gunshots come from down the street and everyone had to leave behind their candles, flowers, and teddy bears to sprint to safety. the gun violence in my neighborhood had gotten so bad, that we weren’t even able to mourn its victims anymore.

i’m bringing this all up because earlier today, i was scrolling through instagram and was surprised to see my city on a CNN headline. there had been a school shooting at the high school a few blocks away from my old house and it had left 3 people dead and at least 6 people seriously injured. hearing the news broke my heart.

i am currently living in the u.k. and it’s hard to describe to my european friends, most of whom have never been directly impacted by gun violence, why i jump when a heavy dumpster lid is slammed shut, or why i feel the need to sprint if i see a crowd of people running. my friends here will sometimes joke about the u.s. being full of gun-toting, trigger-happy texans, but that is just one caricature of our gun violence epidemic and does not capture the diverse experiences that so many of us have grown up with (and a psa to those who have never been impacted by gun violence — please try to avoid throwaway comments like the one above — gun violence is not a joke).

all this being said, to anyone who has read the news today and is impacted by what’s going on, please take care of yourself and your community. it’s okay to log off if you need to <3

and to all of those who want to channel their frustration into action, remember that the november 8th midterm elections are coming up and this is sadly one of the ONLY ways we can work to prevent further tragedy and fight for better gun control legislation in the u.s. if you’re american, register to vote. if you are an american and won’t be in town on election day or are living abroad, YOU CAN STILL VOTE. and registering is just half the job. make sure you head to your polling place on election day to honor that commitment. research your candidates, check which organizations they give their money to, and which give money to them. there are so many NRA-backed candidates that need to be voted out! keep an eye out for endorsements from people/groups doing the good work. send letters to your local, state, and national representatives. protest. share your own experiences. be there for those who are most impacted (these are ways everyone can help, not just americans!!)

obviously gun violence is not the only issue that is important for the upcoming election, but it’s the one that’s hurting me, my friends, and family the most today.

[art-of-mathematics]

Wei Ho Is Drawn to Algebra, Geometry and the Human Side of Math | Quanta Magazine

https://www.quantamagazine.org/wei-ho-is-drawn-to-algebra-geometry-and-the-human-side-of-math-20221122/

Wei Ho, the first director of the Women and Mathematics program at the Institute for Advanced Study, combines algebra and geometry in her work on an ancient class of curves.

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Introduction

Like many people who would go on to become mathematicians, Wei Ho grew up competing in math contests. In eighth grade, she won the Mathcounts state competition in Wisconsin, and her team took third place at nationals.

Unlike many future mathematicians, she wasn’t sure she ever wanted to become one.

“I wanted to do everything, all the time,” Ho said. “I took ballet very seriously until early high school. I edited the literary magazine. I did debate and forensics. I played tennis and soccer and piano and violin.” By contrast, many successful mathematicians appeared to be obsessed with math to the exclusion of everything else. How could she, a person with numerous passions, compete with that level of focus?

Ultimately, Ho was drawn to the rigor of mathematics. She still enjoys ballet, reading novels and doing cryptic crossword puzzles, even as she helps to reinvent the mathematical machinery that underpins fundamental mathematical objects, such as polynomial equations, which have long-standing and perplexing open questions associated with them.

Ho studies familiar geometric objects, but she reformulates the questions to situate them in the realm of the rational numbers — numbers that can be written as fractions. “Then number theory starts to get mixed into all of this,” she said.

She is especially interested in elliptic curves, which are defined by a particular kind of polynomial equation that has applications in different branches of mathematics. Elliptic curves appear in analysis — broadly speaking, the study of continuous things, like the real numbers — and in algebra, which is about finding and defining precise mathematical structures. (Though their focus is different, analysis and algebra are divided more by sensibility than by a strict boundary, as there is plenty of overlap between them.)

Introduction

In a barrier-breaking preprint released in 2018, Ho and her collaborator Levent Alpöge of Harvard University discovered a new upper bound for the number of integer solutions to polynomials that define elliptic curves. Their technique draws upon the decades-old work of Louis Mordell, an American mathematician who emigrated to Britain in 1906. In their paper, Ho and Alpöge were able to glean new information about the distribution of these integer solutions that had evaded other teams studying similar problems.

Ho is spending the year (on leave from her faculty position at the University of Michigan) as a visiting professor at the Institute for Advanced Study, where she was recently named the first director of the IAS’s Women and Mathematics program. She is also a 2023 fellow of the American Mathematical Society and a research scholar at Princeton University.

She’s hopeful that directing the Women and Mathematics program will “at least help the community more, help more people, instead of just me being in my office doing math research by myself or with collaborators,” she said. “I can prove theorems, and maybe someday I can prove a theorem that in 100 years will matter. Maybe, maybe not. But I felt like I wasn’t making enough impact on the world or on people around me.”

Quanta spoke with Ho in a series of videoconferences. The interviews have been condensed and edited for clarity.

How would you describe the way you do mathematics?

Sometimes mathematicians divide ourselves into algebraic and analytic people. The math I do touches both sides, but at heart, I am an algebraist, though I’m geometric in the way I think. I often tend to view algebra and geometry as essentially the same.

That’s not quite accurate, but basically since the work of Descartes and especially in the last century, the two subjects have become really close. There is a rather precise dictionary that can, in some situations, help translate a geometric picture to algebraic consequences.

In my own case, the geometric picture often helps formulate statements and conjectures and give intuition, but then we translate them to algebra when writing. It’s easier to detect mistakes as algebra is typically more rigorous. It can also be easier to use algebra when geometry gets too hard to visualize.