#i need some good advice

[inkskinned]

there are a lot of posts out there that are positive and healthy coping mechanisms for handling the holidays. this is not one of them :)

i think there's like. going to be times in your life you will be stuck in a social situation that you cannot escape from gracefully. i do not know why the internet doesn't believe these times exist. it's not always just that your physical safety is at risk - sometimes it's legit like "i just don't currently have the energy or time to put in the effort of responding to this." sometimes it's a coworker you hate so much. sometimes it's just like, fine, you know? like you know you can handle your aunt when she's cheerily horrible, but if you actually set a boundary around her, it's going to be weeks of fallout with your father.

i don't know why people think the answer is always just "cut them out!" or "don't let them get away with that!" because ... the real world is tricky and complicated. i think kind of a lot of us have an internal "radiation poisoning" meter for certain people. like - i'm talking about the ones who are absolutely giving you gradual ick damage. like, you can handle them, but you'll be exhausted.

and yes. you absolutely should listen to your therapist and the good posts about handling others and set good boundaries and take care of yourself. prioritize peace.

HOWEVER :) ...... since im often in a situation with a Gradual Sense of Ick person i cannot just "cut out" of my life (without losing someone else precious to me) - i have sort of developed the most. maladaptive form of mischief possible. because like, if i'm going to have to listen to this shit again, i like to have a little bit of private fun with it.

now! again, i am physically safe, just mentally drained by this man. you should only do this with people you are not in danger with. which leads me to my suggestions for when your Unfortunate Acquaintance shows up and says oh everyone pay attention to me.

my favorite word is "maybe!" said as brightly and happily as possible. whenever the Horrible Person starts in on a topic you do not want to go further with, particularly if they make a claim that you know to be inaccurate, do not respond to it. you and i have both tried to actually argue with this person, and it hasn't gone well, because this person just wants the drama of an argument. however, "maybe!" gives them literally nothing to go on. it is incredibly disarming. they are used to people having some response. they know they can't prove what they're saying, and maybe! treats them like the child they are. it dismisses them in the politest way possible.

i like to say maybe! and then, in their stunned silence, immediately change the subject. this is because i have adhd and i will have something unrelated to talk about, but if you can't think of topics fast enough, i recommend just pointing to something and saying, "isn't that lovely?" because fuck you let's bring in some positivity.

by the way. that second trick - of pointing to something and stating an opinion about it? - that just works on its own, like, 70% of the time. i picked it up from teaching preschoolers. it's an intentional "redirect". it stops children crying and it also stops grown adults from finishing their explanation on why women belong in kitchens. dual wielding!

keep it silly for yourself. i absolutely do not care if people think i'm fucking stupid (it's more fun if they do) and as a result i will purposefully misunderstand things just to see how long it takes them to realize i've completely removed them from the subject at hand. when they say "women aren't funny" i get to be like. "which women." "all women." "all women in america?" "no in the world." "like the mole people? the people in the world?" "what? no. like, alive." "oh are we not counting the mole people?" "what the fuck are you talking about." "you don't believe in the mole people?"

similarly, i play a personal game called "one up me." my Evil Acquaintance literally knows this game exists (my family & friends caught onto it and now also play it) and it always fucking gets him. i don't know why. you have to be willing to be a little free-spirited on this one, though. the trick is that when they make one of those horrible little bigoted or annoying comments they are always making, you need to go one unit weirder. not more intense, mind you - just more weird. "you don't look good in that dress." "yeah, actually, my other dress was covered in squid ink due to a mishap at the soup store." "you shouldn't wear such revealing clothes." "wait, what? oh shit. sorry, your son tears off strips when no one is looking and eats them. i swear it was longer before we left the building."

the point of "one up me" is to completely upend this person's narrative. we both know this person likes setting up situations where you cannot "win" and then they really like telling other people how badly you handled it. in a usual situation, if you respond "please don't say something that rude", you're a bitch. but if you let it happen, you're letting yourself be debased. they are not usually expecting door number three: unflappably odd. because what are they going to say when they're telling everyone how badly you behaved? "she said my son eats her dresses" ".... okay?"

if you can, form an allyship with someone whomst you can tagteam with. where they can pick up on your weird "soup store" story and run with it.

the following phrase is amazing and can be deployed for any situation: "oh, be nice :) it's the holidays!" i do not know why this works as often as it does. i'll say it for the most random shit. i think this is bc most of the time these people know they're being impolite, they just like to fight.

godbless. when in doubt, remember that you could always start stealing their pens.

the whole point of this is - if you can't escape. maybe see how long you can just be. like. a horrible little menace.

[erin-epica]

Since my first TMNT meme post in forever did really well, here's a lil' something for the Aprils!

[katballesteros]

Sachi

Commissioned by @inusmasha for @mustardyellowsunshine

Enjoy, Robin! :)

[bacchuschucklefuck]

Riz has counted four casseroles this week alone. Five, if one goes by the method of cooking, but Yelen's scary when she's crossed, and calling her burek by its proper name is important to her, so Riz does her the courtesy and doesn't include it in his mental tally.

He holds the tupperware over his head to keep it out if the way as he takes careful steps over the piles of notes in his path. The dockman case just closed, relevant documentations handed over to relevant personnels, evidences dealt with as needed; all he has lying around now is just record of the process and traces of himself thinking through it. Unsurprisingly they still haven't invented a surface more convenient for people under five feet who like to pace to put pieces of paper on than the ground.

Actual records go into the case folder with the other documents. Anything else with at least one side still blank is going to the school kids in the block - they chew through an astounding amount of paper just learning arithmetic. The rest is for the recycling basket.

Later. It's his mandated lunch break right now.

Riz sits down in front of the corner file cabinet. In an office often overrun with papers and strings and sometimes even thumbtacks, he's never really managed to clutter up this exact square of surface like every other ones. Ever since the bottom drawer rattled for no discernible reason a day long past, his eyes have always just kinda decided to slide across the space without acknowledging it.

It's years out, now. Riz doesn't know why he thought it such a big deal anymore, back then. He wasn't scared, he doesn't think. Not anymore. Maybe just uncomfortable with the idea that certain things persist despite all efforts to change.

He opens the tupperware. Dame Carabelle's experiment greets him with enough spice in the aroma alone to knock out a small mammal. When he chopped the vegetables for this casserole he couldn't really imagine the eventual heft of it, evident even through just these few ladles' worth, maybe weighing heavier for being still warm. His folk eat more through the smell and the textures and the aftertastes than the taste itself. His folk's meal is really the cooking rather than the eating. The eating is the meal's end.

"Hey," he tells the file cabinet's bottom drawer. "Um."

It's the anniversary. Riz doesn't know the exact date of his dad's death; nobody currently alive does. He and Mom both use the date of the funeral, though as he moved out to Bastion and then got more directly involved with Interplanar he hasn't really been going to Dad's grave as much. Doesn't seem like very efficient use of his time, catching a train or borrowing a car or spending a whole spell slot on going somewhere he knows Dad isn't at. They're sorta coworkers now. They talk on and off every other week between missions. When he goes now, it's just to clean up the place, keeping the landmark tidy and respectable.

Without that work to mark the date he doesn't really know what it serves anymore. But he still remembers it. Still takes note, absently or not, when it comes around.

There's not really a good way to tell the drawer that. Riz looks for another way to start the... conversation, hopefully. The question at play, he'd guess, is why he's doing this. He's been pretty content ignoring all the rattlings and the knocks from inside and the times it sits slightly ajar without him ever opening it himself; hell, he still uses the three drawers on top of it. Space is fucking precious in Bastion.

Precious enough to finally fix this damn drawer so he gets his turn to use it? Riz asks himself. Is that what we're getting to? Then he dismisses the thought - he didn't manage to fix it the times he actually tried, let alone-- now. When he doesn't really care that much to.

That's probably a good place to start. "'s fine if you keep being in there, turns out," Riz says.

The lunch hours are quiet in the block, sleepy and bright with the brief window of sunlight that manages to break through roof overhangs and extended balconies and laundry lines and climbing vines. Riz's work isn't loud here (the loud parts happen away from his office, if everything goes right), but the fragment of early summer heat reflected in the steady warmth his meal still carries compels him to lower his voice even more. It makes the words feel intimate, in a way he's never been familiar with - if he says something he just says it. He doesn't whisper. If he gives his friends something, he gives it open-palm. He's found out, along the way, that people usually don't think of rituals and courtesies the way he does.

Small voice for a diminished monster. "You know why I think so?" Riz asks. "Because almost two decades ago you kidnapped me and almost killed me, and now you rattle a drawer in my office."

It doesn't sound as much like a taunt as Riz wanted it to; the drawer has made a lot of noises again this morning when he checked the calendar, and he was definitely annoyed at it. Now, though, facing it like this after cooking the whole morning with more grandparents and peers from the block than he can count on both hands to cater for a tenant union meeting, he thinks the annoyance has morphed. Changed shape.

It has the shades of something like pity. Riz is not prone to pity, and especially not at these kinda matters. It's slightly maddening that he coheres perfectly outside of this one spot. That he commands his spaces, except for a drawer.

He puts the tupperware onto the floor between himself and the cabinet. "I know we're aware it's the anniversary," he says at the drawer. "You do this every year. You make a ruckus every time I decide to go do my job instead of mooching off my friends' aircon, and every time I get an invitation to some stupid social thing I want to turn down, and every time one of the old people tries to introduce me to a child or a nibling, because being a bachelor over thirty is weird," he pinches the bridge of his nose. "I have three fucking jobs. I love doing my fucking jobs. I'm forcing funds into infrastructures. You're never leaving, are you."

The drawer vibrates lightly. It's a very, very mild acknowledgement, considering the history of reactions Riz has gotten from this thing. Riz thinks it's emanating joyous agreement, or satisfaction.

It only sharpens the pity. Riz doesn't like that, but it's how it is. That's, ultimately, the lesson he's been taught over and over and over again, just by existing as himself, turned every which way by space after space that don't see him eye-to-eye: it's not like he'd quit living over any of it. It's not like any of it can sand off these fundamental pieces of him.

He's outgrown a lot of things, he's found out. Again, and again, and again. A childhood home, a yearly trip, a monster.

"'s probably scary for you, huh?" He asks. "Because I left."

He thinks he hears joints creak that sound like you did. Probably the way a scorned lover would say it, in a movie or a yellowback. He has no more connection to the idea than he did as a kid. Less, because it doesn't even scare him.

"That's what it is, right? That it's the anniversary, and I'll never be like Dad." He raises a knee from the floor, pulls it back closer to him. Slings an arm over it. "You love to remind me. The thing is, Dad also left. He loved Mom and he loved me, and none of us wanted it to happen, but it still did. Because love does fuckall to make anyone stay on its own."

He's long past being bitter about it. It's just the facts. Once upon a time he looked into the future and the specter of his friends' happily-ever-after casted lightless, fathomless shadow over him. Love, marriage, that kind of devotion, to a fifteen-year-old with more solved cases than friends seemed so eternal. Final.

But you can only watch your friends build up apps' worth of jilted lovers for so long before getting over it.

"You know what I learned?" Riz tells the drawer. "Love doesn't make anyone stay. Project management does."

He stands up, and picks up the tupperware of Dame Carabelle's casserole, that he helped make, that he helped share with a block's worth of neighbors and members of a community he's at home with, and goes sit at his desk to eat. "Last chance to get any," he drops an offer over his shoulder as he walks away.

He doesn't eat all of his share in one go. What he's spared he leaves on the desk when going outside for a smoke break. Baron looks the exact same as when he saw them last, when he catches a glimpse; they haven't grown at all. They aren't there when he comes back inside, but the leftover has gone days-old cold, like someone's sucked the future out of it.

[oldkamelle]

Still accepting Ideas? If so, Spy asking advice on Sniper on how to tell Scout that he is his dad.

[uncanny-tranny]

Something I realized (which was obvious to me subconsciously) is that... The family that vehemently didn't accept me when I first came out but now do accept me are still the same family that I am most unwilling to be open about things I feel protective over.

I remember that my dad reacted so poorly, not to my coming out, but to my transition specifically that my therapist was the one to ask if I wanted to put it on my file that I wanted nothing to ever be shared with him about my health after I broke down multiple times due to my anxiety that I would never transition. While there are and were protections for me, I was incredibly fearful at the time because I was a minor, and I was so worried that he would have prevented my transition that I couldn't have said for certain what (if any) lengths he would have gone to to prevent that.

He's grown a lot as a person, and made some commendable strides. But he didn't find out from me when I medically transitioned the second I turned eighteen, and I think that's among the things that truly made him realize the scope of the issue.

I'm not here to guilt trip parents, guardians, or other members responsible for the care of the children or teens or young adults in their care.... but this is a cautionary tale. You aren't saving the people in your care when you do this, you simply reinforce an idea that you will never care for them, never want them as they are, would rather them be shoved away.

When you give people reasons to be secretive, they will behave secretively. When you give people reasons to doubt their safety around you, they will become sneaky, defensive, and withdrawn. When you give people reasons to doubt that you value their life, they will believe that you don't care if they live or not.

[halfbit]

some brief advice for characters with small scars from a head injury (from my specific experience) since i do see people give these types of scars to characters sometimes

mine is like this for reference:

specific info:

i didn't receive in-hospital treatment for it even though i lost consciousness i was kicked by a horse, the metal horseshoe is what did it it was a long time ago (over a decade now)

it doesn't effect me much day to day, it is always visible but it has become less prominent over time. certain expressions (anything eyebrow raising especially) make it very obvious.

it is physically raised and lacks pigment.

sensation wise, it used to itch but i haven't felt that for awhile now. if i pay attention when touching it, there's a slight difference in temperature from the rest of my skin. if i scrape it (even just lightly, like scratching with a fingernail) it feels like its bleeding even when its not.

if i accidentally hit it (i dont like doorways), it is extremely painful, it burns, my vision flashes white and i see stars, and it feels like its bleeding all over again of course. it feels like the irl equivalent of being stunned by an electric arrow. if your character has a scar like this, having them get hit on it in a fight is a good way to make them go down for a bit. the sensation also lingers for a decent amount of time afterwards, depending on how hard the hit was. the lingering feels like a heavy pulsing/throbbing, similar to a strong headache but localized on the scar. personally, it feels like even minor impacts can have a really strong effect still as long as its a pretty direct hit.

so yeah just my personal experience having a scar like this! i like seeing characters with similar scars but it often feels like it was just a cosmetic choice to show that they're tough. it's not something that is super high-impact for me, but it still has its effects, and when you aggravate them you can't really focus on anything else until it goes away.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

idk why, but your art is the image my browser uses for tumblr, which means I get to look at it all the time~

Tumblr said “you need a silly little guy to wave at you” and boy howdy is that silly guy waving.

[jessepinwheel]

my very serious writing advice for people who are trying to write more morally complex characters is to stop caring about their morality and focus instead on their individual motivations

it’s hard to articulate exactly what I mean, but the essence of it is basically: when a character does a murder, not only do I not care about whether they’re justified in doing so, it’s straight-up irrelevant. a character’s moral standing from some nebulous universal standard has no bearing on the plot or their interactions with other characters and has no use in the story for me as a writer. what does matter is why the character thought they were justified and then if it comes up to other characters, what they think about it.

you can obviously think about your characters’ morality but it’s not your job as a writer to interpret your stories for your readers and tell them how to judge your characters. your readers can see the evidence for themselves and draw their own conclusions. your job is just to understand why a character is motivated to act in a certain way and have it make sense

focusing on character motivations is a much more versatile framework than trying to give them specific personality traits or moral alignments, and frankly more useful to understand why a character would do a certain thing instead of just what they do. that way when something fucked up happens and your character starts acting differently, there’s an actual logical reason for it that isn’t you forcing characters to do things because it’s what’s required to make the plot go

when you write your characters with the understanding that people are not static and they act differently under different circumstances, complexity in character and morality follows naturally.

[corvid-language-library]

.

[tj-crochets]

Went to the doctor just for a check up and he basically just told me "your body just processes sugar very well! :) :) :) It's a good thing! :) :) :) It can't possibly be the source of your symptoms even though eating fixes it :) :) :)" But there was also a moment when talking about my iron deficiency that is possibly one of the funniest things a doctor has ever said to me, up with the cardiologist who said "you're a medical mystery": He was going over my blood test results, and said "Your iron levels haven't gone up at all, they are still extremely low, but you're not anemic anymore" And I was like how am I not anemic anymore??? And he said "Your hemoglobin levels have gone up...somehow..." while frowning at the blood test results on his computer. It was very "somehow, palpatine has returned" lol

[dontforgetoctober3rd]

Come Go With Me

A Michael Gavey fic.

EDIT: Now with art! (just a sketch tho)

Summary: It's the spring of 2007 and Michael Gavey has so far kept to the vow he made to never socialize again after Oliver ditched him. Then he meets a cute girl at a coffee shop. Will the vow stand strong or immediately go down the drain?

Word Count: 3986

Rating: T (plenty of swearing, instances of misogyny, objectification of the female body, atrociously incorrect bagel eating, New York City slander, etc.)

Author's Note: yes, the title is the song by Expose. Also, I'm a corny writer.

Divider by @cafekitsune

“I don’t know or care what Oliver Quick is doing this summer,” Michael said, continuing to type on his laptop, not even making eye contact with whoever asked the question.  The guy who asked left without saying anything further.

Some random guy in the library asked Michael if it was true that Oliver was going to be spending the summer with Felix on his family’s estate.  It was more about prying into Felix’s business than him wanting to know anything about Oliver, Michael thought.  Oliver was not on the same level of being interesting (in the eyes of the general student populace) that the Cattons were.  

Michael didn’t give a shit that Oliver was going to fancy fucking Saltburn with his new, snobby, loser, nepo baby friends for the summer.  Really, he didn’t.  When Oliver humiliated him at the bar, he made the decision then to swear off any further socializing at the university.  It was the best thing he ever did.

Already, he felt less anxious.  He had more time to focus on his coursework.  More time to read new books, attend off campus lectures.  Walks in the park by himself were quite relaxing when he didn’t have to think about topics to keep a stilted, dying conversation going.  He even went so far as to set aside time to play video games again.  Every weekend, for one hour and a half, he lost himself in Fable on his Xbox.  

Michael still felt the sting of the bar betrayal from time to time, as he thought he had finally found a true friend in Oliver (or at least, the potential for him to become one).  The new, lone path taken had helped him realize that he was not the problem.  Oliver was just an asshole, like the majority of those who went to Oxford.  

Sometimes Michael wondered why people didn’t like him.  Must be how smart he was.   There was nothing weird about being good at math.  What was so awful about being good at math, anyway?  He guessed that most peoples’ biggest issue with his smarts was that it reminded them they were stupid. Oh well!  Plenty of time for activities by himself now.

One of those activities was fast became his favorite, after only his fourth visit.  Visiting a little coffee shop he had discovered near the river, he was able to “mingle” among people without having to talk to anyone. No one would bother him here and he would still get his dose of human contact which, after all, was vital to the psychological constitution of a person.  As rigid as he intended on being with his new No Socializing At Oxford vows, Michael did not intend on becoming a psychopath.  Besides, the baristas never got his order wrong. They never talked to him beyond the perfunctory taking of his order but after the third time, when he walked in, instead of asking what he would like the person at the register had asked “The usual?” and Michael would just say yes, thank you, and then pay.

Michael packed up his laptop, shoving it and the charger into his reusable Tescoe bag along with his notebooks. He stood and adjusted his sweater, checked all his pant pockets were buttoned up and zipped closed.  He kept his visits only to every other day so as to not have the monotony grate on his nerves. The coffee shop made fresh bagels every day, however, and he had been looking forward to enjoying one all morning (his favorite was blueberry).  He liked to eat his a certain way, scooping out the insides of each slice before finally eating the hollowed out crusts.  Someone at school would surely have an opinion about his bagel-eating method (not that he cared) but at the coffee shop, Michael was left in peace.

 Walking briskly through the library doors and outside in the crisp spring air, he didn’t even look in direction of Oliver walking up the steps into the library with Felix.  They were laughing about something but Michael didn’t even breathe in their direction.

—---------

The delicious smell of bread baking hit him in a wave as he stepped into the coffee shop.  It looked like a rush had just hit, the baristas busy cleaning and restocking various items.  

“Hi! I’ll take your order right over here.” came the chipper voice.  Michael turned.

Oh god, a new hire. An American one (he was pretty sure the accent he heard was American) Maybe he wasn’t entitled to feel irritated about changes in the store, it's not like he owned the damn thing, but Michael felt irritated just the same.  This was HIS spot and someone new had just invaded it.

The new girl had long hair parted in the middle, tied back in a bun.  The hair was turquoise. A very bright turquoise, almost neon, he would say.  It pissed him off even more. Dyed hair was so fucking tacky.

He trudged to the register, hating every second of anticipating having to deal with someone new, someone chatty, even for something as impersonal as coffee.  

The girl was almost as tall as he was, eye-level to him, smiling the fakest fucking smile he had ever seen.  I mean, it had to be fake.  Who looked this happy to be taking a stranger’s order? He didn’t even bother attempting to smile back.  Whatever.  Get my coffee, bitch Michael though.

“I’ll have a large vanilla coffee, sugar free, with a blueberry bagel.” 

“Ah, so just cutting back on the sugar but can’t quite quit it altogether, eh?” the girl said with a wink and another smile, totally unperturbed by his attitude.

Michael pursed his lips and said nothing.  The girl, still unbothered, looked down and clacked away on the touch screen.  He quickly looked over her in the few seconds she imputed his order.  

She had long, acrylic nails, painted a pastel kind of purple.  Her name tag said Cat, which he guessed was short for Catherine.  Maybe.  Also her boobs were big.  Not normal big, but stripper big.  Not that he would know, but still.  Too big for the word “boobs”, for sure.  Tits seemed like a more appropriate word.  If he had ever been to a strip club he was pretty damn sure stripper tits would look exactly like hers.  And she had tattoos covering the entirety of her left arm.  Classy, he thought condescendingly. No wonder she was working here instead of somewhere like a bank.

Michael wondered if she had tattoos on her chest as well…he was so sure he could avert his gaze before she noticed but suddenly her fingers snapped and her head lowered into his line of vision, a smug look on her face.  Small wisps of hair hung in front of her ears, he noticed.

“You lose something. buddy?” she asked.  

“I didn’t mean-I was just looking at your name tag.” he sputtered, fidgeting with a cuff of his sweater.  

“Look, it's fine. They’re tits.” 

Michael flinched slightly at her casual use of the word.  It was one thing to talk like that with other guys, but girls? What was she trying to prove?  Tits tits tits. He made a point to stare straight into her eyes and not look away while she continued to speak. “Its not a big deal, I promise,” she said, finishing up his order on the register and offering her hand to take payment. 

Choosing not to respond, Michael set his Tesco bag on the counter so he could unzip one of his pockets to get at his credit card.  The pocket it was in was hard to open and the zipper always caught, so two hands were needed.  

“You can look, you know,  just don’t be creepy about it.” she continued, as he struggled slightly with the pocket.  

Michael did not look at her as he handed over the card. 

Being branded a “creep” was the last thing Michael needed.  He was already the Lonely Nerd at university, he really did not want to become the Creepy Lonely Nerd (that ogles stranger’s tits).  Not that he would give a shit what people thought, but one less socially crippling label was better than one more.

“I mean, it’s not like I can leave them at home, right?  I don’t mind a little look here and there!” she said with a laugh, handing back his card. Unbelievable.  She was still talking about her tits! 

“Can I get that to go?” Michael answered more than asked.  

“Sure thing. Uh, what’s your name?”

“I’m Michael.” He was not staying here. He was not going to stay and become the Creepy Tit Guy.  Given her outgoing nature, Cat would probably have something to say about the way he ate his bagel, too, he was sure of it.  He would become Creepy Tit And Weirdo Bagel Eating Method Guy if he stayed. Maybe dealing with this at university would have been easier but this was supposed to be his relaxation spot. The coffee shop was ruined for him now, he would never come back.  Ever.  Fuck this place and fuck her.

“Alrighty, dude. Be right back!” 

“My name is not…dude..” Michael stepped away from the register, his voice fading away to nothing as Cat got his order ready, unable to hear him.  There was no one else coming in right now, it seemed he came during a lull. The other employees were still cleaning and restocking. 

“Here you go!” Cat said with a smile, handing him his bagel in a paper wrap and his coffee. 

Still not looking at her, he took his bagel and his coffee and got the fuck out of there, practically powerwalking away. 

 It was only until he made it to a nearby park bench that he finally saw what Cat had written on the other side of his bagel wrapper.  A whole paragraph, practically.  Michael, sorry for making you feel uncomfortable. I was just trying to be funny, I swear.  Enjoy your coffee.  Hope you come back! 

Michael felt relief for a moment, before loudly groaning and spilling some of his coffee as he made to slap his forehead with that same hand.  He had left his fucking Tescoe bag at the coffee shop.  His bag that had his computer, his notebooks, his finished papers for a couple of classes. 

He had to go back.  Fuck.

“Yeah, sorry, but she said she knew you.”

Michael swore. The cashier informed him that Cat had just left, her shift was over.  She had taken the bag with her to the Oxford library.  Apparently, she was a student there?  Who fucking knew!?

“You need me to call the police?”

“No, that’s all right, I do know her.”  Michael lied.  “I told her earlier I’d be headed to the library later.  She probably figures she can catch me there.”  Without a single, civil ‘thank you’, Michael practically fled the shop.

He didn’t care how dumb it looked that he was frantically looking everywhere in the library for the familiar, turquoise hair.  People always looked at him funny.  It’s not like he could go to each of them individually and ask them hey could you please stop snidely whispering every time you look in my direction? Old Michael would go back to his dorm, have a cry, wonder why no one liked him and then quickly finish his homework in his dungeon of a bedroom before crying some more and then going to sleep.

New Michael didn’t give a shit.  New Michael was focused 100 percent on his academics and self-care, and right now his academics were in jeopardy because that Tesco bag held papers he had yet to type (Michael liked to hand write his work first, he felt it was more thorough). Also, maybe New Michael should better remember to not forget his shit at random shops.  Old Michael wouldn’t have forgotten. Whatever. 

After scanning the entire first floor of the library, he stomped to the second floor.  If she was a student here, how had he never seen her?  The hair would have been hard to miss.  Of course, it's not like he made it a habit to people watch anymore, especially in the library. 

Suddenly, he saw her.  Way in the corner, at a table right under a huge window, he saw her returning with her nose in a book from the shelves.  On the table, his bag.  

“Give it here.” Michael said, approaching the table.  Cat looked up from her book.

God, she was pretty.  He felt like a troll next to her.  It was so fucking unfair. More importantly though…why was he telling her to hand the bag back?  It was HIS.  He should just take it and go, without a word.  She had basically stolen it.  The girl was a thief and took it to give him a hard time because she was a bitch, like every other pretty girl he had ever interacted with and been cut down by. Maybe he could like her if he gave it a try…but the days of trying to get people to think he was cool or amazing were over.  She was a bitch and he knew it.

Mmm not what the note on your bagel showed, an annoying voice in his head began. That note could only have been written if she liked you because who would write that for a random customer?  You should talk to her an-  

Oh, fucking christ.  Old Michael.  Desperate-to-be-liked-by-someone-ANYONE Michael.  Shut the fuck up, Old Michael. You are dead.

“Yeah, no problem, I mean it is your bag!” Cat said cheerfully, closing her book and holding the bag out to him. “Sorry you had to run all this way to get it, Michael.”

“Um, it’s ok.  I run fast.” Michael said, immediately regretting it. God, that sounded so fucking stupid. He reached out for his bag.

Oh, so we’re no longer on that socializing ban, huh, Mr. Comedian?  I mean, what was THAT?!  Old Michael thought slyly. Shut up shut up shut up shut up!!!!! And, look!  She remembers your name! SHUT UP.

“-couldn’t just leave it there, you know?” Cat had finished saying.

Michael froze. “Huh?” 

What had she been talking about?  Shit. “Uh, why not?” Please let that be the right response.  Please let that be relevant to what she was fucking saying, Michael thought desperately. 

Cat rolled her eyes, but still sounded…not like a bitch?  “The laptop would definitely have been long gone if I hadn’t taken the bag.  I couldn’t just leave it there.”

Oh.  That was it.  That had been all she had said. Michael nodded and mumbled his thanks, ready to go…except Cat still held onto the bag. And stopped him with her next words.

“You play Fable a lot?”she asked.

It’s a trap.  She is going to make fun of you, he thought to himself.  Just get your shit and go. His hand was also still on HIS bag.  That she was not letting go of, for some reason.

“Yeah, I like it a lot.” 

Oh, how riveting.  That will make her swoon! Old Michael chimed in. 

“Really?” Cat responded.  Her tone wasn’t mocking.  It was…interested?  “I like it too but it feels unfinished, somehow.  I wish they would release Fallout 3 for these new consoles already, I bet it would be 1000 times better than this crap that Lionhead put out.”

Michael nodded.  She liked Fallout? She was impatient for the release?? Ask her to go with you to the midnight release next year!!! Ask her ask her ask her ask- No.  Shut up.  Be normal, for once in your life, be normal and chill about something. 

“-able doesn’t feel like it’s TRULY a good rpg, where you can do whatever you want, you know?  You can only go in one direction and can’t put off the main quest at all.”

She was still talking about Fable.  She was still talking about video games, something they both liked, something they had in common.

This is your chance, you know. Old Michael piped in.  Did any of those other people ever show even the slightest interest in the stuff you were into?  Ever? Ask her out!

“Ok,” Michael began. “I see your point, but the mechanics of the game aren’t the star so much as the incredible story and character designs-” 

While he continued to go on a tangent of Fable’s good qualities to Cat, trying his best not to sound too rant-y, Michael frantically gave the idea of asking her out some thought…

What if she said no? Hm what if she says yes? 

It’s stupid. The release for Fallout 3 is next year.  No, not even.  It’s October of that year, so…over a year away!  Almost two fucking years! What kind of weirdo would ask someone on a date almost two years from now?! Plus, she isn’t even into me.  She just likes video games, like any other person.  

Why is she still holding onto your bag, then? Old Michael thought smugly.  Why did she write that little note on your bagel? Why did she remember your name? Why-

All right, all right.  

“Right, so…want to come? To the midnight release for it?  For Fallout 3?” Michael asked, throwing all caution to the wind and swallowing his preemptive rejection rage that already was bubbling up.

“For Fallout?” Cat said, still holding onto the bag. “Which store you going to?” 

“Target.” Please say yes.  I don’t even know you and I know it’s weird to ask you somewhere practically two years from now but PLEASE SAy YES, Michael thought.

“Mm, nah.” Cat, said, letting go of the bag to dig in her bookbag.

Shit. 

Michael’s chest began to hurt, the hand holding his bag falling limply to his side.  He could feel his eyes begin to water.  She was just like the rest of them. Pathetic.  So pathe-

“You should come with me to Game on Queen Street, they always price cut!” Cat said, whipping out her blackberry. “Whatever price we show them for the game, they’ll shave 5 off it!  I mean, it’s not much but I’ll take what I can get! Here, put your number in.”

On sheer autopilot, Michael put his number in.  He felt ashamed the entire time, having choked back a scathing insult at the last minute before Cat had shoved her phone at him.

“Are you ok?” Cat took her phone back, eyeing him with a concerned look.

“I’m fine! It’s just-probably something I caught the other day, I can already feel the sniffles coming on and whatnot.  It’s nothing!” Michael babbled.

It cannot be this easy, Michael thought.  It’s been this easy the entire time?  Hanging out with a girl?  Talking to her?  Making plans?  Why did Oliver never like him when they had so much in common?

Holy shit, forget about fucking Oliver! You have a date with your future wife! Old Michael practically screeched. Jesus fucking Christ, you are desperate. Shut the fuck up!! Be Normal!

“You wanna go back to the shop and get another bagel?” Cat asked, putting her books away and sliding on her bookbag. “ We could use my discount, that way-”

“Yeah, let's go.” Michael cut in.  Grabbing her wrist and not waiting for her answer, he turned and began to swiftly move through the library.  He tried not to get excited as Cat uttered a quick ‘cool’ and kept pace with him.  

He also tried not to think about how awkwardly he was holding her hand. Everyone in the library was staring, he saw it in his peripheral.   It had looked so cool in his brain but now everyone could see how his stupid hand around her wrist slightly resembled him holding his limp-no no no no noooo shut up shut up SHUT UP. 

“Blueberry runs out quick.” Michael said, as they both briskly walked.   “I went one time at around this hour instead of my usual time and I had to settle for onion, which is gross as shit.” You’re rambling, Old Michael chided.  She fucking works there, she doesn’t need a play-by-play of bagel supply issues. Let her say something, idiot!  The reason he never noticed her before, it turned out, was that she hadn’t dyed her hair yet.  Cat also began to tell him about her history degree.  Something about the American Gilded age and how she was deep into research of the British Astors or something.  Michael surprisingly found himself not bored.  Were her eyes fucking green?  Oh, fuck, they were green!

They finally saw the shop in the distance.  Right after his anti-onion bagel tirade and her talk of her studies, he set straight into a long-winded verbal onslaught on the statistics of how rare green eyes were.  Micheal thought his heart would fall out of his asshole when Cat adjusted their hands so her fingers were laced with his.  About halfway through the distance, he had cut in when she mentioned her favorite bagel flavor (pineapple) and talked her ear off the rest of the way about his bagel eating method, insisting on its practicality but really prepping her so that she wouldn’t be horrified when she saw him do it and ditch him like fucking Oliver.  She laughed. 

“That’s so L.A. of you.  New York would hate your fucking guts, though.” she said, with a grin.   “Good thing I’m a California girl!  I’d rather deal with horrible traffic and scooped bagels than having to fight rats for sidewalk space.”

Right before they got to the doors, Michael went for it.  “I’m telling people that you’re my girlfriend.”, he said seriously.  She hadn’t run off when he had taken her hand (wrist).  She had noticed the Fable stickers on his computer.  She had remembered his name after one interaction. The American thing was a slight issue but hey, no one was perfect! 

“Cool, because I already told the staff that you were my boyfriend when I took your bag!” Cat responded. “I told them you like to pretend you don’t know me when you get mad and I just play along to pacify you.  It was the only way they were comfortable letting me take your bag!”

Be cool!  Do not fucking freak out! Act fucking normal! Do NOT scare her away! Say something a fucking weirdo would never in a million years say! Old Michael reminded him.

“Let’s go back to my place after and study some calculus.  Your grades in that sound horrendous.” Fucccccck.  You just got yourself a girlfriend and this is the shit you respond with?! Old Michael panicked. 

Cat smirked. “Only if you promise to fuck me into your mattress after.”

Michael stared at her, almost daring her to say she was kidding.  When she didn’t and her gaze briefly dropped to his lips, he abandoned any doubts he had and turned to walk away from the shop, practically dragging Cat with him.  

Cat giggled and adjusted herself to clutch at his arm with both hands, her legs and his in perfect sync as they made their way to Michael’s room.

—------------

“What the fuck?” Felix said to Oliver, pointing. Both were sitting on a bench, relaxing a bit before their next class.

 “Didn’t he go fucking mental at you the first day? Not to be a dick or anything but is she safe with that guy?”  

Oliver followed Felix’s finger and froze.  

He gaped at what he saw:

Michael fucking Gavey, math genius slash freak of nature, walking happily with the pretty American girl who had said no to their bar hopping invite just last week.  It was definitely surprising, but Oliver was now more determined than ever.  If a fucking social reject like Gavey could get what he was after, then someone like himself was sure to have the same luck if he continued to put in the effort.

THE END

[kaidanalenkosprmanager]

THE BEST OF SHENKO 1/?

The end of the world has a way of reminding you of all the things you forgot to say do. Mass Effect: Legendary Edition (2021)

[vibingforjudaism]

I need a therapist who I can argue with and who will give me jewish advice ....a rabbi. I need a rabbi

[astralleywright]

It is so fun watching Orym awkwardly go through the song and dance of formal military presentation - the speeches in front of cheering crowds, the rewarding of titles and honors far too overwrought for the bloody work they represent (Orym could kill someone in half the time it would take him to say, I am Orym, Savior Blade of the Tempest) - because it's possible there's nothing this guy gives less of a shit about than his own accolades or legacy. Orym just wants to be good, even as he becomes less and less certain what that means, even as he thinks that it would be so much easier to give up on that. He wants to feel like he's done something right, for maybe the first time since Will and Derrig died.

And so he fumbles through the rituals, and holds up his shield for the people of Zephrah to bear witness to, and extracts what really matters from Keyleth (who understands the frivolity of this all better than anybody) referring to him as a Savior Blade of the Tempest; not a fancy name for people to call him, but affirmation that he can save people, someone, anyone, at least this time. At least with the Hells at his side.

[eywaseclipse]

If I can give anyone one piece of advice for the week it’s this: I know you want to, but do not, I repeat DO NOT tell your best friend about someone you’re talking to/ courting before it actually comes into fruition. Just wait. Just hold off on it until you have something to show for it.

I know that’s harsh, but it really is just bad luck. lol. Maybe I’m old and jaded, but yeah it never goes well. I know you want to talk and ask your bestie for advice but it’s really none of their business and it does jinx it a little bit (in my opinion) move in silence and when and if it works out then you have some fun news to share with them. Okay happy Wednesday everyone lol