#i overspent my spoons!

[cutiepieautistic]

I'm in autistic burn out mode again right now :/

So,expect slower posting,it's going to take much longer for me to create original posts than before!

[ghostzzy]

did too much yesterday.

[leitmotif]

eepy goodnight girlmutuals mwah

[not-that-dillinger]

Ed continued to stare at the ceiling for a minute longer, until he thought he could make it up the stairs and back to his car without toppling over again.

He'd overspent his spoons for the day and he was going to regret everything tomorrow.

Ed turned to Komet slowly. "We're in the basement under the arcade," he explained. He tilted his head in question. Ed had been 11, when Sam Flynn disappeared, and he barely remembered much of his childhood. Sam had been younger. "Does it seem familiar to you?" he asked softly and quietly, out of curiosity.

"Do you mean like a headache?" he asked. "I've got ibuprofen--" he frowned, remembering put his leather briefcase in the car and then walked to the arcade.

"I have some headache medicine in my car, but it's at the tower because I walked here. It's about thirty minutes from here. But. It's late. I'm thinking after that, you come home with me, we have food, get some sleep, and figure everything else out in the morning when we both are more awake. What do you think?"

What possessed Ed to pick the lock on the arcade, to shoot himself with a high powered laser, he wasn't really sure. He wasn't even sure what drew him to the arcade in the first place. Perhaps it was that the board meeting was particularly rough, and the temptation to snap at his boss was near overwhelming that made him a bit more reckless and in need of a walk. Perhaps it was the old file he'd found buried deep in the server that contained rambling notes from a long lost CEO that fit into place with the angry rants his father used to have while he was growing up.

Perhaps it was the intrigue of a twenty-year-old mystery that Ed may have just stumbled on the key to solving.

Everything after that had been a whirlwind. He found the secret basement lab with the laser, and then the Grid. He solved the mystery. Flynn--Kevin Flynn was dead. And what became of Kevin Flynn's son--

The sense of vertigo that accompanied the flash of light as the Grid faded out of existence around Ed was all too familiar, though he wasn't sure if it was a side effect of being re-materialized in the... (not the real world, the Grid had been just as real, but...) on the the user side of the screen, or it it was his body choosing to give out on him after the mad rush to survive and then escape, Ed didn't know, but it was years of practice and stubborn determination not to collapse in Encom's labyrinthine halls that kept him on his feet when he found himself back in old Flynn's dusty lab.

His companion was not so lucky.

"Whoa, easy there," he murmured, keeping his voice as quiet as possible. Even for Ed, after spending only a relatively short period of time on the Grid, this side felt loud, and bright, and disorienting. He could only imagine the feeling was amplified a thousand times for Komet, who hadn't been on this side in a very long time. He stepped toward Komet to catch him, and guided him toward the dusty couch.

"Let's take a minute, catch your breath, re-orient yourself," he said, settling on the other end of the couch and staring at the ceiling until it stopped spinning. "When you're ready, if you're up for it, we can try to figure out the what-next, alright?"

[chnt]

kind of a chronic illness moment but i think i’m just going to like. go to bed i’m so tired and i already brushed my teeth

[twofoursixohjuan]

Edvin Week 1: Unexpected

or, birthday fluff for my sane boy

Edvin lay on his stomach, drawing patterns into the sand which had built up in the Heron's crevices. Jesper was on cleaning duty that week and it showed.

He'd been born at eleven in the morning, and seventeen for eight hours now.

This was the first birthday Edvin had had away from his family. With the chase after Zavac and the excitement of their triumphant return to Hallasholm, he'd almost forgotten it was coming, and by the time he remembered Hal had already organised a two-day trip down the coast to test some new rigging.

Edvin was fine. No problem. He was almost an adult, now, and he could handle himself. But his younger sisters had planned to bake him a cake, and couldn't understand when their father told them they'd have to wait, and something about that was sticking with them.

He knew some of his friends — his brothers — had problems and rocky relationships with their families. But Edvin missed his, dammit, missed his mother and father and grandfather and four sisters, and this short trip was taking a lot more out of him than it had any right to.

No-one had remembered his birthday, was all it came down to. No-one. Edvin didn't have the long friendship of Stig and Hal, or the strangely-forged bond of Stefan and Jesper, but he'd thought somebody would at least remember. The twins' birthday a few months earlier had been a rowdy, chaotic affair, even in the midst of the Raven hunt, but today everyone just seemed to have...vanished.

Someone called his name.

Edvin rose from the deck and hurried towards the voice. It was probably Lydia returning from her hunt, asking for help dressing whatever she'd caught. He hoped it was rabbits. He couldn't find anyone at first, but as he pushed off the beach and into the edge of the brush there were the rest of the Herons, clustered around a small cookfire and wearing nine identical grins.

There were no rabbits.

But there was Stig's fish stew bubbling in a pot, and a plate of Ingvar's slightly misshapen smallcakes, and as he rounded the bush the grins dissolved into laughter and cries of "Happy birthday, Edvin!"

Oh.

Lydia caught his wrist and tugged him down beside the fire. Hal pushed a bowl of stew into his hands and Stefan deposited a garland of leaves and flowers on his head, and Edvin laughed in sheer unexpected delight. This was better than rabbits.

The stew was good, the cakes were delicious, and time flew past. The twins began a good-natured argument over who appreciated Edvin most, and the rest of the Herons chimed in with more and more ridiculously hyperbolic descriptions of Edvin's importance. By the time Stefan shot to his feet and declaimed with an impressively straight face, "He is the sea on which the Heron runs — far too salty, but essential," Edvin had to bury his bright red face in both hands.

Stig tugged Stefan back to the ground. "Okay, that one wins. Presents!"

"Presents?" Edvin blinked. He certainly hadn't been expecting that, but his crewmates were already retrieving neatly-wrapped packages from a pile hidden behind Ingvar's bulk. "You didn't — oh, what the hell." He grinned. "Presents."

The presents, for the most part, were small and thoughtful. Two carefully carved wooden spoons from Ingvar, several balls of hand-dyed yarn from Stig, a new whetstone from Thorn. Ulf presented him with a wax-paper packet of sticky sweets, Wulf with a simple charm necklace to replace one he had lost overboard off Raguza. There was a complicated layered flask from Hal — "It'll keep your tea warm. I think. I only finished it last night." — and a package of dried leaves and herbs for teas from Stefan. Jesper handed over a signed note promising to do Edvin's washing-up for a month, and made elaborate wounded expressions when he looked skeptical. Lydia's gift was a pouch of dried, handmade jerky — just from the smell Edvin could tell it was ridiculously overspiced, but that had never stopped him before.

As the presents piled, all he could manage was "thank you", eyes wide with delight and disbelief. "To be honest, I thought you'd forgotten," he admitted when the last package had been opened.

Hal smiled. "In all fairness, you never once mentioned it. Jesper had to sneak into Sigurd's office and get the date off the brotherband lists."

Shit. Had he never? Edvin had always been a private person, but damn, did he feel daft now. "That's...endearing, and also a little creepy."

"Well, it's Jesper." Hal stood, stretching. "Probably time to get back to the ship. I want to try some night sailing on the new rig."

Edvin began gathering the bowls, but was stopped by a waving finger under his nose as Stig snatched the crockery from his hands and dumped it with great ceremony in Jesper's lap.

"Come on," he said. "Birthday boy gets to steer."

@brotherbandarchive

[rosethornewrites]

Had a busy day recently where I got a lot done but overspent my spoons because I had more than usual and didn’t know my limit. Expressed frustration that I can’t function as I once did.

I recounted this on my FB, and one writer “friend” who hasn’t interacted with me for years decided to tell me they do all that daily and I should stop “complaining” about my “privilege.”

What a thing to say during Disability Pride Month.

I informed them that having a disabling autoimmune disease that makes it difficult to function isn’t a “privilege.” I thought about reaching out to them, but their tone was hostile so I just unfriended them. I don’t have energy to spend on someone who decides that’s the way to speak to me for the first time in years.

Even if they “didn’t know” I’ve been struggling to adapt for the last 4 years, there are appropriate ways to check in. This was not one of them.

[spectral-musette]

The Worthy Partner

Set in an AU in which Duchess Satine Kryze asks Obi-Wan Kenobi to stay on Mandalore with her (before TPM). The couple attends an official function on Satine’s homeworld a few months after their marriage.

~ 3000 words

I used a little Mando’a (based on the dictionary at Mandoa.org), but the meanings of the words and phrases hopefully should be clear from the context. A couple of endnotes are included as intended translation notes in case I messed up, though.

Cross-posted on AO3

(Written when I got carried away working on a sketch of the scenario.)

*     *     *     *     *

           “How are you enjoying the meal?”

           Satine glared down her officious host, the Minister of Arts and Culture of Kalevala, but Obi-Wan merely nodded. “Your spices are extremely flavorful,” he complimented.

           “Be sure to try the tiingilar with the sauce.”

           He obligingly took a spoonful from the serving dish onto his plate. Satine tried to cast a warning glance in his direction and refilled his goblet with the cold ulik milk from the pitcher.

           She watched his face turn crimson as he tried a bite, but he smiled pleasantly. “Thank you for pointing it out.”

           He did, however, empty his goblet quickly.

           “Are you all right?” she whispered, leaning close as the Minister moved to the next table of dignitaries. “That stuff will peel the paint off a starship hull.”

           “No harm done. Hazing the Offworlder is to be expected, isn’t it?”

           She let out a hiss of disapproval. “They’re deliberately trying to humiliate you.”

           “Let them. I’ve had far less palatable meals than overspiced Mandalorian cuisine.” He dipped his bread into the offending sauce and smiled his most charming smile at their host, who was glancing over his shoulder surreptitiously to observe Obi-Wan’s response to the spicy delicacy.

           “I know. I’ve eaten Qui-Gon’s cooking too.”

           A wistful shadow passed over Obi-Wan’s handsome countenance, and they gripped each other’s hands under the table.

           “I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I miss him too. He promised to visit soon.”

           “No doubt the Council is keeping him busy.”

           Though she hadn’t managed to get him to talk about it, she suspected that there were moments when Obi-Wan felt miserably homesick, not just for his former Master, but all his friends and mentors and for the community of the Jedi Temple. This was not the time to try to discuss it, though. “Just don’t let the Minister goad you into gulping the tihaar,” she warned, changing the subject and trying to distract him from falling into introspective melancholy.

           “Don’t think I can stomach it?”

           “No, I just hate the stuff, and I don’t want to taste it on you later.”

           “Fair enough,” he replied, laughing softly and squeezing her hand before releasing it.

           Perhaps not that much later, depending on how long etiquette demanded they remain at the Minister’s gala. She and Obi-Wan had been husband and wife for a few months now, and the touch of his hand and light of a smile in his eyes still made her heart quicken – as she happily suspected they always would.

           The Minister stood from his table, raising his arms to announce his intention to address the guests. The room quieted as everyone put down their flatware to listen attentively.

           “Before dessert is served, I wonder if the Duchess would be so kind as to grace our company with the performance of a traditional dance.”

           The orchestra struck up the opening measures of a familiar tune, and Satine’s heart sank.

           Ruusaanyc Riduur, the Worthy Partner.

           She hated this dance. She remembered learning it as a girl, practicing with her sister until they knew the complex steps by heart. But the childhood memories were overshadowed by the few times she had been asked to dance it publicly with a would-be suitor, under her father’s watchful gaze. The young warriors who’d courted her in those not-so-distant days had been ambitious, vicious men, interested only in clan alliances and winning her father’s favor. And after her father’s death…

           For a moment, the orchestra seemed to thin to a badly tuned mandoviol drunkenly meandering through the notes, the elegant hall to dim to the ramshackle camp where she’d once been held prisoner by a warlord with aspirations bigger than his arsenal, a boy no older than herself, stinking of tihaar as he held her by the chin.

           You might be dar’manda, but you’re almost pretty enough for it not to matter. Bet your clan would be grateful if I’d lower myself to marry you.

           Satine tried to banish the unpleasant memory as well as the sickening one of the Protectors’ retaliation when they had rescued her shortly thereafter. She took a deep breath, rallying her wits to counter the Minister’s latest onslaught of social warfare.

           “Perhaps,” he pressed, taking advantage of her brief silence, “if your consort is not familiar with the steps, I might find you another partner.”

           Before she could voice her outrage at the suggestion that a married woman perform this particular dance at an official function with anyone but her own spouse, Obi-Wan stood, grasping her hand and leading her from the table to the open floor at the center of the hall.

           For a moment she thought he was leading her out, refusing to put up with further insult – the implication was plain, that if her consort did not participate in the traditional dance, he was not a worthy partner – but he stopped in front of the Minister’s table.

           “Don’t try to bluff your way through this,” she warned quietly, a heavy knot of dread in her stomach. Performing it badly might be worse than refusing to participate.

           “I won’t,” he promised, the hint of a dimple creasing his cheek. “Trust me.”

           Of course, she always did.

           And he might’ve been a little stiff and nervous, held her hands a little too tightly, but he trod the steps precisely, even catching the subtle shift in the way they clasped their hands to indicate that the dancers were vowed to each other rather than merely courting.

           “How…” she breathed in wonderment when he briefly grasped her close.

           “In the usual way. Took lessons.” He broke his concentration a moment to favor her with a smile, and she cursed his dimples for almost making her trip. “I’d hoped to surprise you under rather better circumstances.”

           “I didn’t know you could dance at all,” she confessed.

           “How do you suppose they start teaching us saber forms in the Temple? Let a bunch of toddlers loose with laser swords?”

           “When you put it like that…”

           More couples began to fill the floor, and Obi-Wan relaxed a little as they were no longer the center of attention.

           Satine took a moment to admire him, graceful and lithe as he gained confidence in the movements of the dance. Most days he wore his simplified version of the Royal Guard’s uniform, but she’d managed to coax him into a few bits of finery for the occasion – please don’t make it easier for them to pretend to mistake you for my bodyguard this time. He looked very dashing in a tunic of fine-spun silk instead of his preferred coarse linen, with a smart half cape over one shoulder, a pair of bright silver vambraces, and a wide belt of intricately tooled leather.

           She was also feeling rather grateful for his cool temper under the current trying circumstances. Her Mandalorian disposition was apt to spit fire when delivered insults and slights. He tolerated them with such grace that it left her enemies baffled most of the time. He had a way of making them aware that he was on to their game and refusing to engage in it. She knew some of them were foolish enough to doubt his courage, but the wiser ones never did; if a Mandalorian worth his beskar knew anything at all, it was how to size up a fellow warrior.

           And that was the final irony of her choice of a husband: she’s sworn she’d never marry a warrior, and yet here he was. He might not wear the beskar’gam, he certainly didn’t share certain hard-headed Mando perspectives, and she knew that he abhorred violence in his heart, but he still dealt it out with skill and cunning when he had no other choice. Her eyes went to the lightsaber at his belt, and she thought of the would-be assassin he’d apprehended mere weeks ago, now in custody on Coruscant waiting for his trial. Someday, she hoped, that last resort would stop being necessary quite so often.

           The music slowed to a halt, and Obi-Wan brought her hand to his lips, bestowing a light, courtly kiss on her knuckles as he met her gaze. He could be difficult to read sometimes, so she always felt a swell of affection when he let her see his heart in his eyes: his eagerness to please and impress her, his unabashed devotion, and the ember-glow of his desire, no doubt brightly mirrored in her own eyes. They would both be very glad indeed to leave the party.

           “I’m sorry your plan was spoiled,” she said, smiling at the charming thought of him plotting a romantic setting for her, with music and dancing.

           “You were surprised,” he conceded, grinning.

           “Very pleasantly. I admit it’s not a favorite of mine, so perhaps it’s better this way,” she said, lacing their fingers together as they headed back to their table. The crowd on the dance floor was moving slowly, a particularly large man Satine recognized as one of the Minister’s aides blocking their path. He glanced over his shoulder at them, and turned to give her a polite nod.

           “Dal’alor.[i]”

           Apparently someone had been serving the tihaar already, judging from the fumes on his breath and his odd choice of the rather archaic Mando’a translation of her title. She decided not to take issue with the way his slurred speech had shifted dal towards dar –“former” – changing the honorific into a rather ominious threat of deposition. However, it did put her on edge.

           “Gar veriduur redalur jate,[ii]” he continued.

           Satine froze.

           It wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard be’jetii veriduur – Jedi’s whore – flung at her before, but she hadn’t been expecting such crass invective in this ostensibly civilized setting, least of all under the guise of a compliment.

           “Perhaps your Mando’a is rusty,” he said, feigning surprise at her outraged expression. “I said your young husband dances well.”

           Another subtle shift in pronunciation, vaar to ver, plausible given his drunken state, but a stretch. Nor was simply “young” a very accurate translation of vaar, carrying more of an implication of wanting size and maturity, as evidenced by the way the man was looming over Obi-Wan with a rather unpleasant smile.

           “You did not,” she spat back.

           “Vaar, I may be,” Obi-Wan replied, assessing the man coolly, “but wise enough to know it’s not always a disadvantage.”

           Satine let out a slow breath. Rely on Obi-Wan to handle the situation with diplomacy.

           “Unlike inebriation, which generally is,” he added.

           Also rely on Obi-Wan to be too damn glib for his own good. She squeezed his hand and rolled her eyes.

           But then, perhaps Obi-Wan had read the situation correctly, as the jibe seemed to shift the big man’s drunken state to good humor rather than belligerence.

           “They said you were mir’sheb.” He landed a playful punch on Obi-Wan’s shoulder with one large hand. True enough, though Satine wouldn’t have put it in quite those terms – the linguistic connection between quick-wittedness and the anatomical region where the Mand’alor met the throne, as it were, had always mystified her.

           “More like mesh’sheb[iii],” someone muttered in passing. Satine spun in the direction of the voice, but the floor was clearing out, making it impossible to tell who had delivered the rather crass compliment - also not untrue, Satine had to admit, and patently obvious given the tailored fit of his trousers.

           “Did you follow all that?” she asked Obi-Wan as he pulled out her chair for her back at their table.

           “I think so. Vague threat to your sovereignty, calling me your prostitute – which is a change, I suppose we can give him points for that – backpedaling and saying he meant to call me puny, and finally that I am apparently known to be a smart-ass, to use the Basic vernacular.” He ticked off the items on his fingers.

           “Oh, did you miss that last anonymous expression of admiration?”

           “Your admiration is the only sort that interests me,” he countered, grinning.

           “Consider it bestowed.”

           “Likewise. In all things, my love,” he told her sweetly, kissing her hand again.

           “I’m looking forward to expressing it more emphatically.”

           “I’m not sure how much emphasis this particular setting can tolerate.”

           “I daresay not much. Do you suppose we can leave yet?”

           “You’d know better than I.”

           By now, the guests were milling around the dessert tables and the wait staff was distributing alcohol freely.

           “Let’s risk it,” Satine said decidedly, running her fingertips over the back of his hand. “We’ve made more daring escapes.”

           “Better wait for the Royal Guards to make it to the dessert table, at least, or I won’t hear the end of it,” he advised with an apologetic, lop-sided smile.

           “An acceptable concession.”

           Fortunately, there was not much that would keep the Royal Guards from uj cake, so the retinue was contentedly stuffed with the beloved confection and ready to leave in short order.

           While many in the government and the population at large remained dubious about her husband, it comforted Satine that Obi-Wan had at least found his footing with the group of Protectors who formed the Royal Guard. Juvenile as it seemed, after he’d shown them all up in swordplay and marksmanship, it had taken finding a martial art at which at least some of them could trounce him – Mandalorian kick-boxing – before they softened towards him. The captain had carefully reassigned anyone who was really hostile due to old prejudices, and those remaining formed a tight-knit group that treated Obi-Wan with respect and a kind of fondness. Despite leaving the Order, he was still jetii, but he was their jetii. These days, they didn’t insult him any less, but it was done in much better humor.

           “A goddamned piece of cake is not so much to ask, after all, is it?” the captain inquired, helmet not quite concealing his amused expression.

           “We waited,” Satine protested. They must have been making quite a habit of leaving events early if this was an ongoing source of ribbing.

           “Never mind the captain,” his lieutenant chimed in, holding the heavy door to the hangar. “When cake is involved, he thinks with his stomach and forgets what it means to be young and in love and think with your…”

           Obi-Wan cleared his throat loudly and cast a stern glance at the guard.

           “Your heart,” he concluded defensively.

           “No doubt with the sweet looks they’ve been casting at each other all night, uj cake seems bland by comparison,” the captain agreed.

           Satine felt her cheeks go a little hot at the guards’ teasing and glanced appreciatively at the adorable blush painted across Obi-Wan’s face as well. Even at the risk of further commentary, she couldn’t resist leaning close to press a kiss against his cheekbone, feeling the warmth of his flushed skin against her lips. The guards’ chuckles were not too high a price to pay for their security, and though Obi-Wan had certainly proven himself an able bodyguard on countless occasions, there were times that she required his undivided attention.

           One of which was fast approaching, as the guards boarded their starfighters and she and Obi-Wan made their way to their shuttle. It would be a long journey back to Sundari at sublight speed, as the two habitable sister planets in the Mandalore system were at far points in their orbits and intrasystem hyperspace jumps were needlessly risky.

           Obi-Wan headed for the shuttle cockpit, but she wrapped her arms around him from behind, tugging him back into the passengers’ quarters. He stumbled back against the bulkhead, resting his hands lightly at her elbows while she nuzzled eager kisses along his neck and jaw.

           “At least let me set the autopilot,” he pleaded with a breathless laugh.

           “That’s probably for the best,” she agreed reluctantly.

           He started to draw away, and then he caught her glance, his eyes bright and his dimpled smile affectionate. Shaking his head a little, he stepped close again to cup her cheek in his hand and kiss her, soft, lingering, and tasting sweetly of familiar spices, until her knees were weak. He broke the kiss too soon, tearing himself away to go attend to the shuttle controls, and she sank down onto the soft couch to catch her breath. The shuttle lifted from the ground, and Satine caught a glimpse of the familiar constellations of the world where she was born through the viewport. Nothing about Kalevala had felt like home for a long time, but perhaps some lingering sense of nostalgia brought the tune of the old folksong, Ruusaanyc Riduur, back into her mind. And this time, she didn’t think of being forced to dance to it with suitors she despised or enemies she feared, but choosing to dance with her own worthy partner. Their life together was like the dance, careful steps around unseen obstacles and the loving support of each other’s hands. There were words to the song, but she only recalled them in snatches – return to my arms… together, we are home. She was singing it softly, without words, by the time Obi-Wan returned to hers, and he joined her, sitting beside her on the couch and clasping their hands together in the particular attitude of the dance. She felt the vibration of his sweet, clear voice in his chest, his breath on her hair as he pulled her against him, resting his other hand at her waist.

           “I thought you didn’t like it,” he pointed out, kissing her temple as she finished the last phrase of music in a soft hum.

           “I changed my mind,” she declared, tugging him into a kiss, slow and deep, as the music replayed in her mind.

           Together, we are home.

 *     *     *     *     *

[i] I put this together from “dala”/woman and “alor”/ruler to be something like “milady”, “queen”, etc.

 [ii] I’m sure the grammar is a nightmare here, but I don’t know how to conjugate verbs in Mando’a. Literally “Your hired-spouse dance good”, but the speaker is very drunk, so…

 [iii] Won’t find this one in the Mando’a dictionary either, smooshed together from related words as “possessing a pleasing posterior” more or less.

[chronicles-of-illness]

I have overspent my spoons today I’m so tired…..

[newstfionline]

How One Book Changed My Relationship With Money

By Concepción De León, NY Times, Feb. 8, 2018

Last spring I picked up “Your Money or Your Life,” by Joe Dominguez and Vicki Robin, because I heard it had recently helped one man make a fortune. Originally published in 1992, the seminal personal finance book teaches a nine-step, systemic approach to money management that was created by Mr. Dominguez, who died in 1997. Since its publication, the book has been translated into 10 languages and sold more than one million copies, and a fourth edition will be released later this month.

“Your Money” turned out not to be a vehicle toward amassing money, as I expected. Instead, Ms. Robin encourages readers to work toward having “enough”--a quantifiable amount that would cover their needs and wants--rather than an ever-receding goal of “more.” She proposes people live more frugally, naming consumerism and its trappings as the root of many Americans’ financial challenges.

The idea seemed antithetical to the wealth I’d always aspired to. I grew up with my dad, surrounded by family, sharing two or three bedroom apartments with my cousins and aunts. Like many immigrants and low-income Americans, they worked long hours and relied on one another to get by. My dad and his sisters provided child care for each other. We ate at home every day--big pots of chicken, beans and rice that, if cooked well, left concón: crunchy, flavorful grains stuck to the bottom of the pan that we scraped off with a metal spoon. My cousins and I often clamored around the stove to get some on our plates.

I realized later that concón, or semi-burnt rice, wasn’t meant to be eaten. In the Dominican Republic, where my father grew up with his parents and seven sisters, they ate concón out of necessity, because there wasn’t always enough food to go around. But in New York, they built their new lives around the same thriftiness and communal support they’d learned back home, and they banked on their sacrifice paying off--if not in the fulfillment of their dreams, then in that of their children, who might help lift them out of poverty. I always hoped to be that person for my family.

So Ms. Robin’s suggestion that I should live a life similar to the one my family lived, stretching dollars and counting pennies, was a radical departure, and the idea captivated me. I pored through the book, extending my commute to get through more pages. I kept reading even during my walk to the office, weaving through rush-hour foot traffic with a highlighter in hand, placing Post-its on pages I wanted to come back to.

The cornerstone of the program has echoes of the common adage “Time is money.” In an early chapter, readers learn to find their “real” hourly wage by factoring the hidden time and money spent on work-related expenditures into their pay.

If you are paid $25 per hour for a 40-hour workweek, for instance, but spend 30 additional hours commuting, decompressing or nursing stress-induced headaches, and $300 goes toward your business suits, your “real” hourly wage is $10 per hour. That means a $100 splurge at Sephora costs you 600 minutes of your life. You’re forced to ask, at every turn, “Was it worth it?”

“Your Money” redefines not only your relationship to money, but also to work itself.

Ms. Robin calls our jobs, what we do to put food on the table, “paid employment,” and argues that our collective definition of work should be expanded to include “any productive or purposeful activity,” such as caring for a child or volunteering at a homeless shelter. Money and “paid employment,” then, should help us live fuller lives, but not dominate them.

For the writers, this realization manifested in a commitment to early retirement--not from work as defined by Ms. Robin, but from the nine-to-five grind. They zoned in on how much they needed, saved aggressively and invested smartly and early; now, Ms. Robin lives off the income she earns from those investments. And she is working with Millennial Money blogger Grant Sabatier (the millionaire whose story originally piqued my interest in the book) to create an online community for “Your Money” devotees. Mr. Sabatier famously increased his bank account balance from $2.26 to $1 million in five years, and he credits the book for lighting a fire under him. “After I reached financial independence, it’s literally like 90 percent of my brain opened up,” he said

In 2016, when I quit my job and moved to the Dominican Republic for a few months, using my limited savings and some freelance income to live a quality life, I felt a similar clearing of mental space. I also witnessed firsthand the sustainable way my family and others lived there. Most had fruit trees bearing coconuts, star fruit or mangoes growing on the land surrounding their houses, and my grandmother and aunts owned hogs and chickens that they’d eventually sell or eat. Family gatherings happened in my aunt’s living room, with one cousin contributing a few jumbo sized Brahma or Presidente bottles of beer and an uncle or aunt, a portion of the meal. When one of the wealthier neighbors in our countryside built a well, he installed a spout outside his home so anyone could fill their buckets with clean water. It was nothing like the drinks-after-work, brunch-every-weekend, treat-yourself life I lived in New York, and yet it was no less joyful.

I know much of what I witnessed in the Dominican Republic isn’t replicable here (it’s much harder to raise goats or pigs in my concrete yard in Queens), and that frugality as a choice is a privilege that does not solve the real issues of inequality that force many to live paycheck-to-paycheck. But Ms. Robin argues that if more people adopted the tenets of the book, there would be more resources to go around.

“Your Money” encouraged me to scrutinize my spending, and habits and patterns quickly emerged: I was impulsive and often overspent on credit. I forced myself to use only what I had in my bank account, which helped me realize that my credit spending was based in fear--I was afraid of running into the walls set by my debit card balance, so I used my credit cards even when I had money in my account. Once I started spending only what I had, my spending became less mindless. I felt more aware and in control.

“Your Money” teaches very concrete methods of keeping track of your finances--there are spreadsheets and expense tracking, simple graphs and investment recommendations--but what I took away from it was a shift in thinking, from chasing money for the sake of having it to using it in service to my goals: to help my parents, achieve financial and mental freedom and continue to write full-time. It worked for my family: My dad’s thriftiness helped him buy a home and start his own small business, and it helped my aunts purchase property back on the island for their retirement. I’d forgotten the values I learned as a child. “Your Money” reminded me.

[azhdarcho]

I need someone who will bring me a bowl of cheerios and then pick me up and put me in bed because I overspent my spoons for the day

[actuallylorelaigilmore]

althoughsolemn said: i get that sometimes, too. i think of it as feeling ‘wooly’ like i can’t quite in gear. good times for watching things and reading things, but not much else :s. but that can be good lol! i usually think of it as a warning that i’ve 'overspent’ my spoons lately and need to veg or crash bigger.

wooly is a good word for it! i often use ‘fuzzy’ for a particular brain feeling but this isn’t quite like that. i’m slowly getting used to reminding myself that i’m going to need downtime and to let myself have it...but it’s bugging me tonight bc i’ve actually done very little this week so there’s no reason for my brain to be all ‘No Thank You’ for even easy things like making gifs.

[pixelatedlenses]

Today is the start of what I think has been a build up of adjustments, largely around another bout of culture shock. It’s got me feeling exhausted and a bit raw. I think I actually got mad at a group of kids who kept stepping on my feet while playing Janken on the bus, though I took it out by playing Pokemon Sun, which I’m finally finding the spoons to do. I’ve been feeling pretty unenergetic, to be honest: the winter season is almost at its end, but not quite there, work has picked up a lot due to graduation and end of the year, and I generally am just so, so tired.

I think that there’s a lot of factors at work here: exhaustion, the end of the school year, growing more, and change. But then there’s also the fact that I just need recharge time with me, a stack of manga that I still haven’t gotten to read –Persona 4, to be specific– and Pocchi, my new Nintendo Switch console. I want to sprawl out in the soon to be cleaned Nerd Den on my new floor sofa with its YOI cushions and just enjoy streaming some Youtube while I game.

(Desperately want that. It’s the cure to a lot of me not being able to mentally do a lot. Exhaustion is a powerful thing: I think that a day of reconnecting with things I like will really help me boot back up and feel me again.)

I love my friends, I truly do. I’m so thankful for the community of good folks I’ve got up here, for those who really respect and value me, but y’all… I’m gonna do me on that 3-day week coming up the 18-20.  And I say that because

I may change my mind and say, “e ,| Hey, a trip to Sendai sounds super great!” or “Wow, let’s go explore the region!” and maybe even “Hey, a retreat to a ryokan sounds like just the thing to do!” but like… I’m about to do heavy travel in Late April and May for Golden Week, and don’t want to spend money that can be saved for later now. Plus, I just did Sendai with a lovely friend, and I’m trying to also start prepping to get a quote for a cosplay for Summer. That’s gonna easily lay me out 20,000 which is –in my mind– cheap for a commissioned costume, but still an expensive. Sendai wasn’t cheap –I overspent on YOI kuji and merch, in fact– but even if it had been, I may not want to go.

(Ryokan aren’t cheap, and neither is gallivanting around without much of a plan. I’ve got to save y’all: SK is happening because I want it, and that’s taking more priority. Now June, July and maybe August? Those are very open, you know? But I wanna do me.)

And at the end of all of that, I just need time for me. Time where I can put around my apartment and get it back in order before my friend comes up from Toyko two weeks after, time to mentally get over my exhaustion, and just get my apartment back in order. I’m still recovering from being sick at the beginning of February, and I really want a nice place again, especially since I’ll be doing an apartment tour vid soon.

Regardless, this is thankfully a calm week. I’l recover soon, plan my possible Spring costume that I’ll be making, and I’ll be back in black by Friday, I know. I’ve got a lot of good this week: just gotta take it as it comes, and know I’ll keep making it through.

[chnt]

sleeps 10 and a half hours only to come home from my 3 hour shift and then sleep more

[chaz-serir]

Taking a couple of quick colour commissions!

Heya there! So this month has been rough for a large variety of reasons and I may have overspent a little bit again. To that end, I’m taking a handful of commissions just to tide me over until my next payment comes in next week!

I’d like to keep them all to one type, so I’m gonna be drawing single-character coloured pieces with either no background or a simple colour background! Examples:

These cost about $20 USD each (or £20GBP if you’re feeling generous and wish to support me a bit more), and tips are always appreciated! Signal boosts are also appreciated, of course!

I’m opening up three slots for now, depending on how I’m doing spoon-wise I’ll see about taking on more, but yeah o/ SLOTS:

1. @uberdood15 (Paid, Done!)

2.

3.

[chnt]

promised my friend i would go to kroger with him but i am honestly so ill rn i have overspent my spoons for way too many days in a row and i feel like i’m dying