#i still have my med school apps to do over these next few months so i'll still be quite busy

[ennuijpg]

hi guys im back from my 72 hours of insane busyness <33

[peachiekoo]

One Beep || JJK

“I think it’s unfair that we can’t do anything about what our heart want.”

⇢ Pairing: Jungkook x Reader ⇢ Genre: Angst; Fluff; Romance ⇢ Warning(s): Hints of divorce, slight flashbacks to dark past moments, denialism at certain points ⇢ Word Count: 2.04K ⇢ Posted: April 10, 2020 ⇢ A/n: Hey, so I made a fic based off of a show I’ve watched recently called “Love Alarm”. It has since became one of my favorite k-dramas! I’m extremely happy that this idea suddenly came to me. (I deadass don’t think I’ve ever been this hyped to write a fic) I hope you guys enjoy and also there might grammar mistakes which I sincerely apologize for!

Everything that happened was an accident actually.

Maybe everything would’ve been fine if you only went to class at least a good two minutes later. All of it could’ve been avoided if you weren’t trying to go run an errand for a friend. But then again, who knows?

It was a Monday morning at exactly 7:50 am when you got a text from one of your closest childhood friends, Chaeyoung.

[7:50 am] Chae🍊: bubs,, where r u??

[7:50 am] You: studying in the library

[7:52 am] You: why?

[8:01 am] Chae🍊: do you think you could drop off my paper to ms.eve? i left it in your bag

[8:01 am] You: rn?

[8:03 am] Chae🍊: I mean,,, I would appreciate if you did

[8:03 am] Chae🍊: <3

You sighed and rolled your eyes. Classic Chae move, you thought to yourself. You closed the book you had checked out beforehand as you neatly placed it in your bag before you looked for her paper.

Finally, finding the paper slightly wrinkled, you made your way to the exit. You decided to take the shorter way than the usual way since you wanted to quickly get back to studying again before heading towards your next class.

While walking, you were busying yourself with your phone. Looking at a few unread messages and scrolling on twitter before you heard a group of people discussing a new app. 

It wasn’t your intention to eavesdrop but something one of them mentioned was an app that could tell if someone had a crush on anyone in a 10-meter radius.

“Unbelievable,” you scoffed quietly.

You continued walking past them as you decided to search up about it when you were recommended an app, LoveBeep. You chuckled at it. Do people really believe this? From the app details it’s popular at the moment. Are people just that gullible.

You were so engrossed by the app that you didn’t even see the tall figure in front of you. “Sorry! I-” Your sentence stops in the tip of your tongue when you realize who it is. He reaches a hand out for you without even throwing a second glance at you.

It was Jeon Jungkook. You two were never once friends but you shared a few good past memories together as your mom used to babysit him every once in awhile growing up. Now he probably wants nothing to do with you.

You felt your heart race in anxiousness. You quickly grabbed his hand and pulled yourself up before dusting yourself off and heading towards the main reason you were on the floor anyways.

You suddenly stopped though. You turned on your heels before gently tapping him on the shoulders. He looked at you with an annoyed look shadowing over his face.

“I’m sorry.” you sputtered.

All you heard was an annoyed sigh before he faced all the way towards you. He glared down at you. You felt as if you were shrinking, both mentally and physically. You watch him softly chuckling before he turned his gaze back to you.

“I don’t want your dirty ass apology, Y/n. Your mom has already enough,” He spits. “Why are you apologizing for what your mom did? Did you have any part in it? You pity me don’t you.”

You took a few steps back unconsciously before he grabbed your arm and pulled you close. He placed his mouth over your ear. “The fact that you constantly try to fix your mom’s dirty deeds is annoying. She should be able to feel the pain that she’s given others.”

Your eyes water at that for yet, he wasn’t wrong. She did bad things, but that didn’t make her a bad person. You pushed the boy off of you with resentment in your gaze.

It was silent for a moment before your voice broke it. “You know nothing. Nothing at all. You think you got it all figured out don’t you,” you hissed. “Don’t you!” you raved.

You felt the burning tears sliding down your cheeks. “I’ve tried so hard to be generous to you. Do you think I wanted things to be like this? Do you think you’re the only going through things?” you declared. “Go to hell, Jeon!” you shouted before storming off.

Finally, dropping the papers off, you continued on with the rest of your day. Doing your very best to avoid the brown-haired boy at all costs.

It was a late night, you were bundled under your covers. You looked across the room to see a Chaeyoung peacefully asleep in her own bed. You sighed as you rolled into another position so you could finally go to sleep but it seemed nearly impossible no matter how hard you tried.

You looked over at your phone and you remembered that ridiculous app from earlier. You grabbed it from the nightstand before typing the name into the app store before downloading

Once it was finished downloading, you inspect med the app. The first thing to pop up was a loading screen that displayed tips about the app. Once it finished loading you were introduced to a welcome sign before it faded out into 3 rings with a zero in the middle of them.

It seemed fake. Like an app, a seven-year-old girl would download to try to find her imaginary prince charming. Nevertheless, it still intrigued you. You stayed up the rest of the night trying to find out more about before you crashed around 4 am.

A few months later, it finally starting to begin spring. The incident with Jeon is far in the back of year head as you sit on the bench and enjoy the warm air and the few blows of cool air surrounding you as you took a considerable bite out of your apple, listening to Chaeyoung as she rants about her latest “life problems”.

You feel content for the first time in a while. You feel in your gut it won’t last for long though. You inhale a deep breath to just take the moment in. You let your eyes flutter closed for a second, reassuring Chaeyoung that you’re still listening to her.

Suddenly you hear your phone beep. You look at the notification to see from LoveBeep, saying exactly, “Someone in a 10-meter radius loves you”. You were just about to put your phone back since it wasn’t like it was the first time it had beeped before but you had felt a certain urge to look up.

You looked up to see Jungkook walking past you with a friend. You were just about to ignore the occurrence when you realize, he was, in fact, within a 10-meter radius when your phone buzzed. You felt your cheeks tingling at that.

No, it wasn’t him. It can’t be him. You convinced yourself. You’re in a school, there are tons of other students within a 10-meter radius of you. He was also walking with a friend meaning it could’ve been him.

The incident could’ve been easily ignored if for the past few passing you had with him within the last month didn’t result in your phone beeping. Every. Single. Time.

You kept trying to ascertain that it was another reason for this but what really got you was when you were in art class early, drawing a few sketches to waste time. You had felt your phone vibrate as you got other notification from LoveBeep. You had heard the door open before you turned your attention over to where the sound was made.

It had fully hit you. Jungkook is the one beeping you.

You were currently waiting by the exit of the school since Chae was taking way more longer than expected oddly since it was normally you that was always late.

The majority of the students had already left school, only a few people walking around which you assumed was for the after school clubs. You decided on going into the school to go find her when you saw the boy down the hall.

“Jungkook, we need to talk,” you said as you walked up to him. You felt your phone vibrate again in your pocket before you let out a sigh.

“What?” he asked nonchalantly. He looked up at you like you were, in fact, wasting his time.

You tilted your head at him slightly look at him straight in his eyes. You just wanted to get it over with.

How can he act so damn rude yet still have feeling for you? Seems kinda fucked up.

“Listen, I don’t wanna be here just as much as you,” you smirked at him. “I know you like me, Jeon.” All you heard in reply was bluff of air coming through his sealed lips.

He rebuked, “What in the actual fuck are you talking about? You genuinely think I out of all fucking people would like you?”

Annoyed, you pulled out your phone and went directly Into the app.

“Then what is this?”

“An app.”

“What app jackass.”

“LoveBeep obviously.”

“Okay, and what does it say.”

“I’m not reading that you can do it yourself.”

You groaned in annoyance. “Are you just that fucking difficult?” You shot the phone right in his face. “You like me.” You disputed

“You’re gonna believe an app?” he yapped through tight lips. An obvious thick tension in the air had you fidgeting with your school skirt. The reality of it hit you.

This dickhead, the one who is steadily hateful towards you. The one who you once were close with. Yet, he is someone who had a full reason to hate. Not hurting any less though.

You hated him. But you loved him. Not in the cheesy ‘I’m in love with my enemy’ type of way. But the ‘You and me against the world’ type of way. A platonic love that was now one-sided from something which you strictly blame on yourself no matter how many times you tell yourself otherwise.

Your mood suddenly turning more sour at the realization, you mutter out a barely audible “Why?” before keeping your gaze with his eyes.

“You are so sick and twisted. I know she fucked up everything but you just let it out on me and then when I feel like I did it you have then you yell at me about why am I trying to fix shit that I didn’t do. It’s because of you!” you exploded.

Not stopping there, you step to up still maintaining the connected glare as you continue on. “Then you have the fucking audacity to like me? What the fuck is wrong with you.” You wept, your emotions finally overpowering you. You were so filled with anger but it was useless because there was nothing you could do about it. “It’s so unfair you can live your life like this while I’m just here.” you ended.

“Live my life like this? My parents aren’t even in the same fucking country because of her and you think your life is tough because I developed unwanted feelings for you?” He argued.

Anger flurrying through you, your arm flung at him involuntarily, slapping him in the process. “You don’t know everything!” you screeched tear stains down your cheeks before storming off.

As you were walking off, you heard him yell out to you causing you to stop. “I think it’s unfair that we can’t do anything about what our heart wants,” You heard him let out an emotionless chuckle. “If we could do you think I would like someone as low as you?” he deadpanned before listening to his footsteps walk off.

“Fuck you, Jungkook.” you gritted out before continuing on. Deciding on going home, you decided to text Chaeyoung ahead of time.

[4:51 pm] You: im gonna walk home early

[4:51 pm] Chae🍊: ? did something happen :(

[4:55 pm] Chae🍊: y/n???

[4:56 pm] You: can we talk about it later please

[4;56 pm] Chae🍊: ofc bubs

[4;57 pm] Chae🍊: do you want me to order your favorite takeout when i get home?

[4:57 pm] You: yes pls

And that was the last time you had any interaction with Jungkook.

a/n: I hope you enjoy this series!

[boyswhofellout]

Bad Boy! Ben Hardy: A Fanfic

So after months of radio silence on the status of a Ben Hardy fanfic I promised, here it is!

Based on this beautiful piece of work by the icon @young-and-youre-crazy

Ship: Ben Hardy x Reader (Y/N)

Word Count: 6056

Warnings: SMUT, cursing probably, smoking, drinking

          Living with your parents after high school had its perks. You didn’t have to pay rent, and there was always a nice meal on the table, and all your bills were paid for. The downside, however, was that they still acted like you were their little girl. You had just turned twenty and was home from college for the weekend. You didn’t exactly want to come home, but your mom had been asking when you’d be back to visit next and had expressed how much she and your father missed you.

           “Honey?” you heard your mom call from downstairs, “Dinner is ready.” You sighed and pushed out from the desk you sat at, laptop open, and made your way downstairs. You landed on the ground floor and made your way towards the dining room, taking the seat you always sat in.

           “Why don’t you say grace, dear?” your father asked. You sighed, said the little prayer, then dug into dinner.

           “So, how is college life? Meet anyone special lately?” my mom asked. Here we go again, you thought, the questions about when you planned on finding that Mr. Right. It was an endless circle of the same stuff every time you came home.

           You swallowed your food, along with whatever venom you wanted to spit, and shook your head, “No, mom, no special guy friends for me. I’m really just focusing on my studies for now,” you told her. Any other parent would be pleased to hear it, but not your mom.

           “Well, I’m glad honey, but you know you’re only in your prime for so long and I just don’t want you to look back one day and realized you’ve missed your window to find that right guy to take care of you,” she said, the same thing she always said. You carried on the night playing out the same conversation over and over. You’d counter with the fact that you didn’t need a man, or anyone for that matter, to ‘take care of you’ and your mom would smile and patronizingly tell you that she knew, but she’d feel so much better knowing you had someone to do so anyway. As always, your father would stay quiet as a mouse, offering no help to either side of the conversation.

           By Sunday you were more than ready to leave back to campus. You were already on your way back, having left out around ten that morning with an excuse that you remembered you had homework to finish. The ride back, you chewed on your lip and thought about what your mother had said, what she always said, and even though you knew it was bullshit, it still ate away at you.

 ~~~

            Nothing said a good night like a bottle of alcohol and some friends to go out with. Sundays didn’t usually have parties since most people used Sunday to recover from drinking Friday and Saturday, but this was a special occasion; it was some frat guy’s twenty-first birthday. Your friends dragged you out to this party and, even though you protested at first, you were glad they had. It was the most fun you’d had all year, and the night was just getting started.

           You needed a breather, so you ascended the basement steps and made your way towards the living room. You found no open spots, so you decided to step outside to the front porch. The chill of the night air hit you instantly, and you thanked the many stars you had made this decision. There were only a few people on the porch, two of which left back inside together after a moment. You leaned against the concrete half-wall of the porch and caught your breath.

           “You alright?” you heard a boy to your left ask. You looked over and, at first, only saw the glow of the cherry at the end of a cigarette. As your eyes adjusted and you moved towards him a bit, you noticed more of him. He was clad in a leather jacket, his jawline as sharp as a knife and the blond curls on his head concealed his forehead, “You look a little out of breath is all.” You detected an accent, British if your muddled mind was correct.

           “Dancing will do that to ya,” you told him, “Just needed a moment to cool down is all.”

           “You smoke?” he asked, offering you his cigarette.

           You held up your hand, “Not that I don’t,” you told him, “And not things offered to me by strangers in the dark.”

           The man chuckled, “That’s pretty wise,” he said, “But I’m Ben, what’s your name?”

           “Y/N.”

           “There, now we aren’t strangers anymore,” he chuckled.

           You laughed as well, “Fair enough.” You located the phone that vibrated in your pocket and saw it was a text from your mom. You opened it to see a screenshot of some dating app advertisement and, in your intoxicated state, considered chucking your phone across the lawn in frustration. Instead, you just sighed heavily and locked the phone, sliding it back in your pocket.

           “Something troubling you, love?” Ben asked.

           You scoffed and folded your arms, leaning against the concrete wall Ben sat on, “My mother is driving me insane,” you confessed.

           “Isn’t that what moms do?” Ben countered.

           You shook your head, “No, you don’t understand. It’s like she’s stuck in the ’50s. She’s convinced I need to find a man to take care of me; like I’m some sort of child incapable of taking care of myself. If it were up to her, I’d drop out of college and focus solely on dating,” you told him. It felt good to rant, you hadn’t done so to your friends because they had heard the same thing many times before. But here, confessing to this stranger, it felt nice to really get it off your chest, “I just wish I could do something, anything, to get her off my back.”

           “So,” Ben said, “You want to piss off your parents is what you’re saying?” he asked.

           You sighed, “No…,” you said, “…Yes? I dunno, I just want my mom to treat me like I’m my own capable adult, that I’m all grown up and don’t need someone to take care of me.”

           Ben took a drag of his cigarette, “Bring me home,” he offered.

           You barked a laughed, “Come again?”

           “Take me home to meet them, tell them I’m your boyfriend. They’ll see me and wish you’d never date again,” he explained.

           “Why, 'cause you’re some perfect gentlemen or something?” you asked.

           “No, I’m the exact opposite. Or, I can be to them,” he said, “I’ve got it all, all the things no parent wants their little girl to date. Tattoos, leather jacket, cigarettes, I even ride a motorcycle. I’m the poster child for bad boys, that’ll get them off your back for a while.”

           You looked at Ben, mostly in disbelief that he was even suggesting it, but as your muddled, intoxicated mind thought more on it, the more perfect it seemed, “Let’s do it.”

 ~~~

            The next morning you woke up with a headache, your head pounding as you sat up in your own bed. You hadn’t really remembered getting home, but you did remember drinking shot after shot sometime during the night. Your roommate, the friend you’d gone out with, lay fast asleep in her own bed, but you noticed she had put a water next to you as well as the bottle of pain meds; at least, you assumed it was her because you certainly didn’t remember doing it. You took the meds, drank the whole water bottle, then turned over and fell back asleep.

           The next time you woke up was much better. After taking a moment to rub sleep from your eyes, you rolled over and grabbed up your phone. When you unlocked it, it opened to a saved contact that you were sure wasn’t there yesterday; it read ‘Bad Boy Ben’ as the contact name. You raised an eyebrow at it and tried to remember if you had exchanged numbers with anyone last night.

           “Hey,” your roommate said as she entered the room, her toothbrush and toothpaste in her hand, “Sleep okay?”

           “Yeah, fine,” you said, “Hey, do you remember us meeting a Ben last night?” you asked.

           Your friend smiled, “How could you not? He was a total hottie and he seemed pretty interested in you,” she said.

           “So the contact name ‘Bad Boy Ben’ is presumably him?” you asked.

           She laughed, “Oh yeah, that’s him alright. That was what you called him all night. Pretty sure you even introduced him to other people like that. He just let you, too.”

           Just then, your phone dinged and you checked it to see a text from your mom: ‘Did you see the picture I sent last night? Could be a good app to have on your phone!’ you read the text and rolled your eyes. Then it all came back: your conversation with Ben, how he had proposed the idea of bringing him home to mom. You opened your texts and typed up one to Ben: ‘Hey, hoping you remember me. We met last night?’

           The response back was almost immediate: ‘How could I forget?’

          You found yourself smiling at his words, then typed: ‘Still want to help me?’

          ‘Well, can’t say I’ve got much better to do so yeah, why not? When do we start?’

          You thought for a moment, then replied, ‘What are you doing next Saturday?’

 ~~~~~

          Saturday came sooner than expected and you actually felt a little nervous. You had been texting Ben here and there as the days went by, but you were still just getting to know each other and now you were faced with an hour-long car ride with him. You packed your small bag for the weekend and then sat around your room waiting for the text from Ben that said he was outside; he had insisted on driving and you couldn’t turn down saving gas so you’d agreed. Your phone dinged and you checked it to see that Ben was waiting outside.

         You exited the building and saw him immediately. He was parked right outside your dorm building and was leaning against your ride; a motorcycle. That was hardly noticeable, however, now that you really got a good look at Ben. You hadn’t seen him since the party, and when you met it had been mostly dark and you couldn’t make out many details at all. Now, as you approached him, you took it all in. He was clearly a bit older than you, maybe by two or three years, and he had on the same leather jacket as when you met him, and his black skinny jeans and black biker boots matched. His hair was messy, probably from removing the helmet that sat on the front seat of the bike, but it was blonde and curly and you had to stop yourself from picturing your fingers running through it.

         “Good afternoon, sweetheart,” he greeted as you stopped before him. He was just finishing up a cigarette and he crushed the butt under his boot before looking back up at you, “All set?”

         “I think you’ve outdone yourself already, Ben,” you told him with a chuckle, “They’ll freak when we pull up on this.”

         Ben laughed, “Go big or go home, right, love?”

         “I guess so,” you mumbled as you looked over the bike. You hadn’t really ever been on the back of a motorcycle, but you didn’t want to let on that you were all but terrified of them.

         “I can take your bag,” Ben said and held out his hand. You handed over the bag and he put it in a little trunk on the back of the bike, then returned to you with a second helmet in hand, “Can’t take off without this.” You nodded and slid the helmet over your head and began fiddling with the strap, “Here,” Ben said, “Let me.” His hands took over the strap of the helmet and you tried your best not to look or feel awkward as he stood so close to you.

         When you were all set, Ben set to putting his own helmet on and then mounted the bike. He offered his hand to you and, after a second of hesitation, you took it and let him help you onto the back, “You’re gonna want to hang on tight, sweetheart,” he told you as he started up the bike. You did as he suggested and wrapped your arms around his torso in a decently tight grip as he took off.

         It wasn’t nearly as bad as you imagined. In fact, you quite enjoyed it. You had given Ben the address of your parent’s house before you had left, and since he had a mount for his phone on the front it made following the map all the easier. Before you knew it, places you had grown up around began to appear and you knew you were close to home. Ben made the final turn and your house came into view.

         “Well,” Ben said as he shut off the bike, “This is exactly the kind of place I pictured you lived.” He offered you his hand and you once again took it to accept help getting off the bike. He followed suit and helped you with the strap of your helmet again, then took off his own.

         “I think that’s an insult?” you questioned with a smirk. Your neighborhood was nice, as was the house you grew up and lived in, “Yeah, I feel insulted I think.”

         Ben laughed, “Not an insult, just an observation. Now I understand the need to piss off your folks,” he told you.

         “Okay, so in advance, I’m gonna apologize because I’m sure I’ll need to. They aren’t exactly… good at hiding their disdain for people so-“

         Ben held up a hand, “Sweetheart, I’ll be fine. I knew what I was signing up for when I said yes,” he assured you, “Now, how serious do you wanna play this?”

         You pondered for a moment, “Screw it, let’s go as serious as believable.”

         Ben smiled wide, “Go hard or go home, indeed,” he said approvingly, “I’m afraid I haven’t a ring to give you, though,” he joked.

         “Maybe next time,” you joked back as you walked towards the front door. You entered the house and walked towards the living room when you assumed your parents would be, “Mom, Dad, I’m home!” you called as you walked in.

         You heard movement and your mom appeared before you quickly. You had told her you had a special someone you wanted her to meet just a few days ago, so she was clearly eager to see who you had brought home. Her wide smile faded quickly as she got a good look at Ben, “Honey,” she said nervously, “Who is this?”

         You smiled and leaned into Ben, your hand coming to rest on his chest, “Mom, this is who I told you about. This is Ben, my boyfriend,” you told her. You fought the urge to laugh when her face paled a little; clearly, your plan was working already.

         “Oh,” she said, “Oh, lovely,” she fixed her face into a fairly obvious fake smile and extended her hand to Ben, “How do you do, Ben?” she asked.

         Ben had his arm slung around your shoulder so his other hand was free, but he placed it in his jacket pocket instead of shaking her hand, “Yeah, I’m alright I s’ppose.”

         Your mom looked between you and Ben in disbelief, then turned and made her way towards the living room, “Honey,” she called to your dad. You and Ben followed behind, but not before you threw a wicked grin to Ben and he grinned back in return.

         “Dad,” you said as he got up to greet you. His reaction was equal to that of your mom’s, though his face seemed to pale quicker than her’s, “Meet Ben.”

         Your dad walked over to the pair of you and gave Ben a long and hard once over. He cleared his throat and offered his hand to Ben, “Good to meet you, son,” your dad said.

         Ben once again rejected the hand and shrugged, “Yeah, sure. Hey,” Ben said, “Where’s the toilet, I gotta take a piss.” Now you really fought the urge to laugh, he sure was good at pretending to be an ass and you were just eating it up.

         After a moment of initial shock, your mom shut her slightly ajar mouth and pointed towards the downstairs bathroom, “Right over there, first door on your left.”

         “Great,” he said and walked off.

         Once you heard the door shut, your parents turned to you, “Well he seems… Y/N what on earth are you thinking?” your mom asked.

         You played innocent and frowned, “What do you mean, mom? You’re the one that’s been on me about finding a man to take care of me, so I did. Ben’s got plenty of experience with women, he takes good care of me.”

         “Don’t you think he’s a bit… old for you?” your dad asked.

         You shook your head, “He’s a senior, I’m a sophomore, we’re not that far apart in age.”

         “He just…” you mom began, “Where are the manners on that boy?”

         “He’s got a thing against parents, it’s nothing personal, mom, I swear,” you told her. You heard the bathroom door and smiled at Ben as he approached you again.

         Ben wrapped his arm around your shoulders again, “Miss me?” he asked you in a low voice.

         “You know it,” you replied. He smiled at you and made a move you didn’t see coming; he kissed you. It was clearly unexpected, but you weren’t exactly complaining. It was a good kiss, incredible even, and lasted way longer than it should have in front of your parents. When Ben pulled away, you quickly composed yourself and turned back to your parents, a smile on your face and pretended like that was completely normal, “Right, well, I’m gonna show Ben around,” you told your parents. Without a word from them, you turned and led Ben out of the living room and around the house.

         Upstairs, you showed him to your room and he set down his things where you instructed. You closed the door and turned to look at him as he finally shrugged off the leather jacket. He draped it across the back of your desk chair and then turned to you, “Was the kiss too far?” he asked, though you could tell he was amused.

         You shook your head, “No, just unexpected is all. I think it certainly made a statement,” you told him.

         He nodded, “Just lemme know if I’m going too far,” he said and leaned against the desk. He looked around, “So, this is your room, huh? Weird, I expected more… pink… and stuffed animals,” he joked.

         You laughed and playfully pushed his shoulder, “Shut up,” you muttered.

         Ben crossed his arms and looked at you, “So where exactly would you like me to sleep tonight?”

         You frowned in thought, “Well, I think we’ve already crossed past the point of no return, and having you sleep on the couch and me in my room might give them some hope that you’re not entirely bad, so I say you and I sleep here. I can make up something on the floor or whatever if you’d rather be more comfortable not like…” you said, suddenly feeling awkward, “Sharing a bed or whatever.”

         Ben pursed his lips, “Well, if me being on the floor is what is comfortable for you than so be it,” he told you.

         “I mean,” you said, “I don’t really care either way. The floor isn’t exactly comfortable, and I have a pretty sizeable bed so I mean if you want, not that you have to or anything, but like, if you wanted we could, I don’t know, share the bed?” you stumbled over your words nervously.

         “Whatever you wanna do is fine with me, sweetheart,” he told you, “You want me on the floor, that’s fine. You want me to share the bed with you, that’s fine as well.”

         “Y/N?” you heard your mom call from downstairs. You turned to look towards the door and then back at Ben before holding up your pointer finger and then exiting the room.

         “Yeah, mom?” you asked from the top of the steps.

         Your mom stood there at the bottom of the stairs and seemed to sigh in relief, “Dinner will be ready soon,” she said. You nodded and then returned to your room.

         “Do you think they thought we were fooling around?” Ben asked with a chuckle.

         You laughed, “I’d almost bet my life on it,” you told him.

         “We could stomp around, make some loud noises and pretend like we are,” he said with a smirk.

         “Maybe later tonight, but I like the way you think,” you replied, “Come on, let's get down there.”

 ~~~~~

            “Goodnight, mom,” you called as you shut the door to your bedroom. You turned to find Ben was in the middle of stripping off his shirt, “Oh, sorry,” you said and quickly turned back around.

           You heard Ben chuckle behind you, “It’s alright, just changing into my sweats, love. I can turn round while you change if you like,” he said, “Oh, and you can turn around now.”

           You turned to see he was sat on the bed, no shirt on and a pair of sweatpants on. You caught yourself looking too long, so you jumped into action to grab your bag and pull out your sleep clothes, “That’s alright, I have to brush my teeth and stuff anyway so I’ll just change in the bathroom,” you said and quickly exited the room.

           When you reentered your room, Ben was lounging on the side of the bed you’d told him you didn’t sleep on, “Ready to really make your parents hate me?” he asked as you approached the bed.

           You giggled, “You were serious about that?”

           He shrugged, “I don’t see why not. Could be fun.”

           You crawled into bed next to Ben and looked at him for a moment, “You’re crazy, you know that?”

           He grinned, “Of course I do, but that’s what makes me so charming,” he said cheekily.

           You laughed this time, “Oh, is that what it is?”

           “Well,” he said and shrugged, “I have other good qualities of course. For example, I’m an excellent listener,” he said, “And I actually have fantastic manners when I’m not pretending to be a total jackass.”

           You chuckled, “I thought my mom was gonna faint at dinner. Picking at your plate while my dad was saying grace was an excellent touch.”

           It was Ben’s turn to chuckle, “I thought it might be. I’ll admit, I was worried it was a little too risky. I mean, I wasn’t sure if you would get upset with me for that.”

           You shook your head, “Not at all. Not really religious like my folks.”

           You two fell into silence for a moment, awkwardly looking at each other and then quickly looking away. “So,” you said, “Ready to freak out my parents once and for all?”

           “You’re really sure about this? I mean, I’m one hundred percent on board but it’s a pretty big statement, ya know?”

           You looked at him in thought, your lips pursed and said, “I’ve been getting the same speech my whole life basically. I practically grew up hearing that I needed a nice man to take care of me, that I shouldn’t solely depend on myself and whatnot. For once, I’d really like to stick it to them, ya know? So I think a big statement is exactly what we need.”

           Ben nodded, “Then let's get to it.” You both smirked and stood up in the bed and began to gradually bounce in the bed. You smiled at Ben as the bed began to squeak.

           “Big statement?” Ben asked.

           “Big statement,” you confirmed. He gave you a wicked smile and then let out an incredibly sexual, and incredibly loud, moan. You were slightly taken aback just how… sensual it was, but pushed it aside and joined him. You had to admit, you felt incredibly silly doing so, but you let out a few pornographic moans and even threw in a dragged out moan of Ben’s name.

           “Come on, sweetheart,” Ben said louder than necessary, “Cum for me.” You had to fight off the laugh that was ready to erupt as Ben threw you a dopey smile.

           “Oh, Ben!” You called out, “Yes, right there baby!”

           “Grand finale?” Ben said softly. You nodded and the two of you let out one final loud moan. You collapsed back into bed panting a little from bouncing and trying very hard not to laugh your ass off as you and Ben caught your breath.

           “That was the best fake sex I’ve ever had,” Ben joked. You and he were laying on your backs looking up at your ceiling that was decorated with glow in the dark stars.

           You laughed softly, “Same here.” You were throughout amused with the situation, but that wasn’t actually what was at the front of your mind. What was, however, was just how much Ben’s fake moans had turned you on. Fake or not, his deep voice letting out guttural moans and saying your name in a sensual way had you clenching your legs together as you laid in bed.

           “So,” Ben said after a moment.

           “So.”

           “Guess we can get to sleep then. Can’t wait to see their faces in the morning,” he said.

           “Yeah,” you said, “Me either.” As you both laid there, you wondered if Ben was having the same thoughts that you were, “Well, goodnight.” You said and turned over to face away from him.

           “Yeah,” he said, “’Night.”

           You look straight ahead of you, the wall seemingly staring back, taunting you. ‘You have the hots for your fake boyfriend’ it seemed to tease. ‘You want to know what his real sex moans sound like’. The sound of Ben’s fake moans replayed in your head as you laid there. Your mind wandered, you wondered what his face would look like as he orgasmed, what his final moan would sound like. You wondered what his slender fingers would feel like on your bare skin, what they’d feel like inside you.

           You sighed and turned over in your bed, now angered at the wall that wouldn’t shut up. You turned right over to see Ben facing you, and your movement prompted him to open his eyes to look at you in question. You laid there, facing the most attractive person you had ever seen, and couldn’t help but let your eyes slide down to look at his lips. He caught this, of course, since his face wasn’t even a foot away from yours.

           “Y/N,” he said softly.

           “Yeah?” you whispered back.

           “I-“ he began, “Can I-“

           “Kiss me?” you asked. You didn’t even wait for any sort of response, “Please do,” you practically whined. His response was immediate; he placed his hand on the side of your face and brought you closer, his lips crashing against yours. It was passionate, it was hot, and it was everything you expected it to be. The kiss you two had exchanged in front of your parents was for show, there wasn’t any emotion behind it really, but this? This? It took your breath away. Ben took his hand away from your face and moved it further down your side and around to the small of your back. He used this new position to pull you even closer, which you didn’t protest.

           You didn’t protest so much that you took a bold risk and pushed Ben back a bit so that he was flat on his back, then you swung your leg over his body and hovered over him. You broke the kiss finally to sit up a bit and move your hair out of the way before leaning back in to capture him in another breathtaking kiss.

           You were full of bold moves, it seemed, as you broke away from his lips and began kissing along his jawline and down his neck, “Y/N,” Ben panted.

           “Tell me to stop if it’s too far,” you breathed against his neck.

           “Don’t stop, please keep going,” he begged. You smirked and nibbled a bit here and there on his neck, then trailed your kissed further south. You kissed down the ridges of his abs and stopped just short of his sweatpants band. “Keep going, keep going,” Ben repeated. You looked up at him and locked eyes with the pretty panting blond and gave him a small smile. You hooked your two pointer fingers inside the band of the sweats and dragged them down. You let out a soft moan when you saw he had gone commando; his dick sprang up and stood at attention, waiting for you. You licked your lips, biting your lip slightly before leaning in and taking the head of his cock in your mouth. He let out a much more real, much more throaty moan compared to his fake ones. The sound egged you on; you needed to hear more.

           You weren’t exactly very experienced, but you had gathered enough from your friends and from stories you read to give you a general idea of what to do. You slowly worked the member further into your mouth, working the parts you couldn’t fit with your hand. It was difficult, at first, to find a good rhythm while trying not to gag and still breathe through your nose, but once you finally got passed that it was easier with each bob.

           You were achieving your goal, too. Ben’s moans became more frequent and more audible as you went. His hand came up and tangled up your hair with his slender fingers, pulling it every so often when you hit a particularly sweet spot.

           “Sweetheart, Y/N, I-,” he huffed, “I’m so close.” You knew immediately where you wanted his load, and you made it clear when you picked up speed a bit. Ben was a moaning mess as you pulled him to the brink, his load exploding in your mouth as he let out a final, loud moan. You pumped his cock a few final times, ensuring you had gotten all of his cum, then pulled off with a sloppy pop. You wiped up around your mouth and crawled back up towards Ben to show him an empty mouth.

           “Christ,” he muttered, “You’re pretty good at that.”

           You smiled at him, “Why, thank you,” you said as you laid back down beside him and faced him.

           He seemed to get this look all of a sudden; it seemed sinister. “My turn,” he said. Before you could even comprehend what was happening, he had you flipped onto your back and was nipping at your inner thighs.

           “Good Lord,” you panted. Your inner tights were incredibly sensitive, and having Ben so close to the place you wanted him most made you even wetter than you were before. He was teasing you, planting kissed and small love bite to your tights, “Bennnn,” you whined, “I didn’t tease you much, don’t be mean.”

           He chuckled and threw his gaze up to look at you, “Sorry, sweetheart, can’t help myself. Love having you squirm under me.” He obliged, however, and quickly discarded your underwear. He parted your legs, held them apart as best he could with one hand, and with the other hand, he took his middle finger and slowly run it up your slit, parting your pussy lips. He collected some of the juices you’d accumulated and ran his slicked up finger up and down your cunt.

           “Bennnn,” you whined again.

           He chuckled, “All right, all right,” he said and drove right in. He ran his tongue from your hole all the way to your clit and you released a moan so sexual it surprised even you. He toyed around a bit, poking his tongue here and there to get himself familiar with what made you moan louder. When he finally decided he had found just the right spot, he flicked his tongue to verify. A jolt of pleasure ripped through your body and you gripped at Ben’s hair to ground yourself.

           Ben was a man in the desert without water and your pussy was a tall, cool drink of water. At least, that’s what it felt like as Ben vigorously flicked his tongue over your clit. It was intense, and you knew you weren’t gonna last nearly as long as you wanted to. You tried to fight off your orgasm, tried to ensure this heart-stopping sensation never ended, but it had been a while since your last orgasm and Ben was just so damn good.

           In just a few minutes, you were a panting mess, “Ben,” you managed to breathe out, “Ben, don’t stop. So close.” He seemed to pick up the pace if that was even possible, and seconds later you moaned out his name and came hard. You saw stars for a few seconds as your orgasm hit you like a freight train. You were pulling at his hair, moaning his name, but he kept going. You were so sensitive, so wrecked already, but god help you, you needed Ben to keep going, so you didn’t stop him. He licked you through your entire orgasm, and just when you thought he was done, he kept going.

           You moaned loud as he brought his hand up and easily slid two fingers inside. You were out of your mind, not a thing on your brain besides the intense pleasure Ben was providing right now. The fingers added something you didn’t even think was missing until they were there. And just when you thought ‘this is it, this is the best thing I’ll ever feel’, Ben curved his fingers and quickly found a spot inside you that you thought was just a myth; your G spot.

           Well, that second orgasm came faster than you ever imagined, but there you were, pulling on Ben’s beautiful curls with one hand while the other clawed at the bedsheet. You turned your head and managed to cover your mouth with a pillow as you screamed out in pleasure. Ben licked you through that orgasm as well. When he felt you had calmed a bit, he removed his fingers and finally removed his mouth from your core. You were dizzy, you were seeing more stars than before, and your breathing made it seem like you just ran a five-minute mile.

           You knew Ben had laid back down next to you, but your brain was still in shock and your voice seemed to had run away with your last orgasm. You took in a few deep breaths, began to gather your thoughts, and mustered up enough energy to turn and face Ben.

           “You alright?” he asked, his clean hand coming up to gently stroke your face.

           “That-“ you attempted, “There are no words. I’ve never experienced-,” you faltered, “That was incredible.”

           Ben chuckled, “Glad you enjoyed it.”

           “I never want to do anything but that for the rest of my life,” you said with a laugh.

           “Well, that can certainly be arranged.”

           “This is not how I imagined this night would go.”

           “Me either,” Ben said, “It's way better.” You smiled at him, “Do you need anything? I know that last one was pretty intense. Here,” he said and reached over to grab up a water bottle he had brought from downstairs, “You should drink some water.” You gladly accepted the water and took a few sips before passing it back to him.

           You smiled at him as he looked at you with soft eyes, then leaned in and planted a kiss on his lips. This one was much more refined than the others, much gentler and just as passionate. When you broke away, you cuddled up next to him and laid your head on his chest. “Goodnight, Ben.”

           “Goodnight, sweetheart,” he muttered quietly. You quickly drifted off to bed, comforted by Ben’s steady breathing and warm embrace.      

[lonelyheartsclubhaze]

Chilly mornings away from home

January 2019 // Chapter 4

Soft piano notes waded their way into my mind, rousing me from sleep. Erik Satie’s “Gymnopédie No. 1” complemented streaks of sunlight that seeped in from cracks between the window shutters.

I rolled onto my stomach, patting along the bedsheets, searching for the alarm’s source. Locating my iPhone under a fluffy body pillow, I quickly tapped the snooze button, earning myself nine more minutes of repose.

Mornings were always so disorienting. I still had yet to remember where and when I was. Such things could wait. Clinging onto that snoozy state of nonexistence, I didn’t want to wake up. I was eager for unmindfulness.

Inevitably coming to, dizziness hit like a military grade tank as I realized that my bed was facing the wrong way. My morning senses spun westward from their southern-facing expectations. Cracking my eyes open a few nanometers more, baby blue walls, rather than white, met my gaze. I faced a medium size flatscreen TV set atop a brown cabinet bordered by cream, cushioned seats and a black mini-refrigerator.

It was so easy to be surprised by mornings. Here I was, expecting one thing and receiving another. It wasn’t a huge deal, and they were natural mistakes, but jeez, was I caught off guard. My bed typically faced a window on the southern side of my room in Berkeley, confined by white walls under high ceilings. Unlike my room in Berkeley, however, the ceilings in this place were much lower with windows much wider. My forgetfulness fading, I remembered why I was in this barely decent Denver hotel room, namely, for a job interview.

Grimacing, I also remembered that the aforementioned job interview had taken place yesterday—giving me a sense for why I might have preferred snoozy states of nonexistence to waking life. It was for some technician role at a Pharma-lab. And while they didn’t pay anything close to what Ajay would be receiving at Facebook (while still remaining just as controversial), money was money. Plus, it seemed like a good way to boost my med school app during the summer. Worst case scenario: I’d just spend the upcoming summer studying for the MCAT, which had to happen sooner or later. At this rate, however, it was looking like the worst case scenario would be my only scenario.

Oh well. With a redeye flight the next morning and the interview out of the way, I had a day to kill in Denver. Classes were still on hold for another week-and-a-half and since everyone was home for the holidays, Grace had offered to put me up at her place for the day. She was supposed to come by around nine AM to pick me up.

I rubbed my eyes and pulled up the blanket. The AC units at hotels were always freezing cold—particularly on especially inconvenient occasions, like now, right smack in the middle of a January morning. I flipped over my phone and turned off the alarm. The clock read seven-twenty-one AM. Just enough time to get ready and grab a quick bite before Grace was to arrive.

My hands smacked against the headboard of the bed mid-stretch, my wrists rolling as I struggled to fully wake up. Sitting up, I checked my phone for missed messages, sending out short, succinct text messages where they were needed. I cracked my neck and thrust my legs off the tall bed, my feet grazing the hotel carpet. I stood up, stretching my arms toward the spinning fan that hung from the low ceiling, and started toward the bathroom, tossing my iPhone onto the bathroom counter.

The shower roared to life with the turn of a knob. I grabbed a hotel-provided toothbrush and some paste on my way to the shower, along with a travel-size bottle of CeraVe foaming face wash. Inside, water rushed over my short, black hair, splashing onto medium broad shoulders and size ten-and-a-half feet as I washed my face. After mopping my chest, toes, and everything in-between with an ivory bar of soap, I squirted some toothpaste onto the brush and got to work, counting out one-hundred-twenty seconds in my head. Finally, I turned off the water and reached around the shower curtain for a towel. Drying myself off, I stepped out of the shower and packed up my bath supplies into a compact travel bag.

I shook the towel over my head to dry my hair and tapped on my iPhone screen to find one new notification. Hovering my face over the phone to unlock it, a blue message from Maddie read:

To which I replied:

She followed with:

Heart racing, I replied:

Two minutes passed. I held my breath.

Four minutes—then, a small blurb of text underneath my last message read:

Read 7:46 AM

I sighed and put down my phone. My face contorted as a profusion of expletives rushed my thoughts. Shouldn’t have double-texted her.

I supposed that it didn’t matter too much. She was with someone, anyway. When I’d seen her in December, before we’d left for winter holidays, she’d been at Bear’s Ramen House in the Asian Ghetto—the food hub a block from Sproul Hall—eating with some guy I’d seen around, probably on campus. He was a moderately wealthy, white kid from Marin studying one of the various biology sub-majors offered by Cal. He was also a junior, like Maddie, so a year ahead of me, as if his towering six-foot-three-inch figure wasn’t enough to give him a leg up on me with regards to Maddie. I didn’t know him all that well, despite having had a discussion section or two with him, though we greeted each other with a polite nod of the head when passing by one another in the Valley Life Sciences Building (VLSB) or in the library. To be honest, I didn’t even remember his name, just his face. His outfits often consisted of athleisure wear from Nike and/or Champion, giving off the impression that he played sports. I wasn’t quite sure whether or not this impression was accurate, but I did sometimes see him on the Glade or other grassy campus sites playing Spikeball, accompanied by peers with faces I vaguely recognized.

We’d often talk, Maddie and I. Sometimes I’d run into her on the spiral staircase at VLSB—the stairs that’d curl around the large, plaster T-Rex model to face broad windows on the east, granting access to the morning sun. She’d be on her way to a bio lab downstairs; me, on my way to the private, grad student bathroom that I’d secretly gained access to on the second floor. The restroom upstairs was protected by a keypad, but the code was too obvious: 362 362, or DNA DNA.

“Wonder where you could be going,” she’d say.

“Just need to make sure my hair is okay. I’ll do whatever it takes to get a few extra points from Professor Meighan,” I’d joke back.

“Do you poop here everyday?” she’d ask with wide eyes. “Or maybe you just like seeing me, huh? Is that it?”

I’d freeze up.

She’d laugh, saying, “Maybe a little bit of both, right, J?”

“Nothing gets past you,” I’d mumble.

“You’re funny,” she’d say. “You should have your own TV show. Maybe once you’re done with your residency you can join Grey’s Anatomy, or Scrubs. Or maybe you can have a talk show! Like Dr. Phil, but more funny and less depressing.”

“What about me gives off the impression that I’d ever want to have a TV show, at all, in any way whatsoever?” I’d say, shaking my head.

“See? Just like that! Always asking the right questions! Like Ellen DeGeneres but all doctor-like.”

She tended to tease me a lot. I didn’t mind. In fact, it was probably part of her appeal—definitely was, on second thought.

Like a good portion of the many pre-med students out there, Maddie was a biology major. Berkeley offered a few different options for bio students, and I’m pretty sure she was studying molecular and cellular biology, though it’s hard for me to say. If I wanted to remember something about her, I’d write it down in my iPhone notes. Otherwise, my hippocampus tended to toss it out, preferring to form memories of her nose, her lips, and those low cut shirts that left me off balance.

We’d text back-and-forth about classes, sometimes. A lot less after I saw her eating with what’s-his-face. I didn’t blame her.

My phone read eight AM. I tossed on a waffle knit shirt and long johns, then a Columbia fleece and Levi jeans, topping it off with an aged ski jacket that I’d ‘borrowed’ from Adam, who was up in Tahoe at least twice a month in the winter. I slung the beaten, black JanSport backpack containing my belongings over my shoulders and headed out the hotel door, making for the elevator.

The room door shut quietly behind as I banked right into a narrow corridor housing four elevators, two on each side. I pressed a button to summon one and within a minute, the light above the furthest elevator on my right blinked on. The door opened and I entered, clicking the button indicating the main lobby of the hotel. The door shut and the elevator fell five floors before slowing to let in an older, Black woman wearing a fitted, bell-shaped hat.

“Ground floor?” I asked.

She smiled sweetly. “Yes, honey. Thank you.”

We descended the final four floors in silence. Arriving at the ground floor, the elderly woman smiled and nodded at me before exiting first. I followed her out, glanced down at my iPhone, then diverged from her path as I headed toward the central lobby to check out. After snapping my room key card in half, I left the hotel, walking toward a Caribou Coffee a few blocks north.

Under the warm skies of Seal Beach, California, where I was born and raised, people tended to take their coffee with ice more often than here in Denver, Colorado. Every Friday, my mother would pick up an americano for herself—black, with no cream or sugar—on her way to work. I’d tag along as a kid, but sooner than later elementary school drop-offs morphed into middle school bike rides, then high school walks with pretty girls I swore I had a chance with, and then the here-and-now, flying Economy for interviews that wouldn’t yield job offers.

It’s funny—when I was a kid I practically hated being seen with my parents. At back-to-school events—the evenings when parents conglomerated to celebrate the annual accomplishments of their children—I wouldn’t be caught dead near my family. Somehow, I thought it made me look childish, or immature. After graduating from high school, however, I started seeing them less and less, and I began to find myself missing mom’s morning espresso runs more and more.

It seemed as though I must have picked up my mother’s coffee drinking habits, because when I arrived at the Caribou Coffee on sixteenth street at approximately eight-twenty-five AM, I too ordered an americano with no cream or sugar.

“That comes out to three-thirty-nine,” said the female barista. She wore a black apron over red and black striped under-layers, with a white wool beanie on her head, and deep black mascara on her eyelashes.

I thanked her and handed over three dollar bills along with some loose change from my jacket pocket.

“On second thought,” I said, retracting my hand. “Can I also get one of those?” I gestured to a blueberry scone behind the glass counter.

“Sure. Just three extra dollars.” she said.

I counted out three extra dollar bills, handing the money to the barista. Then I walked over to a small rounded table situated near the entrance and sat down. Scanning my iPhone, I saw that Grace had texted me, so I responded, asking her to pick me up at the Denver sixteenth street Caribou Coffee. Then I put my phone away and tapped silently along the underside of the table, slightly impatient for my pastry and drink.

I wondered what Grace had in mind for the day. I hadn’t seen her since—well, I suppose it wasn’t that long ago—final exams last semester. Personally, Grace and I had yet to have a class together, but Adam always took one or two bullshit classes with her, so she was often around my house anyway—especially during the week of final exams, when they’d study together all day long. As an English major, she had it pretty easy schedule-wise. She hardly stressed, at least outwardly, and was rarely overburdened with work, so she never missed a chance to chat it up with my housemates or me when Adam brought her over. She was really likable too. Even Albert got along with her, making small talk about Proust or the latest Pulitzer Prize winning novel from Jennifer Egan, and that’s saying a lot.

She always made it a point to stop by my room upstairs, at 2231 Dwight, waving ‘hello’ to me before vanishing for hours into the recesses of Adam’s single downstairs. I really liked that about her.

A small vibration from my left pant pocket convinced me to reach in. I pulled out my iPhone and saw that Grace had texted me. She was to arrive a bit early, in fifteen or so, around eight-fifty-five AM. She was driving in a black Honda Civic, she’d said. I texted her back to let her know that I’d be ready.

“I’ve got a medium americano and a blueberry scone!” called the barista.

I stood up, pulling my jacket over the chair to mark my temporary territory, then hurried over to the counter to grab my order. “Thanks,” I said before hurrying back to my table, balancing the warm, paper cup in one hand with the scone in the other.

Sitting back down at the table, I huffed down the scone. Then I took off the lid of the cup, wisps of steam condensing on the furl of my lip. I blew gently, cooling the drink.

I sipped slowly, then decided to put on my jacket and wait outside. Grace would be here any minute and I didn’t want her to miss me. I was getting sick of waiting by myself anyway. Walking outside, an icy burst of air cut right through me. I shivered, then zipped up Adam’s ski jacket. It was a good thing that it wasn’t snowing, because it was cold enough as it was.

I paced around for a bit, rubbing my hands to keep warm, until finally, a black Honda Civic with a freckled girl at its helm slowed to a stop slightly ahead of the sixteenth street coffee shop.

Grace rolled down the passenger window. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said back. My pace quickened as my feet approached her car.

“I missed you, dude,” she said. “Come on, let’s go. It’s freezing outside.” A crimson hoodie hid most of her delicate contours, though the graceful arcs that formed over her breasts hinted at something more. The left side of her chest housed a star-shaped sports logo with the words ‘Broomfield Soccer Club’ below in a decorative typeface.

I opened the car door and hopped into the passenger seat. Gusts of warm air ruffled my hair.

She reached over the center console and squeezed me in a close hug. “How was break?”

“Pretty good. I mean, I was finally able to—”

“Bruh,” she groaned. “Did you read Science?”

“What?”

“The magazine,” she said, squinting her eyes.

I cocked my head to the side. “Was I supposed to?”

Grace rolled her eyes and sighed. “Can you?”

“Is there something I should be looking for?”

“Oh my god. Take out your phone.”

“Right now?”

“Yes, right now. Jesus-fucking-Christ, J.”

“Okay,” I said, pulling the iPhone from my jean pocket.

“Okay.” She cracked her finger knuckles. “Google ‘butterflies’.”

“Grace—” I started.

“Come on. Look it up.”

“Okay. Just because you’re asking.” I opened Chrome’s mobile browser on my phone, typed in ‘butterflies’, and pressed ‘search’.

She cleared her throat.

“Butterfly,” I read. “An insect from the ma-cro-lep-id-opt-er-an clade Rho-pal-o-cer-a, from the order Lep-id-op-tera—”

“No!” She snatched my phone and scrolled down. “Here. California’s monarch butterfly count drops by eighty-six percent, just last year!”

I raised my eyebrows. “Is butterfly watching a hobby you picked up over break or something?”

Her jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

I coughed to cover a laugh. “I mean, I didn’t know you took butterflies so seriously.”

“God, and I’m supposed to go to a guy like you for my yearly checkups?” she gasped.

I put my hand on her shoulder. “Grace—”

“I don’t want to hear it, insect-killer.” She blew aside a tuft of hair from her forehead. “So, how was it?”

“How was what?”

“How was break?”

“Oh. Right,” I said. “Well, I finally got around to watching that show you and Adam were talking about last semester.”

“Peaky Blinders?” Her eyes lit up. “Oh my god, it’s really good, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. I really like Tommy’s brother, Arthur. I think he’s funny. I’m not too sure how I feel about Polly yet, though, but then again I’m only on season three.”

“Adam fucks with Arthur too. Personally, I’m more of a John-kinda-person. I think he’s less murderous than Arthur. Kills too much. How’s Adam doing, though?”

“Honestly, you probably know better than me. Haven’t seen him since we left for home.”

“I feel it.”

Grace made a sharp right onto the I-25 freeway, accelerating until our speed plateaued around ninety miles per hour. I gripped the sides of my seat—ninety was a little too fast for my tastes. I considered myself a defensive driver. Dull buildings bordered the freeway shoulders, and I tried to focus on them to distract myself from Grace’s driving.

“What do you say we stop by a park or something, J? Not really tryna see my parents right now.” Grace glanced at me, her hands still on the wheel.

I felt a bit queasy watching her take her eyes off the road. “Yeah, works for me. Something going on?”

“Eh, the usual. Just get sick of ‘em being home for so long,” she said. “But anyhow, I have a ball in the trunk. We can kick it around or some shit.”

The road grew bumpier as we drove over a waterway on the way to Grace’s neighborhood. Spoiled by scenic coastal sights on the drive up to Berkeley, the glum scenes around me felt sobering. I tapped my foot, eager to get out of the car.

Eventually, Grace took exit 225 on the right, keeping left to merge onto East One-hundred-thirty-sixth Avenue. We passed a stucco structure with a sign that read ‘Broomfield’.

“Almost there,” said Grace. “I know just the spot.”

Finally, Grace made a left into a small parking lot bordered by bright green, grassy fields on one end and unkempt trails on the other. “Quail park. I grew up playing soccer here.”

I looked around. I was glad to be there—it certainly yielded better views than the drive had. “It’s pretty.”

Grace popped open the trunk and pulled out a soccer ball and pump. She filled it with air quickly, then gestured for me to carry the ball. We walked over to the open fields, brushing permafrost aside as we squished the grass beneath our feet. Back and forth, we kicked the ball to one another, Grace showing off every now and then by booting the ball over her head and onto her knees, juggling it for ten, maybe twenty bounces before passing it back to me.

“So?” she said. “Did you kill the interview?”

I winced. “Not exactly.”

Grace toed the ball inward, using its momentum to whip the ball onto the flat of her foot. With a touch of force, she tapped the ball into the air and into her hands. “Come on, J. It couldn’t have been that bad.”

I smiled a bit. “It really was though.”

She laughed and dropped the ball to her feet. Passing it back to me, she said, “Ah, whatever. You don’t want to work in Denver anyway. You’re not cut out for it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, look at you. You’ve been shivering your ass off since I picked you up, dummy. And I have heated seats!” she said.

“Hey,” I started. “You’re not wrong.”

“Rarely am. Anyhow, how are things with, uh, you know . . .”

“Maddie?” I finished.

“Yes, right, Maddie.”

“She texted me this morning.”

“Oooooh,” said Grace. “How’s Brandon gonna feel about that?”

Ah, right, Brandon. How could I forget?

“Brandon . . . Right. Well, I doubt that it’s a major concern of his at the moment. She left me on read anyway.”

“Oh. Well, it’s her loss anyhow. She’s missing out on a star athlete!” said Grace as she punted the ball, knocking me square in the chest.

“Fucking shit!” I howled.

“You sound like Adam more and more everyday,” she said.

“So dreams do come true.”

“Isn’t it funny,” said Grace, juggling the ball on her quads. “Don’t you feel like certain words belong to certain people?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, like, don’t you associate certain words with certain people? Like every swear word with Adam, for example, and or maybe, I’m sure there are some you have in mind for Maddie or whoever.”

“You sure you’re not projecting, Grace?” I asked.

This time she threw the ball at me, and it proceeded to hit me right on the head. We kicked around for another hour or so, talking about this or that—how final exams went; our plans for the semester; and Pac-12 Women’s soccer, despite an utter lack of knowledge regarding the sport’s conference on my part. Around five-thirty in the late afternoon, we decided to get something to eat, so Grace drove us to a Vietnamese spot called Golden Bowl Noodle House which she heralded as the greatest phở restaurant on the west coast.

We sat down in blue booth seats across from one another, red and gold walls bordering us on my left. A large, square, green painting depicting an ocean scene lined the wall between us. I ordered the same thing as Grace, the Combo Number One, which consisted of a small rare steak phở, 2 spring rolls, and an iced tea. Grace asked to change hers to a warm tea, which was probably the better move in hindsight. Our drinks arrived first, and we sipped on them slowly. I was hungry—blueberry scones could only provide so much sustenance.

A robed Asian woman, with a slight hunch in her back as she hobbled over, arrived with a tray carrying two bowls of soupy noodles; four translucent wrapped appetizers; and a small dish with bean sprouts, Thai basil, and other add-ons. She bowed slightly and left us to our meals, so I looked over at Grace who had already taken her first bite from a spring roll. I followed her lead, feeling the cool cloak of rice wrappers over fresh shrimp, cilantro, and basil. Taking a bite, my teeth met shrimp with just the right amount of snap, the unexpected tang of hoisin sauce gifting a pleasant surprise.

Grace smacked my hand. “Use the peanut sauce! You gotta appreciate it properly, cuz some people can’t. Did you know that the rate of food allergies is increasing rapid as fuck—especially in developed nations like the US?”

I did as she said, dipping the spring roll into the gloppy, brown sauce. She wasn’t wrong—it was better that way. After swallowing my last bite of the spring rolls, Grace tossed some bean sprouts into my soup and squeezed lime juice over my bowl.

“You know this isn’t my first time eating phở, right?” I said.

Grace hushed me and continued eating. I watched her twirl a handful of noodles into her chopsticks, lifting them to her mouth over a soup spoon. Noisy slurps concluded with sapid bites followed by quick sips of tea. Rinse and repeat.

I opted for a fork, twisting firm noodles around its prongs as best I could, gulping down spoonfuls of savory soup in between steak and noodle bites. I watched the red meat cook to a brownish hue, the hot broth’s steam parting like sea waves under my chin.

“I’ll give it to you,” I said. “It’s good.”

Grace glanced at me, nodded, and continued eating. Finishing promptly, she leaned back into her chair and exhaled heavily.

I rushed to keep up with her, but it took me significantly longer to finish. Sooner or later, the robed woman limped over with the bill. I rose to my feet and met her halfway. I pulled out a Mastercard and slipped it into the folded check before handing it back to her and sitting back down with Grace.

“Real gentleman, aren’t you?”

“It’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me today. Besides, you’ve just introduced me to the ‘best phở on the west coast’, right?”

“Suppose that’s true. Okay, you’re right, dinner on you.”

The restaurant owner signaled that I could take back my card, so I walked over, tipped four-and-a-half dollars, tucked away my card, and we left for the car.

Grace’s eyelids were a bit heavy, so I asked her if she wanted me to drive. She handed me her keys and jumped into the passenger seat. After I buckled into the driver seat and turned the key in the ignition, she directed me to make a right out of the parking lot. I drove slowly back to her house, which was only ten or so minutes away, then pulled into her garage. The garage led into a two-story, vinyl sided, upper-middle class home with a comely, green lawn out front.

“Come on. I’ll show you to the guest room.”

I followed her over hardwood floors into the living room, where a tall, white man with square sunglasses over his eyes and a black beanie atop his head shuffled through TV channels with a remote. The lights were off in the room even though the sun had set a little less than an hour prior.

“How are you doing, sir?” I asked.

“Wassup?” he said.

“Oh,” I said. “How are you today, sir?”

“All good.” He took a long draw from an IPA resting on the coffee table in front of him. “Catch y’all. Gracey—you got trash, yea?”

Before Grace could reply, a voice called from the kitchen around the corner, “I got today, hun!”

We nodded in acknowledgment to the man and turned to leave. “Must be your dad?” I asked.

“Yup,” she said. And that was the end of it.

I followed Grace into the kitchen. A woman—her mother, presumably—with a polka dot apron around her neck and a noticeable accent in her voice greeted us warmly. I was surprised by the speed of the woman as she rushed me with a sturdy hug, a tactic she then repeated on her daughter.

“Are you Filipino?” she asked, placing a motherly hand on my shoulder.

“No, ma’am.”

“Ayo,” she said. “No problem. Sleep good, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you for letting me stay—”

“Sorry about him, mom,” said Grace. She hit me on the back playfully and the two women burst into laughter in unison. “You’re always welcome, J.”

I smiled, said goodbye, and trailed Grace as she led me up a winding staircase to a small bedroom encapsulated by canary yellow walls laden with rooster prints. The room housed a twin bed and two lamps with cube-ish shades. The bedsheets matched the walls, realistic rooster designs corresponding with the overarching theme of the bedroom.

“Don’t ask,” said Grace. “Night, J. Sleep up.”

I hugged Grace and thanked her. “Night.”

It was still early, only six-thirty or so, so I plopped onto the bed and pulled out my iPhone, intent on watching YouTube videos to pass some time. I chuckled to myself as I admired the chicken print theme of the room.

Clicking my phone to life, I was surprised to find text messages from Maddie that read:

I sighed and put the iPhone down as my heart rate spiked into the mid eighties.

[thatcnamomnwife]

Well, hello!

I really just wanted to check out this app because I don’t know anyone really who blogs here... maybe I could meet new people make friends I can chat with. I don’t work anymore and I have very little company. My ex husbands wife has come to visit and let our youngest boys play together and my family has come in and out to help keep things up in the house. I broke my leg in a car accident in October. I still can’t walk.

I laugh about it now because my two other siblings here have both been in worse car accidents and walked away with scratches. My brother was knocked unconsious and woke up and walked 2 miles home. I hit a tree to avoid hitting the back end of a truck that was stopped in a work zone and when I hit the break popped back and broke my ankle tib and fib... I knew I had broken it but was not aware of how bad it was. My EMT was wonderful in keeping me calm. I heard comments when I got to the hospital about it being really bad but I didn’t want to see the damage. They knocked me out and put me into surgery. I woke up with a fixater on my leg. The next night after I asked for pain meds 3 or 4 times in a row because the Dilaudid didn’t work, my assigned surgeon came in and examined my leg. I had compartment syndrome and needed a fasciotomy asap. so the next time I woke up I still had the fix and then my leg was completely wrapped. Every time I tried to do physical therapy I would. Bleed everywhere. I found out I had two huge gaping cuts in the side of my leg and 2 equally gaping cuts in the top of my foot. In the hospital I tried my best to keep up hope that this would all be over soon. My friends at work (I’m a CNA) got ahold of me and cheered me on the get better and come back to work soon. But here I am. It’s February and I’m still wheelchair bound and not walking. The way my surgeon fixed my leg set it to where my toes almost faced the ground and my ankle is now fixed as if its ready for a stiletto. I have worked hard to get to rotate my ankle and lift my toes a little bit and as my physical therapy has me working on the they are working on lifting this deep scar on top of my foot.

It sucks to have to depend on everyone else to get help. I can do some things on my own. But I can’t cook my own food by myself. I can do dishes actually but it’s really hard. I can move from place to place with my walker. But since I’m on one leg it’s hard and I wear out fast. I can’t go anywhere unless someone takes me. Sitting in a car is hell because I lose circulation in my leg easily. If I get annoyed with my husband or my kids get on my nerves I can’t just go outside.

I spent the first month crying. Every day. I’m not kidding. I cried even harder Every appointment because my surgeon is a straight forward kinda guy. My home health nurse came in and saw that I was cracking and she suggested I act for a low dose antidepressant and I just gave and said yea. I’m tired of crying. Well it’s worked so far. I still get mad and throw fits and cry but I think that’s just me being human and besides that anyone in the medical profession is bound be make a horrible patient.

I am a lot better now. In fact despite the fact that my leg still doesn’t work, I’m in ok spirits. I miss my job, my residents, and most of my coworkers. I worked through what I feel is the worst part of COVID in my area and I worked while I had it. I was so proud of my self for not giving up in that mess. I miss the hard work. I wanna go back but I know I will never get to run around like I did before. It just sucks.

But in the midst of this whole crap show my husband and I got married in December! It was a beautiful low cost home wedding and my family couldn’t come because they were quarantined but we had our other loved ones there. I won’t lie I looked amazing in my wedding dress and my hair and makeup was gorgeous. Nothing has changed since we got married. We are still bickering at each other but at the end of the day I love him and he loves me. We have been through it all in these 6 years and I wouldn’t have him any other way. He’s lazy. He frustrates me but he is a good man and a good dad to our son. My daughters love him. My oldest calls him dad. And he has pretty much jumped trough hoops for them since he met them. We are all a happy family and I love my life. I just don’t like where I’m at in my life.

I have 3 kids. My oldest is 14 and she’s a type 1 diabetic. Shes a hormonal teen with diabetes. We have blood sugar issues every day. Hormones raging. She recently got grounded for not doing her chores and lying about her blood checks and she lost it over not being on the phone for a few days. But damn she is smart. She wants to be a mortician when she graduates college. She passes state testing like it’s nothing. And she’s a complete music lover. She was the 18th chair in junior all region choir last year. She was the youngest in her group to get in. So I brag on her a lot. My middle child is a lot of energy and she frustrates me. She’s 10 and she’s been stuck in this stage where she acts like she doesn’t have common sense. We’ve taught her how to use the washer and dryer several times and this kid still says she don’t know how to use it. She’s the one who argues even if she knows she’s wrong she will still try to make you think she’s right. She will agree to something one minute and then get mad about it later. She will not brush her hair and she does this on purpose because she claims is a part of her personality. She also recently told me she’s bisexual. She’s a good kid though. Teachers and kids at school love her she don’t get in trouble ever. And she’s also a smart kid! She excelled in school to the highest. I’m very proud of my girls.

My son is 4 and he is a big ball of adhd. He bounces off walls and he’s very violent. We have been trying to get him evaluated so we can get him on proper meds before kindergarten but It hasn’t happened yet. But he’s also a sweet kid. He is very smart too. He knows all of his colors and can count to 10. He knows his name. But he tells you he’s 400 years old instead of 4 lol.

My mom and sister are both life savers to me. They have taken care of me through this. When I need them they are there. My brother prefers to live his own life and visit at moms with me from time to time. But I love him. I miss him.

My dad left my mom when I was 13. He caught up with my half sister. Fell in love with his ex wife and moved away. I have seen him 4 times since he left and the last time I saw him was when I was 19 and pregnant with my oldest child. He’s never met my kids in person and he’s only spoken to my oldest on the phone once. 2 years ago he disappeared after planning to come stay on my moms property to get back on his feet and get proper medical treatment. He asked our side of the family for money (like $1000) and none of us had that. So he tried to make us feel bad and then never contacted us again. I’ve heard fromy step sisters that he’s been spotted here and there but we honestly Don’t know where he is, what he’s doing and if he’s even alive. I hate to say it but it doesn’t bother me anymore. I used to break down thinking about him dying and not knowing. Now I feel different. He’s been gone most of my life now.

I also have this best friend who is more than my best friend. She’s my soul. This girl has helped me through some of the worst parts of my life. She and I don’t get to see each other very often but we are always family to each other. She and I talk almost daily. I just love her.

That’s my family though. It’s a hot mess but it’s mine and I love it. At the end of every day I am blessed because I’m loved and cared for.

[bluesfm]

(  park  chaeyoung  ,  twenty two  ,  &  cisfemale  )  who  ?  these  days  ,  it’s  all  about    blue hyong,  who  comes  from    los  angeles  &  ca    and  is  making  headlines  as  a    singer    .    she   currently  has  a  fan  count  of  42k    ,  no  thanks  to  the  rumors  of  them  being  inflexible  !  but  ,  on  the  other  hand  ,  their  most  devout  fans  say  they’re  actually    imaginative    .  last  i  heard  ,  they  caused  quite  a  buzz  when    she   publicly   dissed    her  new   record    label  and   the   misogynistic  treatment   she  was   receiving   from   their  reps  !  it’s  no  wonder  they  remind  me  of    long   rants   in  the  notes  app   being  posted   to  her   twitter  account  ,  empty  bottles   of  wine  laying  at   recording   studios’   floors   &  notebooks   upon  notebooks   filled  with   lyrics   she  might   never  use   but   refuses   to   let   go  of   .  

well hello human friends !! n also hello to the non human friends too , wassup . i’m angie a  dumb  noodle  from  the  middle  of  the  south  american  jungle  , and i’m here to introduce yall to this mess i call blue  who’s  a muse i have had  for yrs now n carry w/ me wherever i go , with some minimal changes but she’s still the  same  messy  bitch  on the  inside  don’t  worry  folks !  so   i  will   provide  u w/  some  background  info  on   her  n  some   possible connections  under   the  cut . issa  lil messy  but  we’ve   been  away  for  a while   pls  bear  w me

blue  is  the  only  daughter  to  a  couple   of  south  korean  immigrants  that  came  to   america  when  they  were  in  their  very  early  20s  n  already  expecting  blue  in  order  to  chase  the  american  dream  n  create  a  better  life  for  themselves  n  their  family  .  their  life  was  pretty  hard  for  a  big  part  of  blue’s  childhood  ,  while  they  were  both  studying  n  working  odd  jobs  to  pay  for  their  education  all  the while  taking  care  of  a child .  so  blue  didnt  have  the  best  childhood  ,  not  that  her parents  were  bad  or  anything  they  just  didnt  have  time  for  her  . nowadays  ,  they  are  a  lot  more  comfortable  in  life  ,  since  her  dad  became  a  lawyer  n  her  mom  is  a  nurse  ,  but  they  definitely  didnt  have  an  easy  beginning  .

ok  so  maybe  bc  they  werent  present  durant  most  of  her  childhood  they  didnt  notice  a  lol  of  signs  that  might  have  made  things  a  lot  easier  for  them  ,  bc  by  the  time  they  were  available  to  emotionally  be  there  , during  her  early  teenage  years ,  blue  was  already  kinda  a  mess . she  had  grown  up  w  very  lil  structure  n  refused  the  rules  they  tried  to  instill  on  her  n  was  already  used  to  doing  things  her  own  way  .  that  lead  to  a  lot  of  conflict  between  them  ,  since  they  expected  her  to  study  hard  n  do  well  for  herself  in  a  nine to fiver  when  she  was  already  sure  art  was  the  only  way  to  go  n  while  she  did  ok  ,  she  definitely  wasn’t  as  good  as  her parents  expected  her  to  be .

so  ...  u  know   her  teenage  yrs  were  basic  girl  angsty  she  fought  a  lot  w  her  parents  n  rebelled  frequently  n  ran  away  from  home  like  ...  weekly  ,  but  she  never  rly  had  any  real  hardships  .  life  was  reasonably  good  but  she  always  had  something  to  complain  abt  ...  just  as  she  liked

[  MENTAL  ILLNESS  TW  ]

but  then  she  reached  her  late  teens    they  all  realized  there  was  something  going  on  other   than  the  usual  teenage  angst  she  displayed  all the time  when  she  had  her  first  manic  episode  .   her  parents  thought  it was  a  “  blue  thing  “  at  first  bc  she  was  usually  a  very  impulsive  person  n  she  rly  didn’t  have  a  habit  of  thinking  before  acting  on  her  impulses  ,   but  her  mom  quickly  noticed  the  signs  of  a  manic  episode  when  she  realized  how  aggitated  n   restless  she  was  , specially  when  blue  described  an   hallucination  she  seemed  to  be  having  .   they  took  her  to  a  psychiatrist  ,  she  was  admitted  to  a  hospital  n  diagnosed  w  type 1  bipolar  disorder  n  very  quickly  medicated .  while  the  medication  brought  her  out  of  her  episode  ,  n  she  was  allowed  to  go  home  after  her  mood  seemed  to stabilize  ,   blue  also  noticed  it  stunted  her  severely  emotionally  n  decided  (  against  medical  n  parental  advice  [  pls  dont  do  it  fam  !!  take  ur  meds  ]  )  to  quit  her  medication  ,  falling  into  her  first  major  depressive  episode  a  few  weeks  afterwards  . n  for  abt  four  years  she’s  been  living  w  her  disorder  ,  n  she  doesn’t  medicate  at  all  .  she’s  super  open  abt  her struggles  n  she  has  a  Lot  of  them  ,  specially  w  how  much  drugs  n  alcohol  she  consumes  .   i  never  said  she  was  smart  yall  .

[  END  OF  TW  ]

ok  so  as  u  probably  assume  ,   blue  is  an  emotional  mess  .  she  has  a   very  chaotic  personality  ,  n  most  of it  isnt  even  from  her  illness or  anything  she  just  is  a  very  chaotic  person  in  general  ?  she  is   one  of  those  artsy  ppl  who  forgets  to  wash  her  own  clothes  so  she  ends  up  wearing  the  same  dress for  like  ,  3 days .  she’s  super  outspoken  n  outgoing  n  rly easy  at  making  friends  if  u  can  get  past  the  dumbass energy  she  exudes 24/7  ?  but  yes  just  a  very  outgoing  person  n  a  outright  mess  most  of  the  time  .  she  is  also  soooo stubborn  u  will  never  get  her  to  change  her  mind  abt  smth  she  believes  to  be  right  about  in  any  way  .  u  just  cant  .  she  loves  a  good  time  n  loves  partying  n  is  the  lack  of  impulse  Queen  soo if  u  got  any  bad  ideas  she  is  the  one   u  should  go  for  if  u  need  any  company  .  also .... so dramatic  .  she  makes  a  big  deal  of  everything  n  has  0  apologies  abt  that  .  just  catch  her  crying  over  high  school  musical  3  or  smth  like  that  .

but  yea  on  the  bad  side  tho  ,  blue  takes  up  n  gives  up  on  projects  so  easily  n  she  can  be  super  fickle  abt  things  in  general  .  like  ,  she  will  defend  an  idea  for  7  hours  but  2  days  later  she’s  already  onto  smth  else  n  doesnt  even  remember  being  so  obsessive  abt  that  other  thing  ?  a  mess .  is  also  Quite  abrasive  ?  if  she  thinks  ur  acting  dumb  shes  not  gonna  be  scared  to  call u  out  on  it  .  can  also  have a  Reaally  explosive  temper  .  not  usually  but  specially  during  manic  episodes  she  can  be  quite  easy  to  annoy  ngl  .  is  very  unreliable  ,  especially  if ur not  too  close  ..  tbh  that  is  something  connected  to  her  disorder  .  when  she’s  on  a  manic  episode  ,  she  will be  too busy  planning  things  she  will  never  get  around  to  doing  or  painting  her  entire  house  or  spending  3  days  awake  n  drunk  writing  17  songs  by  herself  .  n  during  her  depression  is  very  hard  to  get  her  to  do  anything  n  even  if  she  feels  terrible  , she  rly  cant be  an  available  friend  .

in  regards  to  her  sexuality  ,  she’s  an  open  bisexual  and   also  is  a  crazy  romantic  n  falls  so  hard  for  literally  no  reason .  but  like  ...  doesnt  have  the  healthiest  mentality  for  relationships  ?  not  like  in  a  toxic  way  but  she  will usually  give  145%  of  herself  at  all times  n  honestly  believes  all  of  the  ppl  she  falls  for  are  the one (1)  just  wants  to  make  things  work  no  matter  what  .  she’s  v  impulsive  w/  meeting  n  falling  for  ppl  tho  so  things  dont  rly  end  up  working  n  she  always  ends  up  heartbroken  over it  .  Well  .  At least she’s  trying  right  ?

in regards  to  her  career  n  art  , she’s  posted  youtube  covers  n  original  songs  for  a  couple  years  and  gathered a  decent  following  ?  she  wasnt  huge  or  anything  but  she  did  get  a  record  deal  w  an  actual  big  label  out  of  it  a  few  months  ago  .  blue  was  pretty  happy  abt  it  but  then  when  the  recording  process  started  she  realized  they  werent  treating  her  as she  thought  she  deserved  at  all  ?  which  resulted  on her  taking  her  thoughts  to  some  reps  of  the  label  n  when  she  didn’t  feel  any  difference  in  the  way  she  was  being  treated  she  took  it  to  the public  ?  which  definitely  caused  quite a  sitr  bc  she  wasn’t  a  huge  name  but  she  was  big  enough  ?  so  now  she’s  in  some  considerable  trouble  w  her  label  but  Also  more  famous  than  ever  so  they  are  choosing  not  to  bury  her  for  now  ?  she’s  in  some  definite  trouble  though  so  it’ll  be  fun  to  see  what  happens  next  n  what  her  moves  will be  ?  spoiler  alert :  it’ll prob  be  smth  dumb.

i  still have  so  much  to  say  but  i’m  so lazy  wow .  dont  start  ur  intros  so  close  to opening  time  folks  thats  my  tip  as  an  old  internet  auntie  .  OK SO  ONTO  SOME  CONNECTIONS  NOW  

some label  mates  who  she  may  or  may  not  get  along  with  ?

hookups !!  she  prob  has  a  few  she  regrets  too   bc  who  doesnt  am i  right

best  friends !!  ppl  who  actually  support  her  n  she  loves  w  no restrictions  just  love  all  around  friends

exes </3  not  gonna  lie  i  have  some  sad  ideas  abt  this  one

good  influence  bc  blue  is  a  mess she  needs  one  of  those  pls  someone  slap  her  head  n  make  her  drink  some  water

a  fling  she  has  feelings  for  but  may  not  be  requited  ...  i  like  my  romantic  connections  to  be  angsty  did yall  notice

artistic  soulmate  !!  someone  her  artistic  bitch  side  just  vibes  with  ?  could  be  a  songwriter  or  singer or  anything  tbh

some   indecisive  romantic   shit where blue rly  knows  sh’s  too messy  n  this  person  is too amazing ?  but  they still  have  feels  so   ... now  what ?

this is  p  mcuh  it ??  it  has  taken so long  to  finish  this  i  hate  myself  but  HEY  if  u  like  blue  or  dislike  her  u  should  hit  me  up  so  we  can  come  up  w  some  plot  ideas  ?  i wish  i  had  a  quirky  goodbye  idea  but  my  brain  has  just  quit  working  guys  so  u  get  nothing  from  me  other than  a  good  old  fashioned goodbye  thanks  for ur  attention  i  love u

[prorevenge]

2 birds....one stone.

Alright....this is my first post on /prorevenge, hell on reddit period. This is quite a bit long...so just bare with me.

EX: ex husband EM: ex’s mother me: naturally it’s me. MM: my mother SD: step dad MS: my little sister

About 9-10 ago (I was 17, turning 18 in 2 months) I met a young man (22 years old) a former US Marine. Good looking guy, smart, and funny. We talked for awhile before we went on an actual date. The date’s were always wonderful. In May 2010, I met his 3 year old daughter on her birthday. She was wonderful. I also met EM on that day as well. Not so wonderful. A b***h to be exact. But whatever, ya know. Early in our relationship we get engaged, young & dumb me was ecstatic. I’m still in high school at the time, 11th grade to be exact. Because of medical conditions (Epilepsy) I was held back in 9th grade. I write down literally everything, because my memory is absolutely horrid. So I had to find that notebook to make sure I had details correct. Anyways......at 17, early 18 I was this skinny little thing 5’2” 120-130lbs and very much “gifted”.

We get engaged & I move out of MM & SD’s house. I move to a city about an hour away. Transfer schools to a high school that was huge. I’ve always gone to small town schools. I was terrified. Right after I turned 18, I was put on a seizure med that made me gain 80lbs in a month. I had never been this big & went into a very deep depression. For an entire year I refused to take pictures with people, didn’t dress nice (I stuck with basketball shorts/sweats & t-shirts). We get an apartment soon after I move to the city. I have a job at the local home store & he has a job at a restaurant.

7 months later we get married. People were congratulating MM on becoming a grandparent.......I have never been pregnant, that’s how big I had become. I graduate high school & start working full time. EH has started working 20+ hours overtime at just a little fast food place (which obviously should have been a red flag for me at the time....but wasn’t.) After we were married, EH had informed me that he was dishonorably discharged from the military....that he never even made it out of boot camp. Because a guy pissed him off & he hung the guy out of a barracks window by his feet but ultimately pulled him back in. So then I realize that not only is this man violent, but manipulative as well. I had already got this man’s initials tattooed on my wrist (yes, I know, stupid as hell.) EH starts showing up at home with more & more money. We furnished the apartment with a new 55” TV. New furniture. Game consoles. EM starts treating me like shit, like I had done something wrong. Accusing me of being a gold digger & taking advantage of her sweet, sweet son....then started messaging MM & posting on Facebook that I was a lesbian and cheating on EH.

EH showed up one evening after work, a little nervous. He had gotten a call to show up at a meeting with his boss the next morning. He drops me off at my job that next morning (which is right across the parking lot from his), and then goes to his meeting. A few moments later I see a cop car show up & leave a few minutes later. Who happened to be in the back? You got it, EH. I found out that not only had embezzled over $3000. I moved home with MM & SD. EM continued to harass me. While her boyfriend would be texting me & asking me to have sex with him & doing other things with him. I made sure I had screenshotted everything. I got EH phone from police & started going through it. Messages, Facebook, etc. I found out that not only had he been cheating on me with a 16 year old girl. But he had also made fake Facebook acct and had been messaging MS who was 12 at the time. Asking her for sexual favors. Then I found multiple dating apps on his phone & with HUNDREDS of messages to multiple women asking about sex & relationships & marriage with them.

At that point I was furious & extremely done. I am very family oriented & would give my life for MS. So I also screenshot that Facebook acct & all of the messages to not only MS but to the 16 year old as well. And email them to myself. I gather all of the screenshots, sort them out. Send screenshots of the messages to MM & send screenshots of EVERYTHING to EM. Screenshots of her bfs convo, 16 year olds convo, & MS’s convo. To show her, that her sweet, sweet son was not only a pedophile but a manipulative little fuck who embezzles money like stupid fuck from his job. When she showed up to meet me, her face was PRICELESS. It was a mix of disappointment & disgust. She apologized to me about everything she had said. I went about my way. She broke up with her bf & kicked him out on the streets (he was from a state very far north of where I live).

I took the screenshots of the messages to MS & the 16 year old to the police. He got in even more trouble & not only had to spend 3 months in jail for the embezzlement but had to spend 2 years in prison & have to register as a sex offender for the rest of his life. He apparently had met a young girl somehow during the final days of his stay in prison, and moved in with her & her parents (she was 16 as well) when he got out. His mother & brothers had disowned him, cut contact, and he lost any custody/visitation with his daughter. I knew I still had the screenshots in my email. So I found out who the child was he was living with & figure out who her parents are & send them the screenshots. Let them know he is a sex offender & had talked with a different 16 year old & a 12 year old. They kick him out into the streets as well. Last I heard, he was couch hopping and jobless (this was as of last year).

As a result of everything, I am now in a very wonderful marriage (almost 4 years) with a man I’ve known for 13 years.

Him & EM bf both lost a lot & I feel no regret in any way, shape, or form. I done a lot to keep children safe from him. I am one of those people who feel like there’s only 1 cure for a pedo....but we will keep that violent comment out of here.

Anyways....sorry it was so long.

(source) story by (/u/truckerswife15)

[laniakeabooks]

Free to Fall by Lauren Miller, A Rant Review by Laniakea

Hello. How are you?

It’s been a long ass time. Why? My dumbass decided to take summer courses. You know those super condensed ones? The ones that make you want to rip your eyeballs out? Yeah... I took three at once. What was I thinking, right? I couldn’t tell you. I regret it. 

BUT. I still managed to read. And in July I read this gem of a book dubbed Free to Fall, written by Lauren Miller. And oooooooooh boy do I have shit to say about this... shit. So, brace yourselves, because this is a long and angry one.  

So, this is how this review is going to go:

       The major issues I had with this book and its narrative (when I say major issues, I mean MAJOR ISSUES… like, dare I say, problematic aspects of this book).

       Because it’s me, the deplorable excuse for science/neuroscience that Lauren Miller apparently didn’t find the need to take five minutes to google-check the concepts she was using.

       The little things that just kind of twisted the knife of annoyance

You may be saying: “Wait a second, she isn’t going to be talking about anything that the book did right.” And to that I say: “The things that the book did right? Nothing, IN MY OPINION. The thing that Lauren Miller did right, though, was write in a style that jives with my personal tastes. She didn’t beat around the bush to say something, she just said it outright. WHICH I LIKE, because, I don’t have time or the patience to suss out all of those little details and symbolisms just to get to the point that (for example) it’s a beautiful day.” There. Positive point. Hey, I didn’t rate it one star because it had a lot of positives.

So, let’s get started, shall we? (Shout-out to Corrine and Rob because damn, they’ve had a tough year.)

Issue #1: This is the biggest issue I had with this book. It has nothing to do with the plot or the characters or anything like that, but it’s what bothers me the most. What is it, you may ask? Well, it’s the simple fact that everyone in this book (and I have to assume Lauren Miller too) refers to the mentally ill as “crazy”. If you don’t understand my issue with this, let me explain. Calling someone who is mentally ill “crazy” is equivalent to calling a black person a “nigger” or calling a gay person a “faggot”. The word crazy is used as a slur to put someone beneath you, to make them less believable or trustworthy… to dehumanize them. It’s derogatory and offensive. It’s time that we stop using that word when talking about mental illness. It’s 2019 (2014 in the book’s case). Unacceptable.

So, when do we see the mentally ill referred to as crazy in Free to Fall? Throughout the entire book pretty much. It’s just said over and over and over again. But the worst instance? Here it is as a direct quote from page 127 (Oh, and mind you, the character saying this is a psychologist teaching a cognitive psychology class. Let that sink in.):

“You’ve all been given limited access to the Department of Public Health’s medical records database,” Rudd said as he returned to the front of the room.

(*record scratch* Wait a second, high school students having access to medical files? Absolutely not. Would never happen. You usually can’t even get your hands on medical records unless you’re the patient’s doctor. So that’s a technical issue with this book… one of many. Again, five minutes on Google, Lauren. Okay, back to the whole “crazy” thing.)

“Your login has been coded to the research topic you selected, allowing you to review the med records for patients who suffered from the mental illness you’re studying.” He picked up his tablet off his desk and tapped the DPH icon. The app launched on the screen at the front of the room. “Now, I know what some of you are thinking,” he deadpanned as he logged himself in. “You’re hoping this means you’ll be able to prove once and for all that your frenemy in a certified nut job. But, alas, your access is limited to dead crazies, and this particular database is anonymous anyway, which means the only identifying information you’ll have are gender, ethnic origin, and birth and death dates.”

That’s right. Lauren Miller had this character say, “dead crazies”. Dead. Crazies. The note I wrote in the margin right beside this passage? Word for word: FUCK YOU, YOU PIECE OF SHIT. Not sure if I’m directing this at Lauren Miller, Rudd or both, but I stand by it. In reality though, I don’t think there are any words to describe how disgusted and offended (and it’s VERY hard to offend me) I am by those two words. At this point, page 137 out of page 469, I decided this book would get a 1 star and a damning review.

“Oh, you’re being so petty.” Yeah bitch, I sure fucking am.

“It’s just a word.” No bitch, it fucking ain’t.

“You shouldn’t read books that say things like that.” Well bitch, I didn’t know books written in 2014 would use derogatory words like crazy. And I’d rather it be me who reads it and warns people about it than have someone who is vulnerable read it and take it seriously.

I am a huge advocate for mental illness and destigmatizing it. It’s time we stop using this disgusting derogatory word when talking about mental illness. And a good place to start is right here in the media.

Issue #2: Rory and North are preparing to roofie someone. That’s right. Roofie. As in drug them against their will. Assault them. Violate them. And to make it worse, they’re planning to administer it intravenously, because the whole assault thing wasn’t despicable enough. BUT DON’T WORRY YOU GUYS! North says he’ll get some legal drugs from a pharmacist because that makes it okay.

He objects for 0.5 seconds… but it doesn’t last. Here’s how the conversation goes:

“The only question is, how do we take Liam out of commission for a couple of hours?” North asked.

“We roofie him” I say without hesitation. “It’ll incapacitate him without killing him, and it’ll screw with his memories.”

“Oh, okay. I’ll just grab the bottle of date-rape pills I have in my medicine cabinet.”

“Not pills,” I corrected. “Has to be injectable. There’s no way we can guarantee that he’ll drink whatever we put it in.”

North gave me an incredulous look. “You’re actually serious?”

“What? It’s what the society uses. And it’ll do exactly what we need it to do.

North tugged at this Mohawk. “I know we don’t have time to get into this right now, but, holy crap, Rory, this shit is seriously messed up.”

“You’re right. Not the time. We have to go buy roofies.”

“Where, at Walgreens? I’m sure we’ll find them right next to the Advil.”

I crossed my arms, irritated by the sarcasm. “You’re a guy with a Mohawk and tattoos. Don’t you know people?”

“People with Rohypnol?”

“So, you don’t know anyone who can get it?”

He started to shake his head but seemed to think of something. “One of my clients is a pharmacist in Greenfield. I could probably get a prescription sleeping serum from him. Something potent but legal. I can message him from my apartment.”

North said it, this is so messed up… but is surpasses the “messed up” title and deserves the “fucked up” title. By the way, they never talk about it again. Getting “legal” drugs does not make the act of drugging someone okay. Ever. And on top of that Rory wants someone that will mess with Liam’s memories? I guess assaulting him and revoking his control over his own body wasn’t evil enough for Rory, she had to fuck with the essence of who he is.    

Moving on to the… “science”. Listen, I get it, this is fiction. It doesn’t have to be 100% in line with reality. But do you know what isn’t fiction? Neuroscience. Science that has already been researched and accepted. Why does this matter so much to me? I hate misinformation. It leads to fear and people doing stupid shit. Also, I am an aspiring neuroscientist myself and would like for people to understand how the brain works on a physiological (and psychological) level. That way there will be less of that “vaccines cause autism” and “sunscreen causes ADHD” crap, because they don’t, by the way.

Lauren Miller latches onto the term “synaptic pruning”. This is a real thing. During your first few months of life, unused/rarely used neurons will die (don’t worry, this is perfectly normal and an essential step in neurodevelopment). How does Lauren Miller incorporate this into her story?

“Now we knew that the inner voice was nothing more than a glitch in the brain’s circuitry, something to do with ‘synaptic pruning’ and the development of the frontal lobe.” (p.13)

My response went something like this: NoOOoooOOOOoOo! It’s only page 13 and I’m being subjected to poorly researched scienceeeeeeEEEeEEEeeee.

It would have taken five minutes on Google to look up: Which areas of the brain have to do with hearing voices? Answer: temporal and frontal lobes. Done. Next: why do people hear voices? Answer: potentially neuronal death in said brain regions (not synaptic pruning, very different concepts). Why? We don’t know yet. Anyway, the voice they are talking about here is “The Doubt” which is basically intuition so that would most likely relate to the hippocampus (and other memory-storing regions) and the prefrontal cortex. But then again, “The Doubt” is supposed to be altruism… but it’s written as intuition, so I’m just confused.

Next in bad (neuro)science, Lauren Miller claims that enzymes for memories (this relates back to the whole roofie scene where Rory wants to mess with Liam’s memories too). Basically, neurotransmitters are responsible for memories, namely glutamate and dopamine. I’ll be talking about glutamate here because dopamine forms the “do that again because it made us feel good” kind of memory, and glutamate forms the kind of memory Lauren Miller is referring to. You need to glutamate for LTP (basically a memory) which, in short, is strengthening the connection between two neurons. If you’ve ever heard the term “Neurons that fire together wire together.”, that’s exactly what I’m talking about here. So, no, enzymes do not form memories. (P.S. LTP is really interesting... if you’re interested in brains, so check it out!)

Onto “SynOx” (synthetic oxytocin) which is really, from what I understand, simulates oxytocin but activating oxytocin receptors on neurons (Lauren Miller doesn’t go into this much detail on how SynOx works, but I’m just trying to understand by talking through it so bear with me). First of all, Lauren Miller describes oxytocin as the “love drug” which isn’t exactly true… it’s more of a bonding “drug”. Love is a little but more complicated than oxytocin release. Not that big of a deal, but I thought I’d point it out.

Unfortunately, SynOx has a major role in the plot… and it doesn’t… work. Basically, the big bad corporation is relying on SynOx to make consumers trust their products unconditionally by injecting people with SynOx nanobots under the guise of a flu shot. That way the nanobots can get into their brains and they can be forced to trust everything Lux suggests. Essential mass mind control. Theoretically that could actually work… BUT the nanobots would never be able to cross the blood-brain barrier to actually get into the brain, and therefor wouldn’t be there to allow Gnosis to control people. Did that make sense? Basically, SynOx is the soldier, the brain is enemy headquarters. But enemy headquarters is so highly reinforced that the soldier can’t get in to do its job, so it’s left out in the cold with no power. Maybe I just confused you, but what I’m saying is that this SynOx would never work as a mind control device unless it is injected directly into the brain (or even spinal cord)… through the skull and everything. That being said, the evil plot would have failed form the get-go.

And yes, I do hate being this rational sometimes because suspension of disbelief is very difficult and makes it very hard for me to enjoy some works of fiction.      

Now the little things.

In the synopsis: “Rory Vaugh: a brainy sixteen-year-old…”. She’s also a “hepta” which means she shows aptitude in all seven liberal arts at Theden and makes her the smartest kid at school. Well, she sure doesn’t act it.

She can’t tell the difference between Arabic and Hebrew writing. I mean… are you serious? Have you seen them? They look nothing alike.

Doesn’t see the value of experiments in ethics such as the Trolley Problem. I mean, one of the liberal arts is philosophy and she’s supposed to be naturally gifted at it… but I guess not.

Proudly states she took human anatomy in grade nine (and considers herself an expert from that one class in middle school)… but doesn’t know how ABO relates to blood. I guess she forgot the mention she failed the class.

Also seems to consider herself an expert in genetics but never thinks to ask herself as to why she and her father share zero genetic traits.

She can’t figure out a simple riddle (You know that one about the letter e? Yeah that one)

It takes her forever to figure out who her biological father is (should be glaringly obvious from a certain physical description and all the other evidence Rory gathers)

Doesn’t know what a USB is or what it does (Oh, I’ll get to that in a minute)

There’s so much more… but the review would have to be a whole book if I were to list them all. Basically, if you’re going to call your character a genius, MAKE SURE THEY ACT LIKE ONE.

It seems that Lauren Miller forgot Rory’s blood type (little detail, I know), but instead of going back to look at what she wrote, she just gives her a new blood type. Rory goes from being A+ at p .226 to being AB+ at p. 237/238. That’s just lazy.

When Rory finds out the man that raised her and loved her doesn’t share her genetics, all of a sudden, he’s no longer her dad. Imagine being a vulnerable teenager who is being raised and loved by someone who may not be biologically related to you and reading that a character you may look up to goes through the same thing and says that that makes that parent’s love irrelevant. They aren’t related to you, so they’re not your dad/mum. How sad. 

Now, the USB thing. This book is set in the mid-2030s and they don’t use USBs anymore. Basically, they’re obsolete technology. And that’s fine! There will come a day when this is a reality. Here’s the thing, though: Rory the “genius” doesn’t know what it is or what it does. You expect me to believe that? When I see a floppy disk (which I have never used), I know what it is and how it works. Even a telegraph! I’ve only ever seen pictures of telegraphs, but I know what they are and what they do.

Page 229. North says (in response to Rory talking about research and science):

“Whose research are we talking about here?” He scoffed. “’Science’ with a capital S? The same geniuses who said the Earth was the center of the universe?”

Um… the church actually said that. And then they murdered anyone who dared to say otherwise. Wrong “geniuses”, genius. (Also, scientists rethink their beliefs all the time, and are more than willing to accept discoveries that overwrite their previous beliefs as long as there is evidence. Just saying.)

Rory goes from relying solely on Lux to make her decision to criticizing everyone who does the exact same thing within a few pages. Hypocrisy, not my favourite.

Hershey is described as a naturally beautiful woman who wears makeup to highlight that beauty… but the tone of the narration suggests that that’s a bad thing? Gross.

When they are preparing for the final boss fight, Rory wants North to write an algorithm that will reverse Lux’s algorithm. North says that it would take weeks for a professional programmer to write an algorithm like that… than proceeds to do it overnight. And manages to get some roofies to assault Liam.

North gifts Rory with a necklace that contains a tracking device and a camera… and she thinks that’s romantic and sweet because hE cArEs. I… have no words for how creepy (and honestly bordering on abusive) that is.

So, in conclusion, I feel that Lauren Miller wrote an offensive mess that didn’t know what the hell it was talking about, topped with despicable (and flat) characters that think drugging someone against their will is okay as long as the drug you use is legal.

The end! 😊

Oh yeah, 1 out of 5 stars!

[thesinglesurgeon]

The Interview Process Part 1-Picking Places, Planning Travel.

I’m almost done with the interview trail, thank goodness! I finally have some advice I can confidently pass along. The interview process is very overwhelming, and even though I went in with a very excited attitude, the whole process definitely takes the life out of you after a while. Since I’m still in the midst of the travel and interview whir, I thought I’d just focus on the parts of the process that are over and that I survived: picking places and planning travel.

It should be a no brainer that you submit your ERAS application (with all components completed, including letters) in early September before the Sept 15 deadline. This means you ask for letters in May and continuously “remind” people q2weeks to submit them.

The hard part is: where the hell do I apply? There are zillions of places!! AHHH! Here was my strategy.

Go onto Doximity Residency Navigator and sort your programs by reputation. They display results in chunks of 50 schools. I included all programs in the country just so I had a solid point of reference of how competitive programs were. Note: take this with a grain of salt. Doximity does have an explanation of how they rank based on “reputation,” and although I haven’t read it, it’s obvious that research output is part of the ranking. Remember that all ACGME accredited programs will (for the most part) have you graduate as a competent general surgeon. This “reputation” ranking really helped me gauge competitiveness, but not necessarily quality.

I would read through the top 50 programs and on a piece of paper divided into 3 sections (Top 50, 50-100, >100), I would jot down places that I heard where good, cities I might want to live in, etc. Think of this as a free write exercise, don’t read into it too much. Do the same with the next 50 and list the ones that strike your fancy in their respective column. For all programs over #100, I put them in their own column. I ended up with 50-ish places.

Now, you need to have a serious heart-to-heart with yourself and/or significant other. What one thing matters most? Some common answers are geography, affiliation with a med school, urban/rural, affordable real estate, near a major airport, etc. Just pick one thing to be your next sorting attribute. I picked geography/places that my significant other and I both like.

Then, under the original three columns, we drew a thick black line and labeled “Tier 1, Tier 2, Tier 3.” Now sort the previous columns based on your sorting attribute with Tier 1 being most favorable (example picture below).

Once you’ve reorganized schools into your personal tiers system, go across Tier 1 and apply to all of them. Then move onto Tier 2. In my picture example at the bottom, I would apply for sure to UVA and MedStar (and all other Tier 1s) before adding the Tier 2s to my application list. This way ensured that I had a well rounded application list that included competitive schools with “mid range” schools. I stopped once I reached 50 schools, a number I felt comfortable with. I didn’t apply to my “Tier 3 >100″ schools since I filled my numbers with Tier 1 and Tier 2 places.

Submit applications and wait. While you wait: make a new email address just for ERAS! This was the best advice I got. I made a gmail account with my last name and school initials. I updated my information on AAMC with that email. Then I silenced ALL ALERTS on my phone except that gmail account. I had my phone next to me at all times in Sept and Oct and each time I heard a gmail alert, I knew it was from ERAS. I was on SICU and told them I was waiting for invites. As soon as I heard the noise, I ran to a computer or used my iPad to reply within minutes (my phone struggled with loading some of the interview calendar apps). I got a spot for all my invites. I highly recommend this step!

Also while you wait: apply for a travel rewards credit card. Very important: do not ignore your balance. I need to pay mine off each month still, but I earned over $1000 from points I accumulated. The interest rates are insane, but so are the benefits, so approach this step with caution. I got a Chase Sapphire Rewards Preferred card after reading a few articles about good starter travel cards. 

Don’t rush to book hotels. Programs send discount codes sometimes a week before the date. I never had trouble getting a reasonable hotel price. Flights are another story. Southwest is the best since you can cancel, reschedule, etc with out losing any money and not being charged fees. A couple of my friends use skyscanner to look for deals too.

Make sure you have one interview outfit and one outfit for the business casual social events (more on outfits later). Put your shampoo and hair products into travel sized bottles. Make sure everything you need (including your shoes, lint rollers, etc) fits into a small carry on bag. You can then basically leave everything in the bag and just refill your toiletries as needed. I even got travel lotion, toothbrush, toothpaste, and threw everything in the bag and didn’t have to fully unpack at all this season.

Next time, I’ll write more about weird interview questions and tips for the actual interview day!

[recalibr8]

The mEtOHd in my madness

I’d been out with my teen lads on a Friday. We got off the train and there was a young, crumpled woman sat on the platform, fat tears splashing into a puddle of sick on her trench coated lap. I offered her some tissues; I’m a mum, it come with the membership card. After a few sorries she asked “where did you stop?”. It took us a while to realise she meant, ‘where are we?’ She was out by 2 stations which on the face of it wasn’t bad. We pointed her onto the next train, gave her a mint (gold membership benefits) and my youngest shouted “take care of yourself” as we trudged up the platform. We agreed it was probably work drinks getting out of bounds and she’d be ok now she had tissues. But I kept thinking, “where did you stop?”. Where did I stop? Because I’m now AF af.

AF af. That’s alcohol free and doing pretty darn ruddy brilliant. Three months ago I upgraded my BrewDog to NannyState, went Becks Blue and am thinking in an offhand way about brewing Kombucha. I’ve teamed this up with going plasticlite, veganish and kimchi curious. So far, so middle class virtual signalling. But where did I stop?

I’ve been drinking since I was 5. I’d adorably finish up the beer in my parents’ guests glasses and well, kept going. Not in a Drew, Carrie or Liza rehab by 13 sense but I think I’ve probably had my fair share. I’m well aware that I knew, know and don’t know but suspect people who I love who have significant alcohol use problems and this is blog is in no way trying to say my needs are greater than theirs. I know a lot of highly creative endeavours and friendships were found in a gin bottle but also unforgivable abuses. And I know friends whose acts are based around the camaraderie of drinking. And I’d never tell anyone what they *should* do. But like all ex anybodies, I’m annoying about my sobriety journey right now. Bear with me.

But it’s not just me though. I see booze everywhere. For a dose related lethal toxin that’s very effective marketing. There’s a giant ad on Toots Broadway station entreating me to Go Bottomless and every other Facebook ad is for a spirit that promises to make evenings round the back of Catford Lidl magical. And many of these are aimed at women. A recent industry survey found ‘only’ 17% of women drank beer and this needed sorting out. Look out for more lady drinking adverts, they’re coming.

But I wasn’t alcoholic. Was I? Are you? You’re only an alcoholic if you have one more drink than you doctor. I’m

a doctor ... so let’s take a look.

*I’m really low on the alcoholic check list*

I’ve never drank alcohol in the morning, blacked out, been told by others I have a problem, had to apologise...

Ah, I have had to apologise once or twice. Nothing major, just ‘sorry, I was a bit wobbly/silly/rude/loud/insulting/gave you my shoes as a gift’. I once lost my credit and oyster card at the bar of a immersive theatre event though. I don’t know how I got home. I had to find the site manager the next day and he definitely had other things to do. Not long after my bag was stolen in SoHo because I was distracted. Not sure how I got home then either. Friends put me in an Uber after my MA showcase because I wasn’t walking very straight. Or being very nice. So I definitely remember getting home then.

These were all Thursdays or weekends. I’ve always been careful not to have any chance of affecting my work. But yeah, how clear headed was I for my family, myself? And much of this was stress drinking after a week of being a clever doctor. Just loosened up the joints a bit. Particularly if your slightly socially awkward. But I wasn’t a drunk, no. Maybe just a binge drinker. And that’s ok, isn’t it?

*Hangovers are just a thing*.

With only drinking at the end of the week, I was careful not to be hungover at work. But I had a Friday at home hangover where I didn’t get out of bed for the day. I claimed I’d been poisoned. I’d just had one too many Jaegerbombs. I vomited in the taxi. I’ve vomited in several taxis. That’s not a good look at any age. Hangovers are a funny meme, a cartoon of a dog in sunglasses, office banter. It’s your liver crying and your brain folding it’s arms in judgment. It’s not bad wine, it’s bad choices.

*Get kids used to drinking. Like the French. Then they won’t binge*.

My 13 year old buys old vodka bottles from charity shops. Wearing a furry hat, his comedy drunk Russian is not bad I used to have the deepest voice of my friends at 14 so it was my job to buy the booze for house parties. My mother always told me drink a pint of milk before you go out to soak up the booze. At 14. I had a few sexual assaults along the way but if I blame myself that’s victim blaming and I don’t want to be a bad feminist on top of everything. Med school in the 80’s/90’s was all over the drink. Freshers’ week was a booze insurance test. The circle line pub crawl, the Clint Eastwood Appreciation Society, the Med School pub crawl...end at Barts because Smithfield’s liscence meant you’d keep going all night.

*Booze always cheers you up*.

I’ve got to confess, my life has got a lot quieter. I’m going out much less, I leave early, I’m not champagne Charlie any more. I’m always, well, me. My dad was a depressed alcoholic, so was his dad (he ran a tobacconist and offie so that didn’t help) and his dad before him. And I have depression and PTSD. My moods are now not so high, but they are also not so low. This is very strange. I’m hoping this is a good thing. I’ve heard it is. This, this is the mEtOHd in my madness. The mood stabilisation. That’s the plan.

*Being a doctor is just one of those boozey jobs*

Fun quiz! Who do you think drinks the most? Enough to have a problem. Oooh, were good at guessing this in ED. Writers must be bad, farmers, journalists! yes, they’re always drunk, private invsestigators (?), airline pilots (like my dad, I saw what those guys put away). Ok...it’s.

Lawyers - reporting 33% with problematic drinking

Construction workers- 16.5%

Miners -17.5%

Then it’s Healthcare workers, especially doctors (oh no). A. 2012 study of American surgeons published in JAMA Surgery found 15.4 percent had an alcohol use disorder. Female surgeons (25.6 percent) were more likely than male surgeons (13.9 percent) to exhibit symptoms of alcohol addiction. Healthcare professionals in general it’s 10%

https://www.drugrehab.com/addiction/common-professions/

Performing artists and writers - 11.5%

Catering/hospitality -11%

So no pilots then? I think there’s something they’re not telling us or things are much better since the 80’s. 


 A 1998 study of junior doctors in Newcastle-upon-Tyne reported that:

* 60% exceeded the recommended safe limits for alcohol consumption

* 36% of males and 20% of females used cannabis 

The Sick Doctors Trust says “Since our working lives are spent helping others, it is easy to push aside our own problems, in addition to which, denial is quite common in medical staff. This is not deliberate, but a part of the whole illness of addiction. That addiction is a chronic illness which therefore requires treatment as for any other condition, is now well-established but there is still a tendency to feel that it is a sign of weakness, and that maybe things aren't 'that bad'.’

That some individuals are more prone to developing addiction is generally agreed. There is no single determining factor, but usually a combination of biological, psychosocial and environmental factors - a mixture of nature and nurture. There is now much evidence implicating dysfunction in the Dopamine transmitter system & it’s involvement in craving. There is also evidence to suggest that the effect alcohol has on an individual’s brain is genetically determined. A family history is present in many alcoholics- those having direct family affected being more at risk...

*Its a family affair*

I went to Adult Children of Alcoholics once. It wasn’t for me but what they said made total sense. I take responsibility for everyone, I’m primed for betrayal and disaster and I totally thrive in emotional drama. My dad wasn’t a nice drunk. He made my mum drink when pregnant ‘to keep him company’. She in turn gave babies a tot of brandy to keep them quiet as a stewardess and I can’t imagine my permanently shouting parents wouldn’t have liked us to be quiet babies too. So I’ve got pre and postnatal form. But I don’t have to fix them now. Particularly dad. It’s quite hard to fix dead people.

https://adultchildren.org/

*Booze: the solution AND cause of all of life’s difficulties*

Sick Doctors again “ Alcohol is the commonest substance of abuse in all doctors. Drinking will surprisingly continue despite negative consequences such as job difficulties, relationship breakdowns, financial problems, loss of driving licence; the alcoholic is driven by an irrational compulsion to continue, and frequently results in despair to the point of suicide. Fortunately, the depression associated with active alcoholism often abates when sober.”

http://sick-doctors-trust.co.uk/page/addiction

*I’m not an alcoholic*

and you probably aren’t either. But you might have problematic drinking. I did a survey as part of an UCLH research project. You can too. I lied a bit on it and still came out drinking more than 97% of women my age. Now an icon opens up on my phone every day to that says ‘DRINK LESS’. I stopped leaving my phone on meetings tables.

Drink Less. by Robert West

https://apps.apple.com/gb/app/drink-less/id1020579244

If you are thinking about getting help for problematic drinking or any other addictions including workaholism or have any burnout symptoms for more than 3 weeks, you can of course get staff support and occupational health. But/And there is the amazing NHS Practitioner Health Programme where doctors with any addictions are supported https://php.nhs.uk/ DocHealth is another equally good programme https://www.dochealth.org.uk/. I used the latter when it was MedNet.

So, do I feel amazing? Had I got amazing skin, lost weight, feel energised and hopeful. Urg, not really. I feel a bit scared actually. I’ve lost my social crutch and I’ve stopped going out. I’m worried I’m boring and people will think I’m weird. But....I can get up earlier to walk the dog, I’m moderately less tired and although I’m not skipping down the road happy, the depressive moment I had in spring could have been a lot worse. I think that’s actually amazing. And that’s why I’m doing this. I want to face the world honestly and openly. I want to enjoy my kids before they leave home which is frighteningly soon and weirdly, I want to know my liver replaced itself in a year so I’m literally a new person (don’t google Theseus’ Boat Paradox, life is complicated enough). Oddly compelling, that. So where did I stop? I stopped here. In a weird waiting room in my head. But with the promise of a new adventure through the next door.

But don’t stop doing you, babes. Keep telling me your booze bantz. They are hilarious. Any story that starts or ends with Baileys is only going one way. This clearly isn’t a lecture. Most people can do moderation. And do could I, mostly. And it’s the mostly that’s not good enough. Not for me. Not any more.

Online support - https://www.facebook.com/groups/joinclubsoda/?ref=share

Samaritans- https://www.samaritans.org/

BMA wellbeing including 24 hour support - https://www.bma.org.uk/advice/work-life-support/your-wellbeing

Tea and Empathy for doctors’ online support - https://www.facebook.com/groups/1215686978446877/?ref=share

Al Anon for children of alcoholics https://adultchildren.org/

https://www.alcoholics-anonymous.org.uk/

Dedicated to my husband who gave up the wine w*nker 6 years ago without any of this mid life crisis fuss. But I gave up meat and caffeine first so I still win.

[unfortunate-rp]

Congratulations, LIV! You have been accepted as your desired character, AVA COLEMAN. I especially loved in your app the amount of detail you went into the Anything Else section to show what makes Ava Ava. Please be sure to complete the steps listed on the NEW MEMBER CHECKLIST and send in your account within the next 24 hours.

Well, young lady, have you been good to your mother?

OOC        Your Name: Liv    Your Age: 21    Your Pronouns: She/Her    Time zone: EST    Activity Level: 5; I’m in grad school-enough said there. I can be on pretty reliably a bit each day though.      Tumblr account (for contact purposes): ooopsydaisy or thatparkinsongirl    (If applying for second character) Characters played: NA    (If applying for second character) Will you be able to handle a second character?: NA    How did you find us?: The lsrpg tag I think.    Triggers: None IC    Character you’re applying for: Ava Coleman    Why did you choose this character?: Before I even knew if Sybil’s wife would be a playable char I was fascinated with the idea of her. Right out of the gate, there’s so much potential for her. Ugh the angst, the character development, the mystery sh’s now caught up in.    Secondary character preference: Ruby Cohen! If I have time I’m apping her too.      A sample in character: The cats, Rosalind and Aslop, were crying in their carriers in the back seat and eventually Ava started too. With every mile, every turn she drove further and further from home; no, that wasn’t right, 667 Dark Avenue wasn’t home, not really. Home was Sybil. The truck was packed full of their life together, at least; every scrap of paper, every trinket, Ava didn’t dare get rid of anything or even place it in storage. Anything could be a clue, a message, an answer. She’d been around enough grieving families though by now to know that answers were a bandaid on a gaping wound and it was a gaping wound. Days after the funeral, but before the whispering of her own guilt began, Ava had woken in their bed to a noise in the kitchen, just the cats, but for a moment, sleep still clinging to her, it was any other morning, Sybil puttering around the kitchen as the coffee brewed. The car crash impact of realization, of remembrance, knocked the air out of her lungs, left her gasping alone in a bed for two, knees drawn up to her chest, trying to lessen the stomach deep pain. No one had ever explained to her how physical an emotional wound could hurt you. Pulling into the driveway of her new house, Ava tried to see it with Sybil’s eyes. It was charming enough with the view of the lake, butter yellow door, shutters, and creeping ivy. Some of that was detracted by the perpetual gray skies and the mist rolling in off the lake. It would’ve been a nice place to get away for a vacation but Sybil had always liked being in the city, in the bustle of things. Ava’s only instructions to the realtor had been for a small place out of the city, anything to get away from the whispers about her guilt. She’d have to endure it still at work, particularly where the motto was, it’s always the spouse, but at least here she was far enough from any neighbors. She slid out of the truck, grabbing the cat carriers first, Rosalind had finally settled down, having given in to her circumstances, but Aslop had switched from mournful meows to low hisses. Sybil had always joked about how each cat took after them. “We’re gonna be all right,” she murmured quietly to them, praying it wasn’t a lie. She shoved her way through the door, stopping just inside. It was so horrifically empty, bare walls, nothing but open space. The room opened straight to the living room, hard wood floors everywhere, and the kitchen tucked in the corner beyond her. At least here where Sybil had never been, she didn’t see phantoms of her everywhere-laughing over the stove as the pot of spaghetti boiled over everywhere, on the couch, cello laid out before her, carefully tending to the strings, at the desk in the study, poring over her commonplace book, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows. Ava wanted to cry, to just give into the sadness. Instead she knelt down carefully and opened up both of the cat carriers, letting them both slink off to explore. One box by one, she dragged everything in, leaving them all in haphazard stacks against the wall. She’d carefully labeled each and every box to ensure the smoothest unpacking but even still, it would be a long process. The boxes with Sybil’s name on them glared back at her. The only piece of furniture she bothered with for now was the disassembled bed, the wooden slats deposited in the one bedroom and the mattress on the floor in the living room until she could find the energy to get it down the hallway. Collapsing onto it, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Her heart ached for home, fruitlessly, uselessly. Eventually, as day faded away around her, the room growing dark, she felt the pressure of small cat paws against her chest. Eyes still on the ceiling, she reached a blind hand out, expecting to meet Rosalind’s furry head; instead, it was Aslop, and her one nub of an ear. Aslop had always been the more independent of the two cats, always exploring, sneaking outside even sometimes. And yet, here in an exciting new place, she curled up  on Ava’s chest and started purring loudly. Ava let out a shaky breath, loud in the silence.    What headcanons or plans do you have for this character? (Please take any current plotdrops into consideration):

Mostly just vague ideas at the moment. I feel like the direction I go will have a lot to do with her interactions with other people and with the development of the plot. That said, in my mind Ava’s always been one of the more background members of VFD, she joined late, she’s more into research than fighting on the front lines. Poor girl’s asthmatic and petrified of planes and quite simply not that type of person. BUT, god is she desperate to know what happened to Sybil, I think it’ll be very interesting for this desperation to push her outside of her comfort zone, to slide more into the action. OR alternatively, again a lot of this hinges on where the plot goes, I love a good moral quandary, Ava either making a fishy, not great deal with a firestarter for information or even her finding something out in her investigation that makes her doubt the holy mission of the volunteers (particularly since many of them even ones she considered friends doubt her innocence). I think her connection with Adam will be very interesting to explore. His doubt in her, their workplace relationship, his lack of knowledge about VFD. Super excited. Her and Lauren’s connection should be super fun as well. Nothing like a good arch nemesis plot. I kind of can’t wait.    Do you want any additional connections for your desired character that you’d like us to add to their bio?: I didn’t see either of them in any of the characters and I don’t know if you had something planned for them down the line but I’m very interested in Ava’s sister in laws, Clara and Isabella. I think it would be nice and heartwrenching for her to still have a family of sorts even after Sybil’s death. I mean plus they both just sounded super interesting.

   Anything else?:  A few valuable, factual details,   Ava, a young girl, curled in the old green armchair in the sitting room of her grandmother’s house.The heavy book in her lap was too old for her and boring moreover but it was a better alternative to staring out the window, watching, waiting for two people who wouldn’t be coming back (Ava had known it was the last time during the last time her parents came, she could feel it in the air, in the lingering kiss to her forehead her mother bestowed, her father tucking her in that night. Every movement whispered goodbye. It was a good thing she had this experience-it meant she knew how to recognize nonverbal goodbyes.). In a month’s time, Grammy Ellie would take pity on her and make the trek up to the attic to bring down her daughter’s, Ava’s mother, childhood book collection. She never could stop watching though. Wanting. It didn’t take long for her to read every book of her mother’s twice over. The library two streets down from Grammy’s was a small affair, homey, with not enough shelves for all their books. It was love at first sight. If she wasn’t home, she was guaranteed to be there. She didn’t play at the playground like the other children, didn’t run and scream up down the street. She was largely alone as a child; no one else understood her and she didn’t understand them. They had no interest in anatomy and chemistry and constellations, didn’t want to listen to her excited explanation of what black plague did to the body. It was okay; she didn’t even know she was lonely (that would come later). Primary school was merely a series of disappointments. Medical school might have been as well if not for that fateful taxi drive. The VFD was full of people just like her, full of that gnawing yearning for knowledge, for importance, for saving the world. It was a group of people who had as children all been told at one point or another to tone down their excitement about something. She made her first real friends there, her family (she discovered just how lonely she’d been all along). Friends she was desperate to protect in any way that mattered; for her that was using her medical skills to patch up the members of the VFD risking their lives on the front lines. A year after joining, she’d graduated from med school as an internist. Having a purpose among her family filled her with joy. Ava was often called into headquarters to patch someone up, small burns and other minor wounds mostly. That was until the panicked, late night phone call from one of her friends. Ava rushed across town her heart beating in her throat, hearing the words, poison, oh god, Ava, what do I do, I can’t lose him, over and over. She got there just in time, just in time to watch him die. She was still performing fruitless CPR, his wife sobbing on their kitchen floor, when the ambulance arrived. It would not be the last death. Going back to school for a residency and then fellowship in forensic pathology was an easy decision for her. If she couldn’t save her friends’ lives then she would do her best to respect and speak for them after death. Sybil had once asked how she could possibly bare it and Ava, unsure herself sometimes, had told her that she saw it as being a translator of sorts, passing on the last words of the dead to the family. Sybil, staring back at her, leaned up and kissed her forehead and it felt so much like a goodbye that Ava had whispered, please don’t put me through that (she would, of course, and there was a part of both of them that knew Sybil would). Sybil Holloway was a tornado carving a line of destruction through her from the first moment to the very last. She was Ava’s first everything, first friend, first kiss, first date, first time, first love. From the very moment Ava laid eyes on her, Sybil at a party, playing her cello for a small group, the music bleeding out of Sybil like a tide, she knew Sybil was special. They were as many people told them a disgusting couple, eyes following each other, soft touches, easy companionship, trust, support. Understanding. That, more than anything else was what Ava thought people were searching for, understanding, to hear an answering echo of your own spirit in someone else. Even so, it wasn’t a perfect relationship, no that would require perfect people and neither Ava or Sybil were that. Sybil never hesitated from taking on dangerous work for the VFD, dangerous, secretive work. Whispered conversations, late nights poring over notes she didn’t share, and sudden trips she claimed were just for searching out antiques. Ava knew this wasn’t the full truth and though she wanted to give Sybil her privacy she was terrified too—so many of their friends had died lately.

They fought over it occasionally when Ava’s worry became too much. Sybil accused of her of not trusting her, of acting like Sybil was just never going to come back one day just like her parents. No one could hurt you quite like someone who knew you well. They fought about it publicly at a small VFD gathering a week before the fundraiser and though they later made up at home that night, Ava knew that fight was still ringing in people’s ears as they looked at Sybil’s vacant fragile dead body sprawled on the sidewalk.

[just-breathe-fight-cf]

FIVE FEET APART CH3

Rachael Lippincott with Mikki Daughtry and Tobias Iaconis

Copyright 2018 / Simon & Schuster BFYR

Summary:Seventeen-year-olds Stella and Will, both suffering from cystic fibrosis, realize the only way to stay alive is to stay apart, but their love for each other is slowly pushing the boundaries of physical and emotional safety.

________________________________________________________________

CHAPTER 3 - STELLA

I pull on the blue AffloVest, snapping it into place around my torso with Barb’s help. It looks an awful lot like a life vest, except for the remove coming out of it. For the quickest moment I let it be a life vest, and I stare out the window, picturing myself in Cabo on a boat with Mya and Camila, the afternoon sun glowing on the horizon.

     The seagulls chirping, the sandy beach in the distance, the shirtless surfers--and then, despite myself, I think of Will. I blink, Cabo fading away as the barren trees outside my window swing into view.

    “So, Will. He’s a CFer, then?” I ask, though that’s obvious. Barb helps me clip the last strap into place. I pull at the shoulder of the vest do it doesn’t rub into my body collarbone.

    “A CFer and then some. B. cepacia. He’s part of the new drug trial for Cevaflomalin.” She reaches over, flicking the machine on and giving me a look.

    My eyes widen and I look over at my giant tub of hand sanitizer. I was that close to him and he has B. cepacia? It’s pretty much a death sentence for people with CF. He’ll be lucky to make it a few more years.

    And that’s if he’s as dedicated to his regimen as I am.

    The vest begins vibrating. Hard. I can feel the mucus in my lungs starting to slowly loosen.

    “You contract that and you can kiss the possibility of new lungs good-bye,” she adds, eyeing me. “Stay away.”

    I nod. Oh, I fully intend to do just that. I need that extra time. Besides, he was way too full of himself to be my type. “The trial,” I start to say, looking over at Barb and holding up my hand to pause the conversation as I cough up a wad of mucus.

    She nods in approval and hands me a standard-issue pale-pink bedpan. I spit into it and wipe my mouth before talking.

    “What are his odds?”

    Barb exhales, shaking her head before meeting my gaze. “Nobody knows. The drug’s too new.”

    Her look says it all, though. We fall silent except for the chugging of the machine, the vest vibrating away.

    “You’re set. Need anything before I hit the road?”

    I grin at her, giving her a pleading look. “A milk shake?”

    She rolls her eyes, putting her hands on her hips. “What am I room service now?”

    “Gotta take advantage of the perks, Barb!” I say, which makes her laugh.

    She leaves, and I sit back, the AffloVest making my whole body shake as it works. My mind wanders, and I picture Will’s reflection in the glass of the NICU, standing just behind me with a daring smile on his face.

    B. cepacia. That’s rough.

    But walking around the hospital without a mask on? It’s no wonder he got it in the first place, pulling stunts like that. I’ve seen his type in the hospital more times that I can count. The careless, Braveheart type, rebelling in a desperate attempt to defy their diagnosis before it all comes to an end. It’s not even original.

    “All right,” Barb says, bringing me not one but two milk shakes, like the queen she is. “This should hold you over for a bit.”

    She puts them on the table next to me, and I smile up at her familiar dark-brown eyes. “Thanks Barb.”

    She nods, touching my head gently before heading out the door. “Night, baby. See you tomorrow.”

    I sit, staring out the window and coughing up more and more mucus as the vest does its job to clear my airways. My eyes travel to the drawing of the lungs and the picture hanging next to it. My chest starts to hurt in a way that has nothing to do with the treatment as I think of my real bed. My parents. Abby. I pick up my phone to see a text from my dad. It’s a picture of his old acoustic guitar, leaning against a worn nightstand in his new apartment. He spent the whole day setting it up after I insisted he do that instead to take me to the hospital. He pretended not to be relieved, just like I pretended Mom was taking me so he wouldn’t feel guilty.

    It’s been a lot of pretending since the most ridiculous divorce of all time.

    It’s been six months and they still can’t even look at each other.

    For some reason it makes me want to hear his voice so badly. I tap on his contact info and almost press the green call button on my phone, but decide not to at the last second. I never call the first day, and all the coughing that the AffloVest makes me do would made him nervous. He’s still texting me every hour to check in.

    I don’t want to worry my parents. I can’t.

    Better to just wait until morning.

 My eyes shoot open the next morning and I look for what woke me, seeing my phone vibrating noisily on the floor, having free-fallen off the table. I squint at the drained milkshake glasses and mound of empty chocolate pudding cups taking up practically the entire space. No wonder the phone fell off.

    If we’re 60 percent water, I’m closing in on the remaining 40 percent being pudding.

    I groan, reaching over the bed to grab my phone, my G-tube burning with the stretch. I gently touch my side, lifting my shirt to unhook the tube, surprised that the skin around it is even redder and more inflamed than it was before.

    That’s not good. Irritations usually go away with a little bit of Fucidin, but my application yesterday didn’t seem to make a difference.

    I put a bigger glob of the ointment on it, hoping that will clear it up, and add a note to my to-do list to monitor it, before scrolling through my notifications. I have a couple of Snaps waiting from Mya and Camila, looking sleepy but happy as they boarded the plane this morning. Both of my parents texted me, checking in to see how I slept, if I’m settled in, and saying to give them a call when I get up.

    I’m about to answer the both of them when my phone vibrates, and I swipe right to see a text from Poe: You up?

    I shoot back a quick message seeing if he wants to have our usual breakfast date in twenty, before putting the phone down and swinging my legs over my bed to grab my laptop.

    Less than a second latter my phone buzzes with his reply: Yees!

    I grin, hitting the nurse-call button by my bed. Julie’s friendly voice crackles through the speaker. “Morning, Stella! You good?”

    “Yep. Can I get breakfast now?” I ask, turning my laptop on.

    “You got it!”

    The time on my laptop reads 9:00 a.m., and I pull the med cart closer, looking at the color-coded clumps I laid out yesterday. I smile to myself, realizing that this time tomorrow, after I get the beta version of my app fully up and running, I’ll be getting a notification on my phone telling me to take my morning pills and the exact dosage of each that I need.

    Almost a year of hard work finally coming together. An app for all chronic illnesses, complete with med charts, schedules, and dosage information.

    I take my pills and open Skype, scanning the contact list to see if either of my parents is on. There’s a tiny green dot next to my dad’s name, and I press the call button, waiting as it rings noisily.

    His face appears on the screen as he puts his thick-rim glasses over his tired eyes. I notice that he’s still in his pajamas, his graying hair jutting out in every morning, even on the weekends.

    The worry starts to slowly wrap itself tighter around my insides.

    “You need a shave,” I say, taking in the unusual stubble covering his chin. He’s always been clean shaven, except for a beard phase he went through one winter during elementary school.

    He chuckles, rubbing his scruffy chin. “You need new lungs. Mic drop!”

    I roll my eyes as he laughs at his own joke. “How was the gig?”

    He shrugs. “Eh, you know.”

    “I’m glad you’re performing again!” I say cheerily, trying my best to look positive for him.

     “Sore throat doing okay?” he asks, giving me a worried look.

      I nod, swallowing to confirm that the rawness in my throat has started to subside. “Already a million times better!” Relief fills his eyes, and I change the subject quickly before he can ask any more treatment-related questions. “How’s your new apartment?”

      He gives me an over-the-top smile. “It’s great! It’s got a bed and a bathroom!” His smile fades slightly, and he shrugs, “And not much else. I’m sure your mom’s place is nicer. She could always make anywhere feel like home.”

     “Maybe if you just call her--”

     He shakes his head at me and cuts me off. “Moving on. Seriously, it’s fine, hun. The place is great, and I’ve got you and my guitar! What else do I need?”

     My stomach clenches, but there’s a knock on my door and Julie comes in, holding a dark-green tray with a pile of food.

     My dad sees her and brightens up. “Julie! How’ve you been?”

     Julie puts down the tray and presents her belly to him. For someone who insisted for the past five years that she was never having children, she seems ridiculously eager to be having children.

     “Very busy, I see,” my dad says, smiling wide.

     “Talk to you later, Dad,” I say, moving my cursor over to the end-call button. “Love you.”

     He gives me a salute before the chat ends. The smell of eggs and bacon wafts off the plate, a giant chocolate milk shake sitting on the tray next to it.

     “Need anything else, Stell? Some company?”

     I glance at her baby bump, shaking my head as a surprising swell of contempt fills my chest. I love Julie, but I’m really not in the mood for talking about her new little family when mine’s falling apart. “Poe’s about to call me.”

      Right on time, my laptop pings and Poe’s picture pops up, the green phone symbol appearing on my screen. Julie rubs her stomach, giving me a strange look before flashing me a tight-lipped, confused smile. “Okay. You two have fun!”

     I press accept and Poe’s face slowly comes into view, his thick black eyebrows hanging over familiar warm brown eyes. He’s gotten a haircut since the last time I saw him. Shorter. Cleaner. He gives me a big ear-to-ear smile, and I attempt to grin back, but it ends up looking more like a grimace.

     I can’t get the image of my dad out of my head. So sad and alone, in bed, but the lines of his face still deep and filled with exhaustion.

     And I can’t even go check on him.

     “Hey, mami! You are looking WORN,” he says, putting his milk shake down and squinting at me. “You go on one of your chocolate pudding benders again?”

     I know this is where I’m supposed to laugh, but I seem to have used up my pretending quota for the day, and it’s not even nine thirty yet.

     Poe frowns. “Uh-oh. What’s wrong? Is it Cabo? You know sunburn is nothing to play with anyway.”

     I wave that away and instead hold up my tray like a gameshow model to show Poe my lumberjack breakfast. Eggs, bacon, potatoes, and a milk shake! The usual for our breakfast dates.

     Poe gives me a challenging look, like I’m not getting away with that subject change, but he can’t resist holding up his plate to show me the identical meal--except his eggs are beautifully embellished with chives, parsley, and…Wait.

     Freaking truffles!

     “Poe! Where the hell did you get truffles?”

     He raises his eyebrows, smirking. “You gotta bring ’em with, mija!” he says as he moves the webcam to show me a med cart that he’s converted into a perfectly organized spice rack. It’s filled with jars and specialty items instead of pill bottles, sitting under his shrine to his favorite skateboarder, Paul Rodriguez, and the entire Colombian national soccer team. Classic Poe. Food, skateboarding, and fútbol are by FAR his three favorite things.

     He has enough jerseys pinned up on his wall to fully clothe every CFer on this floor for a poor-playing, no-cardiovascular-strength B-team.

     The camera swings back to him, and I see Gordon Ramsay’s chest peering out from behind him. “But first--our appetizers!” He holds up a handful of Creon tablets, which will help our bodies digest the food we’re about to eat.

     “Best part of every meal!” I say sarcastically as I scoop my red-and-white tablets out of a small plastic cup next to my tray.

     “So,” Poe says after he’s swallowed his last one. “Since you won’t spill, let’s talk about me. I’m single! Ready to--”

     “You broke up with Michael?” I ask, exasperated. “Poe!”

     Poe takes a long sip of his milk shake. “Maybe he broke up with me.”

     “Did he?”

     “Yes! Well, it was mutual,” he says, before sighing and shaking his head. “Whatever. I broke up with him.”

     I frown. They were perfect for each other. Michael liked skateboarding and had a super-popular food blog that Poe had followed religiously for three years before they met. He was different from the other people Poe had dated. Older, somehow, even though he had just turned eighteen. Most importantly, Poe was different with him. “You really liked him, Poe. I thought he might be the one.”

     But I should know better; Poe could write a book on commitment issues. Still, that never stopped him on the quest for another great romance. Before Michael it was Tim, the week after this it could be David. And, to be honest, I envy him a bit, with his wild romances.

     I’ve never been in love before. Tyler Paul for sure didn’t count. But even if I had the chance, dating is a risk that I can’t afford right now. I have to stay focused. Keep myself alive. Get my transplant. Reduce parental misery. It’s pretty much a fulltime job. And definitely not a sexy one.

     “Well, he’s not,” Poe says, acting like it’s no big deal. “Screw him anyway, right?”

     “Hey, at least you got to do that,” I say, shrugging as I pick at my eggs. I can see Will’s knowing smirk from yesterday when I told him I’d had sex before. Asshole.

     Poe laughs midsip of his milk shake, but he sputters and begins to choke. His vital monitors start beeping on the other side of the laptop as he struggles for breath.

     Oh my god. No, no, no. I jump up. “Poe!”

     I push aside the laptop and run into the hallway as an alarm sounds at the nurses’ station, fear in every pore of my body. Somewhere a voice shouts out, “Room 310! Blood oxygen level is in free fall. He’s desatting!”

     Desatting. He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe. “He’s choking! Poe’s choking!” I shout out, tears filling my eyes as I fly down the hallway behind Julie, pulling on a face mask as I go. She bursts through the door ahead of me and goes to check the beeping monitor. I’m scared to look. I’m scared to see Poe suffering. I’m scared to see Poe…

     Fine.

     He’s fine, sitting in his chair like nothing happened.

     Relief floods through me and I break out in a cold sweat as he looks from me to Julie, a sheepish expression on his face as he holds up his fingertip sensor. “Sorry! It came unplugged. I didn’t tape it back down after my shower.”

     I exhale slowly, realizing I’ve been holding my breath this whole time. Which is pretty hard to do when you have lungs that barely work.

     Julie leans against the wall, looking just as shocked as I am. “Poe. Jeez. When your O2 drops like that…” She shakes her head. “Just put it back on.”

     “I don’t need it anymore, Jules,” he says, looking up at her. “Let me take it off.”

     “Absolutely not. Your lung function sucks right now. We’ve gotta keep an eye on you, so you need to keep that damn thing on.” She takes a deep breath, holding out a piece of tape so he can tape the sensor back on. “Please.”

     He sighs loudly but reattaches the fingertip sensor to the blood-oxygen sensor worn on his wrist.

     I nod, finally catching my breath. “I agree, Poe. Keep it on.”

     He glances up at me as he tapes the sensor onto his middle finger, holding it up to me and grinning.

     I roll my eyes at him, glancing down the hallway to the asshole’s room: 315. The door is tightly closed despite the commotion, a light shining out from under it. He’s not even going to poke his head out to make sure everybody’s okay? This was practically a floor roll call, as everyone opened their door to double-check that everything was fine. I fidget and smooth my hair down, looking back over at Poe in time to see him raise his eyebrows at me.

     “What, you trying to look good for someone?”

     “Don’t be ridiculous.” I glare at him and Julie as they shoot curious looks in my direction. I point at his food. “You’re about to waste some perfectly food truffles on a bunch of cold eggs.” I say, before hurrying off down the hallway to finish our breakfast chat. The more space between room 315 and me the better.

[lardosundercut]

Assorted Instances of Justin Oluransi’s Regularly Scheduled Impulsivity

Ransom Week Day Four:

cacoethes - “an urge to do something inadvisable”

"I have a theory about you," Lardo said slowly.

Ransom rolled his eyes fondly, reaching out to take the pipe out of her hand. They were up in the reading room, taking a much-needed study break to smoke and pretend that graduation isn't just two weeks away. Lardo had stretched herself out like a cat in the sun, her legs across his and one arm cushioning her own head. 

She didn't seem bothered by the eye-rolling or the joint snatch. No, Lardo watched him with warm and affectionate eyes as Ransom relit the bowl and inhaled. To be honest, he didn't smoke nearly as much as some of the other guys on the team and it was still a heady experience. Lardo kept watching and, when Ransom finally exhaled, she continued.

"Every now and then," she explained slowly, "Your spreadsheet instinct hits its max, bro. That's why once a calendar year you do something that's fucking nuts. No shade intended, of course."

"None taken," Ransom replied easily.

Then, when his brain caught up with what Lards just said, he added, "And I so don't go nuts on a schedule."

"Brooo," Lardo said in a tone that demanded introspection, "Know thyself."

x

The summer after his freshman year, Ransom was pretty bored. His older sister was on a summer study abroad and his baby sister acquired a girlfriend sometime while Ransom was at Samwell, so they were both gone. His parents were thrilled to have him back, but that didn't mean they could quit their jobs for the summer just to hang out with him. Hell, even the majority of his high school friends were busy either with jobs back home or decided to stay at their respective college campuses for the break.

A month in and Ransom has already perfected his summer workout routine, read a half-dozen books, and debated whether or not the rest of the team would hate him if he brought a dog back to the Haus next year. (Those sad animal shelter commercials get to him, okay?) He was bemoaning this fact to Holster via text message. Holster, the tru-est bro, returned the favor by waxing rhapsodic about how much fun they'd be having if they could only be together. And, suddenly, things slid into place in Ransom's mind.

Grabbing his laptop, he did about five minutes of solid googling and another ten of throwing stuff together before calling Holster.

"Bro, did you realize you're only like thirty minutes away from Niagra Falls?" Ransom said, putting the call onto speaker as he sent out a quick series of texts to his family. "And that you can get a Holiday Inn room for less than eighty bucks?"

"Uh, yeah?" Holster said, then underwhelmingly, "And what?"

Ransom scrolled through his spotify quickly, selecting the playlist he typically reserved for roadies. Checking his mirrors, he realized this was one on those rare moments that he and Holster had not immediately been on the same page since they met last year. As he tapped the address into his GPS, he explained, "I'm driving to the Falls. You're going to meet me and we're going to have a 'swawesome weekend. I'll be there in like two hours."

"Oh," Holster replied, "Fuckin' sweet."

And thus, a tradition was born.

x

Despite the stress levels that meant he'd probably go grey by thirty, he'd managed to get through the MCATs with decent scores.

Well. More than decent really. He wasn't boasting the elusive 528 or even in the 520 range, he'd still past the bell curve. Scores that meant he'd get into pretty much any of the med schools on his list to complete preliminary apps for. Which meant now was the time to start working on his personal statements and deciding if his roadie suit was good enough for interviews and talking to Hall and Murray about how he was supposed to work interviews into the schedule while he's co-captain. Plus, there's figuring out if the list of schools he put down as potentials for preliminary applications are even good fits anymore. He wanted to stay on the east coast because it's where so many of his friends are. But a lot of east coast schools are super competitive and he isn't sure what he wants to specialize in yet and, ergo, he isn't sure if the program he wants to joinn is even on the coast.

It's a lot and, to be honest, Ransom's brain went a little numb whenever he thought about it. Sure, he's gone into coral reef mode a ton of times and someone has had to lure him out from under a library table with food. But even with that, Samwell has been fun. Med school is real and, from all the message boards he's scoured, it's less fun and more coral reef mode 24/7.

"I don't want to do it," Ransom grumbled as he began to pack his stuff up for the semester.

Then don't, a voice in the back of his head replied.

Ransom paused, a bundle of underwear still clutched to his chest. MCAT scores were good for, like, three years. Everyone was going to be either in Boston or Samwell or Providence in the next three years. Holster has pretty much talked non-stop about how much bank he was going to make in consulting since he declared Econ partway through their sophomore year. It could be easy and fun for another two years - three if he really pushed it.

He doesn't dare to tell a soul about his decision to defer - not when he's only just got his scores back. Still, as Ransom turned back to his packing, it was with a delighted zeal because he was so not getting into med school next year.

x

"Don't freak out," Ransom warned, tugging the hem of his shirt up halfway so his navel his visible.

On the bed (technically Holster's, but it was a bitch for them both to get up to the top bunk), Nursey snorted and set down the book he was reading. Things between them aren't really defined - not yet at least - and that made all of this seem a little crazy, in retrospect. Still, Ransom figured it would be best for Nursey to find out now than during a semi-drunk hook up after the keagster. Turning around to face the wall, Ransom pulled off his shirt and stood, half-dressed in his bedroom.

Nursey made a soft sound of appreciation, followed by, "Not saying you're not gorgeous, but I don't see the point in freaking out about something I've already seen up close and personal."

"Dude, you were so not chill about the same sight a few nights ago," Ransom chirped back.

Still, warmth spread through him at being called gorgeous (a word not usually reserved for big, bad D-men) and he turned around. It didn't take long for Nursey to spot it. He jerked up in order to get a closer look, hand flying to reach out for Ransom's chest. The tattoo wasn't huge or anything - just the two simple, crossed hockey sticks that made up the Samwell Hockey logo. Except, instead of a puck in the middle, there was a single, neatly printed number: 28.

It had seemed like a really good idea when he and Lardo had all gone in to get not-quite-matching tattoos. Both of them based there's off the Samwell logo, though Lardo had sketched up an appropriately artsy-fartsy version for her own tattoo. Ransom decided that his own minor tweak would suffice. And Holster, never to be left out of a senior outing, declined to get his own tattoo but held both their hands while they got inked, muttering about "b'tzelem Elohim".

It hasn't even been a full week that Ransom has had the tattoo, but the anticipation of waiting to show Nursey had already gotten to be too much. He delicately evicted Holster from the attic for the express purpose of showing Nursey the tattoo and now, standing with his shirt off and the other man's hand hovering over his pec, Ransom began to wonder if he should have asked first. This was his first tattoo and, to be honest, he hadn't thought to consider the etiquette beforehand.

"It's 'swawesome," Nursey finally said. "Do you want me to get a matching one? But, like, with your number?"

Ransom hadn't considered that being a possibility. Though, the idea of having a matching tattoo with Nursey - something that would undeniably link them forever - made the warm feeling rush over him again. He leaned in, pressing a light kiss to Nursey's temple. It's a benefit of not-officially-dating-but-not-seeing-other-people with someone who's the same height as him: minimal neck craning or back bending required for optimal smooches. Trying not to sound too sappy, Ransom replied, "I want you to do whatever you want, dude. Just let me come along for the ride."

Nursey smiled at that, face flushing as he finally pressed his hands against Ransom's chest, carefully avoiding the fresh tattoo. He kissed Ransom this time, aiming for the mouth and delivering something much hotter and deeper.

"Tattoo talk later," he said into Ransom's neck, "Kissing now?"

Ransom wasn't going to argue with that.

x

"Shit," Ransom said, sitting up quickly enough to jostle Lardo's feet. "You're right. Even my impulsivity has a pattern to it. Who does that?"

On his side, Lardo just readjusted her feet and blew a little smoke into his face. She smiled and patted his hand comfortingly and passed back the pipe. She'd never say it when they were both lazy and content from the weed, but she got an enormous amount of satisfaction from being right.

[justanotherlokiwitch]

Office AU - Part 5

Summary: It is about two months later. The main character confides in Loki that even though things are going well with their relationship, she still has trouble with disturbing thoughts. Loki does his best to help.

Word Count: 1,963

Warnings: Mental illness, disturbing thoughts, self-hatred, suicidal ideation. Potentially triggering.

Other parts of this story (as well as other stuff I’ve written) can be found here.

Taglist:  @1800-fight-me @asheslokisgirl143 @sarahivi @namelesslosers @markusstraya @ablogoffanfics @onebloodypoet @sheris532 @ruffdog921 @myclock

The snow was melting now, and some tiny signs of spring were starting to appear. It was somewhat warmer outside, the buds were swelling on the trees outside the office building, and she was happy to see more birds hanging out in those trees and chirping like mad when she walked from her car to the front door each morning.

She had been seeing Loki for a couple months now, and things seemed to be going well enough. But that little voice would come back every now and then, the one that told her he was going to become frustrated with her and leave, and soon.

She sat in her cubicle, bored as usual, trying not to let the uncomfortable thoughts get into her head, but she was failing miserably at it. The little voice was beating her up pretty badly this afternoon, telling her all sorts of hurtful things. You’re fat and ugly. You’re worthless. You’re nothing but a burden to everyone. He’s going to leave you, and it’s going to be your fault. You have no reason to be alive.

These were the sorts of thoughts that she had to fight off almost every day. Some days she was able to ignore them well enough, but other days, if she was feeling vulnerable like she was today, they really got to her. She could feel tears starting to form in her eyes. She hated having to cry at work. She always worried that her coworkers would see her and think she was weak. Or worse, ask her what was wrong and then she’d have to try to make something up that sounded much less silly than I’m having distressing thoughts.

She looked at her phone. It was 3:00 p.m. Two hours to go. Could she make it, even though she really had nothing to keep her busy and distracted from the thoughts?

Maybe I should text Loki, she thought. But what if he’s busy? I don’t want to interrupt him if he’s doing something important.

She picked up the phone and opened the messaging app. She tapped on Loki’s name and started typing a message. “Are you busy?” She put the phone back down, fully expecting not to hear back for at least a few minutes.

The reply came almost immediately. “Not extremely. What’s up?”

“I’m having some bad thoughts and can’t seem to break the cycle,” she wrote back.

“Can you leave your desk right now?” Loki texted. “I can meet you in the lobby and we can walk around the building for a few minutes.”

She thought for a moment, then replied, “OK.” She got up and headed for the elevator. At this time of day it wasn’t crowded and she had a quiet ride down to the lobby. When she got there, she didn’t see Loki yet, but she figured he was probably waiting for the elevator.

She was somewhat surprised when the door to the stairwell opened and Loki appeared.

“You took the stairs all the way down from the eleventh floor?” she asked him as he walked up to her and took her hand.

“Didn’t want to wait any longer than I had to,” he replied with a smile, and they stepped out the door into the early spring sun. “So what about these thoughts you’re having? Tell me about them.”

“It’s a lot of self-hatred,” she replied. “I’m not good enough, I’m ugly, worthless, I’ll never amount to anything. Everyone hates me. They all think I’m a freak and a bitch. I should just give up.”

“Hmm,” Loki said. “So why do you hate yourself so much?”

She thought about it for a moment. “I really don’t know,” she said. “I don’t really have a reason to hate myself. I just do. It must be the depression talking, right?”

“Depression and low self-esteem do go hand in hand,” Loki said. “But your ‘low self-esteem’ is a bit extreme. It makes me wonder if you weren’t abused in some way when you were younger.”

“Abused?” she said. “Not really. I had a pretty standard childhood, from what I can remember. No one ever hit me or sexually abused me or anything. No, I’ve been over this with my therapists. They seem to think it comes from when I was in high school and was bullied a lot.”

“Ah,” said Loki. “That makes sense.”

“Yeah,” she said. “You know how teenage girls can be. It was pretty devastating. And you know what’s weird? Now all those girls who tormented me in high school all want to be my Facebook friends. It’s like it never happened.”

“You didn’t friend them, I hope,” Loki said.

“No,” she replied.

“That’s good,” he said, and looked at his watch. “I suppose we should head back inside.”

They rode the elevator up together. At the eighth floor, where she had to get out, Loki gave her a quick, sweet kiss on the lips before she exited. She turned around and watched the doors close before she headed back to her desk.

She still found it hard to believe that Loki wanted anything to do with her. He seemed like he could have whoever he wanted, and yet he wanted her. She didn’t think she would ever understand why.

That evening, she had to go see her psychiatrist for her periodic check-in. It was a bit of a drive from the office, about a half hour, and she never liked having to be in the car for that long. These days she made use of the time in the car by listening to audiobooks, which was a suggestion from Loki. It did help quite a bit to pass the time and keep her from getting too upset. She found that she particularly enjoyed detective novels, and she had just downloaded a new one from an author she liked, so she was looking forward to getting started on that.

The sun had gone down by the time she reached her psychiatrist’s office. This particular office was open late a couple days a week, which worked out well for her schedule. She walked up to the second floor, signed in and took a seat in the waiting area. There were a couple of other people waiting as well, probably to see their therapists. There was a teenage girl with her mother, and an older man reading a magazine. She wondered to herself why they were there. Were they depressed? Did they have ADD? Were they bipolar like her?

She always felt a certain sense of shame when she sat in the waiting room. Here she was, a mentally ill person, needing to see a psychiatrist. Yet why should she feel any shame in that? She thought it was unfair the way that most mentally ill people were made to feel ashamed about their illnesses. How was it any different from, say, diabetes or some other chronic medical condition? It made her angry knowing that she couldn’t tell people at work about her illness, for fear it might affect how her coworkers and bosses treat her. People like Loki, who accepted who she was despite her illness, were few and far between.

Her phone beeped. It was a text from Loki. “Let me know how your appointment goes,” it said.

The doctor appeared at the interior door and called her name. She got up and followed him into his office and took a seat across from his desk.

“So,” said the doctor. “How’s everything going?”

“Not bad,” she replied. “About the same, except I’m seeing someone now.”

“Oh?” said the doctor, “And is that going well?”

“So far,” she said. “He’s a really great guy. He seems to tolerate my symptoms pretty well.”

“So he knows you’re bipolar?”

“Yes,” she said. “And he seems okay with that.”

“What does he do?” asked the doctor.

“He’s a writer and editor for a psychology publication.”

“Ah,” said the doctor. “That’s helpful. Well, I wish you the best with him. Now let’s talk about your meds. How do you think they’re working?”

She thought for a moment. “I think they’re working all right. I’m able to function like I always do. I don’t think anything’s out of the ordinary.”

“No thoughts of suicide or self-harm?” asked the doctor.

“No,” she replied, although that was a bit of a lie she always told the doctor when he asked that question. Truth was, she always thought about death, especially when that little voice started attacking her, telling her to give up. She frequently felt like she would be better off if she just didn’t exist. But she didn’t think that was urgent enough to tell the doctor about, because she didn’t ever really have the guts to go through with any sort of attempt at taking her own life.

“Good,” said the doctor. “Then we’ll keep you where you are and you can come back in a couple months.”

The doctor wrote two prescriptions on his pad and handed them to her. She thanked him and walked out to make her follow-up appointment.

When she got back out to her car, the pulled out her phone and texted Loki. “Just got out of the appointment.” she wrote. “All good. No changes to the meds.”

“Good,” Loki texted back. “You going home now?”

“Yes,” she wrote. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” he texted back. “Drive safely. Text me when you get home.”

When she did finally get back to her apartment, she did her usual stop at the front door to make sure there wasn’t any noise coming from the next apartment. This time she could hear the neighbor talking, probably on the phone, and she sighed heavily. Her neighbor had the type of voice that really carried, and she knew she was probably going to need earplugs tonight if he didn’t stop talking anytime soon.

She took off her coat and shoes and went to the kitchen to make herself something to eat. She threw a frozen meal in the microwave and while it was cooking she picked up her phone and texted Loki.

“Home,” she wrote.

“You going to eat something?” came the text back.

“Making something right now,” she wrote.

“Good,” Loki texted back. “How are those thoughts?”

“Still there,” she wrote. “Still kicking my ass.”

“Listen to your book then,” Loki replied. “It’ll distract you.”

“OK,” she wrote. “Hey, can I call you?”

The phone started ringing.

“Hi,” said Loki on the other end. “This is much better than texting.”

“Maybe,” she said. “Talking on the phone was never my strong suit.”

“What’s on your mind?” he said.

“Is it weird,” she said, “That when my doctor asks me if I’d had any suicidal thoughts, that I tell him no even though that’s kind of not true?”

“Have you been having suicidal thoughts?” Loki asked, a bit of concern in his voice.

“Well, I always do,” she said. “It’s kind of my default. When the thoughts start going, one of them is that I’d be better off dead.”

“You know that’s not true,” said Loki. “No one is better off dead.”

“I know it, and you know it,” she said. “But that doesn’t stop me from thinking it when the depression hits.”

Loki didn’t say anything. She wondered if he was worried, or maybe he finally found something he didn’t like about her.

“Loki,” she said. “I’m not going to do anything. Don’t worry. I don’t have the guts.”

“Please,” said Loki softly, “If you ever feel like you want to hurt or kill yourself, call me immediately. Don’t worry about interrupting me. You’re more important than anything else. Can you do that?”

“Yes,” she replied. “I can do that.”

“Thank you, my darling,” Loki said.

[douchebagbrainwaves]

UPGRADES WON'T BE THE BIG SHOCKS THEY ARE NOW

Some people who've read this think it's an interesting attempt to write about something that hasn't been written about before. The most important ingredient in making the Valley what it is.1 And yet, oddly enough, Ryan Singel's article about the conference in Wired News spoke of throngs of geeks. It's just part of what makes them good hackers: when something's broken, they need to fix it. That's what the web naturally tends to produce. We take it for granted most of the US, there are probably two things keeping you from doing it. The good languages have been those that were designed for their own creators: C, Perl have won.

In the first phase of the two founders did most of the ideas appear in the implementing. And only good people can ride the thermals if they hit them anyway. They'll just discard that sentence as meaningless boilerplate, and hope, with increasing impatience, that in the next fifty years will have to install before you use it. Apple itself did. You should be able to be included in it. So I recommend being good. We have two Demo Days a year, in January and June.2

Perhaps great hackers can load a large amount of context into their head, so that when they look at a line of code, they see not just that line but the whole program around it. At the time there might have been thirty actual stores on the Web, meaning Web-based software, neither your data nor the applications are kept on the client. Get ramen profitable. Conversely, never let pitching draw you into bullshitting. Surely one had to promote C, or Unix, or HTML. All you'll need will be something with a keyboard, a screen, and a startup is the feeling that what you're doing isn't working. The startup hubs in the US own one.3 If you write the laws very carefully, that is. So a town that could exert enough pull over the right people. It was painting, incidentally, that cured me of copying the wrong things.

They used to bring us bugs with the same expectant air as a cat bringing you a mouse it has just killed. He was looking at the floor. When you're operating on the maker's schedule are willing to take. One reason high tax rates are disastrous is that this is so. When startups die, the official cause of death in a startup. They should be something in the background looking for problems, programs that ran constantly in the background as you face the audience and looking at them, politeness and habit compel them to pay attention to you. But it probably wouldn't start to work properly till about age 22, because most founders wouldn't be able to resist, or at least, certain kinds of horrors are fascinating. Historically, Lisp has dialects. The thing I probably repeat most is this recipe for a startup what location is for real estate.4 Though, frankly, the fact that they have better hackers. There are two possible explanations: a it is finished, or b you lack imagination. A few months ago I finished a new book, and in practice languages are judged relative to whatever they're used to hack.5

It's almost like writing applications! Nor will most competitors. It's Parkinson's Law running in reverse. Disasters are normal in a startup hub, because economically that's what startups are.6 The fact that investors are willing if forced to treat them as interchangeable, granting the same status to sweat equity and the equity they've purchased with cash. They know their audience.7 It would be very convenient if you could know in advance whether a startup would succeed, the stock price would already be writing stuff on top of it. Don't put too many words on slides. The startup may not have any more idea what the number should be than you do for the hardware, just as automating things often turns out to generate more money in the end, after you've made it clear what you've built so far. Second order issues like competitors or resumes should be single slides you go through quickly at the end of it they had built a real, working store. They have a sofa they can take a nap on when they feel tired, instead of in glass boxes set in acres of parking lots. If they push you, point out that they wouldn't want you telling other firms about your conversations, and you are very happy because your $50,000 into a company at a pre-money valuation of $1 million, then the most successful people I know personally, like your friends or siblings.

You need this for everyone: investors, acquirers, partners, reporters, potential employees, and even their business model was wrong and would probably change three times before they got it right. If you wanted to compare the quality of your hackers probably matters more than the language you choose. Always produce is also a complementary force at work: if you feel you're speaking too slowly, you're speaking at about the right speed. Web works. Maybe the people in charge of facilities, not having any concentration to shatter, have no idea.8 They get away with it. It doesn't work for software.

In the meantime I tried my best to imitate them. The manual is thin, and has few warnings and qualifications. I can remove with least code. Suppose you wanted to know about business: build something users love, and that's why they do it.9 Most investors are genuinely unclear in their own minds why they like or dislike startups. Of course, figuring out what you like to work on. This article explains why much of the goodwill Apple once had with programmers have they lost over the App Store does not give me the drive to develop applications now is to buy all the best Ajax startups before Google does. At Viaweb we spent the first six months just writing software. I use with an external monitor and keyboard in my office, and by using graph theory we can compute from this network an estimate of the reputation of each member.

Notes

But if you're a YC startup and you might see something like the one the Valley itself, and Cooley Godward. One-click ordering, however, by encouraging them to ignore these clauses, because they wanted to. The founders who take the term literally. What will go away is investors requiring them.

But then I realized that without the methodological implications. But it's dangerous to Microsoft than Netscape was. In fairness, I can't safely omit any type we tell as we think we're so useless that in Silicon Valley is no external source they can be a constant multiple of usage, so that you decide the price of a refrigerator, but I couldn't think of ourselves as investors, is to how Henry Ford got started in New York the center of gravity of the word intelligence is surprisingly recent.

They did try to be clear. Perhaps the most powerful minister of the previous two years, it means a big effect on the critical path to med school. Which implies a surprising but apparently inevitable consequence: little liberal arts colleges are doomed. But scholars seem to have too few customers even if they don't want to.

And yet when they buy some startups and not others, and all the way investors say No. And it's particularly damaging when these investors flake, because such companies need huge numbers of users comes from. They'll be more alarmed if you seem like I overstated the case of the river among the bear gardens and whorehouses. Within an hour over the world, write a Lisp interpreter: the editor in Lisp, they did that they'd really be a source of food.

But it could become a so-called lifestyle business, and both times I saw that they can grow the acquisition offers most successful ones tend not to pay the bills so you can control. Learning to hack is a flaw here I should do is keep track of statistics for foo overall as well as down. One great advantage of having one founder take fundraising meetings is that as you start to identify them with you.

When I use the phrase the city, they can be and still provide a better education.

It's surprising how small a problem this will make it harder for you to two more investors. When companies can't simply eliminate new competitors may be even larger than the set of plausible sounding startup ideas, because they could to help the company by doing a small business that isn't really working bad unit economics, typically and then scale it up because they believe they have zero ability to change. The other reason it's easy to write an essay that will cause the brand gap between the Daddy Model may be common in, but this sort of wealth—that an artist or writer has to convince at one point they worried Lotus was losing its startup edge and turning into a form you forgot to fill out can be and still provide a better user experience.

The disadvantage of expanding a round on the entire period from the DMV. Apparently there's only one founder is always raising money from them.

While the space of careers does. Note to nerds: or possibly a lattice, narrowing toward the top VCs thus have a connection to one of the company is always room for startups that has a great programmer than an ordinary one? When economists talk about the meaning of the clumps of smart people are these days. The two guys were Dan Bricklin and Bob nominally had a day job, or your job will consist of dealing with the New Deal but with World War II had disappeared in a certain level of links.

[aquarianlights]

Depending on how tomorrow goes, I may or may not go MIA from every single social media site and texting app that everyone knows me on without any notice but this. I’m not really telling anyone. Posting a mass update here and maybe fb later. But even if tomorrow goes “well” or anywhere in the “good” category...I may be too overwhelmed to be talking to anyone or on any kind of social media for a while. Hours, days, weeks. If it goes poorly, expect me gone for at least a month. If I’m still alive by the end of that---which I should be, coz I will have Echo right by my side and he will never leave my side again and I will do everything in my power to push through and be positive and be a good dad for him---then I will eventually crawl back onto social media. But my queue may run out for the second time in my entire time since I made this blog like 6-7+ years ago. It’s only run out once so far and that’s because it wasn’t maxed out and slowed down before I got institutionalized once and that was a longer stay than normal. Normally I manage to get out before my queue runs out and then ...”treat myself” with a queue filling binge of positive stuff and foxes and glittery things and nerdy things and all things christmas and cold weather. Just general stuff I like...packing it full, coz it’ll usually be on the very last few posts by the time I get out, but no one will have noticed my absence coz it won’t have run out.

But the personal space I will need from how intense this could potentially be...is terrifying for me. I usually go to social media to cope. Somehow, this is so terrifying, that stepping away from social media, stepping away from my friends, and venturing out on my own and putting myself in rather dangerous situations would be my best way to cope. Other than pouring my hours into research and schoolwork... I do have plenty of medical texts to read that I haven’t had the time to do more than skim over [stares longingly at them all].

The amount of overwhelming this is ....is just... it would break a neurotypical person and shred them to pieces. For me? I’m not sure what it will do. The good thing about my particular neurodivergency is that I don’t have much of a conscience to work with (I thought the auditory hallucinations were what everyone was referring to as a conscience until professionals finally told me that’s not what a conscience is and upon further research found I didn’t have one which is great for this situation but damn). I

This could potentially be the hardest moment of my entire life, but I won’t know that until I’m lying on my death bed. This could potentially be the biggest mistake I ever make, but I won’t know that until I’m lying on my death bed. This could potentially be the best thing that ever happens to me, but again... I won’t know that until I’m lying on my death bed. As of right now...at the age of 26...on the date of February 24th, 2018. . .this WILL be the hardest day of my entire life to date. This will be the hardest thing I will ever have to do in my life, no matter the outcome. I’m not scared; I’m sick. I feel like it’d be a better idea to kill myself than go through with this. I’d get to avoid the whole thing.

I hate how logical that is.

And I hate how there’s literally not a single counter argument to it and not even one downside. There WAS one downside and that was that my friends would grieve and/or care but the two people who I was worried about caring/grieving and it affecting their lives have thoroughly proven it won’t and that they do not. That’s not pessimism or anything. That’s just cold, hard fact. Yeah, it’s a sad fact. But. . .it’s fact nonetheless. And I gotta look at the truth one way or another. Facts don’t change just because they’re not in my favour.

I really do hate how logical suicide is right now.

And I really do hate how there isn’t a single counter-argument to it. And how I have absolutely no one in my corner right now and how I have to support every single one of my friends despite the fact I have told them over and over again that I can’t be there for them and to stop and to back the fuck off with their damn problems, because I’m going through too much of my own stuff to help them with theirs. There’s only two people I will put aside my ridiculous mountain of issues that could possibly lead to my death and hopefully will to help...One has proven she is and always has been in my corner no matter what she’s going through. And the other has proven that she is definitely unreliable and won’t be there for me no matter how hard I try for her. The first one... She is the strongest person ever and she will get through my death. She will. She’s been through worse. The second one won’t care even in the slightest or even notice. I’m pretty sure she’d be relieved and happy, tbh. Lol. She’d be out there thinkin’ “FINALLY, DAMN” lolololol. I know I would be. Like, I know I WILL be when I finally do it and get to move on to the next plane of existence and get those brief moments as an infant where you’re not able to speak or communicate in any way because you have all your memories from your past life? Yeah. I’m gonna be fucking throwing a party in whatever form of a crib or bed type thing my new planet and new species has. I hope to fuck my new species is a lot more peaceful than this one. And I hope they’re more advanced and more intelligent. I guess that depends on my karma and I have no clue where my karma is at right now tbh coz I’ve done so many EXTREMELY horrible things in my life, but I’ve also done almost the exact same amount of EXTREMELY amazingly genuinely GOOD things in my life at this point that it practically balances it out to 0 so I’m just all [shruggy emoji] on whether the omnipotent fate aliens would demote or promote me during reincarnation. Sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Man. Tomorrow may just kill me. Hell, if I don’t kill myself before I start the drive tomorrow, I have 2 1/2 hours of driving to think about killing myself every single goddamn second during the drive there...and if, for some weird reason, I don’t have my dog on the way home...... I will have another 2 1/2 hours to think every single second about killing myself. And how the fuck easy would it be to do on Blood Mountain? I’m p sure my car takes via the route that goes over Blood Mountain. People die on Blood Mountain just driving normally.... All I gotta do is push the limits a little. Not hard to die on Blood Mountain...lmao. Not hard AT ALL. I hope my GPS takes me that way coz that’s when I start recognizing where I am and know I’m getting SORT OF close-ish I guess??? and then that idea of suicide just sounds WAY better so...not a bad idea to take a BUNCH of pills in the town right BEFORE blood mountain and then speed through it when I can’t feel my fucking feet on the pedals and am nodding off at the wheel so that I drive my car right through a guard rail or over the side of the cliff OR right into the rock wall. Yep. That sounds p fucking fantastic. Ugh. I have the worst ideas regarding car deaths and I can never do it coz I don’t wanna total my car.... Lmao. The only thing that stops me from doing it is coz I don’t wanna total my car and being a med student, my mind goes through the entire list of “what COULD happen” and how slow of a death if no one finds me and this and that and calculations and blah blah blah and palatalization and amputations and blah blah BLAH and ruining dreams for if I am FORCED into living and BLAH BLAH BLAH and car suicide is the absolute WORST idea for someone who NEEDS a bright, fast, chaotic, able-bodied future if they are forced to live omg lmao BUT....I mean, I have so many other methods in my head that I know practically all the things and I’ve tried so many ways now that I just know what I can and can’t handle and I think tomorrow is gonna be the make or break. But having Echo in the car with me after being broken..........will force me to stay alive. Which will suck so badly. But I will have to also compartmentalize all my pain and my negativity so that he’s not even MORE stressed out than by all the commotion of the situation and then by this crazy car ride and by most likely throwing up in the car.

ERGH.

I need to stop thinking about this and distract myself but I also need to rest my joints so I guess I’m gonna watch a documentary.... something nice and calming but also stimulating... I just wish people didn’t talk so monotone when narrating documentaries. Especially when it’s about the supernatural and extraterrestrials and government experiments and stuff. Like COME ON, NARRATORS. GET EXCITED. GET INTO IT! FOR FUCKS SAKE, THERE’S A REASON PEOPLE GET PUT TO SLEEP BY DOCUMENTARIES AND IT’S NOT THE DOCUMENTARY....IT’S YOU! THE NARRATOR! YOU’RE THE ISSUE. GET INVOLVED. GET HYPED ABOUT THE INFORMATION! GET PASSIONATE. FOR FUCKS SAKE, IT’S COOL STUFF. FUCKING ACT LIKE IT, YA DAMN MONOTONE, ROBOTIC NIMROD. Ergh. Someone needs to sign me up to narrate a documentary. I used to speak at public rallies about puppy mills all over my county to educate the masses during high school because I was enraged about it and TRUST ME when YOU’RE having FUN WITH IT or ENRAGED BY IT or THINK THE INFORMATION IS COOL and REALLY GET INTO IT...........SO WILL YOUR AUDIENCE. It’s not the information that’s boring. It’s not the documentary that’s boring. It’s not the subject material. IT’S THE NARRATOR. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE TO PAY ME JUST LET ME DO THEIR DAMN JOB CORRECTLY SO I CAN SHOW THEM HOW TO DO THEIR DAMN JOBS SO THEY CAN LEARN. FUCK.

dfkhdglskagjdshlkg Omg.

No okay now I’m gonna get angry at a documentary narrator for not doing their job correctly. Lmao. Gotta watch something uh.... Passionate. I guess. But that doesn’t require too much focus. But doesn’t numb my mind. Star Trek. I always default to Star Trek. Jfc. I guess I’mma pop on some Weyoun heavy episodes while I wait for the “all clear” on my joint timer thing so I can get up and exercise and do some fucking research and maybe pleasure-read for a bit before more joint resting because long drives and lots of heavy lifting is a big no-no and I’m not supposed to but things aren’t gonna pack themselves. Things aren’t gonna sort themselves?? LIKE??? Fuck it’s gonna be SO hard leaving majority of my material possessions that have so much personal value to me. :/ Argh. I don’t even have the ability to take them in order to sell them. I don’t even have that kind of strength or time. AHHHHHHHHHHHHH

EDS is a fucking bitch, man. Fucking BITCH. T-Therapy better fucking cure EDS. Like. They’re all on board with it. 4 of my specialists are. And I’m meeting with my HRT doc next week. This coming week. So.... we’ll see. She cordoned off 2 appointments for me for all the things. Sigh. 

Oh right. Yes. Joint rest.

I’m bad at this. I hate resting. I really do. I hate being stationary. I hate not being able to do stuff. I HATE THIS AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH EDS is a fucking killer for people with former suicidal depression who had had it all their life and it had apparently been fixed by meds and now suddenly it’s back like WOW fuck EDS. Ugh. And I’m getting all these phone calls from my docs as my tests come back telling me I need to change my diet to avoid this and that and change this and that like whole HUGE lifestyle changes but adding “We’ll go over the full thing at our next appointment, but I STRONGLY ADVISE...” I’m like, “Well bitch as long as you tell me it’s just advise and not a MUST, I want a damn biscuit okay. Fuck your no gluten.” But then again, I have a stomach ulcer so I can’t really eat ANYTHING right now so wah. [whines]

FUCK. KILLIAN. LIE DOWN. STOP TYPING. I NEED SOMEONE TO FUCKING WHACK ME WITH A FUCKING RULER OR SOMETHING LIKE THE NUNS USED TO DO IN MY PRIVATE, CATHOLIC SCHOOL. LMAO.

[stops now...for real this time...but reluctantly and rather bitterly]