#i use it as an easier shorthand but goddamn they make it hard

[defensivelee]

there seems to be a consensus among twitter femboys + their shedtwt girl allies that being nazis makes them cute and it is a very strange thing to witness

[allthefilmsiveseenforfree]

Dear Evan Hansen

You may have seen some ~online discourse~ about the film Dear Evan Hansen, an adaptation of the 2016 Broadway musical, and you might have wondered what all the hubbub is about. I mean, it’s a feel good story about a senior in high school, Evan Hansen (Ben Platt), who has some pretty severe anxiety and depression. While trying to fulfill an assignment from his therapist to write a letter to himself, his letter gets picked up by another student, Connor (Colton Ryan) - and later that day, Connor kills himself. Connor’s grieving parents and sister Zoe (Amy Adams, Danny Pino, and Kaitlyn Dever) are desperate to learn more from the boy they think was Connor’s best friend - after all, Connor’s suicide note was a letter addressed to “Dear Evan Hansen.” And, as you can imagine, Evan tells them about the unfortunate mistake and sits with them in their grief as they struggle to pick up the pieces of their lives. 

Just kidding! He lies to them, repeatedly, elaborately, expansively for months, constructing an entire false friendship with Connor that never happened, and ingratiating himself into the wealthy nuclear family he never had, in large part because he wants to get into Zoe’s pants! THIS IS THE PROTAGONIST OF THE STORY. Oh, and it’s a musical so there is a lot of singing and crying and singing WHILE crying and sometimes crying and not singing at all. But the #inspiration, you guys. 

Things I liked:

Pretty much everything but the story and Ben Platt’s performance. The supporting cast is stacked, and all of them do a great job at elevating material scraped directly out of a diaper worn by someone who just chewed their way through a copy of the DSM-5. 

A couple of the songs are damn catchy - “Waving Through a Window” and “You Will Be Found” are standouts for a reason - and here’s the thing, Platt sings them well. But as you’ll discover, there’s a lot more to a movie musical than just singing your part. 

Stephen Chbosky, the man behind every deep thought I and a lot of people in my generation had in 2006 after he wrote The Perks of Being a Wallflower, is a pretty good director. I particularly enjoyed the fanvid-type cuts in “Waving Through a Window” in conjunction with the lyrics, and his use of interstitial shots to flashbacks (and sometimes flashforwards!) is a neat little bit of shorthand that I thought was used sparingly enough to be effective. 

Amy Fucking Adams. She’s holding on so hard, so desperately to the idea of who her son could have been, rather than the reality of who he was, and she is full of such deep pain that is masked by an almost endless supply of patience with Evan and relentless positivity. All this made me want was Enchanted 2 even worse than I already did. 

Super into everything Zoe wears - the costuming department did a great job, and now all I want to do is live in mom jeans and baggy sweaters.

Did I Cry? I teared up a couple of times because I’m not a completely heartless bastard and when Amy Adams offered Evan Connor’s college money, my heart broke for the lie Evan had thrust upon her, and Julianne Moore’s song got me good, because she’s just a single mom to Evan who is doing her goddamn best. 

Things I hated more than the time I dropped a frozen gallon container of fruit cocktail on my pinkie toe in my parents’ garage and it turned black and I thought it was gonna fall off:

Ben Platt is 28 years old. He originated the role of Evan Hansen on Broadway, so in many respects it makes sense that he plays the role in the movie, except for the one kinda sorta important thing where he looks like a wizened old crone standing amongst a sea of children doing his best twitching, cringing Hunchback of Notre Dame impression. If you want someone to convincingly play 20 years their junior, hire Paul Rudd. Otherwise, please don’t ask me to believe that this supposed 18-year-old has crow’s feet. 

And that twitching nervous energy is a huge part of the black hole at the center of this film - he’s playing to the cheap seats and walking through the halls of his high school like a wet chihuahua. It’s an excruciating acting choice to watch - he doesn’t just have anxiety, he is on the verge of a nervous breakdown seemingly every second of every day. Like honestly, where is only-mentioned-never-seen Dr. Sherman, because this young man’s meds are NOT WORKING DR. SHERMAN. 

There’s such a lack of self-awareness on behalf of the writing, directing, and performance by Platt. There’s one song, “Sincerely, Me,” that offers the only glimpse of commentary about what Evan is doing, by pointing out the malicious ridiculousness of him writing a series of fake emails as proof of his and Connor’s friendship. 

Also what high schoolers email this much?? I know this was written in probably 2014 or so, but has a bitch never heard of a text? Even a DM? This whole plot is constructed around the premise that high schoolers are just constantly, constantly emailing each other. 

Everything - and I mean EV-ER-Y-THING - about Evan’s relationship with Zoe is so creepy and disturbing that with a soundtrack change, this could easily be a horror movie. He attempts to get her to like him by describing to her all the things her brother noticed about her - oh wait, I’m sorry, all the things HE noticed about her while he was skulking in the shadows following her around for years, watching every move she made, and it ends with him singing repeatedly “I LOVE YOU” because following a girl around and never having a conversation with her or knowing her at all is love, right? This was clearly written by the same people who chose “Every Breath You Take” as their wedding song because Sting is hot and they never actually listened to the damn words. 

And it gets about 10 billion times worse when Zoe goes to Evan’s house alone, takes him up to his room, and sings “I don’t need reasons to want you” and that was the moment I was that person I hate in a movie theater and I pulled out my phone to Google who wrote the music and lyrics to the musical (we were in the back row of the theater no one was behind me THIS WAS AN OUTRAGE EMERGENCY) and of motherfucking course it was written by Benj Pasek and Justin Paul, 2 men who heard about meeting an actual human woman from a friend one time but otherwise are unfamiliar with the concept. 

Lastly, enormous serial killer vibes from Evan sending unlabeled flash drives anonymously through the mail with no note in an attempt to right his wrongs. That’s not catharsis, that’s how the next installment in the Saw franchise starts, with Evan in a Billy the clown doll mask showing up on the screen and asking if you want to play a fucking game. 

Also, I know it’s not possible for the narrative to justify this in a way that could be satisfying based on Evan’s actions, but what is with this thing where single working-class mom Julianne Moore is turning down rich people’s money for Evan to go to college? Like, obviously we can’t have that happen in the movie but in real life, fuck your pride! Take those rich people’s money!

I also know how movies work but nothing annoys me more than a giant group of high schoolers all getting beeps and boops to indicate text notifications all at the same time because I don’t know a single person under the age of 55 who keeps their ringer on. That shit is on vibrate AT MOST, and I feel like that’s a millennial thing. 

The emotional climax of the film is obviously Evan’s WAY TOO LATE confession, but the idea that it’s prompted by Connor’s family suddenly getting a lot of internet hate is, frankly, laughable. If Sandy Hook taught me one thing, it is that no tragedy is immune from trolls who live only to cause other people devastating emotional pain on the internet. That shit starts day 1. Apparently no one involved in this production has ever been on Twitter?

Also it feels like there should have been a dog somewhere in this movie and there was no dog, so points off for that too. 

Perhaps Dear Evan Hansen isn’t nearly as deep as it aspires to be. Perhaps it’s a morality play, a simplistic message of “Don’t lie, kids, lying is bad!” Major studio movies wrap themselves up with a nice bow at the end so everyone can feel good about themselves and leave with a happy ending, but the moronic cruelty on display here makes that feat feel impossible. We’re left with Evan in an orchard, reading Connor’s favorite books and staring into the big blue sky with all the self-actualization he’s earned now as a lil treat. And if Evan Hansen looked like an actual 18-year-old, it would be a lot easier to extend more empathy to him and his not-fully-developed prefrontal cortex, but it’s a little harder with this fully-grown, weathered man who was old enough to remember seeing Liar Liar in theaters. 

Dear Evan Hansen, 

Get some actual help and a haircut and maybe you can grow up enough to have an actual healthy interaction with any other living person, ever.

Sincerely, 

Me

If you liked this review, please consider reblogging or subscribing to my Patreon! For as low as $1, you can access bonus content and movie reviews, or even request that I review any movie of your choice.

[uvobreakmylegs]

Caught by the Storm

idk how many people actually wanted a sequel to the Franklin piece but here you go anyway.  A kinda soft thing except not really

Part 1

Warnings: gaslighting, hints of stalking

On Thursday nights you were the one in charge of closing up the cafe. The doors closed at 9, and it usually took about an hour to wipe down everything and make it all presentable again for opening the next morning.

But tonight had been particularly chaotic: three people had called off sick and left the wait staff shorthanded, and when you had finally reached the end of dinner service the kid who was supposed to help you clean up the cafe had skipped out early, claiming that his mom needed him home earlier “for something”. When you'd asked him what exactly that was, he couldn't answer, but with the legalities of such things being what they were and the fact that he had gotten permission from the manager, you also couldn't really keep him from leaving. You were just another one of the wait staff like him and even though you'd worked there longer, you had no authority to order him around. The bell on the front door rung out as it closed shut behind him, a grin plastered on his stupid face as he left you with all the work in the messy dining area.

As nice as it would have been to beat him over the head with your broom, that wouldn't get the dining room clean.

It was after 11 when you were finally done. After turning out the lights, you left through the back entrance, double-checking to make sure that the door was locked before you started the walk back home.

Depending on how your shift had gone, this was either a relaxing walk back as you winded down, or it was a final kick to the stomach before you could reach the safety of your apartment. Tonight it was the latter: your legs felt like lead, your feet were aching from running around for hours, your back hurt from moving around the chairs and tables, and you were exhausted from keeping up that cheerful server persona for the sake of unpleasant customers. It was also frustrating how unreliable your coworkers could be, like that kid who'd abandoned you, but you knew that if you tried bringing it up to the manager you'd just get blown off. He didn't like you, and he went out of his way to make that clear. You were certain that he wanted you to just quit.

And honestly, you really wanted to.

The issue was there was no other job that was close enough to your home that you were qualified for. Not having a car made getting around to places that were further away difficult and trying to save up for something like that was easier said than done. Until you completed your studies and could get a better job, you were stuck in the purgatory that was your current life. All you could hope for was that it would be worth it if you worked hard and stuck it out. Good things come to those who wait or something.

In the midst of the inner pep-talk you always gave yourself after a hard shift, you felt something small fall on your head.

A drop of water?

You glanced up, noting the dark clouds that filled the night sky that hadn't registered when you had walked out earlier. A few more drops fell, some landing on you again.

Crap. You couldn't recall seeing any sort of weather report about rain tonight, and you didn't have an umbrella on you.

As much as the muscles in your legs protested, you picked up the pace as you continued down the sidewalk, hoping that you could make it back to your apartment before the rain came down harder.

'So much for that,' you thought as you stood beneath the awning of a small business while the rain poured down around you. You had barely made it to the little shelter when the rain had switched from a drizzle to a downpour, and even now the wind was still blowing some of the water in your direction, your shoes and socks slowly becoming soaked. But you tried to stay positive. At least you had even this much as a shelter so you could avoid being completely soaked, right? Just wait it out until the rain lessened a bit.

So you waited.

And waited.

And waited while the water pooled in your shoes and your cold wet socks clung to your feet, the sensation becoming worse whenever you would adjust your footing and caused the water that had filled up in the soles of your shoes to be forced out.

And the goddamn rain was not dying down.

The idea of braving the storm and entering your apartment building looking like a drowned rat wasn't appealing, but you really needed to get home. It was already so late and you couldn't stay under the awning for the rest of the night. Better to just hurry back as fast as you could and hope that you wouldn't get pneumonia.

Adjusting the contents of your bag so your electronics were positioned where they were the least likely to get wet, you took in a deep breath as you prepared yourself to run out into the storm.

But a voice that called out your name made you stop.

Turning around, you blinked in surprise when you recognized the man who had called out to you, standing only a few feet behind you: Franklin, the man who had quickly become your favorite regular at your job. He was far different than anybody else you served at that cafe; not just in appearance, but in terms of how he treated you. Even though he didn't spend much time there whenever he did come in, the little conversations you managed to have with him were usually among the highlights of your work day.

He was dressed in his normal attire, holding a large black umbrella that, despite its size, was unable to keep him completely sheltered from the downpour, the edge of his shoulder sticking out from underneath it and the fabric of his white jacket clinging to him. Franklin seemed to be just as surprised as you, and he walked closer, closing the umbrella as he joined you under the awning.

“What are you doing out so late?” he asked.

“Trying to get home,” you answered, sighing as you looked out again at the rain.

“I guess I missed the weather reports because this took me completely by surprise. Although I probably could have made it back fine if I had gotten out on time,” you added bitterly, more to yourself than him.

“I see,” said Franklin.

A bolt of lightning suddenly flashed overhead, followed by a loud peal of thunder that made you jump. Was it possible that this storm was only getting worse?

“Would you like me to walk you home?” he asked.

“Huh?”

Franklin motioned to the falling rain.

“It doesn't seem like it'll die down soon, and with how dark it is now, going back on your own might be dangerous,” he explained, “although it might not protect us too much with how bad this storm is, I do have an umbrella, so we won't get completely soaked. It's better than nothing, at least. So let me walk you the rest of the way.”

It was a nice offer, and even if his umbrella didn't give you much protection – you weren't sure how the two of you would fit under there together – anything would be better than going off alone. But despite his offer, you were worried that you might be inconveniencing him in some way.

“Are you sure? That won't be too out of the way for you?” you asked.

“Not at all. I'm heading that direction anyway. It makes more sense if we go together, right?”

You hummed an affirmative, and he smiled at you, stepping forward to open the umbrella and motioning for you to join him. Smiling back at him, you did just that. The two of you needed to squeeze close together to fit, and just as expected, a majority of the rain was still hitting you both. But like he had said, it was better than nothing, and Franklin did his best to angle the umbrella in the right way so it faced the direction that the rain was coming in from to protect you as much as he could.

His arm hovered around you as you began to walk forward, seemingly trying to shield you further from the elements while also trying to not make you too uncomfortable with the physical contact. You smiled up at him, offering a small “thank you.”

He smiled back in response, but said nothing as the two of you went along.

“So were you working late, too?” you asked after a few moments of relative silence, the rain still pounding against the pavement.

“A meeting ran late,” he explained, “what about you? You mentioned not getting out on time. Is this not normal for you?”

“No, not usually,” you sighed, “the guy who was supposed to help me clean up ran off early, and things were crazier than usual at dinner service because of some call-ins. So there was just a lot to do after we closed, and I can only go so fast.”

“Your coworker just left you?”

“Yep.”

“Can't you complain?”

“I can, but it won't do much. The manager signed off on it before I even got in today, and since he likes that kid more than he likes me, nothing would come from it,” you explained.

“Hmm. And this is the same manager who dislikes me?” he asked.

“Yeah, that's him. I really am sorry about him,” you said, “you'd think someone who managed to get to that position would act better towards customers.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” said Franklin, “his behavior isn't your fault.”

He looked ahead as the two of you walked.

“By the way, where exactly are we headed?” he asked.

“Ah! That would be helpful, wouldn't it? Sorry,” you said, scratching your head, slightly embarrassed.

“We have to walk straight a little more until we come up to a stop sign, then we'll take a right. There'll be some turns we need to take after, but I can explain when we get there.”

You looked back to him, asking “you're sure this isn't too much trouble?”

“I'm sure. Besides,” he chuckled, “I'm not going to leave you halfway.”

You smiled at him.

“Thanks. I appreciate it.”

Despite the dreary, dark atmosphere the storm created, things felt peaceful between you two as you made your way down the sidewalk, eventually turning a corner as you had instructed him. It was nice to talk to him outside of your job where you didn't have management breathing down your back, and you made more chit-chat as the two of you continued, only ever being interrupted whenever the thunder sounded out especially loud or when a lightning strike in the distance startled you. Unlike you, Franklin appeared to have nerves of steel as he barely reacted to the things that made you jump. But given that he said he worked as a security guard, you supposed that made sense.

“Do you normally get out late on Thursdays?” he asked suddenly.

“Yeah, I close, so I'm supposed to be out by 10.”

“So still pretty late. Aren't you worried about walking back by yourself?”

“I mean, this has always been a pretty safe area,” you said.

“For now, at least. But all it takes is for someone to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“I guess,” you conceded, “but I don't really have much choice, so it's just a risk that I have to take.”

Franklin looked as if he wanted to say something, but he instead chose to hum in acknowledgment. His eyes then turned upward and he straightened slightly when he noticed something.

“This is your apartment, isn't it?”

You looked to where his eyes had gone, and sure enough, your apartment building stood not too far from where the two of you were. That had seemed faster than you anticipated, though it was likely due to you being distracted when you were speaking to him.

You two were already heading to the building when a thought occurred to you.

“Did I give you the rest of the directions after we passed the stop sign?” you asked him.

Franklin blinked in surprise, then looked at you quizzically.

“Of course you did. How else would I have gotten you here?”

You felt slightly stupid again as he said that. Of course you had given him the rest of the directions: there wasn't any other way he could have known where to go.

“Sorry, you're right. I must have forgotten,” you said, trying to laugh it off, “I'm more tired than I realized.”

“Don't worry about it,” he answered.

Both of you were fairly damp by the time you reached the shelter of the building, Franklin shaking out his umbrella while you retreated further towards the front door, leaving your wet footprints on the dry concrete that had been protected by the cover over the building's entrance.

“I guess that could have been worse,” Franklin commented as he joined you by the door.

“I'm happy to not be completely soaked, so thank you for that,” you said.

He chuckled as he looked you over.

“It is late, so I won't keep you any longer,” he said, turning back towards the rain that continued to pour down, “I'll see you sometime later.”

“Ah, sure.”

A pang of guilt shot through you as he started to walk back out into it. He didn't need to walk you back, but he had anyway even though it had possibly kept him out in these bad conditions longer than he needed to be. Letting him go back out into that didn't seem like the right thing to do.

“Wait,” you called out.

Franklin paused, turning back to look at you.

“Would you, um, like to come in for a bit?”

There was a certain unsteadiness to your voice, you could tell. You weren't one to really invite anyone into your apartment, much less men that you really didn't know all that well. But it felt different with Franklin; you could trust him.

His eyebrows raised in surprise.

“I thought you were tired,” he said.

“Yeah, but it's still pouring out. At least stay until it dies down a little. As a 'thank you' for walking me back?”

Franklin looks between you and the rain, contemplating his options. At least, that's what it seemed like he was doing. There was a certain intensity in his gaze that you'd never seen before, and you weren't sure what that was about. Maybe you were being too forward? He didn't seem like the type to get uncomfortable easily, but maybe this was the exception.

You were about to tell him that he didn't have to if he had somewhere else to be when he answered you, saying “it might be nice to wait this out for a little.”

Beaming at him, you waved him back over as you opened the glass door of the building.

He'd needed to side-step through your front door in order to fit his wide shoulders through. While it was hard to miss that he was much larger than the average person, the fact that your apartment may have been too small for him wasn't something you had factored in when you'd invited him up.

“Sorry if it's cramped,” you said as he wiped his shoes on the mat.

As usual, he took everything in stride, telling you to not worry about it.

You pulled out one of the larger towels from your bathroom at his suggestion, placing it on the couch so he could sit without soaking it too much with his damp clothes. There was no way you had anything that could remotely fit him, so you needed to settle with handing him another towel after he sat; hopefully he could dry off at least a little bit.

“Do you want anything to drink? I have tea,” you offered.

“That sounds nice,” he said, nodding at you, “but shouldn't you do something about your clothes first?”

It had somehow slipped your mind that you had yet to change out of your wet work clothes. Today's shift really had run you more ragged than you'd thought; you weren't normally this forgettable.

“Sorry, can you give me a minute to change?”

“Go ahead.”

You hurried back to your room, closing the door behind you and pulling off your work uniform before throwing it into the hamper. Maybe not the best place to put it since it wasn't dry, but you'd deal with it later. Even though you weren't normally a host, you felt bad for leaving Franklin alone, and you worried that perhaps he perceived you as being some sort of careless idiot for managing to forget something as obvious as changing out of wet clothes. Not to mention the thing with the directions earlier.

Slipping into a loose-fitting shirt and a pair of leggings, you stepped back out into the living room area where he sat patiently, and you hoped you didn't look as flustered as you felt.

“Sorry again,” you said, making your way to the adjoining kitchen, “did you want anything to eat? I've got some snacks.”

“Just the tea is fine,” he answered.

Nodding, you turned away from him as you entered the small kitchen.

And then you paused.

In general, you wouldn't say you had that sense of being able to tell if someone was watching you. And yet when you turned away it was like a weight had fallen on you. A pair of eyes were roaming over you, scanning your form and taking in everything about you. And with there being only one other person in your apartment, there was only one possibility of who could be looking at you like that.

You glanced over your shoulder to see that not only was Franklin's gaze was not on you, but he wasn't even facing you. His eyes were closed, actually, and he continued to wait, the now damp towel he had used earlier folded up and sitting on his knee.

With a barely-audible sigh of relief, you relaxed a bit. It was the exhaustion that was making you feel weird; hopefully the tea would wake you up a bit and save you from any other embarrassing situations.

The largest mug in your pantry was still a bit small for Franklin, but you hoped it was slightly better than the mugs that held his coffee when he went to the cafe. Even if it wasn't he accepted it without complaint, thanking you and taking a small sip as you sat down on the chair adjacent to the couch with your own mug. Outside the storm continued, but while it didn't seem to have died down much, you at least no longer heard any thunder.

“So you live alone?” Franklin asked.

“Yeah. It's a bit more expensive this way, but I figured it's better than moving in with people I don't know and might not get along with,” you explained.

“What about family? Do they not live close by?”

“No, they live pretty far from here,” you said, “it was kind of scary when I moved out, but part of the young adult experience is living on your own, right?”

“I suppose,” he said, taking another sip of his tea.

“What about you? Where's your family?” you asked.

He set his mug back down, humming to himself as he considered his answer.

“In terms of biological family, I don't have any,” he said, “or if there are any out there, they've never come around looking for me.”

Oh.

“But,” Franklin continued before you could get out an apology for bringing it up, “it's not something that's really bothered me. I'd say I've done well enough for myself, and I'm not interested in seeking them out.

“Besides, I have a stronger bond with the people I work with.”

“Your coworkers?” you asked.

“Yeah. A lot of us started working together around the same time a few years ago. If I were to have any kind of familial bond, it'd be with them.”

He paused as he brought the mug up to his lips again, his thoughts distracting him.

“Maybe not all of them,” he added, somewhat hastily.

“That still sounds really nice. I wish I had that kind of close relationship where I worked,” you said, then added jokingly “is there a chance the place you work at is hiring?”

He let out a brief laugh, shaking his head as he smiled.

“Even if we were, there are some basic requirements you wouldn't be able to pass.”

“Ah, I see. I guess I'm not intimidating enough for a security job,” you said, laughing a little.

“That could be part of it,” he answered, chuckling.

“That's too bad. Guess I'll have to suffer with my current job until I can find something better.”

“You don't want to stay there?” Franklin asked.

“God no. That job is just to pay my bills. Eventually I'll find something better, I just need to figure out what to do with my life before that,” you sighed.

Franklin hummed, draining the last of his tea before setting the mug back down. His gaze went to the clock on the wall, and your own gaze followed, noting that it was now well after midnight.

“I should leave,” he said, “there are things I need to get done in the morning, and you should get some rest.”

“As long as you're sure – it sounds like it's still going pretty hard out there,” you said as he stood up.

“It'll be fine,” he assured you.

Walking back to the front door of your apartment, he collected the umbrella he'd left next to the entrance and then turned back to you.

“Thanks for the tea.”

“No problem. Do you want me to walk you back downstairs?” you asked.

“No, that's not necessary,” he said, “but that does remind me of something.”

“Hm?”

“You said earlier that you walk back on Thursdays at ten?”

You nodded, remembering what he asked before and how he seemed worried at the idea of you walking alone at night.

“Would you mind if I walked you back after you get off work on those days?”

In the moment you weren't sure what to say, and you just stared at him with some surprise. It was very kind of him to offer something like that, but part of you worried that maybe you'd be taking advantage of him a little.

“I know you said this was a safe area,” he continued, “but you never know what might happen.”

That's true. There had been more than a few times when making the journey back to your home that a dangerous-looking person on the street made you feel nervous. Not that anything had ever happened.

“I guess,” you began, “I won't stop you if you really want to? But I don't want to inconvenience you.”

“You won't,” said Franklin, “I don't mind making sure that you're safe.”

This sort of attention wasn't what you were used to, and all you could do was thank him again for his kindness, hoping that it didn't come out too awkward. You still didn't really feel like something like that was necessary, but ultimately, you couldn't see how it could hurt. Franklin just smiled at you again.

“I have some business to take care of over the weekend and at the beginning of the week, so I won't be in the area. But at the latest, I'll see you again next Thursday,” he said.

“Sounds good.”

The two of you exchanged your goodbyes before he side-stepped out the front door, you giving him one more wave before he entered the stairwell. When he left the building a few minutes later you watched a bit from your window. By this time the rain wasn't coming down as hard as it had been earlier, but with how that umbrella didn't protect him completely, he would still have the issue of his clothes being soaked by the time he got to his destination, probably. At least he didn't have another person to worry about.

You spent what little was left of your evening by cleaning up a bit before getting ready for bed, burrowing under the warm sheets after. But before you were able to drift off to sleep completely, another thought occurred:

Franklin seemed to have known where you were headed even before you had given him your directions. Almost like he had some idea of where you lived.

…... That's dumb. You probably told him what way you were headed and you just couldn't remember again.

What other explanation was there?

[kenzieam]

Save My Life - Chapter One

@jewels2876​ ​​​​​ @moonbeambucky​ ​​​​​ @jeremyrennerfanxxxx123​ ​​​​​ @iammarylastar​@captstefanbrandt​ ​​​​​ @badassbaker​ ​​​​​ @pinknerdpanda​ ​​​​​

I know I’m forgetting people, sorry. If you want in, hit me.

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Warnings: Definitely M. Language, violence, adult situations, graphic mentions of horrible things, traumatic death and descriptions.

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!!!!!TRIGGER WARNINGS!!!!!

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Paramedic Bucky Barnes has seen it all and it’s definitely taken a toll on his mind and body, witnessing senseless death, all but wading through it at times as he is the first responder to so many ghastly accidents and mishaps. The widow of one of his former patients haunts him long after his brief, chaotic contact with her and destiny conspires to cross their paths again. Can the broken man and grieving woman find peace together?

Feedback is life, y’all.

***********************************************************************

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER

With a growl and a groan, Bucky rolled over onto his back and threw his arm over his eyes. His body throbbed in a way that, while unwelcome, was far from unpleasant and he reached down, palmed his aching cock through the plain black boxer briefs he usually slept in.

It was so much easier to stumble to the shower if he only had to tangle with briefs, not try to pull a t-shirt off his muscular frame, it wasted precious seconds that could be better spent gasping for breath under the spray, hands pressed to the wall and bowed forwards, water washing away the nightmares that had torn him from uneasy sleep to begin with.

The dichotomy wore at him, even as he relived the horrors of her husband’s messy final moments of life, his body yearned for her, his cock hardening while his mind played the reel over and over, the sightless eyes, the crunching of the man’s ribcage beneath his hands.

There was no use fighting it, he’d tried so many times, only to lose every battle.

His pleasure crested, peaked and he groaned in release, his cock pulsing thick ropes of his seed onto his heaving stomach but the physical gratification didn’t touch the emotional turmoil and he dropped his hand with another groan, squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth until the sensations faded, both the ecstasy and the guilt.

Finally, he moved, hauling himself off the bed, off the tangled, soaked sheets and grimaced; the evidence of his twisted mind drying on his belly. Stumbling over last night’s jeans he shuffled into the bathroom and turned the water to scalding, scowling at his face in the mirror, scrubbing a hand over his stubble.

Would he finally get his shit together today? What compelled him, day after day, to continue like this? Sure, not every call ended the way that one had, but the good ones had long stopped overpowering the bad, their shadows too dark to chase away.

His phone jangled, clashing with his already raw nerves. Would such a simple sound ever stop eliciting such a heart-stopping response in him? He reached for the receiver, his seed still painting his belly, pulling at the downy hair there as it dried and silently held it to his ear. The voice on the other end knew he was there.

“Hey.” Steve said quietly.

“Hey.”

“Is today the day?” The day you stop this, quit the job that’s slowly killing you and start putting yourself back together again?

Bucky exhaled, a harsh yet anemic sound. “No, not today.”

Steve, his partner of eleven years, the man who usually drove the ambulance while Bucky worked so hard in the back, sighed quietly. Closer than brothers, he could read Bucky like an open book, but it went both ways and Bucky could hear the small smile on his face too. Although it was slowly killing both of them, there was nobody they’d rather die beside.

“See you at the station?”

“Yeah, an hour.”

“Coffee.”

“Your turn.” Bucky grunted, slamming the receiver down. Their shorthand baffled most, pissed off others, but you couldn’t be stripped bare emotionally in front of someone for over a decade and not connect like that.

One last lingering glance in the mirror, a brief grimace at the haunted cast in his blue eyes, then he continued into the shower, letting the water wash away both the sweat and the tears.

**********************************************************************

“Still having nightmares?” Steve asked, glancing Bucky’s way before returning his attention to the road. On their way to a frequent flyer found semi-conscious and, no doubt, more than semi-intoxicated, sprawled on the ground outside a local McDonald’s, there was a mild sense of urgency but an even larger sense of ‘same-old, same-old’ weary acceptance.

“Never stop.” Bucky replied shortly, barely looking up from poking listlessly at the computer screen mounted on the dash.

“About her?”

Bucky exhaled, eyes falling closed until the pain, while by no means gone, diminished enough to allow him to draw the next breath. “Yeah.”

“Man, that was over a year ago and you haven’t seen her since. What gives?” Steve demanded, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of his hand before cursing under his breath and hitting the sirens again to persuade a stubborn car out of their lane.

Bucky mused that he’d probably hear those god-damned sirens in hell.

“I don’t know-”

“Her husband died-”

“I know!”

“And I’m sure the last person she wants to see is the guy who was covered in his blood literally crushing the man’s ribs!”

“I know!” Bucky bellowed, slamming his fist on the dash then pulling it back with a grunt to cradle against his muscular chest. He’d need the full use of his hands, both massive paws that somehow could be so gentle and precise while intubating or placing an IV line, to deal with the patient they were now pulling up on.

“You using again?” Steve asked, voice low, bordering on a mix of angry and disappointed.

Bucky turned away, opening the door and jumping out before the bus had come to a full stop.

************************************************************

Lev glanced around briefly before dropping her eyes again. She felt supremely uncomfortable here, despite the fact that she was one of the more in-control attendees; she wasn’t weeping ceaselessly into a handkerchief, or burying her face in her hands while her shoulders shook, or muffling her wails on the shoulder of the person beside her. She was keeping it together.

Wasn’t she?

Eighteen months since Clint’s violent and unexpected death and this was her first meeting for grieving survivors, held in an aging school gymnasium that smelled like old socks and even older sweat, the wood floor marked and scarred with years of abuse.

Her friend Wanda had finally put her foot down, after a year and a half of back and forth, of, ‘I’m fine, just tired’ excuses and tearful limbo and all but dragged Lev to her doctor, where the kindly soul who may or may not be hiding pain just as visceral as hers and therefore knew what he was talking about had suggested this place, as an alternative to the pharmaceutical option that had been the first choice, and rejected so vehemently by Lev to warrant it’s proposal.

She glanced around. The middle-aged woman who’d lost her husband when he’d choked to death right in front of her during their weekly Sunday brunch, three chairs over in the large circle; the man who’d suffered through agonizing minutes of his wife pleading for help over her phone, then her final screams of terror as her car’s throttle had malfunctioned on the freeway and she’d careened at top speed into an embankment, instantly dying but taking with her his unborn son as well, five chairs over; then…. Him.

Lev startled slightly, dropping her gaze before it could be returned. Her memories of that time were so scattered and chaotic, stained with Clint’s blood and the sound of that goddamn siren, but she remembered him, or more accurately, the pain in his supernatural blue eyes.

Built like a marine, massive and muscled, shoulder-length hair pulled back into a loose bun, clad not in his uniform but a simple red long-sleeved Henley and jeans, hulking and intimidating until you looked closer and saw the anguish, was the paramedic that had tried so hard to save her husband’s life that lifetime ago.

Her heart sped up and she focussed obsessively on her cuticles. She wished suddenly for Wanda, but she’d insisted on attending tonight by herself and consequently was now alone as a tsunami of memories crashed over her. The incongruity of smells: bitter antiseptic, raw panic and body expulsions, warm male musk and blood; the duelling opposites that had all but torn her in half: frightening, in-your-face reality as Clint’s blood dried on her face coupled with the dream-like quality of the whole drawn-out nightmare.

How did that man cope? Dealing with that life and ugly death daily? Was that why he was here now, slumped in his chair and listening to other lambs to the slaughter open their veins in wretched attempts to assuage the pain?

She was called gently upon to speak, to give her name and reason why she was here; what screaming banshee howled unending torment in her ears, but she shook her head, burrowing further in on herself and muttering a vow to make herself talk next time, no matter how uncomfortable.

An eternity and an eye-blink later, the meeting ended, and Lev stood stiffly, her body raw and pulsating with fresh grief. For lack of anything else to do, she wandered to the refreshment table, knowing she was far too shaky yet to attempt to drive herself home and picked up a pre-poured paper cup of juice and pack of generic cookies. She’d just sat at an empty table and touched the cup to her lips when a quiet, tentative voice washed over her.

“Hi.”

She glanced at him, quickly back down again. “Hi.” Her voice was stronger than she felt, and she was grateful for the support of the table and chair.

“May I sit?” There was a puzzling hesitancy in his voice, as if he expected screaming rejection, but Lev was too tired to push someone else away, it was too wearying keeping her own mind and body quiet.

At her nod, he sat, picking at his own pack of cookies, seeming to be warring with himself about something.

“I remember who you are, you know.” Lev added, watched his shoulder slump with mingled relief and trepidation.

“I didn’t know… if you…. did or not-” He mumbled, trailing off uncomfortably.

“Hard to forget that day.” Lev whispered. She hesitated before adding. “I never got a chance but… thank you… for trying.”

He nodded, jaw tight, not lifting his eyes from the table.

“How do….” She didn’t want to ask, but God, she did too. “How do you manage to do that… as a job I mean?”

He smirke humorlessly, gesturing with one massive hand to the assembly around them.

“Does it help?”

He shrugged. “More than the company counselling. A friend of mine suggested it a couple years ago; I try to come when I can but….” He cleared his throat. “What about you?”

Lev dropped her eyes again, puzzlingly embarrassed. “My first time. My friend… she made me see a doctor-”

He held up a large hand. Say no more.

“How are you sleeping?” He asked quietly, lifting his hypnotizing gaze to hers again, which she quickly averted, in parts shocked and soothed by the tractor-pull that seemed to emanate from his supernatural blue eyes.

The question stung somehow, and it was so much easier to bite at that then lay bare the devastation beneath. “How do you?” Even as the question left her lips she recoiled, horrified with herself and pressed her hand to her mouth.

He flinched, barely perceptively, but the dark rings under his eyes answered her.

“God, I’m sorry-”

He shook his head, held up a massive hand again. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not!” What was wrong with her, biting the first hand that extended any type of friendliness? “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“This place… feeling this way… it makes you raw.” He replied, glancing up at her before looking away and gesturing with a chin jerk to a nearby table. “Sweetest old lady you’ll ever meet over there, but once she comes here and starts remembering her husband’s death again, turns into an old hag.” He twisted the paper cup in his hands, completely engulfing it before taking a sip. “Later, she’ll sit there with a stunned look on her face, like she’s waking up from a black-out.”

“I don’t want to be an old hag.”

A faint smile touched his full lips, temporarily lighting up his unbelievably handsome face. “You’d never be.” A faint pink flush and he looked away again.

Lev suddenly couldn’t breathe. The room, the man across from her, were taking all the air and she stumbled to her feet. “I have to go.”

He watched her, face falling and tried to stand but Lev lifted her hand, an emotional traffic cop, and shook her head. “I’m fine.”

It was a lie, and both knew it, but he only watched sadly as she hurried out the gymnasium doors to the darkness outside, head bowed.

**************************************************

“You never answered me.” Steve spoke suddenly, breaking the silence in the bus as they took a rare break between calls, sitting in the parking lot of a local coffee-shop, trying to wolf down their breakfast sandwiches before the radio blared and re-established reality.

Bucky grunted, knowing what his partner was referring to but hoping that he’d drop it if he played silly buggers.

“James.” Shit, he was serious, using Bucky’s given name.

Bucky sighed, staring out the windshield. “It’s under control.”

“Is it?” Steve all but shouted. “Shooting H? Seriously, man. How do you have that ‘under control’?! What the fuck, James!”

“I don’t do it all the time-”

“Once is too many!”

“Fuck you. You got someone to come home to-”

“DO NOT put that on me, asshole. You’ve had plenty of women hoping for your last name, what the hell are you always waiting for?”

“I’m-”

“Stop thinking about that girl, it’s never going to happen!”

A bitter retort stung Bucky’s tongue and he knew if he spit it out it would poison their enduring friendship, weaken it just when he needed it the most but he was saved from sabotaging himself by the damned radio itself, the dispatcher’s efficient voice relaying maximum information with minimal syllables.

Glaring daggers at Bucky, obviously having a damn good idea what he had been about to say, Steve snorted angrily and grabbed the microphone, snapping an affirmative before slamming the vehicle in gear and hitting the sirens.

************************************************************************

Levi was not at the next meeting and Bucky felt a curious mix of relief and disappointment. Steve was right, this was never going to happen and, even if it did, he had no right dragging this girl down into his shit, not when she was still trying to dig herself out of her own. But still, he was disappointed; she was the rare light in his darkness, had been since the moment he’d first seen her, even with all the chaos and horror around her, cradling her dying husband’s head in her lap, pleading with someone, anyone to help. When their eyes had locked, a visceral, physical jolt had shot through him, almost painful in its intensity and he’d become personally invested in doing all he could to help, if not the patient he’d been dispatched for, then her.

Anything for her.

He was a sad fuck.

He’d barely heard the meeting going on around him, the others whispering their shame and pain, the answering murmurs from fellow sufferers. He rarely spoke at these, was rarely called on anyway because the overseer, a thin, bantam rooster of a man named Tony, who still lost all confidence and swagger when remembering his dear wife, Pepper, who’d passed suddenly from an aneurysm a few years previous, knew who Bucky was and why he was here.

He had no personal stories of loss to tell, but shared the pain of every single death he witnessed, every patient he tried to save and usually ended up only managing to usher into the afterlife with some semblance of comfort anyway.

He left the meeting that night alone, curled up on the floor at the end of his bed and found a vein.

[mysticdragon3md3]

Trying to make sense of my OTP record from “badass pairs” to “moronsexual for this himbo”.  lol  

I was tagging a previous Tumblr post "#sassy akira is best akira".  I don't necessarily believe that.  I just like sassy Akira.  I don't know if he's the best version of Akira, but "[version] [character] is best [character]" is a common meme, and I wanted to use that shorthand as a tag.  

Sometimes I worry that "sassy Akira" wouldn't love Ryuji.  After all, my first big OTP was Zel/Lina, wherein I often cited that I preferred how their equally sharp minds played off and seamlessly complimented each other.  In contrast to Lina/Gourry which was moronsexuality.  Since then, I've always personally preferred couples who were equals.  Like IchiRuki, which was my next big OTP obsession after Zel/Lina.  I even preferred couples like in FAKE by Sanami Matoh, who were of equal height and age.  In contrast to most BL manga which often had troublesome age differences and went to great lengths to highly contrast the couple's character designs, in height, color schemes, hard vs soft lines, "masculine" vs "feminine", etc.  And I know that contrasting character designs for couples or any pair of characters who are often in the same composition together, is recommended design, but in BL it was starting to be unequal in extreme ways that I couldn't support with my romantic values.  And of course, I'm not going to read/watch a romance story that doesn't appeal to my personal ideals about romance.  So if I'm not into himbos, then why am I staunchly, jealously biased towards AkiRyu/Pegoryu, and not say, ShuAke?  

I was going to write about how tastes change.  "I used to be totally into the gutsy tomboys, but by the time of Code Geass, I had bewilderingly passed over the super cool Kallen for dead-inside Universal Mother Goddess archetypes like C.C.".  

But when I look back at my recorded OTP cycle, I've always liked himbos.  I just wouldn't admit they were himbos, because I didn't think they were stupid.  They were often oblivious to some social norms and overtly silly, but I remember getting mad when people would call Sanada Yukimura dumb. And I'd rant about "how dare people demean such rare and pure earnestness!  It takes great emotional strength---True Strength to be so emotionally honest! That’s wisdom!"  But even before my DateSana obsession, I was into USUK, and US was _definitely_ stupid.  That was part of his charm!  Hetalia was a comedy show, after all.  Maybe that's why it was easier for me to admit he was a dumb git.  Also, it was cute fanon whenever England teasingly called him a "git".  ^.^  Looking back made me realize that an affinity for himbos and moronsexuality wasn't really against my ideals and my AkiRyu obsession isn't even a sign of my tastes changing.  I've always loved the really earnest, sincere, silly, loud, emotionally-honest, pure-hearted Shonen Protagonist type.  Where their instances of “stupidity” became just signs of their pure innocence (at least in their ideals/values).  I guess Gourry Gabriev just didn't really quite breach that threshold for me, but Ryuji Sakamoto did.

So AkiRyu doesn't contradict my previous ideals and personal tastes.  Akechi just doesn't meet my requirement for OTP fodder.  I mean, even IchiRuki and Zel/Lina, though equals and both sharp and tough, were individually compassionate people on top of their impressive cleverness.  Vanilla Persona 5 introduced/portrayed Akechi as an unnecessarily malicious bully, and that is one of my highest pet peeves.  So of course, it doesn't matter if he can mentally spar with Akira and be his rival in battle.  I won't ship anyone with a jerk.  That's not my pastime, let alone a ship that I'd want to obsess over.  

The thing I like about the idea of "sassy Akira" choosing himbo Ryuji, is that as seemingly uncatchable, unphasable as Joker may seem, flipping and dodging entrapments with all the agility and confidence in the world, we've seen that's just his mask, his Jungian persona.  Akira was really hurt by his false arrest and no one believing in him.  He was ready to give in to the world, maybe even start believing he was wrong to help that woman (until Arsene questioned him about it during his Awakening).  The best story that I personally want to see (or the story that I need right now) is when that broken Disillusionment meets the Shonen Protagonist type, who still persists in believing in good, in justice and people, and foolishly continues to risk being kind and emotionally vulnerable, and all those things that the cynical, seemingly mature character has been scared off from risking again, like a frightened child, that they won't admit they’ve become.  Because, at least in my headcanon, my fanon's version of Akira doesn't need a sparring partner; he needs renewed hope in the world.  Ryuji would never be insincere, abandon Akira, be unsupportive, play mind games, or casually entrap anyone in daily life (I'm not talking about spying on the new track advisor, but everyday interactions that more clever people turn into endless mind games and playful teasing entrapments).  And then on top of that, he's also so positive and enthusiastic about pretty much everything.  Heck, even when he's negative about stuff, he's usually expressing the same emotion Akira is having in reaction to a situation, but is afraid to outwardly express; but Ryuji has no fear.  Yet, he'll turn around from barking guard dog, to instantly cuddly puppy.  He's a good boy.  ;u;  And then on top of *that*, Ryuji _proactively_ tries to protect people, constantly and regardless of how the world has hurt him.  I mean, he's a himbo, but goddamn, what a catch.  *o*

I shouldn't have to convince myself to stop feeling guilty over whatever OTP I'm having fun with.  But it sure is nice to re-live all the good reasons through the analysis.  ^-^  

[phynali]

SPN 15x10 Heroes’ Journey

So I kind of thought people were maybe overreacting with the hate for SPN episode 15x10 but no - it was That Bad. 

I really, really, wanted to like this episode. The actors talked about how fun it was in the pre-season press tour. There was excitement about it. I was kind of expecting another The French Mistake or Scooby-Doo type episode - canon but mostly taking the piss, not consequential to the overall plot, incredibly self-aware.

And I think it tried to be a lot of those things, but failed so utterly. And I want to a) unpack a bit of why, and b) write some fix-it interpretation that you can take or leave but that I’m gonna headcanon for my own sanity.

First, here are so many problems with this episode in what it implies about the canon and the characters.  

It says that they haven’t ever been normal. Okay, sure, I’m there. God gave them a bit of Plot Armour because they’re his favourites.  They’ve come back from the dead like a dozen times, I’ll buy that.

But then - 

Then it says that they’ve never got parking tickets, that they don’t get colds, cavities? Okaaaaay, so God gave them some extra luck and fortitude. Alright.

But then they can’t pick locks? Fight monsters? The engine fails when we know Dean has built it from the ground up, loves it obsessively, and obsesses over its maintenance? Sam can’t fucking boil pasta? Things they’ve done their entire lives are suddenly beyond them, as if they never learned nor developed a skill nor have common sense.

What the fuck?

It is absolute bullshit if taken at face-value but okay IF you set aside the canon hand-fed interpretation of what’s going on. Garth tells them that they’re suddenly experiencing ‘normal person problems’ because they are no longer the ‘heroes’.

Suddenly losing a bit of fortitude and luck doesn’t make you lose skills you’ve developed over decades or make you suddenly unable to boil water. So either we have to reject the episode, or reject the false interpretation sent our way. I choose the latter.

Think about it (let me convince you to appease my own frustration) - Chuck is a liar. We know this. Chuck is also our narrator, in canon and meta-textually. 

We know we have an unreliable narrator.

Is it not reasonable to suggest that Chuck didn’t “make them normal” or “take away their special Hero Status” and have Dean suddenly lactose-intolerant, ridden with cavities (okay that part is realistic but to suddenly feel them now?), have it so Sam, who got a full ride to Stanford University - cannot boil water and grabs hot pots with his bare hands. 

Actually for that last bit - if you’ve worked in kitchen for a long time or done a large amount of cooking, the sensitivity in your hands decreases a lot. Sam might actually be able to grab things straight out of the oven for short periods of time, or grab pots by the handles off the stove without feeling the burn the way someone like me might. My partner can do shit like that, though normally at least uses a tea towel for things straight out of the oven, but i’ve seen him do it. So Sam might do that typically and that just lends itself to my theory that - 

Chuck is fucking with them.

Chuck didn’t “make them normal” - he sent a bunch of annoying inconveniences their way to slow them down, and to undermine their confidence in their skills. Just enough that they think it’s them and not Him. That they think it’s their shine worn off, their luck run dry, their skills as never being as good as they thought - just enough hits to keep coming and uncomfortable facts that fit close enough to their lives to make them Doubt.

He is God, what does he do but deal in Faith and Doubt?

(He doesn’t like to be questioned. He knows them inside and out, knows everything about everything - including how to sew discord).

He took away their credit card that Charlie had hacked for them so they can’t move around as quick and easy, switched the flip on some of their biology (lactose intolerance, clumsiness, a head cold) to slow them down, fucked them up a bit in terms of the Impala (parking tickets, spark plugs) to stall them up. 

Not bad luck, not a loss of Plot Armour - Chuck is playing with the narrative. He wanted Sam to give up hope in the previous episode, and now he wants to weedle at that weakness. He wants them inconvenienced and down on themselves, knows that they excel when they’re faced with violence and a Big Bad but it’s like Lilith and her ‘death by a thousand cuts’. He knows it will be easier to get under their skin with a series of minor vexations that has them questioning themselves.

They are cursed. Dean is right. Cursed with God’s Wrath - which in this case looks a bit more like God’s No Good, Super Annoying Goddamn Day(s), but y’know. Whatever.

And then there’s the skills - the inability to pick locks, to fight monsters. As if a lifetime of practice and training disappears when Plot Armour does. I cannot suspend my disbelief to accept that being Normal means having no learned skills.

So although the narrative (the narrator, Chuck, God Who Art Unreliable) is telling us that they only have these skills because He wanted them to.

We must reject that interpretation of the canon. 

(Just like I wish Sam and Dean had rejected that misinterpretation of their lives.) 

God waved his hand and took away skills they’d need in a pinch. He didn’t fuck with their personalities because he likes to watch too much, but he wanted to see what they’d do if he (re)set their skills to zero: if they would learn again, if they would realize how fucked they were, make bad decisions to regain those abilities, drink blood or take on Angels or anything else vile so they might kill each other. He’s trying to get his story back on track, and lying to the audience (which now, oddly, includes the protagonists) is small change next to forcing the plot the way he wants to go.

Literally, Chuck is retconning the canon because he’s written himself into a corner, and he’s jealous of his own protagonists.

(Oddly - I think he’s kind of lying to himself too. Taking all this away and convincing himself that he gave it to them all in the first place, fucking with coincidence because these things do happen and messing with their biology because other people do have these sorts of issues. He takes all the credit for their success and therefore convinces himself it’s okay to change and take away whatever he wants, to manipulate luck and chance because hey - he’s God. They are his Creation, and therefore this is All Him, really.)

Only bad writers force the plot to go where they want irrespective of what it means about the characterization and being hard left-turn OOC. Chuck is a bad writer. We know this. Without Metatron as his editor he kind of writes complete crap? Even Becky and her purple prose had multiple critiques of his writing throughout the seasons.

So tl;dr - 

The Heroes’ Journey isn’t about Sam and Dean losing the ‘plot armour’ and bonus to skills that Chuck had given them to make them badasses with no Normal Person Problems. 

Instead, it’s an (undoubtedly unintentional from the writers and therefore ironic) exercise in unreliable narration where the audience is told the heroes are only special because someone else made them so. The creator of the in-canon narrative is retconning his own canon and trying to tell the reader it was this way all along, underneath plot armour. 

He’s also doing this because as a self-insert OC into his own story, and now the antagonist of the story who fails to realize he’s made himself the bad guy, he’s buying time, aiming to slow them down and trying to cut away at their confidence and hope.

And he succeeds - and backfires. He chips away at them only enough to frustrate, to convince them that they Are and Must Be special in order to do what needs doing. They know that they have ever lacked in heroism, and the narrator fails to convince the audience that normalcy and heroism do not go hand in hand - in part because God’s favourite or not, they aren’t the only heroes in this story.

(Thanks Garth)

PS - Building from here into 15x11, if we accept this explanation but also know they do get their “mojo” (luck) back thanks to a  Goddess, we can extrapolate that although she maybe can’t undo the changes that Chuck’s thrown their way, some of what he’s doing is based on coincidence (luck), and they should be ‘lucky’ enough to be able to access their skills despite having Chuck’s bullshit placed on them (or be lucky enough to have it removed entirely?). Luck seems a shorthand term here for so much more, something more like the suppressor/bullshit Chuck’s using on them, so I take it to mean that she basically reset the balance.

[screambirdscreaming]

personal rambling

For the past couple years I’ve been working to build a way of functioning that doesn’t hurt me. Before that, I was running on a mode of pretty much pure determination - pushing myself to do the next thing that had to be done, and the thing after that, and the thing after that. Partly that was because of the chronic pain. There’s a way things get, when you’re in pain all the goddamn time, where you just don’t have the bandwidth to feel emotions in any kind of complex way. Like when you’re nose is stuffed up from a cold and you can’t smell anything or taste any of the complex subtle flavors, just your basic “sweet” “salty” “bitter” kinds of categories. But with emotions it’s like “frustration” and “determination” and the rare, ever elusive “calmness”. That’s about as good as it gets - feeling like things are pretty ok and you don’t need to be fighting right now immediately. Oh, and hysterical amusement. And satisfaction - satisfaction is good.  But things like the joy when you see a really good bird, or the feeling you get when you smell wet earth, or the things music makes you feel... they just get kind of squished out. Or at least, for me they did.

And then I got on medication that actually managed the pain. And I started being able to feel these things again, to notice and appreciate things outside of the very narrow pathway of “the thing I need to do next” which I’d been focusing all my energy on. And I felt - I can’t describe what a wonder it was, and what a relief, to feel things like that again, after I’d almost forgotten they existed. I wanted to learn to live that way. 

But I was still swamped with depression, and anxiety, and what I very belatedly identified as sensory processing issues and executive dysfunction. I still had to pour almost all my energy into making things happen, one step at a time. But as I tried to keep moving forward that way, all determination all the time, I realized that - it wasn’t possible to do both. That bitter, powerful determination that had carried me through so much was the determination of “fuck it, everything’s awful anyway, I might as well do this too.” It existed on the far side of being so miserable I couldn’t function. And having crossed back across that gap of misery, I couldn’t reach it anymore. If I pushed too far, tried to force myself to do too much, it would hurt me. Or rather, it always hurt me, but now I had the potential to experience things other than bitter exhausted hurt, and I wanted to try that. To try not hurting.

It still frustrates me. To remember being able to just do things, to just make myself do things with willpower alone - I can’t do that now, really. Or I can, but only a little bit, and sometimes it just doesn’t work. Sometimes I wonder if I made the right choice. It’s easy to romanticize it, from a couple year’s distance. It’s easy to think maybe it wasn’t that bad. But here’s a weird little trick your brain plays on you: you don’t remember pain. You can’t. Your brain just doesn’t form memories of what pain feels like. Which is, probably, for the best. But it makes it easy to second-guess yourself. You remember how much you hated the pain, and you remember thinking about how miserable you were, but you can’t feel the misery anymore. So. I choose to trust my past self, who made this choice, on the tipping point between pain and relief. They’re probably the only version of myself who actually understood the options. I hope they chose well.

And what they chose was - to define “doing my best” as “doing a reasonable amount that will not hurt me.” To stop pushing when pushing started to hurt me. And instead, to try to learn to do things by following what I found interesting and satisfying to do, what I could focus on without fighting my brain. To learn to recognize my different mental states, and what kind of work I could and couldn’t do in each of them, and what things I could do to influence what mental state i’m more or less likely to be in. Rather than pushing harder to make myself do something, I try to find ways to deconstruct and reframe it to be easier to approach. I feel like I’m juggling with my adhd, or setting up elaborate mazes to lead it down to the outcomes I want, like a clever hero outwitting a monster. Only it’s not a monster. It’s a way of thinking, a way of being. I made it through pretty much my whole childhood never thinking of it as a bad thing, being proud of it even - or at least of various parts of it, like the way I can hyperfocus on a project for hours and make something even I didn’t know was within my abilities. And sure, I’ve always felt like there are downsides, or things I struggle with, but everyone has those.

I just feel, more and more, like it’s hard to give myself space to think the way I think and function the way I function, and still keep up with what’s expected of me. I’m terrible with time, I’m always late to everything. The older I get the less forgiving people are of that, and while I can scrape by as a student - that’s the sort of thing that could loose me a job, once I get one, and I’m still barely more on top of it than I was a few years ago. And I can’t really explain to people why this is such a fundamental problem, why this is such a big deal. Back when the pain was really bad, I remember trying to explain to the boss at my summer job that it was harder for me to “just push through” my problems with time than it was to “just push through” doing farmwork with pain equivalent to continuous labor contractions. I have no reliable internal perception of the passage of time - I can’t perceive the difference between three hours passing and 20 minutes. Also, trying to align myself to the flow of time which I cannot perceive makes me massively anxious. If I try too hard, pay too much attention to the way time randomly slips away and try to set lots of alarms and calculate how long it takes me to finish things - I have a panic attack and don’t leave the house at all. I know it sounds dumb. I know, I know. But I promise you, whatever trick with a clock or a planner you want to suggest, I’ve tried it, and it hasn’t worked. I’m getting better at working around it. As long as I don’t focus on it too directly. I have a vague sense of how long it takes me to get ready in the morning, and I set my alarms to wake up at a time that seems kinda reasonable, adjusted through trial and error when I start a new schedule, and I get up and get ready and leave and catch a bus without ever checking a clock, and whatever happens, happens. I’m usually not more than 10 minutes late. I know that doesn’t sound impressive, but believe me, it’s progress. 

Once I get out of the house it’s better. I’m already moving, I can keep moving, as long as I have a continuous set of things to do until I get home again. I try to plan my schedule so that I have plenty of time to get between places I need to be, without having to rush to catch a specific bus or anything like that, but not so much time I get distracted. It’s a balance. I’ve made so much progress, and at this point I feel like it’s reliable enough that if people could tolerate me being not more than 10 minutes late, I’d be fine. But that’s too much to ask, in the modern world. And I don’t know how much better I can make it.

I feel like I’m trying so hard to build myself a mode of functioning that doesn’t hurt me, that works with my adhd rather than against it, and I feel like what I’ve built works really well - but it still feels like it’s not enough. Like I still can’t conform to the expectations of society.  And I try to go looking for other perspectives, other people’s advice, because I’ve derived all of this myself by trial and error and maybe someone out there has something that would help? Something that I could use without figuring it out the hard way? But I feel like everything I can find about ADHD is about conforming to the expectations of society. Like, that’s the baseline. It’s all about how much extra effort you can pour in to using a planner like a normal person. I’ve always felt like structured planners make you do twice the work putting everything in a certain order, and then don’t help at all. I’ve found my own strategies for writing things down and organizing them that do help. Some of them even look a little like some of the things in a planner. But I made them to work with the weird patterns in my brain, not to impose their patterns on me. And I can’t find that perspective anywhere.

I want to find somewhere where people are talking about ADHD as a way of thinking and being that is self-contained and self-sufficient and doesn’t need to be “managed.” I feel like that’s almost hypocritical of me, because I think about “managing” my adhd a lot. But that’s shorthand for “managing the ways the expectations of society interface badly with my adhd, and also, rederiving a bunch of general organizational tactics and strategies for doing things because the ones I was taught as a kid mostly don’t work for me.” 

I still feel a little like I’m being stupid and selfish, going to this much effort to try and construct a way of being when I know I can do the other option. I can push myself through misery and out the other side, to a place where I don’t feel miserable anymore, just exhausted and fiercely, bitterly determined. I’ve done it before. I could do it again.  And I feel like... a lot of people with adhd must end up there. It’s not that bad once you get used to it, and it interfaces with society pretty well, and you can do so much. I feel like I know a lot of people who are still dealing with chronic pain who still function like that. Honestly I’m incredibly lucky, to have gotten treatment in only two years. That’s a crazy good turnaround time for chronic pain. And I feel kind of like a hack, to have connected with that community (at least here on the internet) and to have related so much to that experience and the way of being it brings about, and to the coping strategies people had - and then, to not be there. To be doing this other thing, which I’m so stupidly lucky to even get to try to do.  I don’t know. Maybe I get to be selfish. Maybe I get to at least try this, and feel these cool weird feelings, and be inspired to do art sometimes, and I might not function that much but it’s alright. I feel like I have a responsibility to do good work in the world - not because work determines worth, but because I have the resources and the capacity and so I should use them to make things better in whatever ways I can reach. And sometimes it seems like my selfishness isn’t worth the balance of how much I could do, if I just pushed through and decided to do it - but maybe I’d burn myself out. Maybe it’s enough to live a life I enjoy and do a little work when I can but not sacrifice myself to it. I don’t know. I’m trying this, anyway.

[theliterateape]

Hope Idiotic | Part 25

By David Himmel

 Hope Idiotic is a serialized novel. Catch each new part every week on Monday and Thursday.

LOU HAD JUST FALLEN ASLEEP IN HIS OLD BED IN HIS OLD BEDROOM. Chuck gladly took the guestroom while Lou was home. And it felt good to be home. It was just shy of four-thirty in the morning when his cell phone began lighting up and ringing and vibrating on his nightstand. Michelle was calling.

His stomach did a lap around the other organs as he looked at her photo come to life on his caller I.D. He silenced the phone. He rolled away from it and started to drift back to sleep. She called again. He ignored it. Again she called, and again he ignored it.

Then, a different ringtone. A text message. He picked up the phone and flipped it open.

Please pick up.

She called again. Silenced. He shoved the phone under his pillow to muffle any more disturbances. What the fuck could she possibly want? he drowsily thought.

Maybe you already deleted my number from ur phone. Its Michelle. Pls pick up Lou.

He hated when adults used text shorthand. Another text came in while he was reading the last one.

I understand if you never want to speak to me again. But please talk to me. Pls don’t let it be like this. We can’t end this way. Please. Pls pick up.

Couldn’t there at least be some goddamn consistency in how she spelled? he thought. Then another one.

Please.

The phone rang again. Michelle’s pixilated face was smiling at him. He remembered taking that photo. It was during his fist autumn in Chicago. She was late for work because they screwed around after waking up. As she was running out the door, he pleaded with her to just hold still for one second. He told her how cute she looked. She was wearing her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She thought she looked scummy. He pleaded again. She turned, whipping her head around and smiling at him from over her shoulder. He liked that picture of her. Seeing it come through on the I.D. used to give him butterflies. That morning it gave him dead moths.

He watched her photo change to the message: MISSED CALL. The voicemail notification dinged a few moments later. “Goddammit,” he said. He played it back.

“Lou. It’s Michelle. It’s me…” She was sobbing almost uncontrollably. “Please call me back. I heard you’re back in Vegas at a job interview. Great. Please call me back. I have to talk to you. Ple—”

It sounded like she let the phone fall from her face as she began what he could only assume was another wave of chest-heaving crying fits. Jesus Christ, he thought. She doesn’t even sound human. And how the fuck does she know I’m in Vegas? Eric must have mentioned it to his parents. They still lived in Vegas and were best friends with Lynn and Barry. And there were no secrets between Michelle and her parents. And clearly there’s weren’t any between Eric and his either because he told Eric not to say anything. The phone rang again. Michelle’s picture. That smile. That ponytail. That morning when the storm of the last two-and-a-half years was still somewhere beyond the horizon far from the reach of radar. The phone rang. He flipped it open.

“Goddammit, what!?”

“Lou?”

“It’s four-thirty in the morning.”

“It’s six-thirty. Oh, the time difference.” She was still sobbing.

“What do you want, Michelle?”

There was quiet on the other end of the line. A sniff, a whimper. Then she bawled out, “I’m sorry!”

He knew that everyone wants to be loved; to serve an honorable purpose and, at some point in their lives, want to have someone tell them that they’re sorry.

Lou shot straight up in bed. What did she just say? Am I drunk? Dreaming? Am I being punked? he thought. Lou could only recall one instance in their entire relationship—including their friendship before they dated—in which Michelle apologized outright like that. It was back in college, and it was for hardly anything worth apologizing. She got really drunk at a boyfriend’s frat house, fell in the pool, got into a fight with the boyfriend and called Lou for a rescue. They spent the night in his bed like a brother sharing space with his sister. The following morning she apologized with shame in her voice. This apology on the phone was something else entirely. And he needed to know more.

“For what?”

“Everything.”

“That’s a lot to be sorry for.”

Again, there was quiet. Some more sniffling, then, a deep breath and she wailed, “I’m selfish! I don’t want to be. But I am. And I’m too hard on people. I’ve been too hard on you. I know you’re trying. I know this has been hard for you—the job, your parents, trying to find your way in a new city. And you spend so much of your time keeping it together for me. Because you’re always there for me, and I’m spoiled, and I shouldn’t blame you when you come undone because you’re trying so hard. And I’m sorry about Pop. And I’m sorry I’m not nicer. I love you. I love you so much that I think I’ve always loved you. You’re the perfect man for me because you love me so much, and I just didn’t appreciate that—and I’m so, so, so sorry.”

No matter how different people might be from each other, Lou knew that there are certain things that every person wants. He knew that everyone wants to be loved; to serve an honorable purpose and, at some point in their lives, want to have someone tell them that they’re sorry. Not even an hour ago, Lou was sure that he didn’t need an apology. But when Michelle gave him one, the truth revealed that that was exactly what he wanted more than anything else in the world. More than a job, more than Pop to live forever, more than an unbroken home.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” was all he could say, however.

“I miss your hands and your lips and running my fingers through your hair and your fingers doing that thing you do with my forehead to make my headaches go away­—”

“It’s just squeezing the pressure points in your temples.”

“But it’s the way you do it. I miss the way we make love. I just… I just haven’t said enough nice things about you lately, and I owe you that. And I owe you a happy birthday, too.”

“So what am I supposed to do with all of this?”

“Forgive me.”

“It’s not that easy. I’ve had a great week away from you. Away from all of the shit. And if I forgive you, that means I have to go back and face it all again. And I have to keep fighting a losing battle. I don’t like that plan. I like the plan I have now.”

“And what’s that?”

“To come back to Vegas. Get back to work. Start where I left off and get my goddamn life back on track.”

“Maybe I can move back there.”

“You don’t want that. We’ve talked about that. And frankly, Michelle, right now, I don’t want you in my life.”

She wailed.

“You told me you didn’t love me. You just admitted that you spent the last two years not making anything any easier on me. You just took and took from me and gave little back.”

“I know,” she sobbed. “I’m sorry.”

“How do I know that you really are? How do I know that you’re not just sad because breakups suck? And where does all of this self-awareness come from? Suddenly, you’re filled with apathy and introspection.”

“I talked to my mom. She told me how horrible I can be. That I’ve always been this way. That I stab people emotionally when something doesn’t go exactly my way.”

“She called you horrible?”

“In so many words, yes.”

“Jesus. And she’s still alive?”

“Not funny.”

“Because she’s right. But you don’t just stab, Michelle. You stab deep, then twist the knife so the would opens up, and then you get furious when the blood gets all over the place.”

“I know. I’ve done that to you.”

“How can I trust you?”

“We have to trust each other.”

“I mean things are really fucked up right now. And I feel I’d be walking back into a world of disrepair if I came back to you.”

“It will be different. We can go to counseling.”

“Is that what you really want? Because I’ll do couples counseling, if you want.”

Her voice became clear and certain, like the tears were gone. “Well, I don’t really want it on my medical records that I went to therapy. You have to claim some sort of mental illness, and I just can’t have that mark against me. Not in my career.”

“So, you’d put your career before our relationship. That’s the line. You’ll do anything for love, but you won’t do that? Christ, I’m talking to Meat Loaf here.”

“If we put it on your insurance…”

“My insurance. My COBRA insurance that is already stretched to the limit of visits because of the two shrinks I’m already seeing. You’re the one with amazing insurance. You’re always talking about how wonderful your insurance is. But yeah, let’s dump more financial responsibility on the unemployed, penniless guy so you can save face.”

“Lou, that’s not what I meant.” She began crying again. “Do you think we even need counseling?”

“You brought it up. And based on what you just said to me, we need a lot more than counseling.” They talked in circles for a little more than an hour and a half. Whatever calm he felt before the phone call and vindication he felt after her apology, all of it was replaced with anger. His hands were hot and shaking with fury. “Michelle. I have to go. I need to get some sleep.”

“But, Lou—”

“Later. I’ll call you later. I have a lot to think about.”

He hung up. He plugged his phone back in and put it to rest on the nightstand. He rolled over and looked at the other half of his bed. He imagined the times Michelle was there. It reminded him of the hope that the idea of her gave him. He thought of all the things she just said to him. He considered the tone in her voice. He replayed the conversation over in his head in search of signs of legitimacy. Would things be different if he went back? He noticed his hands were still shaking. Typical. Michelle built something up only to wreck it all in the end. No. Things wouldn’t be different.

✶

HE MANAGED TO GET A COUPLE OF HOURS OF SLEEP. Chuck was nearly finished cleaning the pool when Lou got out of bed and went downstairs. Lou told him about the Michelle phone call. He was shocked.

“Don’t go,” Chuck told him. “Don’t do it.”

“I won’t,” Lou said.

Then Lou got a text message from Mark. The Balcony wants our show. We open in September. Congrats. You’re a playwright now.

“Fuck,” Lou said.

“What?” asked Chuck.

“I have to go back.”

“What did I just say?”

“The play I wrote with my buddy Mark. It got picked up. It actually got picked up. We open in September. I have to go back and do this.”

“What about the job out here?”

“Can I telecommute?”

“I doubt it. And what about Michelle?”

“I guess I have to put some actual thought into that now. I told her I would call her later. I wasn’t going to. But now… fuck.”

“Fuck.”

“All right. I’m gonna go buy a plane ticket. You can get your bedroom back.”

“I’d rather you have it.”

Lou laughed. “Me, too.”

Part I Part II Part III Part IV Part V Part VI Part VII Part VIII Part IX Part X Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24