#i'm so tired of the corporate world sometimes

[sparksflys]

.

[inkskinned]

oh you know it's all latestage capitalism but the thing is. how are you supposed to be a person inside of this. a person trying to be a better version of yourself.

oh, you started working young, which was kind of hard, but it's just the way stuff works sometimes. and it was 2008 and your family couldn't afford heat. but it's fine, you grow a spine and get used to the professional world and besides it was the suburbs we're talking about here, like, your life could have been actually hard, so what if your father lost his job and you can't afford to move or turn the lights back on. and once you start making money, it's good. you keep doing that. because now they're relying on you. so you have to do that.

oh you were in thousands of dollars of debt at 17 years old so that you could go to school, because you have to go to school if you want to get a "real" job. you even did it "right", you worked parttime and attended community college before you transferred to a public school. you were under so many merit scholarships.

which is fine. you pick yourself up and you say like, okay. i graduated college. i'm holding down a job. i'm doing the Adult Thing, which looks and acts like this, according to all the books i've read. you start with the shitty job and then you climb that corporate ladder.

but the shitty job doesn't cover rent and you stretch yourself too-thin so you get sick. good luck with that. the shitty job no longer pays for your meals. everyone asks why you don't just move, but there's nowhere to move to. and with what money are you going to be moving? and then the loans come back, because they were never going to forgive them, because you were 17 and trying to do the right thing, which was stupid. people are now saying you shouldn't have even gone to school.

which is fine. but because you have no other option, so you do the shitty job, and you apply every day for like 5 new ones, and despite the fact everyone says "there's no one who wants to work!" it's actually just that nobody is fucking hiring so you can either work for 13 dollars an hour in the shitty place you know (where at least you have a passingly friendly relationship with the manager) or you can start from scratch again with a different 13 dollars an hour without knowing how much abuse from the new job you'll be taking.

and if you quit you lose your insurance. if you quit you lose your housing. if you quit, you'll be another burnout kid. the lazy ones. these assholes, look at them!

and you come home to a family dinner and you hear from your father the same old thing. how he worked hard at his job and yes it sucked for a while but he was able to provide for the family and then the house and the dog and the rest of barbie's dream vacation. how the insurance did cover some of it. how you just really need to start speaking up more in manager conversations so they know you're a go-getter. you want to tell him - did you know we're actually doing more now hourly than any previous generation? - but you can't remember where you heard that statistic, and you're far too tired for the fucking argument. and then he starts in on his usual bit. where's the house? where's your kids? where's your ambition.

the same job the same money the same hours doesn't do it anymore. the same nose-to-the-grindstone now just shreds your face off. there's no such thing as upwards mobility, not really. and as far as you're aware, the money certainly is not trickling. you do the soulless stupid shit you signed up for because you fucking have to or else you literally risk your life (food, the apartment, the insurance), but it's not getting you anything. you download the stupid "save more" app and you budget and you do every right thing and then the price of eggs is 7 dollars and you say - oh great! another thing i have to fucking worry about now!

and you go to your stupid job and everyone in your father's generation just tells you to be better about being an adult. they have their homes and their savings account and their bailout and they say. well have you tried not drinking starbucks. well your generation just spends too much on clothing. well you might just be too addicted to travelling. and you - because you need the job - you bite your tongue and don't say i am being held prisoner and you're suggesting i stop pacing my cell if i don't like the scenery and you don't say what the fuck do you think i've been doing with my money and you don't say i haven't spent a cent on something nice in literally forever much less coffee you arrogant asshole. you open and close your bank app and check your loans and check your credit score and check fucking zillow and ziprecruiter and apartments.com just one time more. and still they give you that demeaning little grin and say - see, what you need is -

what you need is for your meds to stop being so fucking expensive. what you need is for the housing bubble to explode into dust. what you need is for billionaires to choke on their wealth. what you need is actual help. what you will get is more economic advice from people who are older-and-wiser.

and above you, almost in a glimmer, you can see the wedged smile of your debt getting toothier, wider.

[octuscle]

My biggest dream was to backpacking in europe between the end of high school and the beginning of college. But I didn't do it. In a few days I'll celebrate my 50. birthday and my wife told me she has a special present for me realizing my dream from my youth and getting a young lover for herself when I'm back. Now I've this countdown on my phone from your corporation. What's going on?

You think it's a bit silly when you get on the plane. With hand luggage only. A large rucksack. Nothing else. Otherwise, when you get on the plane, you usually have a suit on and your laptop with you. Today? T-shirt and functional pants. Cell phone with extra powerful power bank. You feel dressed up. And you look really dressed up too.

When you wake up shortly before landing in Paris, you stroke your chin. Shit, you can't have grown that much beard between New York and here… Anyway, now you have to make your way to Gare de Lyon somehow. The TGV to Vezelay leaves in four hours. And from there, the first stage takes you along the Way of St. James to Strasbourg. With your little bit of school French, you'll manage quite well. In the metro, you look at your reflection in the window pane. You are a miserable tourist. An ageing man in ugly functional clothing. But the beard looks pretty cool…

When you finally arrive at Vezelay station, it's late. You are tired. You've booked a hotel room near the station for your first night in Europe. A bit of comfort. By the way, the Chronivac timer has expired. The display shows that the transformation is in progress.

The hotel is relatively elegant. You stand out at breakfast. Yes, you are freshly showered. But you could go to the hairdresser again. And although you've had a fresh shave, you've already got a shadow of a beard again.

Now it's getting serious. You're standing in front of the hotel. The rucksack on your back. You're already hot. And your first stage of the day is 25 kilometers. How much is that in miles? And why are you doing this to yourself…

The day is hell. You're sweating like a pig. Your feet hurt. You have a sunburn. On the one hand you're hungry, on the other you feel like puking. And when you arrive at your stage destination, you realize that you can't get accommodation without a reservation. As you pass a building site, the foreman asks you if you are looking for work. You reply that you need somewhere to sleep. He replies that that is not a problem. If you give him a hand, you will be given dinner and a place to sleep. You don't really feel like doing any more physical work. And you've always been a failure as a handyman. But somehow you know how to mix concrete and pour a foundation. And as you drink a beer in the evening sun at around 7:30 p.m. and talk to the other craftsmen, it feels very normal. One of the carpenters asks you if you're from the north of France. Because of your strange dialect. You look at him questioningly. And say that you're from Buffalo. He asks if that's near Lille. You have obviously arrived in France.

When you wake up the next morning in your bunk in the trailer, it's 05:30. You were expecting a hell of a muscle ache. But you feel like ripping out trees. You wash yourself briefly with ice-cold water in the rain barrel and then continue on your way. You've promised to help out for two more days before you move on.

Your wife mocked you when you said you wanted to take time out to do two months of work and travel in Europe. Sometimes you realize that she is simply much older than you. But shit, so is the French president's wife. And he should be about your age. 45 years old, as far as you know. Just four years older than you… Well, he's got further than you. But you look hotter than him. And the fresh air is obviously doing you good. Your wife is really suggestive when you facetime. You didn't even know she was into phone sex. But it's a nice change. Normally you tend to fuck colleagues on the building sites where you're helping out. It's more of a man's world. Something for real guys. And if you're anything, you're a real guy.

You've been on the road for six weeks when you finally arrive in Strasbourg. Shit, it's expensive here. Prices completely spoiled by tourists and European bureaucrats. Fortunately, you soon find a job here too. Not as a construction worker, though. But as a waiter in a bistro. And you can even sleep above the bistro. On the very first evening, you notice that very few guests spend the whole night here. A constant coming and going. And when you have to go to the toilet across the corridor, a not at all bad-looking guy in a stuffy suit asks you if you'd like to come up to his room for a moment. He slips you 50 euros. A hell of a lot of money for a blowjob or something. Should you feel cheap or like a hooker? Who are you kidding? Back home on the other side of the pond, you're the toyboy of an ancient lady. She's already 50 years old.

Strasbourg was awesome. But you only have three more weeks before you have to go back. The new semester at university starts. And your GILF is waiting for you back. She told you yesterday how much she misses you. You went out of your way to make her squeal with ecstasy at the end of the phone call. The PayPal payment arrived immediately. Together with the money you earned as a hustler and waiter in Strasbourg, you can now enjoy your last days to the full. You love the wind on your nipples. Maybe a hot trucker or something will pick you up as a hitchhiker. Tonight you should be in a place called Karlsruhe. Then it's not far to Frankfurt. And from there it's back to Buffalo. Someone there is eagerly awaiting her young lover.

[taomyou]

the art of watching the wind - chapter 1

Pairing: Nanami Kento/Reader

Status: ONGOING, updates every other saturday, 1/7 chapters

Summary: As it turns out, swapping out his corporate cubicle for a florist’s counter doesn’t mean he’s learned how to live life to the fullest.

But, as Nanami Kento comes to find out for himself, it does mean he has all the time in the world to spend it on the beach with the woman who’ll show him how to.

-

or, Nanami learning how to be happy.

Word Count: 9.0k

Tags: slow burn, modern au - no curses, reader-insert, character study, fluff, hurt/comfort, light angst, nanami pov

(A/N: this fic is available on ao3 here if you would like to read it there instead! chapter one is mostly setting/exposition)

“That’ll be it for today's shipment, my friend!” Gojo beams, one hand on his hip while the other slaps against the side of a crate of roses. When his friend doesn’t say anything in response, he frowns, shoving his hands into the pockets of his rugged work pants. “Hey, what’s with the long face?”

Nanami blinks, his hands gripping onto the handlebar of the platform cart. “What?”

“You good?”

“Oh, yes, I'm fine,” Nanami answers, loosening his grip on the handles. “Just a bit tired.”

"Last one in the shop today?"

"Yeah. Yaga's coming by later to drop off some papers, but I should be gone by then."

"Sounds good." Gojo smiles at his friend sympathetically before putting a hand on his shoulder as he begins to pass him on the walk back to the delivery truck. “Take it easy, yeah? No need to stress yourself out.”

The blonde sighs before halfheartedly nodding, gently removing the gloved hand from his arm. “I’m not, but I appreciate your concern.”

“If you say so,” Gojo teases, “See you around, Nanami. Would love to chat, but I've gotta finish up my route ASAP and beat that loser."

"You're still on about that? I thought you already won."

"That was last month! I need to prove I can keep up with the spring rush this month!" Gojo laughs. "Besides, he's the one that gets all butthurt about it, I wouldn't care if he didn't."

Nanami supposes it's true. The older man—whose name is Fushiguro, if he's remembering correctly—seems to have it out for the white-haired delivery driver; Nanami remembers him grumbling under his breath about Gojo "fucking up the schedule" and "making him look cheap," whatever that's supposed to mean, but though their rivalry seems fairly one-sided, Gojo indulges him for the fun of it.

Nanami doesn't quite get it, but he supposes this is just what happens when you need to make up your own fun on the job.

"Well, good luck then."

"Won't need it, but thanks! Let’s grab drinks sometime, my treat if you pay for dessert after!”

The blonde kisses his teeth, but he smiles in spite of it. “Sure. I’ll let you know when I’m available.” He probably won’t, but he’s sure that his friend will find a way to drag him out for a night in the town sometime soon, one way or another (and that, one way or another, he'll find a way to get out of it).

Nanami raises a hand from the handle as a gesture of his goodbyes as Gojo leaves, as does Gojo himself on his way back to his truck. He watches as his friend hops up onto the high seat of the vehicle, picks up a clipboard from the passenger-side seat, and writes down something with a pen he'd kept tucked behind his ear. With his gloves still on, Gojo pulls out his phone from his pocket and nestles it between his shoulder and his ear, still marking down items on the clipboard whilst checking over his shoulder occasionally to look for things in the backseat.

It sure is jarring to see the boisterous snow-haired man hard at work at... anything, really. He'd always been so carefree and limitless, and though those traits still exist in the man whilst on the clock, he seems just a tad bit more responsible than Nanami remembered him to be.

Has it really been so long that he'd been able to change so much without Nanami noticing?

The blonde is completely silent as he turns and wheels back the last of this week’s delivery into the back of the shop. It's not an entirely far walk, but the shop isn't immediately near any delivery zone, so Nanami has to push the cart a fair bit away before he can really call it a day. He's had to walk the same path everyday, multiple times each time, but he still somehow forgets the crack in the pavement that, if he rolls the cart over it, knocks back the whole thing and nearly tips all the crates' contents out. Instead of cursing himself (or whatever else he can think to blame, really), he bitterly smiles as he tugs on the cart and lets go of the handle with one hand so that he can hold up the crates for the remainder of the trip back to the shop.

At least this is the last time he has to make the journey today. He'll just have to remember to avoid that sidewalk hazard next time. He's reminded himself of this every shift, actually, but he somehow always seems to forget.

When he gets back to the shop, the back entrance is held open with a spare footstool he'd placed there at the beginning of the day. Helps keep the place well-circulated while the air conditioning is being repaired, for one, and it's nice not having to awkwardly open it and hold it out with his arm fully outstretched every time he passes through. Still, Nanami has to readjust his grip on the handlebar of the cart because one of the front wheels gets caught on the doorframe, and after tugging on it thrice, it gives way, he's able to get through smoothly. He pushes through and is now inside the back room of the shop, and he makes sure that his apron is securely tied behind his back before he moves to take the crates off of the cart.

The backroom is quiet, save for the gentle creaking of the boxes as he moves them into the walk-in cooler, and once everything’s offloaded, he moves the cart to its designated spot in the corner of the room. His back aches slightly from the slow, weighted movements, as the crates are decently heavy and require more strength to lift than he has at this late hour of the day, but he bears with it long enough for him to finish without breaking too much of a sweat.

“That should be it,” Nanami whispers to himself, looking around the room. He makes sure that everything’s in its proper place—the cart, the gloves, the stool, the rows of crates filled with flowers that’ll need to be sorted first thing tomorrow morning—and he lets out a sigh of relief when he's triple-checked that it is.

Good. Everything’s where it should be. All that's left is to close the back door, and he'll get to be cozy at the counter doing what he does best. It's a bit cold today, winter only just now turning to spring, so he'll change his apron and pull his sleeves back to full-length.

As he steps out to retrieve the chair that's holding it open, his eyes are downturned and his hands are busy putting the stool back in its proper place; but, as he waits for the door to close behind him, he looks over his shoulder to be momentarily met with the sight of the sunset. The sky at this time of day is a sight Nanami hardly ever got to see before working here, and he feels it'd be a waste to not at least try to catch sight of it before the day is over, so he takes it in during the brief seconds it takes for the door to close.

Some of the late-night spots in the nearby shopping center are beginning to turn on their lights to let people know that they're open for business, and that casts more light upwards in bursts of technicolor. Molten gold and pear-cut sapphire melt into one another in front of a barely-there haze, and birds sparsely dot the horizon like sesame seeds on a red bean bun. Brushstrokes of red, violet, and pink chase each other against a pale canvas of blues and silver, and rays of sunlight burst through to form a halo over the earth. The underside of the clouds are burnt umber and golden brown, flaky and crisp like a pastry sitting neatly in a display case, and they frame the sky like its a painting.

It doesn't take a genius to know that the sight is beautiful—a snapshot of the world from a corner of it that only he knows in this very moment. The faint spring breeze certainly does help in painting the picture, pushing his outgrown bangs out of his face and kissing him with the gentleness of the zephyr.

It's too bad, then, that it's a sight that Nanami still ultimately doesn't care much for, because instead of basking in the light, he winces at it with worn, tired eyes. He puts his free hand over his eyes to rub the weariness from them, and he keeps them closed as he turns back in towards the shop.

Must the sun always be so bright, so "in-your-face?"

Checking his watch, he sees that if he finishes a bit earlier than usual with the bookkeeping today, he should have enough time to make it to the bakery right off the freeway on his way home before they close. He'd been meaning to try the quaint little bakery for so long now, having been recommended it by an older woman in his building he'd helped carry in her groceries when he first moved to the city three long years ago, but between his job, leaving said previous job, and getting adjusted to his current... arrangements, there hasn't really been a good time to go.

Truthfully, he's memorized their menu, front-to-back, and he thinks about making the drive over often, but he just... doesn't. There's always something in the way: work that needs to be done before the end of the day, personal errands he needs to run, a bad mood that won't let him go. Instead, their hours of operation are taped onto the walls of his heart and left to peel with the paint, but they've still always functioned as a loose guide as to whether or not Nanami's doing a good job keeping track of his time at work.

Clearly, he hasn't ever done that.

But, if he gets out on time today, it'd be a nice milestone gift, he tells himself.

Besides, today marks the third month of him working here—it wouldn't hurt to treat himself to a little trip over to the storefront.

There's not much else in his life that he has to celebrate anyway, so he'll just make it up as it goes. He didn't even realize three months had passed, just taking things day-by-day to keep the dread of the future at bay for as long as he could, but a younger high school-aged boy, Itadori, had started at the shop on the same day as him, and Nanami'd overheard him telling a customer that he hit the quarter-year mark at the job (a miracle, apparently, because his grades demand much more attention than work should; still, Nanami helps him and one of the other coworkers, Kugisaki, with their maths homework when it's not too busy at the shop).

Yeah. Today can be the day.

He can play it by ear. He's made peace with the fact that this is about as good as it gets, and there's no better time than the present when he's so sorely reminded of the fact now that he's left behind nearly everything he'd ever known in his professional career for... whatever he's made of his life thus far.

He'll make it special.

He's said that a million times before, but, today, he really means it.

After blinking a few times to get the sun out of his eyes, Nanami puts the stool in its usual spot right next to the door. With his hands now free, he unties the back of his apron, walks over to hang it up at the hook right at the curtain between the two areas of the shop. He pushes through the half-height fabric curtains as he tugs his sleeves back to his wrists, and he buttons his cuffs back up as he's making himself comfortable at the florist's counter.

With his cabinet key, Nanami opens up the side drawer where the accounting materials are, and he pulls them out to lay next to the shop's computer. It's a bit outdated, clunky beige keyboard and all, but he doesn't mind it. He types in the passcode for the admin account with his right hand on the number pad whilst putting on his reading glasses, kept in his shirt's breast pocket at all times, and he gets to work. Having had so much practice in the trade, he gets through all the bookkeeping tasks quickly enough. There's a few hiccups because the shop is still in the process of changing their payroll system and Nanami's in charge of getting that all sorted out, but that's nothing out of the ordinary for any business going through the same procedures.

It's a bore to remember what it is that he's even doing, lost in the flurry as tabs are closed and new ones are opened, but at least he's only doing this for a couple hours every week as opposed to his entire working day. His face is completely stoic as he types, clicks, and flips through the logbook for delivery dates and other miscellaneous information. Nanami keeps track of what he's finished with and what data he'll need for his next bookkeeping session for Yaga to pick up whilst he's dropping off papers later, and the older man will know to then drop those notes off with his parents—the owners of the store.

They're nice people. He knew them as clients when they outsourced their accounting to his firm (and, thusly, him), and they'd been generous enough to offer him a full-time position in the shop, especially considering he had absolutely no experience in any sort of floristry. Nanami wished they'd come around more often as it's a bit hard to express his gratitude to them through emails and in the in-between of the margins of the papers they have him sign, but he's glad to know they're able to spend most of their time doing things more typical for a couple their age. 

He doesn't mind it, though—the work. Inputting numbers, cleaning buckets, double-checking financial records, dethorning roses, calculating the budget, putting together bouquets and other arrangements—all of it. Really, he doesn't. He's obviously more... adept at some things more than others, but he's learned to enjoy what he's learned in his time working here. But, while his hands move methodically and his eyes trace the screen from left to right, he can't help but be reminded of how he'd used to do this for a living. He supposes that he still does, but being a general florist who helps out with the bookkeeping for a small family-owned flower shop is quite a far step away from being the top financial analyst at the region's most prestigious accounting firm.

He really shouldn't be thinking about it. He's already spent enough time contemplating whether or not the pay cut was worth whatever sanity he'd scraped away for himself when he left, and he should be happy he's content where he is.

He's not happy here. It's as simple as that.

After he locks up the cabinet and clocks out for the day, he exhales deeply, leaning forward with his elbows on the counter and rubbing at his temples with his hands. His head doesn't hurt like how it used to, but it's still not exactly raring for more to do. Sitting here, he has a clear enough view of the sidewalk in front of the shop, if only blocked by towers of flowers and gift displays.

He sees that the sun has set, and he won't have to worry about it blinding him from the horizon as he's driving home. That's nice.

After taking another few deep breaths, he gets up from the seat, and he grabs his coat and other personal belongings before locking up shop, getting into his car, and starting the drive home. Glancing at the clock now, there's still about an hour or so before the bakery closes, so he decides he'll make the quick detour over there. As he maneuvers through the highway, sure-as-steel that he's obeying all traffic laws despite the ache in his feet and the dreariness of his morale, his mind drifts slightly to the long-awaited sweets he's been fantasizing about for years. 

Has it really been so long since he's moved to this city?

Regardless, whatever'd been keeping him from going over to the little bakery for so long, he'll conquer it today. There's still enough time to make it comfortably before closing; he checks and there's forty-five minutes for him to make it there comfortably, and he's nearing his exit anyway.

He wonders what he'll get. It'd always been a faraway thought—that he'd ever make the time to go to the bakery on the off-road—so he always just figured he'd order whatever gets recommended to him. He's done his fair share of looking at their menu, though. He remembers, in the very beginnings of his time at that... horrendous job, back before he'd been overworked and overloaded with the tasks of more than a hundred men, he'd look up pictures and reviews and transcripts of their offerings online when the workday got slow enough for him to take his phone out of his bag and steal time. Back then, he truthfully did have the time to go and try it out, maybe even reach out to a friend and invite him to come along, but he supposes he'd figured he'd have time for it in the future.

"Save it for another time," he remembers telling himself. "It'll taste better if you wait for it—if you have something to celebrate."

Next thing he knows, three years and three months have passed, and he's never so much as driven past the place.

But, amidst the blooming angst, his mind conjures up those fond memories of himself using his old work computer to look at online reviews for the place. Thinking of them again now after so long, he

All those pastries, all those sweets, all those breads. It'd been so easy for him to forget that such a simple thing brought him joy; that anything at all brought him any kind of peace. He feels it in the pit of his stomach right now—the quiet little spark of excitement he hasn't felt in ages. If he'd known he'd be so worked up over the mere prospect of enjoying something sweet there, or maybe even something savory, he'd have quit his corporate job so, so long ago.

A new match lit in his chest, he smiles to himself slightly as he's driving through the wind. He rests his elbow just beneath the side window and props his head on that hand, and he moves his other hand to the top of the wheel to steer with a bit more panache. There's not much light out anymore and he still has to be careful he's driving safely in the dark, but he gets cozy against his seat cushion and lets himself sink deeply into the plush. His window's rolled up because he's not sure his senses can take much more overload after a day spent near wet flowers and loud, crinkling cellophane, but he'd like to think there's another version of himself out there whose able to feel the breeze through his hair.

Then, just as suddenly, the fire's put out by an inevitable wind, because just as he's beginning to merge into the exit lane he's meant to take to get to the bakery, a car cuts in front of him, forcing Nanami to slam his brakes and grip the steering wheel harder to avoid hitting the vehicle in front of him. Just barely able to check his mirrors, he swerves back into the faster, continuing lane and pushes on the gas to keep the car behind him from driving into him. Nanami's seatbelt saves him from launching forward, but, now looking over at the center console as he's checking for the time, the same can't be said for the cup of coffee he'd forgotten in his car's cupholder from yesterday morning.

Great. Coffee all over the center console and even more of it starting to soak into his passenger seat.

He's forced to just sigh and look ahead, now only ready to go home and get started on cleaning his car. He raises his hand for the driver behind him to know that he's sorry he had to swerve in front of them, his heart still beating out of his chest, and he blows anger out through his nose as he's forced to think about whether or not he's going to reroute to still get to the bakery or just resign for the day and go home. Looking at the clock again, there's only about thirty minutes left for until closing, and, even then, it'd be cutting it so close if he were to get there in the twenty-something minutes it'd take to figure out how to get there, park, and find something to order or choose from the display case.

If working at the flower shop has taught him nothing else thus far, it's that coming in that close to closing is enough to ruin everyone's evening, and Nanami'd rather not put any of the closers through more than they already have to deal with.

Quite unfortunate, all things considered, but there's nothing he can do about it now. Most he can do is frown about it while he's brushing his teeth later, maybe even curse the universe after he's gone through the apartment and made sure all the lights are off.

Maybe another time, then. There's more important things to do than try out some bread that's probably not as great as he's made it out to be in his head.

🔅

With a heavy heart (and a trash bag filled with coffee-soaked napkins and a now-barely damp washcloth), Nanami pulls his keys from out of his pocket, finds the one he needs to open his apartment door, and steps through. He hangs his keys up on a red push pin that's stuck into the drywall immediately to his right, courtesy of an old friend who'd helped him move into the place way back when, and he holds himself upright using the doorframe.

"I'm home," he says to the walls, taking off his shoes and leaving them near the welcome mat by the entrance. He's lived alone for a long time now, but he supposes he never really grew out of the habit of greeting the house when he's home. He leaves the trash bag by the door to take out with the rest of the trash later, dreading the eventual long walk he has to take to get to the dumpster, but, other than that, everything else about his routine tonight is the same.

There's nothing important about today, so there's nothing new for him to do.

After changing into something comfortable enough to lounge around in, Nanami drags his feet as he walks back out to the kitchen to see what he can make himself for dinner. His socks create enough static that he's shocked when he grazes the metal of his bedroom's doorframe, but he can't be much more bothered than he already is, so he just ignores it.

His fridge is exactly how he'd left it that same morning, with more than enough ingredients to put together a decent meal for himself, and he moves around aimlessly to do so. Today, it's a quick short rib stew with rice, and he lets a shuffled mix of songs he doesn't quite enjoy play from his phone to keep himself awake enough to not burn himself as he's cooking.

He eats at the dining table with a book propped up on an empty vase and held open with the pinky and thumb of his left hand, chewing while mindlessly reading about the development of various computer types, and he lets the dishes soak in the sink while he sits across the television and watches today's rerun of the Great British Bake-Off. He still hates watching the technical bake, but he's just being a hypocrite; not like he can do any of that either.

Once he's tired of watching yet another person underwhip their soufflé batter, he runs his hands down his face lethargically and gets up to do the dishes, very much aware of the ache in his feet after hours standing up on the shop. The hurt's caught up with him by now and he has to hold onto the counter to keep his legs from shaking, but maybe he's just being dramatic for the sake of it because he's able to bear it just fine when he has scalding hot water burning his hands as he scrubs away stubborn stains.

After that's done and dealt with, he takes out the trash, cleans up around the apartment, makes sure to pay for the water bill that's finally reached him from the previous month. He makes sure to appreciate how low it is right now because he knows it's only going to get higher with the rising temperature.

He takes a shower to wash all the loose petals and leaves that've snuck between his work clothes and his body, brushes his teeth (fully remembering to fume to himself about having to miss going to that bakery), and after making sure that all his lights are off and no appliances are left running, he lays in his bed, staring up at the ceiling with his hands laced over his sternum.

Well, that's it.

That's his day, full and complete.

Get up, go to work, work, go home, go to sleep. There's some other steps along the way, and, sure, there's other things he could be doing, but it is what it is

It isn't quite the life he'd dreamed of when he left his hometown—that was what he had before his quit his corporate job—so, if he ignores the pay cut, the loss of prestige, and the shame of being somewhere he'd never planned for himself, then this is the next best thing.

And sleep comes to him quickly, he's grateful for that.

Still, in the very brief and very quiet minutes it takes for the dull ache in his muscles and the even more faint one in his heart to settle enough for him to drift off into dreamless sleep, he wonders if this is really all life has to offer.

It has to be.

...

Right?

🔅

Nanami wakes up before his alarm has the chance to ring.

His body rises with the sun, its rays bleeding in through the fabric curtains at the window in his bedroom, and he rolls over onto his side to feel around for his cell phone, unplugs it, and checks for the time. He doesn't trust himself to be able to wake up a second time with only a few minutes until he's meant to actually get up, so with a yawn, he slips out of bed, puts on his house slippers, and drags himself to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth.

As he's brushing, he lets his mind drift until a swipe of toothpaste slips out of his mouth and falls onto the floor. He frowns, toothbrush still between his lips, and he reaches down with a paper towel to clean it. He's not allowed to move around lethargically anymore, acutely aware of the need to keep things clean so he doesn't have to come home to a mess at the end of the day, so instead of dreaming about the perfect breads he'd pair with the most perfect jams and the most perfect butters, he plans out his day.

What day of the week is it, again?

Maybe today's Monday? Tuesday, even?

Probably Monday. The weekend rush was noticeable enough yesterday.

He supposes it's hardly relevant, though, so he'll just figure it out later. It'd only matter if it were a Wednesday or a Thursday because those are his days off, but he knows it's not either of those days because he usually has to do laundry by then, and, right now, the bin's only three-fourths of the way full with clothes stained by cell sap.

No matter, he has to get to work soon, then get home after work, then make himself dinner, tidy up again, go to sleep again.

After gathering his bearings, he stands over the sink and spits out the pale blue mix of toothpaste suds and morning mouth grime. He runs his hands underneath the running water quickly, flicks his wrists to help dry them, and he runs his cold hands over his face to help keep himself awake as he gets ready. After he's made sure everything's been locked up properly and just as he likes it in the morning, he puts on a dress shirt, dress pants, dress socks, his watch, the non-slip deck shoes Yaga practically shoved Nanami's feet into when he found out he had been wearing oxfords to the shop up until that point, and he's on his way out the door with a cup of peach yogurt in one hand and his keys in the other. In his bag is a tupperware container with last night's leftovers and his wallet, and that's about all he needs for his day.

The route from his apartment to work is one that's fully planned and practiced by now: get on the highway, get on the ramp to the eastward route, exit, drive extra slow to not startle the elderly woman who owns the laundromat right next to the shop, and park directly underneath a tree that keeps his car cool for the duration of its stay there. By now, he's gotten pretty good at remembering which stoplights give him enough time to spoon himself some yogurt without spilling any of it, so once he's parked and collected all the things he needs for the day, he gets out of the car, unlocks the door because he's almost always the first person to arrive, and rushes to clock in and rinse the container to use as a seedling pot for the many greens they need growing in the back room.

Well, that's it.

That's his morning.

He'll spend the rest of it restocking the arrangement area because nobody else that works mornings here is tall enough to safely reach the cellophane rolls that they keep on top of the cabinets. He's the newest person at the shop so he's left with the grunt work most of the time, but he doesn't mind it—it's easy enough, and he knows he's not artistic enough to really be trusted with arrangements (on his own, at least; some of the younger associates will ask him for his help when making bouquets with "old people" in mind, and he doesn't have the heart to, one, turn them down, and, two, tell them that twenty-seven really isn't old at all).

He checks the schedule as he passes by to get his apron, seeing that it's Monday, and that Yaga's posted up a checklist of the things they need done for the week. There's also a longer list naming all the people who'll come and go throughout the week (which isn't really what Nanami expected when he first started working here, but he's picked up fairly quickly that it takes a village and more to keep a flower shop running, so doesn't really give it much thought anymore). There's a few names he recognizes, others that he doesn't, but he should know everyone that's coming in today, at least.

While Nanami's filling up a smaller bucket at the sink to have a well to draw from and water the greens, someone comes in through the back door, and Nanami looks over his shoulder to see Ino, arms full with coffee for himself, his laptop, and a few other miscellaneous gadgets. He's probably the person Nanami's worked the most with here (at least, if he excludes the time he spends trying to explain derivatives to Itadori; the boy is hopeless, but Nanami admires his determination regardless).

"Ah, good morning, Nanami!" Ino exclaims, rushing to put his things down anywhere he can.

Nanami lifts his hand to greet the younger man back. "Morning."

"Closing go okay yesterday?"

He nods, leaning over to turn off the faucet. "It was fine."

Ino doesn’t ask any other questions and just puts on his own apron, comes over to the sink, and offers to help take out the bucket so Nanami doesn’t spill it while it’s full. The blonde gives him a tight-lipped smile as he grabs onto the opposite end so Ino can hold onto the other side, and the two near effortlessly lift it out of the tub. After that and another smile, Ino leaves him to himself to go check for any orders that might've been placed during last night's non-working hours. Nanami isn't anywhere near the level of floristry where he can accurately fulfill an order like that anyway, so he's just glad that Ino's there and can handle them while Nanami does the grunt work and waits for more people to come in.

Regardless, there’s no real rush to get a move-on, seeing as nobody’s exactly rushing to get flowers on a Monday at seven in the morning, so the two men work in silence while more people cycle in through the door and get clocked in. Ordered arrangements ranging from personal bouquets to larger fulfillments of wedding orders and funeral flowers are put together at the designing stations while Nanami works in the background, picking up phone calls, updating order statuses, making sure customers are tended to.

Even though it's hardly peak times, there's still far too much to do, though, and Nanami finds himself running around earlier than he'd expected himself to be. It's really a blur of things that happen once the initial line gets built up at the front of the store: foam needs to be presoaked practically every other minute, people keep needing help at the register, someone needs to sign off on a delivery, and it's usually the blonde sent off to do those things.

And, just like that, the morning has eclipsed.

Like clockwork (because, well, it is clocked work), the morning workers swap out with those who come later in the day, and this is usually when Nanami takes his lunch because there's not really any other time that's going to work. Any earlier, and there's going to be so many people coming in and out of the break room that the ambiance he needs to enjoy his meal is ruined, and any later, he'll be too full for dinner in the evening and his whole routine will be pushed back.

After grabbing his lunch from the minifridge in the break room and heating it up in the barely-working microwave, Nanami sits by himself and soaks in the quiet that's barely given to him with the thin walls and the loud chatter between some of the younger, high school-aged employees that've just clocked in after coming out of class. He almost always takes his lunch alone because everyone else orders out and Nanami doesn't quite have the budget to get takeout five days a week, but, occasionally, Ino will invite him out, and even though Nanami will only come along if there's the promise of a comfy booth to sit in and ease the pain in his feet, he usually has it in him to do that every once in a while.

Ino has class on Mondays, though, so Nanami's taking it alone today.

Again.

But that's par for the course.

He'd eat lunch alone in his old cubicle, too, and he supposes not much has changed about him in the three months since he's swapped work environments.

As he pokes at the broth-soaked rice, he leans against his palm. He hasn't got much of an appetite, what with the smell of fertilizer and sap in just the next room over, but he eats anyway because he hasn't got much of a choice in the matter. He'll get off work a bit earlier today than he did yesterday because he doesn't need to handle the bookkeeping every single day, but he knows he'll be just as tired and that he'll have to at least stay energized enough to survive the early-evening rush of less-than-respectable men who want to buy the cheapest flowers they can for their wives at home—he'd envy them if he didn't find them so deplorable.

Just as he's putting the tupperware lid over his now-emptied container, someone comes through the fabric curtain after knocking on the doorframe.

"Hey, stopping by to ask if you'd like us to bring anything back for you," Kugisaki chimes in. "We're getting dumplings from the place down the street!"

Nanami looks up at the girl from his seat and raises his hand in gentle refusal. "It's alright, thank you for offering."

"You sure? We don't mind paying, you help us with our homework all the time."

"'Us,' as in, 'you and Itadori,' don't include me in this," the younger Fushiguro scolds, passing through the break room to refill his water bottle. "Good afternoon, Nanami."

Nanami waves at him with a gentle smile. "Afternoon to you too, Fushiguro."

"Yeah, yeah, nerd, me and Itadori've got it covered," Kugisaki rolls her eyes at her friend, then turning back to address Nanami. "C'mon, you really don't want anything? They have great gyoza!"

"I'm fine, I already ate. You kids go ahead and-"

"Are we ready to go yet? I'm starving-" the pink-haired boy pauses, eyes landing on Nanami as he gets up to put his lunch container away. "Oh, hi Nanamin! Sorry I didn't greet you when I clocked in, I had to help out someone in the front."

"No worries, good afternoon."

"Hey, what'd you get on the bio test earlier?"

"Better than you, that's for sure."

"Hey! How's that possible, we used the same study guide!"

"I got help from Maki during lunch."

"No fair! I had a club meeting!"

Itadori and Kugisaki bicker between themselves as Nanami joins Fushiguro at the sink to wash his dishes, and the younger ravenette passes him the bottle of dish soap. "Here."

"Oh, thank you."

Fushiguro grabs a paper towel from the dispenser to wipe the run-off from his water bottle, frowning slightly with what looks like embarrassment. "Sorry, we'll be on our way out soon."

Nanami hums as he scrubs at the tupperware. "No rush." Not that he minds their presence in the first place, they're good kids, even if two of the three are a bit... scatterbrained.

After he gets all the leftover suds off, Nanami flicks his wrist to get off the excess water and leave it on the drying rack, and his eyes follow Fushiguro as he joins his friends at the door.

"Well, see you in a bit!"

The young man smiles gently while waving goodbye to the trio, then turning back to the sink to wash his hands. Their voices, loud and chipper as they talk amongst themselves, fade out as they leave through the back door, which closes loudly behind them.

It must be nice to be so... carefree.

Nanami dries his hands with the last bit of clean fabric of his apron, and he gets back to work.

Now that it's later in the afternoon, his tasks shift from prep and phone calls to helping out more at the front. Famously, he's never been a man of many words, but that hardly matters when customers seem to flock to him anyway for help picking out bouquets and other miscellaneous gifts to buy and bring home. He still does his fair share of running around, trying to make himself useful, but, nevertheless, to keep the rest of his colleagues from having to direct their attention to the more run-of-the-mill business when they have other, more pressing projects to take care of, Nanami keeps a smile on his face as he directs people to what he can only guess they're looking for. The younger trio come back from their meal somewhere in-between all that, and the day passes by both quickly and slowly with how much has to be done to keep the place running. He has more than enough breaks throughout the day to decompress in the freezing cold quarters, but somehow his legs are still screaming at him and he's hardly got a second to breathe meaningfully.

But, thankfully, he's not closing today, so as soon as the clock strikes a modest six in the evening, Nanami's hanging up his apron and reaching for his keys in his pocket. He waves goodbye to anyone awake enough to realize he's even leaving (which, truthfully, isn't that many people because closing really is draining enough on its own, even if it isn't so late that nobody ever really ends up staying past eight or so), and he sits in his car until he's sure he's confident enough he can drive safely and with enough feeling in his feet that he'll be able to feel the pedals.

As he's driving home, his hands drift to the twelve and seven, too lazy to keep themselves at the disciplined two and ten. His mind drifts off to think about the routine he's grown into over the past three years, more-so because there's not much else to think about, less-so because it's too daunting to think of much else while he's behind the wheel, until, just as the sun's hitting his pupils, he wonders if it'd be worth the effort to try again today—to make the quick, quiet drive over to the bakery, step out of the car, and pick out something sweet to bring home and eat with what's going to inevitably be a boring, tasteless meal.

Would it really be worth the effort?

...

Would it?

It's hard to tell. Between all the other decisions he'll have to make today, choosing from the mundane and the even more meaningless, this one thing seems to hang over him, taunting him with the promise of something too good for him and something equally not good enough for him.

He'd already been let down yesterday. His car still faintly smells of the coffee that marred his chance at something that'd make him a tiny bit happier, and he doesn't know how much more dull heartbreak he can endure. His body aches enough with the burden of work and the surreal, sinking feeling that he's doing nothing worthwhile with his life, even after putting everything on the line to change that.

At the same time, he's taken a lot; a moment more of it isn't going to hurt him anymore than not doing anything at all. He's a third of a decade into desire, and he's survived keeping the one thing he can depend on actually making him happy away at arm's length for this long.

...

Sure, then.

It'd be worth the effort.

And, just like that, as soon as he's made the decision to make the tiny detour on the way home to stop by a bakery that has no more promise than what his own imagination has given itself, that feeling is back.

He feels like he's breathing in cinnamon as he follows the curve of the road, cautious to not take such deep breaths but unable to keep in the quiet excitement. The sun glares at him through his windshield, but he can hardly feel bothered by it—he'll rue it later as he's biting into a bread bun in about a half-hour's time. The moon, present in the sky in time to kiss the sun across the clouds, looks like an almond wedding cookie, dusted and deepened with craters marked like dimples. His mouth is starting to water, and as he kisses his teeth, he can feel himself smiling.

It's almost maddening, how... easy it seems to feel happy.

Is that the right way to describe this feeling? Happiness?

It's such a fickle feeling, so easy to pull out of thin air. Practically a figment of his imagination as it stitches itself into a quilt quietly in his passenger seat.

And, like the universe wants to teach him a lesson, it's taken away from him just as suddenly.

His phone starts ringing, and, already connected to the car's sound system, Nanami sees no reason not to answer as he pulls into the adjacent parking lot for the bakery. The call's coming from his landlord, but he 

"Hello?"

The voice on the other line belongs to someone he doesn't know. "Good evening, is this Nanami?"

No reason to expect that his landlord has his contact saved when there's dozens of other tenants. "Yes, any particular reason you're calling?"

"Yes, just phoning you to let you know that your unit won't have water in about two hours or so. There's an issue with the plumbing on your floor and we have people coming to fix that soon, but it shouldn't take too long to get it resolved."

Great. That's exactly what Nanami wants to hear right now. "How long do you think it'll be out?"

"A couple hours, at most. Maybe three or four? We're really sorry, but we'll be covering the repair fee and as much of the floor's utility bill as we can for the month, so we hope it isn't too much of an inconvenience."

Well, if anything at all, at least his landlord's reasonable enough to provide adequate compensation.

He sighs as he weighs out the options he has in his head.

He can either stay here, spend the next half-hour or so getting a few pastries and breads to take home and eat in an otherwise soulless apartment, twiddling his thumbs until the water comes back on so he can shower and get the infinite layers of dirt and plantwater off his skin while he fights off sleep and exhaustion long enough to make it back to a clean bed, or, he can rush home, make dinner quickly enough to be able to have running water to even wash the dishes with before the food dries onto them, shower, and go to bed earlier than he usually does.

It's not a hard decision to make. He knows he has to choose the latter; he's too tired to wait out the repair time, and he'll just end up spread out on the floor to keep the furniture from sullying anyway and tomorrow will be made that much worse with the knowledge that he's choosing a chance at happiness over the convenience of what he knows will always work.

Still, it doesn't make it any easier.

"Hello?"

Nanami blinks himself out of his thoughts, and he clears his throat while looking around his car to make sure it's safe to back out. "Yes, I'm still here. Thank you for letting me know."

"Again, so sorry for the inconvenience, but it should be resolved soon. Let us know if you need any further assistance."

"Sure. Thank you, have a good evening."

"Thank you, you-"

Nanami hangs up before the other line can finish, and he frowns as he turns the engine back on again and puts his hand on the gear shift.

Maybe another day, then.

Maybe, then, he can forget this faint pinch at his heart that's begging to be taken care of.

🔅

Third time's the charm, people say. That, on the third go-around at something, it'll work out all fine and dandy.

Well, they're just plain wrong.

Nanami groans into the palm of his hand, head downturned and elbow digging into his chest.

"What do you mean 'closed for repairs?'" He whispers to himself.

He'd waited. He'd been patient. He'd been easy on himself. It's been three years, three months, and three days of trying to get something from this small, out-of-the-way bakery.

And, still, somehow, all that waiting has amounted to nothing.

He can feel the stares of people passing by, slowing their paces to watch him wallow in the small self-afforded agony he's ended up in. People walk around him, but he's very self-aware of the fact that he's so tall that he'll attract attention no matter what situation he's in, so he just stands firm where he is and accepts that his shame is palpable enough to be seen by strangers who've caught him in such an unfortunate state. He can't really bring himself to move out of the way, feet already at the foot of the ramp leading up to the door, so he just breathes slowly as disappoint seeps from his veins.

The sticky note hung up on the walls of his heart falls with the realization that it's about as useful as a whisk for water. It's a simple affair, one that starts and ends immediately with the event unfolding at his feet, but one that still pains him all the same.

He supposes that he can't really even be mad at anyone but himself for making it all the way out here without checking if it was even open. He'd made the decision to come out here on his day off, all other errands accounted for and completed, on a complete whim, so it's really his fault that he wasn't careful enough in planning the one thing he's actually been trying to do for the last 

He's not even sure why he's so fixated on making this happen right soon. It seems like, for so long, it'd escaped his mind—the desire to explore the bare remnants of what he remembers making him happy—and, now, he can't find himself to commit to anything else.

Is he such a failure that he can't even do this one thing right?

He knows he'll have to move out of the way and go home at some point. There's nothing he can do other than admit defeat.

There's no fanfare. No parade to tell him that he's at least tried. Not like he even really wants there to be one, but what's there to even accompany the effort he's put into the very simple, asinine. meaningless desire to get something from this bakery?

...

Can he really even call it effort?

All he has to show for this desire is a spilled coffee stain on his car console, a new stitch on his shirt, and uncomfortably pitiful looks from what feels like the entire population of this wretched city.

...

Well, that's alright.

He hasn't got much to show for anything else, anyway. This can't shake him; he won't let it.

If nothing else, he has enough hope that things will sort themselves out, and he'll get what he wants one day. That's what he's banking on with every other aspect of his life, anyway.

That, maybe, one day, he'll get to try something from here.

His feet move on their own, dragging him back to his car and through a sea of bodies he know are judging him. But he'll find himself here again, under better circumstances, someday later. Even if it isn't true, he has to tell himself that to keep at least something in his life worth moving on for.

That, maybe, one day, he'll change enough to be okay with disruptions to his routine.

He clicks on the ignition in his car after gingerly putting on his seatbelt, and he hooks his arm over onto the backside of his passenger side headrest to back out the parking space. His foot hovers over the brake pedal until he's fully matched up with the mirrors of the cars next to him, and he just about runs off when he's shifted into drive. He isn't sure how to get to the next place he needs to go to avoid traffic and construction work on the road, and it's working up enough of a sweat to think that this is yet another thing that's off about his day, as if it isn't already enough as it is. But, someday later, he'll be better at not feeling this way. Even if isn't true, he has to tell himself that to not let the feeling regress into a scarier apathy towards change.

That, maybe, one day, he'll be able to face himself at the end of the day with the thought that what he's doing with his life is worth not being able to enjoy a piece of bread he can't be sure is even good until then.

He makes it back to the apartment, cleans up around the place, makes a tasteless dinner for one, takes a shower that's too long. He's worked all day today, so it's fine that he stands under the running, steaming water for a near-hour, wishing he could be anyone else, anywhere else. He slips into bed, hair still wet because he doesn't care enough to wait for it to dry, and he stares up at the ceiling to pray that sleep will come fast enough to give him an out in having to think about what he's really doing with his life. But, someday later, this won't be the case, and he knows he can finally watch the stars without shame on his balcony. Even if it isn't true, he has to tell himself that to not feel so ashamed about not being able to have the one thing in life he thinks could complete him.

That, maybe, one day, he'll be happy.

He'll come home at the end of the day to a home, well-loved and filled with pastries afforded by the wealth of a career he knows he's allowed to be proud of. His feet will not ache, he won't wish for something he doesn't know he wants, and he can sleep at night knowing that there's more to life than the mundane and the meaningless. Even if it isn't true, he has to tell himself this so he has something to hold onto. What else is there to drive him? He's already trialed the life he dreamt of, and that wasn't enough, so this lie has to be.

Yeah, one day he'll have the world, and he'll be content.

One day.

🔅

(next update will be sep 14! thank you for reading :D)

[bitternest]

/rubs eyes it's seven am who gets up at 7am

People who get dinged repeatedly about Tumblr shutting down apparently.

Christ on a bike. Okay, long post inbound. On Tumblr's fate, enshittification and navigating the post-web2.0 world.

So I've been meaning to make a post like this for a while now, but because tech is literally my job I... haven't.

First off, Tumblr isn't being shut down. It's being put on legacy support. Maybe one day it will be shut down, but Automattic seems to have the costs dialed in and don't seem to want to nuke it. Yay.

This day was always going to come for one simple reason - social media websites are fundamentally impossible to fund. The cost of that much image and video hosting and bandwidth is not scalable without passing that cost over to the user. In most cases, this is done by making the user the product. But this is non-sustainable. As Tumblr discovered, as Twitter is discovering and as Google Has Ordained, that social media will inevitably be censored and restricted at the whim of the people actually paying - advertisers. And then your users stop caring. Some sites get around this by also robbing you of your dopamine production as well as your privacy - i.e. getting you engaged with their Algorithm.

So, enough with the reasoning, what can you do about this. Well, you can try the next big thing. For many people, that's bluesky. I don't know about you, but I don't think highly of Twitter 2.0 - from the dude who couldn't make Twitter profitable the first time around. And to be clear, its sole goal is to be profitable. It's a corporation. That's... it's purpose. It's purpose is to extract wealth.

For me, the only two vaguely viable options are cohost and the fediverse. Cohost because haha palette-swapped Tumblr but also because the core ideas the founders had are neat and resonate with me.

And the fediverse because that's the only technologically viable way forward for what we've come to expect social networks to be. It is a network in the real sense, an interconnected sprawl of self-hosted servers that individuals or communities are responsible for and the best way to deal with the costs of social media - distributing them. Mastodon is the most famous service in this space, but there are others. Explaining the fediverse outside of "a network of social networks" is beyond the scope of this post and is a real issue with adoption because, no, it's not necessarily easy.

But now we get to the real crux of my post:

The resilient things aren't easy. If you want to build and participate in something lasting, you need to do some hard things. Sometimes that's learning what the fuck @bitternest@mastodon.me.world is supposed to mean. Sometimes it's learning how to read an RSS feed. For artists it can mean learning to set up your own website, with zero code and for free even! (sorry @varethane, i'll get the post up eventually) For tech people it means finding an IRC (what, you think Slack is gonna survive its own enshittification?).

Frequently, it's learning how to back up your posts. Because no matter the site, the day will come when hosting 20 billion jpegs overtakes the cash flow of shiny rainbow crabs.

It is a requirement of the post-web2.0 world that you become more tech-savvy. As we tire of corporate horseshit, we must become more capable of forging our own way. If you want to stay connected, you need to learn how to make and maintain those connections, both social and technological.

And to not end this post on a somber and self-important note, that mastodon id isn't me - I never joined because no server ever appealed to me. If anyone's got suggestions I'm listening. I'm bitternest on cohost as well. Mutuals can DM me for my Discord.

Miss me with those bluesky invites tho

[imagine-knb]

saw the ask box is empty!!!!!!! How about hyuga, kasamatsu, otsubo, imayoshi, hanamiya, okamura, akashi, nijimura planning an elaborate date but then receives a call from their crying partner that they can't come because of a work emergency?

There are many definitions of 'work emergency', so I'm choosing to define it as 'mandatory overtime'. Let me know if you meant it as in like, an actually dangerous emergency! Admin Neon

Hyuuga: "Hah? Seriously? They couldn't have the issue wait until tomorrow or something?"

Hyuuga is more annoyed with your employer than he is with you, blaming your work emergency on their lack of appropriate scheduling. He tells you something along the lines of having your boss pay for the missed reservations the two of you have, his tone only half joking.

Kasamatsu: "Well, that sucks, but it can't be helped I guess... Do your best."

There's a slight sulking tone to his voice when you tell him that the reservations for the night will have to be rescheduled, but Kasamatsu is pretty good at hiding his disappointment. Still, it's hard to find free time between the two of you, so he starts wracking his brain for days he can take off instead to make things easier.

Imayoshi: "Hmm? Are you sure you can't just sneak away and come home already?"

He's teasing, of course, as he makes this suggestion to you. Imayoshi would never seriously ask you to jeopardize your job for a date, when he could easily reschedule things. Expect him to tease you further about it once you get home however, as he'll pretend to be extra clingy after you 'chose work over him'.

Otsubo: "There will always be another day for us to spend together, I promise you."

He sounds completely understanding over the phone, knowing that situations like this were rare, so it wasn't terrible for him to have to reschedule things. After cancelling all of the plans, Otsubo actually takes some time to make things cozier for you at home, knowing you'll be tired after an extra long, stressful day.

Okamura: "Don't worry about it, baby! I'll take care of everything! You get back to work."

He doesn't want you to feel like you've ruined any special plans, so Okamura is quick to reroute everything. He'd seen it in a movie once and decides to move all of your plans to in the home instead, setting up what he thinks is a rather romantic atmosphere right there in your very living room.

Akashi: "The faster you get it all done, the faster we can continue with our plans. I believe in you, love."

He's rather supportive when you call him about the work emergency, reassuring you that both you and your team are fully capable of handling the situation. While he calms you down, Akashi is already messaging the relevant people to have your plans rescheduled for a later time.

Nijimura: "Well, it can't be helped, can it? Just hurry up, so we can plan for our rescheduled date."

Though he's disappointed, Nijimura knows that sometimes things like this can happen when you work for the corporate world. He spends the rest of the evening cancelling all the plans the two of you had made. He doesn't want to reschedule them until the two of you can decide on a day.

Hanamiya: "What? Are you serious? Just tell them you can't and come home already."

To say he's more than annoyed would be an understatement, but despite how aggravated Hanamiya sounds over the phone, he knows you're not the type to just up and abandon your job. You can hear in his voice that he's grumbling when he finally relents and tells you it's fine.

[abronzeagegod]

ETS WIP Chapter 16: End Script

[first]|[more]

As the last of the worms was killed and banished into their home plane, the last person that Lyta wanted to see was Ji.

"I was surprised you chose me of all people," the thin, but stupidly hot, Exterminator said.

"Yeah, well," Lyta said without thinking, she felt like she had to response and the filler words were the first thing she spoke into existence. She was still trying to reign back her anger, to keep it under control and not say something stupid or mean or callous. Now was not the time. She took a breath. "You're an asshole but you're still one of the best Exterminators we have so it wasn't really even a question. Besides I still know your employee ID number so it was easier for me to look you up."

Not entirely without anger, but sometimes it just is like that.

Ji shrugged. "Well, I never got to see you really fight like that so... if you ever want to transfer over to the Exterminators give me a call. We could go for a drink or something."

Lyta briefly caught Aeth's eye from across the hallowed field of servers and graveyard of worms and phones.

"I'm good where I'm at."

Aeth, meanwhile, was being interrogated, or rather very harshly questioned, by two members of the Catalog and Archive Bureau.

"You unleashed a god upon tech support," said the one that was not tall. "You stole an unrestrained small god that was supposed to be closely monitored and let it loose within one of the most complex systems in the world."

"Yes," Aeth said. "It was necessary."

"We will be the judges of that," said the one that was not short. "This is going to have ramifications."

Aeth nodded. "And letting the Abyss go unchecked would have been much worse. A thing that you were supposed to deal with, but were... indisposed."

Lyta had walked over by this point and cut off the agent that was about to speak, "Not to mention your Bureau is responsible for letting a sentient nightmare out that almost consumed my friend whole. So should you really be casting blame."

The one who was not tall sputtered a little bit before he answered. "We were not informed."

"Oh, funny that. You can go clean up the corpse of 3812-B in my friend's apartment. When you figured out how the thing that was supposed to be monitored 24/7 managed to get out, almost complete the goal for which it spawned, and you still didn't know about it, then we can discuss the ramifications of the thing that saved us all."

"You'll be hearing from us," the one that was not short said angrily.

"I'm sure we will," Lyta snapped back. "But until then fuck off back to the file cabinet."

Aeth heaved a sigh of relief as the agents stomped away. "Thanks. For everything."

Lyta smiled up at Aeth. A warm, but tired smile. "Any time. Can we get out of here? I need a shower, food, and probably a call to a repairman and my landlord to fix my apartment."

"Before you go," came a voice from one of the servers. Out of an unused port, came the representation of the new God of Tech Support.

"What can we do for you?" Aeth asked.

"I owe you two more than I can say," Sir Lance Corporal said. "I am now more than I ever was. I feel like I am myself and I have a purpose. I thank you humbly for your efforts in this event. I hope we shall work together again soon."

The pair just nodded.

Then, just in Aeth's mind, came the voice of the god, "Thank you for your faith, as well. It sustains me and gives me the strength to continue."

Aeth nodded and replied in prayer. "It was nothing. Easy to believe in something good. I'm sure Lyta feels the same."

There was a soft sound of a server next to Aeth that sounded almost like a chuckle.

"Lyta does not, and that is fine. She believes so much, in you. That is enough for me, I hope it is enough for you."

Aeth wasn't entirely sure how to respond.

"Go, get some rest you two. There will be work to be done when you return," the god of tech support said.

"Ok, thanks," Lyta said. She turned to Aeth. "I have an idea, it may be a dumb one, but it's all I've got right now. Let's get a hotel room, shower, give our clothes to the pros to clean, eat some room service while we hang out in fluffy robes, and then just... sleep."

"It sounds great."

"My apartment is probably covered in like three inches of snow melt."

"And I'm sure the Catalog people are combing over my place looking for 3812-B."

"Which will be easy to find, right?"

"I hope so."

As the pair walked off, somewhat hesitantly, Aeth put their arm around Lyta's shoulder. Lyta immediately warmed to the touch and moved closer to them.

Sir Lance Corporal made sure to tell the hotel to only offer them rooms with a single bed.

if you liked these maybe considering leaving me a tip on kofi

[elysianstars]

Looking through Emblem bond conversations with the Fell Four, and picking out my favourites because why not?

Marth: You may show bravado, but you’re actually quite kind, aren’t you? Both in and out of battle.

Rafal: What?! That is laughably inaccurate. Though I will admit to making an effort of late.

Love that every time someone calls Rafal kind, his response is 'withdraw those false accusations immediately'.

Celica: Deep down, I know you possess a kind heart. Why do you not show it?

Rafal: What do you mean? My disposition is nothing short of sunny. Surely you agree.

He's figured out a new way to deal with it now.

Edelgard: When all of this is over, what do you plan to do?

Alear: Hmm… I think I’d like to take my time and travel the world. And also read and sleep a lot.

Highly relatable, but YOU HAVE SLEPT ENOUGH.

Celica: It’s no good to eat such acidic food all the time. You should try to round out your nutrition a bit.

Nel: I suppose if someone is going to mother me, it may as well be an ancient and ageless Emblem.

Emblems trying to make dragons stop eating such terrible foods, round one.

Veyle: Roy, look! I’ve never seen food this red before. I bet it’s super spicy and super delicious.

Roy: But, Veyle…the look, the smell, the burning! It does not look like it belongs in anyone’s mouth.

Round two!

Roy: An entire shaker, Nel? I can’t imagine any food needing that much salt.

Nel: It is a pity you will never be able to taste my gift to culinary advancement.

Round three!

Edelgard: I’ll admit, one thing about you does trouble me. The amount of sugar you put in your tea…

Rafal: The sweeter the better, Edelgard. I will brook no disagreement on this point.

Round four! There's a few others too, so I stopped at this point.

Alear: Your battle strategy is always so calm and logical. I should probably try to think that way…

Soren: We each have things we are and are not suited for. Calm rationale may not be yours.

Ouch.

Rafal: Am I cursed to have older sisters eternally fuss over me? Did I not tell you I am no child?

Micaiah: I’m sorry. I heard you were a little brother, and I was thinking you must have been very cute.

Micaiah, the woman who called Rafal cute and lived to tell the tale.

Veyle: Didn’t a Fell Dragon ravage your world? You must hate it when I’m around.

Lucina: Not at all. You look different. You act different. You are your own dragon, Veyle.

Fell Dragons feel awkward around Lucina, part one.

Lucina: Rafal, is it my imagination, or are you avoiding me? I thought we were a team after that battle.

Rafal: Your home was destroyed by a Fell Dragon. I, too, am a destroyer. You should avoid me.

Part two!

Nel: I hear you have a history with Fell Dragons. Do not feel obligated to socialize with me.

Lucina: I don’t feel obligated, Nel. I’d like to get to know you as a person, not just as a Fell Dragon.

Part three!

Lucina: Nel! As a token of our friendship, I’ve designed some clothing for you. Vander’s handiwork!

Nel: A large spicy pepper embroidered on the front. I suppose it does represent my preferences.

The follow-up. Since she mentioned Vander, I'm guessing it's a piece of knitting? Maybe a jumper?

Lyn: You look tired. If there’s something dragging you down, you can tell me. I’m a good listener.

Alear: I still hesitate sometimes in battle because I’m so inexperienced.

Alear: Then I second-guess myself afterward, thinking of all the things I should have done instead.

Lyn: Don’t worry about making mistakes. You have friends─and me─to guide you through them.

*grabs Alear by the shoulders* SWEETIE YOU ARE DOING AMAZING. Even when you're screwing up and getting yourself killed, you're still amazing. He says similar things in other conversations and I just. Can someone corporeal please give him a hug already?

Ike: Well, what do you think? Do I seem strong to you yet?

Rafal: I will admit your aid was helpful. Perhaps, of the two of us, we can say you are second strongest.

This is even funnier in context when you see them standing next to each other.

Rafal: You… You are quite the enigma. You fight so fiercely, yet appear so weak.

Eirika: Should I…take that as a compliment?

I don't think he knows whether it was a compliment either.

Alear: Oh, Professor! Sorry, I know I’m not one of your students. I just wanted to see how it felt.

Byleth: I don’t mind. It’s what most everyone called me, after all.

Alear is being cute and I can't handle it.

Byleth: Whatever you’re eating looks pretty tasty.

Rafal: An ally gave these to me. I was told that they were too sweet, but I find them perfect.

Byleth: Good to hear! Seeing you enjoy those reminds me of an old friend.

Rafal: We are having a conversation here. Reminisce on your own time.

Rafal has now become known as a repository for unwanted sweets. Also...did you not realise Byleth telling you that was part of the conversation. That's what was happening there. Sharpen those social skills, Rafal.

Corrin: I spent most of my youth cooped up in a castle. Everything felt fresh when I got to leave.

Alear: I can relate to that. It sounds like our circumstances aren’t so different.

I mean...if I had to pick the main similarity between you two, it would not be that. I'd probably go for the whole 'amnesia + reunited with my mother and then watched her die + evil dragon dad final boss' chain of events. Maybe that's just me though.

Corrin: I hear you risked your life for the sake of your brother. I did something very similar once.

Nel: Rafal is precious to me. I wanted to protect him. Above all, I wanted him to feel accepted.

I love you Nel.

Edelgard: You charge alone into battle far too frequently. I would urge you to think more of your allies.

Rafal: If you dislike me so intensely, then leave. No one is forcing you to deal with me.

Edelgard: That is not what I said. I am merely imploring you to consider some basic strategy.

Rafal: If my being alone in battle is your concern, then clearly your best course is to accompany me.

Love that Rafal's reaction to being told he's endangering himself is 'okay guess you hate me then'.

Nel: If it is all right with you, Tiki, I would like a hug.

Tiki: Of course! I feel so safe with you. I think the gentle hands had to be yours…

Nel: So you do recall my sending you to slumber. Well, I am glad you are back with us for good.

Wait, Emblems CAN give hugs now?

Tiki: I don’t remember you too much, but I feel like I’m safe with you for some reason!

Rafal: That is the wrong instinct to have. Nevertheless, I will endeavor to be kind to you from now on.

His line delivery is the best part of this. He's so absolutely done. Like, he was the source of the original problem, so he gets no right to complain, but he's still done. AND he'll keep knocking away accusations of kindness, even though he's just owned up to it here.

Veronica: I hear you spent a thousand years looking after your sister. I’m jealous of your relationship.

Rafal: You envy my atonement? My just punishment for crushing my sister’s heart?

Veronica: No, I envy the time you’ve had together. I may never see my brother again.

Rafal: If he left you, it must have been with some goal in mind. Trust in that, or find him and stop him.

Too late, Bruno's dead.

Camilla: You have such lovely hair. If only I was corporeal, I would love to brush it for you.

Alear: Oh, um… That’s very kind of you, but just the thought is enough for me.

Camilla no.

Camilla: You need a confidant, Rafal. Come, rest your head on my shoulder. Tell me everything.

Rafal: Ridiculous. Your shoulder is not even corporeal. Why are you looking at me like that?

Camilla NO.

Camilla: I’ve noticed you keep your friends at arm’s length, no matter how warmly they accept you.

Rafal: I caused my sister’s death. I all but destroyed an entire world. I am irredeemable.

Camilla: That’s not what your friends believe. Don’t you think you owe them a little bit of trust?

Rafal: You…do have a point. Thank you, Camilla. I will try to see the matter from their perspective.

Camilla yes actually, tell him how it is.

General Observations - Veyle asks most of the Emblems if they'll be friends with her, and it's adorable. Nel mentions a few times that she's been speaking too harshly to Alear, despite not meaning to. Rafal and Soren's conversations are a disappointment, the two meanest people in the army and they hardly say anything funny to each other.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Constructive feedback

I'm a compulsive feed-backer. At least, I think that's the right word. It feels like the verb might be in the wrong place - one who backs feeds, perhaps, like a supporter of TV channels - but I'm not sure of the alternative. Back-feeder? Or does that make me sound like one of those oxpeckers - you know, the birds that ride around on kudu or wildebeest - or something else entirely? You can let me know, if you like. I certainly would.

I mean that I give feedback. Any chance I get, really - and you'd be surprised how many there are. The pop-up that you'd usually swipe away; the installation screens you scramble through. Am I willing to spare two minutes for a quick survey? You bet. Rate us in the app store? Don't mind if I do.

Sometimes they don't even ask for it. There's just a company email address on the leaflet, a pause in the spiel, and suddenly I'm giving more feedback than a microphone within an inch of its own speaker. I write letters to global corporations; I phone back their call centres; I scribble on marketing flyers and return them to sender. A compulsion, as I said. It's a problem, except that I'm not sure that it is.

I like to feel that, in my own small way, I'm improving the world. Most people don't have the patience for all of that work, and so it's down to the likes of me, the back-feeders, to spot the errors; to suggest the improvements; to do the silent work that makes everything we use a little bit better. I identify bugs, and I swat them away before they have the chance to land on your salad. You're welcome.

By and large, I find myself ignored, and that's okay. I'll occasionally feed that back in turn, for important stuff - when the council take too long to acknowledge my letters about potholes, for instance - but otherwise I'm happy to work in the shadows, offering up my free advice without the hope of recognition or reward.

They don't all have to heed my words. I know that I can be pernickety, a pedant, a perfectionist. Not all of my suggested improvements can be prioritised, and I appreciate that resources might be better spent elsewhere. I just give them the information, and leave the best course of action for them to decide.

That is, I used to. Until the start of this month, when I left a restaurant a two star review, and walked past later to find it had closed down. I felt guilty, wondering if I was responsible, although I hadn't thought my words too harsh; perhaps the proprietor had thinner skin than that which lay across the surface of his soup, I thought.

But then I called the local pet store's attention to the uneven drawing of its parking bays, and they vanished too: not even the shop, just the car park. I tried it with a park I visited, which needed more benches in the shade, and suddenly there weren't any benches, or even any shade. It felt like a petulant response, co-ordinated across the various powers that be, sick and tired of my complaining. It was like I was provoking them, or they were trying to provoke me.

I tried to cut back, of course, but you can't just quit the habit of a lifetime. I decided to redirect my energies elsewhere, starting a blog to vent my thoughts about life more generally, rather than risk upsetting any more people: I moaned about the way it always seemed to rain on the weekend, or how quickly my knees and back had gone with age, and suggested flaws in natural systems, like the strange way that animals and plants with warning colours now looked more attractive to humans, particularly young children.

One day I received a parcel in the post. I hadn't been expecting anything, and my immediate thought was that the postal service had delivered to the wrong address, despite my previous corrections, but it was my name on the label. Inside the box, I found another note addressed to me, atop a set of neatly folded golden robes.

"Go on, then," it read, in a language I shouldn't have been able to read, and therefore couldn't check for typos. "Let's see you do any better."

[running2reanimation]

Greetings!

Welcome to my Animation VS fandom/ask sideblog! My name is Shace and I follow from @running2redemption! My pronouns are she/him!

I mostly write fics! And occasionally make quizzes! And very occasionally do bad art!

I accept in-character asks for ALL STICKS + HEROBRINE + MY OCS

I'm not an artist though, so most asks won't include art!

This is my masterpost of stuff that I made that I will update as I make it!

Masterpost

My OCs! - Mint (Green), Royal (Blue) and Aqua (Blue), as well as fankids Chestnut and Mahogany. The Minecraft Crew! - Teal, Indigo, Fern, and Sky King + verses

Headcanons

Main post - the main cast, regularly updated Alan and alexcrafter Some worldbuilding headcanons The Mercenaries

Fics

One Horrible Moment - Everything was working as it should. And that meant the boy would die. (A short blurb from the perspective of one of the workers at Booth 30 that day.) - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Formality - Striker was pretty sure this was actually yet another test from the enigmatic head of the Rocket Corporation. Inviting a bunch of mercenaries to dinner at the most expensive restaurant in Stick City could be nothing less than the ultimate test of his leadership abilities. -(Tumblr) - (Ao3)

KingDrabbles

Same - What was normal now? - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Home - The road home is paved with fire and brimstone. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Playthings - Stick figures are made of two things: violence... and love. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Amalgam - Flecks of Gold in a field of white. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Mornings - ...are for mourning. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Birthdays - Happy Birthday, King! - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Recording - This message will be saved for 7 days. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Mourning - Flowers and funerals. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Awaken - Reality is cruel. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Illness - Caring comes in many forms. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Interests - It's hard keeping track of them all - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Tired - There’s no rest for anyone, just moving on and on. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Wonder - What if... - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Progress - It's going to get better; it has to. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Sickness - Sometimes the caretaker needs care. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Forgiveness - It's over, isn't it? - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Mugs - Happy Father's Day, King! - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Anniversary - Grief is just love with nowhere to go. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Gone - ...fishing! - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Darkening - On a list of bad decisions, this might be one of the worst King ever made... /KingDark AU/ - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Scars - We all have them, it's just that not all of them are visible - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Alive

Primal - She wouldn’t Stop. The world had grown, changed, it was new and she still wanted to see what was next. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Logo - Why was he alive and they weren’t? What made him so different? Why was he so alone? - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Ballista - He woke up surrounded, stick figures on either side of him, guns in hand. He drew his sword and heard a scream that rocked his world. - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

helper - The stick waved out at his Creator, but He wasn't paying attention, instead typing something into the computer. And soon the stick learned why as he felt a sense of knowing wash over him. His name was "helper". - (Tumblr) - (Ao3)

Quizzes

Which Alan Becker Stick Figure Are You?

Which of Member of Rocket Corporation Are You?

Credit for my axolotl icons goes to @sketchshack!

[handhourgalleries]

Personal, non-art related drabble below:

Just a couple weeks before the holiday, and my spouse was fired from his job. Sometimes I feel we are cursed in this way, where something always falls through just when we feel steadier and are naive enough to think that life can begin to vastly improve. The plans we were making to move out of what amounts to be a very expensive studio seems so brittle now. We've been told by family that we seem to have the worst luck in the world, the way we keep struggling.

On the positive side, he did receive a Christmas bonus right before being let go. It seems like a final evil before getting kicked to the curb, however. Here, you'll need this to survive the next couple of weeks, I'm sure. Be grateful to your corporate overlords, peon.

And we'll be covered for the next couple of weeks with some grandiose budgeting. I'm disheartened that we have to ask my son to put off going to taking his classes a little longer just to pick up more hours at work to help me keep things covered until parental unit #1 acquires new employment. I think we are delayed at most. I know we will recover. We have to. And...yet...

I have somewhat been in a dissassociative calm to cope, I suppose. Though the people I work with have been lovely, the calls I take are a mental exercise in patience with people not happy at all to be calling me - there are days when I dread work in a deeply demoralized way. I miss writing, and art, and roleplaying, but have very little energy or mental bandwidth to commit to it now, and that is deeply unsatisfying, this sort of ghost of an existence. I want to try, still. Still. The compulsions to create remain in a tired shell.

But i digress. Anxious as we are, tired as we are of being dealt bad hands as we are, we made a little budget for Christmas, somehow, and we did a little shopping for those we loved. That felt good. Today, despite everything, felt good. I am thankful at least for the few hours of giddyness, where I did not default to thinking of all the wrong.

I'll try to put off the feelings of dread till Monday again, heh.

[thessalian]

Thess vs A CrapSack World

So basically the world is really, really fucked up right now. I can bullet-point a lot of it, or at least I can try.

GENOCIDE BAD, OKAY?

And across the pond from me... Not seeing nearly enough about the fact that "old white dude quietly trying to get shit done as leader of his country but also maintaining the status quo on genocide" is still better than "old orange-ish dude who will destroy your fucking country and exacerbate the genocide if you let him get in again"

Apparently standing up and shouting "GENOCIDE BAD" is enough to panic people in this country so hard that folks are spinning fantasies about some Israeli Deep State controlling all of us (yes, actual government officials are saying this shit, and not even really getting condemned for it - look up Lee Anderson sometime) and start hinting at new anti-protest legislation (as if we didn't have enough of that) because "mob rule is replacing democratic rule". Says the man who nobody voted for.

Everything is way too expensive. And is only getting more and more expensive as time goes on - especially here, since we're having the worst effects of Brexit hitting us in stages and we're just about at the worst of it now.

The wealthy are blaming us for not wanting to work too hard for too little money, and for not buying enough to keep industries running, and generally fucking over everybody to keep their profit margins going ever-upwards. I can almost see the upcoming destruction of the bubble, but apparently we're going to go into "dynamic pricing" first, to make us pay more even for essentials depending on some AI's idea of when they can fleece us the most. Basically I'm tired of being a money-stuffed pinata to be beaten on by our corporate overlords until cash comes out.

On a personal note, I just had to register for postal voting and have no the fuck idea who I should be voting for because for fuck's sake, they're all as bad as each other at that point. I could probably focus on my constituency, but this is such a safe Labour seat that it barely even matters. Still, I'm not going to hike up a fucking hill to exercise my democratic rights, even if I don't know if there's anyone I can actually in all good conscience vote for.

Further personal note: just about every fucking part of the government seems to hate trans people. They all seem to be making the statement about "I know what a man is and I know what a woman is and there is no confusion about that", with the underlying suggestion of "man = penis, woman = vulva", which ... dear gods. We've got people asking, "Were the two kids who murdered a trans pupil really evil?" like, "Yeah, they fucking killed somebody, but ... well, it was only one of those..."

Final personal note: I am still so fucking tired of being disabled. I want to go out to the yarn store in my area, because ... y'know, good yarn, learning to crochet, yadda. Plus some other errands - I need gluten-free pasta, which they ran out of for my big monthly grocery order, and some other stuff. But I'm having to plan this entire trip in the most strategic way you can imagine because ... well, pain. I am so tired of having pain.

So there's all of ... y'know. This. And sometimes I don't know how I don't just despair myself into the ground. Because I can't do anything about most of this. Hell, I can't do anything about any of this. It just sits there, being shitty.

However. I had a really helpful therapist once, after I had my really major breakdown, and she said that the whole thing where I was grabbing at anything that might have the remotest chance of making me even briefly happy was a good instinct, and I just had to learn to do it more consciously. So. As small and shallow as some of these things are, here are my things right now:

I have the most awesome friends.

On the subject of friends, I have D&D nights.

I have pretty decent parentals, all told.

I have a new-old book (an old favourite I haven't read in a long time, and picked up for my Kindle recently)

I have a week off work, so I can recover a bit from the ow.

I have the first game I've pre-ordered since Dredge, which will be available in just over two weeks.

I have a trip to the yarn store ... and the yarn store has a shop cat.

That'll do for the time being. It may not seem like much, but it's a good bulwark between me and despair. I remember enough about my really major breakdown to know I really need those.

[shadowmaat]

IS it free speech? At what cost?

The substack bullshit is only the latest in a long line of companies choosing profit over people. As has become familiar, they cite the excuse of "free speech" as the reason why they won't deplatform (or demonetize) Nazis.

Where I'm having trouble is how "free speech" fits into things like this. First of all, censorship is done by a government, not a privately owned company. I also have issues with using "free speech" to excuse a multitude of crimes. Hate speech hurts. Doesn't matter if it contains "specific threats" or not, the words and the attitudes behind it are meant to cause harm and they do. Is speech of that type really free when it comes at the cost of the safety of others?

Hate groups, death cults, and other extremists are taking full advantage of the First Amendment and it seems like a lot of corporations are letting them get away with it by using the broadest possible definition of part of that Amendment.

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of people to peaceably assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

Substack, Twitter, Meta, etc. are not part of Congress. They are not establishing national laws. They are supposed to be upholding a code of conduct for the people who choose to use their platform; a code that every user must agree to before they can post.

The problem is that they're not really doing that. Or at least they're being very selective of what bits they consider an actionable violation and what bits are just "free speech."

Calling on people to rise up and kill a CEO or political figure would almost certainly be ruled a violation, but calling on people to rise up and exterminate an entire group, well, I guess that isn't specific enough.

If someone hasn't published a study yet about how corporate "morality" is tied directly to their profit margins, I hope one get published soon because we all know that's what this is about: money. Violent extremists bring in a whole lot of dividends, so the CEOs aren't going to ban them. Gotta think of the shareholders, right?

I understand that it isn't always a black-and-white situation, and I know those kind of moral judgement calls can be tricky at times, but sometimes it's very obvious who's in the wrong. Pretending that banning one hate group will "set a bad precedent" and be used to try and ban other, benign groups is bullshit. Even if there IS a chance that someone would try to use that to try and get, like, the National Puppyhuggers Club banned, so what? It's the company's decision. So unless the Puppyhuggers are going around advocating for cat lovers to be put to death or sent to conversion camps so they can learn to love puppies instead, I don't think it's going to be an issue.

I also know there's an issue of "how do you define hate speech?" but again, even if something like that can be weaponized it doesn't mean you should just... not do anything.

I'm tired of people getting away with abhorrent behavior in the name of "free speech." Or deliberately spreading misinformation because "free speech." I know morals are anathema in the corporate world, but FFS people, grow a spine.

[timelessxmemories]

She's all I have.

Lock Drabble — @miss-midnightt , @the-main-characters , @gmanwhore , @ren-not-rennie

Reeve sits silently in his chair at his desk, writing things down on his laptop and the documents scattered on his desk, his gaze fixing on the window outside and then up to the clock, he was focused until he heard a knock on the door and looked up.

"Come in."

Lock walked into the W.R.O Leaders office awkwardly and hesitantly, her angel wings tucked in as she gave a small nervous smile, peeking in the doorway with a small wave, hesitation and anxiety written all over her face.

She's been with the WRO for a while now, she was probably the quietest and the most shy out of everyone working in the WRO, she was always so anxious and paranoid.

"You uhm.. wanted to see me, sir..?"

Her Cockatoo, Stitches, was sitting on her shoulder, tilting his head every few seconds, bobbing his head up and down before Lock placed her hand on his head, causing him to climb up onto her hand.

"Ah, yes, please come sit down."

Reeve pointed to the chair right across from his desk, his expression was friendly and calm, though his voice was a little tired from the long day of work. Once Lock sat down, he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands together in his lap, taking his time to form a proper response.

"Is there anything troubling you these days? I've noticed that you have been a little more hesitant lately."

In reply to his response, Lock was a little shocked by his concern, she wasn't used to big corporate leaders being so warm and comforting and friendly towards their underlings. She felt her heart race and she didn't know why, she felt a flood of different emotions, some of which she never even knew she could have.

She sighs, staring down at her lap as she sits across from him, feeling Stitches nuzzle up to her in a form of comfort. He was her Service bird after all.

"Well.. I guess I just.. have been a little stressed lately.. overthinking things.. wondering if I'm doing enough here and helping people in the ways that I should.."

She admitted with a small frown, however you could tell there was much more to what she was leading on if you looked close enough into those emerald green eyes of hers which is exactly what Reeve did. It was like he could see right through her.

Reeve chuckled at that, he noticed the expression on her face and his eyebrow raised. He leaned forward slightly and gestured for her to say more about what she meant. Despite his tired expression and relaxed demeanor, there was a seriousness in his tone.

"I'm here to listen. We're all in the same boat, fighting for what we want and believe. It's understandable to doubt whether you're making a difference or if you're doing enough. We all feel that way sometimes. What's bothering you?"

"I just.. I don't want to fail.. I don't want to fall behind on things or let you or anyone down.."

Lock explains, wiping her eyes a little, her lower lip quivering as she lowered her head to prevent him from seeing her expression.

"I don't want to let my little girl down.. She's only 4.. She's all I have.. I want her to grow up, proud of what her mom does and proud of her mom for being one of many who decided to make a change in the world.. I don't want to let her down.. And I especially don't want to let my late husband down.. He died in a fire about 2 years ago, he was a fire fighter, a good man, so that's why I'm here, to do what he's always wanted, make a change.."

She spoke quietly as tears rolled down her cheeks, Stitches trying to preen her hair in a comforting motion.

"I'm sorry.. I don't know why I'm telling you all this.. God I'm a mess.."

She took a sharp breath, wiping her eyes quickly before putting on a false smile, trying to hide the loneliness and despair she had felt. But Reeve could see how much she was hurting deep inside, in a way, she reminded him of himself when he was the director of Urban Planning back in Shinra, and he felt the need to help her whatever way he could.

Reeve smiled reassuringly, his demeanor was kind and comforting, he was truly invested in what she was saying and he felt the urge to help her in any way that he could. He paused for a moment, taking in everything that she had told him, and he felt something inside him grow warm, something that he hadn't felt in a long time, but he wasn't quite sure what it was.

"You have nothing to apologize for. We all have our struggles, and sharing your worries can help you overcome them. How's your daughter? What's her name?"

"Her name is Amaris.. I named her that because the name means 'Child of The Moon' in Spanish, and my late husband Silas was Latino, and he always had a deep fascination with Astronomy and Astrology, I call her my 'Little Star'.. She's my pride and joy.. She's my baby and I'd do anything for her.. I remember her asking me for a bunny, but at the time we didn't have enough money, we were barely getting by as it is so I had to break the news to her and she said to me in sweetest little voice you can ever posibly imagine: "It's okay mommy, maybe later!".. A year later I did get her that bunny.. She named her Snickerdoodle because of how she looked.. our dog, Charlie, loves her to bits.. Despite all my mental health issues and problems, I'm always so happy to go home at the end of the day to my little girl.. It's why I have Stitches here with me.. He's my service bird, he helps me get through the day and provides comfort.."

She spoke with a teary eyed smile, chuckling a little sadly to herself as a tear rolled down her cheek.

"She's currently at home.. My best friend, Nox is watching her right now.. It's funny in a way.. Who would have thought that a demon-dragon hybrid man would become best friends to the last descendant of the angels such as myself? It's funny how the world works. People always ask me: "Is that her father?" And I always reply with: "No, that's not her father, he's her uncle. My best friend."

She gave a warm fond smile with a shake of her head.

"I've known him since we were kids, he's practically like a brother to me. He and Amaris are really all I have.. Being a single mother is hard work.. Trying to care for your little one all by yourself.. I remember at some point Amaris had asked me: "Where's daddy?" And it just broke my heart, so I told her: "Sweety, daddy's in a special place now.. he's watching over us from above.." She seemed to understand fairly well what I meant despite her being only 4.. Silas died before Amaris was born, he never got a chance to meet his little girl, but I'm sure he still loves her all the same.. Actually, just yesterday she looked up at me with the most excited and curious expression and asked me: "Mommy? When am I gonna get a new daddy?" I couldn't help but laugh a little at her curiosity, I had to explain to her that: "I'll find someone when the time comes and I'm sure whoever it may be will love you just as much as I do if not more!" And the big bright excited smile she gave me was just the purest thing in the whole world.."

She rambled with a soft shake of her head before quickly shaking her head frantically.

"Ahh! I'm so sorry, sir! I'm rambling again! It's just, when it comes to my daughter, I tend to have a habit of rambling on and on about her, I love her so very much, y'know..? I don't know what I'd do without her..."

She spoke softly and fondly, pulling out a picture she seemed to always carry with her, looking at it fondly and brushing her thumb over it, a warm and loving smile on her face.

Reeve's heart softened even further as he listened to her speak about her life and how much she loved her little girl, the way she spoke about her truly captured Reeve's heart. After a few moments, he spoke to her with a warm and friendly tone.

"It's alright, Ramble as much as you like, you have a beautiful family from the looks of it. May I see that picture if it's alright with you?"

Lock looked up from the photo with a kind and warm smile, giving a gentle nod and handing him the photo of her little girl.

"That's Amaris.."

Reeve took a few seconds to observe the picture and the cute little girl in it, and his expression softened even further. He was surprised by how much she had shared with him. It was so genuine and honest, he admired her openness and her ability to trust him. He nodded as he handed the photo back to her.

"She's absolutely adorable. It's easy to see why you love her so much."

Lock chuckled a little, nodding in response as Reeve handed her back the photo before leaning back in his chair, studying her in an adoring and caring fashion before he finally replied.

"You said she's four?"

Lock smiled again, giving another nod as she looked down at the photo in her hands.

"She is. She's turning 5 in a week."

Reeve's eyebrows rose as he gave a warm smile, giving a soft laugh.

"That's wonderful! Tell her I wish her a happy birthday."

He smiled as Lock gave a warm nod, putting the photo back in her pocket.

"Of course. I'm sure she'd love that."

[meikuree]

3, 5 (for "the lightness of a foreign sky") and 45 please!

3. What are some tropes or details that you think are very characteristic of your fics?

trope wise… I either write hard-won joyful/bittersweet cathartic endings, shawshank redemption prison escape scene style, or write about lesbian psychological torture with no in between. or worldview clashes and parries and mutual respect as the height of romance, detached from actual common romantic gestures like kisses or [romantic milestones], that are romantic exactly because romance is beside the point /o\ I love dwelling in ambiguity!

also, based on what I’ve heard from friends:

endemically melancholic voice/perspective, or: "your writing gives me sad vibes?"

alliteration disease; I like to daisy-chain similar words together. some egregious examples: "respite repeated reservedly", "all affectation effaced". and I enjoy playing with words close in sound but not meaning (e.g., "fit for the museum of a bed, not so much the mausoleum of a marriage")

not an angst or fluff writer but a secret third thing: a realism writer; "there's nothing exaggerated just to induce pathos in your works [...] your writing is more about the extrapolation of themes and ideas canon has already left there." (cr @bothzangetsus)

surgical prose, absence of filler: "If your writing was a steak it wouldn't have any of the fat in it."

a preoccupation with aftermaths, catharsis or post-catharsis; separately on characterisation: "you have a way of capturing a person who feels almost tired of their own complex motives."

I try to avoid what brandon taylor calls trite physicality, but I can also forget that people are embodied beings and are made up of parts other than eyes, mouths, and lungs, and disapproving hand gestures

5. What do you wish someone would ask you about the lightness of a foreign sky? Answer it now!

just going to use this as a blank cheque to ramble:

some commentary on the source material first -- one of black water sister’s big aspects is how it depicts the experience of inhabiting different, sometimes clashing, cultural contexts unevenly, all distilled through but not revolving around the metaphor of being a lesbian; the main character is jess, a malaysian-american lesbian who returns to her parents' hometown in penang, malaysia.

I like that it wasn’t strictly a story about lesbianism as such, and was defter about it, using it as one element to evoke commentary about insider/outsider positions in culture. it also imploded usual conventions in malaysian fiction about divisions between the westernised, cosmopolitan affluent overseas malaysian and local, 'left behind' malaysians, who are often more invisible and considered parochial characters in the global fiction landscape; jess's grandma and her literally share a body and her grandma is a tour de force in her own right, strategically overpowering jess at points, but they also work together. it also couched ah ma's (jess's grandma) nonplussed-ness and then eventual roundabout acceptance of jess's sexual orientation not in terms of... contemporary americanised scripts about sexuality and coming out but developed a vocabulary that was more organic to the malaysian context ("aiyah, we dealt with so many ghosts and spirits and corporate espionate and the odd pontaniak throughout this book, you being a pengkid is the least of our problems", in a paraphrase of how it... happened).

also, at the start, jess is conversely a fish out of water in her 'native' malaysia, unused to hokkien and unable to fully participate in cultural rituals at first despite being aware of them; she literally gets shuffled around by her relatives at extended family gatherings.

i'm usually prejudiced against southeast asian diaspora fiction that only focuses on appealing main characters/subjects, like well-educated overseas people whose inner worlds and struggles are held up as far richer and sophisticated and cultured than 'backwards' locals in their homelands -- as if alienated cultural elites represent the height of their communities' socioeconomic/cultural woes and ills -- but this pushed back against some of those assumptions, so i was pleasantly surprised. i like that zen cho puts jess through the grinder in struggles where her harvard accolades and accomplishments have little objective use. although jess struck me as a little naive at points for someone who graduated from harvard. then again, having met people from the ivy league/other top universities... i believe it, honestly.

I got feedback on this that Jess reads as far more familiar with Singapore than she would be as someone who'd only been there a few times as a child, and I totally take point on that, and wish I could've incorporated more lines about that uneven inhabitation of cultural identities i mentioned earlier. this is more an explanation than justification of why i wrote it that way: I don't like writing about places from the viewpoint of a tourist gaze, gawking at spectacles or common motifs (too much... othering fiction about malaysia/singapore that could otherwise be good reaches for the easy setting details like humid sweltering temperatures, palm trees, durians, etc.), so I left in a lot of details in a way that presumes jess is used to them.

so, sorry jess! I butchered your characterisation somewhat! but I liked writing this.

I also wanted to give more attention to the lesbian interracial relationship (especially a malaysian chinese-singaporean indian one, unlike the more common white-poc interracial relationships you see in media) that was present in the canon.

45. What's something you've improved on since you started writing fic?

I like 'unlocking new sentences' as a mutual of mine once put it, and I think I'm better at that; also incorporating dialogue; I still wish I wrote in a more breezy or conventionally palatable (read: less dense) way! but I've resolved that the first person I want to please when I write is myself and my own impulses of creativity, so.

I'm going to sidetrack and be negative/critical for a second: I recently participated in a class exercise where my classmates shared pieces of fiction/poetry they'd written, and the originality and agility of their turns of phrase and unexpected combinations 1) sobered me, because it reminded me how depressingly 'safe' a lot of ao3 fare and even pubbed fiction is out there (in both content and the question of aesthetics, and I include myself in this), 2) sparked joy and desire in me to experiment again. so with that I leave some quotes that express why I enjoy writing: because i view it as an opportunity to participate in a linguistic laboratory, exploding and pushing at the limits of expression:

Within Surrealist culture, chance was worshipped as a kind of spirit guide, a trickster who could jam the conveyor belt of deductive logic. Gatherings centered on word games, blind selection, collage, and collaboration. In Exquisite Corpse, a paper was passed around the table, each writer folding over what they had written, a systems approach to narrative that produced phrases like The wounded women disturb the guillotine with blond hair. The point was to elicit dissonant analogies, cross-pollinated metaphors, images that were shocked to find themselves as bedfellows. Many of the poets relied on collage techniques, cutting up newspaper stories and reassembling them into odd configurations.

and writing is a medium that allows me to reach for the simplest form of transformation: making sure the word that follows isn't the expected one

I write to be read. I’m not an experimentalist. But while I don’t think my writing is unclear, it’s not to everyone’s taste. I think some people prefer a kind of journalistic plainspokenness, even on the question of aesthetics, which is not my impulse. Very early on in my “career,” an editor said to me, “You do something that we don’t really do here. I noticed that in your sentences, the word that comes next isn’t exactly the word you’d expect to come next.” And I remember thinking: of course it fucking isn’t. Otherwise why would I write it?

(fic writer asks)

[wikipedie]

I feel like ranting. Since it's personal and not everyone may care, it's under Read More

I wonder if we are not a society that more readily accepts misery rather than joy.

For a few weeks now, I've started a job at a bookstore. I absolutely love it. There are a few struggles as I'm accommodating to standing so much and sometimes the hearing issues make it harder - but nothing I cannot stand. The actual part of the job, the main things: arranging books and talking to clients and talking to my colleagues, even the fact I go to work physically and is not from home is a plus for me.

The main downside is the salary, as I'd known. It's the minimum wage and is, frankly, at the limit of survivable. I can pay rent, utilities, some other thing I have to pay to and that's pretty much it. Does it suck? Yeah.

But still, not as much as working a corporate job. It was giving me literally all the mental health issues+ physical issues and it was not what was good to me.

And yet, my closest family... they act like they expect me to get running. Or I don't know how to put it. My older sister told me that she understands, and is happy for me, but I'll have to see in a few months if I won't get bored of it and of the routine. (The former jobs were way more of a routine than the actual ones are!) My dad asked me about the money instantly. Even some close friends of mine urged me at the beginning that working for a bookstore on a smaller salary will pose difficulties for me. (One of them is likely to read this. Bro, just so you know, I'm not shaming you or trying to vague blog. I'm just... making a point here I think.) I know their worries are well founded. Poverty is really harmful, living on a small salary and having no money can make you miserable. I suppose it is up to me to see what is more harmful, a job that I love on a smaller salary or a job that I dislike on a bigger salary.

But the point is...I don't know, it's tiring. If I complain about money sometimes, it's only because I am honest with my worries - I may very well not do that anymore to my family if it is going to stop them from looking at me like they're waiting for me to realize how horrible it is. Them saying that I'll see in a few months if I still like the job, as if I'm some idealistic 18 years old who thinks all is perfect. I went to corporate jobs because I feared being a dumb idealistic person and it was miserable. So I guess I'll just be a dumb idealistic person that is slightly happier with life and just accept and enjoy it.

I like it now, is that not what it matters? If I will not like it in 3-5-10 months, I will probably go, why does that matter? It feels like they're waiting for me to fail.

I know they aren't. They love me, they're worried for me and they ultimately mean well. Money makes world go round, and all that. But maybe if I make a life that I like living I won't need so much money to distract myself from the things I don't like about it. Is it idealistic? Probably. You never know when a health crisis can appear. You never know when an accident appears or a natural disaster, or like...anything that requires money. However, it still feels worth it.

Fuck it dude, if I die, I die. I want to at least leave a life I loved living.

Today I thought a lot about Mary Oliver's poem Journey