#if reality tv isn’t even real why the hell is wrestling real

[are-we-really-doing-this]

Next time a wrestler says something on tv that hurts your feelings, maybe consider that it…

[nanatsumu]

HIGH SCHOOL!SUKUNA x F!READER

thinking about bad boy itadori sukuna who all the kids at school try to steer clear from because they know he’s bad news and if you get involved with him then you’re bound to be tied with bad luck for as long as he lives. well, that is everyone except for the president of the student council who so happens to be his childhood best friend turned lover.

this is mostly written for my own self indulgence and to project my fantasies of having a boyfriend onto sukuna but feel free to treat this as any other headcanon! ps i am pretty sure canon sukuna would kill a baby at any given situation, but this is going to be a revamped version of sukuna written by yours truly ;) and its a high school au so sukuna won’t be a complete menace to society and will actually have a heart heh

also i didn’t realize how long this was going to be??? this is kind of all over place too because i just wanted to throw all of my thoughts onto this post so there might be some plot holes in this LOL

i feel like sukuna would be the type of bad boy who isn’t necessarily a bad boy but everyone at school just paints him as some kind of delinquent because of all the tattoos and piercings he has.

he actually shows up to school more often than you think he would (but that’s only because you’re in most of his classes so long story short: you’re his only motivation for attending class)

“forgets” to bring his work books to class more than usual (in reality he does this on purpose so he has an excuse to be near you) so he requests to sit next to you the entire class period so he can share with you for the meantime but whenever the teachers not looking he’ll go back to admiring your face.

his older twin brother, itadori yuji, is very fond of you since you three grew up together and you both had your chances of being a victim to his antics!

exhibit a: in middle school when you and yuji were watching tv together, the show you two were watching would keep switching to some wrestling match broadcasting on a sports channel and no matter how many times you turned the tv on and off, it just would not stop. but it wasn’t until you heard snickering from the kitchen that you realized sukuna had a spare remote and was the mastermind behind the whole thing.

exhibit b: sukuna and yuji’s mom was the owner of a bakery so every now and then she would have either one of the twins come deliver freshly baked pastries to your household! oh how wrong was she to trust her youngest. sukuna was now a freshman in high school, and by now you would’ve thought that sukuna would have grown out of his childish phase, but WRONG! sukuna was still a menace in your life even past childhood. so when you bit into one of the macaroons, instead of being hit with the overwhelming taste of [favorite flavor], all you could feel was the burning sensation of wasabi kicking into your tastebuds.

yeah after the whole wasabi macaroon freak accident, you stopped accepting everything sukuna offered to you and opted to only eating pastries out of the boxes that yuji delivered to you. (sukuna eventually caught onto this and was just TEENSY bit upset but he would rather down a whole tube of wasabi than to tell you upfront)

now, how did you two even end up dating??? oh boy now that is a story

you see, yours and sukuna’s dynamic growing up was similar to that of tom and jerry’s— you being jerry and sukuna being 10x worse than tom of course

but it wasn’t until a confession after school behind the cherry blossom tree that was known for bringing good luck to successful confessions that sukuna finally realized that maybe he really did like you just a little lot bit

sukuna overheard the boy who was planning on confessing to you talking to his friend group about how “sweet and caring” you are (although sukuna could argue otherwise, you were a little brat. *LIKE HELLO?!&:&:& YOU WEREN’T THE ONE WHO ATE A MACAROON FILLED WASABI**) and obviously his ears perked up at the mention of your name. he grew up with you after all so naturally he would be interested in a conversation that revolved around you.

but then the boys started going on about how “you looked like an easy catch” and how “your body was bangin’!” yeah no, that’s where he drew the line. sure sukuna was an ass and talked shit about you most of the time (in his defense it wasn’t like he was doing it behind your back) but if he ever caught someone else talking about you like that then he would be sure to give them a hard time.

he hid behind one of the bushes near the cherry blossom tree while the boy was professing his love for you. funnily enough, for a moment sukuna forgot why he was originally there because he was too busy trying to stifle a laugh as he watched the boy stumble over his words.

“okay shows over” sukuna thought as the confession was reaching its conclusion, but just as he was about to step in and give the poor boy a piece of his mind, he stopped in his tracks when he heard you roaring with laughter.

“did you really think that i wouldn’t hear about what you and your friends said about me earlier? you’re really pathetic if you think any girl would be easy enough to fall to her knees for you because news flash! you’re a disgusting pig and you deserve to rot in hell for speaking about a girl’s worth like that.”

“it’s kind of sad too, i thought you were a nice boy and i probably would have given you a chance but it seems like you’re even worse than scum! damn it, to think there was somebody out there who’s even worse than sukuna.”

of course sukuna was not pleased to hear that last bit, but he did have a proud grin forming on his face as he watched the boy run away, flustered from your rejection and the embarrassment he was put through.

“sukuna i know you’re hiding behind the bush.”

“huh? i came here way before you got here, there’s no way you could have seen me.” he said as he stood up to his full height.

“well, your laughter isn’t exactly the quietest, plus i can spot that hair of yours from a mile away.”

lets just say, sukuna was glad you didn’t ask him what he was doing there because he wasn’t sure if he could spare the embarrassment of telling you that he was planning on ruining the confession.

after that whole fiasco happened, sukuna started to feel(!&:&::&) things

like he started to notice how you styled your hair differently one day and how you switched to a new perfume that smelled like spearmint (was that weird? for sukuna probably not. he just excuses it as being highly observant)

you weren’t dumb either, you had a feeling sukuna was there that day of the confession because he too had overheard the conversation between the boy and his friends as well (you knew he was prideful and if you brought it up then he probably would’ve denied it)

so from there on out it was just mutual pining at the point except... well.... not really??

i feel like it was just an unspoken agreement between you two that you guys were “together” but not “together together” because he started to treat you differently than he would before. like for example, he’d carry your bag for you whenever you guys would walk home (yuji was confused by this at first because if anything, it would have made more sense to see sukuna make you carry HIS bag, but he eventually caught on to sukuna’s feelings for you because they were twin brothers after all), he started walking you to class more often even though his class was all the way on the other side of the school (you asked him why but he just shrugged and said he was just “killing time” so that he wouldn’t have to go to class and then you ended up scolding him), and there was also that one time you miraculously found a $20 bill in your backpack after mentioning to sukuna that there was this cute top you saw at the mall the other day but didn’t have enough money at the time to purchase it (you asked him about this but he said it was probably yuji, but you didn’t want to pry any further since you wanted to cherish the fact that sukuna cared that much)

but eventually you got sick of this whole push and pull game that you physically had to tug the collar of his school uniform and pull him in for a kiss (he was visibly shocked at this because he never would’ve imagined you as the assertive type. not that he was complaining though)

“oya? didn’t think you liked me this much kitten.” he said laughing while you rolled your eyes.

“as if, i got tired of you being a wuss so one of us had to wear the pants in the relationship.” you snorted, causing him to irk.

to be honest, your relationship with him is smooth sailing because you both were pretty chill people and you didn’t have to worry about him sneaking behind your back to see other girls because 1. literally all the girls at school are terrified of him and 2. he knew what you were capable of doing to him if you were to ever catch him cheating on you so he wants to stay on your good side

jealous and possessive don’t exist in his dictionary because he is the epitome of those two words. remember what i said about how your relationship is smooth sailing? i kinda lied.

he’s easily jealous like for example: when you were in english class and the teacher had you guys jot down some notes, you realized you forgot to ask for your pencil back when you lent it to your friend last period.

so you asked sukuna to borrow a pencil but instead of giving you a pencil, he called you an idiot for being so forgetful.

this makes you mad so you turn to your male classmate since he was sitting on your opposite side and ask him for a pencil instead.

sukuna was practically fuming the entire class period and once the day ended and you two were back at your place, he made sure to mark you real good. (oh he also went out to buy a pack of mechanical pencils to sneak into your backpack so that next time you forget your pencils, you’ll have 10 extra pencils sitting in your backpack as backup)

he’s not a big fan of pda in public, but on the chances he will show some of it, the most he will do is wrap an arm around your shoulder or waist whenever some dude is trying to hit on you.

BUT IN PRIVATE? better buckle up because your in for a ride wink wink

really likes putting hickeys on you to a fault! but will never put any visible ones on your neck because he doesn’t want your parents to view him as some kind of animal (but he has nothing to worry about because your parents really like him and are grateful for the fact that he’s very loyal to you, and you guys grew up together so it’s only natural that your parents are accepting of him since they already know he has a good heart underneath that tough facade of his)

oh, and yuji starts learning how to knock whenever you come over (or shuts himself in his room for the meantime if he thinks it’s unsafe to step out of his room) because chances are, you’re probably making out with sukuna in his room or smth.

now onto the spicy stuff

when you and sukuna first started dating, the first thing you told him was that you weren’t ready to have sex yet because you were nervous and sukuna understood and told you that he was willing to wait for whenever you were ready.

but when you were ready though, it was kind of spontaneous and you weren’t even wearing a matching pair of bra and underwear that day

you two were chilling in your room watching some stupid (according to sukuna) animal documentary when suddenly you felt his hand on your thigh

dating sukuna and all, it was normal for him to have his hands on some part of your body (whether it be your thigh or your waist) while you two were in bed.

but you were feeling a bit bolder HORNEE than usual so you began to leave a hot trail of kisses starting from his jaw all the way down to his neck.

sukuna obviously got the memo but before those kisses could escalate into something more daring, he asked you once more if you were completely sure you wanted to do it and once you gave him the green light, he was quick to tug his shirt over his head and pounce on you.

he started getting really into it though and accidentally bit your thigh which made you loose your high and scold him for it, but he let out a hearty laugh and muttered a quick apology before getting back into business

sike i lied, remember what i said about it being spontaneous? yeah, you technically didn’t loose your virginity to him that day because after he finished prepping you, you both came to a realization that you didn’t have a condom.

oh well, there’s always next time!

i think sukuna is a sucker for pet names: his favorite thing to call you is either kitten or princess and that’s it LOL he finds calling you baby or babe is a bit too cheesy for him

but he likes it when you call him baby or babe ;)

date nights consist of either staying in and cuddling in his room, going out for a walk at night (but very very late though. there’s still lamp posts that guide your way through the streets but it gives you the heebie jeebies to be out walking outside so late. sukuna always reminds you that nothing bad will happen as long as he’s right by your side), or just spending time with you and your families.

but if you’re really down to do it, he’ll probably initiate a make out session that’ll lead to y’all fucking one way or another (he only ever does it if he is 100% sure that you’re feeling it because he knows you get easily embarrassed if he asks you straight up)

(this part is mainly written for me because i love the idea of sukuna being over at family functions, but it can be applied as part of the general hc heh) if you took him to any of your family functions as your plus one for the first time, all the aunts and uncles would be a bit wary of him at first due to all of the tattoos and piercings he has (sukuna swears he has never felt so self conscious before) but after they strike up a conversation with him and find out that he’s actually a good guy who knows what he wants to do in the future and is very loyal to you, they start to like him more.

your little cousins adore him and love it when he comes over because sukuna is a very tall high schooler which makes him the perfect candidate as a monkey bar

so when you noticed that all the little ones started to climb on his body and mess around with his hair, you were quick to react because you knew your boyfriend was easily irritable which prompted you to think he hated kids

but there was nothing to worry about because when you saw him playing around with them and even crack a smile, you felt your heart grow fuzzy at the sight and you knew right then and there that you wanted to stick by sukuna’s side for the rest of your life

and in the unfortunate circumstances that sukuna is too busy to make it to one of your functions, the first thing everyone asks is “where’s your boyfriend?” or “where’s ‘kuna? i wanna play with him!”

so you have to facetime him and let him know that everyone is wondering where he is (your phone is dead by the end of the night because after the adults get their turn at saying hi to your boyfriend, the kids snatch your phone and end up talking to him for the rest of the night)

but in conclusion, everyone is waiting for the day he gets on one knee to propose to you and your parents are itching to get to get call sukuna their son-in-law :))

also don’t forget that your parents want two grandchildren: one boy and one girl!

[kindness-bliss]

New Beginnings Ch. 7

Timothy Thatcher x OC

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: none

Tim looked over at her discreetly he witnessed her trying to open a jar and cleaned his hands on his already stained shirt “I got that for you”   “And I got this for you” she said as she went into her small closet in the living room and pulled out a flannel shirt  “It’s my dads, I don’t wanna see you in a bloody dried up t shirt as we make dinner”   He nodded quickly as he took off his shirt and unbuttoned on the one she gave him Maya blushed as she grilled her ground turkey and noticed how chiseled he was, his upper chest having the perfect amount of body hair and peaks, his biceps bulging out nicely but not overly muscular or anything like that    “It fits” Tim grinned as he showed her  “Not that bad on you” she admits with a small grin “Plaid is definitely your style, I like it on you” “I-I don’t deserve you being so nice to me” he said quietly “Maya, I won’t ever be able to stop saying sorry to you ever, know that. I’m probably gonna say sorry to you for as long as I know you”   “Tim, when’s your birthday ?” Maya asked suddenly as she looked at him “I know it’s 1983 but month ? What month ?”  “March….March 17th” he answered slowly “why ?”   “Oh my god you’re a Pisces, suddenly everything makes sense wow” she nodded as she laughed “Gosh you fit it to a T, you’re a water sign”    “What does that have to do with anything ? A water sign ? What the hell is that ?” Tim asked confused as he put his cutting board down   “It’s your sign Tim” she chuckled “Your sign is a Pisces which makes sense because they’re...well you are considered to have a sign that is known for its over sensitivity, self-pitying but also very selfless and very accepting”    “Oh” he said softly “well I guess yeah, kinda is me. My mother says it’s because I’m an only child and never got to experience things other children got at my age since I also stayed with my grandmother a lot. I think that made me highly sensitive”   “You call it highly sensitive, I call it highly aware” she grinned as she took the carrots and celery from him and added them to a pan to saute   Tim observed as sat on a stool by her “what are you making ? It looks kinda complicated honestly” “Bolognese” Maya says “Though I’m kind of cheating because I’m using sauce from a jar, but I promise it’ll be good”   “Oh” he nodded “I don’t cook much honestly, I only have ever made chicken or ham and it’s typically without seasoning. Same with my rice, I stick to bland foods for the most part. I broke my diet when we went to that Korean BBQ place” Tim said softly as he reached over and cut up onion for her    “Glad I got you to change things up for a bit, though you ghosted me and acted like a child afterwards and ruined me introducing you to better places” she giggled   “I’m gonna age myself here a bit but um, what’s ghosted ?” he asked with genuine interest as he looked down at her   “It means ignore, basically a millennial way of saying you ignored me” she answered back  “Ah I see, I like that...ghosted. I’m adding that to my vocabulary” he nodded as he repeated the word under his breath as he chopped   “Gosh he’s cute” Maya thought to herself as he stood only inches away from him, their arms basically touching as she sauteed. She made sure she stayed in close distance as she cooked looking around as silence began to take over   “Since you were a dick to me, you have to be really nice to me now like really nice” she said with a smile  “I will do whatever you want or need me to do” Tim smiled at her with his dimple popping out more “Kiss me” she whispered nervously as she looked into his eyes    “Like...like right now ?” he asked nervously “o-okay...I’m not that good at it though and my beard is gonna scratch, my lips are kinda dry too and-” he stopped blubbering when he felt her soft lips gently press onto his as she carefully put his hands on her waist as he leaned in more and placed hers on his cheeks    Maya grinned up at him afterwards as she gently wiped his lips and put ice back on his face “go sit with this on while I finish here and by the way, you’re a good kisser”  He chuckled as nodded and sat on her couch “well thank you, haven’t heard that one in like 5 years at least”. Tim sat quietly as he iced his face trying to make sense of what had just happened. Just 6 hours ago he had told her horrible things and now here was having just had a make out session in her kitchen as they cooked dinner together. Tim looked around as he picked up magazines she had on her coffee table and looked through them smiling when he realized they were all her covers or features. One in particular catching his eye, a feature in a parenting magazine where she was holding a baby on her lap.    “Last year” Maya grinned “I typically don’t do those kinds but they needed a model last minute and I happened to be in the area and went in. It was fun, kids and babies were great to work with honestly and now what I expected. That little one stole my heart, made me think I wanted my own for a bit”    “You think about kids ? Not in a weird day of course, just since like me you’re an only child” she asked “I mean yeah, sometimes” he admits quietly “Granted I really thought I was gonna stop wrestling when I was like 30 and settle down and have that white picket fence life everyone else had but clearly life has passed me by. But I’ve had some other good things in life, experiences and memories not everyone has had in life. I’m not one to complain, you ?” Tim asked as he looked at her   “Sometimes I want 1, sometimes none and other times I want like 5” Maya chuckled

“5 ?” Tim laughed “That’s a basketball team right there, Jesus that’d be feeding an army daily”   “Which is why then I think maybe not having them at all would be more beneficial” she laughed “I’ve got time to think about it thankfully, like 5 more years”   “Enjoy your youth, and your job. It’s interesting, really it is Maya” Tim says genuinely “You’ve been to some amazing places, you have experiences most won’t get and you’re only 25. It’s amazing truly”  Maya grinned at him as she fixed the ice pack on his face “I appreciate that, but your face will appreciate this ice way way more”. Damn, kissing him must’ve been the best thing she felt in ages, she could tell he wanted it just as bad as she did yet kept his usual calm demeanor. She came out of her daze as she heard her her cell phone buzz, muttering quietly as Marcel’s pet name appeared  “Dinner tomorrow is still on ?” “Yeah….but let’s meet somewhere, I think I’m ready to tell Tim the truth” Maya sighed as his name quickly appeared on her screen and declined his facetime requests and calls immediately  “Answer me please, Maya just don’t do it today please. Let’s meet tomorrow and we can figure something out...please ?” “Fine, I won’t do it tonight but I’m doing it soon, I like him a lot and I’m not gonna keep secrets from him Marcel, and neither should you. I’ll text you tomorrow morning” she sent as she put her phone on silent and set their plates up She went to the bathroom as she wiped her residue makeup off her face and put her hair up in a ponytail to fresh up, applying some perfume lightly as she looked herself over and left the bathroom    “Oh” she whispered as she saw Tim sleeping on her couch, giving soft snores as his arms were crossed on his chest. Even in his sleep he wasn’t relaxed, it kinda looked like he was just closing his eyes to her and waiting to spook her any second. She contemplated waking him up for a second and went to touch his shoulder, but instead decided to graze his cheek with the back of her hand gently, covering him up with her throw she had on the couch.  Maya shrugged as she turned on the tv and sat on the opposite end as she stuffed spoonfuls of pasta into her mouth watching Real Housewives of New Jersey, shaking her head at the stupid drama on her television shifting when she heard Tim move around and groan   “What ? What happened ?” Tim asked with a groan as he stretched “did I fall asleep here ?” “You did” she nodded “only been like an hour and a half, now please get yourself a plate and don’t bother me for the next 20 minutes because Teresa Giudice is about to cause drama at this fashion show so shhh”   He raised his brow in confusion as he stood up and served himself a plate and sat next to her going back and forth between her reactions and the tv screen in front of him “Did she just call her an old hag and a bitch ?”    “Tim shh” she put a finger to his lips absentmindedly Tim nodded quickly as he leaned back into the couch and ate, speaking up when the show was over with wide eyes “That was… a lot. Is all reality tv like this ?”  “Only the best” Maya laughed “and by the way, sorry for shushing you like that” He shrugged “I deserve more than that”  “Tim, as of tonight we drop it” she turned to look at him “Please” Maya cleaned up thinking what the hell she got herself into with him, this wasn’t in her character at all. One second she was ready to see him drop dead 8 floors to the ground and the next she was making out with him in her kitchen. This was new territory she was going into and deep down it felt right, it felt right to kiss him and feel his touch and she could feel he was feeling the same way. She turned her head , gasping as she bumped into him    “Yes ?” she whispered “Maya, I like you” Tim said “I like you a lot...and I feel like if I don’t tell you now that it’s just us here in a comfortable environment I probably won’t say it again. This isn’t like me one bit” he admits “I’ll be honest yeah I’ve had girlfriends, I dated women here and there but I never felt like this…”    “Like how ?” she asked softly  “Scared, scared that when I was with you I liked who I was for once, I felt at ease and like I didn’t need to put the harsh wrestling persona up. You didn’t care or give it much thought either or pestered me like some others had in the past. And I just wanna say-” “Tim shut the fuck up and just kiss me already” she said softly    And he did. He kissed her deeply as he moved his hands down to her hips and lifted her with ease onto her kitchen countertop feeling her hands move up and down his chest. It wasn’t just a long kiss, it was several kisses with small breaks in between to ensure they could catch their breath as their hands roamed freely all over each other's bodies. Maya unbuttoned the first 3 buttons off his shirt as she lightly traced his chest with her nails as her forehead pressed against his “we should go to my room….we don’t have to you know...have sex but we can just do more of this there comfortably”   “Okay” he nodded as he took her hand and followed her into her room, looking around at the pristine condition everything was in. A vanity organized with makeup items and skin care products he couldn’t even name, her bed perfectly made and covered in pillows, a closet the size of his bedroom with clothes in every color of the rainbow. Everything so neat and luxurious, everything he didn’t have.   She leaned up against him she kissed him again, this time with more dominance as she stumbled onto her bed on top of him, feeling his hands lightly on her lower back    Tim pulled apart from her as he rubbed his slightly red lips and pet her hair gently with his hand “I haven’t had anything like that in a while” he admitted with a small grin    “Neither have I’ she chuckled, licking her lips feeling them swell “It’s like free lip filler” “Always a comedian” Tim laughed genuinely sitting up on her bed “Jesus it’s 11 already and I gotta walk back to my car to get home, I got tapings tomorrow”   “Just stay here and I’ll take you back in the morning, it’ll be early I promise” she said softly as she gave a comforting grin “Okay, I”ll take the couch though. I’m not sleeping in your bed, this was a one time thing that I typically don’t let happen”    “What a gentleman you are” Maya said as she brought him a pillow and blanket “I’ve got all the works on my tv so feel free to watch what you like, bathroom is right next to the closet”    “Thanks, I appreciate it really” She got up in the morning as she turned off her alarm and got ready for the day, taking a peek and seeing Tim up and sitting as he watched tv making different facial expressions  “What are you watching ?” she chuckled as she walked out and turned on her Nespresso machine “Danielle is a mess, I get why you watch this trashy stuff. It’s addicting” he shook his head as he turned it off  Maya laughed as she took out two mugs from her cabinet “Well now you know and let me guess, you take your black ?” “ Yeah” He nodded as he got up and sat on a stool    “I got a shoot in like an hour so I probably won’t be able to talk to you for most of today” she said softly as she packed her bag “chances are till late late tonight”   “Oh….well um I was hoping if you’re able to, I actually have a taping tomorrow and I wanted to ask you if you would like to attend ? It’s about 2 hours, it’s fun even for someone like you who’s never been around wrestling” Never been around wrestling, after a great night she remembered the big mess she had yet to talk to him about. Marcel, shit.    “I’ll try my hardest” she responded with a grin as she drove them back to his car “Thanks again for driving me here, I appreciate it have a good shoot” he nodded as he lingered for a while leaning in slowly as he pet her cheek with his hand and kissed her “Um I think your friend over there saw us” Maya laughed softly as she pointed to an opened mouthed Oney at the gym entrance    Tim chuckled and shook his head as he got out “I’m not gonna hear the end of this one, I’ll text you later, have a good work day” he smiled softly as he walked away “Is that….you have a ?, speak up already” Oney pushed as he followed him to his car “you can’t just not tell me what’s going on after kissing someone like THAT” He turned around as he got out his gym bag “excuse me ? what do you mean like that ? what’s with the emphasis on the end there ?”    Oney shook his head as he gave a scoff “Do you have any idea who that is ? What kind of work she does ?”

  “Uh yeah she’s a mode” Tim nodded as they walked inside “I’ve seen her stuff, she showed me and talked to me all about it”

“I can’t believe you’re dating a model man, you of all people. No offense of course but I mean I never pictured you even dating someone at all”

Tim raised a brow “I’m that bad of a catch huh ? Gee I feel great now that you’ve given me this amazing pep talk, feeling like I can conquer the world now” he answered sarcastically stretching

  “How old is she ?” Oney asked “because there’s no way she’s older than 30”

“25….” he said softly “she’s 25, just turned 25 actually about 2 months ago”

“WHAT ?” Oney said as he spit out his water “No fucking way, you’re dating a 25 year old ?”

  “Would you stop, we’re not dating…….we’re friends that’s all” he answered as he began his cardio

  “Oh yeah because you totally suck face with a friend before leaving right ?” Oney chuckled “You’re in deep, you did the cheek grab and the little linger after you kiss” “Well maybe I like her, friends right now but who knows maybe after she comes to the show might change” he gave a smile “I invited her and she said she’ll come” “Who are you and what have you done to my friend ?” Oney asked with a raised brow “Because you are not the Tim I know” “Let’s just say maybe I wanna enjoy life a bit more” He shrugged “and I’m starting with her, she likes me. I like her, there’s nothing that can go wrong” Nothing right ?

[tragiceyes]

The Importance of Being Honest

Note: Because of course I had to write a quarantine Jaydick fic. And it’s a little too dialogue-heavy to be a good fic, but I still had a lot of fun writing it!

Summary: Fourteen days Jason and Dick have to stay in quarantine together. Fourteen days until he kicks Dick to the curb forevermore. Jason’s counting down. Link to ao3 --> https://archiveofourown.org/works/23598802 (read it there, better formatting)

14.

Fourteen days left. Jason was counting his lucky stars they’d gotten stuck at one of his more robust safe houses. Half his places in the City were one-room, bare bones bunkers, with enough food and clothing for a couple days tops.

Conversely, they were trapped at his place in the Bowery, which, for all intents and purposes, had the form and function of a normal apartment. Fully stocked cabinets, a comfy couch and plenty of books to pass the time.

That is, if one could concentrate on reading.

Dick let out a long-suffering sigh. His tenth in the past five minutes.

“Christ, Dick, can you please shut up? I’m trying to concentrate here.”

“I’m bored, Jason,” Dick complained, “if you had more interesting things to do in your apartment-“

“-there are literally two shelves full of books right behind you-”

“I don’t feel like reading.”

Honestly, Dick was such a child.

“I don’t care what you feel like, find some way to entertain yourself,” Jason snapped at him, “or get out of my sight.”

Dick fell silent. He was the type of person who’d prefer silent company over lonely exile, Jason considered.

Jason returned to his book.

For a moment.

Dick stood on his hands and began tottering around upside down.

Jason let out a sigh of his own.

13.

Monday morning. Jason had the same breakfast every day: six eggs and six strips of bacon. After pointedly ignoring Dick’s request for cereal, Jason was making enough for both of them.

Dick was making coffee.

“You don’t have any cereal? Not even Cheerios?”

“No, Dick. I don’t like to start my day eating a bowlful of sugar, and neither should you.”

Dick rolled his eyes, “Okay, grease monster.”

“Dick, this is a protein-rich breakfast. I burn through at least half it before lunch with my workout routine.”

“Yes, you have very nice abs, Jason. We’re all very proud.”

“How long do you think the energy from that cereal’s gonna last you? One or two girly cartwheels?”

“I’m an acrobat. I don’t want to be built like a tank.”

“Yeah, I can see you prefer to be built more like a ballerina.”

“Shut the fuck up, Jason.”

Jason sauntered over and dropped a plate in front of him. He grabbed Dick’s hand and slid it under his shirt, “Feel that, Dickie-bird? Try punching through that and you’d break your feminine wrist.”

“Impressive,” Dick concerned with a smirk, “or, it would be, if I hadn’t still beaten you in hand-to-hand combat countless times.”

“What you do isn’t hand-to-hand combat, Dick. It’s more like a rousing game of ’dodge-the-fist.’”

“Whatever, Jason.” Dick withdrew his hand, but not before purposefully yanking a little on the hair beneath Jason’s belly button.

He wasn’t above being petty.

12.

Dick was a slob!

He was leaving his clothes everywhere, like a trail Jason could follow to find him.

It had only been two days. How had he made such a mess?

He stomped into the bedroom, where Dick was sitting on the floor, video-chatting Wally West.

“Pick up your shit, Dick!” Jason yelled, tossing the clothes at him, “This is my fucking apartment, have the decency to clean up after yourself!”

Dick hung up the phone, and removed the dirty shirt in his lap, “God! I’m sorry! You could just fucking ask-“

“You’re a fucking adult, Dick! I shouldn’t have to ask you to clean up after yourself!”

“-and I would have-“

“It’s not a fucking circus in here!” Jason stormed into the other room, having no further escape, “fucking trailer park circus boy!”

He instantly regretted that. Wasn’t like he hadn’t grown up poor himself. Dick’s trailer was no more shameful than his parents’ dilapidated apartment.

Or the occasional cardboard box.

He felt sorry. He hoped Dick hadn’t heard.

11.

“Jason, can I borrow something else to wear?”

“Hm?”

“I’ve been wearing the same thing for the past three days. Can I borrow something of yours?”

“Oh, yeah. Go for it.”

Dick emerged from the bedroom in a pair of jeans he’d cuffed at least six times (they still dragged on the floor) and a t-shirt emblazoned with the Red Hood logo.

Jason liked it, though he couldn’t say why.

10.

Dick was lounging on his couch watching television, taking up as much space as humanly possible.

Jason ambled over, shirtless and still a little sweaty after his at-home workout.

“Whatcha watching?”

“Love is Blind.”

He snorted, “Seriously?”

“Don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it.”

“Sit up and move over, then.”

To his surprise, Dick moved over to make room for him.

They sat in silence for a couple minutes.

“I can’t believe you watch this crap. Honestly, Dickie, do you have no shame?”

“It’s not as bad as you make it out to be."

“Nothing about this is even remotely real.”

“Sometimes it’s real. And they really fall in love.”

Jason laughed heartily at that, “You’re kidding, right?”

Dick ignored him.

“Love at first sight? On reality tv?” Jason mocked him, “You do know people don’t really believe in that shit, don’t you?”

“They want to believe it.” Dick said simply.

9.

Jason had just brushed his teeth and was getting ready for bed.

Dick was lying back on the couch, a hot towel over his eyes.

“You alright there, bird brain?”

“Fine.”

“What’s with the towel-blindfold?”

“My eyes get really dry at night. Hot towels help a little bit.”

Jason bit down on his smirk, “Hmph.”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just, I guess Mr. Perfect is mortal like the rest of us.”

Dick pulled the towel off his eyes to glare at him, “I’m not perfect, Jason. You’re just insecure.”

Jason raised his eyebrows, taken aback, “Well, tell me how you really feel.”

“I’m sick of you saying shit like that. You’ve been snarking at me since you were a kid. And I’m sick of everyone else saying shit like that, too. I never claimed to be fucking perfect, so it’s not my fault when people have ridiculous expectations of me that I can’t live up to.”

“Relax, Dickface, I’m sorry. Didn’t realize it was such a sore subject.”

Dick’s face fell a bit, “Well, it is. You all expect a lot from me, and I can’t always be what you want me to be.”

He put the towel back over his face.

8.

Dick was in his bed.

Dick was in his bed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Jason demanded.

Dick looked up at him, “I think we should trade tonight. I’ve been sleeping on the couch for almost a week.”

“Yeah, and you’ll be sleeping there for another week. Beat it!”

Dick didn’t budget, “Come on, Jason. It’s uncomfortable. It’s too cramped and my back hurts in the morning.”

“You know what isn’t too cramped? The floor. Try that.”

Dick snuggled into his pillow, the bastard.

“Dick.”

Dick ignored him.

“DICK!”

“Just for tonight.” Dick said it like he was bargaining, but it was clear he wasn’t going to move.

“Dick, you’re 5’10-“

“5’11!”

“-I’m 6’3. I need more space than you. Physically.”

“We can share, if you want.”

Jason glared at him, “You want me to come over there and move you myself?”

Dick didn’t even glance his way, “Try it.”

Jason stomped over to the bed and grabbed Dick’s ankle. Dick slithered out his grip. Jason lunged for him, and they wrestled on the bed together. He had the weight advantage, but Dick could be as slippery as a snake.

Jason moved to crush him, but Dick wrapped his legs around Jason’s waist and flipped them over. He seated himself right on Jason’s stomach, and grabbed both his wrists, bearing down so they were face to face.

He smirked, “Pinned ya.”

Jason’s face was red and his stomach felt funny.

Dick curled up tight like a child, far away from him, his head resting on Jason’s favorite pillow.

“This is a one-time thing.” Jason said aloud to himself.

Dick was already asleep.

7.

“You’re smiling.”

Jason looked up from his book, “What?”

“You’re smiling at your book.”

Jason stared at him.

“Did something funny happen?”

“No…I, uh…I just like this line.” Jason mumbled to himself, “In The Importance of Being Earnest.”

Dick waited patiently. Jason swallowed.

“When Jack leaves, Gwendolen says ‘If you are not too long, I will wait for you all my life,’” Jason reads the line, biting down on his smile, “I always liked that line. It’s a good line.”

“It is a good line.”

Jason nodded at him awkwardly and continued to read.

“That’s cute.”

Jason snapped his head up so quickly, he cricked his neck, “What did you say?”

“It’s sweet,” Dick was smiling at him now, “that a line in a book makes you smile like that. I didn’t know you were such a romantic, Jason.”

Jason bit back the denial on the tip of his tongue. He returned to his book, feeling the heat of Dick’s gaze warm his cheeks.

6.

The next morning, Jason was greeted with an unusual, though not totally unwelcome, sight.

Dick was contorted on the floor, ass up in the air and knees boxed around his ears.

What the fuck.

“Karnapidasana.”

“Gesundheit.”

Dick let out a soft chuckle, “I’m doing yoga.”

He gestured flimsily to Jason’s laptop, which was open to a YouTube video on advanced yoga practice.

“Sorry I borrowed your computer without asking. Hope you don’t mind.”

Jason’s mouth was a little dry.

“Not at all.”

Dick breathed in time with the practice, “You’re free to join me.”

“Thanks, but…pretty sure I can’t do anything resembling that.”

Dick slowly untangled himself, “We can do a beginner’s class. Give it a try, it’ll do wonders for your state of mind.”

Jason considered snapping back that his state of mind was perfectly fine for someone who’d watched his mother die, lived on the streets, been beaten to death, resurrected, and replaced, but instead he just said:

“Okay.”

5.

Dick was singing a soft tune in a language Jason didn’t know.

Strange. The Bat had trained them in all the same languages, or so he had assumed.

He wanted to complain, but true to form, Dick had a nice voice, and Jason had been about to take a nap anyway.

He closed his eyes and let Dick’s gentle voice wash over him:

“Nane man dajori,

��i kalo dadoro, ačhi��om korkoro

sar čhindo kaštoro.”

4.

Dick was scrolling through the channels when he noticed Jason rummaging around in the cabinets.

“What are you doing?”

“Just looking for some yeast?”

“Yeast?”

“Yeah, I was gonna bake a loaf of bread to go with dinner.”

Bake bread from scratch? Jason was clearly a more sophisticated cook than Dick had realized.

“I didn’t know you could bake bread from scratch.”

“I can do a lot of things.”

“Will you show me?”

Jason looked over at him, surprised.

“Uh, yeah. Sure.”

Kneading was fun. Dick wasn’t doing it right.

“Not like that! You’re going to tear it.” Jason admonished him.

Dough was stuck to Dick’s hands. He tried to push it back into the mound.

“No, look. Like this.” Jason moved behind him, taking Dick’s hands in his own and guiding them rhythmically.

Push. Turn. Push. Turn. Flip. Push. Turn.

“Better. Keep doing that.” Jason let him go and turned to switch on the oven.

He liked the feeling of his hands on Dick’s.

3.

“Let’s play a game!”

“No.”

“Come on, Jason. It’s not like you have anything better to do.”

“Well, I’d rather do nothing.”

“Come on. A drinking game. Let’s drink the rest of your stash and play a game.”

Jason rolled his eyes, knowing he was going to give in. After all, it wasn’t like he had anything better to do.

“Fine. Go get my whiskey.”

Dick grinned triumphantly and made his way to the kitchen, returning with the bottle and two glass tumblers. He sat on the floor and patting the space across from him for Jason.

“What, we can’t use chairs like civilized people?”

“Come on. It’s more fun this way.”

Jason made his way to the floor, taking a pillow with him. He took the bottle from Dick’s hand and poured a finger into each glass, “What are we playing?”

“Truth or Dare.”

“How very high school of you.”

“You can go first.”

“Fine. Truth.”

“Who’s your favorite Robin?”

“I hate all of you equally.”

“Liar.”

“Fine. Stephanie, then.”

“Good choice. How come?”

“Because fuck the Replacement-”

“Jason-“

“And I don’t like the demon child.”

“He’s not a demon child.”

“-but you knew exactly who I was talking about…”

That surprised a laugh out of Dick. Jason was surprised. Usually, Dickie-bird was much more sensitive about his little demon friend.

“What about me then?” He asked with a self-satisfied grin.

“You’re in second place.”

“All right!”

“It’s a distant second.”

“Fair enough.”

Dick was still grinning at him with a funny look it his eye. It was making Jason feel exposed. He took a swig from his glass.

“Your turn.”

“Truth.”

“Same question.”

“Oh, I love all of you equally.” What a sap.

“That’s a cop-out.”

“But it’s true!”

“No, it’s not. Your favorite is Demon Boy, followed by Replacement, followed by Steph, followed, in a distant fourth, by me.”

“That’s not true, Jason!”

“Yes, it is.”

“You were a great Robin-“

"Yeah, okay."

"I mean it!"

“Well, you didn’t exactly think so at the time I took the job.”

Dick’s face fell. Jason hated himself for hating himself for doing that.

“That was…complicated. And it wasn’t about you.”

“Whatever. I want a dare this time.”

“I dare you to lick the floor.”

“What the fuck, Dick!”

“What? These floors are immaculate.”

“They aren’t, not since you’ve been here.”

“Are you really going to chicken out this early, Jason?”

“You are fucking deranged.” Jason said authoritatively. But he bent down and licked the floor anyway.

“Ew!”

“Fuck you, Dick.”

Several drinks and rounds into the game, and things were starting to get a little hazy.

“Your turn.” Dick slurred, flat on his back.

“Truth.”

“Coward.”

“Last time you made me dump ice cubes down my pants, and my nuts are still numb. I’m not taking any more chances.”

“Who was the first person you ever liked? Like like liked.”

Jason wanted to mock his language, but he was suddenly feeling a little warm, “Pass.”

“You can’t.”

“I’ll take a dare, then. Go ahead and make me drink from the toilet or something.”

Dick snickered at that, “No, you have to answer. That’s the law according to the rules.”

“You don’t need to know.”

“I really need to know now, cons-slithering…condisering...considering how much you don’t wanna tell  me.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“I won’t laugh at you, lil’ wing…”

“What a fucking liar.”

Dick cackled. “Fine, maybe I will then.”

“I’m not telling.”

“You have to,”

“No.”

“Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaassseeee?”

“Fuck no.”

“Please, please, please, please." Dick chanted. "Please!”

“GOD! Shut up! It was you, okay! Fuck!”

Dick’s jaw dropped, his eye wide. He looked like a fish. Jason decided to tell him so.

“You look like…you fucking fish. You look like a fucking fish.” He took a defiant swig of whiskey straight from the bottle.

“You like fish then. Fish fucker!”

Jason couldn’t stop a laugh for bubbling up, but being mid sip causing a bit of whiskey to go up his nose. It burned like hell!

“Fuck! You! You just made whiskey go up my nose!”

Dick was laughing hysterically, unsympathetic as can be.

“Fuck, that burns.” Jason coughed loudly, “God, I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Dick was teasing him now, and Jason couldn’t stand it. His face was reddening and he was glad to have to whiskey as an excuse.

“Get over yourself.”

“You really liked me?”

“Yeah, I really did. Which made you hating me fffffff-fucking hurtful." Jason continued thickly. The alcohol was really loosening his tongue now, and this could only end badly, "You hurt my fucking feelings, you know.”

“Jason,” Dick was crawling over to him now. Jason began scooting away, “Jason, I’m sorry.”

“Get away!”

“I want a hug!”

“No! Get back!”

But Dick was relentless. To Jason’s clear horror, he climbed up on his lap and threw his arms around Jason’s neck and pressed his face into Jason’s shoulder.

“God!” Jason yelled. He would never forgive himself if he went hard, “Damn you! Get the fuck off me!”

“Stop moving and just hug me!” As though Dick wasn’t the one squirming on top of him, absolutely clueless as to the effect it was having on him.

Jason groaned miserably. What had he done to deserve such torture?

“Get. Off.”

Dick squeezed him a little harder before relenting unhappily, “Fine.”

He crawled away on all fours, until Jason, emboldened further by the alcohol, raised a hand and brought it down as hard as he could against Dick’s ass.

SMACK!

“OW! Fuck, Jason!” Dick cried indignantly.

Jason was cackling madly at the look of disbelief on his face, “Ha! That’s what you get!”

“That hurt!” Dick dragged himself to safety, far from Jason’s reach, “Jesus Christ.”

He knocked over the bottle of whiskey on his way. Fortunately, it was empty.

Empty!

“I guess the games over then…” Jason slurred, “which is….imma go to bed then…”

Jason stumbled to his feet, slowly and clumsily making his way to the bedroom, and collapsed face first into the pillows.

Dick wasn’t far behind.

Jason flipped to his side with a moan, only to be confronted with Dick shuffling himself into a little spoon position.

“No, Dick!”

“Cuddle me!”

“No! Get back on your…that side.”

“Jason!”

“No.”

“You know you want to.”

“I’ll kick you off.”

“Is it because you have a boner? It doesn’t bother m-UNF!”

Jason had just shoved a pillow in his face to smother him. He held it down with all his might, but Dick’s fist flew out and hit him on the shoulder. He loosened his grip for a moment, but that was all it took for Dick to get free and mount an attack. He gripped the pillow underneath his head and whacked Jason as hard as he could.

Jason pushed his face down with one big hand.

Dick kicked him in the stomach.

Jason grabbed his ankle and started tickling his foot.

Dick screamed in spite of himself and used his other foot to kick Jason in the chest.

Jason grabbed his other ankle and forced them to either side of his body.

Dick grabbed him between his legs and began to squeeze.

Jason threw himself down to crush him under his weight.

Dick squirmed to the side and used Jason’s momentum to flip them over.

“Ha!” He cried in triumph, hands on Jason’s shoulders. From where he was seated, there was no mistaking Jason’s arousal. Dick was impressed. After all those drinks you’d think he-

“AH!” He cried as Jason suddenly forced himself up, dislodging Dick from his crotch. Jason pressed his advantage, crushing Dick beneath him, hands gripping his thighs, chests pressed together, his face inches from Dick’s.

Dick’s eyes were wide, his face was pink, his lips were parted. Jason wanted to devour him.

Dick looked like he was about to speak. Jason could think of no other way to silence him.

He crashed his lips against Dick's.

Then they were kissing and moving aggressively, hands wandering, rolling around on the bed. Jason ground into Dick and Dick let out a moan that he knew would follow him in his dreams. Dick was tugging at his shirt, Jason was fumbling with his own pants, he was so tangled up in Dick he could hardly tell who was who, but he never wanted to be separate again, from now on he always wanted to be this close to Dick.

They were rolling, pushing, squeezing, and Jason’s head was pounding, but he was seeing and touching parts of Dick he’d never imagined, and Dick was touching him too.

They came apart together, and when it was over Jason, pressed closely to Dick, slept better than he had in years.

2.

He woke up as if in a strange dream.

He was naked

Someone was next to him.

That someone was Dick.

His nose was in Dick’s hair.

He arm was clutching Dick’s waist.

Dick was naked too.

Dick. Naked!

And he was still asleep.

Jason shamefully snuck a peek at him.

He was all warm, golden skin.

Angular, perfect face.

Long, slim neck.

Strong, lean back.

Faded scars.

Round, plush ass.

Strong thighs.

Jason could lean in and stay pressed up against him all day long.

Instead he went to make some coffee.

As he prepared the first cup to Dick's liking, he heard a soft shuffle.

Dick was there.

He hadn’t bothered getting dressed.

God bless him.

"Hi."

"Hi."

1.

“You know what this means?”

“What?”

“You cheated.”

“…what?”

“During the game. You said Steph was your favorite Robin,” Dick was grinning at him now, all teeth. Smug as can be, “That wasn’t the truth.”

Jason walked toward him, stopping only when they were inches apart. Smirking triumphantly when Dick had to look up at him.

He wanted to taste that grin.

Dick opened his mouth again, “You-mmmmm”

Jason had finally found a way to shut him up.

They spent the day together.

0.

They’d made it fourteen days. Dick was free to go.

But Jason didn’t want him to, and Dick didn’t offer.

What Jason did want to do was finally get to a grocery store. He had a nice dinner in mind, and needed some ingredients.

“I’m heading out!” He called, but Dick appeared, fully dressed in athletic gear.

“I thought I’d get some fresh air too. Going for a run.”

“See you back here later?”

Dick grinned, “If you’re not too long-“

“Don’t even think about it.”

“-I will wait for you all my life.”

Jason, refusing to dignify that with an answer, made his way out the door.

“Don’t pretend you’re indifferent to me!” Dick called after him.

Jason turned back with a grin, “Even before I met you, I was far from indifferent to you.”

Dick smiled, “Oh, Jason. That was so sweet. Did you just make that up?”

Jason’s grin froze on his face. He stared at Dick. Dick stared blankly back.

“Fucking dumbass!” Jason stomped off, not even trying to keep the amused smile off his face.

“Jason, wait!” Dick laughed, chasing him, “What do you mean? Jason!”

-the end-

[amphtaminedreams]

To All the Characters I’ve Overly Identified with Before: Borderline Personality Disorder and Attachment to Fictional Characters

It’s been a month, and I’m still not over how Game of Thrones ended. I’m still not over the way that a character who, throughout the previous seventy something episodes of the show, was only ever ruthless towards people who were deserving of her wrath (within the context of westerosi justice because let’s not forget everyone’s favourite man of honour Ned Stark decapitated a young man for running for his life in the first episode), suddenly massacred a whole city in the penultimate episode. I’m not over the way that writers who spent the previous seasons showing that they were capable of translating the moral ambiguity of George R.R Martin’s characters from page to screen, got lazy and left us with a character whose actions became impossible to defend right as the show was ending. I’m not over the way that such a beautifully complex character who endured so much hurt and trauma was reduced to nothing more than a “crazy woman” by a couple of male writers in her final moments. I’m not over the fact that Emilia Clarke put her heart and soul into the character and did everything she could to bring Daenerys Targaryen to life for David Benioff and Dan Weiss to both literally and figuratively assassinate her.

I think those feels have been felt by a lot of Game of Thrones fans since the show ended. God knows I’ve watched enough youtube video essays and read enough articles and liked enough tweets reiterating the sentiment. Daenerys Targaryen was, in my opinion, the best character on Game of Thrones. I wasn’t angry because she didn’t end up sitting on the throne (though my boy Drogon made sure nobody else ever would either and I guess I can get behind that), I was angry because all the balance that made her character so great was thrown out the window in order to progress the story of her male counterpart and bring a show that probably could’ve done with another 2 seasons to an end. Dany has always had a dark side, she is the “fire” that the title of the book series refers to, but throughout the show, we’ve never seen her indulge that side to the point of no return. We’ve seen her wrestle with it and use it to exact punishment on those who deserve it when needs be, and that was part of what I liked about her. Not to go all feminist essay on anyone’s ass but we don’t usually get to see women in TV who are celebrated for their powers of intimidation, and I liked how prior to season 8, the narrative never made female characters like Dany or Arya or Brienne out to be monsters for killing people the same way that basically every single man on the show did at one point or another. I liked that sometimes she was a little excessive because it made sense, she did have “dragon” in her, and she still had lines she wouldn’t cross, clear values and principles; she fought for the innocent, for women and for children, and for freedom. On a personal level, I loved her because we watched her go from a lonely, scared and vulnerable girl to a strong, ambitious and self-assured woman and that was a trajectory I wanted to relate to.

And then all of a sudden, without any justification or build up at all, she’s a mass murderer of the same “downtrodden” people she always claimed to fight for. Fuck, I’m thinking. I literally watched that episode through my hands because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. When I say I cried on and off for about 3 days after I watched the final episode, I’m not exaggerating; I only need to see a screen cap now a month later or an interview with Emilia Clarke and I’m off again. It literally felt as if I was mourning the loss of a real person. But this isn’t the first time I’ve had this kind of attachment to a character. Daenerys Targaryen was probably just the last in a long list of women I overly identified with.

I’m not much like her at all really, I’ve burnt myself from taking the film off my microwaved lasagne and not moving my thumb away from the hot air in time (lmao), however, I think I saw parts of myself in her journey and traits that I wanted to have, thus, I latched on. Before Daenerys Targaryen there was Spencer Hastings and before her there was Cassie Ainsworth and then if we’re gonna throw it all the way back, there was Hermione Granger (and some other characters I was more mildly obsessed with along the way, Katniss Everdeen, Bree Van de Kamp and Cosima Niehaus, I’m looking at you). I still love all those characters now but when their respective shows or films were actually current, I was completely obsessed. I spent my 16th birthday at the Harry Potter studios on the outskirts of London with my family, forget birthday parties or meals out with my friends. I wished more than anything that I had 2 best friends that loved me unconditionally and I did my best to emulate that drive and intelligence and work ethic everyone associates with Hermione. I told myself I was just like her even though I lacked the confidence to put my hand up in all but one of my classes and last time I checked, was just trying to conquer GCSEs not fight an evil wizard snaked hybrid man or whatever Voldemort is.  I identified with the loneliness and the need for control that I saw in Cassie, and was like “oH eM GeE, tHat’s sO mE!” at Spencer’s perfectionism. When I was speeding for my exams (and then, unfortunately, for long after), I felt spiritually connected to that whole Pretty Little Liars arc where Spencer started popping adderall on the daily even though I could really only wish for someone to care about me enough to stalk me like A did and the worst possible outcome of my all nighter was not taking in enough content to bullshit my way through a 30 marker.

They would understand me, they would be my friend. They represent me. That was the baseline sentiment of my obsession. And I think that’s the borderline part of me jumping out. See, such a huge part of BPD is feeling unwanted and misunderstood and forgettable and really, deeply lonely.  Like it’s a kind of loneliness I think you feel like an actual person can never really fulfil because the (faulty and not necessarily reflective of reality) thought pattern is that they’ll lose interest and leave you sooner or later. Fictional characters are always there, until the show gets cancelled or the character gets killed off, at least, and then comes the completely disproportionate tidal wave of grief. They exist in a different world too, a one that feels a lot less dangerous (even if it’s actually way more dangerous, I mean I really wouldn’t last five fucking minutes in Westeros) and detached from the often chronically muted reality of BPD.

Then there’s the trouble with the sense of self, part and package of BPD for most, which facilitates, you know, thinking that a genius witch or, like, any character in skins (because in hindsight as great as that show was, WHY DO NONE OF THEM HAVE JOBS YET SEEMINGLY AN ENDLESS SUPPLY OF DRUGS AND PARENTS THAT NEVER SEEM TO CARE WHERE THE HELL THEY ARE!?) resembles you as a person in any way. Though I suppose I’m learning recently as I begin to reflect more on what I enjoy and value, I’ve never had much more than a vague idea of what my positive qualities are, so when I saw them fully realised in a character it was a treasure trove of mannerisms and traits and ways of carrying oneself to adopt. It becomes a mould into which you can squeeze the ball of meh-ness and uncertainty you feel you resemble. Now I’m realising that although it might take me a little more time and a lot more effort, it’s much more rewarding to become the very best version of myself, but back then, I suppose I didn’t recognise why I was doing what I was doing. 

I only got diagnosed with BPD and started learning about it when it was 19, so all the years before that were pretty much spent unaware of the reasons why I had these quirks. As I “recover” (I suppose that’s the right word) and I get back into hobbies and spend more time with friends, I feel like I’m beginning to discover more and more of who I am. I’m starting to accept that there are positive things about me and plenty of things for people to like, right here in this world, not some fictional one.

I still love characters way too much and get overly attached and invested in TV shows but even that doesn’t necessarily have to be something to be ashamed of. When I’ve got into *ahem* discussions with people online about characters before, I’ve occasionally gotten the “why do you care so much, it’s not real life!” in response, and I mean, there’s definitely a point to be made if your passion for something is causing you to lash out at real life people with real life feelings. But when you’re not, when it can give you hours of discussion and entertainment and can drive you to make real positive changes in the world too, what’s wrong with passion? There’s nothing I love more than having a conversation with someone who I can tell really loves what they’re talking about, so why should I be ashamed of having the capacity to become deeply invested in things too? I think as long as it’s not taking over my life as I have allowed it to do so in the past, there’s nothing wrong with having passion for fictional things or for anything, for that matter. As long as it’s not something fucked up, like idk, white supremacy or Rick and Morty (JOKING). 

I don’t regret loving all the things I loved because being a huge Harry Potter fan for so many years did give me an escape when I absolutely hated myself and couldn’t find much enjoyment in real life. I hope that if I do have children one day, they’ll love it too, maybe not quite as much as I did but enough for it to give them all the joy it gave me, all the same. So in summary, yeah, fuck David Benioff and Dan Weiss (lmao, I’m joking, they’re just shitty original screenplay writers who could probably do with a class or two on how to write female characters), but also, understand before you make fun of someone for being overly invested in something that there’s probably a good reason for it and that, at the end of the day, they’re usually not hurting anyone. I’ll probably still be stanning Daenerys Targaryen and pretending season 8 episode 5 didn’t happen until the day I die. Let me live, okay?

Lauren x

[iturbide]

@lamphoera replied to your post: 

yeah, I wasn’t feeling gustav and this pretty much sums it up. even when this trope is done well, there’s a pivotal “payoff” moment where the parent really expresses to the child how loved they are. gustav’s just… wasn’t there. I don’t doubt that it’s extremely in character for him not to be able to express himself well, but it means that the emotional scenes don’t hit; gustav is dead, but why should we care?

You know this is an excellent point and actually reminds me of something I was stewing over yesterday and couldn’t find a clean way to insert into that last post.  Because you’re right, this trope really does require a “payoff” moment where they make their grand expression of love and pride to the one/s they’re leaving behind.  But that honestly makes it worse, because we’re then immediately expected to see them in a new light and forgive all the terrible things they’ve put those very people through.  Especially in the case of parents, this becomes a way to try and excuse shitty parenting (in the case of fathers, specifically, it also tries to excuse them from taking any kind of active role bearing the emotional load in child rearing): oh, they did care, but they weren’t able to show it, so this proves how good they are!  NO.  They are NOT GOOD.  This one act is an escape: they are running away from ever having to show their children any other form of affection or prove by any other means that they were ever good people.  And that’s bullshit. 

You can’t just be a parent in the big moments where everything’s on the line.  To really be a parent worth caring about, worth loving, you need to be there in all of the little mundane moments, for every scraped knee, every lesson learned, every fall and victory.  Bojack Horseman actually summed this up really well in Season 5 Episode 6 (Free Churro), where he gives a eulogy at his mother’s funeral (and for anyone not in the know, his mother is kind of a monster who went through her own childhood traumas and then inflicted entirely new traumas on her own son): 

All I know about being good I learned from TV.  And in TV, flawed characters are constantly showing people they care with these surprising grand gestures.  And I think that part of me still believes that’s what love is.  But in real life, the big gesture isn’t enough.  You need to be consistent, you need to be dependably good.  You can’t just screw everything up, and then take a boat out into the ocean to save your best friend, or solve a mystery, and fly to Kansas.  You need to do it every day, which is so...hard.  

When you’re a kid, you convince yourself that maybe the grand gesture could be enough.  That even though your parents aren’t what you need them to be, over and over over again, at any moment they might surprise you with something...wonderful.  I kept waiting for that, the proof that even though my mother was a hard woman, deep down, she loved me and cared about me, and wanted me to know that I made her life a little bit brighter. 

This trope is pervasive.  And it’s harmful.  It leads people to expect that the big grand gestures might be enough, even though the time between them (assuming they exist at all) is what’s causing the most damage.  Looking at all of Alfonse’s interactions with his father, he is constantly either completely formal and polite with the man, or apologizing for himself.  And Gustav never once corrects him, tells him that he shouldn’t be apologizing, never tries to build him up, only ever beats him down.  He spends the days of Hel’s countdown away from his son, denying Alfonse the opportunity to forge any kind of meaningful, positive memories about his time with his father, leaving this paltry grand gesture as the last and only thing he’ll be able to remember.  No happy memories to help keep him strong.  Just this loss of a man he idolized, despite the fact that he didn’t deserve it.  

This is actually why Chrom is one of my favorite lords: he is canonically a doting father who was there for his kids, who took an active part in their upbringing and childhoods.  He’s the one who trained Lucina with a blade, proving that they spent a significant amount of time playing together and drilling -- plus she mentions that he was constantly sharing little things with her:

Lucina: Thank you, Father. Chrom: It still feels so strange to hear you call me that... Lucina: You don't like it? Chrom: No, no. It's not that I dislike it. It's just...different, is all. I'm still wrestling with the reality that I have a child, and that that child is you. Lucina: I see. Chrom: Oh, but don't tell your mother. You know how she can be. Lucina: Ha! It always seemed to me like you told her everything... In the future, I mean... You two were always so close. Chrom: Oh, come now. You make us sound like a pair of fawning lovebirds. I'm sure we would never embarrass ourselves, especially at court... Lucina: So you say, but your blushing face seems a little less certain! ...Heh. It feels good to share a secret. It's been too long. You were always sharing little tidbits with me in the future. Chrom: Was the future me really so furtive? I don't think of myself as a man of secrets. Lucina: Oh, they were just silly little things. Still, it gave me a thrill to hear them. Chrom: So the future me wasn't so much furtive, but more of a hopelessly doting father?

He was there.  Every day.  Lucina’s drive to save her father in the past isn’t just because everything goes to hell after that, it’s that she honestly, deeply loved him because he was a good father.  And that’s so important, because far too often parents are given a pass when they provide these grand gestures in their final moments, as though that absolves them for not being there when they were really, truly needed.  And that should not -- cannot -- be how it is. 

[delkios]

To the Unknown Beloved (DC TV)

[lifeisdabubbles-undersalmondean]

La Pomme ~ Chapter Three

Pairing: Sam x OC (eventual Dean x OC and Dean x Castiel. And I mean eventual.)

Series summary: George is a casual French-Mistake-universe Supernatural fan living in no-COVID 2020, who's life is upended when she's suddenly launched between realities, two years into the boys' past (S13E22). What begins as an insane, immersive fan experience turns into more when Jack goes missing and George offers up her AU information to help track him down. Soon it's discovered that she and Sam may actually have history. But that's impossible, right?

Word Count: 3,700

Warnings: {smut, fluff, angst, show level violence, swearing, mentions of suicide} ***Detailed warnings will be tagged for specific chapters.

A/N: Following the events of my prequel Paradise and second story From My Eyes Off. Reading those first gives context but isn’t necessary to start this one.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

George had finally dared to leave after what seemed like days alone in that room. The TV kept her entertained for a bit, she'd even fallen asleep on the surprisingly comfortable bed. After a while though, she began to need to use the facilities more and more urgently. She tried to hold out for as long as she could, but when she woke up from a second nap with a painful bladder, she knew it was time to go (literally).

Incredibly, Rowena had left her fresh clothes that actually fit, although George was a bit concerned about the fact that there was more than one extra outfit. How long did Rowena anticipate her being here? Or was she just giving her options? Trying not to think about it, she grabbed some fresh under things (even the bras were the right size… What is happening?), distressed dark blue jean shorts, and a plain, white, long-sleeved v-neck t-shirt to change into.

Surprisingly, she had not been able to stealthily make her way to the bathroom without anyone seeing her as she'd planned. It had seemed like an easy plan, considering when she'd entered the room, her and Rowena were the only two people there. But now there were a million people in the bunker. Once she realized the influx of visitors was due to Dean and Sam having made it back with all the alternate world's refugees, it made sense. It also ended up being perfect timing.

She'd had great success maneuvering her way around and found the bathroom surprisingly easily. With so many people, she got mostly ignored and hadn't been spotted by any of the-as she called them-"major players:" Sam, Dean, Cas, Jack, Mary, Bobby-basically anyone she might get overly starstruck by running into. She decided to use that to her advantage and try to look for Rowena. Clearly, everyone was back through the rift, so now it was time to send her back home. Unfortunately, as she moved carefully through the maze like corridors, she took a few wrong turns and got a little lost.

Hearing people-distinctly male and familiar sounding people-headed down the hallway in her direction George froze. Panicking, she turned on her heel and tried hiding in a room marked 25, but it was locked. She bolted quietly down the hall further and ducked around a corner on the right. She knew she should keep moving but the fangirl in her pressed against the wall to listen for a beat.

As he and Sam walked into the hallway, heading towards their respective rooms for some much needed rest, Dean asked, "Hey, you remember… Remember you asked if we could stop it?"

"Yeah," Sam affirmed. Taking a deep breath before holding, George peeked her head around the corner. Her eyes went wide and she ducked back into her hiding spot, trying to keep from freaking out. Sam and Dean Winchester were mere feet from her. She could hear them talking! If she wanted to, she could walk out there right now and say hello. Definitely a bad idea, but she decided to allow herself to stay momentarily and listen to them chat.

"All of the evil in the world? If we could really change things? Well maybe with Jack we can," Dean said wistfully.

Sam nodded and shrugged, "Maybe you're right. Then what would we do?"

I have a few ideas… George closed her eyes and bit her lip to keep from saying the words out loud.

Dean contemplated the question, "Mmm, Yea," then lifted up his beer, "This. Whole lot of this. But on a beach somewhere, ya know? Can you imagine? You, me, Cas. Toes in the sand, couple of them little umbrella drinks. Matching Hawaiian shirts, obviously."

George put a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing at the image. She'd kill to see that scene.

"Some hula girls," Dean added at the end.

Of course, George rolled her eyes with a smirk.

Sam looked at his brother skeptically, "Are you talking about retiring? You?"

"If I knew the world was safe? Hell yeah! And you know why? Because we freakin earned it, man."

"I'll drink to that," Sam lifted his beer to his lips and took a sip. He left Dean and walked down the hallway.

George smiled wistfully at Dean's plans. She agreed. They'd certainly earned retirement, though she knew their road wasn't over just yet.

By the time she realized the hallway had gotten quiet again and it was her cue to leave lest she get caught, it was too late. A tall, solid behemoth of a man suddenly turned down the hallway she was hiding in. The two collided gently, his beer spilling a bit down the front of her new shirt.

She squeaked a panicked, "Oh, fuck!" when she realized who it was.

"Ooof!" Sam stumbled back a bit and adjusted the bottle carefully. He looked at the obstacle he hadn't expected to find in the middle of an empty hallway and saw a woman. Dressed in a form fitting white v-neck tucked into a pair of blue jean shorts, she was around 5'8", had a thick curtain of pin-straight wheat-blonde hair falling to the middle of her back. She also had deep dusty blue eyes that stood out against her pale and freckled Irish skin. When Sam took a moment to appreciate her curvaceous, plump body he spotted some brightly colored splotches of orange and red ink on her calf and thigh that distracted him. It took him a moment to notice the large wet spot on the shirt across her chest and realize his drink had spilled on her.

"Oh! Shit, sorry-" Sam had unconsciously reached out to… he didn't know? Brush the liquid off? He regretted it when she slapped his hand away from her chest quickly.

"Nono! I've got it, thanks!" Blushing bright red, she grabbed the wet fabric and pulled it away from her skin, fanning it gently.

"Right, sorry!" Sam held his hands up and away non threateningly, watching her. A strange ball of emotion was building in his chest. He felt an undeniable attraction and also... familiarity? But he couldn't think of her name or where he knew her from; he didn't think she looked like any of the people he'd met from the camp. But obviously that's where she had to be from. Where else could he possibly recognize her from?

"No, it's my fault! If I hadn't been lurking in the hallway like a creeper…" She made the mistake of looking at him and the second she met his eyes, she could feel the color draining from her face and she got a bit light headed.

Jared-fucking-Padalecki was standing in front of her, more tall and gorgeous in person than she'd even anticipated. She felt simultaneously cold and hot, as her mind wrestled with the knowledge that it wasn't really Jared Padalecki at all. It was Sam Winchester and that somehow made it way worse. And she'd slapped him! She hadn't exactly meant to slap him, she was just trying to prevent him from touching her and causing her to burst into a ball of fangirl flames. This wouldn't have happened at all if she had just listened to Rowena and stayed in her room!

"Are you sure you're OK?" Sam asked with a concerned furrow of the brow. She'd turned a peculiar sort of pale green the minute they'd locked eyes.

"I'm fine!" It came out more forcefully than she intended and she rolled her eyes at herself, "Sorry, I'm just… wet?" She finally shrugged helplessly, struggling to find a suitable explanation. George could see a faint blush on his cheeks as Sam looked down quickly, trying to mask a chuckle. When she got the innuendo-or, more accurately, realized he got the innuendo-she blushed again and closed her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she motioned to her shirt with an embarrassed smile, "Er-uhh-f-from the beer?"

"Right," He smiled, deeply intrigued by the strangely familiar woman. "Listen, I'm sorry, I feel like we've met but I can't remember your name." With a charming smile he held out a large hand to her and introduced himself, "I'm Sam."

"Uhhhh…" Her stomach plummeted through the floor, unsure how to respond. They'd definitely never met before, she was sure of that. Probably just a line he uses, though the thought that Sam would 'use a line' seemed wildly out of character and she dismissed it almost right away. She knew she couldn't tell him too much but… she guessed her name was fine?

With a gulp, she took his hand and shook it a little too firmly, answering, "Georgia! M-my-my name is Georgia. Uh-most people call me George." The feeling of her hand in his was electrifying. George's knees buckled a bit and she squeezed tightly. Get it together, you thirsty hoe!

"Nice to meet you, George." He asked with an interested eyebrow, "How are you adjusting?"

She'd been distracted by how beautiful his hair looked in real life, when she noticed he was looking at her expectedly. With a quick head shake she asked, "Uh-What? Sorry."

"I was wondering how you were adjusting to being here? Can't be easy, coming to a new reality?" She furrowed her brow, stunned. How did he know that she'd come from an alternate reality? Thankfully, he hand fed her her cover story by quickly clarifying, "You must be from the refugee camp, right?"

"Refugee? Oh-right-Apocalypse World!" She looked amazed, thanking her lucky stars that the timeline worked out perfectly for her at that moment. Darting her eyes around the small hallway, she tried to come up with a better-more honest-explanation, but failed miserably. Finally she said, "Sure, the camps. That makes perfect sense!" She nodded definitively, hoping that was enough for him to move on. Then she realized he was still waiting for her to answer his original question. She couldn't remember the question. "Shit, sorry," Covering her face with her hands, she laughed at how stupid she was being.

He thinks he's just a regular person for god sakes! Stop acting like a groupie and just talk to the man!

"I guess maybe that answers my question?" Sam teased. She just nodded in agreement, still unable to form words no matter how hard she tried. This man was just too gorgeous and for fucks sake he was Sam. Winchester. Surreal didn't even begin to cover it.

Sam twitched suddenly and then held out his beer to her, "Would you mind holding this for a sec?"

She shrugged and took it from him helpfully, watching him reach into his jeans pocket to pull out his phone. Looking at the screen he glanced up at her with a frustrated expression, "I have to take this, I'm sorry." Wordlessly, she motioned that it was fine, and he held the phone up to his ear, "Hello?"

While he answered, she glanced around for her exits and tried to figure out an escape plan. She should not be interacting with him this much. Who knows what kind of strange ramifications this could have back in her reality! As much as she didn't want to, she had to get away.

The sudden alarm in his voice drew her attention back to him.

"Whoa, slow down! What?!" As he spoke to the person on the phone, he stole a glance at her. When he caught her eye, she quickly turned her head, nonchalantly lifting the beer up for a drink. The second the bottle touched her lips she remembered it wasn't hers and she froze, looking back at him. The surprised smirk on his face made her blush and she pulled the beer away, apologizing silently.

He shook his head as if to say 'it's OK,' but stopped short, catching the tail end of what the person on the other end of the line was saying. He broke eye contact and turned his head to listen carefully, "Wha-sorry. Say that again?" His face dropped and he gulped. Into the phone he said, "Uh, hold on-"

Pulling the phone away from his ear, he smiled kindly though there was worry in his eyes. "Hey, George, I-I have to go. It was very nice meeting you and I'm sorry for… getting you wet." Thankfully, she was standing against the wall already, because her knees definitely buckled. He started to walk backwards down the hallway, urgently needing to find Dean. "Now that I know you're here, I'll make sure to check my corners for beautiful women first." She blushed furiously, a look of shock on her face, and bit her lip hard to keep from grinning like a maniac. He motioned to the beer in her hand and offered, "You can keep that by the way," before turning and disappearing down the hall.

She stood speechless, staring at the air where he'd been standing. After an embarrassingly long time, she shook herself out of her stupor and let out a guttural breath, "oooohkay, well." She looked up at the ceiling and begged, "listen, if this whole thing does turn out to be fake and you got that on film, I will pay a.n.y.t.h.i.n.g. for a copy." Looking down at the beer in her hand, she considered it before taking a swig and muttering to herself, "Fuck me."

A short while later, she slowly and carefully exited her room again. This time she was hungry and she figured she'd already been caught; what's the worst that could happen? Worse than starving to death? She'd take her chances. Proceeding cautiously, she made her way toward the kitchen, taking the long way.

Nearly an hour later, George saw Dean heading toward the map room from her hiding spot in the hall. She'd snuck her way through the bunker, waiting until she was sure most of the major players were preoccupied before attempting to fix herself some food. She did not want a repeat of the hallway scene… well, OK, if she were honest, she wouldn't mind an exact repeat of that, actually. But she knew it was wrong, so was doing her best to avoid it.

George swiftly darted into the kitchen. As she lost herself in mentally replaying Sam insinuating she was beautiful on a loop, she started to gather her supplies for a turkey sandwich. She was barely able to get the bread on the counter before there was a loud booming sound elsewhere in the bunker. She turned toward the entrance she'd come from and suddenly all of the lights in the kitchen began to flicker with a terrifying sense of urgency. Her heart beat nearly matched the flickering as she was plunged into darkness over and over again, calling up every horror movie she'd ever seen.

Like that one that takes place in an old abandoned bunker that's haunted by the ghosts of all the people that have died there and now you're trapped inside with them too?

She closed her eyes tightly and mentally slapped herself, stop that NOW, you moron! Although she came from a reality where she logically knew no such things exist, she'd always been deathly afraid of ghosts, demons, and other supernatural beings. A fact that conflicted fiercely with her love of the horror movie genre. As a single woman living alone, she couldn't sleep for a week after watching Paranormal Activity unless it was light outside. She'd never admit it to anyone, but it was actually the reason she'd adopted her senior cat, Oren. Everyone knew cats could sense evil. Oren protected her from her imagination for almost nine years.

Unfortunately, she was now in a reality where all those things were real and he wasn't there to help at the moment. George could already feel the beginnings of a panic attack. Every time the lights flickered back on she was sure a terrifying, old-timey ghost professor was going to appear in front of her with a rusty machete.

She yelped when more distant pounding began to echo rhythmically throughout the bunker. Quickly, she began yanking kitchen drawers open looking for a weapon. The third drawer was a jackpot. Plenty of sharp kitchen cutlery, but a beautiful, shiny silver 12" butcher knife was laying on top and she could have kissed it. Instead, she picked it up and clutched it to her chest tightly.

After taking several deep breaths, she spoke to herself again, OK, bitch. You can do this. I know the supernatural terrifies you, but the good news is this is just a TV show and none of it is real! So, even IF a psycho ghost doctor who's coming to give you a lobotomy with a broken ice pick did appear in front of you right now, it's OK because it's not real! Besides, they don't do a lot of bunker ghost episodes-that I know of-so really, chances are all this noise is just Lucifer coming to kill everyone! Stay calm, everything's fine! She paused her peptalk contemplatively for a moment, noting the irony of that statement with a frustrated huff.

Think, Georgia, think! Safest thing to do would be to get back to my room and hide. Just move slow. Use your senses. And if anything comes for you: stab first, ask questions later.

She started moving toward the exit, headed for her hidey hole, which was unfortunately on the other side of the bunker. When she reached the doorway, she listened carefully and, other than the pounding, things seemed quiet. Ducking her head out quickly she breathed a sigh of relief at the empty hallway, and couldn't see anyone in the map room to the left. Climbing the short steps and leaping across the small corridor, she flanked the right side, which gave her the most cover for the direction she was headed.

Just as she reached the mini staircase that took her to the map room there was a deafening crash of metal on metal, causing her to step back and press herself against the wall in fear. It was quiet again for a moment and she noticed the lights had stopped flickering. Quickly shifting back to the staircase, she slowly moved her head out to see what she could see of the map room beyond.

She caught a glimpse of Sam and Dean, with their backs to her, drawing their guns and aiming up. Then, bullets went flying. Quickly dropping into Child's Pose behind the wall for cover, she plugged her ears, tried to breathe, and stay still. When the shooting stopped, she heard some grunting and a thud. Lifting her head slowly, she heard more scuffling and then suddenly a large blur of hair and plaid came into her line of sight as Sam was tossed back against the wall at the staircase.

As a scream threatened to erupt, she slapped a hand over her mouth and watched helplessly as he crumpled to the ground. Shifting forward to look in, she saw Dean throwing punches at a man she didn't recognize. Unfortunately, the man wasn't phased. Looking back at Sam to see if he was ready to lunge in there at just the right moment to save Dean, she winced; he was barely up on his elbows and moving sluggish. When she spotted another trench coat covered body in a heap on the floor to the right, the gravity of the situation hit her hard.

Quickly shimmying herself back along the wall until she could only see Sam, she squeezed her eyes shut tight and tried to keep from dry heaving. Clutching the knife tightly she debated with herself about whether or not to storm in. Her heart told her that it would at least maybe distract the guy long enough for someone else to do something and possibly save them. Her head-and her survival instincts-told her that a more likely outcome would be getting herself killed instantly and pointlessly.

She heard a noise and looked up, seeing Sam with his head down against the ground. It sounded like he was praying. She watched him for a moment, tears springing to her eyes at how hopeless this situation was.

Are you serious? Did I really just come here to watch Sam and Dean Winchester die? What the fuck kind of fan experience is that? As an irrational rage began to build inside of her chest at the injustice, she adjusted her grip on the knife and made her decision.

Just as she was about to leap up and barge in, Sam's head snapped up and his eyes landed on her. A confused expression appeared on his face. Seeing the knife in her hands and her look of resolve and determination, his expression changed to sad very quickly. He glanced in Dean's direction and then back to her, shaking his head just enough to send a clear message. He then motioned covertly for her to run in the opposite direction. Tears fell down her cheek and she hesitated, gripping the knife tighter and leaning toward him. The pleading look he gave her stopped her in her tracks and she gulped.

"Go," he mouthed to her, before his head snapped back toward something in the room that made a loud echoing sound. Whatever it was, she couldn't see, but the noise terrified her. With hardly any control of her body, she leapt up and bolted down the hallway away from them. Finding a small unlocked supply closet as far down the hallway as she could, she closed the door and locked herself inside.

[rfschatten]

“When the debate is lost, slander becomes the tool of the loser” ~~~ Socrates

When a spoiled little kid loses in a board game, he grabs the board from beneath and throws it up into the air, pulls a temper tantrum, and walks away shouting; “I won, you cheated”!

Donald Trump is a 7yr old spoiled uneducated little brat, born with a silver spoon stuck up his derriere, and dressed up as a 74yr old stable genius …well, this stable genius is going to have to deal with the reality that the 4 year run of his “Reality Show” has been canceled due to low bad ratings!

This little sore losing cry-baby will never concede! He isn’t man enough to ever say; “I lost, congratulations, You won”! That would be way too much for his ultra-narcissistic fragile ego to absorb.

His eventual eviction and exit, stage right, from the White House is January 20th. Meanwhile, he’s been trying to overturn the Election using his eternal book of conspiracy theories of fraud throughout the country, and every legal trick available.

Projecting all this massive fraud, just reveals how much fraud he must have committed …and how pissed he must be that even if he cheated his ass, off…he still lost!

He’s tried every trick in the book to win the election …including making a Trump club member and big-time political donor, Postmaster General, to steal the Election by screwing all Mail-In Votes…but, that failed. He then tried to intimidate minorities from voting using death threats and suggested his right-wing goon squads browbeat and frighten away Black voters at the polls. That failed too.

When all was lost, he started requesting hand recounts and audits. When that didn’t work, he asked for machine recounts…then, since nothing else worked, he started his inevitable string of lawsuits…62 & counting, and every single one has been dismissed as a farce by every Federal Judge at every level.

They lose, move to the Appeals Court…and lose again. They did it in every State…and kept losing! Pennsylvania’s last straw? The 3 Judges in the Court of Appeals…2 Republicans selected by George Bush and 1 Republican picked by Trump…all 3, pretty much in their own way, told Rudy Giuliani to pack his bags and get the hell out of their Court!

Finally, what has been all along …his ultimate intension…SCOTUS with “His” 3 Judges! Their verdict on PA? 9–0 in favor of Biden.

And it continued. The Attorney General of Texas sued Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania, and Georgia …asking the US Supreme Court to nullify the Biden votes in those states, by legally trying to interfere with another state and telling them how to run their own elections. In this case, 18 states & 126 GOP Congressmen joined the lawsuit …even advocating sedition, and threatening secession if the election isn’t overturned in their favor!

The end arrived when SCOTUS once again voted 9–0! Biden is the winner, again! Then, to put the nail on the Trump Presidency coffin, three days later, the Electoral College gave Biden his 306 votes …It’s Over! The End! El Fin! Finis!

Oh! He’ll continue to publicly say it was stolen from him till the day he dies! …it’s his new MAGA Cult rallying cry; “They stole my election …destroy the GOP”! And it’s beginning to work …lookout, Republicans!

For a while, It looked like he was willing to dig in, call squatters’ right, hunker in his bunker, and never come out! He’s mellowed recently, probably cause one of his baby handlers rubbed a little Rum on his cry-baby gums, calming his temper tantrums down a little …and making the baby do some things he really doesn’t want to do.

It would’ve been something, though …to see to what extent Donald Trump would go, to stay in the White House!

Imagine! It’s High Noon, January 20th, 2021

Donald Trump is in the back of the White House on top of a giant dumpster completely engulfed in flames, while hysterically laughing and shouting; “Ha! Ha! Top of the World, Ma! …I’m on Top of the World”!

Wonder how Jimmy Cagney (a staunch Republican donor, supporter, & close Reagan friend) must feel looking down from heaven in shame at this total fake of a tough-guy wannabe …and all his ‘tough’ Republican cult of political cowards?

He’s too much a coward to stay inside and yell; “You’re not taking me out alive, coppers”!. He’ll walk away, right onto an 18th Green in one of his Country Clubs …and continue his hateful, racist, rabble-rousing ways! Maybe, start a media empire to compete with the now, “too liberal” Fox News.

Maybe …run for President in 2024 …even, if it’s just to bug the living hell out of humanity all over again!

But primarily, to advance his Trumpism, cause trouble & entice civil unrest using his despicable “good fine people”, and become a thorn on the side and a pain in the derriere of whatever is left of the Grand Old Party.

What’s his endgame? This penniless billionaire is making enough money to survive, pay off his mysterious $400 Million debt, and stay out of jail. Now, he’s defrauding his own donors with his “Trump Election Defense Fund” for the use of overturning the election, by funneling 75% of all the money donated into the new “Save America PAC”, where the money is kept…stashed away for whatever “Trump’s future ambitions and endeavors might be”. It’s no secret, it also means he can legally pocket every penny of those contributions!

All his antics are the last act of a desperate man. All narcissistic psychopaths desperately need and live for the “attention”, to survive. When the party is over, you become yesterday’s news …and when the love is gone, you become nothing …a nobody!

He rarely comes out of the White House much anymore (except to play golf) since being declared “the loser”. Mostly, stays inside his bunker …brooding and tweeting his usual obscenities, complaints, and lies. Slandering people right and left. And every once in a while, if his “good fine people” are outside the gates, he’ll buzz around low & fly-over with the White House Helicopter, or he’ll get into his limo and have the Secret Service drive him through the crowd so he can wave & smile at them while seeing them yell and wave back…it’s his obsessive need for attention. Then, to the end of the block, around the corner…and back into his bunker.

Knowing you’re a worthless human being who doesn’t care about anyone else on the face of this earth but for yourself …and knowing of having 81+ million people agree with you & vote you out? …that hurts!

Leaving historically with a legacy of being publicly shamed as a corrupt Impeached ex-President, a loser who lost by more than 7.5 million votes and lost the popular vote in 2016 by more than 3 million votes!

And finally, never being liked or approved by the majority of America …never even coming close to reaching at least a 50% job approval rating throughout his entire 4-year gig!

He’s been forced out of his tiny little bubble of illusions & delusions …and thrown into the world of reality. Having it all happen publicly, in front of the entire world …and nowhere for the Trump Family and the Trump “brand” to ever hide!

For this little man, the eminent jail time waiting in the wings is not as bad as the shame of facing a public that’s learned the truth about “The Donald”…that he really is a Loser, a Liar, a Cheat, a huge Tax Fraud, and a Penniless Billionaire Con-Artist.

Psychologically projecting himself throughout his life for being the loser he’s always been, by calling everyone else in the world a loser …has caught up with him…and reality is now haunting him, dearly.

The self-proclaimed “King of Reality Shows” was in all his glory in today’s so-called “Reality TV” …it’s really all about what you (the producer) want to “pass” as Real. Like a Trump form of reality; WWE Pro Wrestling with his buddy, Vince McMahon, and the scripted feud between Donny & Vince on TV.

Like Wrestling, it always passes as being “real” …even if you already know it’s all fake! And no one is better than the King of Fake …America’s only ever faux president!

Being the greatest, smartest, and astute billionaire in the world …a stable genius, may all work in Reality TV, but in the real world, it’s transparently obvious he’s not a stable genius, he’s the polar opposite of being the greatest in anything, definitely verified for 4 years he’s not the smartest, and obviously, he’s not an astute billionaire …in fact, just a fraudulent penniless self-proclaimed billionaire.

There’s very little that’s real in reality tv …though, a few are truly legit. Seeing a family literally break-up after years working in business together, and then seeing them slowly make-up was pure classic, true reality …thanks to American Chopper & the Discovery Channel.

And it wasn’t due to the pressure of the constant cameras filming it…this all happened long before the show started. It was going to explode on the show or off the show …and the Discovery Channel caught it!

William Burkett once said; “People fight with reality. They fight it tooth and nail, with everything they’ve got. And anytime you are arguing or fighting with reality, reality will win. You can’t outsmart it. You can’t trick it. You can’t bend it to your will. Not now. Not ever.”

You can’t outsmart reality, Mr. Trump …you lost, and lost big …put-on your big boy pants, act like a real man, and admit defeat!

So, why did Donald Trump lose?

Truth & Reality Matters! Where do you start? His indecent & immoral degenerate character? 4 years of America being embarrassed in front of the world almost every single day?

Let’s start with misinforming and lying to the American Nation 30 seconds after taking the Oath of Office …with over 25,000+ lies from Nov. 8th, 2016 to Nov. 3rd, 2020.

Cheating to get elected with help of Russia’s online mass disinformation program and use of bots …all verified 100% by America’s entire intelligence community & confirmed by a GOP Senate Committee. That’s Treason.

His eternal passion for Schadenfreude, his love for cruelty …keeping children in dog cages, separating them and even ripping them away while still being breast-fed by their mothers, and keeping them away from their families…but mostly, enduring unquestionable cruelty and tragedy throughout the 4 years. That’s totally insanely criminal!

Working with Foreign Countries (Ukraine & Russia) to discredit his political opponent. That’s a Treasonous act.

Running a criminally corrupt administration, using Foreign actors, political racketeering, enriching himself and his political cronies. Committing Fraud, Money Laundering, Embezzling, Political Extortion, Nepotism up the kazoo, and destroying as much as he can of the Constitution’s Emoluments Clause. All that is Life in Prison!

The total outright planned systematic attack on Civil Rights and Equal Justice …openly advocating and promoting Hate & Racism, the Sedition of States, praising QAnon, openly encouraging violence, and fully embracing White Nationalism/Supremacy. Treason! Treason! Treason!

And how about giving away US Classified Information to the Russian Ambassador and the Russian Foreign Minister publicly inside the Oval Office, after kicking everybody out of the room? …that’s pure Electric Chair Treason, any way you cut it!!

Oh, yes! One more little problem facing this country, and the main reason why the not so stable genius, lost …over 16.5+ million Infections and 300,000+ Deaths from a Global Pandemic that he knew all about, back in Dec 2019 & Jan 2020! He knew from the very beginning!

Decided to call it a hoax, very systematically fabricating every move step by step, holding back life-saving measures, and totally misleading the American Public on the grave dangers concerning the state of theirs & their family’s Health…while discrediting Medical Science every step of the way. Purposely “Politicizing” the pandemic, while people keep dying!

And he still fighting it…encouraging all his supporters to gather in mass, like at his super-spreader events, and never wear a mask, which really doesn’t help while trying to control the virus!

And while millions go hungry, and massive lines of cars throughout the entire country lining up and waiting hours to receive food handouts …and the massive lines for COVID-19 testing, that just keeps growing by the day …the President of the United States is out playing golf!

Until Jan. 20th, 2021, he’s still president. Why doesn’t he do something and try to make things just a little better during his last days? Why doesn’t he try acting a little more decent & respectful and do something to help the Health Crisis in this country? …leave a little more dignity, and gracefully? Instead, he’s still acting like a spoiled little cry-baby who doesn’t know how to put on his big boy pants and walk away like a real man …with his head, up!

And then, people really have to ask why Donald Trump lost?!?!

Oddly enough, if he wasn’t so incompetent …if his administration wasn’t so incompetent, and if he really would’ve tried to properly lead the Nation during this very real pandemic crisis, instead of treating dead Americans as “collateral damage” …just a number for economic bean-counters to decide whether to remain open or closed? …if he would’ve been totally honest with the American People? The drama of this pandemic would’ve tilted in his favor, as the hero president who’s leading his country and doing his very best to stop Coronavirus! He may have won!

The biggest reason why Donald Trump lost was Donald Trump!

It’s his dirty, indecent, and immoral degenerate corrupt character, his dirty filthy mind, and his dirty fowl-mouth. But, if he acted like a President whose concerned about his American constituents’ lives if he worked and showed he cared? …he may very well still be President!

Those who first elected him, many thought he’ll take the job seriously, and being a “non-politico”? …they believed in giving him a chance to learn …call it, on the job training!

Well, he never took the job seriously, and he didn’t learn anything from 4 years of “on the job” training! Now, 4 years later, 74 million still voted for Trump? What’s their excuse besides sheer institutionalized systemic ignorance & blind loyalty, if it’s not hatred and racism?

After 4 years, how many people do you have to fool that are still alive from this Pandemic, to keep your job?

The majority of this country already knew, heard, and seen the same spiel this con-artist has pulled for years! …and still, they’ve had no other choice but to put up for 4 years watching our president, openly on LiveTV and in front of the world, literally flip-off America every single day of his presidency!

Before the vote began, he said that he’ll admit defeat if it’s an Electoral Landslide. He called his win in 2016 with 304 electoral votes (2 Trump and 5 Clinton electors voted for others) a landslide victory! Well, Biden ended up with 306, which means, it makes it a slightly bigger landslide, right?

Now, he says he’ll abide by the Electoral College’s decision, but won’t concede? Like everything about the Donald …won’t believe it till I see it! By the way, a caution warning to the permanent White House Staff; When the Trumps move out their personal furniture, keep an eye open …not unusual or above the values for this clan, to pick up a couple 5 finger-discount items that are White House properties.

Well! The American people have spoken, Mr. President. …Bye! Bye! The party’s over, time to call it a night! You’ve been terminated; Now, you don’t have to go home …but you can’t stay here!

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice?!?! …YOU ARE FIRED!

[wrestlingisfake]

Wrestle Kingdom explainer

Q: What’s all this about Wrestle Kingdom and January 4th and the Tokyo Dome and New Japan Pro Wrestling?

A: New Japan is the top wrestling promotion in Japan, and their version of Wrestlemania is on January 4th every year.  They’ve been doing this for about 25 years, but they’ve only been calling the show Wrestle Kingdom for the last twelve--thus, Wrestle Kingdom 12 in Tokyo Dome.

Q: What’s all the fuss about?

It’s the same deal as Wrestlemania, with the company building up to this one big night and all the wrestlers saving up their best effort to deliver a show-stealing performance.  Setting aside the pointless “which is better, WWE or NJPW?” debate, you can think of it like getting a bonus Wrestlemania four months before actual Wrestlemania.

Other than that, the fuss is about how New Japan has been getting more attention outside of Japan lately, partly because it’s gotten easier for Western audiences to try it and partly because several guys from there have hit it big in WWE.  We’re seeing more and more cross-pollination of wrestling styles and it’s led to a boom in match quality right when it’s easier than ever to find quality matches.

Q: How hard is it to watch this thing?

A: It’s not nothing, but it’s not hard.  New Japan has their own version of the WWE Network available worldwide.  The English localization isn’t great but it’s definitely better than when I signed up in 2015.  They have English commentary on the live broadcast, although it’s hit and miss whether anyone will be there to translate promos and video packages.

The show airs live on Thursday evening in Japan, which is in the middle of Wednesday/Thursday night in the US and Thursday morning in the UK.  But you could sign up for the site and watch the show on-demand later.

Alternatively, an abridged form of the show will be shown on AXS TV on January 6.  If you don’t get AXS, you could sign up for a free trial on Sling TV.  I did that once and it was very painless.  Honestly, if you’re testing the waters, the AXS version will probably be easier to handle than the full six-hour broadcast.

Q: SIX FUCKING HOURS?

A: Yeah, they don’t fuck around over there.  And I don’t mean 90 minutes of talking heads and 4½ hours of wrestling.  I mean six solid hours of wrestling.  This is the “your dad’s gonna make you smoke the whole pack” of wrestling.

Q: Is it worth it?

Maybe.  Look, there’s usually at least one Match of the Year Candidate at these things.  I’m not out here to say Okada vs. Omega at WK11 was as better than AJ vs. Cena at Rumble 2016, or Bate vs. Dunne in Chicago.  I don’t care which of them was better.  But I think those matches had something in common, so people who liked one or two of them would like to know where to find a third, a fourth, and so on.

If it was just some petty “New Japan > WWE” nonsense, I could be like “just watch any random show, they’re all good.”  They’re not all good, because everybody is holding back a little to try to make this one really good.  I think that work pays off.

Q: Aren’t New Japan fans annoying, though?

I mean, Bullet Club dorks who think Cody Rhodes and the Young Bucks are going to fight a war against WWE are insufferable, yeah.  Here’s the thing nobody really talks about, though--that shit is huge on the US indy scene, but in New Japan Bullet Club is just one of four factions, and probably not even in the top three.  Yes, Kenny Omega is a big star, and he’s the leader of Bullet Club.  But LIJ is more over as a unit, Suzuki-gun has more credibility as killer heels, and Chaos has more guys in key spots.

Don’t confuse NJPW fandom with WWE anti-fandom.  There’s overlap between people who like New Japan and people who seek alternatives to spite WWE, but that doesn’t mean you have to be a raging asshole about how much WWE sucks to dig NJPW.  Hell, the actual Japanese fans in the buildings seem pretty nice.

Q: What’s the main event and why should I care?

Technically the main event is Kazuchika Okada defending the world title against Tetsuya Naito.  Unofficially, many fans consider Chris Jericho vs. Kenny Omega the hottest match on the card with the most international buzz, because it’s a WWE guy against a New Japan guy.  Officially, both matches are considered a double main event.

The draw for these matches is grounded in reality, and not the “Miz ‘isn’t allowed’ to say fans boo Roman Reigns but he says it anyway” kind of reality.  Okada has really been champion for most of the past six years, and he’s really struggled to be recognized as the ace of the promotion.  Naito really did have his first big Tokyo Dome main event swerved out from under him, and really reinvented his character based on that resentment into one of the hottest acts in wrestling.  Kenny Omega really is in four of  the five highest rated matches of all time--you can’t plan that, it just happens.  Jericho really does want to maneuver himself into the biggest, hottest match of the year, and really believes a bloody violent fight with Omega will get him there. 

So when any or all of these guys bicker with one another on Twitter about “the real main event,” it’s compelling.  Not because they’re actually pissed at each other, but because it’s believable that they could be pissed at each other, because the hostility is grounded in reality.  Like, Omega and Naito have needled each other over this double main event thing, and you know it could lead to a big match but there’s no telling how we’ll get there and the first step is what happens at this show.

[englishchinesetranslations]

This is a piece about me visiting Riyadh, several times, for Formula E.

Formula E is an electric racing series that says OK, boomer to 20th century petrolhead culture.

I am a high-performing, self-absorbed diva who writes about cars for a living.

Riyadh is the capital of Saudi Arabia.

Riyadh. It’s not a place, in the western imagination — which despite my scattershot efforts to broaden my horizons I definitely have — it’s a synonym for the Saudi Arabian state. Which, again, in the western imagination is one millennial and a network of shadowy contract killers.

The name Riyadh inspires fear, like a monster under the bed, something unknowable and threatening that doesn’t say anything about a city nine million people live in. Like most people, I hate admitting I’m afraid of anything real so in my mind it’s never been more than an imaginary metaphor to shield my own delicate ego.

I don’t think about the place much outside headlines. Or well, didn’t used to.

If you asked me if I’d ever imagined going to Riyadh a few years ago, I would’ve had to first work out if I could imagine Riyadh. In my mind — and I have an international relations degree so this is extra embarrassing — it was a mediaeval fortress. Perhaps some heads on spears on the walls. I’d seen some pictures on the Daily Mail or something and for some reason never considered whether this was a bit racist.

This starts in Berlin, 2018. Formula E, a street-racing electric motorsport series, announce the championship is going to Riyadh. Which is a ridiculous concept because Riyadh isn’t even a place with streets, in my mind, because I have not yet managed to stop being racist about this and actually learn anything.

More ridiculous is that I can’t go — I’m one of half a handful of full season journalists in this series that I decided to upend my life for completely a few years ago and I can’t go to the season opening race for the next ten years.

Because of strict Sharia law in the Kingdom, I can’t work in Saudi Arabia without my dad or husband giving me permission. Which at then-31 years old, divorced and resigned to my parents disapproving of everything I do for some time now is extremely laughable. I can’t work in motorsport there at all, classed as a dangerous profession. And how the hell am I going to get in in the first place?

There is some quite emphatic shouting on a street near Tempelhof when a fellow journalist asks me what I think of it and accidentally triggers the nuclear codes on my brain. I can’t do this, are they joking? How can I even continue in the series, I used to work in the humanitarian sector, for crying out loud.

I spend a night stewing in my hostel bed and wondering how all this can be thrown back into my face so hard. And then, trembling with rage and the less hot emotion I don’t like to think I’m capable of, demand answers from then-Formula E CEO Alejandro Agag in a press conference where he’s meant to be passively introducing Nico Rosberg.

The press conference is important because he tells me that there will be women there, that there will be arrangements made, that I can go. Which is the moment Riyadh has to stop being a fictional, mythical fortress to me because if I can, then I can’t not. No matter what else I think right now, I can’t let my male peers go and exclude myself so now even worse than being banned from Riyadh I have to actually go there.

Then my handbag gets stolen on the U-Bahn and I have bigger problems in the immediate, because the British embassy’s closed for a royal wedding.

Why is going somewhere so bad? Especially if you’ve already sucked down the moral serving of working in motorsport, gone the distance and done the deeds to get there.

I don’t want to shy away from the facts, here. Firstly, that motorsport is an intensely conservative world — all sport is. Formula E is by miles and miles the most liberal, even confrontational element of at least the cars bit of it but there are no openly gay drivers at a top level, there are very few women.

It’s bizarre to me, as someone who lives in London’s very leftwing queer scene, to work somewhere where shaving half my head was a bit edgy not just ‘had a breakdown on Tuesday, lads.’ I am more left wing than most normal people and motorsport as a whole is considerably more right.

I love my job. I whine about doing it, constantly but I love motorsport. I am obsessed with it, it’s what makes me feel the most and I am fascinated by the tech and I adore my friends in it, this is a job I have worked insanely hard to get — not something I am being forced to do, disinterestedly. But there is a disconnect between the realities of it and myself as a person.

Even motorsport people, however, were shocked by us announcing we were going to Riyadh. Until this event, the FIA (motorsport’s global governing body) had never sanctioned an event in Saudi Arabia, not because there was no interest from the Kingdom (Saudia, the national airline, have been an F1 sponsor for decades) but because until recently, women were completely banned from driving.

That changes, in the months between the announcement and the race — because it had to, as a condition of the event happening. You can view that as the Eprix clearly directing positive change or not if you want but the fact that it had to is important as part of the situation, as part of understanding why people were shocked we were going there.

Saudi Arabia operates a guardianship law for women, who require their husband or male relative’s permission to do things like open a bank account, get a job or a passport. Women are required to wear an abaya (the usually-dark coverup garment that covers you from foot to neck) as well as modest clothing and muslim women must wear a hijab. All Saudi Arabians must be muslim and a religious police force exists to enforce strict adherence to sharia law.

Kissing in public is absolutely banned, as is alcohol and western music. There are no cinemas and media is restricted. LGBT acts can get you imprisoned, publicly whipped or even executed. Human Rights Watch lists the “dissidents” who are detained on long charges in Saudi Arabian jails — they are women’s rights activists, people who have criticised the government, protestors who in most countries would be considered very mild. Torture is documented by HRW as being widely used as an interrogation tool against detainees.

It’s not fully whataboutism to say “well, other countries have terrible records on human rights, too and sport still happens there.” But Saudi Arabia has been off the table for a long time, not least because events like this — people congregating and especially in mixed gender settings — have been banned for a long time by the government themselves.

So is Formula E so financially or morally bankrupt to take the Saudi Arabian money and go there? It’s not like the country has a longstanding connection to electric technology and green solutions — absolutely the opposite, Saudi Aramco is the world’s largest producer of crude oil.

It’s complicated. WWE were the first big sports brand to announce an event in Saudi — but WWE isn’t really a sport and isn’t governed by a sporting body, wrestling a strictly choreographed entertainment product, despite the athleticism. As a consequence, the event in Riyadh could be bent to meet existing Saudi restrictions — no female wrestlers, no women in attendance, etc.

The FIA couldn’t do that and neither could Formula E. The event was somehow going to have to cater to, well, people like me. And they could have done that by spending the Saudia money on ferrying us around so we never saw anything but for whatever reason, they didn’t. They’ve never told me what to tweet or what to write about it. I don’t work for them, they didn’t sign this off and if anything happens to me as a consequence of writing it it’s not their problem.

They’ve got me access to princes to ask questions and put me in front of an exhaustive list of local TV and newspapers to prove that, yes, there is a woman — I’m aware I’m a bit of the PR to all this. And that that’s why people question whether what I think about it is true and why I’ve spent over a year writing this and why it’s so long.

I am incredibly sick of the persistent accusation Formula E journalists do not ask about this. That the media has not had to think about it, that nothing’s been written. So here you go, I’ve written it all.

There’s a view that these big, international events happening in Saudi Arabia is ‘sportswashing’ — that the intention is for Saudi Arabia’s international reputation to be rehabilitated by being thought of as a sports venue. That brief, highly-controlled environments are giving an unrealistic view of life there.

The events are short, for sure. I have made three brief trips to Riyadh and I am not about to pretend that I know about ‘normal’ life there in any meaningful way. This isn’t intended to be documentary about Saudi Arabia writ large, it’s about what it’s like to go there as a journalist to cover the events and what I’ve seen and the people I’ve spoken to. A lot of it’s just about what goes on in my head during the weekends — it’s part travelogue.

I don’t think about Riyadh very much for the next few months because I don’t know what I’m going to do about it, until Formula E call me a few weeks before testing and ask if I’d like to go on a trip. Would I. My entire method of managing my fragile psychology is dependent on going off somewhere every few weeks and the pent up home time is sending me scratchy, I say yes before I’ve even heard where it is.

It’s Riyadh, obviously. They post me some abaya and I read some not very reassuring travel advice, most of which doesn’t make much sense, while trying to work out a way of covering up my confrontationally queer hairstyle.

At Jaguar’s season launch I scope out who else is going — it’s all men but then again, there are not many things like me in motorsport. I contemplate my own death in a mediaeval fortress a lot, because this, for some reason, seems likely to be something Formula E would be sending me to.

The flight over is blandly sober. My hobbies and interests are pretty much covered off by “getting extraordinarily lit on flights” so the self restraint to ask for coffee instead of wine, before we enter Saudi airspace and they stop serving it, is an immense struggle. I also keep falling over my abaya and still can’t do anything with the headscarf to save my life.

My male peers are not having these problems. One of them has a gin and tonic, for a start.

In my head, Riyadh airport is a jail. The entrance to fortress Riyadh, machinery of a despot. In my mind, this is where it goes wrong — where my hastily-issued travel authorisation is judged invalid, where the men are let in but I’m not, where somehow this turns into The Gang All Go To Saudi Prison. Sitting nervously on plastic chairs, we wait for our visas to be done and I try to be sanguine about my upcoming, certain death and consider if I could actually fancy one of the dudes or if I’m just surprisingly horny about my own mortality.

Spoilers: I am not dead.

When we get through customs, the Saudi fixer shakes my hand. My very limited googling has informed me this is absolutely illegal unless we are married and my heart leaps out of my chest because oh here we go, here’s where I die. It’s so stupid it’s unreal, my tabloid-mythological Saudi overlayed like VR on what’s in front of my face.

I’d say it’s the fact it’s 40 degrees centigrade at 1am but realistically it’s just me being ignorant as all get-out and believing whatever I read, especially the most ghoulishly outrageous bits, instead of being willing to find stuff out. Which is a particularly stupid situation for a journalist.

Riyadh is, through the window of the taxi, very clearly not a mediaeval fortress. It has Starbucks. It has Nando’s. Its late but there are people walking around and when we get to our hotel, it’s easy enough for me to buy a coffee, go for a quick wander around the block and then stare out of my thirteenth-story window at a sprawling city glittering with lights. Not as built up with forbidding glass as Dubai, not quite as antiquarian-ramshackle as my beloved Marrakech and there’s something somewhere to it, a little chaos and disorganisation, a little… rule-breaking tendency that twangs on strings tied to Tbilisi.

Riyadh suddenly isn’t a story to scare naughty children with, it’s a place — where nine million people live. And I realise I have been quite stupid about this. Embarrassingly, shamefully so. I don’t get anything like enough sleep, thinking about it because I hate being wrong and I’m not quite sure how I so bullheadedly was so off the truth.

At the showcase I interview some Saudi princes. In the back of my mind lurks a vociferous argument I had with my ex-husband once, where I called him morally bereft for even considering working with the Saudi state. It is funny when you schadenfreude yourself.

My image of a Saudi Prince at the time is very limited. And by limited I mean I can name one.

I have not thought about HRH Abdulaziz bin Turki AlFaisal Al Saud. At this point, he’s the person personally tasked with making Formula E happen and he is vibrating with anxious tension about making it work. In my steady realisation that Saudis are people, too, I clock that they’re as nervous about screwing this up for us as we are of doing something wrong. Maybe a lot more so.

Abdulaziz is funny. I worry halfway through the interview I’m going to get in trouble for flirting with him because when I listen back to it, we laugh a lot. It’s the slightly anxious giggling of people doing something weird they’re not sure will work, at the start and then just genuine jokes. We “do a bit” about everyone telling Saudi they need to make changes for decades and then telling them they’re going too fast when they do.

I find out most Saudis, in fact almost all Saudis, are aged between 15–30 and think about what that means for the life expectancy in this bakingly hot, dry country. 90% of the population works in agriculture, which must be backbreaking in the extremities of the peninsula’s climate and that quality of life is poor, especially compared to the state’s wealth. It is very obvious he is a devout reformer and wants to urgently improve things for Saudi Arabians, starting with what he knows (he used to race in Blancpain GT in Europe) by bringing motorsport and technology to push the country away from the oil enriching — and endangering — it.

He’s not a cold despot, or a charismatic liar — there are plenty of both in motorsport let alone other fields I’ve covered — he’s a little bit thousand-miles-an-hour, talks more like Formula E’s bouncy kiwi Mitch Evans than a politician and with slightly more honesty, not offended when I push things and offering more to ask about than he tries to hide.

If the whole trip has wrongfooted me a little by just bringing Riyadh out of the mythical then this does something else. I do some gormless, rapid recalculations, brain as vacant as that meme because despite my almost unshakable sense of western entitlement it has finally got through that there’s a chance the race in Saudi is not actually about me.

In all my righteous, ask-a-manager fury about having to do this myself, I haven’t thought about the Saudi equivalent of me. Who wants to watch motorsport, work in it, has been denied it right up until now unless she was privileged enough to get to other states — and 90% of the population isn’t. Doing the maths in my head, that 70% 15–30 year olds includes about 13.6 million women my age or younger who’ve just got the right to drive as part of the FIA negotiations for the race. And the right to work at it. And here I am pitching a fit because I have to comply with what might as well be a uniform, to a tourist, for a weekend.

Ok, somehow I have got some perspective. But that doesn’t make this all automatically fine, does it.

Aseel Al-Hamad, a Saudi woman who’s just driven an F1 car at the French grand prix, is there. There’s a flamboyantly camp young Saudi YouTuber or something who is flirting with everyone. I still can’t drink coffee without dripping it on my headscarf.

Everyone keeps saying “it’s just a normal place.” Which is true — it has coffee shops and supermarkets and I eat an extremely salty salad with two other journalists after we get back to the hotel and none of us get arrested for not being married to each other. But also that dumbs it down, to just our own flighty concerns about how to exist here.

I can’t stop thinking about those stats. Saudi, which I’d thought of as ruled by old zealots, is so modally young that I am above the average age here.

There are young, excited Saudis at the showcase. Obviously, because that’s what 70% of the population are. 39 million people live here, who I’ve either thought of as generically oppressed or generically oppressive, drawn on some very primitive gender grounds. When I worked in humanitarianism, no one ever mentioned being humanitarian to Saudis and to my genuine horror, against all my ethics, I’ve casually dehumanised an entire population.

Don’t tell me, sitting from the west and spitting blood on social media at the idea of racing series going to Riyadh, you haven’t done something the same. Because I’m pretty good at this and yet somehow I can get my head around going to New York while toddlers sit in ICE detention, can get on with living in the UK despite knowing full well the horrors my own government is committing but I didn’t know any Saudis, you see. So somehow it hadn’t occurred to me they might want things like entertainment and sports and other things I take for granted and don’t assume I should be denied just because the prime minister’s done a racism again.

Formula E wasn’t taking a compromised event — not like WWE’s male-only show for a select few. It was going to be an Eprix like any other, bar the podium champagne. Not only that, there’d be women on track.

Saudi Arabia was about to go 0–60 by never having had women driving to hosting an event where, during a test, the largest number of women, anywhere, ever would be driving current, top flight machinery alongside men. A statement, yes but not intended to me about Saudi but to Saudi women about motorsport. I mention it to the prince, who thinks it’s quite funny as a statistic — he’s raced in Europe, after all, he knows what the numbers are like in our glorious egalitarian societies.

(If you don’t: they’re atrocious. I can name every woman who’s ever got as far as single seater racing, while I can’t remember which men were in F1 5 years ago, there’ve been so many.)

I tell someone on Twitter that if other countries wanted to do it they’ve had the preceding 70 years and well, where is the lie?

The flight to Dubai, en route back, is weird. I rip my hijab off in the airport terminal, no longer able to cope with my own inept wrapping and try to stop the side-shaved bit of my hair standing up. A male journalist asks me why I bothered with it in the first place and I try not to give him too much of a death glare because actually it’s becoming apparent things aren’t what I assumed.

I absentmindedly delude myself into thinking I’ve been invited to hang out with the guys, not just tagged along by proximity, for the rest of the journey and it hurts for about half the subsequent season that I’m incapable of learning not to make assumptions, despite the big ol’ wisening experience I just got lavished with. But those are other places.

Jamal Khashoggi is brutally murdered in an embassy in Turkey shortly after our showcase trip and the number of names of Saudis most people can think of increases to two. One deceased.

I nervously ask Formula E, at testing, if we’re still going. We are. It’s fuel for some very gory nightmares for a few weeks and can I really go there? I feel pretty strongly about dismembering journalists.

As the days tick down to going, mythical Riyadh re-descends on my mind. I forget the place I saw in broad daylight and brood on the fact I’ll be arriving at 1am, totally alone. It’s stupid fear, not the healthy respect I have for the fact travelling so much on my own, anywhere, is generally dangerous.

My usual attitude to being presented with a dangerous opportunity is to immediately take it. My sense of self-preservation isn’t impaired but my survival skills are over-developed, it’s left me with some excellent stories I can never put my name to and which I often only tell softened versions of, to avoid upsetting anyone. I can think or… Well, let’s say manoeuvre or lie or cheat or manipulate myself out of almost anything and the things I can’t, I can chalk up to a big bucket of Things That Are Making Me Weirder And Weirder But I Just Can’t Stop Doing Them.

I don’t think that will work in Saudi Arabia. And I’m so incapable of behaving myself. I’ve already forgotten the manifest demonstrations I saw that Saudis handle strict rules the same way everywhere else with them does, ie by each pretending they must apply to other people and look like you’re doing it when it matters, my own MO for everything.

Meanwhile my own unelected leader in the UK nearly tanks us out of the European Union for the first of what will be several, increasingly grim times and I have this vague feeling of unassailable doom.

All the thinking about going to Saudi has stopped me doing any thinking about actually going to Saudi, which because I booked my flights late and am permanently broke, is via two Ryanair flights, a gruelling overnight layover in Milan Malpensa (0/10, do not do) and 11 discombobulated hours in Jordan that I thought I was going to enjoy but it turns out the fear is kicking in.

The silly thing is, the thing that scares me is a taxi driver in Ammam who I throw some Jordanian dollars at while bruising my thumb forcing the lock down at some traffic lights to escape after he tries to essentially extort me. But if I can’t handle Ammam how am I going to handle Riyadh? A lot of me wants to turn around and go home.

I get to the airport for my final flight much too early and when they tell me I can’t check in yet, it all suddenly hits and I unexpectedly sit down on the terminal floor and cry hysterically for ten minutes.

By the time I get on the plane, I’m delirious with panic. The insane idea I am going to get arrested at the airport dominates my entire thoughts — after all, last time I was with Formula E but I’m not normally in the group, the showcase a one-off excursion.

Also, most pathetically given I’m 32 not five, I have not told my mother I’m going to Saudi Arabia. My mother disapproves of most things I do but I feel like there’s a relatively legitimate case for that here and also that I am a gutless coward for not being able to take that on. Gutless cowards afraid of being told off probably shouldn’t be trying to do this.

I cry so pathetically with fear the Flynas staff, who are spectacularly kind, give me a free coffee and one sits with me, thinking it’s the thermal-buffeted take off that has me hysterical, not the country they live in.

It is, obviously, not Formula E’s responsibility to check I get anywhere. Or where I’m staying or in particular I’d really rather they didn’t attempt to regulate what I’m doing because I reserve my right to get up to all kinds of things without them trying to stop me. But sometimes there are moments when I think anyone would quite like to think there’s someone who’ll know if they don’t make it to their hotel and I’m having one, feeling much too vulnerable to be able to do this. The monster under the bed is scaring me, mooom.

Needless to say, it’s fine. Uber is very well-regulated in Saudi Arabia and the process of transferring to my apartment hotel is extremely straightforward and despite my sudden inability to do maths convincing me it costs three times more than it does, really cheap from a London perspective.

The guy at the check-in desk thanks me for respectfully wearing Saudi-compliant clothes; my hair at this stage is still difficult to not look aggressively asymmetrical and I’ve finally learned how to do a hijab but it sort of unnerves me. Am I either appropriating or colluding with something, here? After all, I’m not muslim. I’d be a terrible muslim, I already miss wine.

I really need to sleep but don’t, which turns out to be basically what I spend most of my time in Riyadh doing because my brain won’t stop turning over and there’s not enough hours before I have to get up and go to the track anyway.

Here is where things get interesting, of course. Because I’m not staying in a hotel full of Formula E people, I’m not staying with anyone else at all, I’m just any old regular person in Riyadh, staying in the kind of place an average-income Saudi might if they were visiting from Jeddah.

Formula E don’t have my address, I didn’t have to put it on my visa application (handled by the championship so I have no idea how difficult it would be to get one as a journalist otherwise) and unless someone very carefully trailed me from the airport then I’m just out here alone. I’m staying in Al-Aqiq, which is a neighbourhood sort of near Diriyah and as decentralised as the whole of Riyadh seems to be.

Riyadh is a weird city, from my perspective — it seems to have no centre and there’s motorways everywhere. In any 500m walk, you can find at least two demolished buildings with the rubble in situ and another one under construction, a petrol station and a kebab shop. Every road feels like a dual carriageway and I don’t understand the shops.

Not for the reason I assumed I wouldn’t understand the shops, which was more specifically cultural issues. I don’t understand the shops because they sell things that make absolutely no sense to me whatsoever — I’m staying in an apartment hotel and there’s a petrol station nearby, a coffee shop on the forecourt.

That’s reasonably sensible to me. I can also get my head round the oddly Roman-themed kebab shop and the phone shop the other side — fine, that’s how modern life works right?

What I do not understand is the stationery warehouse that also sells party gear and interior design trimmings that seems, by all accounts, to be the big shop in the area. It’s sized for a DIY shop and stocked by the crazy crap aisle in Lidl and although it sells me an exceptionally good pencil sharpener that I’ve jealously guarded ever since, I cannot work out what the heck its deal is. It opens at like 7am and has supermarket trolleys available but every time I go in everyone’s buying like one box of paper plates?

There will be no answers. Some elements of Riyadh, I have to accept, I will not fully understand.

But I find myself going in a lot. I buy some weird new stationery that doesn’t really set me up for the season, because Al-Aqiq doesn’t have much else going on. I get really invested in trying every type of latte flavour the petrol station coffee shop does because it sort of gives me a sense of direction in my attempts at exploration that are otherwise coming up short because I can’t find anywhere to poke around, sleepy residential and mosques the main features of the area.

I assumed it was because I was sort of on the outskirts but this continues to puzzle me a year later. I’m used to cities with centres, high streets — I don’t know if it’s the heat or just a different, dispersed way of doing things or because (and I definitely have noticed this) Saudis don’t really have a culture of congregating places, turning up in crowded scenarios or what. But the structure of the town kind of makes no sense to me, and maybe never will.

There’s, seriously, no public transport on the enormous roads and coming from London that confuses the heck out of me. Contrary to the imagined SUVs of gulf state, most of the cars on the road are old and Japanese — Toyota Camrys and Hyundais, clearly proudly cared for but long in the tooth on mileage. There are almost no European or American cars and the ones that exist look weirdly out of place, a Renault Megane looking like an undersized curiosity in a line of Honda estates.

From that, you can probably gather I walked around a bit. I actually walked around a lot more than I initially intended to, especially on the first day I was trying to get to the track.

This is where it gets a bit technical about the business of motorsport, which is that for the first and only time this year, I need to get to the accreditation centre and pick up the pass that will let me into the circuit — and the rest of the season. This is a very minorly stressful process — and only so because I haven’t been to the circuit before so there’ll be a degree of wandering around trying to find the right place.

What happens is that I initially book a taxi to the wrong place, as it turns out there are several bits of Riyadh called Diriyah. Then I rebook a taxi and it goes to a different version of the wrong place, including having to get through several military checkpoints that my taxi driver is increasingly confused why I think I should be going through — and to be fair, so am I. There wasn’t any of this last time.

I bail out when I see some Formula E hoardings on the basis I must be nearby. This is a stupid idea. I’m the wrong side of the track and have to walk through it to get to the thing that will let me get the lanyard that says I am allowed to go through it but there doesn’t seem to be any other sensible way of making it there.

This feels like the sort of thing you could get into a lot of trouble for. It feels more like that when I get to some catch fencing that hems me in so totally I realise the only thing I can do is walk a long way back, to possibly not be able to find a way through or to climb it. Reader, despite the clothing situation and the fact I am carrying a rucksack full of precious scarred Macbook, I climbed it.

Jumping down the other side, I realised one of the reasons was because it was next to what looks really like a military compound and there’s a bored-looking dude with a gun staring at me. To quote Matt Fraction’s Hawkeye: ok, this looks bad.

There’s a sort of weird thing that happens when you are in a genuinely bad situation. Like, this is obviously not what I am supposed to be doing and it’s hard to guess whether the FIA or the Saudi government will get angry at me wandering into places I am clearly not meant to be first — or most severely. Technically I haven’t signed my behaviour waiver with the FIA for the year yet and also they probably have fewer guns.

As you can probably guess by the fact I’m writing this a year later, the next 45 minutes are quite stressful but ultimately end up in the accreditation office with extremely smudged eyeliner but no permanent damage. And for the record, the Saudi soldier I end up speaking to through Google Translate is nothing but helpful.

Which should probably be the end of me getting lost in various places in Riyadh except it’s kind of only the beginning. I very rarely get lost, I’m great at yeeting myself round the world and reading cities from their layout alone — I don’t know if it’s just that Riyadh is so decentralisedly alien to me or if it’s just the same thing that happens where I cannot stop myself trying to read Arabic the wrong way round and it’s just that I’m too stupid to understand it.

Whatever it is, I get lost a lot. Nearly continuously. I have to develop an uncharacteristic level of chill acceptance for not knowing where I am or when I will next be able to work that out. For sometimes wandering at length down motorways, in the rain, trying to hope that there’s a point on the horizon where GPS will work and maybe I won’t run out of road before then. It’s never that horrible, as an experience — Riyadh actually has fairly decent pavements — it’s just slightly bizarre and adds to my sense of being constantly wrong-footed and out of my depth, which is the kind of on-the-edge-of-fear feeling that makes me crotchety and unobservant and the whole problem ten times worse.

Anyway, that’s for later.

Occasionally, people call me inspirational. How inspirational of me, pursuing a career in a male dominated field. How inspirational of me, tootling round the world on my own and with no budget. How inspirational of me to not have ended up dead given all that.

It’s a weird feeling. I am outrageously flattered by it but I don’t feel very inspirational; I’m broke, I have a professional respect level probably best described as ‘tolerated’ (and barely that) and I’m hardly out here getting awards. When I finish a season I mostly feel a crushing sense of disappointment at myself for not having done that better.

Which is the kind of thing, when the drivers say it, you feel moved to say something encouraging. But it’s true — I’m frustrated by the number of times the titanic effort to get to a race limits the ambition of what’s possible there. And I’m kind of breaking myself a bit and in denial about it.

Anyway, should I really be an inspirational figure for dragging myself to Saudi Arabia on budget flights and white-knuckle bracing to hang on for another season? Probably not. After all, the whole reason I can do this sort of thing is because I’m an overpaid London media professional with a devastating sense of entitlement about travel.

It gnaws at me a bit, because all weekend when I’m in the Riyadh paddock young women keep coming up to me. They grab at my media pass, newly-minted and full-season heavy in the folds of my abaya and we stagger through conversations in Arabic via google translate or if they know enough English to talk.

It’s very exciting and inspirational, seeing a woman journalist succeed. I know because a few months previous to this event, I got amazingly drunk and embarrassed myself telling Suzi Perry how much she inspired me. I look up to the broadcasters and the journalists I find digging through old magazines and suddenly realise that’s a woman’s byline, often from a point when I assumed there weren’t any.

To be honest, I think most people just assume there aren’t any of us either way. Women in motorsport are grid girls or PRs — at least, in that same spooky, popular imagination where Riyadh’s barely a map location but you definitely have an opinion about it even so.

As far as the young women grabbing at my pass are concerned, I’m as ludicrously mythical as I can’t seem to stop myself thinking about their city if I let my mind wander for even forty seconds. A female motorsport journalist, travelling around on her own and from their perspective the most extraordinary thing, which is that I’ve apparently come to Saudi Arabia of my own volition. In fact, I’ve had to work really hard to do so, when I could have just… not.

This is kind of incomprehensible, to the Saudi teenagers. They’re excited by the idea I’d do it but when I live in London and can go anywhere, why would I? And on my own? I must obviously be the kind of incredibly celebrated and important person who thinks they can get away with that sort of behaviour and I don’t have the heart to tell them I’m actually panicking a bit about whether I can get anywhere to even take my coverage this season.

Riyadh’s one of the problems, actually. Editors don’t want to be seen to be endorsing it and the ones I can get to take it say they have to include critique of the situation, which is maddening when they won’t let me write about anything I’m actually seeing.

Ok, yes. Here is the situation: the Saudi government has paid for the race. Someone, somewhere, always pays for a race — championships sustain themselves on hosting fees and Formula E doesn’t go for the scalp like F1 but ultimately ‘who is willing to pay’ is a major persuasive factor to an events’ viability. Not to peel back the final veil but this is how big sporting events work, everywhere.

It’s proved controversial in the past. Montreal paid extra to host a season-ending double-header over several seasons, then it turned out the (I’m compelled by journalism standards to write the word ‘allegedly’ here) corrupt mayor had made promises the city wasn’t willing to keep.

It put Formula E in a position where, contractually, they had to sue the city for a settlement — not the most popular thing to do but FE itself can hardly just wave away a contract or they’d look like mugs everywhere else. Also probably, you know, needed the money for something because no one knows more about how much doing all this costs than my Ryanair-seat-shaped arse.

And why? Why wheel and deal to make a global car racing championship happen. Well, I don’t know — there’s no actual point, is there? There’s not a moral at the heart of this, a heartwarming lesson for humanity that’s perfectly illuminated by the chance to watch one millionaire athlete smash another millionaire athlete into a concrete barrier in a shower of carbon fibre.

You’ve got to tell yourself something to sleep at night though, right? There’s got to be some reason you’re doing it. We make it up for any job, the reason you’re logically doing these things. Here’s mine.

The planet is dying. That’s not hyperbole — the seas are emptying of whales drowned by plastic as fast as they fill with Antarctic meltwater. We can’t put either of those things back, there isn’t a fix except prevention.

The sky is choking, we’re shutting off the stars with satellites and smog and after a few hundred years of building a world dependent on massive — and mass — mobility, we’ve realised we can’t use the types we’ve been reliant on. We talk about the screaming, hurtling destruction of the only place we can live in bland, corporate terms, these words like ‘mobility’ and ‘transitive economics’ neatly editorialising the end of the world as the closing remarks of a conference on disaster mitigation.

It’s terrifying. It’s so incomprehensibly, mind-crushingly fearful that even if you can somehow get yourself together enough to think about it, it’s really hard. Scientists say the risk numbers are into the bit where human minds actually don’t understand them because we just can’t really be that scared.

Which is a problem, because the last thing we need right now is numbness. A few years back, I’d slipped a long way into it — not really specifically the planet but more that some very immediate things were going very wrong in my life and the only way I could continue to get up and go to work instead of lying down and screaming was to just not feel anything. Which isn’t very sustainable, you need a cathartic ability to make sense of things even if they’re terrible.

There’s lots of crutches people use — alcohol (a generally reliable and disastrous one for me) and other mind-altering distractions, getting overinvested in box sets, obsessively hyperfixating about your OTP, pinning your emotional wellbeing on the success of a sports team.

I went for pinning my entire psychological and professional future on Formula E being the thing to dive into right that moment. In the moments where I couldn’t think of a reason to carry on, there’d be another race on the horizon. In the long nights where I didn’t want to live anymore I could motivate myself with the sheer, stubborn desperation of throwing myself into getting in.

Frivolous, yes. But Formula E does also have a point: on this dying earth, amidst the keynotes on the end of transport, we need to do something. Just stopping flying or transporting or using the massive systems we’ve rigged to plug the earth in won’t work. Same as we can’t put the whales back in the barren sea, we can’t just pull the brakes on a tangled juggernaut we’ve spent decades chaotically assembling because as much as we urgently need to, to save lives, if we do then people will literally die.

It’s complicated. It’s those things too big to think about and we needed solutions before I was born, are living through the dying moments of panic while we scrabble for a fix that makes things least-bad. The trolley dilemma between apocalypse and slightly mitigated endtime.

We’ve got to be brave. We’ve got to do things like say ‘we actually cannot use oil anymore’ — for fuel, for plastic, for millions of things that keep us alive in abstract or direct ways. The 20th century was built on such a proliferation of oil products it’s hard to imagine extracting them from your home, you can’t even extract them from your supermarket trolley without making a very contorted list.

And there’s so little time. There’s so much to do. We’ve got to fix cars and planes and medicine and supply lines and food and it’s really hard to think about it all because there’s nothing you can do, you need some sort of thing to rally around.

Yes, it’s cruder than a barrel to say that Formula E can be that thing. It’s a racing series, it’s a day out, it’s entertaining sport — but it’s also a test of shame for automakers caught out in dieselgate, it’s an on-track annoyance that says actually it is possible to make electric cars populist, you can do this.

If all the absurd, awful things we have to deal with now were built in the panicked competition of the twentieth century, then welcome to the 21st edition of that scrap. There’s no time to tear into the companies and people that have orchestrated it — half of them are dead and none of them care but if you can make a system where to succeed, they have to do what you want then that’s something else.

There’s never been and I hope there never is again a moment where motorsport, as inch-grabbing competitive hot lab for transport, has had such a crucial moment. All the years of F1’s development need to be drowned out in the next half-decade by the wind-up banshee howl of electric technologies making up for decades in absence.

And you can’t politely do that on the streets of Monaco as a nice little spectacle. You have to go where you’re not wanted and explain that, actually, you are what is needed. You can’t disrupt anything without causing a little chaos and you’re gonna have to do some stuff that scares you and other people might not approve of.

So for all that, I’d better be fucking inspirational. If I’m the in, I’d better live up to it. If I’m, somehow, the lens that someone can see something worth getting excited about through then I’d better wipe off the grime and get on with it. If I’m how someone can see themself being part of this, across whatever incomprehensibly vast gulf, then I’d better not be churlish about it.

Yes, I am a colossally privileged westerner. Yes, I am ignorant and disastrously naiive — no one looks at me in a paddock and takes me seriously. Formula One journalists consider my curious electrical proclivities like discovering the intern is into something kinky and I’m never going to get a Pulitzer.

But in a paddock in Riyadh I’m a thing people haven’t seen before because all that colossal western privilege means I get to do things they’re not allowed to. And things people have never seen before are inspiring, whether they’re race series screaming round a UNESCO world heritage site or grandstands where women sit with men or Jason Derulo’s shiny jeans.

And the government paid for it, yeah. It’s a little incomprehensible. Why would the Saudi government pay for an event that’s hardly aligned with an oil state’s economy?

One answer is the propaganda. A greenwash over ARAMCO’s continued production of the majority of the world’s crude oil. But New York has an Eprix and no one looks across the Atlantic and says ‘well, the US is green now’ any more than anyone thinks of Oman as the home of football.

So if you talk about greenwashing, you either think the Saudi government is hopelessly naiive or that the entire world is, stricken by lack of knowledge about the place. Formula E is part of a plan, though — the Vision 2030 programme of reform and transformation, which includes a focus on opening Saudi to visitors.

Saudi Arabia has a lot of visitors per year, to Mecca. But visas for non-Muslims were very hard to come by until recently, with tourist visas not at all and a lot of the country restricted.

The first year, lots of journalists were flown out by the Saudi tourism board and taken on an ultra-luxury, whistlestop tour of the Kingdom. I obviously wasn’t one of them. This doesn’t come from a place of delusion where I think those lovely people from Saudia took me on such a nice trip, I learned so much during the cultural briefings between private jet flights…

The thing about being the unexpected element, that weird thing no one expected to see in a paddock anywhere let alone Saudi Arabia, is that no one notices what I am doing most of the time because they assume I’m just recording a Vine or gazing wistfully at a drivers’ hairline or something. I don’t really get fussed around by teams or pushed out of garages or moved away from conversations because despite it being pretty obvious by this point that I do know what I’m looking at, I am also still the comedic relief.

It has turned into a bit of an act. If I actually am I tremendous dumbass then I can’t get mad when everyone treats me like one.

And no one cares what I do or where I go. As soon as I leave the circuit I’m a black shape as swaddled as any of the others. Which is why I think I can trust what I saw and what I think about Riyadh, why I don’t think anyone there was trying to impress me.

The teenage girls, after all, were there for the Black Eyed Peas concert. It was purely incidental that they discovered nice western ladies women could be motorsport journalists in the process, that my big, heavy permanent pass drew so many eyes because I couldn’t get the lanyard to bend to sitting right yet.

One of the women I speak to wistfully says she’d like to be a journalist herself but she’s been arrested before and couldn’t face it happening again. Which is where the teenage excitement melts away.

The reality is that I’m seeing Saudi Arabians get to do stuff they haven’t been able to previously which I take wholly for granted. I’m not inspirational, I’m just an exotic glimpse of someone who, for all my bleating and crying about going to Riyadh, is in absolutely no danger whatsoever.

And when I blend away into the night the only thing that stood out was I have no cocking idea how to keep an abaya out of the puddles from the unseasonal downpour. But going to Saudi is not about me.

I don’t think you can fake teenage girls. You can fake loads of things but you can’t pretend it’s plausible a restrictive state faked teenage girls’ enthusiasm. (the next year I’d get in a mosh pit with them but that’s later)

I meet a really lovely, wonderfully dedicated Saudi journalist out there. She’s a credit both to her youth and frankly to motorsport and I don’t think she even half realises how great she is at making both internet content and quality traditional journalism.

(I’m not putting her name here because this is a reasonably low-risk piece for me, I think — but I wouldn’t force anyone else’s name to be put to my words, any more than I was willing to let my own be edited)

So there are Saudi women doing this. And you should listen to them about the race far more than me and what they say is obviously the same thing I say about the London Eprix; of course you want the sport you love in your city.

Boris Johnson’s an odious prick and I’m allowed to say that. I don’t have to express gratitude to him for facilitating the event, when it happens next year. He didn’t have anything to do with it and I can be British without having a single miligram of respect for the people running the place.

I can’t tell you what Saudis think about their own leaders because I don’t know — but the attitude is definitely quite different. The situation is different, the structure is different. I don’t want to say that people are lying when they say they’re grateful to the leaders for bringing sporting events there because I don’t know that they are.

The politics of anywhere is complicated. There’s not a requirement to engage, except when there is. When you have to go somewhere the issues loom in massive print or your prime minister keeps straight-up lying about things that will get people killed.

People think we don’t ask about this. But what is there to say? I can tell you what was said in a press conference, I can tell you what I inferred from the total disregard for a lot of the stricter rules that’s obviously running through Riyadh.

Saudi Arabians like being Saudi Arabian. Much more than I think most British people like being British but that’s kind of cultural. It will come as no surprise that a young population finds strict religious law grating and wants reforms, that the handful of cinemas that have opened in the past few years are popular, that people like being able to go on dates and go out for dinner without being strictly separated into male and female and they love to party. Some of them probably wouldn’t say no to a beer.

If I tell you that Saudi Arabians (largely) approve of the race, will you approve of the race now? If I tell you that there’s young Saudis, especially women, getting the chance to do stuff they really want to do because we bring the circus to Riyadh, are you onboard? Not if you weren’t before.

I would say: why do you think you deserve the opportunity to go to things and they don’t? What are you gonna tell my friend, ‘hey, an accident of your birth location means my politics ban sport from your country?’ I don’t know if that sits right with me, personally.

Here’s some tea: the Riyadh paddock, in that first year, is the nicest motorsport paddock I’ve ever worked. As a woman. I mean, I always work in paddocks as a woman but like in terms of me being there, womanly, it was the nicest.

Within the Formula E paddock, people behave pretty much like they do in a lot of the rest of Riyadh, from what I can tell. Western women uncover their hair and some fully do away with the abaya, by year two that ratio increases to pretty much everyone but me shedding it as soon as they’re through the gates.

Women have never been banned from motorsport, in liberal western Europe. We make up 1.5% of race license holders — over the course of 125 years of motorsport events — and it’s conventional for men in racing to be able to say wildly misogynist things without it affecting their careers but we’re not banned and never have been.

Women always have been in motorsport, working and as pure fans. Most people in it start as one, end up as a combination. It’s a passion field, you can’t commit to the schedule otherwise.

But we’re a minority. And people quite often either forget we’re there or forget that any group who are so completely marginalised actually kind of needs some extra catering-for. You get used to it after awhile and kind of forget but you will never be one of the boys.

Riyadh isn’t like that because this is a totally new event. They have to make sure that it caters to a population not used to attending these kind of events at all and also that it specifically advertises to and makes itself welcoming to women, because otherwise they’re at risk of getting in trouble with the FIA. The organisers here 100% have to prove how liberal and reformed they are.

Which means everything includes me. People add “and ladies” every time they say “guys,” everyone asks for my opinion about things, I get brought to the roundtables and possibly actually given more time with people than the men.

It’s so strange and flattering, it gives me not a weird impression of Saudi Arabia, who I completely understand the motivations of about this and yes I know it’s PR and an act. But it’s an act that’s working, I do feel welcomed not specifically to Riyadh but to motorsport in a way I simply never have back home. It makes me a bit genuinely hysterical about having to go back to normal paddocks.

I don’t think Riyadh deserves a medal for it or anything — but it makes me think a lot about the ‘regular’ motorsport events.

Back to that first year; it’s fine. I distract myself by looking after one of my friends, who is finding it all much harder and who I designate myself the food and drink carer for the majority of the season.

By the time we’re leaving the circuit I promise to come back for a week next time, to see more of the city. I’ve already made myself a playlist for the way home and although I’ve been cheerfully, relentlessly convincing myself I am coping fine and the kilometre and a half down a dark motorway I’ve walked every night doesn’t bother me and I feel perfectly safe, there’s a cathartic reason it opens with the Pet Shop Boys’ Home & Dry.

But it’s done. We’ve been to Riyadh and nothing bad happened and I ate some really great falafel. Also had one of the best experiences of my life when I walked up to media pen on the test day and there was a near-equal number of female to male drivers due to a test stunt where teams were allowed to run a second car if a woman drove it.

Yeah, it’s a stunt. But it’s the one that means Saudi Arabia has now had the most women driving in a mixed-gender, top flight motorsport series, simultaneously, of any country ever. If anyone’s mad about that then motorsport has been happening for 125 years and somewhere else could have done it first. I mean, this is just sport. Somewhere could have done that. Somewhere could do it now with a larger number. In the interim, well played HRH Abdulaziz.

I decide maybe I don’t want to drink any wine in Cairo airport on my way back, for roughly the amount of time it takes me to get off my plane, walk to a place that sells wine and immediately order some. It tastes so good, I have a little cry.

Thus ends year one of what’s going to be ten years of me taking myself to Riyadh, Saudi Arabia, as a lone woman and trying to get around.

Something weird happens the day after that season’s final race in New York, which is that I go to a lunch with a load of other journalists. They’re all F1 and important and cool, I probably shouldn’t have even been invited. Especially given I’ve just got off a heavily delayed overnight flight from JFK and I am not feeling it.

Anyway, I inevitably mention I’m from Formula E and this guy goes off at me about Riyadh. Then when he discovers I actually go, he goes even more in on me and my moral decay. I’m genuinely shocked by the ferocity of it, especially from a group of people who go to Bahrain.

I’ve got used to having to explain myself but this guy just won’t let it lie, says I’m dancing on Khashoggi’s grave and and mocking the idea of journalism, supporting crimes against women. I kind of think, privately, that that’s a bit much coming from the lofty podium of working in, uh, famous humanitarian agency Formula One but then at the time I also do that so perhaps that’s not a great stone to start throwing in a room full of people who do too.

I don’t manage to get my brain together enough to sell it to him. I mean, I don’t know if I want to sell it? Do I actually think it’s good that we go, not just survivable?

You know what, I do. I think it’s difficult and it stresses me out and every year it makes the season opener tough and you know, people shout at me over lunch and things. But look, if you just close the door on Saudi Arabia then how’s there gonna be reform? How is freedom of the press and rights going to improve if you don’t know anything about anything that happens there? Or anything about the country? The people that live there?

It’s 2019; the same way that Saudi Arabia can’t stop the flow of information as a young, internet-savvy population gets extremely online, you can’t stand in the way of things

My most succinct summary of why I think we should go, though, is simpler: Formula E getting paid to race in the home of oil and sit there going ‘that’s bad’ without getting censored is the biggest middle finger move.

Ah, Riyadh alone: round two. Now, surely, I would be armed with enough knowledge to not screw up constantly by disappearing into my own bizarre alternate reality.

Guess what? I absolutely do not. If anything else I’m even worse. I get really, really anxious in the runup — partly because this year my mother knows I am going and oh boy am I getting told off. Which is pathetic, what the hell, what kind of tiny, baby child am I?

I booked my flights really early this time, before testing. They were way better flights and I was excited to be going home via Beirut because apparently I am a lot better at inventing fictional versions of countries that sit in my brain like mirages than I am at reading the news.

Anyway, great life choices aside (it’s not like this is even my worst one) I, in theory, should be really chill about this. Except I miss the FIA email to apply for a visa and end up doing it late and it doesn’t turn up for ages and I get really stressed and then also ill and I start a new job and everything is really full on and I want to throw up.

I don’t do my packing until the last minute, then prepare by drinking too much wine and sleeping through my alarm so I have to book a last minute Uber to Stansted. Which isn’t ideal because I’m not sure if I’ve been paid but better than missing the whole thing.

Anyway, my point-blank refusal to ever check my bank balance is very much a me thing rather than anything directly connected to Saudi Arabia. So, off to Stansted and I have to re-buy everything I need and obviously forgot in the airport but again, this is pretty standard behaviour for anyone who’s as much of a total mess as me.

This doesn’t seem like the way to do it. I can get most places half-cut and sloppy but this is not most places. Nevermind — also it turns out Pegasus serve surprisingly pleasant in-flight wine and by the time I get to Istanbul I’m feeling quite relaxed; I have hours of stopover for it to wear off in, don’t worry.

I don’t want to go. It’s got into my head. I’ve been getting all these weird emails with hate-filled fantasies about me getting killed and I keep thinking about the guy at that lunch and also about the texts from my mum and the way I don’t feel cavalier enough to be doing this.

Why am I going? Because it’s my job to go. Because I have stuff to do. Because I have this endless compulsion to do it and it’s a massive privilege. I don’t know. It’s all weighing on my brain, am I an instrument of state PR now? I wouldn’t put up with that from anywhere and besides, I don’t think I am. I’d probably be on a fancier flight if I was.

But getting onto my late-night flight in Istanbul, I know it’s descended again. The fictional, fearful Riyadh is in my head and every radical thing I’ve tweeted from the past year is haunting me. What the hell am I doing going to Saudi Arabia?

And the thing is, I can’t (at this point) recognise it’s the VR. Yet again, I’m expecting to get arrested at the airport, to get trailed, a million paranoid things that won’t happen. But now they’re incredibly real in the sort of simulated reality everyone’s told me definitely exists and is more important than my own memories.

I’m not normally like this. I haven’t been sleeping enough (I’ve had ten hours sleep over five nights) and it’s really starting to show.

Still, on the plane now so better live with it — obviously I get to Riyadh without incident and am through the airport with a warm bag of falafel and a coffee, into an Uber where I manage to stagger through a mostly-Arabic conversation and send a selection of my wilder and more enthusiastic tweets about politically safe but morally questionable topic: Lando Norris is really hot lately.

I know I said I’m never going to win a Pulitzer but with that kind of bold reporting, I really should.

Finding my hotel takes a bit (it’s another, different dubious apartment hotel) and by the time I’m in and arrived, it’s like 3:30am so I just pass out in the massive bed. By which I mean, look at memes on my phone and rewatch the camping episodes of It’s Alive and wonder at which point I stopped just writing about semi-teenage idiot sportspeople and actually became one.

Nevermind, anyway, soon enough it’s time to revisit ‘finding the accreditation centre.’ This year I am determined not to have to climb any catch fencing so pick my Uber dropoff point VERY carefully. It is to absolutely no avail and I end up lost in the enormous Diriyah Season compound down near where Ruiz and Joshua will be going at it in a few weeks but certainly there are no electric cars currently.

Because I’m still freaking out and only managing to psychologically sustain myself by internally commentating on the situation it gets steadily worse as I wobble across the paddock on a combination of caffeine, adrenaline and inadvisable 4am hotel tap water. Once I actually find the place, collect the thing and get in the media centre things feel less out of control, except that I need to write two season previews before anyone wakes up in the UK still.

At least there’s fruit and coffee.

Thursday is a bit of a mess, for me. I don’t eat enough (I’m vegan and it’s a genuine problem in paddocks) and I’m so sleep deprived I’m really not coping very well and keep having to watch Calming YouTube Content to get a grip on myself and churn out another thousand words. To be fair, all of this is just the business of being me, doing journalism so can’t really be attributed to Riyadh or anyone there.

A team are doing an event later where I’m meant to be interviewing someone who I inevitably don’t get to interview because scheduling is a nightmare and also it’s really obvious that I am about one second from falling asleep on the floor and considerably over my stress limit. Another woman in Formula E asks me why I’m letting the side down by wearing an abaya (most team personnel are taking them off the second they enter the paddock) and I just snap.

It’s because I’m on my own. Because I arrived at 1:30am. Because everyone’s spent the last month telling me how stupid I am by going here and how certain I am to get killed and it turns out even I have a limit to self-determined risk enthusiasm. Because if anything happens to me, no one knows where I am and Formula E don’t look after me -

This comes as a surprise. They don’t? Surely no one lets me run round Saudi Arabia totally on my own?

Oh, they do. And being alone is psychologically testing and I feel so pathetic at how pitiable it all sounds. One of the drivers sympathetically tells me that sounds “really fucked up, to be honest.” It, err, doesn’t help.

By the time I get back to my hotel the absolute most I can manage to do is go to a shop and buy the ingredients for a big night in in Riyadh. Which is to say, some crisps, some mystery thing in a jar that turns out to be definitely not vegan kind of fake cheese with the consistency of mayonnaise that tastes amazing on crisps (food waste is bad) and one of everything from the drinks section.

I love foreign supermarkets. Full of weird stuff. This one is crucially full of men who are understandably surprised to see a western lady wandering around shaking like she’s on a billion drugs and trying to find the hummus (I can’t) or work out which colour of water is fizzy in these parts.

Obviously there’s no beer in Saudi Arabia but there is a wide selection of like beer-adjacent malt drinks that have weird fruity flavours and also cider-adjacent things with frightening coloured labels. I go for a beer-adjacent thing in flavour ‘original’ and a threatening can of Mirinda which poses the question about itself: watermelon or cantaloupe?

(my investigative powers don’t stretch that far, it mostly tastes of heavy-handed corn syrup)

I’m freaking out, though, because when I was in the supermarket the guy packing my bags gave me a present. It was just a chocolate wafer thing and I was concentrating on understanding what number I needed to pay so didn’t really pay any attention until I left and suddenly thought: what if they’re setting me up to be done for stealing it?

There was no evidence for this at all. Every Saudi I’ve met has been genuinely helpful or openly friendly, the worst reaction being a kind of morbid curiosity about why anyone would do what I am doing. But instead of using all 10ft-across of my weirdly gigantic hotel bed to get the sleep I really, really desperately need I obviously just send myself insane googling ‘setup to be arrested Saudi shops’ and variants thereon. It’s so stupid and I am only getting stupider as I waste precious resting hours on doing the opposite of that.

Now fully convinced I will be in jail before the end of the day, it’s time for the Friday race. Either you’re into motorsport and therefore know how race day works or you’re not and so don’t care but basically a lot of things happen all at once and I have to stop writing worryingly thirsty things about drivers in other series and do some work for once.

I’m really in the toilet, brain-wise, by this point and have to cry in the loos three times during the day. Which is difficult when the loos keep being closed because of some kind of water supply issue (Formula E uses temporarily-built paddocks so these things happen) and requires quite a lot of timing effort.

Also people keep interviewing me, which actually now seems to happen more than I interview other people and the whole thing feels completely ridiculous. Why are you interviewing me? I’m an idiot and I can’t remember my own name or feel most of the left side of my body because I last had ‘adequate sleep’ about three weeks ago and for some reason I forgot to bring any socks with me so I have these really aggressive blisters and I’m probably going to go to Saudi jail over a chocolate bar.

A lot of stuff is happening to me and very little of it is conducive to doing anything useful. Which then gets in my head more and this is how every weekend goes, except with an added, imaginary carceral threat.

I relay my woes to one of my friends who advises that maybe it really would be a good idea to eat something that isn’t crisps and get more than three hours’ sleep and like ok, I can believe that.

My Saudi friend notices I am having a meltdown and says she’s worried I hate her city. It finally kicks me into functional gear — I can’t be coming over here, making people feel bad about the fact I have a wholly imaginary version of their country down over my head like a visor.

So that night I first go to the concert after Formula E and purchase ‘potato,’ the most vegan thing I can find to eat. This helps somewhat and gets me into the mindset where when my taxi drops me off, I head off to the malls near where I’m staying (which are not the grander, designer sort you find in some of Riyadh) to complete the incredibly trivial task of buying socks and ordering stir fry.

Socks it turns out are easy, as there’s a shoe shop nearby and I could’ve saved myself a world of pain really easily. Which is pretty much the moral of this entire episode: stop making your life really hard and driving yourself insane and instead of just doing things like a normal, woman.

Dinner is also easy in that I get an absolutely monumental quantity of stir fry vegetables from a mall food court place and eat them in a sort of blissful semi-coma while listening to the sounds of Dr Dre’s seminal album 2001, over the mall tannoy. I seem to be staying in a very Asian district this year and most of the restaurants seem to be authentic Indonesian places.

This helps the sleeping problem enormously. It turns out just ‘not being scared’ is really key to getting six straight hours in bed and so being able to operate normally. And that’s the thing, what am I even scared of? Myself?

(to be fair, I am definitely the biggest danger to me)

It feels better. But I’m still relieved when I leave — it’s all the things: my own stupid ideas, the judgement from other people, the pressure of trying to make sure I’m doing it right.

Before I do though, I go to the last concert with a group of Saudi young people who I’ve tagged along with. Everyone is covered in glitter and dancing suggestively and jumping on each other and starting mosh pits. It feels like being at a gig I am about 15 years too old for in any other country, except that unlike if it was in London no one sloshes a pint of Tuborg down my back at any point.

It definitely does not feel like government collusion when at the end of his set, a Lebanese rapper does a dubstep version of Bryan Adams’ Everything I Do (I Do It For You) and I, an old person, absolutely lose it in front of this surreally gigantic stage, surrounded by excited young people.

For me, I could go to a gig like that every night of the week in London. But this is one of a handful. The first western music concerts were played at the Eprix the year before and there’s something there that feels big. You can claim the sport is a distraction for the rest of the world but you don’t televise concerts, these are for the Saudis.

(The concerts actually caused a really problematic ticketing situation this year where people were buying them, looking like the Formula E numbers were good because it was a combined ticket and then not turning up — when the organisers were asked they admitted they screwed up and would be trying to fix it next year)

This is what it comes down to, about the race. It’s a good track, it’s one of the best ones we have in fact — it’s produced two exciting races this season and despite torrential rain making the first year difficult, it worked then too. And yes, we have done all the bits about turning up to torrential rain in Riyadh; it snowed on the Sahara when we were in Marrakech once, too.

Climate change doesn’t really deal in imaginary metaphors.

So it’s a good track, the drivers like to drive on it, it produces a genuinely good sporting event. It takes electric racing and green principles, confrontationally, to one of the homes of oil. It has forced some small changes — which should not overshadow the achievements and struggles of Saudi Arabians themselves in getting those.

If you think it is just sportswashing then that’s too simple, it isn’t. It depends if you think the Saudi 2030 Vision plan is for you, probably sitting in the west and still thinking of this as some distant horror theme park, or for people there.

There’s an open PR angle, but those stats — the ones from way back at the show case, about how low life expectancy is in Saudi Arabia and how generally Saudis have a poor quality of life — well, a lot of this is not about how you see it. It’s about things like the massive investment into grass roots sport (especially motorsport, a nice upside to the now-head of the Sports Authority being an ex-racer) might improve things for regular Saudis.

You want to know what going to Riyadh is like? It’s a bit boring. People want stuff to do, same as you. And to meet people — each other and weird, jetlagged British women who can barely hold a coffee without tipping it down themselves.

So long as we acknowledge the other stuff (and we should do it everywhere) then I think you’re taking the wrong side, if you believe your opinion trumps their right to access that.

Ok here’s some more tea: Riyadh is covered in rubbish. If you want proof I’m not lying, here it is: the whole place is absolutely bedecked in trash.

This happens a lot in places with poor infrastructure, which Riyadh absolutely has. Because making life easy for people to get around and to meet up and to get places hasn’t been a social or specifically political priority, Saudi quality of life suffers in more ways than one. Who cares if the streets are filled with garbage if you never go out?

But people do now. Young Saudis go out in big groups and nearly all Saudis are young. Stepping around overspilling rubbish becomes the first thing I get the hang of keeping my abaya out of because man, it does not smell ok.

Rubbish in a city is a pollutant and I really hope, for the people living there, that Riyadh sorts this out. It’s all the ‘being a metaphor’ thing, isn’t it? Metaphors for governments don’t have extensive municipal recycling programmes.

I can’t tell you to unconditionally support Formula E racing in Riyadh. I don’t think you should unconditionally support anything, really, apart from maybe Lando Norris but we’re all just having a big one about that at the minute.

But anyway, this wasn’t to tell you what to think. It was slightly just to write about going there because not many people do and slightly because everyone keeps insisting no one in the Formula E media is thinking about this stuff when I have tortured myself for weeks with it. Also some of the anecdotes are funny. I could write a lot more, from my run-ins with ‘rose Lattes’ to the time I bought a lime juice and recklessly refused extra sugar in it only to discover I’d got an actual pint of just undiluted lime.

But this is long enough and it’s already much too much about me, for something that really shouldn’t be. We all have to live in our own heads.

[neverwrittenffbefore]

Change - {Sami Zayn x Reader Ep. 4}

It had been two days since your man Rami Sebei, known as Sami Zayn in WWE, had shocked the wrestling world by saving Kevin Owens at Hell in a Cell. Although you were Sami’s valet, you were absent from Hell in a Cell. In fact, you had been absent from WWE TV, Live Events, and Pay-Per-Views for a few months now. Being a famous act(ress/or), you were busy filming, doing interviews, or making guest appearances. You and a very excited Sami Zayn were backstage at Smackdown Live waiting for the timeslot for the inevitable promo which would explain Sami’s actions, though your boyfriend/fiancé/husband was being rather impatient.

“This could be it right here. The start of my push. It felt like forever, but it’s finally here.” Sami said with eyes full of happiness. You couldn’t help but smile at him before resting your hand on top of his.

“Sami. Y/N. You’re up,” a backstage crew member informed the both of you.

- Kayfabe -

Sami and Kevin were had finished up their speeches towards one another and we’re going in for a hug, when you’re music suddenly hit.

The crowd erupted in cheers, as this was an unexpected surprise for them. The commentators made banter as you approached the ring.

“Oh...oh my!” “It’s Y/N!” “She/he’s back!” “Man oh man have I missed seeing her/him ringside during Sami Zayn’s matches.” “But she/he doesn’t look too happy.” “Does she/he ever?”

The crowd was doing the ‘Yes!’ chant. This genuinely surprised you, since you had been a heel the last time you were seen. You entered the ring and stood in front of Sami, a displeased look on your face. Sami, however, was happy to see you. Your man went in to hug you, but you put your hand up as a barrier between the two of you. After a few seconds of silence, you were ready to speak.

“What’s gotten into you?” you asked. Your tone of voice suggested that you were irritated.

“Wha...nothing’s gotten into me! Except for maybe a dose of reality.” Sami softly chuckled and looked around, in a ‘what is she/he talking about?’ sort of way.

“Don’t give me that. Did you seriously just align yourself with him? Him?!”

“With my brother? Yes. Yes I did!” Sami’s expression had yet to change. It was a bit eerie. You were growing more impatient.

“I don’t know what kind of spell this jackass has you under, but you need to snap out of it, Sami! You mean nothing to him! Have you forgotten what he’s done to you?”

“No. I haven’t forgotten how he awakened me. What did you think I was thanking him for?” Sami was still as happy as can be.

“Awakened you!?” you began. “He’s caused nothing but pain to everyone he’s ever met! Remember when he powerbombed you on the apron the night you became NXT Champion? Remember when he brutally attacked his ‘best friend’ at the time Chris Jericho? Remember when he tried to end your career only a few weeks ago!? My god! How can you be so blind? What’s wrong with you!?”

Sami’s mood finally changed. His smile instantly turned into a frown.

“Who the hell are you to be judging me? Do we need to be reminded of what you did almost a year ago? My tag match with Kalisto?? You were so upset about me being on a losing streak that you attacked Kalisto after our match. You developed a terrible attitude with everyone. What I did had some justification to it. You? All you are is a hypocrite that bitches about everything.” The crowd roared with “Oh’s.” Sami didn’t let you respond just yet.

“Kevin helped me realize that I can’t wait for my opportunity anymore. I need to be more like him and just take it.”

“More like him? Remember how he ‘won’ the Universal Championship? Shortcuts in life aren’t for everyone, Sami. They’re for those who need someone to hold their hand through everything because they can’t get things done themselves.” Your tone of voice changed from angry to disappointed. “That isn’t who you are. That’s not the Sami Zayn that all of these people know. That’s not the Sami Zayn that the children in the audience and at home look up to.” You paused for a second. It became evident that you were staring to choke up. “I’m beginning to think that the Sami I fell in love with is also disappearing by the second.”

Sami’s face turned into one of compassion...for a brief moment, before reverting back to its angry state.

“You’re either with me on this, or you’re not with me at all,” was all he had to say in response. You couldn’t hold in the tears any longer.

“I don’t know who you are anymore,” you said to the love of your life. Your words and state seemed to have no impact on Sami. After a moment of silence, you managed to swallow the lump in your throat. You put on a brave face, despite the pain you were clearly feeling.

“Remember when you tried to warn Chris Jericho about Kevin Owens?” you began. Sami and Kevin looked confused, not knowing why you brought that up out of the blue.

“You tried to tell him that Kevin is bad news, and you even went as far as to call him ‘Kevin Owens’ bitch’ ....well take your own advice. Because I know he’s bound to stab you in the back yet again, I’ll say this now. I told you so. And just so we’re clear, I’m not with you on this and I’m no longer with you at all. Good luck, because you’re on your own now.” The crowd gave mixed reactions. Many couldn’t believe that they had just seen Y/N and Sami Zayn’s relationship come to an end. Everyone always admired you two. You were what they called “goals.”

- Kayfabe over -

You returned backstage first, so you waited for Sami to arrive. When he did, he came at you with a hug clearly on his mind. Thank goodness kayfabe was over, because you were dying to hug him.

“You really went in on me,” your Sami said with a chuckle.

“That was nothing compared to me,” Kevin added as he pretended to take offense. The three of you laughed before separating from Kevin as he walked the opposite direction. You and Sami decided to get something to eat at catering. Hand-in-hand, you both made your way over there. Though it was just a storyline, you couldn’t help but wonder what you would do if it was real. What if Sami suddenly went from being his sweet and innocent self to being a complete scumbag? Would you be able to stay, or would you be forced to leave him? Sami must’ve noticed that something was bothering you. He didn’t know what exactly it was, but he still squeezed your hand and smiled at you in reassurance like the sweetheart he was. As cheesy as it sounds, you really did feel so lucky to have your gingerbread man in your life. The smile he would wear when you called him that was simply perfect.

[thesportssoundoff]

DC, Mighty Mouse, “marketing African Americans differently” and attempting to dissect hows and whys

Joey

June 8th, 2017

HABOY.

There's no real way to parse this because, in essence, there's no definite truths. When DC talks about advertising/promoting to African Americans, it's tough because in MMA (and in pro wrestling), I can't think of any definitive examples of what would actually be a successful promotion of African Americans. What's more, I guess there's probably a lack of adulthood in terms of realistically discussing and analyzing what IS or IS NOT successful promotion in general and specifically successful promotions to groups of people (Asian fighters to Asian markets, Latin american/South American etc etc etc). If there was ONE actual definitive way to do this shit, everybody would be doing it. Star creation is luck, promotional design and the right talent and there's never an easy to follow pattern as to how to pull that off. Against better judgment, let's swim some treacherous waters:

1- The UFC (and MMA in general) absolutely could better market to African Americans/Black combat sports fans. Of that I'm sure there is no disagreement.

2- How? I 'unno. Maybe you can hire some people to better analyze how you can do that OR it's like with Bob Arum on White people; ya just kinda chalk it up as a loss.

3- When I look at the top draws in boxing who are Black/African American what have you (because SURELY we wouldn't consider Anthony Joshua an African American!), the reality is that MMA as a whole kind of sort of conflicts with what made a lot of those guys super popular. First let's begin by defining the main players I'm looking at. To me the big draws of the past 20-25 years or so are guys like Floyd Mayweather, Roy Jones Jr, Mike Tyson, Bernard Hopkins (MIGHT be stretching it here), Adrian Broner (does great TV numbers with really no sort of promotional push) and maybe a Keith Thurman? Removing heavyweights sans Tyson because I think we can agree Tyson is a DIFFERENT transcendent sort of name.

Whereas in boxing, trash talk and shit talk is really accepted, it's almost like MMA works hard to run AWAY from that. All of those guys mentioned above are pretty much great talkers. Thurman's an underrated talker to be entirely honest. The sport in many ways tries at times to nearly drown itself in humility and politeness and while I don't want 1,000,000 Conor McGregor's running around---the best fights draw more often than not on a basis of SOME element of dislike. As a boxing promoter pal once told me, it doesn't have to be real but it has to feel real. Fight promotion in many ways is simply about taking what works in pro wrestling/theater (people want to see real combat with a party they aim to root for or two parties they want to see BOTH get hurt) and subtracting what doesn't (over the top contrived nonsense, overcomplicated matters). Sometimes being humble is more than acceptable, GSP drew big money being humble as did Anderson Silva, but even THEY needed an antagonistic rival to draw the biggest money they could. Humble on its own in MMA, at least in today's MMA, can't draw significant money.

Now of course this goes any race, gender, orientation so on so forth. Anytime a conflict of significance FEELS real, you don't have to be a certain race or nationality to want to see this shit go down. Even if you buy into the idea of Japanese fans being ultra polite and all about the sport, I'd bet Rampage vs Wanderlei beefing it out did way better business than humble sportsman Fedor mowing down dudes. I'm just using the guys who drew big in boxing who were African American who drew big money and how they did it. It's not just about the skills, it's about the style that goes along with it. THAT, in turn, brings us to....

4- The MMA model directly car crashes with what makes a lot of those guys super popular. Going back to Bob Arum for a second, when Floyd Mayweather and Bob Arum had their big split apart, it came down to Bob not seeing what Floyd was seeing. Bob wanted another Sugar Ray Leonard but Floyd Mayweather believed that the public tide was turning. The rap lifestyle of flash, sizzle and big money was where the push was----and so with no true way to reconcile, the split occurred. Floyd ultimately was OBVIOUSLY correct as "Money" Mayweather has carried boxing (with pinch hits from Oscar De La Hoya, Manny Pacquaio, Miguel Cotto and Canelo Alvarez kinda) over the past however many decades. Look at Broner's poor man's (irony?) version of Floyd Mayweather act. Even being an utter goofball with the Buddy Landel edition of Floyd's Ric Flair, Broner does BIG business numbers whenever he fights. It's not just about who you are and how good you are, it's about flashing the rewards and repping the lifestyle while ya do it. Bernard Hopkins is clearly the outlier in this regard as B-Hop is notorious for being a guy who sits on money like it's about to hatch or something but look at Tyson, Floyd, RJJ, Broner and even "Sugar" Shane Mosley. There's a lifestyle to be lead here.

MMA doesn't pay in that way. No fighter ever will approach Floyd's major paydays and it could be realistic argued that this sport is 20 years away from making what Floyd made on the low side of his PPV fights before his big breakout. Right now ONE guy in this business could demand 1 mil plus and he's probably on his way out soon. Whether it can or can't is always going to be open to interpretation I guess---but I think we'd all agree that the UFC (or Bellator or anybody) aren't going to overpay somebody (in their eyes) on a gamble. Mighty Mouse the fighter may be worth $1,000,000 on resume, history and skills but from a promotional standpoint, his net worth is probably not even close to that. The UFC (or so on so forth) probably aren't going to upset their pay structure on the hopes that seeing a blinged out fighter draws in a section of the audience that's not tuning in now. Could it? I mean I guess it could since Conor McGregor's trying it but it sure seems like a lot of folks see through McGregor's rent everything for a day then return it gimmick. MMA doesn't pay in a way that's drawn in the more modern African American casual audience and until that changes, you'll forever be talking about the what if's of the whole damn thing.

5- There's almost an uneasiness to go back and look at what has drawn in the African American audiences, or just big audiences involving African American fighters, before. Now off the bat, we don't know the composite of what the household breakdown is or what the demos were but let's JUST look at the big drawing fights with African Americans at the top of the billing. The biggest fights off the top of my head are Rashad Evans vs Rampage Jackson, Jon Jones vs Daniel Cormier and Jon Jones vs Rashad Evans. There's elements of uncomfortable in that, ya know? The Rampage/Rashad beef, as fun as it was, involved a lot of really uncomfortable moments where Rashad accused Rampage of essentially of dumbing himself down for the UFC audience and running a minstrel show (a similar complaint/accusation was levied by King Mo at Rampage). Rashad vs Jon Jones was a massive falling apart between two guys who were essentially brothers to one another and Daniel Cormier vs Jon Jones involved shoes being thrown, Jones roaring on a stage like a madman and DC once proclaiming that the fans didn't like EITHER of them but they hated Jon Jones more so he was the by default babyface. I mean if  YOU were an African American looking to get into MMA, would that kinda shit drive you in?

6- What if the fighter who can appeal to African Americans just isn't in the UFC right now? Or MMA in general?

7- The UFC promotes everybody the same. The comment that always comes up is "THEY HAVE SPECIAL PROMOTIONAL TACTICS FOR GUYS THEY WANT TO PUSH" but common sense suggests they really don't.  The only person who is unique in that regard was Ronda Rousey but she's different. Guys debut on prelims, if they wow then the UFC will social media the hell out of them and then if win AGAIN they get hot and get moved up to a main card and if they catch even more smoke, the UFC starts to trumpet the guy in the same way they trumpeted everybody else. Some guys take and some guys don't. There's no absolute way to make it work. While they COULD do something different to market towards African Americans, they may just be fine with how they do things in general because the levy hasn't broken yet or at least not entirely. It's just kind of doing what it always does.

So where's all this leading? I mean I 'unno. I think we can all agree that the growth of the sport is paramount to fans, promoters, TV execs, web people etc etc etc. If there's a large community of folks who might like this madness as much as we do but they're not being drawn in for one reason or another then shit, we should all want them in. This failboat of a sport is for all!  The problem is that I just don't think there's an obvious solution. What's worked in the past for the African American audience in combat sports really can't work in MMA. They can't quite mind the gap between "I'd like to like MMA" and "I'd like to pay to watch MMA" because of SO many factors right now prohibiting it. Now of course I'd like to see more effort in promoting to other groups of people but unless they have a good plan in place to implement it, I suppose no effort and bad effort equal out to all the same. There's no Bill Watts (never thought I'd namedrop this guy on here, Jesus Christ) to come up with great ways to elevate an MMA version of the Junkyard Dog. Maybe that's not a bad thing though given Watts' reputation.

And even Daniel Cormier is quite honest about Mighty Mouse not fitting into a set group. He's a nerdy short dude who doesn't talk a lot of trash and as dynamic as he is in the cage, his personality fits for a very small niche of people like myself and probably the folks reading this. He's a niche guy and while I'm glad to be in that niche, I understand the limited appeal. In my mind, the one demo you can market Mighty Mouse to are to kids and teenagers given the fact he's not super big and does internet streaming and while this is a perfect comp, the Ray Mysterio factor of "look at this smaller guy doing cool shit!" should have some impact in MMA.

So I guess, in the end, figuring this whole thing out is truly a matter of determining the How's and Whys'.

[placetobenation]

Welcome to the first ever “This Week in the WWE” with yours truly. Before we get into the historic week that was in sports entertainment, let me give you a blurb about me. I am an avid pro wrestling fan dating back to seeing Jimmy Snuka vs. Don Muraco (and yes, Pete Doherty) at the old Boston Garden in Boston and the epic King of the Ring series in Providence. But, not only was I a watcher of then WWF, but also Georgia Championship Wrestling, World Class Championship Wrestling, the NWA, Mid-South, WCW and yes, even Southwest Championship Wrestling. So, yes, we’ve seen the industry weave in and out of many different forks in the road. I’m a huge HBK fan (who isn’t?!) and since I’ve worked in tv & radio for 30 years, I love thinking outside the box and creativity. But, enough about me. Now, it’s onto the 2019 scene and beyond.

Before we get into the specific shows, let’s look at the landscape. Any wrestling fan with his or her head not buried in the sand knows how huge a week this was for not only WWE, but also the upstart All Elite Wrestling league as well as the entire industry. For the first time since 2001 and the Monday Night Wars between RAW and WCW’s Nitro, there would be a live competitor on TNT to WWE in the form of AEW’s Dynamite vs. WWE’s NXT on Wednesday night. In addition, for the first time EVER, the WWE would return to broadcast TV on FOX with Friday Night Smackdown, meaning a new gateway to mainstream fans is open should WWE take advantage of it. For comparison sake, a really good show on cable TV can do two million viewers. That same really good show on broadcast TV would expect to double that many viewers in order to be successful. The number one show on broadcast TV, Sunday Night Football on NBC, just did 15 million viewers with the Cowboys vs. Saints last Sunday night. 

Competition is good for EVERYONE and especially the fans! We get to watch and enjoy it all! Don’t get sucked into you have to “be” with one side of the other. Watch it all. WWE, AEW, Ring of Honor, New  Japan, MLW, House of Hardcore and any number of your favorite indy promotions! It will only make the individual companies strive to get better or get out of the game. The strong will survive but along the way, we should get many, many, MANY memorable moments. 

So, let’s get to it. I’m not going to give you “five star (or any star) ratings.” That’s not my thing. I will tell you what I think they got right and what went off the deep end as well. 

Monday Night RAW – Season premiere on USA Network

Results:  Sasha Banks defeated Alexa Bliss  Raw Tag Team Title Match: Champions Robert Roode & Dolph Ziggler defeated Heavy Machinery  The Viking Raiders defeated The Good Brothers Ricochet defeated Cesaro  US Title Match: Champion AJ Styles defeated Cedric Alexander  Lacey Evans defeated Natalya  Universal Title Match: Champion Seth Rollins vs. Rusev went to a no contest What we loved:  An absolute epic destruction of Rey Mysterio, JR and his son Dominic by Brock Lesnar to start the show. Lesnar’s heel stock soars! Tag teams! Loving the chemistry with Roode & Ziggler. Heavy Machinery is downright entertaining, I’m digging the AOP vignettes too. There better be more than a one week payoff there when they debut in the ring! One question though, do Gallows and Anderson really need to lose every week? 

The Fiend! What’s not to love about Bray Wyatt’s alter ego. I would love to see him start terrorizing more than just babyfaces and legends though. Be more arbitrary. After all, that would make more sense as to why he gets a Universal Title Shot at Hell in the Cell PPV without ever having a tv match, wouldn’t it? 

What we hated:  Where was Seth Rollins during that beatdown? The company’s supposed #1 babyface doesn’t come out to save Rey and his son? Makes too much sense, doesn’t it? Talk about your missed opportunity!

While we always enjoy a dose of the Southern Belle, Lacey Evans, I don’t need a weekly diet of Natalya in a match we’ve seen three or four times over now. Put them in different settings, different opponents if you want to continue the feud. They both have it in them. Ditto for Ricochet vs. Cesaro. All four deserve more creativity. 

Bobby Lashley & Lana? Seriously! I’m all for pushing the TV-14 envelope, but that lengthy make out session that renders Rusev useless during a Championship match was a tinge long even for Vincent Kennedy McMahon’s teenage tendencies! You knew it was just a fork in the road en route to The Fiend getting to Rollins to end the show. Which begs the question, why wouldn’t Rusev save Rollins again after doing it earlier in the night? He’s already out there! I know, I know. Too much common sense. 

MEH:  Team Flair vs. Team Hogan on MIZ TV. Sure, it’s a way to pay off some legends of the past for the Saudi Prince on Halloween night with a 10-man tag match featuring captains Randy Orton and Seth Rollins, but haven’t we seen this one before in TNA? I hope they find a way to showcase a few seldom used stars as part of the five-man teams to give them the rub to catapult them after the event. Let’s hope no physicality with the legend captain however! We don’t need to see that!

NXT on USA Network

Results:

NXT Championship: Adam Cole defeats Matt Riddle Io Shirai pins Mia Yam Johnny Gargano wins over Shane Thorne NXT Women’s Championship: Shayna Baszler taps out Candice LeRae Pete Dunne defeats Danny Burch NXT Tag Team Championship: The Undisputed Era pins Street Profits

Bravo! For its Virgin Excursion, live for two hours on the USA Network, the men and women of NXT blew the doors down on a night in which it went head-to-head with the debuting AEW Dynamite on TNT. Sure, the rating/viewer numbers show that AEW won the battle (1.4 million viewers vs. 891,000 viewers according to Nielsen), the pure enjoyment and success showed through. 

From Adam Cole retaining his NXT Championship against Matt Riddle, despite a fractured wrist, to Shayna Baszler winning a back-and-forth-balls-to-the wall war over Candice LeRae to the Undisputed ERA staving off the Street Profits in the NXT Tag Team Championship main event, the effort, pacing and sheer athleticism was there. 

What we loved:  All of it! No down time, no mic time fillers and a few surprises to boot! 

Finn Balor IS NXT! A nice surprise as the former NXT Champion returns to Full Sail to challenge Cole. It’s time for Ballor Club to shine again instead of getting lost in the main roster shuffle. 

Tommaso Ciampa returns. Yes, Mr. Cole has a lot of his plate. Can you imagine a future tag team match with Ciampa, Balor, Johnny Gargano & more facing the Undisputed ERA? Sign me up NOW!

What we hated: 

Nothing. Although in today’s age, perception is reality. While I love NXT’s Full Sail crowd, a mainstream audience vs. AEW’s larger arena crowd may make some think of NXT as small-time. Trust me, it’s not. 

Friday Night Smackdown – Season premiere on FOX

Results:

Charlotte & Becky Lynch defeated Bayley & Sasha Banks via submission  Non-Title Match: Seth Rollins vs. Shinsuke Nakamura went to a no contest  Career vs. Career Ladder Match: Kevin Owens defeated Shane McMahon  8-man tag team match: Braun Strowman, The Miz, & Heavy Machinery defeated AJ Styles, Robert Roode, Dolph Ziggler, & Randy Orton Lumberjack Match: Roman Reigns defeated Erick Rowan  WWE Title Match: Brock Lesnar defeated Champion Kofi Kingston

What we loved: 

Amazing set! Best of the Smackdown series with a nod to the arches from yesteryear!

Kevin Owens and a ladder = success. If we don’t have to see Shane McMahon sweat his way through a WWE event anytime soon, it will be a blessing!

Daniel Bryan. Is it me or do I see a swerve coming Sunday at HIAC? I don’t want a babyface Bryan just yet! Give me a Survivor Series with Team Bryan vs. Team Reigns. 

The “non-PG” Rock with The Man. C’mon, how could you not love a double dose of calling King Corbin the “Super Tough Dude” to get an STD chant. Priceless!

What we hated: 

The quickness of the end to Kofi Kingston’s title reign. 10 seconds? Seriously?! He deserved better. I agree with putting the title back on Lesnar now that Smackdown is on FOX, he’s more mainstream and can attract more eyeballs, especially if he’s actually going to appear more often. But, to just dismiss Kofi to get to the surprise of Cain Velazquez coming out with Rey Mysterio, JR. to challenge Lesnar to pay off Monday’s attack is wrong. The question now is can they get mainstream fans to care about a Lesnar-Velasquez feud after their “real” encounter in MMA in which Lesnar got his ass handed to him. 

Did you really think we were going to get something good out of the champion vs. champion match other than The Fiend showing up to attack Rollins? Clear as day, my friends. At least give me something before the expected comes. And yes, I know you have to build up to the PPV match, but again, don’

An 8-man tag for less than 3 minutes? Why bother. Sometimes less is more and yes, jamming 8 stars with nothing to do in order to kick off a Strowman-Tyson Fury incident seems a stretch. I applaud trying to get the boxing audience to cross over, but there are better ways to do it. Especially, if the now pay off comes next on RAW on the USA Network. I guess the split won’t actually occur until the Draft starting October 11th on FOX. 

Bonus what we loved: The 24/7 Championship! The twists and turns continue as Marshmello (yes, the DJ!) wins and loses the Title in a WWE.com exclusive. Someday soon, I can see FOX and former Steelers QB Terry Bradshaw winning it on FOX! The Truth and Carmella are brilliant with the comedy that I hope continues with this Championship. It’s OK to have some fun in sports entertainment! 

Thanks for letting us share our thoughts! Shoot me an email at jcrowe567@gmail.com. We’d love to hear you comments and suggestions! You can also check out my blog, The Crowe’s Nest as we delve into more pro wrestling, sports entertainment and the World of Sports. My apologies ahead of time – I AM a Patriots and Red Sox fan! If you’re not down with that, I’ve got TWO WORDS for you…. NEW ENGLAND!

[dahoodsie]

Markism

Reposted so as to hold myself accountable for writing something new.

NOTE: there is something mentioned at the end that I SWEAR TO YOU was not true at the time -- hee hee.

Originally introduced 7/28/00: What the hell's wrong with admitting you're having a good time? 

There is a tone many people use when they say something like "Yeah, I totally marked out for that." It's a subtle mix of chagrin and apology in which you can detect the unspoken defense "I mean, of course I know it's not REAL."

Not even a ten year old comes out of a movie ranting and raving about how good it was, but feeling the need to justify to listeners "I mean, of course I know it wasn't TRUE." These performers we see week after week, onscreen and in person, put their health, their lives, their time, and their pride on the line for everyone's entertainment -- especially their pride. Why is it that so many of those watching would make a point of not putting their own pride on the line by admitting how much they loved what they saw? It's a far lesser risk than being on TV yourself.

It's become a very cynical world in which we live. Idealism becomes a burden when it seems that anyone who might change the world for the better is gunned down for their trouble. People assume Clinton is lying in a court of law, but worse, they don't care. There's not a lot of joy involved in living like this. On the other hand, living by the maxim of "ignorance is bliss" isn't the greatest option either. Though it seems unlikely, there's no reason cynicism and idealism can't be combined. Having the advantage of information doesn't mean you have to forgo the advantage of enjoyment. Sure, there's no Easter Bunny -- but in a case like this, isn't it more satisfying in the end to know how much trouble your family went to by creating a fun holiday and acting out a story for you? It's possible to accept both the deeper truth and the surface fantasy at the same time -- getting your entertainment out of both.

For all that my mother has been careful to point out that Stan Stasiak never pulled aside the curtain to anyone that she knows of, there was never a time where I was aware of wrestling but wasn't equally aware that the performance going on in the squared circle shared much in common with the Easter Bunny. "Ha ha! Did you see Superstar Billy Graham getting the shit kicked out of him, then he hides under the ring for a minute and now all of a sudden he's covered with blood?!" These were the sort of conversations that I would overhear. I stick to my guns that it's perfectly possible to express appreciation on both levels simultaneously -- and that it's just as important not to get caught up in how smart you are as it is not to get caught up in confusing the characters with the performers.

Let's say you were watching a match involving Ese Rios. Yes, there is a particular brand of fun involved in seeing who gets their turn to drive and how people trade off. "Did you see that? They hit him extra hard, like maybe since he doesn't speak English that well you have to speak louder in body language too." Even so, all calculation must be suspended the moment you see defiance of physics in action. As another example, the Rock must also be given his due. It's all too easy for hardcore fans to become irritated with his limited repertoire, his failure to take many bumps, and the lemming-like devotion he inspires -- but even on the most cynical level it must be admitted both that he works hard and that he stinks of presence in a powerful way. When your appreciation of wrestling as performance art has become complex, it's not necessary to throw out the baby with the bathwater. There's more to enjoy, not less -- and there's no shame in any facet of it.

This sort of dual appreciation can be deeply rewarding. Every once in a while, what you think you know to be true in real life collides with the more calculated incidents you see performed and the results are glorious. In my opinion, the trio of Shawn Michaels, Hunter and Chyna have at times elevated this to an art form. But there is one occurrence that serves as a perfect example of enjoying both levels at the same time -- and whether that adds up to realistic fantasy or fantastic reality is hard to say.

I'm sure you're familiar with the story: Once upon a time, there was a man who was champion and mainstay of the smaller federation. He agreed to leave for the big leagues, more specifically the federation that is better thought of. No one could believe this was true, for it is a very stand-up guy of whom we speak. Because he is, indeed, such a stand-up guy, he makes a point of handling this decision with honor and class. Fast forward. In the absence of said stand-up guy, a meathead with a mullet finds himself getting a lot more attention than anything but his physical size necessarily merits, due to a vacuum of talent created by those who migrated to the big leagues. This attention brings an offer of lots of money from the federation who seems to believe cash is the answer to everything. Said meathead accepts the offer, and proceeds to handle this situation in a manner that could charitably described as tacky.

Hence we see Taz return to ECW to choke out Mike Awesome and strip him of the belt, followed by Tommy Dreamer appearing on SmackDown! to take it from Taz, and I! TOTALLY! MARKED! OUT! Not one cell in my body balks at the admission I found this utterly thrilling.  There will always be those who mock you for the joy you take in anything. Know that they are just too bitter and too fearful to be half so happy. Be content with the awareness that you know Stephanie's not really married to Hunter, and enjoy the show. This is not brain surgery we speak of. This is not the Bay of Pigs. The future of the world is not dependent on who can cut a better promo. This is entertainment, pure and simple, and you're supposed to enjoy it. Because if you're not willing to loosen up and have fun, why else are you alive?

[russellthornton]

Female Led Relationships: 50 Signs You’re in One & Don’t Know It

Who wears the pants in your relationship? Some guys think they do, but do they really? Watch for these signs that you’re in female led relationships.

When my son was in travel baseball many years ago, there was a couple that had four children. What you would expect is either a team effort trying to wrestle four small children or at a minimum, one coaching while the other ran around after the other three. What was apparent and not cool to the rest of us around, was that being in female led relationships, was totally okay with the guy.

He used to show up with two kids in a wagon, one running to get on the playing field and the littlest strapped on his back like a backpack. Trying to smile, we would all ask, “Where is Suzy?” which was really a jerk move on our part because we all knew what the answer was. Not here.

Female led relationships – 50 signs that scream you are in one

So, we would joke about what went on in their house, like her saying “Hey Todd, the laundry isn’t going to do itself,” while he lived his non-joking life of looking miserable. If he was a stay at home dad that would make sense, but he had a full-time job, and she didn’t.

The whole thing was nonsensical to the rest of us who were typically ball field widows whose husbands got to coach when they wanted, golf when they wanted, and had very little responsibility for child rearing at all.

Although somewhat envious of Suzy, years later I look back at it and realize I don’t think I could be comfortable leading my husband by the nose, although he would insist that I am. In my world, I juggle and struggle, and my husband is mostly oblivious to what goes on in my day or our household unless it directly involves him.

That is the way I like it. He has his thing and I have mine. The strangest part is that Todd had absolutely no idea that his marriage was different from everyone else’s.

If being in a female led relationship is what you want, well, all power to you! But if you believe you’re holding the reins, take a look at these 50 signs of typical female led relationships and ask yourself if you see most of these signs in your relationship.

#1 You do the dishes, not just once, but all the time. [Read: 20 things happy couples never do in a relationship]

#2 You are constantly angry because dinner is cold, and she is late again.

#3 You have to check with her before you buy a car, or anything really.

#4 You pick up your own socks.

#5 You spend more time picking up kids and carting them around then she does.

#6 She doesn’t check with you when she spends money, like big money.

#7 The phrase “wait until your mother comes home” is a threat.

#8 You are all about the clipping coupons.

#9 Guys night hasn’t happened since you met.

#10 You can’t remember the last time you got to do anything for yourself.

#11 She gives you an allowance when managing the joint account. [Read: First year of marriage: Surprising truths no one talks about]

#12 You not only know where the washer and dryer is, but like I said: “Todd, the laundry isn’t going to do itself.”

#13 She’s on a girl’s weekend every other weekend.

#14 Your honey-do list never, never, never ends.

#15 Your wife corrects you every time you reprimand the kids.

#16 You feel like you moved back in with your mom.

#17 You have memorized the phrase “yes, dear.” [Read: Selfish people – 15 ways to spot and stop them from hurting you]

#18 Before you answer a yes or no answer question, you look over to see which way her head is turning.

#19 She shushes you.

#20 All of your credit cards are in her name because she wants it that way.

#21 Men activities or the mere talk of them are a no-no.

#22 You haven’t seen anything on television that isn’t reality TV or a Lifetime movie since y’all started dating. The remote has a “do not touch” sign on it, and you wouldn’t dare! [Read: 11 types of girls you should avoid dating at all costs]

#23 She tells you when you have had too much to drink, and that is usually after one.

#24 You wanted one child, and you look around, and there’s like four or five.

#25 You can’t do anything right, like EVER!

#26 She not only picked out the engagement ring, but she also set the date, hired the band, and planned the proposal “surprise.”

#27 Anything that veers from “ask your mom,” are feuding words.

#28 She drives even when you are sober.

#29 What wifey wants… wifey gets! [Read: 20 signs your wife has a control freak inside of her]

#30 Happy wife, sane life.

#31 You find that it is easier to say sorry when right than to deal with ever being right… about anything.

#32 When you tell the dog to get off the couch it just stares blankly at you, when she does, it hops to!

#33 You go to her family’s house for every occasion and see yours solo.

#34 You have to race home on guys/girls night out, so you get home first or the night is ruined.

#35 You sit down to pee, so you don’t accidentally get any urine on the seat. [Read: Do you have a mangina, pussy? 30 things that scream yes]

#36 You actually know how to fold a fitted sheet, ‘cause she showed you umpteen times.

#37 You know that there is a place for everything and everything better damn be in its place.

#38 She not only has a birthday, she has an entire birth month.

#39 ESPN means “Each Spoon Placed Neatly” in your house.

#40 No way you are going to your best friend’s bachelor’s party… ain’t even asking!

#41 Blow jobs are like giving flowers. You give way, way, way more flowers than she does.

#42 You go to great lengths to get your porno fix and not let her find out.  [Read: 10 things to do to become manlier, but not aggressive]

#43 You quit social media because she insisted after seeing girls on your list.

#44 You can’t leave the house without her dressing you.

#45 She never leaves your side at a dinner party, not because she wants to hang out, but so you don’t say anything stupid.

#46 You hate cats, but you have five of them. [Read: 15 types of bad girlfriends who’ll make your life a living hell]

#47 You wanted a truck, but you embarrassingly sport around the neighborhood in your minivan because she “likes” it.

#48 She talks no differently to you than she does to the kids, one and the same.

#49 She talks about you like you are a baboon, and it makes you uncomfortable. But, hey, it’s all about keeping the peace, right? [Read: How to say no: Stop please people and feel awesome instead]

#50 You have her period date programmed in your phone just as a heads up to hell.

There is nothing wrong with a female-led relationship if it works for you. But, if you are starting to feel a little less like a man and a little more like a child, it might be time to speak up.

[Read: On the flip side, 11 real reasons why a female led relationship is awesome]

When in a relationship, there is a spot that everyone takes whether submissive or dominant. If it works for you, then screw it. If it isn’t working for you, then trust in your love enough to say something.

The post Female Led Relationships: 50 Signs You’re in One & Don’t Know It is the original content of LovePanky - Your Guide to Better Love and Relationships.