#in what possible way could selling hours of my life and making myself even more in pain for like 5E an hour help me

[andromacheflints]

i probably should find a job (for all the normal reasons), but the way my parents talk about it is so funny. "oh i think it would be good for you psychologically" in what possible universe. just call me an ungrateful leech its more motivating

[blitzyn]

relax

alhaitham x m!reader

Request: well, since requests are open, perhaps I could request an alhaitham X male s/o where s/o has been really stressed lately with school and has been overworking himself. Because of this, alhaitham being the caring boyfriend he is comes to comfort and relax his beloved s/o with sex and aftercare. If possible, pls let alhaitham call his s/o a 'good boy' and just a praise kink in general, tysm!! 💕 — @ezraelo

a/n -> this mf reminds me of my dad so i kinda wrote what I think he'd say if i was in reader's situation tbh. NOT THE SEX THOUGH. anyways pgr fic first then hate sex w/childe next its been decades since I've done him (⁠｡⁠♡⁠‿⁠♡⁠｡⁠) sigh sometimes i forget i don’t have to write so damn much

wc -> 3.6k

cw -> soft alhaitham (heart eyes pt2), anal fingering, anal sex, praise, not beta read

merry christmas and happy holidays!!

To say you were tired was an understatement—you were exhausted. Stressed. Angry. It felt like everything that could go wrong did go wrong.

First, you accidentally woke up late, was scolded by your teacher when you arrived and made the "perfect" example on what a scholar from the Akademiya should not be. Then you had to study for several hours for a few of your upcoming exams and evaluations—all while having to take some more tests the following week.

And as if that wasn't e-fucking-nough, you had done horribly on one of your essays so now you had to redo it for a better score, on top of needing to start yet another one regarding... Something. You forgot what the prompt was. Honestly, you forgot to do a lot of things. Like eat. Or drink water. Which was something that really didn't help to improve your mood.

You stumbled through the door trying to pry your uniform off, haphazardly tossing your hat to the side. You felt like shit and wanted nothing more than to flop on your bed and stay in there for the rest of your miserable life. But, like the universe was trying to give you the biggest middle finger ever, one of the loops on your clothes got caught on the corner of a counter. While you'd normally just take it off and go on your merry way, you weren't having it today and just yanked yourself forward, tearing the loop and the fabric it was connected to.

Finally making it to your room, you flopped on the bed face-first, muffling the loud groan that came from you. You stayed like that for a moment longer before turning your head, remembering to breathe deeply.

Two knocks came from the door. "You okay?" Your boyfriend, Alhaitham, asked, leaning against the frame as he stared at you.

"You're smart. Figure it out yourself," you muttered bitterly, wincing at the accusatory tone in your voice. You sighed, deciding to face him. "Sorry."

He shrugged, walking to sit on the edge of your shared bed. "What's wrong?" He questioned, his expression unchanging even when he watched your brows furrow in irritation.

"It's just... Ugh," you grumbled, rolling your eyes childishly. "Just a bad week. It feels like everything's going against me." You rolled onto your back, arms and legs sprawled out like a starfish. "I don't think I can catch up."

"You're in the Akademiya," Alhaitham said, giving you a look that made it seem like he didn't know why you were complaining. "Obviously it's going to be hard for you."

"'For you,'" you repeated, glaring at nothing in particular, but it was getting increasingly evident that you were beginning to direct your anger towards him. "Of course you don't get it. You've been smart your whole life."

He was quiet for a moment, letting you try to calm yourself before speaking again. "Don't sell yourself short like that. It's unhealthy."

You huffed. "It's not selling myself short if it's actually true." You pressed your palms against your eyes until you saw faint fireworks coloring the darkness. "I have to redo an essay because apparently it didn't go with damn prompt. Then I have to do another one, and I don't even know where to start, and—" you listed off your problems, your voice getting higher in pitch until you were on the verge of shedding tears, overwhelmed with the sheer amount of work you accidentally accumulated.

"Hey," he interrupted you, leaning to place a hand on your thigh. "Calm down." He gave you an unimpressed look when you snapped your mouth open to retort, watching you begrudgingly close it in defeat. "Breathe. You're getting worked up over things you can change."

But when you could hardly focus on utilizing the breathing techniques he taught you, he decided to take a different approach. "Let's have sex, then."

"What? Why? 'Cause of the post-nut clarity?" You sighed, rubbing your temple to stave off the impending headache after staring at him incredulously. Damn. Sometimes you forget how straightforward he could be.

Alhaitham gave you a look. It was deadpan—because when was it not?—but you could still sense the slightest bit of confusion. "If that's how you want to word it, yes," he said, before elaborating. "Sex can also help you relax and improve your immune system."

He quickly looked you up and down, and despite not saying anything, you knew what he was trying to imply. You looked like a mess.

"It can also help improve your quality of sleep," he added, crossing his arms against his chest. "It has a few other benefits than just feeling good, you know." He watched you ponder his suggestion, chewing on your lip absentmindedly before giving in with a sigh.

"Fine. But you're doing all the work," you said, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at him better.

"That was the plan." The corners of his lips quirked up in a brief, subtle smirk as he leaned to place his hands on your shoulders to gently push you back down. "Just relax."

He continued when you nodded, running his hands along your body, gently caressing every curve and contour of your frame. An eyebrow raised in question when he felt the torn patch in your clothes but decided against mentioning it as he guided you out of your suffocating uniform with practiced ease. Already, you seemed a bit calmer than earlier, giving yourself a well-deserved stretch that made you remind him of a cat.

You felt the tension beginning to seep out of your body with every article of clothing that was carelessly tossed to the floor, reaching your hands out to tug him closer. He obliged without hesitation, sighing in satisfaction when he melded his lips with yours. His hands slid below your underclothes, snaking them upwards until they found your chest. He tweaked and pinched your nipples as he moved his way downwards, placing kisses along your jawline and neck.

You softly moaned, brushing your fingers through his hair that had him leaning into your hand. He removed your shirt, trailing appreciative kisses down your sternum. A hand made its way down your front toward your pants, slipping a hand inside to wrap his fingers around your flaccid dick. Your breath hitched, instinctively widening your legs to give him better access, much to his pleasure.

He was gentle; his hands were soft and careful, and neither of you were in a rush. You felt your eyes flutter shut as your lips parted with every quiet gasp and sigh that left you, and he couldn't help but stare.

It annoyed him how little you thought of yourself when he could clearly see you as something more. Sure, it irked him how you complained about things that could easily be changed if you put your effort into it, but you were also right. He always had it academically easy and often found it hard to connect with others or understand their problems on a level that wasn't with you. He was well aware of this issue, knowing that it often hindered his ability to comfort, and—for the first time in how long?—it frustrated him.

Even if he had no idea how to properly soften his words around you or to consistently change his facial expressions, he always showed he cared by spending time with you, teaching you new things, or helping you understand foreign concepts. But even then, he was willing to try to tell you that you were more than what those pompous Akademiya professors reduced you to, that you were better than what you said you were.

"Look at me," he said, his voice soft and smooth, coaxing your pretty eyes open. He slipped his hands out of your shirt and cupped your cheeks tenderly, ensuring your focus on him. "It doesn't matter what everyone says about you when they don't understand that you have strengths that rest beyond the traditional Akademiya expectations."

"But that doesn't—"

He gave you yet another stern look, to which you quieted down with a huff. "It's okay to struggle. Everyone does at some point. Even those professors found something difficult before they became what they are. But you know what they did?"

He paused, gauging your reaction. He was aware that what he was saying probably didn't make you feel better or make the most sense, but he hoped that you could feel the sincerity in his voice. "They took a step back, took a deep breath, and figured out what they were doing wrong. They didn't do that overnight or by working themselves to the bone. That's what you need to acknowledge."

"But all my other colleagues are doing fine, and I'm the only one struggling..." You appreciated his words, truly, but they did little to quell your worries.

"Are you? How do you know that for sure?" He countered, sliding his hands down to caress your hips. He watched you pursed your lips, squirming slightly under his gaze. "Point is, you shouldn't try to compare yourself to everyone around you and overwork yourself because that only leads to bad work and a bigger hole for you to climb out of. You have everything else to be proud of—not just your academic qualities. Understand? Besides, you made it into the Akademiya. That's something very few people can do in the first place."

You looked away with a frown, but you nodded softly. Even though it sucked knowing that you weren't the best, he did have a point. Wallowing in your own failure did nothing to better yourself, as much as you hated to admit it.

"Thanks," you muttered, sniffling a little. His thumbs swiped underneath your eyes, clearing away any of the tears that happened to escape you.

"Don't let them define you. Define yourself," he said finally, leaning back down to kiss you again. It was soft, tender, unhurried, like he wanted you to feel every ounce of affection he harbored for you. He pulled away slightly, resting his forehead against yours. "Do you still want to do this?"

You nodded again, giving him a quick peck to the lips before wrapping your arms around his shoulders. "Mhm. I really need those benefits." Plus, you didn't favor being horny and sad.

Your lips curved in a smug grin when you saw his own quirk upwards in amusement, but he didn't comment on it. He sat up to tug your pants and underwear down, revealing your semi-hard cock. You shivered instinctively but kept your focus on him, waiting in anticipation for him to continue.

He leaned over to grab a bottle of lube from your nightstand, squeezing a generous amount on his fingers before pressing one into your hole. You sighed, sinking your teeth into your lower lip. He only offered a few pumps of his hand before adding a second one in, gently spreading them apart in a scissoring motion.

He wrapped his free hand around your cock, slowly jerking you off. He rubbed his thumb over the tip to smear the precum across your skin as wet sounds gradually filled the room. You noticed his eyes locked on your face and the expressions you wore, committing them to memory. He added a third finger for good measure, feeling you tense reflexively before relaxing just as fast.

"You're doing so good, [Name]," he praised, his voice low. He curled his fingers, pressing them against your prostate. He could feel his cock twitch in his pants at the sound of your moan, straining against the fabric. "I'm almost done. Then we can start."

You nodded, inhaling sharply through your nose when he began targeting the sensitive spot inside you. You could practically feel every surge of heat shoot up and down your spine, ending at your fingertips. Alhaitham could feel it too, every time your cock throbbed in his hold.

Your body felt warm and tingly when he moved both hands away from your body, wiping them off using a few tissues atop your nightstand. He grabbed the lube again and poured some on his palm to coat his cock, using his free hand to spread one of your thighs a bit wider. He peered up through his lashes, subtly raising an eyebrow in question. He continued as soon as you nodded, slowly pushing himself inside you.

You both let out a satisfied groan as he filled you, grasping onto his wrists as he held onto your hips.

"Fuck," he hissed, pushing further until he bottomed out completely. "You're such a good boy. You're taking me in so well." He perked up in attention when he felt you tighten at his words, noting how your eyes fluttered shut like you were savoring them. He wasn't overly aware of this newfound information, but maybe you had accidentally brought it to his attention now that you're stressed?

Either way, he didn’t comment on it, instead deciding to continue. “You feel so good, [Name]," he praised, leaning down to press his lips against the skin underneath your earlobe. You could feel the low rumble of his voice vibrating in your ear, sending shivers down your spine. He let you take a moment to adjust to him before moving, gently thrusting his hips.

You noticed him moving away again as you opened your eyes, finding yourself enamored with the way his muscles flexed in every movement of his. Soft gasps and moans left your lips when you looked up, instantly noticing his gaze on you.

“Stop staring at me,” you mumbled shyly, squirming a bit. It wasn’t that you hated having him look at you—frankly, that’s all you longed for sometimes, it’s just that what you did hit you. Being as vulnerable as you were wasn’t something you preferred, even when Alhaitham didn’t berate you for it.

“You were staring at me, first,” he countered swiftly, and you could hear the rare undertone of his amusement in his voice. It was your favorite sound. “Besides, what’s the harm in looking at the most handsome man in Sumeru?” His monotony nearly made his words laughable, but you could see that he was genuinely trying. Knowing that sent butterflies in your stomach all over again.

You looked away, effectively flustered with all his attention. “It’s embarrassing…”

“Only because you make it embarrassing,” he said, sliding a hand upwards to toy with one of your nipples. He subtly shifted his hips, angling them so that his cock better pressed against your prostate. He watched you intently when you let out a throaty moan, feeling his dick throb inside you.

You reflexively clenched your thighs tighter against his hips, sinking your teeth into your lower lip. You snaked a hand down to your leaking cock, wrapping your fingers around the base to give it a squeeze. “You can go faster,” you muttered, looking down to watch the way he slid in and out of you.

He nodded with a quiet hum, adjusting his grip on your waist to shift the weight on his knees to sacrifice his slower, deeper thrusts for quick and shallow ones. Moaning, you jerked yourself off in time with his movements, unable to tear your gaze away from him, even for a moment. Your eyebrows furrowed in concentration as you brought your free hand up to bring him closer to you by the back of his head. You kissed him needily and fervently, letting out noises that mixed in with the wet sounds that came from your hole. Your body rocked gently, listening intently to the rustling of your bedsheets and Alhaitham’s deep, husky breaths.

Suddenly, he lifted a hand up to place over your abdomen, lightly pushing down on it just as he buried himself balls deep inside you. He paused for a moment, sighing as he watched you squirm at the sudden stop before continuing, feeling himself move in and out of you. You could feel the heat in your belly intensifying with every thrust to your prostate, back arching, legs tightening around his waist.

“Fuck, I’m…” you panted, clenching tighter around his cock. “I’m so close, ‘Haitham.”

“I know. I can feel you,” he said, gently moving your hand away from your leaking cock to wrap his fingers around it. Quiet slaps mixed in with your soft noises and his breathy grunts as he fucked you a bit harder, eyes fixated on the blissful expression on in your face. His dick throbbed inside you as he eagerly chased after his own orgasm, leaning down to press his lips to your jaw, kissing up towards your ear.

“C’mon, [Name], cum for me,” he whispered, sending yet another wave of heat shoot up and down your spine. You could hardly stop the stream of moans that spilled from your lips as he focused on the tip of your cock, rubbing his thumb on the sensitive spot just below it, as if trying to coax out your cum.

“Oh god,” your voice was strained as you felt the coil in your stomach tighten to an unbearable degree, trying to hold out just a little longer. “F—Fuck! Alhaitham!” You moaned in ecstasy when you finally came, squeezing your eyes tightly shut. You tensed and trembled as your dick spurt cum on your stomach and his fingers as he helped you ride out your high.

“You’re so beautiful when you orgasm,” he groaned, his thrusts beginning to lose rhythm as he neared his own climax. He dug his fingers into your waist tighter, muttering praises into your ear when you began squirming at the discomfort of your overstimulation. It didn’t take much longer for him to finish as he stilled, gritting his teeth when he quickly pulled out to stroke himself to completion. He sighed in satisfaction when his orgasm subsided, leaving your abdomen coated in ropes of his cum.

“Wh—Why did you pull out?” You panted, wiping a bead of sweat off of your forehead.

“Isn’t it annoying to clean up afterward? You're always complaining about it whenever we have sex,” he questioned after a moment, taking a second to bask in the afterglow before getting up to reach for a tissue to clean your skin. He put his pants back on, gathering your clothes to put them in a laundry basket.

You shrugged. “I mean, sometimes. But I’m gonna take a bath either way.” You blinked in confusion when you saw him quirk a brow, fidgeting a bit when he didn’t stop staring at you.

“No. You’re going to sit and wait here while I make you something to eat, first,” he instructed, leaving no room for negotiation. “Afterwards, you’re going to go to sleep. Then you can take a bath when you wake up.”

As if on cue, your stomach growled audibly, quickly reminding you that you haven't eaten anything since yesterday. "But then I'm gonna be all sticky and gross when I eat," you said, knowing how much he disliked having dirty bedsheets for too long. It surprised you when he shrugged, leaning against the doorframe as he waited for you to decide.

"If you want to take a bath first, then I'll help you," he offered. You swiftly nodded, wanting to eat clean and comfortably. He nodded and told you to wait for a moment as he prepared the water for you, leaving you by yourself for a while until he returned. The two of you walked into the bathroom where a bathtub of warm water awaited you. But just as you raised your leg to enter, a sudden wave of dizziness overcame you. Luckily, Alhaitham was there to keep you from falling with a firm hand on your arm, carefully helping you into the water.

"Are you okay?" He asked, his eyes darting across your face for any sign of distress. He relaxed upon seeing nothing but waited for your response for further confirmation.

"Yeah. It's just something that happens when I get too hungry, y'know?" You explained sheepishly, splashing some of the water onto your arms and back.

"No, I don't know." He ignored the way you rolled your eyes. "I'll be right back, then."

You hummed to yourself, not minding his absence as you savored the warmth surrounding you, resting your head against the edge of the tub. You nearly fell asleep in the time it took for Alhaitham to return, jumping in surprise at the sound of his voice.

"Hey," he spoke, returning to your side with a bowl in his hand. "Eat this for now."

He kneeled down, bringing the bowl close enough to let you reach in and take whatever was inside. They were fruits, you saw as you happily grabbed one, tossing it into your mouth. You had to stop yourself from grabbing a handful and eating it all in one go, forcing yourself to appreciate every bite. You noticed him shifting behind you, leaning forward instinctively when he began cleaning your back with a small, wet towel.

The two of you basked in the comforting silence for a while as you let him take care of you until you turned your head to face him. "I love you," you said with a little grin.

"I know," he replied, putting the bowl onto the floor.

"Say it back." You pouted, but you knew he was only teasing.

His mouth quirked up in a faint smile, leaning forward to give you a quick peck on your lips. "I love you too."

[lilith-vodkaaunt-of-demons]

The most hilarious thing happened in one of my Dungeons and Dragons games the other day, and I wanna share it.

So, I play an Apothecary Wizard in one of my dnd games. She makes and sells potions, medicines, alcohol, and the occasional Geneva Convention violation called Alchemist's Fire. Anyway, one of the things I always ask my DMs when making a character is if I can get a free Musical Instrument proficiency since I like the idea of it, probably because I want to learn how to play someday.

So anyway, my Wizard knows how to play the lute, and since she's a saleswoman, she has the Charisma to back it up...except for this instance. I hadn't started with a lute, but over the course of several session found myself in possession of an incredibly out of tune lute that a cultist had just happened to have. So she picks up the lute and plucks a few strings and learns that this bandit must have just had this lute for show or something, because it's TERRIBLY out of tune. So the DM has me roll to tune it... Natural 1. For the next 30 minutes OOC and several hours in game, I cannot. For the life of me. Tune. This. Lute. I legitimately make like, 10 rolls and never roll above a 5. This is an INTELLIGENCE Performance Check, since it's technical, I am a WIZARD, with a 20 intelligence, and proficiency. I have a +8 to this roll, and the DC is

14.

Eventually I have to stop trying because we get into combat with more crazy cultists, but OOC I am gobsmacked, and IC my Wizard is absolutely INCENSED at this friggin' untunable lute.

Anyway, some fighting happens, and eventually I'm cornered by a Fire Genasi Cultist who is hopped up on energy from the Plane of Fire, so is currently immune to Fire Damage, the one damage type I have as a cantrip, and I'm trying to not use my spell slots on the little guys because we all know there's a boss battle at the end of this cave.

So I'm stuck. Embers McHotPants is in melee range, so my Firebolt, on top of not actually doing any damage to him, would be at disadvantage, even if I tried to hit someone not currently immune to fire. I'm a squishy wizard with not so great AC, so running away and possibly getting hit with an AOO is not attractive. Could I have disengaged? Maybe if I hadn't had an amazing idea first.

Me: I hit him with the lute.

DM: What?

Me: The Lute. The infernal instrument cursed to never be in tune. I hit him with the lute.

DM: Riiight, okay. Roll improvised weapon attack.

(For clarity, my Wizard has an 8 strength, and is not proficient with improvised weapons.)

Me: *rolls d20, then starts laughing*

DM: Did you roll another Nat1?

Me: *still laughing* No!

At this point the entire table is laughing but the DM.

DM: You didn't.

Me: *unable to speak, I just nod*

I had rolled a nat20, (19 total) to hit the guy with the lute.

At first the DM looked just plain flabbergasted, but then he got this look on his face, a kind of half smile, and started describing what happened.

DM: Alright, so you find yourself cornered. Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and this cultist is utterly immune to your attacks. It's just so...frustrating. Frustrating like that damn lute that you just couldn't tune. You feel your frustration boil over, and you just grab the lute by the neck and swing it! You hear a discordant BWANGGGG! as you smack the cultist upside the head with the head with the lute. And maybe he was more hurt than you thought, or maybe he just had a glass jaw, but he goes down. As the cultist falls, you relax a bit, lowering the lute, which somehow isn't broken, and you pluck a few strings absent-mindedly, and...you can't believe your ears. The lute is perfectly in tune. You've heard professionally tuned instruments that aren't as perfectly tuned as this instrument.

The table EXPLODED. It was pandemonium. My PC had hit the cultist in such a way that it tuned the untunable lute. There was laughter, tears, and celebration. It was amazing. I was laughing so hard I cried and gave myself hiccups.

[dirtyfilthy]

I am staring down the barrel of tomorrow, hoping slash fearing it might actually pull the trigger on me.

I kinda despise what I do for a living. I consider it basically to be "tighting the screws on capitalism". Then again, I love solving the technical problems it presents.

But, it's not real hacking. It lacks that essential spirit of good honest wholesome mischief. At the end of the pay: I only make profit driven corporations more secure. Which, by fact of happy accident, might also stop individual people from getting fucked over. But it is definitely not the point of the exercise.

I try to get the pan to spit a little pork fat back at them, now and again. Keep one hand in my pocket, so as not to sell my whole soul, if you get my meaning.

You have to, don't you? To stay human. To convince yourself you ain't yet completed poisoned, and you can keep on drinking the same old koolaid day after day, despite that strange, bitter, almond after taste.

Shit. Given no one reads this anymore I guess I can confess I've thought about just buying a hundred xanax and simply not closing the door on my way out.

I won't though. Cos there's a large part of me that still believes in the potential and possibility of people. Of what people can achieve, even such a wretched creature as myself.

I spent three hours yesterday wondering if I'd ever fall in love again. Like who the fuck could fall in love with this. I got a fine mind on me, and I'm mostly kind to people, but that's the best that can be said, I reckon. There's not much else to recommend me in the dating market. I am a shambling, chaotic blur.. A dice roll away from being no more than a emotional game of snakes and ladders. From a distance, yes, I may somewhat resemble a real person. But, get close up and you'll soon find out; the sides of the slope are far too steep and you'll quickly tumble down the uncanny valley.

Well if you can't tell I'm not doing well. I am throwing myself into the technical problems for distraction, cos I reckon I got ideas no one else has tried yet.

It feels like there is no other value to my life.

[wildchives4]

tw for food, eating, idk

i failed to eat enough calories yesterday, i don't know if that's why but i'm extremely sleepy today. i'm frustrated because eating enough causes me to crash in the short term and i can't focus; possibly not eating enough causes me to crash the next day and i can't focus. i got a journal to start actually tracking things so i can roughly tell how much i'm eating daily and how i feel the next day or after a week of a certain amount of daily calories.

i keep thinking of, like, i think i was 12 years old or something and i asked my mom if the little bit of fat i had on my belly was still "baby fat," i guess i remember her referring to it as that when i was younger (like.. trying to justify why i wasn't skin & bones. lmfao. i'd kill myself if i treated my child this way), and she got quiet and her eyes got wide, pursed her lips, shook her head, "no. it's not." like i asked if i'd done something horrendous to somebody, it's the face she makes/way she acts when she's describing something very grave. keep in mind, my whole life the #1 comment from people around me, including at this time, was how skinny i was. i would KILL MYSELF if i treated my child like that.

e keeps leaving his food unattended and the dog eats it. obviously i should be intervening more and being more watchful, training the dog, etc. but any intervention on my part pisses me off, like, it's one more thing i'd be doing by myself that i really should not be. not to be cringe and angsty but what else am i ever on here tbf, literally i feel like despite all my rage i am still just a rat in a cage lol. i have no way out, i am lucky if i get my 1-hour walk in a day to myself and the more frequently i do get time to myself, the greedier i feel for it, i guess because i had literally none of it for years; like, under 24 hours in a year to myself for 3 years. that's generous. it pisses me off on principle and practically, there is absolutely nothing i can do about it. anyway i'm constantly making food for e.

ironically moving back in with my mom at my dad's house until my brother sells it seems like the only thing that would possibly offer any relief as far as getting schoolwork done in a relatively peaceful environment (my mom can watch e for an hour here and there; he's active and she's disabled, she can't watch him for long, he could hurt her on accident or get away from her into an unsafe situation + i don't want him around secondhand smoke that long and she chain smokes like a mf), being able to find at least a part-time job (pay for a babysitter), and most ironically of all, eat enough with little effort - she doesn't make comments on my body anymore, even when i was at my heaviest bc of the drinking, presumably bc now i've earned having an imperfect body or something. tbf it's been a long time since she critiqued me that way. i think she stopped in high school when i got very thin bc i had no appetite from all the drugs. idk! not something i have any interest in discussing with her. anyway, she likes to cook and there would literally always be lentil stew. i mean, she would be significantly more helpful than m in most ways, it cannot be overstated. i would basically not be feeling stressed about childcare anymore.

the issue being that our concerns about living with her due to her drinking + the effect of that on my mental state and her chain smoking & compulsive lying are well-documented, i don't know how much antipathy m's mom still feels for me, and she is the most well-resourced party in this situation, so she may sue for custody or help m sue for custody in a way that could make me look very bad ("you brought your child to live with this person you obviously can't trust"). that's another important part of journaling, documenting the fact that i provide all of the childcare except incidental - the courts would favor me for custody, i think. not that i can afford court in any way, shape, or form, or afford debt.

And lately i just feel starved for connection, it's nuts. starved for connection and bored and lonely + completely distrustful of people. name a less productive duo

[pretentious-librarian]

ACOTAR Review

Unfortunately, I was not able to evade that cursed woman for as long as I had hoped. She got me, exploiting my greatest weakness in the way her own characters are exploited by that very same weakness throughout the book: fucking love. My best friend, the love of my life, has fallen victim to Sarah J. Maas and in her obsession she has forcibly dragged me down with her. Now that I think about it, my best friend is quite literally the only thing that could ever make me pick up a SJM book. So in the name of love, I subjected myself to booktok's finest (which isn't saying much given booktok's reputation) and here are my thoughts, namely the ones I couldn't bring myself to voice to my friend. After all, the whole point of even reading this in the first place was so that she could have someone to talk about it with. While I am not above pointing out it's flaws to her, I don't have it in me to spite the very thing she gets so much joy out of as deeply as I would've wanted to. Besides, who am I to talk as a Twilight enjoyer when I know damn well that series was a beloved dumpster fire just as much as ACOTAR is. And honestly, her love for the series and my love for her has dissolved some of my bias and frankly, distaste, for the book. And now on to the review.

Disclaimers: Spoilers, ADHD ramblings and tangents, ungodly amounts of pretentiousness from someone who doesn't usually enjoy fantasy, and yes I know this book functions as a prequel and the second book is way better (I started the second book last night, wish me luck)

ACOTAR felt juvenile in nearly every aspect. To be fair, I had just finished reading Mary Shelley's Frankenstien mere days before picking up ACOTAR so I had to remind myself to go into it with a level of graciousness. Yet all the graciousness in the world cannot override the horrific editing of that damn book. Attempting to fall in love with a whole new world and characters was incredibly difficult when the writer in me was literally dying inside. To be completely honest, I always evaluate the writing of any book I read, especially in the beginning. I'm not even going to discuss how the majority of the book drug its feet or worse, was filled with inescapable, constant monologuing. I could rant and rave about "show don't tell" for hours, which is why I am choosing not to spend more than two sentences talking about the god awful fucking monologuing (to be fair, I'm aware that slow starts and monologuing are often necessary in fantasy books but definitely not to this extent). But holy shit, there were way too many instances in which I was flung from my daydreams and smacked square in the face by the sheer... fanfiction-ness of her writing. Don't get me wrong, I ADORE fanfiction and I am a huge advocate for its existence and protection, especially as a purely anti-capitalist labor of love without a single care about the skill level at which it was written. But when I pick up a viral #1 New York Times Best Selling Author's book, the last thing I am expecting to see is such elementary writing--that I firmly believe could've been rectified if she had hired an editor that was even half decent at their job. My qualifications for making such a claim? Even I have edited a full-length fantasy novel and unfortunately, it took many harsh reminders from my best friend to at least attempt to focus on the story rather than obsess over all the changes I would've personally made before I considered the book decent enough for publishing.

THAT SAID: One of the reasons I always gravitate towards fanfiction when I'm in a reading slump is because it's just so... digestible. ACOTAR was also digestable in a very similar way, which is sort of what made it possible for me to finish it in about four days. Honestly, (aside from my autistic ass struggling to connect with a brand new fantasy world and characters I feel fundamentally estranged from) the fanfiction-ness of the writing made me feel the same as when I'm watching reality TV: aware of the quality but choosing to have a good time with it anyways. Because my friend loved this book so much, I desperately wanted it to be good. But once I accepted that the writing was mid, as well as a good bit of the plot and the characters, I was able to enjoy myself enough to lose myself in the story, no matter how much the pretentious bitch inside kept trying to claw her way to the forefront of my thoughts. It was almost freeing to subject myself to such a juvenile piece of literature. Speaking of, there is one aspect of it's juvenility that I will not explore, but rather, let Robert Pattinson's reaction to reading the Twilight books to voice the principle of those thoughts instead:

"I was convinced Stephanie was convinced she was Bella, and it was like it was a book that wasn't supposed to be published. You're like, reading her sort of, like, sexual fantasy about some...really sexy guy and she just writes this book about it. And like, some things about Edward is [are] so specific, it was like I was just convinced that...this woman is mad! She's completely mad, and she's in love with her own fictional creation. And like, sometimes you...feel, like, uncomfortable reading this thing! And I think a lot of people feel that is...in the same way kind of voyeuristic and and it creates this...kind of like, a sick pleasure in a lot of ways".

Although this sentiment about ACOTAR may not be exceptionally widespread, personally, as a far-left rad-fem socialist who has spent years learning to decenter men, some of what Rob said resonated with me. Despite that this type of book is not particularly appealing to me personally, that doesn't mean it's inherently bad quality (but can easily bar it from being good quality), and this aspect definitely would've connected to my younger self before I became a chronically online femen@zi.

Moving on. The pretentious bitch inside me couldn't help but quietly take note of what was executed nicely and what was not, even as I was doing my best to go with the flow. I might as well go ahead and discuss what else I liked about it before I'm written off completely. I adored the imagery and sensory details--it's truly what made the experience good enough to keep reading. Her descriptions really draw the reader in and make them feel like they're right there with characters, in the good times and the bad ones too. I definitely don't have aphantasia and am a chronic day dreamer so I absolutely love descriptive books. Colors, sensations, emotions, all of it. I loved and hated the way I felt genuine emotions in all kinds of scenes (hated not because I'm a bitter hater, but hated because I can't help but feel everything any character I'm reading about is feeling--good, bad, or otherwise. And boy did Feyre go through some shit). Typically, books that can make me feel deeply are the best books but in this case, it acted more as a saving grace, especially because most of those feelings that were present in this book, though intense, lacked a certain type of depth I tend to gravitate towards.

Another thing I liked was Lucien! Lucien is by far my favorite character, not because he's particularly extraordinary, but because he feels...real? rather than being another one of SJM's romantic projections. (Sorry the writing style changed half way through, I was lowkey writing like SJM because I thought it was funny but I got tired of that real quick.) In the same vein, every now and then Feyre would get real as fuck, which was greatly appriciated when reading about such intense situations. Nightmares feel like a cheap excuse to avoid having to deal with your MC being traumatized because it's not uncommon for nightmares to be one of the only aspects of trauma focused by YA/new adult writers as well as a trojan horse a romantic scene. ACOTAR felt more believable (or maybe the word is genuine?) because Feyre dealt with real consequences from her trauma such as DSM-5 accurate depression, chronic low self esteem, mistrust, trauma bonding, etc. Lastly, I can't tell if I loved or hated the way SJM tied up all the loose ends (excluding some intentional cliffhangers). On one hand, it was satisfying as a reader to not have found any glaring plot holes yet I can't shake the feeling that she was making it up as she went. Source: trust me bro

As for Feyre's flaws, I feel that other readers have already explored in those depth and I don't feel the need to keep beating a dead horse. Same goes for Tamlin--I didn't find him all that interesting or charming even when Feyre was falling for him, so my already subpar opinion of him got worse and worse and will likely continue to do so as I continue reading the second book. He is so incredibly immature I can hardly stand it. Don't even get me started on how he always wants to fuck and thinks that suffices as an expression of love and care for Feyre. Even if that's technically not how it is, that is definitely how it read. To be clear, I'm pretty sure readers aren't meant to adore Tamlin; my issue is that Feyre goes through hell for someone so mid and we as readers are supposed to think her love and devotion are justified.

Now, let's get back to some hardcore griping! Amarantha's villain origin story makes sense until you actually meet her. Interacting with her felt like interacting with a cartoon villain from a shitty kids show. She was terrifyingly sadistic yet the justification for it was too weak to uphold her sadism. She felt like evil personified rather than a fleshed out person suffering the human condition (I know she's not human but you know what I mean). Good villains don't have to be redeemable, but they do have to be somewhat believable. These fae are all centuries old and have been through so much but somehow lack the emotional maturity I gained at the ripe age of seventeen?! I too have been a woman scorned enough to do make some interesting choices but jesus christ, Amarantha, it's really not that deep. Maybe it's the trauma that makes them like that, because I certainly have not endured what they have, nor have I ever held the amount of power they wield and I will never be able to fully comprehend what that does to a person. So who am I to talk. Anyways, I could ramble endlessly about Amarantha's shortcomings as a character but I think I've touched on her most glaring offenses.

Ugh. Now I'm gonna acknowledge that damn riddle and Tamlin's heart of stone concept that was executed so, so...let's just say, uniquely. When I read Amarantha's riddle, I came up with an answer so quickly that I was certain was it was incorrect. My personal belief system is centered around love (obviously not just the romantic kind) so I thought maybe I was biased since I try to see love in everything, not to mention the answer I had come up with seemed way too on the nose, given Feyre's circumstances and how much of the plot was driven by romance/love/attachment. But to my surprise and simultaneous disappointment, the answer to the riddle was love. I feel like even Feyre should've got that because of her Amarantha-enforced circumstances. And as for Tamlin's heart of stone--that Feyre figured out surprisingly easily even though she couldn't figure out that obvious riddle--it certainly wasn't something I was predicting, and the concept of it felt a little...elementary? Not because it was predictable or anything, but because of how squarely SJM looked that heart of stone metaphor in the face and decided to... well... do that....

I'm just glad she made Feyre grapple with her decision to kill the two innocents and let it haunt her afterwards, especially when her motives are called into question. She loves Tamlin (somehow. but maybe I'm just a manhater) which is what drives her to do what she does and what puts her in direct conflict with Amarantha but I'm just glad SJM bothered to create circumstances that let Feyre's selfishness (I'm not saying I would or wouldn't have done the same thing in her circumstance) also happen to benefit the entire kingdom-world thing. Basically I feel fundamentally estranged from Feyre because I see the value of all people and would like to think I'd do the right thing based on love and respect for all living things rather than for a whiny man child. I feel like I'm getting sidetracked somehow.

TW: SA

I'm hesitant to even talk about Rhysand because I'm not sure I fully understand him as a character yet. However, I love him as a character so far even if I don't love him/his personality that much. He felt developed in ways other characters didn't, similar to Lucien but I actually liked Lucien's personality from the start, even when he pisses me off sometimes. But on the topic of Rhysand, I was uncomfortable with how SJM wrote about SA in general. As a woman, I'm certainly not unfamiliar with the topic and have had my own share of experiences, although I will honestly admit that I haven't had any big T trauma in that area of my own life so this may not be my place to discuss this. That may also be why I can't quite put my finger on what about the way SJM wrote about SA bothered me. All I know is that something about it rubbed me the wrong way, almost as if it bordered on disrespect. But again, I'm not entirely sure.

In conclusion, my best friend just texted me not five seconds ago: "I think you just have a hard time comprehending that people write fun little fantasy stories simply because maybe they just like writing fun little fantasy stories". And she would be correct. I am too pretentious to truly love and appreciate this series the way it was meant to be. I've always felt the need to look deeper in anything that I enjoy, I've always felt the need to connect personally with each work of art I choose to dedicate my time to. I am first and foremost a Supernatural fan if that tells you anything, and even my love for Twilight grew from a specific, deep personal connection I had the concept and characters. I have just driven myself mad trying to figure out why this book was written, why I as a reader should care, and what exactly fueled SJM with so much passion that she felt the need to write an entire series (which is why I'm suspecting she wrote it as a self indulgent piece; that's the only logical explanation I can come up with, anyway). ACOTAR was not written for me and that is okay. It doesn't help that I tend to avoid fantasy as a genre anyways. Yet, I'm going to keep reading it. Because I still managed to have a good time with the story and characters, and of course, I'm going to thug it out no matter what because I love my best friend. Lastly, one thing SJM did a good job with was, in spite of it all, making me curious enough about what happens next to genuinely want to read the next book.

edit: it’s been a few days and ive gotten further into the second book. sjm really got her act together, that’s for sure. im beginning to understand why people obsess over this series. it’s a shame the first book is such a dumpster fire but im glad the story is redeemed in the rest of series (fingers crossed); the characters and world building had so much potential and im extremely happy to see sjm giving them the writing they deserve in the second book. with this new perspective i also realized that acotar was so genuinely awful that it literally made it impossible for me wrap my head around why she wrote it. thank god she get her shit together so that i can finally see the beauty of the series

[princessconsuela120]

Chapter Eight: Rubble to Rubble

—✧

Series masterlist

Chapter Warnings: mentions of pregnancy, cursing

Authors Note: Enjoy these next few chapters you guys🫣 shits getting real now.

Chapter art by @silvell

—✧

“Where the hell you been, Junebug?” My dad asked, getting up with concern as I walked in the door.

“Oh, I just drove to Denver to show Mark and Vanessa the ultrasound. I ended up staying a couple hours.” I explained, shrugging my shoulders as I tried to keep going upstairs, but my dad stopped me.

“A couple hours? Why are you going there in the first place?” He asked angrily, causing me to look back at him confused.

“Oh, well, they wanted to know about the stuff… And I said I'd keep them updated, so I did.”

“You could have mailed it to them. Why would you drive an hour out to East Jesus, Nowhere?” He lectured, making me even more confused.

“I just did. You know, and while Mark and I were waiting for Vanessa… We watched Ghost… And then he burned me a couple of CD's of this weird music, so…It was cool. He's kind of cool.” My dad shook his head at me.

“Juno, you can't just drop in on them like that.”

“No, it was not a big deal. He was totally cool with it.” I said to calm him down, though it didn’t work much.

“You don't understand. Mark is a married man. There are boundaries.” He explained, and I scoffed at him.

“Oh, come on. Listen, Dad. Now, you're acting like you're the one who has to go through this. Like you have to get huge and shove a baby out of your vag for someone else. What does it matter if he's married? I can have married friends.” I grabbed my car keys from my pocket, slamming them on the table infront of my dad, knocking over the jar of weed he had been putting together.

“It doesn't work that way, honey. You don't know squat about the dynamics of marriage.” He yelled back, glaring at me as he put the bids back in the jar.

“You don't know anything about me.” I snapped at him. It was safe to say I got easily defensive with my dad. He was gone for most of my life, why should I let him affect me. Well, he wasn’t home, he was still there, slowly making everything worse for Stan Shelley and I. And my mom too. I know he was trying, but it takes a lot of hard work to fix that.

“I know enough.”

“We don't even sell at the farm anymore.” I teased, making him roll his eyes.

“We don't sell anymore because you and your siblings had to be little babies about it and complain to mom! When you guys move out I’m gonna be so rich, I’m gonna buy a parakeet.” He explained, ignoring me as he focused on making his jar look good.

“Whoa, dream big.” I remarked, heading up to my room as he shouted after me.

“Oh, go fly a kite.”

—✧

IT WAS STRANGE COMING BACK TO THE BROFLOVSKI HOUSE. Kyle and I had agreed that we weren’t telling his family about the baby, there was no need to stress them out if the baby was going to someone else anyway. I missed coming here. It was right next door, it was always the house I’d look at on my way to the garage, look at with hope. Back before we understood what anything was, when I’d sit on our ‘throne’ as Stan and Kyle worked to build our elven kingdom. Kyle and I getting married in the highest point of the tree house with ring pops so that we could rule our kingdom together. It was all so innocent back then. I collected myself, taking a breath before knocking.

“Hi, Juno. What can I do for you?” Sheila Broflovski asked, smiling happily as she answered the door.

“Kyle home?” I asked, smiling back.

Kyle’s mom was possibly attractive once, but now she looks mostly like you’d expect a mom to look. I’m sure his dad was head over heels, I don’t know maybe Jersey people were his thing. I didn’t mind though, I’d always thought of Mrs Broflovski like my second mom. She would always treat me as such. Making sure I had extra sunscreen at the beach, helping me learn to ski, making cookies every time I came over.

“Hey, man. Don't concentrate so hard. I think I can smell your hair burning.” I teased, seeing Kyle leaning against his bed with his homework binder in his lap. I swore his face must’ve lit up the room when his eyes met mine, jumping from his seat as he stood to come help me walk over.

“Hey, what's up?” He said cheerfully, grabbing my arms to help me come sit down in the beanbag chair from across from where he had been sitting.

“Not much. I just wanted to come say hey. I mean, I miss, like, just hanging out with you on school nights, you know?” I said, which caused Kyle to smile even more, his face softening of it even could more than it was. He pour a few to face into his hand, plopping them in his mouth before looking back at me. Orange tic tacs are Kyle’s one and only vice. The day I got pregnant, his mouth tasted really tangy and delicious.

“Wow, you really… You really seem to be getting pregnanter these days.” He said, chuckling slightly as I laughed along.

“You know, I set up this whole private adoption. And this married couple in, like, Denver, they're gonna be the parents.”

I couldn’t explaine it really, the way his face seemed to drop the slightest bit when I mentioned that. That the fact we weren’t gonna keep it, disappointed him. I didn’t know why. We were 17, you’d assume it would hurt us more to have to keep it. But it didn’t. And I think I understand. Something that would connect the both of us forever, gone. I guess that stings.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow, what are they like?” He asked, and I sighed, laying back slightly.

“Well, I mean, the guy, he's awesome. His name's Mark, and he likes old movies and he plays the guitar. We actually hung out this afternoon.” I explained, causing Kyle to look at me with furrowed eyebrows.

“Is that normal?” He asked in response, making me shrug.

“Probably not, but…Listen, I talked to my mom and dad...And they said they wouldn't narc you out to your folks...So I think we should be cool, you know?” He smiled, but it wasn’t a Kyle smile, more like the smile you give someone to get them to stop talking. More just pressing your lips together and trying to smile but you couldn’t.

“That's a relief. How pissed was Stan?” He asked, now frowning as he mentioned Stan. As much as Stan was my twin brother, he was Kyle’s best friend. I know he hadn’t spoken to him since he found out, and it stressed Kyle out to no end. He knew I had told him, he knew it would come out eventually. It just broke his heart a little to know that his best friend felt that betrayal from him.

“He was, pissed. I think now he’s just mostly afraid you’ll never talk to him again for being a dick.” I explained, chuckling slightly at the dramatics my brother showcased.

“He wasn’t a dick, he was just mad.” Kyle said, making me nod sun agreement.

“That’s what I said.”

“I just miss him, you know?” He said quietly, causing a thick silence to fill the room. It was a weird feeling, kinda like when I told him I was pregnant. It felt empty, painfully empty.

“Yeah, yeah I get that. You know, I'm gonna… Start looking like a pretty big dork soon, so…” I explained, making him chuckle.

“You always look like a dork Jo.” He interrupted, causing me to roll my eyes, shoving him teasingly as he laughed.

“Oh shush. Are um, are you still gonna think I'm cute when I'm huge?” I asked, looking up at him as a light blush covered my cheeks.

“I always think you're cute. I think you're beautiful.” He replied quickly, not even taking a moment to think about his answer. My face turned an even brighter red.

“Jeez, Kyle.” I couldn’t help the nervous laugh that left my mouth when I replied.

“Well, I do. Hey, Jo, when this is all over, we should get the group back together.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, that would be awesome.”

I hadn’t hung out with the boys all together much since everything went down. It was awkward, I really only had been with Craig and Kenny through it all. Hell I hadn’t seen Butters in weeks.

“I mean, once Cartman goes back on his meds…” Kyle continued, making me nod. I hadn’t seen Cartman in weeks, I didn’t even know he was refusing to take his meds again.

“We're just, like, ready to rumble.” I said, and Kyle sighed, as if he were preparing himself to speak.

“And I mean, we could always get back together too. That's an option.” He looked down at the ground as if he was trying to avoid my eye contact, and I gave him a confused look.

“Were we together?” I asked, making Kyle look back up at me, nodding awkwardly.

“Yeah, we were once, you know? That time.” He explained, forming a new awkward silence between the two of us.

“What about Rebecca Cotswolds? You could totally go out with Rebecca Cotswolds.” I offered, trying to change the subject. He furrowed his eyebrows at me at the mention of the girl. She joined our school in freshman year, though we had know her since fourth grade due to the spelling bee. Even then everyone thought she was sort of strange, she didn’t communicate the same way due to being homeschooled. The entire time Cartman teased Kyle for being “in love with her” because he talked to her so much. It was Stan who found out the reason he talked to her was to learn more about girl, so he could talk more to me.

“I don't like Rebecca. She smells like soup. I mean, have you ever smelled her? And her whole house smells like soup.” Kyle explained, shaking his head with defiance. He let out a low sigh, looking down at the ground to avoid the awkward situation. I couldn’t help but feel my heart pang at the sight. This was different, it was weird.

—✧

[xtruss]

Sicily Sold Homes For One Euro. This Is What Happened Next.

For more than a decade, Sicily has been trying to revive its villages by selling Vacant Houses. Writer Lisa Abend heads to the largest Island in the Mediterranean to see how life has changed.

— By Lisa Abend | April 30, 2024

Mussomeli is roughly 60 miles from Palermo. Photo by Julia Nimke

Like any small town that isn’t yours, Sambuca di Sicilia, located about an hour’s drive south of the Sicilian capital, Palermo, feels a little intimidating at first. Stroll its perimeter on a late afternoon in winter, when the sun sets the buildings alight, and eyes follow you. Order the town’s signature minni di virgini—breast-shaped cakes filled with cream, chocolate chips, and squash jam—and a hush silences the chatter in the local bakery. It’s not unfriendly, this exaggerated alertness, but it does make you, the visitor, feel a bit self-conscious.

By the time I walk into a small restaurant that first evening seeking dinner, my self-consciousness has reached an uncomfortable peak. The restaurant’s only other guests, a middle-aged couple, fall quiet as I make my way to a table. After the waiter and I stumble through my order, impeded by his poor English and my worse Italian, I pull out a book to hide my awkwardness while I wait for the food. But when the first course arrives—a heap of ocher-tinted pasta topped with crimson shrimp and shards of pistachios—I am so clearly delighted by the dish that the waiter then decides we are friends. He introduces himself by name, Giovanni, and when two women with their children enter the restaurant, he seats them next to me and introduces them as well. “La famiglia,” he says—his own, and that of the chef, who, stepping out from the kitchen to kiss his wife, also comes over to greet me.

Two hours later, I walk out into the night air, aloft on a wave of bonhomie and sturdy Sicilian wine. Oh yes, I think to myself. I could live here.

I’m not the only person to arrive at that revelation. In fact, I had come to Sicily to investigate a program that has attracted thousands with the same notion. A program that allows people, although they may not have the financial wherewithal to go full-bore Tuscan-villa-with-frescoed-ceilings-and-private-vineyard, to nevertheless live a different version of the dream. A program that promises them a house for a single euro.

About the size of New Hampshire, Sicily has 4.8 million residents. Photos by Julia Nimke

Since the 19th century, large numbers of villagers in the poorer parts of Italy have migrated to more prosperous regions and countries. The migration continues; in some places, populations have shrunk so dramatically that there are no longer enough patients to keep the local doctor in business, or enough children to fill the school. Young people who moved away to study or work didn’t want to return, and when their parents died, the family homes stood empty, sometimes for decades. Around 2010, the village of Salemi in western Sicily was one of the first towns to come up with an idea: What if you could fill them again by offering the properties for sale at a ridiculously low price?

I wasn’t in the market for a house, one euro or otherwise. But I wanted to know if the program worked. Though the rumors I’d heard about driving in Sicily gave me pause—highways that suddenly turn into rutted cow paths; drivers whose chosen passing method involves achieving the closest possible proximity to the fender of the car in front of them—I decided to set out in a rental car through villages in various stages of implementing the initiative. Were once-sepulchral towns reinvigorated by newcomers eager to put down roots? Were the new residents integrating into small-town life, or was an influx of new blood bringing unintended side effects? And did a town that drew enough newcomers lose the qualities that had attracted said newcomers in the first place?

From left: The population of Sambuca di Sicilia has declined because of a low birth rate, but the town gained media attention after The Sopranos actress Lorraine Bracco bought a home there; The Valley of the Temples has been a UNESCO World Heritage Site since 1997. Photos by Julia Nimke

The morning after my dinner in Sambuca di Sicilia, I leave my home base to see my first one-euro house. Before that, I stop in the Valley of the Temples. Located in a national park, the valley preserves the remains of a Greek colony founded in the 6th century B.C.E. on land inhabited by the indigenous Sicani. A couple of millennia later, the original temples to Hercules and Hera survive, but so does evidence of Carthaginian rampage and Roman reconstruction. Those peoples would in time be followed by Vandals from northern Europe and Muslims from Africa, to say nothing of the French and Spanish. Standing there, looking at the gold-colored columns of once-grand temples set against the sparkling sea and flowering almond trees, time seemed to bend. Outsiders, I realize, have been making their homes here for a long time.

They’ve also been leaving. When I arrive in Cammarata, a steep jumble of a village whose mountains are dusted with snow, I can feel an absence. In the winter sunshine, it’s beautiful, but it’s also empty. In the 15 minutes I spend standing in front of a very sleepy-looking town hall, where I’ve arranged to meet architect Martina Giracello, not one person passes by.

The members of StreetTo want to rejuvenate Cammarata. Photo by Julia Nimke

Finally, Giracello arrives, her corkscrew curls bobbing, and explains the silence. “People here wanted to live in larger, more modern apartments,” she says. Many moved to neighboring San Giovanni Gemini, about half a mile away, where the gentler topography allows for larger buildings and better conveniences. Now, Giracello tells me, “the one real estate agency in the area doesn’t even handle houses in the historic center.”

Like other young people from the region, Giracello and her boyfriend, Gianluca, moved away for university and to start their professional careers. But as they approached the end of their 20s, they returned to Cammarata, yearning for a quieter life. They also wanted, however, some kind of cultural scene, and neighbors their own age. “We studied other towns with one-euro programs, saw that for a lot of buyers, once they are there, the house is just a vacation home, and they don’t have a relation to the people there,” she tells me. “We wanted to do something different. We wanted to create a community.”

“As We Slowly Make Our Way Up Cammarata’s Steep Streets, The Silence Gives Way To The Sound Of Hammers And Saws. ‘Hear That?’ Giracello Asks. ‘It’s Working.’”

They banded together with other professionals to form a volunteer association called StreetTo, which convinces the owners of abandoned properties to sell, then helps foreigners find their houses and navigate the inspections, paperwork, and renovations that follow. And, in the hopes of forging community, they also organize exhibitions, concerts, and gatherings for townspeople old and new. Driven by their desire to revive the Cammarata they love, StreetTo’s members offer these services free of charge. (“At the moment, it is a project geared toward foreigners, but what we want is to also bring Cammarata’s citizens back, just as Gianluca and I have come back,” Giracello says.)

It’s not pure altruism, though. Their town gets something in the way of revitalization. As we slowly make our way up Cammarata’s steep streets, the silence gives way to the sound of hammers and saws. “Hear that?” Giracello asks. “It’s working.”

Panting from the climb, we reach the first property, where Giracello introduces me to the reality of what one euro buys you: not much. The home, more vertically challenged shed than house, has what real estate ads might call “significant structural issues” and what I might call “a massive hole in the roof.”

For an extravagance like a ceiling, Giracello says, you’ll need to spend a bit more. We press on to another house. Pushing open the heavy wooden door, she mentions its price—just over $10,000. The tall, narrow home is built, like many older Sicilian dwellings, with a single room per floor, its stairwell is carpeted in debris, and the battered sink and laminate countertops make it look like the kitchen was outfitted sometime around World War II. But the floor is adorned with beautiful geometric tiles, and a view of the valley spills through the windows. “We try to find houses in not really good condition,” Giracello says. “Because the purpose of the project is to help the town get better.”

StreetTo has helped negotiate the sale of 18 houses so far, but contract negotiations and renovations are still in progress, and none of the buyers have been able to move into their homes yet. But Giracello is confident it won’t be long before her village swells with new life. She pulls out her phone to show me a video.

“When a German nurse and her husband bought a place, a local couple were so happy to see new people that they held a dinner for them, and invited us,” she says. “Even though the Germans didn’t speak Italian and the Italians didn’t speak German, now they are all friends.” She pauses. “We are all friends.”

Today a church and monastery, Santa Caterina d’Alessandria was home to nuns from 1311 to 2014. Photo by Julia Nimke

My next stop is Mussomeli, located nearly in the center of the island. Unlike many Sicilian towns, which drape themselves seductively across a ridge, Mussomeli is all about the vertical. On the morning I approach, the craggy volcanic outcroppings that rise from the valley below have trapped pools of mist, making the town appear to be floating on clouds. It feels like entering Middle Earth.

The illusion doesn’t last: With a population of nearly 11,000 people, Mussomeli is large enough to support a Carrefour supermarket and even a mini traffic jam. But as I push on to the town’s core, the fantasy returns. Mussomeli’s heart holds ancient churches, tiny squares where kids play ball, and views from its tangled streets of that mystical valley and a hilltop with the ruins of a 14th-century castle.

Streets so tangled, in fact, that I get lost, and ask for directions in a dark, tiny bakery selling nothing but focaccia. I pay for an oily square, and ask the elderly man behind the counter what he thinks about the foreigners moving to town. “There aren’t so many here now,” he says. “But in summer they buy a lot of focaccia.”

Seems a fair trade. Mussomeli doesn’t cater to tourism, but between its services and charm, more than 200 inexpensive homes have been bought by foreigners in the past few years. Australian Danny McCubbin owns one of them. Ready for a quieter life after 17 years of working in London for the chef Jamie Oliver, McCubbin was recruited by producers late in 2019 for a television show that planned to follow people on their one-euro adventures in Mussomeli. The pandemic intervened and the show was never finished, but McCubbin had found his purpose. By the end of 2020, he had decided to move permanently to Mussomeli and turn his home into a community kitchen to help people with inadequate access to food.

From left: The Good Kitchen rescues surplus food from supermarkets to provide for people in need; Australian Danny McCubbin moved to Mussomeli in 2020. Photos by Julia Nimke

After I make several wrong turns, I find McCubbin, clearing dishes from a long, communal table. He’d just served lunch to local residents and Ukrainian children welcomed by the town after fleeing the war. These days, the Good Kitchen also supplies weekly meals for the elderly and has taught some of Mussomeli’s youth to cook. A clutch of older men use the space as an afternoon hangout, and there’s also a free Sunday afternoon lunch. (The only requirement for those with means is that they bring something to share.) Not long ago, Mussomeli’s mayor told McCubbin that he had planted a seed, and that more in Mussomeli were now thinking about social projects. “My whole way of living is so simple and joyful now,” McCubbin says. “I don’t know where else I could have done this.”

Rubia Andrade Daniels has also adjusted her expectations. One of the earliest buyers in Mussomeli, she fell in love with a vibe that reminds her of the Brazil where she was born and spent her childhood, but that also seems open to the kind of diversity she’s found in California, where she has lived for the past 30 years. “For the first few days, I couldn’t figure out why people here were being so nice to me,” she says with a laugh. “Then I realized they’re like that to everyone.”

Andrade Daniels, who works for a renewable energy company, loved the town so much she purchased three one-euro houses on her first visit in 2019. Four years later, her enthusiasm remains undimmed, but her timetable has shifted: The kitchen in the house where she plans on living part time once she retires wasn’t finished until August 2023, and progress on the other two—an art gallery and a wellness center—has been pushed to an undetermined future, in part due to the pandemic and the delays in its wake. “You can’t have American expectations,” she says. “Here, things take the time they take.”

I Think About That Pace each day when I return to my base in Sambuca di Sicilia. There, too, there’s been such demand for the listed houses that one euro is no longer the final sale cost but rather the opening bid in an auction that could see prices rise into the thousands. Even then, the campaign was so popular that the municipality launched a second round in 2021, with an increase in the starting price—to two euros.

Margherita Licata, who has been summering in Sambuca since childhood and eventually settled here full time about 20 years ago, says that “99 percent” of Sambucans welcome the newcomers. The other 1 percent? “They worry they have been invaded by Americans,” says Licata, who works for a real estate agency in town. “If Sambuca one day has a thousand outsiders living here, of course it will change our lives. But it will maybe mean the young [people] can find a job and not go somewhere else. If we want that change, we must accept other changes too.”

Of course, it’s possible that Sambuca could become transfigured by take-out coffee joints and big-box stores and other supposed comforts that the town’s new residents like. Already, some Americans have complained about the local teenagers who cruise the streets on their motorbikes at night. And imported class divisions are also emerging: Among the more free-spirited DIYers who have purchased homes, rumors circulate that some of the wealthier buyers want to build an exclusive, members-only swimming pool.

From left: Margherita Licata has lived in Sambuca for roughly 20 years; Pasticceria Enrico Pendola is one of few bakeries in the small town. Photos by Julia Nimke

But for now, there’s little evidence of a non-Sicilian presence in Sambuca, and it remains difficult to find anyone who speaks English. What I did find was an archaeology museum where, after I inquired if it was open, a woman rushed out, turned on the lights, and marched me at breakneck speed through the antiquities on display while barking descriptions of them at me in Italian. I also found a market that popped up alongside the traffic circle where the fishmonger told me how to cook the sardines I bought from the back of his van, as well as a café whose arancini made me finally understand why anyone would want to eat fried balls of rice, and where the elderly man who glared at me as I drank my breakfast cappuccino turned out not to be annoyed with the foreigner invading his morning sanctuary, but just waiting for the opportunity to ask me if I knew his cousins in New Jersey.

I’d arrived in Sicily wondering if the one-euro initiative would ruin the towns that adopted it, replacing their traditional culture with more consumerist ones and destroying their lifestyle and easy sociability. And when that turned out not to be the case, I also wondered if it wasn’t simply a matter of time: Perhaps the pandemic had slowed an already slower way of doing business, and the reckoning would still surely come.

But as I sat again in that same restaurant from the first night, it seemed to me that Sicily would be just fine. Maybe the slower pace was not a flaw that would eventually be overcome, but instead a feature that would ensure Sicily remains alluringly and unequivocally itself. After all, I thought, as I remembered the

Valley of the Temples, different peoples have been arriving on these shores for millennia. They may leave an imprint; they may shape the culture. But it’s clear that a distinctively Sicilian spirit still dominates.

From left: Mussomeli is one of the most popular towns in Sicily for one-euro home programs; Sambuca di Sicilia was a prominent trading hub centuries ago. Photos by Julia Nimke

And so, just before my departure from the island, I went to visit Margherita Licata again, but this time for reasons slightly more personal. Because I had seen enough one-euro homes to know that my powers of imagination were no match for their state of decrepitude, we skipped right to a “premium” home. As soon as she pushed open the doors to the arched courtyard, I was entranced. The rooms were rundown and furnished with old-fashioned chandeliers and faded wallpaper. But they were also large and bright, with intact walls and floors covered with gorgeous patterned tiles. Downstairs, there was an attached space that would make a perfect rental apartment. Upstairs, two rooftop terraces offered views of the town center in one direction, and a lake in the other.

“Fifty thousand euros,” Licata told me with a wink. “But that’s just what the owner’s asking.”

The money in my bank account had not magically grown during my time in Sicily. But my imagination must have. Because in that moment, it all seemed possible.

— Lisa Abend is a Journalist based in Madrid and the Author of The Sorcerer’s Apprentices: A Season in the Kitchen at Ferran Adrià's elBulli. She is also a Contributing Writer at AFAR and Correspondent for Time magazine.

[the-light-finds-its-way]

Mom got out of ICU today, and put into a normal hospital room. My family went to go see her, and as for myself and my siblings, it was basically the first time in 3 weeks that we'd seen her.

She was covered in giant tender bruises from head to toe. Thankfully, only 2 IVs were in versus the original 7, and she was down to one pole that held the bags, while the rest were hooked to the bed. The blood clot in her leg has grown, and is breaking up at last, or so we assume. But mom can't walk because it hurts so bad. She has mesh in her lungs now to prevent the clots from reaching them again, which will kill her if they do. Additionally, she's on oxygen for the time being. And, there's a chance when she comes home, that she'll have to remain on oxygen tanks, and if that's the case then nobody is sure how long. But I've got this awful gut feeling telling me mom will be on the tanks for the rest of her life... I don't know, and have no way of knowing, but that's just what my stupid gut is saying to me. It'll be minimally 3-5 more days before she's released to go home. It could be more, and something inside also tells me it's going to be longer. But mom says she's doing the best she has been since the first surgery 3 weeks ago. Her nurses are really nice, super sweet, and they playfully poked (hehe) at my needle weenie self who had to turn away when they drew blood from her.

My anxiety didn't help when a $86 bill went through on my bank account that's already overdrawn by Gods only know how much... I'll be damned lucky if I make $150 for this paycheck. And an artist I commissioned back in March last year for a November finishing time on a piece, was late and is now almost finished in January. I'll have to pay him the other $175 soon, and I don't know when, and if I'll even have a single dollar to spare by then... There's another draft I have coming, on the 16th, for the retirement fund my father forces me to pay into unless I want to give him $100 for literally no reason, minimally once a month but possibly more, instead of the $75 for the fund once a month. So I go for the fund. And then, I have to somehow pay for my therapy appointment in another 10 days as well. I'm really not sure if I can do all this. I ditched college to work more, and as soon as I did, they cut me down to one day a week for the next 4 weeks, and there are no people I can cover because everyone is scrambling with trying to get more than 25 hours per week. Fuckers. Try living off 8 a week, when you just told the boss you're free all day every day at any time, and they won't even schedule you for 1/3 of what everyone else is working part time, let alone full time.

I'm so scared, so lost... I was hoping to get a ticket to go see Blind Guardian in May, but they're selling fast and I'm not sure when I'll ever have the money, if I will have the money, to get one in time... Not like I've waited 9 years to go see them live for the first time ever... I somehow have to save $32 for a train ticket as well by mid February, to go to the city for something I'd planned 7 months ago. And then, I planned a trip with friends which I may not be able to do if this keeps going downhill with my money... I already have to pay for a con we are going to as well in September. And I'm just... Fucking distraught. I planned my entire year around the fact that I'd be working full time and get more money. And work kicked my ass with a giant fuck you immediately upon me making those plans.

Fuck my life. Give me my healthy mom back, and $1000. Please... I'm fucking desperate and broken...

[truckstoptigers]

I can't just be a normal person, can I? like that just isn't possible for me. there are things I will never be able to do. there are even more things I will never be able to do comfortably.

sometimes I can't brush my teeth because of what the motion reminds me of. sometimes I wait a few days too many to take a shower because I don't want to see my body. sometimes I think about cutting all my hair off because the last time it looked like this, I was still stuck with my father. the only difference is that my hair is dark brown now. I can't help but think I got it from him, because my mom is blonde & my grandma, her mother, is a redhead, and my uncle (mom's brother) has black hair. I don't want to share ANY features with that man - he was the one to drag me into hell - but my aunt makes a point sometimes to tell me I do. it makes me want to throw up.

in my head it's a constant stream of these memories on loop behind my eyes, and it never seems to end, stretching on into infinity. the worst moments of my life playing in technicolour over and over and over again, and I'm powerless to stop it. all I can really do right now is distract myself, but even that doesn't work sometimes. that's when I have to sneak away to the bathroom/outside so I can cry and not have anyone see me. sometimes I can't cry at all. sometimes I can't stop. I get nervous when random numbers I don't know call me multiple times a day because I'm scared that somehow, one of those men found me again. it's highly unlikely, but that doesn't soothe the fear any.

there's pictures and videos of me out there somewhere. I know there is. my father regularly took his own photos/videos so he could keep them for himself, but also so he could sell them. he had the men he sold me to pay extra if they wanted to 'document' anything for themselves. there might be indecent photos/videos of me as a child, being abused, on somebody's phone or laptop right now, and that disgusts me. there's nothing I can even do about it. I didn't have a choice. and now I'm nervous whenever I'm in front of a camera because I can't help but think about the camcorders and cameras and phones they used.

my appetite completely disappeared around the time I started recovering memories. a lot of the time I can go hours, even days, without feeling hungry once. I've lost around 30 or so pounds at this point. the last time it was this bad, I was 13, extremely depressed, constantly crying & suicidal. I can get myself to eat if I smoke a bowl, but otherwise it's like hunger doesn't even exist for me. I get hunger pangs, but none of the hunger that's supposed to come with them. sometimes I have to stop eating before I'm done because I start to gag.

I remember that my father would withhold food & drink from me basically whenever he wanted. or he would force them on me until I was gagging and, sometimes, throwing up, which I then was promptly punished for as if it was my fault. punishments always hurt. there was really only a few ways I could 'make it up to him,' as he would say, and all of them had to do with me laying down somewhere for him and letting him do what he wanted. whenever I make a mistake I still think of that, and it makes even the tiniest 'oops' turn into an anxious stomachache that lasts for hours because my hypervigilance kicks on and tells me something bad is about to happen to me for something as simple as dropping a cup that doesn't even break. I don't cry and hyperventilate anymore, and it took years to get to that point, but I'm still terrified every time.

I get nervous when random men stare at me a little too long in public because I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, he was one of the many men who abused me, and he remembers what I don't. I get nervous when we're in a store and there's a man walking behind me - I can't get myself to calm down, even when they pass by. I feel like I have to be on guard 24/7 and I feel like the second I let it slip, something terrible will happen because I wasn't paying attention. even my own stepdad standing too close to me can trigger this response, and he has nothing to do w/ what my father was doing. I don't like to be crowded, but sometimes my stepdad will purposefully get into my space because he knows I don't like it. he doesn't know why I don't like it, but I shouldn't have to divulge my trauma for my boundaries to be respected. it makes me just as nervous as it does when it's a random man I don't know.

I don't get to be normal. I didn't even have a fucking personality before it started because I was literally a preschooler. I will never know the kind of person I could've been if none of this ever happened, and I will never get the childhood I should've had. I get to live with chronic pain that makes it hard for me to do anything but sit and wait for my meds to work. I get to have violently graphic flashbacks for no discernible reason that turn me into a sobbing, shaking mess for hours. I get to live with the fact that no one has to answer for the horrible things they did to me - at least, not in this life. I get to be severely traumatized to the point of constant fear that it will happen again. after all, it did happen again freshman year - just with someone else. and I can never be sure it won't ever happen again.

I can't be 'normal,' and I hate my father for that.

[memoirsofaninfj]

Ever felt so fatigued from the years of having to prioritise your parents and siblings over yourself?

Sunday blues.

The last couple years it's been me the eldest daughter responsible to support my parents and my younger siblings who has an intellectual disability.

I work full time and need weekends to rest. But I feel a constant sense of guilt for wanting to distance myself.

The last 3 years have been dealing with an alcoholic father and mother who's been through several rounds of chemo/ radiotherapy and hormonal treatments for cancer.

In this time my health has massively deteriorated and I feel like I have aged 10 years plus.

I have been trying to work on my health again. But my sleep health is totally fucked up.

I have to close the windows because even the noise of a car driving passed or someone running on the footpath wakes me.

Gyming it for almost a month and the old injuries are firing up.

I still think about my parents and feel like I'm anticipating everyday the stress of having to deal with their aging and death.

I started getting some counselling sessions and so far the progress made for trying to get myself out of this life slump and has been the gym.

I worked an extra 10 hours at work this week. No OT just toil... but the work keeps adding up which makes taking the leave even more mentally challenging.

I am getting paid the most I've ever in my life but the cost of living has made it feel like it's just simply not enough and worse than when I got less. How is that even possible?

I have a side hustle but I just have no energy to make it sustainable. I'm not motivated to deal with people, especially indecisive people that waste my time. So I'm still trying to think of a way I can just sell a product rather than a service. Something that doesn't require people pleasing. I guess that is why I'm unmotivated. Too many people either are users, cheap skates or just don't value my time and skill.

I wish I had a dog to pet right now, I would get one if I had a bigger section and could afford all the necessary dog costs to be a responsible dog owner. German Shepherds are my favourite breed. I just think about their cute ears, intelligence and their long snouts. I miss my last dogs Sheba and Che. They were the best companion dogs and so smart.

.... okay stop,

I am grateful to have my best friend who is husband and our kids. We have one another that that's all that matters. They are the joy to my life. I just wish I could give them more. More as in opportunities, travel, good quality education and nutrition and positive experience. They feel so out of reach when you're born in poverty.

I wish I could be a better mother and friend.

I dream sometimes, you know? Like, what if I won the lottery or money just fell from the sky? Or what if money grew on trees? But then I also think bigger—what if all the corruption and greed just stopped? What if inequality wasn’t a thing anymore? What if this whole system, this neoliberalism or whatever, just fell apart? I don’t know. I guess I just dream of a better world, one where life isn’t so hard for so many people. It’s all just thoughts, but still.

That must be heaven, if so I look forward to that day with them. If I'm worthy.

[whiskerinthestars]

Chapter 7: Silver Strategy

Urban Ascent

As I slowly began packing up my things, I thought to myself: So what caught that old man's attention was all the mana I was radiating. I was being a lot more obvious than I had realized. I hadn’t considered what it might look like to someone who could also sense that energy. I hear what he’s saying—obviously, I need to go back and work on my foundation—but if that’s all I do, what’s the point? I want to have at least something to show for my efforts. It’s not like a little practice is going to hurt anything, right?

Still, he’s right about one thing: I don’t need to attract any more attention. This time it worked out, but what about next time? At the very least, I should stop using charm magic directly on people passing by. It would be more noticeable to other cultivators, and it could potentially cause offense to them.

Since I don’t know how common other cultivators even are in this world, I need to stay low-key. Instead of using such an overt output of energy in public, practically broadcasting that I’m a weak newbie cultivator who can be picked on, what if I bought some more expensive premade trinkets—jewelry, maybe—and focused on imbuing them with mana to make them more inherently desirable?

After all, I’ve read plenty of stories about spell arrays, formations, glyphs, and talismans. I should be able to do something like that with enough practice, right? That way, I can use mana in the privacy of my own apartment to avoid attracting any attention—getting some practice in while staying inconspicuous. But there’s no way I’m coming back to this flea market. If there’s one cultivator here, there might be two. So on the off chance there’s something about this place that tends to attract them, I need to stay well away from it.

I guess I’ll try a discreet stall outside of the shopping center after all. I could use a small folding stool and just have a couple of trinkets on display. If security does get called eventually, I’ll just move on to the next store. It’s not like I haven't seen similar things outside those stores before. I’m sure it would take at least twenty or thirty minutes before they start hounding me to leave, right?

I’m going to have to grow a thicker skin and just put up with it. Maybe I can wear one of those flu masks and really cover up my appearance as much as possible.

Eventually, I packed everything back into my truck and got back on the road. Speaking of trinkets, maybe I’ll stop off at Walmart and check out their jewelry department. They should have plenty of cheap silver rings with some glass stones and the like. If I can get them for under twenty bucks and sell them for sixty, that means just five rings a day will keep the bills away. So if I can sell at least twenty-five a week, I can afford to put in for some leave at work, which will give me a lot more time to cultivate.

Besides, after finally having something exciting in my life to work towards, the idea of spending forty precious hours a week sitting and pretending to look busy—while only having five hours of actual work to do—sounds like actual torture. It’s a fate all of my fellow office workers are well aware of. Well, except for the unlucky few of them actually keeping the company afloat with hard work—too bad all that hard work doesn’t reflect in their paycheck. Been there, done that. No thanks.

As I pulled into the parking lot, I checked the time—about 12:45 PM—and Walmart was certainly busy today. I guess it is Sunday, after all. But whatever. I think the jewelry department has its own register, right? Hopefully, they’re not too busy. After managing to find a lone parking spot nearly on the opposite side of the lot, I popped in my earbuds and strolled towards the entrance, lost in my own thoughts—half on autopilot as I made my way into the store.

Barely paying attention to where I was going, I suddenly found myself standing in front of the jewelry counter. And to my surprise, it was completely dead. I guess no one really shops for jewelry at Walmart, huh? I muttered under my breath, letting out a small sigh of relief.

Luckily, the jewelry was just as cheap as I’d imagined. Silver isn’t too expensive after all, and it’s not like these baubles weigh much. The first thing that caught my eye was actually just a plain silver band. No adornments—just a simple, unassuming loop of silver. But for some reason, it really called to me. If I’m practicing using my magic to… enchant—yeah, let’s call it that—these rings, I can’t help but think of the storage rings in those novels.

While I’m sure that’s way above my weight class at the moment, maybe I could inscribe something useful on it eventually. Who knows when inspiration might strike? Hell, maybe wearing it while I cultivate will help form some sort of bond with it or prepare it to be inscribed. Sure, I’m just talking out of my ass at this point, but it was only seventeen dollars, so I grabbed it.

After that, I picked up a few more rings, necklaces, and bracelets—twenty-six pieces in total, including the plain silver band I was already wearing—coming to a grand total of $468. I handed over the $337 in cash I’d made earlier and cringed as I swiped my card to cover the remaining $131 balance for this junk.

But you can’t make money without spending money. I’ll just think of this as an investment. After all, this gives me twenty-five pieces to sell. If I can flip them for at least sixty bucks each, that’s a decent margin—meaning I’ll clear a cool $1,000. That’ll more than cover my expenses for the week and make up for missing work.

I’m definitely calling in on Monday with some bullshit excuse to take the week off. It’s not like I’ve taken any time off recently, and with how little work I actually do, I doubt anyone will even notice I’m gone. Plus, this job isn’t exactly high-paying, so even if they do notice and I end up needing to find something else, it shouldn’t be too hard to replace. I’ve got enough savings to stay afloat for a few months, even if I don’t make anything right away. Still, I need to focus on making this plan work before I start dreaming too big. Sure, if I get good at it, I could start charging a hundred bucks a piece and cut my workload in half. But for now, I’ll take it one step at a time.

Eventually, I tossed the Walmart bag into the passenger seat and started the drive home. The silver band on my finger kept catching my eye. Who am I kidding? It’s just a plain ring. I smirked to myself—already imagining it becoming something way cooler than it had any right to be. But hey, dreaming big is half the fun.

I zoned out for most of the drive, replaying that weird conversation with the old man in my head. His words bugged me, but they also made too much sense to ignore. I needed a stronger foundation before I got ahead of myself—otherwise, I’d end up burning out. Still, that didn't mean I had to stop everything. I wasn’t about to sit around meditating 24/7 without at least trying something new.

By the time I got home, my apartment greeted me with its usual blend of cozy and claustrophobic. I kicked off my shoes and dropped the bag on the counter with a metallic clink. All that shiny silver staring back at me—I had to resist the urge to dive right into trying to work my magic on it.

But no. I knew better. First things first—foundation work. The old man had drilled that into me. So I headed to my little meditation corner—aka the only clean part of my place—and settled in for another round of trying not to screw up my energy flow.

Sitting there, I started to focus inward, guiding the mana through my body like I’d been practicing. Torso and head? Doing alright. Limbs? Not so much. Still, there was progress. After who knows how long, I’d managed to chip away at some of those blockages in my arms and legs—maybe 25% closer to what the old man would consider decent. Not too shabby, right? At least I was getting better at controlling the flow.

Eventually, I got up, stretched out the soreness, and looked over at that bag of jewelry. Tomorrow, I’d start messing around with the trinkets, maybe see if I could actually imbue them with something useful. I had this idea of running mana through them like they were an extension of me—sort of refining them as I went. Maybe I’d even figure out how to store mana in them for a little while.

But that was a challenge for future-me. I still had a lot to figure out. No point in burning out early by rushing things—one step at a time, like the old man said.

For now, though, I needed sleep. Tomorrow, the real experimentation would begin.

[ozma914]

Oodles of Books: the Gift That Keeps On Reading

"If the Beast gave me a library like he gave to Belle, I'd marry him too." -- Aya Ling

 So, my wife's bosses were going through storage units, and had to sort through all the books their daughter collected over the years. Some were damaged, but they offered to give Emily and me most of the rest. Their daughter, they said, read a lot.

Not long after, they filled our Ford Escape with so many books I was afraid it would bottom out on every hill on the way home. A few days later, they did it again. Then again.

Mountains of books! Forests of books! More books than you'd ever read in a lifetime!

Ahem. If you'll pardon me for quoting Beauty and the Beast. I may have cried a little. I also may have cried a little while we were carrying them all up the steps into the house, but enough about my back.

It was Emily who had to clean up the books because, as it happens, I'm allergic to both dust and mold. Never thought I'd be glad about that. But I forgot, and later when I was cleaning our former bedroom/new reading room (our own library!) I gave myself an allergy attack. Too bad--eight hours of sleeping off the Benadryl, when I could have been reading.

Freaking scads of books! 

We're still sorting them, by author and genre. Authors like me, who don't stick to a genre, will be a problem. But many of them were novel series (love a good series), which helped. We unfolded a table and Emily got started while I was cooking and doing the dishes, which is completely understandable when you realize how much more organized her mind is than mine.

Really, the only member of the family who wasn't thrilled was the dog. (This all happened before Beowulf passed away.) When we first put up the table he liked to lay down under it, but as we unpacked more books that space became filled, too. Sometimes he just walked up to the table and looks sadly at his former doghouse.

"I am NOT amused. I can't even read."

A large percentage of the books are what's called high fantasy, which I take it are better enjoyed when you're high. Wait, let me check ...

Oh. Well, it means epic in scope, with forces threatening a world that is not our own. Game Of Thrones stuff, and didn't it take us a whole year to read through those massive tomes. The novel I wrote (and am currently trying to sell) is low fantasy: mostly set in the real world, with the addition of magical elements. Now we're talking about Harry Potter and the Giant Dump Truck of Money.

Many others are space opera, again similar to another novel in my submission process. Think Dune, the Lensman books, and of course Star Wars. (My Junior English teacher in high school was the daughter of E.E. Smith, who authored the Hugo-nominated Lensman series. Fun old-timey SF, and possibly an inspiration for the Green Lantern.)

There are also history books, mostly involving World War II, which made me squeal a little. Okay, a lot. There are mysteries, and both nonfiction and fiction books about horses, and encyclopedia yearbooks covering all the earlier years of my life and some before. We have our own library of books--something I always dreamed of.

I took this photo to document that someone decided to leave their shampoo behind, and buy a book instead. If you never leave your couch, you don't need shampoo.

It all made me a little sad.

Let's face it: even if I gave up writing and put all my spare time into reading, there's no way I'll ever get to all these books, plus the ones I already have, plus the ones on my reading list. We've still got books in boxes in the garage. I've got friends writing books that I want to read. It makes me want to retire to a rustic cabin in the woods and just become one with a comfortable chair.

Still, just having all those books up on shelves around us will cheer me up substantially, and better too many than not enough. With books, I may never go anywhere again--but I'll go everywhere.

That's a pretty good way to spend your time.

Remember: Every time you don't read a book, the author has an allergy attack. Keep authors healthy.

We and our books--I mean, the ones we wrote--can be found everywhere:

·        Amazon:  https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO

·        Barnes & Noble:  https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

·        Goodreads:  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4898846.Mark_R_Hunter

·        Blog: https://markrhunter.blogspot.com/

·        Website: http://www.markrhunter.com/

·        Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/ozma914/

·        Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/MarkRHunter914

·        Linkedin: https://www.linkedin.com/in/markrhunter/

·        Twitter: https://twitter.com/MarkRHunter

·        Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@MarkRHunter

·        Substack:  https://substack.com/@markrhunter

·        Tumblr:  https://www.tumblr.com/ozma914

·        Smashwords:  https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/ozma914

[jodilinbio]

Each day Tom returned from work, stopping at the mailbox on the way to the motel to tell me the card still hadn’t arrived, was heart-wrenching. I felt increasingly doomed, out of sorts, physically weak, and emotionally drained.

By Wednesday the 10th, the card still hadn’t come, and we were facing the reality of returning to the streets. The thought of just one day back out there was terrifying—multiple days felt unbearable. If we’d had a camper or even a larger, more comfortable vehicle, it might have been different. But even if we could live forever in our truck, we’d still need money for food and gas. Plus, we needed to shower.

Wednesday was the worst. I literally felt like we were almost dead. I truly believed life as we’d known it was over and that we’d done all we could to try to save ourselves. Lying in bed, trembling and crying while he was at work, I told myself, “Face it, there’s no getting out of this one. You tried your best, but you can’t fix this. Your time’s up. It’s time to focus on the positives of dying—like how you never did want to grow old, arthritic, and get diseases.”

Through teary eyes, I wrote a note to be copied for both our families by whoever might discover us. I explained that while neither of us wanted to die, and while it angered and frustrated us to know that our lives depended on a lousy piece of plastic, people do need money to live. I urged them not to be sad or mad, and to remember that there are as many pros to not living as there are to living. I left login details for my online journals, stories, and photo albums, including information about storage and mail locations. I asked that my friends be contacted as well.

It was the hardest thing I’d ever written, fully believing we’d be gone in a matter of hours. We had agreed to take our lives that night after Tom made one final phone call to the debit card company to get access to our money. The moment he hung up, exhausted and frustrated, I felt true, heart-sinking despair.

We planned to go together just after midnight on Thursday, like a real-life Romeo and Juliet, figuring that anyone around us would likely be asleep and wouldn’t hear anything. We intended to be as quiet as possible, sealing ourselves in the bathroom with tape along the door edges and vents, hoping the room didn’t have a carbon monoxide detector.

That evening, lying in bed while Tom watched TV, I imagined our tombstones. I pictured the dates and wondered where we’d be buried—not that it mattered, but I was naturally curious. Would they separate us, sending me back east? Or would they bury us together in Arizona or California?

I missed Tinkerbell like crazy but was glad she wasn’t there to go through this with us. I also realized I was afraid to die—not so much because of a potential afterlife, but more from the fear of whatever pain I might experience on the way.

I glanced at the clock: 7:15.

Next came the guilt. I felt I wasn’t a strong enough influencer and feared I was pushing Tom into something he didn’t want. Yet, he promised me we were in this together no matter what and would not let me go alone. Neither of us wanted to live without the other, even though neither of us wanted to die.

Then, sadness and anger surfaced over all the small things we wouldn’t get to experience if I couldn’t figure something out, and quickly. I didn’t care if I never got to expand my doll collection, but I wanted to see Tom do what he loved. I wanted to live to listen to my stereo, to see my dolls if I didn’t have to sell them, to hang my wind chimes, to learn Italian, and to finish my stories.

At that moment, I realized dying was easier said than done. While I still wasn’t sure if we could make it, a stubborn urge to fight and survive came over me. I thought of what I’d do differently if I managed to escape this mess.

Desperate to survive, I knew there was one last option, though it was a long shot and slightly humiliating. Thanks to my impeccable memory, I remembered Mary’s number in Phoenix.

Surprisingly, she accepted the collect call, maybe out of concern that something had happened to Tom. Knowing she wouldn’t help us directly, I asked her to contact my parents in Florida, who didn’t accept collect calls. I explained that our phone charger had accidentally gone into storage, leaving our phone dead. While she didn’t offer any personal help, she agreed to make the call and asked what was wrong.

After hanging up, each minute felt like a dozen as I waited, hoping for the best. If no one would help, we’d have to proceed with our plan of ending our lives. I couldn’t endure this emotional rollercoaster much longer—it was too agonizing.

Then, the phone rang. Both my parents were on the line. I explained our situation as best I could, though I was shaken and they, in their mid-70s, weren’t as sharp. Initially, my mother said $100 was all she could spare due to medical expenses. I wondered if they were downplaying their finances, but I also knew how tight Social Security could be. She then told me about her own health struggles, including a recent surgery after years of smoking had cost her part of one lung, and that she’d had breast cancer surgery too. Despite her faults, it was sad to hear.

My parents did far more than just help. They saved us, covering two nights at the motel and sending $300 to get us through.

By Saturday the 13th, I saw a glimmer of hope, though we weren’t out of the woods yet. We had two chances: transferring funds to the new debit card or receiving the old one.

Since we hadn’t been able to go online due to his desktop’s lack of an antenna, Tom rigged a makeshift one. Online, he attempted to transfer half of the funds on the old card, now up to $850 with two paychecks, to the new card.

What Tom never told me, likely to keep me from panicking even more, was that the card probably wouldn’t come until Monday the 15th. Instead, he told me it could arrive any time.

The suspense was agonizing as I waited for Tom to get off work on Monday. The moment he called to tell me the new card had finally arrived, I felt the true meaning of “relief.”

I wrote a detailed letter to my parents, explaining why we left Oregon, the issues with the debit card, and our goals. I also asked them not to share our contact info with Larry or Tammy, as I didn’t wish to reconnect with them. At that time, I only provided our postal address, withholding our phone number, and skipped the email since they hadn’t had internet access for years.

In her reply, my mother promised she’d never share our address and assured me we didn’t need to repay them. She never expressed love, though, either by phone or by mail.

I was grateful for their help, but I was also faced with a tough decision. I had to ask myself if my gratitude was worth having them back in my life. After all, their help didn’t erase the past, and I knew that reconnecting would likely bring old cycles back. I reminded myself of why I’d walked away from the family drama. I’d rather be hated for what I am than loved for what I’m not, and I had no desire to engage with people who’d struggled to accept me as I was. I decided to keep things simple by sending a letter every month or so. I continued until six months went by without a reply from them.

It seemed they’d made the decision for me, and I’ll admit a part of me was relieved, suspecting they thought, “We helped her, and now she’s on her own again.”

To this day, I’m still unsure why my folks chose to help if they weren’t interested in a relationship. Perhaps they felt that, while they didn’t want to know us, they also didn’t want to see us starving on the streets.

I went to bed that night with a full stomach, knowing our room was paid for a week. I was no longer afraid to dream.

Eventually, we found ourselves out in the country, but not without another six months of struggle. Once we could finally access our money, we were briefly ahead, but it didn’t last.

My stomach took a month to recover from the poor diet we endured during the worst days. Each day, I prayed for life’s necessities and guidance toward a peaceful place to live.

Near the end of the year, a few months before we found our current rental, I noticed that my dreams never took place in apartments. Despite thinking an apartment would be our only option, I wasn’t haunted by apartment nightmares.

Toward the year’s end, things began improving. Tom transferred to the second shift, allowing us more time to search for rentals during the day. My wins started to pick up too, and I hit it big. I won a 32-inch flat-panel TV, multiple $100 gift cards, cash, shopping sprees, a $500 check for a cleaning tip selected by Clorox (plus a year’s worth of cleaning supplies), and a Yamaha Rhino ATV! We hoped to sell the ATV for a few thousand, though we doubted our chances of getting a house with our imperfect credit.

In January 2008, we learned we’d receive a cash equivalent for the ATV, which thrilled us. Plus, we expected a $1,000 IRS refund in May. For the first time, we had enough money to fulfill our goals: finding a decent rental and a reliable used car. But there was a catch: we had to wait nearly three months for both the nine grand and the $500. Once again, we nearly lost everything. The stress of waiting for them to write a lousy check was agonizing, and we had to pawn more things, including the TV. Just when I doubted we’d ever get the money, both checks arrived in late March, finally offering a glimpse of light at the end of our long tunnel.

Tired of noisy neighbors, a faulty AC, and a leaky fridge, we moved to the room next door. The new room felt like a fresh start.

Tom found a 1994 Ford Taurus wagon for $2,500 after taxes and licensing. It felt amazing to drive a fully legal car. The constant anxiety had been a huge burden for him. Whether it was prayers or just luck that kept him from getting pulled over, we were grateful.

Looking back, things could have been worse. The truck could have been impounded or broken down before the big check came. But I didn’t miss that old, uncomfortable truck, which Tom described as reliable to the end.

That night, with the new car, I realized all we had left to do was find a decent place to live.

That night, I drifted into sleep, dreaming of floating through the woods.

Since the check was so large, Tom could only cash part of it initially. It took a couple of weeks to access the full amount from his usual check-cashing place.

About a week before he withdrew the remaining funds, I dreamt of living in a house with significant space around it. I peered through binoculars at a house a few hundred feet away, its interior warmly lit but empty of people. I wrote it off as wishful thinking when I awoke.

Just after midnight on April 5th, Tom found an ad online for an old single-wide trailer in the tiny town of Auburn, 30 miles east of Sacramento. The secluded, country setting intrigued us. However, the ad lacked contact info, so Tom notified the site.

[amalgamgooze]

feelin'... nostalgic

Despite my stuffy nose and such, today was a productive day.

An incredibly productive day.

I got quite a bit of stuff for college done.

Then I worked on my game for a little. Got a decent amount of work done regarding the overworld for my game.

Very proud of myself.

Among a few other chores as well.

...

And then, this evening, I booted up Minecraft for the first time in a while.

Last time I played it had to have been at least a year ago.

Playing it today brought back a lot of memories.

...

About 6-ish years ago now, I made a new Minecraft world named "My World 2" or something like that, with the seed -272773995 (on Bedrock edition, of course--I don't believe you can get negative seeds on Java edition). I don't know what caused me to make that world that one evening. It was honestly a very typical seventh grade spring evening.

Somehow, though, that singular event of creating a new world would spur a whole saga of Minecraft. One that I believe has shaped me somewhat into who I am creatively today.

You see, I don't know how or why, but the fact I was able to sink so much time into that specific world still impresses me to this day. (And I say "so much time" like it's thousands of hours. It's not. It's probably closer to 25-50 hours. Which I guess is still a lot.) But that world, man. It was made all the way back before the Village and Pillage update released for Bedrock--so I was still using doors to manipulate villagers into reproducing and stuff. I always joked that the doors made the villagers horny--because it's absurd.

I'd made a quaint little (cramped) town called "No-Escape" across the ravine from where I'd built my house. It was pretty much just a structure to cram as many doors as possible into one area--so I could potentially get Mending books. Unfortunately, the "No-Escape" part worked too well--once, a zombie had snuck in and wiped out the whole village before I could intervene.

Also, one of the iron golems started attacking me unprompted one time--potentially after restoring the village. I was exiled.

Oh. There was also a whole slave-labor wheat farm I'd built. To sell the wheat for emeralds, of course. I was a wicked tycoon with no regard for the souls I'd ensnared.

But that's just one of the many stories I'd spun in My World 2. There's so much more I'm forgetting about.

I remember also that eventually, I'd felt guilty enough to get rid of "No-Escape" all together and erect a "memorial garden" in memory of all those who'd fallen due to my greed. I suppose it was sort of like Scrooge becoming nice at the end of A Christmas Carol. Hah.

And that was just the first iteration of My World 2--a world on which I'd obtained almost every achievement--short of killing the Wither and the beacon-related stuff.

I might've made a new world with the new village generation locations once or twice, since I vividly remember a village having generated super close to where I'd built the slave-labor wheat farm. Unfortunately, I don't remember completing many playthroughs in these worlds.

The next year, the pandemic had hit, but so had the Nether Update. Of course, I made a new world, with the same seed, and named it "My World 2: Retribution" or something cool like that.

In this world, I was seeking penance and forgiveness for the sins of my father--the greedy, villager-killing venture capitalist.

When I'd returned to where I'd built my house, the village that was generated so close to the wheat farm had become abandoned. Of course, I then made it my duty to restore that village to its former glory, since it was likely the greed of my father that'd let the village reach its dilapidated state. I was going to do nothing but provide the highest quality of life for these villagers, perhaps in an act of virtual reconciliation.

That playthrough also lasted me quite a while, if I remember correctly. Again, I might be mixing them up because of how many times I'd played in the same world and such.

I do believe that in that world I'd killed both the Ender Dragon AND the Wither, as well as getting every single achievement available at the time.

Again, if I'm remembering correctly, that world carried me through the bulk of that pandemic summer.

Unfortunately, when the Caves and Cliffs update released, it overhauled world generation, meaning that the world would be totally changed the next time I'd put the seed in.

However, in the new (-272773995) seed world, which I believe is the current one, at the coordinates at which my base resided now rests a savannah village with a stronghold underneath.

Again, it sends epic shivers down my spine. My "headcanon" is that the son of the greedy tycoon was somehow involved in the construction of this stronghold, and that even though the world had changed drastically in the millennia since their time, this village is still somehow connected to the one that the tycoon's son had restored. Maybe the stronghold is something of a tomb for the kindly sovereign.

But I'm making this all up. It's just Minecraft, a game about breaking and placing cubes. Nonetheless, I lend a lot of my worldbuilding practice to the stories I've played out in Minecraft. I know it's cheesy, especially since I'm an adult now, but I think that without the context of Minecraft, the stories still have something of a foundation that permits them to stand on their own.

...

And so a new story begins with the conception of the new world today.

What epic tales lie waiting for our plucky hero this time?

Only time will tell...

...

See what I mean?

Anyway, I'm having a blast replaying Minecraft again.

I suggest that you all take a seed that a beloved world was made on and generate a new world, challenging yourself to somehow connect the two.

...

After all, everything in this universe is intimately connected in some way, shape, or form.

And it's nice to have some good feels after a whole week of weird feels.

See you all later!

[savofid]

So, just watched Dream's "The Truth" video and it got me thinking about my story with false allegations. I guess that's what a trigger is, huh? That it triggered me, but in a neutral way? Maybe leaning towards good? I dunno. I'm stoned and wanna vent. So, I guess warnings for some pretty intense shit like sa, a mention of miscarriage, some talk about psychiatric care, a mention of r*pe, and some emotional trauma? It's not gonna be a good time, but I'll feel better when I finish.

So, my older sister is complicated, in the way that realizing everything is made of math is complicated. It's a lot of jargon. She has a mutation of the MTHFR gene (?) that inhibits her body's ability to uptake and process Vitamin B12. As a result, she has a deficiency of Vitamin B12, and that can lead to a number of complications in one's life. She has a hard time bringing a child to term, having had multiple miscarriages before she was properly medicated and now has three daughters. It interferes with the body's ability to properly send certain chemical signals in the brain, leading to a number of psychiatric issues, often presenting as schizoeffective disorder. Her heart, at any time for no reason at all, can just sorta... Stop.

I could be mad at her for the things that she's done to people, but I can't. It's not even because she's my sister. I hate two of my sisters because they're horrible people, and I've never even met my oldest sister and don't plan to. Family don't mean shit to me. No, I can't hate her because it's not her fault. No one knew what was going on inside her body and she had to spend 3 years in an institution because of it. I can't imagine going through that.

However, using that as an excuse for her actions wouldn't be right. She still did them. She wasn't possessed by some demon. There was some part of her that wanted to do it. I know because I have anxiety and am a recovering alcoholic, both of which cause a ton of intrusive thoughts about things that part of me wants but the rest knows I shouldn't do, even if that part is extremely small and incredibly wrong, like hearing myself tell me to punch some guy in the face cause he "looked at me funny." He was facing the sun and squinting. What I'm saying is that there was SOME malice to her actions, some reason her delusions manifested as they did. It'll make more sense later.

During the summers, my birth mother had visitation rights for the entire summer, so we'd stay with her for three months. When I was 12, we were there and, one night, I heard my dad walk in. It's the middle of the summer and he's supposed to be across the state, back at our house. He and my older sister leave, and my birth mother won't talk about what's going on, and everything is incredibly confusing. I found out a few days later what happened.

My dad had gotten a phone call from the local police department asking for my older sister to appear before the police to give a witness statement. He asked why, and they said that she had accused his friend of having raped her.

My dad's friend, Ron, was a school bus driver, and had been arrested by the local police following the allegation that my older sister made that morning while at my birth mother's house. He had to sell his car to afford a decent lawyer, spent the night in jail, lost his job especially since my sister was a minor and he drives, ya know, a school bus. He almost had a divorce from his wife of 45 years. His grandson was my best friend.

On the drive across the state, my dad only said one thing to her: "When we get there, just tell them the truth." Mind you, my older sister is my dad's favorite. I didn't even know she was the favorite until 13 years after he died. He believed her. He didn't ask her any questions because he didn't want to influence her story in any way, make sure that it's as truthful and accurate as possible.

They finally get there, it's around midnight. My dad just drove six hours at the drop of a hat for his daughter. They take her to be interviewed, and she instantly admits that she lied. Her reason? She didn't feel like she was getting enough attention from my birth mother and didn't think it would get that bad. She stayed with my dad for the rest of the summer.

A year later, I'm at home, just having a regular day, and there's a knock at the door. My dad answers and it's... CYS? They say that my older sister, in a recent discussion with her caseworker, claimed that I was molesting her. They're here for an investigation into the allegations. First, they interview my older sister. I have to sit across the house and wait for it to be over. About an hour later, they have me come in to talk to them.

At this point, it's pretty late. My little sister is ready for bed and is going up the stairs to her bedroom, and we happen to be sitting on those stairs. Instead of going to bed, she sits down and does what she does best: make herself the center of attention. I'm telling this guy my side of the story, and she's there, making a cat dance in front of me. The investigator admitted to having ADHD ("Adult ADD" as he said it, so I assume, in today's terms, that would be ADHD diagnosed in adulthood), and was having a difficult time focusing on what I have to say. Meanwhile, the time he spent with my older sister was uninterrupted and quiet.

Following their investigation, I was given a choice: I could either stay with a friend that didn't have any sisters, or I could live in the local group home. I knew some of the kids at the group home and knew that I did not want to be there, so I picked the one friend I had that I knew didn't have any sisters, my best friend at the time. He's an only child and his parents adore me and treat me like their own kid already. And, of course, they let me stay as long as I needed to. "It'll only be a few weeks, " says CYS.

I'm there for 6 months. Meanwhile, we're still going to school together. She was in a different building than me, so, by the time I heard that she was telling people about it, it had gone from "inappropriate touching" to that I had raped her. My reputation was shot. Everyone fucking hated me. I was already getting bullied before, so imagine how it went when rumors like that started spreading. I'd be bullied to the point of tears and even the teachers heard the rumors, so they didn't do anything about it. It took me two years to undo the damage she did because, in the court of public opinion, an accusation is worse than any verdict.

Speaking of verdicts, you can imagine there were many riveting court sessions during the 6 months I was pulled from my home. Usually one every couple of weeks cause I'm literally on trial for molestation as a fucking 13 year old who has no idea what's going on and I literally just now realized, 19 years later, that that's what that was. Holy fucking shit. What. I feel like I'm short circuiting and now I feel really fucking bad. Why do I feel bad? Oh, cause I was so used to "going to court" being for like family shit that it never occurred to me that it could be for anything else. I... Don't know what to do with this information?

Okay, maybe it wasn't a possibly somewhat good trigger. I guess I did say that it's not gonna feel good, and the only person who's gonna read this is me, so I was warning myself. And potentially you, ever mysterious reader who has no reason to be here, if you even exist at all? Anyways, I'm gonna fight through the melting brain and try to get to my point here.

After those 6 months and the now realization of having been on trial, it was determined that my sister has schizoeffective disorder, resulting in delusions brought on by an inability to determine the difference between reality and fantasy at times. The doctors postulated that she likely dreamed that it happened and believed it to be real.

Now, the only people who didn't believe my sister were the ones who knew both her and me. Even my birth mother saw the holes in her story and, during the trial, said, "Well, I don't think she's telling the truth. She's twice his size and she knows it. Any time he's done something she doesn't like, she hits him or throws him. If he really did try that and she didn't want it to happen, it wouldn't've happened. She would've left him so busted up that I probably would've needed to take him to the hospital. She would've broken him in half."

My dad said a lot of the same thing, even commenting, "I think I only recall one instance in which his hand touched her chest. They were wrestling on his bed, and she jumped up from the floor. He put his hand out to try to stop her from crashing into him, and it landed right... Ya know, *there.* He immediately pulled his hand away, but she punched him in the face, threw him on the floor, and managed to kick him a few times in the back before I could pull her off of him. She didn't care that it was an accident. She would've killed him if he did it on purpose."

I don't mean this as a way to say that my older sister beat me or whatever. I left her with just as many bruises as she left me. We were kids. We fought. We played rough. We used to throw those unopened and resinous pinecones at each other for fun, like they were dodgeballs or grenades. We just beat the shit out of each other all the time, and it was always 2v1, my little sister and older sister vs me (the three kids my birth parents had together, me having a total of 8 siblings including prior marriages and one affair). At 12 years old, I was 4'8" tall and 60 lbs. I was tiny. She, at 14, was 5'5" and 120 lbs. Twice my weight, 9" taller, and a lot stronger than she looks. She used to throw me by one arm and one leg for fun. I was the one that asked her to do throw me.

Now, you'd think it ends there. She went to a mental hospital, I went home, and then successfully quashed all the rumors overnight when it was determined that I was innocent. Life ain't movies.

During my time with my best friend, he slowly revealed that he was attracted to me. I was not attracted to him for a multitude of reasons, not just cause he's a dude. I mean, I like some guys, just didn't know that yet. Anyways, he started doing some stuff like trying to get me to touch his genitals or just outright grabbing mine, or walking in on me while I'm in the shower... Multiple times per shower. And a lot of other things that I just don't wanna talk about right now even though I probably already have. I, me, the reader and writer, know what they are, so I don't really need to?

Whatever.

The dude was sexually assaulting me on a regular basis and then threatening to get me kicked out of his house if I tell anyone about it, or that he'll claim that I admitted to him that I did it, or whatever heinous thing he can think of. I had to share a bed with him for half of the time I stayed there.

On top of that, I've got people basically ready to execute me at school. The game of broken telephone turns "inappropriate touching" into "rape," and the only thing that keeps them from actually trying to kill me is the fistfight I get into with the guy I'm living with. People still talked and still treated me like shit, but it just became a game of trying to figure out how far is too far. They had full rein to try, too, cause, like I said, the teachers had heard the rumors, too, and some believed it.

I had to go to therapy every Wednesday at 1 PM. The therapist I had... Wasn't very good, to put it lightly. You know, the common thing in therapy, often regardless of your methodology, is to let the patient lead the session, right? You merely give them the push to get started, and then it's merely a dialogue that the patient is leading. What would happen with this guy is that I would sit down, there'd be a little bit of small talk, and then he'd ask, "So, tell me about an interesting dream you had this past week."

He was obsessed with my dreams. I dream in super high detail and can remember them very vividly, which he found fascinating, I guess. He said he found my dreams fascinating, but was never really clear about what aspect he seemed to enjoy, so I'm just assuming it was the vividness. Next, he would then try to analyze that dream, and was incredibly Freudian about it. I mean both literally and figuratively.

On one hand, it's that symbols and signs in dreams have objective, universal meanings completely devoid of one's specific culture, beliefs, or upbringing. Red means danger. Ignore the fact that they associate it with good luck in China.

On the other hand, he manages to project his own feelings onto someone else's situation by not only telling me that a dream about my little sister being scared of a snake, so I took a shovel and killed it, that that dream means I want to sleep with my little sister. Not only that, but he also then tries to tell me that it's okay to have thoughts like that.

No. No it is not okay to have thoughts like that. It's also especially not okay to tell children that it is okay to have thoughts like that. What the actual FUCK is wrong with you? "Well, the snake represents the phallus." No, the snake is a representation of general bad stuff due to the fact that my dad just finished writing a book with heavy Christian tones and it's about to get published, so I'm afraid that it being successful can cause problems within the family. "No, no. I'm the professional here. I know what I'm talking about, and it's okay to have those thoughts." No. It. Is. Not.

So, we've got the sexual abuse by my only remaining friend, becoming a pariah, having an absolute creep as a therapist... What else? Oh, right. The complete and crippling anxiety I feel that, at any time, someone can just ruin my life with a few simple words. The first three were temporary, but that one is permanent. Now, I know that most people don't do things like this on a regular basis. Most people's brains operate the way we think they're supposed to. Most people don't have a super particular condition only detectible with a genetic test specifically for that one thing, or a general malice for anyone they can victimize, or are incapable of remorse. Most people are just people, and the vast majority of people don't know I exist. However, there's still that constant hum of "But it could happen again. Can I deal with it again?"

This one's gonna sound, I dunno, like a pittance compared to that, but I'm genuinely still mad about it. I raised fish for 5 years. I had a 50 gallon, a 30 gallon, a 22 gallon, two 20 gallons, and two 10 gallon fish tanks. I did all the work to maintain them myself, only getting help from my dad in starting the siphon for the monthly water changes. I developed my own breed of Corydoras catfish at 11. I fucking loved my fish, and the collective weight of all those tanks literally cracked the foundation of the house. For five years, I took care of them, learned a ton, did all my research into aquascaping and what species prefer what qualities of water and temperature ranges and where in the water column they like to hang out and their temperament and any detail I could find about each species before I added it to a tank. I was obsessed and this might be one of those "*ding!* You're probably autistic" moments but I'd prefer a formal diagnosis before I'd feel comfortable saying that I am.

So, I was gone for 6 months. All the work I was doing with those fish was mine alone. I was the only person in the house who knew how to do it in the first place. Can you guess the state of 162 gallons of water and it's respective fish? If you said "green and dead," you'd be mostly correct! While I was away, my older sister decided to make... An addition to my 50 gallon tank. The local pet shop, where I got all of my fish and was a known regular, had had this pair of angelfish longer than I had lived there. They lived alone in the same tank right by the door. She convinced my dad to buy them.

Had I been present for that conversation, we never would've gotten them, because I had already done my research. The fish we typically think of when we hear angelfish is a variety of Cichlid, like Oscars and Tilapia. A thing about Cichlids is that many of them are incredibly aggressive to fish they don't recognize. As a result, unless they were raised in that tank alongside other fish, they only see their tank mates as competition or prey.

All this to say that I came home to a bunch of algae ridden tanks, disgusting filters, rotting plants, and two very fat angelfish. My bumblebee gobies are gone. My iridescent sharks are okay but the smaller one is gone. My Corydoras are gone. My various tetras and mollies, gone. My gouramis are gone. The few fish left are the aforementioned iridescent sharks that were big enough to pose a threat and my plecos. I wanted to kill those angelfish, but decided that we should just return them to the store cause they're not acting out of hate or anger. They're animals and acting on instincts. They can't control that. They're innocent.

The one thing I lost and can never regain is her as a sister. I don't hate her. I know she has her issues and, yeah, maybe she wanted to hurt me, but plenty of people wanna hurt me. Most people don't. I'm not gonna try to claim I know why she wanted to do that as much as I can about anyone else that has hurt me. Maybe she really did dream that it happened. I wanna hate her, but can't bring myself to do it, no matter how much I suffered as a result. However, I can't, in sound mind and good conscious, maintain contact with her. In the event that she tries to say anything like that ever again, I don't know if I could deal with it. I'd probably completely shatter and... I don't really wanna think about that. For the sake of my own sanity and the tiniest sliver of peace of mind, I just don't interact with her at all. I've seen her once in 17 years, and that was at another sister's wedding... Where she was sent to stay in a hotel after a day and a half due to her not even acknowledging the fact that her children were causing issues and stressing that sister out. Talked to her all of five minutes.

This is by no means me saying to not tell someone if something happens to you. Please do! Don't be like me and mentally fucked for life due to shit that happened to me at the hands of someone else. It's not your fault, don't believe them. However, the people who use an accusation as a weapon do a lot more damage than they think, even if the intent is to deal as much damage as possible to that person. You're not only hurting them, you're hurting the credibility of everyone who actually is a victim of molestation, sexual assault, sexual harassment, and rape. Five different people, two were blood relatives, two were people close to me, and one was just a guy in high school that spent weeks trying to pressure me into letting him suck my dick, even trying to force me to do it in exchange for giving me a ride to work after the SATs. Fuck you, Chris. No means no. Back on track, three were women, two were men. I'm not gonna say that my experience can be extrapolated out to the public at large, mostly cause I don't want to think that the average victim has gone through as much or more than I have because that just makes me wanna cry that so people can be so terrible to others. It's been a while since I had a good cry, though. What I am gonna say is that it's already so hard to be heard when you just want someone to believe you in what is likely the worst time of your life, and making everyone look like a cry for attention just makes it worse. My mom doesn't believe that my 3rd ex raped me. She says she doesn't even know who that is, and that's my mom. She's supposed to be in MY corner and couldn't care less. My roommate cared when I told him, though. One of three hugs he's ever initiated with me in the 11 years I've known him. I'm so thankful to have him. I'm probably gonna marry him someday, even if it's just for tax purposes... He'll still be my husband and you better believe I'm calling him that. Love that man to death.

When people say, "If you can't handle me at my worst, then you don't deserve me at my best," they haven't met me. He has learned more about emotions from me than he has from everyone else in his entire life combined. That's his own words. He's seen me at a variety of different edges, the highest highs, the lowest lows, bursting at the seams and completely devoid of anything. He's literally the reason I didn't off myself on two separate occasions, because I don't wanna leave him alone in this world. While he says he just wants to live away from everyone else, it's followed up with, "Except you. You can be there, too." He's been in more of my dreams than both my parents combined, and we've never stood in opposition to one another in any of them. We're always fighting together. We're just a pair of rocks.

I knew I'd feel better at the end. I fucking love my roommate. I might ask him for a hug when he wakes up.