#is watching the simpsons a reasonable coping mechanism

[ghostlovesbaguettes]

THIS WAS FUCKING FANTASTIC. OH MY FUCKING TITS EVERY SINGLE PART OF THIS FIC WAS WONDERFUL. LIKE AN ACTUAL JOOOOOY TO READ (until chapter ten where i was shitting tears… sometimes the writing is just a little too good and I start feeling real emotions)

birth of venus sex on fire chapter twelve

these two mean the world to me. thank you for coming on this journey with them. i hope you enjoy.

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: if you love something, you let it go.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, alcohol consumption, lurve, fingering, masturbation, cum eating, oral (m receiving), unprotected piv, creampie, size kink, daddy kink, praise kink, cursing, some angst, soft!joel, cocky!joel (we missed him!)

word count: 12.6k

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“Alright, let’s get into it.”

He sits on the other side of the table, legs crossed and balancing the notebook on his knee. Twirls a pen around his thumb, catching it without looking. He’s too busy scanning the page in front of him, the list of questions he’s about to drill you on.

Let’s get into it, he says, and then stares silently at the scribbled lines.

Your shadow splits a shard of sunlight across the office. Knee jerking, palms clammy and fingers twisting around each other. You glance down at your outfit – the pointed heels Martha swore went with your dress, the jewelry she promised didn’t look tacky – and straighten your skirt.

Let’s get fucking into it.

“What are your responsibilities in your current role?” he asks.

You swallow. It feels like sandpaper. “Well, uh…”

He doesn’t look up. Not to ask the question, not to wait for your answer. Just stares down, spins the pen, bites his lip until it turns white.

Focused. Razor sharp. You’re not even in the same room.

You turn on your heel and begin pacing. “I manage my boss’s schedule, from nine a.m. Monday to nine p.m. Sunday. I get everything in order, plan out his days, make any bookings. I take calls, I answer emails, I…”

He’s still not looking. He bounces his foot, leather shoes catching the sun. His watch face leers back at you. There’s not a mark of ink on the paper in front of him.

“Hey,” you click your fingers, “Are you even listening to me?”

Joel shakes the frown from his face. “Huh? Oh,” he clears his throat, straightens in his creaky chair, “Yeah, I’m listenin’. I’m…I’m here.”

“Come on, man,” you huff, “You said you’d help me out.”

“And I am. I’m helping you out.”

You glower. “What did I just say?”

His shoulders wriggle. “You know…paperwork, and…Is this –? Is this really what they’re going to ask?”

“I don’t know,” you groan, collapsing into the couch opposite. Your arms cross, like some crumpled tantrum of a woman. “I found it online. They’re all art director questions, supposedly.”

He turns the notebook around. The first sheet flops over.

“Describe yourself in three words,” Joel recites.

“I was gonna go creative,” you count on your fingers, “driven, and then I couldn’t decide between perceptive or observant.”

He squints, tongue clicking against his teeth. He stares at your raised fingers. Thoroughly unimpressed.

“Right,” he stands, “Yeah, I don’t know, kid. A company like this, taking on a new art director, and this is what you think they got waitin’ for you? I mean, what’d I ask you?”

You scoff, twisting to watch him cross over to the window.

Between the sun and your deflated spirit, he stands like some kind of god. High up on the top floor of his skyscraper, towering over the streets. Towering over you.

He’s haloed by the blazing sun. Light arrowing from behind, spilling all over his wide shoulders and dipping in every fold and crease of cashmere. The northern compass point, the magnetic pull turning everything towards him.

Joel’s fingers snap, a hair away from your nose. “Tip number one: don’t stare at the interviewer like that. Asked you a question.”

“Wasn’t staring,” you mumble, shifting when he sinks down at your side. “You really don’t remember what you asked me?”

“Of course I do. I’m asking if you do.” He fiddles with a thread on the couch at your back.

You straighten as though his hand might be iron hot. “I remember…remember you asking what success looked like to me.”

Joel nods once.

“Remember you asking why I wanted out of my old job.”

“Yep.”

You flick a finger around the office. “I remember you asking what I’d change in here. How I’d make the office better. But I don’t know what interior design has to do with being an art director, Joel.”

He smiles. “This,” he shakes the pad, “is generic bullshit.”

“Generic bullshit,” you echo, pinching it from his grasp. You read over the bullet points – your strengths, your weaknesses, how you do under pressure.

“Yes,” Joel says. “Doesn’t tell ‘em a thing about you. Well,” his eyes widen, “I guess it tells them you tried searching their damn questions, the morning of the interview.”

A small, tired sigh falls from your lips. You melt back into the couch, horizontal under Joel’s extended arm. “I just want to be prepared,” you whisper. “I want to be the best person they meet.”

“What makes you think you ain’t already?”

“Well, for starters, I don’t even know which three words describe me.”

He chuckles. “How about more than capable? Hm? The dream assistant. Future art director.”

“Cheesy,” you mutter, batting him away. “I just…I really want it. I want something that feels like mine, you know? And I know I’d be fucking good at it.”

He falls quiet. He thumbs the corner of the pages, knuckles brushing against yours in a way that feels deliberate. Feels familiar.

It’s as though he might turn his hand, open his palm for yours to slip safely into. Lock his fingers through yours, squeeze once for good luck, twice to double it – and a third time, to tell you something he knows would make you flee.

But you don’t flinch, and neither does he.

Instead, he pulls himself up – a mighty groan as he straightens.

You bite back a snark about his age. Stupid fifty-year-old boss, stupid old bones. Stupid smartass.

Joel whips open the bottom drawer of his desk – the one you’d come to know as his junk drawer – and heaps diary after diary on the mahogany surface. Their leatherbound covers and splintered spines, the warped pages packed between.

With a tiny ha (and a click in his joints that you notice even from across the room), he pushes himself back up.

“September, September…” the pages flutter between his thumbs, “…September second, right?”

“What are you –?”

“Here,” he says, and reclines back beside you. He slides the diary into your lap. “September second, two o’clock.”

Your eyes narrow, following an inky trail linking geometric sketches and games of tic-tac-toe; the words college and assistant, a crude drawing of a house.

“So…” your lips purse, “…on September second, you were doing no work and doodling in your planner. What about it, Joel?”

He taps the top of the page, finger settling right below a name.

Penned in his neat handwriting – the trademark font that, after three years, you’re used to finding on sticky notes and signed with the letter J. It’s underlined, then boxed in by more scribbled lines. So familiar, you barely even take it in at first.

You blink twice.

It’s your name. Your full name.

“This is the day of my interview?” you ask.

Joel dares one fleeting glance at your lips. “Mhm. These are the notes I took, the day we met.”

You look down to the diary and back again. Almost an entire page of nonsense scribbles, hieroglyphic trains of thought bleeding from one drawing into another.

You frown. “You really didn’t listen to a fucking word I said, did you?”

He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head. “You had the job before your ass hit that chair, genius. All that interview was, was playing ball. Seeing how hard you could swing.”

But you’re more confused than you were before he emptied his desk. You flick through the book, spine dangling loose from the pages.

There are no other notes, no other candidates’ names – only reminders for Lunch with Mom and Massage 10AM. Meetings with past clients, deadlines long gone. One obnoxious, hot pink gel pen autograph in May, marking Martha’s birthday.

Yours is the only name he bothered to jot down. The only interview he thought to memorialize – in a gallery of distracted doodles.

“What are you talking about?” you ask.

He plays with his tie as he admits it. Nervous schoolboy, avoiding your eye like he did back on Maple Street. It’s a side to him you didn’t know existed, not until a few weeks ago – and seeing it again, you realize how much you missed it.

“There were four other interviews before yours. Every single one of them sat in that lobby waiting for Martha to call down. You –” he taps your hand, “– you got in the elevator and brought yourself up. You remember how shocked Martha was to see you?”

Sure I do, you think.

She stared you down the entire walk over to her desk. She stuttered and stammered her way through a sentence, once she realized who you were. She kept peering over the top of her monitor to steal glances at you when she thought you weren’t looking.

“I…I just thought I looked a nervous wreck,” you tell Joel.

He hums. “Well, you stood up when I opened my door. You held your hand out first. You were scared shitless – I knew you were – but you never lost your footing. You got no idea just how impressive you are, all by yourself.”

He taps on the sheets in your lap. “Now – find me a question on your list that tells them all that.”

It’s not as if you don’t know how these things go. You’ve sat in on plenty of interviews with Joel before – catching anything each quivering candidate says that might’ve slipped through his net, placing bets with yourself on who he’ll pick.

After a few months, he started asking what you thought.

You came to notice the discarded resumes of men you’d deemed sycophants, ladder-climbing leeches in tight, tawny ties – in piles to be shredded. There wasn’t a suit in the building that you and Martha hadn’t been asked to screen, before they were even considered for hiring.

Joel has the sharpest bullshit detector you’ve ever known. You don’t get to where he is without the radar for it. He knew exactly which guys were assholes of the highest order – he was just making sure you always did, too.

Stupid, stupid smartass.

A polite knock at the door interrupts your thought.

“Joel?” Martha calls, “Joel, your ten o’clock is here.”

He curses under his breath. His eyes shift sideways. “Who the hell is my ten o’clock?” he mumbles.

“Salazar,” you whisper, lips closing around a giggle. “Quarterly, remember?”

“Goddamn it,” he groans. He stands up, holding a hand out to pull you to your feet. “I’m sorry, darlin’. I’ll be an hour, tops. We can pick straight back up.”

“It’s okay,” you slot the diary and notepad under your arm, “I should get back to work anyways.”

“Calmed your nerves, at least?”

You smile. “Sure.”

“Liar.”

“Tip number two: don’t ask dumb questions, Miller.”

“Oh,” he scoffs, “We’re starting a list now?”

“Mhm. Three can be: don’t doodle during the interview.”

He elbows you towards the door, leaning close. “Four,” he murmurs, “Don’t get yourself fired.”

You grin as you slip outside.

“You couldn’t handle this place without me.”

Mr. Salazar loves to tell a story.

Joel’s still stuck with him, almost two hours after the guy showed up. With a pointed finger and something that felt as sacred as a blood oath, Martha made you promise you’d leave on time.

Whether we’re still in that office or halfway to Timbuktu, do not wait up. Just go, alright? Or I will hand you your ass, sweetheart.

Thirty minutes out, you’re pacing back and forth. Body humming with jittery nerves, what feels like a glass ball of anxiety rolling around your stomach. A text from Rand weighing down the phone in your blazer pocket: Ready when you are.

You suck in a ticklish breath. “Fuck,” you exhale, jamming your knuckle into the call button for the third time.

The wall rumbles as it delivers the elevator straight ahead. The doors part, and your distorted reflection stares sheepishly back at you.

You blink.

She blinks back.

Your shoulders life with another fractured inhale – and so do hers.

Some tiny, half-there version of yourself. Shrunken and shriveled. She moves when you move, only with half the confidence and double the pressure on her shoulders. She looks like she needs a wine date with Martha.

Scared fucking shitless, you think. Three words to describe me.

The doors close again, swallowing her whole, and –

“Nope,” you decide, spinning on your heel.

The shades are tilted enough to obscure the three figures to shadows: Joel, rocking mindlessly in his chair, Salazar talking with his arms, and Martha hunched at the other end of the couch – losing the will to live.

She’d probably welcome the excuse, to get the hell out of there.

Your knuckles rap against the door.

The investor’s lively cadence never slips – where there’s an audience, there’s a show to be had. He twitters on even over the grounding bass of Joel’s voice, the quick click of Martha’s heels.

Her shadow crosses over to the door and she whips it open. Her voice is a sharp whisper.

“You swore to me, you’d –”

You shake your head and grab her arm. Nervous, you mouth, trying to pull her over the threshold.

She won’t fucking budge. She plants herself in the doorway. Her chin lifts, eyes narrowing to study you down her pointed nose – and then she glances over her shoulder.

One second, she exaggerates the shape of the words, holding a finger up.

“Martha –” you hiss, but the door is already closing, and her shadow is already retreating.

You spin around, dragging yourself over to your desk. Another breathe squeezes past your hammering heart, trembling as you let it go. Your phone buzzes again.

This is pathetic. It’s pitiful. You bulldozed your way this far – against all your good sense. Red wine antidote, all that courage now feels more like a weak-kneed hangover.

You fiddle with a pen holder. Your body feels flimsy like rubber.

The door opens again.

“Hey,” Joel says, turning you to face him. He doesn’t look you in the eye – just slips your purse from your shoulder, squeezes your hand. “Walk with me.”

“No,” you wobble in his grasp, “Your meeting –”

He links his arm through yours, locking elbows. “Martha’s got him talking about some ski trip. We got ten minutes. Walk with me.”

Your breath sputters. “I can’t – I can’t do it.”

“Can’t do what?”

“I’m flapping, Joel.”

“Flapping,” he repeats, and the word never sounded more ridiculous than it does with his Texan twang. “What are we flapping over?”

He sways as he walks. It’s no different, no less comfortable than it was a few weeks ago. Just you, Joel, and the Parisian sunset. The light swimming in the Seine, the sweet air circling you both.

Your heel scuffs against the carpet. “You know,” you catch yourself, “just this potentially life-changing job interview I have in, like, twenty minutes.”

“Huh,” his brows quirk, “No big deal, then?”

Your eyes roll. “It wouldn’t be, if you hadn’t given me some big speech about not losing my footing. Now look at me. I’m all over the goddamn place.”

“Take it in baby steps,” he says. “Let’s just get you there first. All you gotta do is walk in like you’re already part of the furniture. Like they’ve been wondering what goes at that little desk.”

“You said the CEO is nice?”

“She is,” he reaches for the call button, “Likes red wine and racecars.”

Your brows flinch. “She likes…What?”

Joel smirks. “I didn’t say we talked for long. That’s all I got on her.”

He drags you into the elevator, hitting the button marked P. Your reflection stands a little taller, little straighter next to his. Mimicking his posture; the still stance and level head. The coolness you’re sure wouldn’t slip even if the world ended tonight.

“Look at that,” he mutters. “You made it to the elevator.”

“Shock,” you whisper, hugging yourself.

You face each other, inches apart. Nerves and momentum upsetting your equilibrium. The bones of the building drum up your spine as you plummet, floor numbers blinking down to zero.

Joel rests his ankles either side of yours. He knocks your feet softly, smiling fondly when you lift your head.

“Read over their website on the drive over,” he says, in the same polite voice he uses with clients. “Their values, the way they operate. Names and faces, all that shit. Keep it fresh, okay?”

You force your cheeks into a flat smile. “Okay.”

“Look at that,” he says. “Killer smile. Getcha any job anywhere.”

“Gross,” you giggle. “Did you wonder, before you found me?”

“Did I wonder what?”

You tilt your head. “What went at my little desk.”

He itches his nose, laughing into a closed fist. He’s blushing, though he’s trying hard to hide it. “Sure,” he shrugs, eventually giving in, “Knew it must be somethin’ pretty special. And you were.”

The elevator dings, and the doors rattle open.

Joel taps your heel and you sulk, leading him out into the garage.

Rand catches sight of you instantly. He jumps out of the Rolls, a wide grin on his lips, and balls his fists. “How we feelin’?” he asks, giving them a hearty shake.

“Little nervous, aren’t we?” Joel replies, patting your arm. “But we’re almost there.”

You’re holding onto him again. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“We’re still in the building,” you utter, tracking Rand’s kiddy jog around the car.

Joel turns, lips at your temple. “Closer than you were five minutes ago, baby.”

The driver grabs the door, turning his palm to usher you inside. “Figure we’ll get there with ten minutes to spare. Always good to be early to these things, right?”

If it weren’t for the six-inch heels on your feet and the seven-figure man on your arm, you’d reach to tighten backpack straps that aren’t there. It’s the same feeling: first day of school, walking into the unknown. Pushed off by grownups who know better.

You’re a grownup, too, you remind yourself.

The same feeling, and the same determination, too. The resolve to walk in there – bright-eyed and bushy-tailed – and be the thing they’ve been waiting for. Be the thing you’ve been waiting for. So –

“Fuck it,” you decide, slipping free from your boss’s grasp. “Let’s do this.”

“Attagirl!” Rand claps his hands and dances back to the driver’s side.

Joel helps you into the backseat, passing your purse over when you’re settled. “Okay?” he asks, one arm leaning on the roof.

“Yep,” you chirp – a crack in your voice that you both ignore.

“Call on your way back if you feel like it, let me know how it went.”

The strip lighting in the garage strains your eyes. “What if you’re still hearing about Salazar’s ski trip?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t ask dumb questions, remember? If you call, I’ll answer.”

“Thanks, Joel,” you whisper.

He clicks his teeth. You’re welcome.

“Next step, little tiger. Go get ‘em.”

After you interviewed with him, Joel took all of twenty-four hours to offer you the job. He said he would’ve called sooner – that afternoon, if he could’ve – but there had been a holdup with the paperwork. His next question was how soon you could start.

He was that sure.

On your first day, you were shown to your new desk. Wiped clean, drawers bare. A bloated water stain in the wood – the mark of a fern plant Martha thought was treated a little too much like an actual child by your predecessor.

She offered to have Joel order a new desk, but you told her you loved it – water stain and all.

You loved the view on each side – the sprawling city, the sun needling between buildings. You loved Martha’s company, and Joel’s daily ritual of strolling over to stretch his legs and, more importantly, gossip.

The job made you feel grown. A little kid in the big city – yes, sir and no, sir, caffeine for breakfast and paperwork for lunch. It was big enough that you wondered whether you’d really fill it – like you wondered if you’d ever fill your desk.

What supplies did a personal assistant need? You spent more time on your feet than sat at your desk. What knickknacks would you collect?

Well, looking at it all now: a jumble of pinched pens and hand-me-down magazines from Martha. A Wonder Woman stationery set your mom bought you; the chipped Kandinsky mug you make coffee in every day.

A plastic ruby ring, from a riverside stroll in Paris.

Looking at it now – you wonder how it ever all fit. Almost three cardboard boxes, plus an oversized Swiss cheese plant. Your desk is empty again, back to the way you found it.

Because you got it.

You got the job.

Junior Art Director. Jesus fucking Christ.

You were in Joel’s office when the call came through. Laying out travel plans for a business trip, organizing documents into the order he’d need them. Busying yourself purely to distract from playing the interview back in your head.

The entire thing was a blur, the interview – film reel already burning in your memory. One second you were traipsing into the building, the next – strolling back out, sun on your face and spring in your step.

It came back in flashing vignettes: the creative director’s cropped bob, her scarlet lips. The rhythmic dunk of her teabag into her mug, her quiet mhms as you spoke.

Her smile grew wider, the longer the meeting went on. Her tea went cold. She asked to see pictures of your artwork – made some passing comment about your skill being of some use for an upcoming project.

She liked you. Better yet, Joel noted – you liked her.

He walked back into his office just in time to hear the tail end of the phone call. Your shaky thank you, the teary goodbye. He waited until you turned, one hand lingering on your shoulder, and gasped when you broke into a giddy grin.

He pulled you into a bear hug, beats of raucous laughter through his chest. You sniffled into his shirt, staining the material with wet mascara.

What’d I tell you? he murmured into your hair, rocking you side to side. What’d I fuckin’ tell you?

A clumsy mash of work blouses and party dresses fills the office.

Glitzy gold and pressed linen, heels and loose ties. A bottle of champagne on a spreadsheet coaster, an overfilled balloon knotted around your chair. The word Congrats swirled in glitter pen.

Martha fills the latecomers in. She orders everyone to drain their glasses and grab their coats. There’s a dive bar not far, she says, with karaoke and a jukebox. Cheap drinks and heavy measures.

A dive bar. The dive bar. AC/DC and all.

You linger over by your desk, alone, swirling the bubbly in your glass. A little more than awkward, what with the gold party hat your coworkers forced over your head – and the heavy heart it’s doing little to soothe.

Your last day as Joel Miller’s personal assistant is over. As of five-thirty, you don’t belong in this office. Come Monday, you’ll have a whole new job, a whole new title behind your name.

It’s as thrilling as it is utterly terrifying.

Martha had your leaving party organized less than an hour after she heard the cheers from Joel’s office. Proof, you told him, that she’ll be just fine on her own.

Proof, he countered, that she has a very selective work ethic.

He’s in good hands, if her current crowd management is anything to go by. She rounds everybody up like cattle, corralling them into a buzzed herd.

“We are leavin’ in five minutes, alright?” she yells over their babble. “Five minutes!”

Rand dips between the bodies, smiling when he catches your eye. He wanders over, tactically dodging Martha’s waving arms.

“Hi, baby,” he says, arms wide.

“Thanks for coming,” you mumble into his suit jacket, wrists crossing at his spine.

He wriggles his tie straight, keeps one arm tight around your shoulders even when you pull away. “Of course,” he says, a dutiful nod. “You were always my favorite. Don’t tell the general over there.”

You smile, feeling it dampen when your eyes slip back over to the sliver of light under Joel’s door. He’s been locked in there all afternoon – the only proof of life the pacing his shadow has done.

Rand cocks his head towards the shuttered office. “He not coming?”

“No idea,” you pick at a hangnail, “Some emergency, apparently. I haven’t seen him since lunch.”

He frowns, watching as you shot what’s left of your champagne. It’s bitter – a sharp sting all the way down.

“I mean,” you gulp, “he’s my boss. He’s at every other party we have. What’s the difference this time around?”

Rand’s eyebrows wiggle. He swallows his first answer. He knows the difference as well as you do.

Still – he says, “He’s a lot of things, is Joel, but he ain’t an ass. He’ll be there.”

Across the room, Martha lassoes the party – leading them over to the elevator. She pauses, beckoning you over their heads. A thin-lipped scowl on her face, before she’s distracted by stragglers.

“Good Lord,” Rand scoffs, a gentlemanly arm through yours, “Bet you ain’t gonna miss that.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Surprisingly, I think I’ll miss her the most.”

As you hover at the back of the bunch, waiting for your very sternly instructed turn to step into the elevator, you glance back at Joel’s office.

The shades are split, pierced somewhere like six feet up. Sliver of lamplight peering through; silhouette of something – someone – staring back.

Come on, you want to call. We’re heading to the bar. Let’s pretend I never broke your heart and you never broke mine. We can dance and kiss like nobody’s watching. We can be okay, you and me.

Martha claps three times as the elevator announces its arrival.

“We’re up, comrade,” Rand quips, and pulls you out of Joel’s sight.

The bar looks the same as it ever did. All chipped mahogany and distressed leather; secret messages etched in secret corners. Slipping between shadow and tacky neon light to order a drink, feeling it hit the back of your skull before you’ve even swallowed the first sip.

It’s no Oasis Wine Bar, but it’ll do.

You’re crammed into a booth opposite some blotchy intern. Kid doesn’t look a day over twenty-one. Martha nudges you closer and closer to the lacquered panel wall, her elbow knocking into yours and splashing your drink over your knuckles.

The group is already a colorful spectrum of drunk: a couple suits slung over the bar, a handful screaming at some vintage arcade game. Rand cuts a merry figure at the bottom of the table, swaying as he garbles to Martha and Deb.

Like a replica of that first night – a playlist of dusty rock tunes, fingertips salty from picking at peanuts. The buzz of conversation fueled by swigs of bitter vodka.

You don’t remember it feeling this shitty, though. This lonely.

The intern leans over the booth, quickly yanking his tie before it folds into a flickering candle. He forces a relieved laugh, then asks, “Are you having a good night?”

“I guess,” you raise your voice over Martha’s cackling, “It’s a little bittersweet, you know?”

His head bobs in a tipsy nod. He looks from face to face, trying to latch onto any conversation that’ll take him. But they all turn away, distracted by some guy in a tropical shirt and his cryptocurrency conspiracy.

The intern stares down at his drink, thumbs tapping the glass.

Poor kid.

You knock on his beer, trying not to look too pitying. “How’s the internship? Liking it?”

He brightens, straightening in his seat. “Yeah, it’s been good,” he chirps. “I’m learning a lot. Mr. Miller is a great boss.”

It’s like being sucker punched by a toddler. Huge blue eyes and rosy cheeks, an unsteady grip around his Budweiser. If he didn’t look so much like a fucking Disney cartoon, you’d lose your nerve.

The alcohol sours on your tongue. “Yeah,” you mumble, sinking back into your seat. “Yeah, he’s – he’s a good guy.”

“Why isn’t he here tonight?” he asks.

“He’s – uh…” You throw a helpless look to your coworker – but she’s too busy showing off pictures of Henry. “…He’s busy tonight, I guess.”

“I’ll bet,” the kid replies. “He’s an important dude.”

“Uhuh,” you elbow Martha’s waist, “He sure is. Would you excuse me?” you ask, and the intern raises his hands. “I’ll be right back.”

Martha and Deb shuffle out of the booth, drinks in hand. You edge your way through the horde to the back of the bar – stopping to refill on the way.

As the muscleman behind the bar tops off your glass, something catches your eye.

Lit only by a flickering Coors Light sign – the red and blue melding into streaks of violet – an iron staircase lingers in the corner. You didn’t spot it last time – or if you did, you were too busy flirting with your boss to pay it any mind.

You drift over, evading the sloshed stagger of one of Joel’s mailroom guys, and click up the steps towards the glowing red of an EXIT sign. Your hip swings into the push bar. The heavy door groans open.

It’s no cooler out here than inside – but it’s deserted. Beer dripping from the lips of toppled bottles, candles wavering in clear pools of wax. A gentle hum from overhead – the string light canopy.

A kitschy little rooftop. A humble hideaway.

Alone, you cross your arms and amble over to the parapet.

The street snoozes, a story below. Leaves flutter along the curb, crushed by the scuffing soles of strangers. Their footsteps echo as they wander off into the dusky night.

No Rolls, you notice. Nowhere to be seen. Not parked on the road, nor in the lot across the street. Nothing but a couple of guys on bikes, standing in the cold light of a store front.

He’s not here. He didn’t come.

He couldn’t, even if he wanted to. Whatever emergency he’s dealing with, it’s taken half his day from him. Martha didn’t even bother to ask if he needed coffee, or to fill him in on her neighborhood politics since the new couple moved in next door.

Still – there’s never been anything he couldn’t drag himself away from. Not where you’re concerned. He abandoned an investor for a solid ten minutes last week, just to walk you to the parking garage and tell you shit you already knew.

He could find a way to make it to this, right?

You scoff into your glass, swallow a heavy sip. Swallow back the quiet disappointment, the burden of a broken heart trying desperately to remember the shape it used to be. Before private jets and business trips, before work parties and closed office doors.

Before Joel.

But he swaggered in, didn’t he – suit and tie and that signature smirk. He changed everything, overnight. He fit in all the spaces you thought no one ever would – nestled his way behind your ribcage, kept you warm, kept you safe.

You can’t remember the shape your heart used to be. You don’t fucking want to.

At least, even when you were fighting, he was still in the game. At least he was still sat on the other side of the checkered plain, nudging his king closer to your queen. You never intended on letting him win – but he never intended to in the first place.

He was only ever in it to watch your eyes light, any time he got close.

Now, the board is cleared. Pawns split in two, knights crumbled to dust. And you miss it.

You miss him.

And missing him is – feeling the absence of him in every room. The empty seat next to yours, your empty hand at your side. The weight you know by heart around your waist, the name always on the tip of your tongue.

Missing him is coming up with a million ways that every other man isn’t him. They don’t make you laugh the same, they don’t make you ache. They don’t know your favorite movie; they won’t pull over just to pinch the greasy bacon from your breakfast sandwich.

Missing him is looking for him. Everywhere. Hoping – Jesus, praying you’d walk out of your interview and he’d be stood, arms crossed, leant against the car. Wishing he’d show up again at your door – flowers in hand, kiss on your lips.

Missing him is existing in the negative space he left behind. Flecks of color fluttering in the breeze, fading as though they were never here in the first place.

The door chunks open over your shoulder, and falls closed with a slam. Right on cue. You don’t even flinch when he rolls a chilled beer against your arm.

Missing him is knowing him. Better than anyone ever has, or anyone ever will.

He’s here. He was always going to be here. Because it’s you, and because it’s him.

Joel holds for all of three seconds, then places the beer between your elbows. He leans back against the stone wall.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says, taking a sip. His rugged, twelve-hour-day form softens before your eyes.

“I missed you,” you whisper, and he smiles.

“Missed you too, pretty girl.”

You lean in, face smushing into his chest, and snake your arms around his waist.

Joel takes the weight of you like it’s nothing; kisses your head and rests his chin there.

“I thought you weren’t coming,” you mumble, feeling the strange chill of tears on your cheeks.

“Are you kidding?” his voice rumbles through your skull. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, you know that.”

The alcohol lining your gums sweetens. It might just make the initial hit worth the trouble.

“I had a pretty shitty night,” you admit, sneaking a glance at him.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “You ‘n me both. Pretty shitty month.”

His cologne is fresh; woodsy and clean. His rough beard on your skin, his tired collar between your fingers. The landscape of a man you know inside and out.

Joel’s hands lift from your waist, past your ribs and around your shoulders. He lifts the broken heart charm from your chest – so tiny in his large hand, nervously twinkling in the light.

You don’t flinch, this time. Barely even notice his eyes on it.

His expression stiffens. His jaw clenches. His eyes are glassy, lined with tears behind his stone-set snarl.

“I’m sorry for what he did,” he grits, swallowing thickly. “I wanna kill him for it, you know that?”

You lift one shoulder, dropping it with a sigh. “He did what he did,” you hush, “He was a scumbag.”

Joel’s upper lip twitches. Twists, then settles when you trace it with your thumb.

“You didn’t deserve it,” he says. “You didn’t deserve none of what he did to you. You were just a kid, you –”

He lifts his head like coming up for air. Sucks a ragged breath between his teeth, shakes the tears from his vision.

“Hey,” you take his jaw, turning him back to face you, “Look at me. Look.” You flash a cheesy grin, nose scrunched and eyes crinkled. “I’m okay, Joel, look.”

His laughter betrays him, breaking from his chest and shattering the wolfish glare. He cups your head, cradling you against his chest again.

There’s nothing between you, now. No spiteful words or suffocating tension; no hurt and no blame. One heart broken and the other bruised, still beating the rhythm of a language only they know.

Still seeking the other out, through all of it.

“What we had,” Joel says softly, “it can’t have been nothing to you, right? Was it really just…?”

“No,” you shake your head, squeezing him, “It was never – You were never just anything to me. I think…” you sigh, “…I think you just pressed on a bruise I had. A bruise I thought I’d gotten pretty good at hiding. And you just…you twisted your thumb into it.”

“I didn’t – I didn’t know about no bruise,” he says. “It wouldn’t’ve mattered if I had, darlin’, I –”

You take his wrists, following the sleeves of his jacket up to his collar. “I know,” you hold his cheeks, “I know it wouldn’t. But you saw straight through me – and the more you saw, the more you cared. And that scared me.”

He blinks down to your lips. “Why?”

“Because it’s never like that, Joel. No one has ever been like that. I was so scared that I’d fuck it up – that you’d figure me out.”

“You gotta fill me in a little here. Figure you out?”

“All my shit. Blake, my dad. All of it.”

Joel frowns. “You think I don’t got shit I didn’t want you seeing, too? My dad, Avery – that ain’t exactly dating profile material, baby.”

You can’t help but laugh. As raw as an open wound, the most vulnerable conversation you’ve ever had – on the roof of a dive bar, with your boss.

And he’s as fucking breezy as though you just handed him the forecast for the day.

“You’re a better man, Joel, than all of them. You mean more to me than anyone. And before I knew it, you had me wrapped around your finger, and…”

“…And I was pressing on that bruise.”

You wince. “Little bit.”

His tongue prods at the inside of his cheek. He scans the rooftop, glimmers of gold in his eyes, and nods.

“Listen to me,” he says, holding onto you. His thumbs swipe your tears away. “I would not hurt you for the world. I wouldn’t. That goddamn email – I just – I didn’t know what else to do. I panicked, and I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to –”

“Shut up,” he smiles, “I never meant to scare you. I never meant to hurt you. And if we never go back to what we were, then – I guess I gotta live with that. But you? God, baby, I miss you.

“I miss hearing you laugh. I miss being the one to make you do it. I miss talking to you, miss hearing what you think on things. Miss your goddamn Bart Simpson socks ‘n all.”

You turn into his palm, masking your giggle. “Asshole,” you murmur.

“All I want to do is take care of you,” he says. His shoulder jerks, an earnest shrug. “’s all I want. And you don’t make it easy, that’s for sure – fightin’ back at every damn turn. But – I don’t know,” his eyes thin, “Sometimes I reckon it’s what you want, too.”

“Oh,” you wrestle a simper, “You reckon, do you?”

“I reckon,” Joel repeats, bending the word in an exaggerated drawl. “See what I mean?” he tickles your waist, “You’re a pain in my ass.”

Your head tips back with laughter – the first real laugh you’ve heard pass your lips in weeks. Since you were rolling around your bed, poking his ribs for not being able to use chopsticks. A silly, girlish giggle.

The world bursts into color again.

Joel chuckles, too, as you squirm in his grasp. His hands plant on your waist, forehead rolling against yours.

Your lips brush. Your body ignites.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” he whispers. “That okay?”

“Shut up,” you echo, letting his lips crash into yours.

He tastes exactly the same as you remember. Strawberry and lemongrass. Sweet, in a way that wakens you. Brightens you, full of life and full of color.

It’s as though only a second has passed since you last felt him like this. Felt his scruff on your cheeks, the warmth of his tongue slipping past yours. Your skin feels like satin on his; your body filling in all the worn gaps that time has taken from his.

Fitting against him like you were carved with him in mind. Chiseled from the same slab of marble, finally found one another through the opaque stone.

He pins you to the parapet; one hand firm on the small of your back, the other at the base of your skull. He leans in, claiming every sense in your body as his own – and you offer them over gladly.

He kisses you like it’s all he’s thought about since that last morning at your place. Like he’s making up for lost time.

Hell, you’re both making up for lost time.

Joel breaks for air, panting against your lips, then instantly kisses you again.

Your hand threads through his hair – the soft salt and pepper, the feathered flicks at the nape of his neck. “Joel,” you kiss him once, twice more, giggling, “We’re like teenagers.”

“I love you,” he replies, kissing down your neck. “So much. So – goddamn – much.”

He trails down to your collarbone, where your chest lifts to meet his hungry lips. He drags teeth and tongue between your cleavage.

There’s a delay in the time the words take to sink into your skin. Like they’re stopping to light every atom of your being first, before they reach your brain. Every bone, every muscle and every cell.

“You…” you breathe, pulling him upright. “…You what?”

“I love you,” he repeats. “That scare you?”

Oh.

“N-no,” you press your finger to his swollen lips, “You…Say it again.”

He pauses. Nods, when he seems to make it up in his mind. His eyes flit from yours down to the mess of your lipstick, and back up.

A man possessed, so it looks, he admits it between labored breaths. “I’m in love with you,” he says. “Have been for a while, I think. You got a terrible habit of driving me fucking insane, pretty girl.”

Oh, shit.

You knew it already. This isn’t news.

He as good as told you in the copy room – and before that, in his office. He told you in Martha’s dining room, told you in your kitchen. He told you every time his lips found yours in Paris, and every time his eyes met yours before that.

If you went back and looked, there’d probably be a trail of clues jotted down in his diary – September second, two o’clock. Great AP score, enthusiastic and friendly. I think I’m in love with her.

He’s always loved you.

It’s just different hearing him say it.

Different to how it felt the last time someone said it to you. Different to how it sounded. There’s no ringing in your ears. There’s no focal shift in your vision.

There’s no…fear.

Joel takes hold of your shoulders. “Don’t run off on me again,” he says, kissing your cheek.

“No, I’m not…I don’t – want to,” you burble, playing with his collar. “You’re just…You might be a couple steps ahead of me.”

“Baby,” he says, a little laugh to it. “That’s okay. I don’t mind. I’m good where I am.”

“Really?”

“Really,” he says, and leans in again. “I’ll wait, as long as it takes.”

You melt into him; his strong hands and steady chest. Teeth taking his bottom lip, releasing it with a little pop. Your fingers twist around his hair, tugging lightly.

A low growl sounds from Joel’s throat. His hips rut against yours, fly of his jeans catches on the material of your skirt.

It nestles somewhere between your thighs. Solid, swollen. Blood hammering beneath denim, grinding into your body. He’s hard.

“We keep goin’ the way we’re goin’,” Joel hints, “and we’re gonna have a problem that ain’t solved so easily.”

You release him, licking your lips. “You think I can’t feel it already?”

He sucks on the skin over your carotid. “You think I ain’t been dealin’ with it for the last three weeks?”

“Poor Mr. Miller,” you pout, “Let me deal with it.”

His cheeks lift, brows drop. Cocky. The Joel you’re used to. The Joel you want.

The Joel you fucking need, right now.

“C’mon,” you slip a hand down his front, cupping the weight of him, “I miss my daddy.”

He squeezes your ass, catching you in a rough kiss when you writhe forward. His teeth graze your ear. “I wanna touch you, baby. I wanna feel you again. This little cunt,” he slips a hand between your legs, “She’s all I’ve been thinkin’ about.”

Fuck.

It was a feeble attempt, anyway – matching his ego. Utterly futile. The guy makes you lose your fucking mind.

You’ve done things for him that you’d never dream of doing for anyone else – would wring their necks for even asking – and here you are, keening into Joel, grinding your dripping pussy into his palm for all the street to see.

“She’s all yours,” you whine, the words tearing from your throat in a desperate plea. “All yours, Daddy.”

“That’s my girl,” Joel murmurs against your temple. “I’m gonna take you home, okay? Fuck you nice ‘n hard, make you feel better.”

You moan against his shirt. “Can we go back to yours, Daddy?”

It throws him for one heavy beat. He pauses, breath hot against your jaw, and then presses a barely-there kiss to your lips.

“Yeah, darlin,’” he whispers. “Let’s go back to mine.”

You push off his chest, cunt throbbing with each step towards the fire door. Fingers locked through his – a siren leading her sailor down the wrought iron stairs of Sam’s Saloon. Swimming through bodies, bathing in neon light, breathing in tobacco and tequila.

Joel eyes the booth where his employees sit – folding spinning tops out of beer caps, wagering bets on who’ll still be hungover come Monday.

He turns to whisper in your ear, when a voice strikes like lightning between you.

“Hey!” Martha yells, waving from the corner booth.

You’ve never wanted her to fuck off so badly.

“Just where the hell do you think you two are goin’?”

Joel stumbles into your side, hiding a teenage sort of glee behind your back. It’s contagious – and it riles Martha even more.

You throw your arms in the air, eyes bulging. Take the fucking hint, Martha. “Home?”

“It ain’t even eleven,” she protests, making to stand. “This is your goddamn leavin’ night – what are you doing?”

But you’re already retreating, following the pull of Joel’s hand around yours. Skin like fire, spattering with every touch. There’s nothing – man, myth, or Martha – that could stop you from following him.

You yell it as you swing through the doors.

“Grabbing a paddle!”

Joel leads you with his hands and with his lips down a neighboring street, where his Lamborghini sits at the side of the road. It blinks to life, headlights blinding.

A bruiser of a car – all bulk and brawn and bullish, like the thing is actually rearing. Something of a sharp smirk to it, the same devilish grin its owner so often wears.

He opens your door, steady hand lifting you into the passenger side, and strides around the car. His hand is back between your legs before he’s even switched the ignition on.

“Get – your damn – seatbelt on,” you giggle, slurring the words against Joel’s lips. “I am not letting you drive me home without one.”

His breath is hot and heady, spilling over your tongue with each punch of laughter from his chest. “Alright, alright,” he concedes, clipping the belt into place. He holds his hands out, awaiting your approval.

When you nod, his fingers slip between your thighs.

“You whore,” you snicker – though the sound scatters when he finds your clit. You grab your own belt, yanking it loose from its holder. “Jesus, Joel –”

“There she is,” he coos, pulling out into the road.

He circles her gently at first, massaging over your panties. Middle finger pulsing over the hood, matching the rhythm of your heartbeat flocking south.

Your back arches; nails dig into his wrist. “Daddy,” you gasp, knees parting. Heat quickly soaking through lace and onto leather. “’m gonna – make a mess,” you croon.

“Make a mess, darlin’, it’s okay,” Joel beckons, knuckles white around the steering wheel. “Driving me crazy, watching you like this. Dirty little girl.”

“Let me…” you reach for his thigh, “…Wanna touch you, Daddy.”

He grunts – a sound of refusal. “Give me one first, baby. Here,” and he hooks the slippery lace to the side, fingers parting your folds, “Let Daddy feel you right here.”

Your knee lifts, leg folding against the door, and Joel pushes inside. Two fingers knuckle-deep in one thrust. You yelp.

“Oh, baby,” he tuts, “She’s so wet. She miss her daddy that bad?”

“Yeah,” you whine, watching the thick shine he draws from your cunt. You lift your hips to open wider – and he slots a third finger in.

“Look at her,” he growls, “desperate little cunt. That feel better, darlin’?”

“Yeah, Daddy,” you mewl, though you’re not fucking listening to a word he’s saying.

You watch, boneless and blathering, as your hand lowers – replacing where Joel’s was on your clit. Rubbing little circles while he fucks you with his thick fingers. Your back curls again, tits threatening to spill out of your dress.

“Keep doin’ that,” Joel instructs, wrist jacking faster. “You’re close, ain’t you?”

“Shit,” you gasp, walls clenching around him. “So – close, Joel – fuck.”

The car slows to a stop. A red glow seeps through the windshield, lighting your smirk in a dangerous tinge.

Your pussy drools onto the leather seat, throbbing over Joel’s hand. Syrupy and honey-sweet, coating him in a glistening mess the harder he fucks you. A sticky sound, the slap of skin on skin, the beats of your moaning in between.

“Look at me,” Joel says, and you tear your eyes from between your legs. “Keep playing with it. C’mere.”

He tilts your jaw with his free hand and slips his tongue past your lips – the taste of him more dizzying than any drink from that bar. He kisses you until you’re right there, sucking on his tongue, teetering on the edge of your first climax. Crying into his mouth to stop from screaming at the ceiling.

“Daddy, need –”

Joel’s wrist pounds against your clit. He laughs across your tongue.

“Come on, baby,” he groans. “Let me feel her.”

“Say it,” you beg, your head lolling on his shoulder. The streetlights begin to bleed into the car. The light flicks to yellow. “Need you to – to say it.”

He nuzzles his nose against yours, turning to let you taste the words.

“I love you,” he whispers, and you break wide open.

The car rolls off again as you come with a violent shudder, crying into Joel’s chest. Daddy Daddy Daddy, fuck me fuck me fuck me.

“I know, I know,” Joel says, riding your high out to the horizon. He stares at the road ahead, only daring a glimpse at the sodden mess between your thighs when you start to come around again.

He works your swollen cunt, fingers gleaming with your orgasm. Slips them over his tongue, licks them clean – and then pushes them back between your sensitive lips.

You rock with the moving car, pulse still rattling your lungs. Your eyes drift down, down: Joel’s spread legs, the shape even bolder in his jeans than before.

You got a terrible habit of driving me fucking insane, pretty girl.

Weak and still quivering, you slip your hand over his belt – feeling his stomach jolt the second you touch it. The dark trail of hair from his navel, the thicker it grows – the harder he tenses.

“Easy,” he clips, adjusting in his seat. “Alright, darlin’. We’re…You’re gonna get us arrested.”

“Good,” you shrug, “I bet you have a good lawyer.”

You slump into his lap, the armrest solid against your ribcage. Trembling fingers loosening his belt, picking at the button of his jeans, husking them loose when he lifts his hips.

“Jesus,” he clears his throat, “Won’t let me drive without a seatbelt, but you’re – you’re fine with – fuck.”

He’s heavy and rock solid, so wide you can barely hold him. Big enough that it takes no effort at all to pull him free. Shaft silky smooth, tip flushed red and leaking deliciously.

Fuck, he’s so pretty. He’s so –

“– pretty, Daddy.”

Joel lifts his hand and holds you at the back of your neck, grip tightening when you dab his head along your bottom lip. “Prettier when you’re playin’ with it, angel.”

Your tongue circles his tip – salt and sweat stirring you from your orgasmic haze. You dribble down his cock, spit racing to the twists of thick hair at his base.

The sound he makes is guttural – a roar of a groan from his chest – when you sink down on him. He fills your mouth instantly, nudging the back of your throat in one.

The car swerves some. Joel curses over your head.

You slip back up – slow. Let your tongue trace every ridge, every vein along the way. All of it perfect perfect perfect – all of it him. Chasing streaks of saliva, the pearly shine of precome beading from his slit.

One hand stroking his hilt, lips suckling around his tip. Kneading his weighty balls – massaging them in your palm, dragging your tongue down to kiss the cushiony skin.

“Pretty girl,” Joel rasps, hips canting to meet every lick, every stroke. “You’re gonna make me come if you don’t stop.”

Mhm, you mumble, gagging around the intrusion. Tears sear across your waterline, spilling from the corners of your eyes. So big, so pretty, so perfect.

He nuzzles deep, stretching the column of your throat wide. “Baby,” he warns, voice sharper, “Baby, you gotta – you gotta stop now.”

Maple, he’d said – that day in your shower. If you say it, I stop.

Say it, you dare him silently.

“I’m gonna – c-come, darlin’,” instead.

Say. It.

“You want that?” he growls, hand surfing over your hair to cup your skull. “You wanna make your Daddy come?”

Your voice flattens, mutes under the strain of his cock. You moan instead, the sound weak and muffled.

“Shit,” Joel says, stomach tensing tensing tensing. “Shit, angel, just like that. Good fuckin’ girl.”

He twitches deep inside. He’s there. Right there.

You slacken your jaw and lick up his shaft, two hands wrapping around it. They slip around the sticky spit, swirling and squeezing while you kiss his tip.

He holds you steady, slowing the car to watch as he fills your mouth.

Two, three warm spurts across your tongue, dripping down the back of your throat. You lap up every drop, tongue swirling the salt around your lips before you swallow it down.

Joel rasps as he steers the car into a dim lot. He strokes your head, jerks when you play a little too much with him.

“Attagirl,” he sighs, “Careful with it. Tryna fuckin’ kill me.”

You giggle, swiping kitten licks at his tip before you slip him back into his underwear. You bat Joel’s hands away, buttoning his jeans and threading his belt back together. Planting heavy kisses into the plush of his tummy.

When the darkness is pierced by flickering fluorescents, you push yourself up.

“Where are we?” you ask, twisting in your seat.

“Home,” he says simply.

A plain man in a dark suit strides over to the car as soon as it parks up. The click of his shoes bouncing off the walls.

Joel swipes at your chin with his thumb. He slips the digit past your lips and you suck it clean. “Dirty girl,” he utters, stealing another hasty kiss before swinging out of the car.

You hop out the other side, tottering around the Lamborghini to meet him at the back.

The attendant’s name badge reads Owen. “Long day, Mr. Miller?”

Joel pats his shoulder in greeting, reaching for your hand. “Long day,” he agrees, and makes for the elevator.

Your head swivels, taking in each lavish vehicle parked under luminous light. Emblems with horses and bulls and wings – plenty more than you don’t even recognize. Each car polished to perfection, groomed within an inch of its life.

Joel flicks the button at the top of the panel. The doors glide closed – smooth and silent. You barely feel it as it scales the building rapidly.

“Wait a second,” you stare at the dazzling PH, “Do you live on the top fucking floor?”

He bites his lip. “Might do.”

You step back. “So you let me bring you into my – my shitty little apartment, and meanwhile you’re –?”

“Woah, woah,” he cuts in. “Your apartment is not shitty.”

“It’s not a fucking penthouse, Joel.”

“It’s a nice apartment!” he protests, squeezing your shoulder. “Do you always gotta be so goddamn dramatic?”

“I bet you could fit my entire place inside your living room. Right? Am I right?”

He clicks his teeth and stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Naw,” he says, like a little kid. Twisting his toe into the marble floor. “Dressing room, more like.”

The doors part just in time for him to escape your drumming fists – his boyish snicker filling the cream hallway.

You spill out after him, pulse fluttering dangerously through your veins.

“You know what my place doesn’t have?” Joel says, fishing for his keys. “A poster of Richard Gere. I could use one of those.”

“Oh,” you feign amusement, “Well, you can have mine. I won’t be able to look at it now, anyways.”

He slots the key in the lock and turns. Drinks in the sight of you – on a comedown from only the second-hottest car ride you’ve ever taken.

“Your apartment,” he lifts a finger, “has you in it. It wins, every time.”

Your jaw clenches. Your heart begins a warning drum in your chest. Don’t you fucking dare. Don’t you fall.

Too late, you think.

The door sweeps open, and Joel beckons you forward.

“Ladies first.”

You slip by, stepping into a regal hallway. Smooth stone on either side, dark wood under your heels. All marble and mirror, classy, glassy décor. Golden spotlights which glow to life overhead, the deeper your footsteps echo.

It’s dark, and a little moody. Manly. The perfect marriage of masculine and chic. Cold steel and warm wood.

It looks like him. Classy and luxurious – but homey, warm. Everything that draws you to him, and everything that makes you want to stay.

Joel follows silently at your back, much the same as he did in his little white house. Looking to his feet when you turn back, fiddling with the strap of his watch.

You wander to the end of the hall, where the apartment widens. A towering living room – sylvan and rustic, the same muted tones bleeding through. Cityscape backdrop, pristine glass fire. A coffee table homing ornate vases and books on woodworking; a faux fur blanket over the couch and beside it, a worn flannel shirt.

You love it. You love all of it.

And loving his apartment is probably a bit of a copout, right? The easier way, the safer way to admit something much scarier. It’s just fragments of Joel, after all. It’s all the parts you’ve come to like best.

His heart, his soul. The kid with the freckles and scruffy hair, all grown up. Thrown into a big city, thrown into a big job. Thrown into a million-dollar penthouse – and still, he turns everything he touches into…home.

Joel presses his lips along your shoulder, perches his chin on your collarbone. Quiet, a little bashful – hiding from every secret he’s letting you in on just with being here.

Your eyes catch a brushed-gold frame on the sideboard, and you float over.

Faded by the sun and the years in between, there’s a peachy tint to the photo. A dreamy lilac sky, dark cedars fringing the background. A squint mailbox, cherry red with the name MILLER printed on.

Two boys, one as filthy as the other. Matching denim shorts and lanky limbs. Smeared with paint, in the midst of a brawl which nearly blurs their figures into nothing more than one head of dark hair, the other sandy.

You’d recognize him anywhere, though. Even with his arm hooked around his little brother’s neck.

“Tommy started it,” Joel says, elbowing your side. “See that smudge on the mailbox? He pushed me headfirst into the thing.”

Your chest leaps. “Who won the fight?”

He takes the frame and dusts it with the sleeve of his jacket. “Mom did,” he replies. “Threw the camera down ‘n dragged us inside. Grounded us for a week, made us repaint the entire thing.”

“How is your mom?” you ask.

Joel nods. “Good. She’s askin’ after you.”

“She still asks about me?”

“Yeah,” he says. “’cause I still talk about you.”

It prods low in your chest. Aching, stitching itself back together thread by thread. A wound twelve years in the making, the doing and undoing of everything you ever knew. Family and love; hurt and loss.

It’s okay to lose some things, you reckon. It’s okay to let them go. To watch that beat-up Toyota tear off for the horizon. To leave that man and his ring and the promises he’ll never fulfill.

There’s someone better waiting down the line, anyway. It starts with a page of doodles; it ends with your heart in his hands.

The safest place it’s ever going to be.

You cross your arms around Joel’s neck and pull him against your body. Pull him against the wound.

“I want to go see her again, tomorrow.”

“I think she’d like that.”

“Then I want to come back here and spend the whole weekend with you.”

He swallows. “Yeah. Yeah, I want that, too.”

You kiss him softly.

“And I want you to take me to bed right now, and show me how much you love me.”

The twinkling city is the only light left on this side of the apartment.

Half-drunk in a half-dim room, you stumble in backwards – tripping over thin air and collapsing onto the bed, pulling the six-foot shadow of your ex-boss-now-something on top.

The laughter rumbles from Joel’s chest. “I’m too old for this, pretty girl,” he says, sucking a mark into your neck.

“No big deal,” you titter, fumbling with the buttons on his shirt. “I’ll keep you going.”

He hovers over you, watching as you peel the clothes from his body. The heavy clink of his belt on the floor, the ruffle of slacks down his legs. He shakes the shirt from his arms and your lips connect again in the darkness.

Hips between yours, he drags your dress from the hem up over your arms. A hungry glimpse, tongue dabbing at the corner of his mouth – like it’s Monday morning all over again, and you’re on your knees in front of him for the first time.

Back when flirting was as harmless as delivering coffee and running errands. Back when he was one third of a fuck, marry, kill debate with Martha and Deb. Back when neither of you knew these versions of yourselves even existed.

Joel lowers – taking your nipple in his mouth.

“Shit,” you pant, fingers searching for the elastic around his waist.

He helps you tug his boxers off. His cock sways between his legs, smatter of come and damp saliva across your stomach as he guides you up the mattress. He takes the lace from your hips in his fist and rids you of it in quick motion.

“See what you do to your daddy?” he asks, tapping the weight of his cock against your mound.

You reach down, wrapping your fingers around him. He’s stubbornly solid again – throbbing under your touch. He shudders when you swipe a gentle thumb over his tip.

“Already came once ‘n you got him hard all over again,” Joel adds.

You take your lip under your teeth, stroking his cock. Your clit flutters at the thought of him pushing in. The stretch that feels so impossible, the punch of pain each time he reaches the end of your pussy.

It steals a sob from your lips. “I wanna ride you, Daddy,” you sputter, a solid shove on his shoulders.

He rolls onto his back, hands finding your hips as you mount his waist.

“Let me ride you,” you’re panting, lowering onto the dense muscle of his stomach. Quickly coating the trail of pubic hair with a pearly sheen. You rock back and forth, taking the stalk of him in one small hand.

“Let me ride – just wanna ride –”

“Alright, alright,” Joel hastens, sitting upright. He slips an arm around your back.

You whine. “You never let me, Daddy, I just wanna –”

“Shh,” he holds your jaw, “I’m gonna let you. I’m gonna let you, baby. Just gotta go slow, alright? I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I can take it,” you tell him, hands on your hips.

“I know,” Joel replies, “I know you can. Always do, huh?”

He slides his tip through your core, teasing your entrance. So wide that you can already feel your little hole struggling with just his head. He’s covered in you – your slick blending with his, your breath swapping.

“Three weeks, angel,” he fusses, beginning to edge you down. “Too goddamn long,” he adds, “You know how much I missed this pretty cunt?”

Your pussy sucks his length in, blooming for him. Warm and snug, spongey walls pinching every inch as he penetrates her. Like they’re made for each other, the same way you and Joel are.

“She missed you more,” you gasp, head tilted back to the ceiling. “I missed you more.”

Joel’s teeth pluck at the column of your throat, still raw from the memory of his dick. “Doing so good for me,” he hums, “Little more, okay?”

You collapse forward, boneless and weeping against his chest. The pain and the pleasure hammering through your veins – Joel’s thunder and your lightning. Every nerve on fire, every hair on your body standing to attention.

He holds you steady, hands still locked around your waist, cock still filling you up inch by inch. When your clit reaches the coarse hair at his base, Joel kisses from your chest up to your jaw.

“You feel that, baby?” he asks, two fingers lifting your chin. “Feel Daddy inside you? All of him, darlin’, you got all of him in there.”

You wiggle in his lap, hips aching with the effort of holding his full length. “So big, Daddy.”

Joel tenses, teeth gritting. “I ain’t gonna last long,” he admits, grip firm on your hips.

“That’s okay, baby,” you coo, nudging him back into the mattress. His cock slips from your slit, drizzled with slick. You feel so empty without him – electricity fizzling into nothing, walls clamping around nothing.

You brace yourself over his torso – reaching between your legs to guide him back to your entrance.

Beneath hooded lids, heavy with lust, Joel watches as you drag his tip through your folds. He presses his thumb to your clit, rough circles around the swollen hood, and parts your lips with his fingers.

His cock lines up, and you sink down.

“Christ, darlin’,” Joel groans. He flicks at your clit, his other hand coming up to pinch your nipple.

“I – Fuck,” you moan, bouncing on him. “Feels so – good, Daddy, I –”

You fall forward into the headboard – staying upright only with your fingers locked around the wood. You’re slipping, already barreling your way towards another orgasm.

You grind forward, rutting into Joel’s palm, falling back on his cock. Your spine curls; hands drop to claw at his chest, ground yourself there.

The edges of your vision begin to blur. It’s not like this, it’s never like this. No one has ever fucked you this good, this rough and this loving.

Joel’s balls slap against your ass. He bucks his hips, knees lifting to bump you forward.

“Attagirl,” he says, slipping a hand around your neck. He brings you down, nips at your lower lip. His forehead slides against yours. “Can feel you closing, darlin’,” he chuckles, “You gonna come for me?”

“D-dick,” you hiss.

He smirks. “Always look so pretty when you let go. You don’t wanna show Daddy how pretty you are?”

You writhe over him, biting down hard on your climax.

“My beautiful girl,” Joel murmurs in your ear. “Come for Daddy.”

And it throws you under.

Blinding, deafening. Every nerve in your body overcome, each one flipped to feel only Joel. His cock, buried deep inside, your walls clamped around him; his teeth on your skin, tongue soothing the scrape.

It’s never like this.

Never so euphoric, never such a perfect meld of bruise and bliss. The feeling of your body changing, altering down to the very last atom – blossoming anew. Fresher, purer, lovelier.

When you come back around, you’re on your back.

Legs wrapped around Joel’s waist; arms linked around his neck. He must��ve flipped you, the second you came.

He slips back inside, suckling on the skin beneath your ear, and drives his hips into yours. Ignores your yelps, your short breaths – just fucks into you like you’ll be gone in the morning.

Fucks into you like he’ll never get to do it again. Like he hasn’t been doing it for weeks. He fucks you so hard that it hurts; an ache already burning that you know you’ll still feel walking into work on Monday.

“Good girl,” he chants, over and over. “Daddy’s girl.”

Like a fever come over him – beads of sweat dotting his skin, flush in his cheeks. He fucks you mindless, senseless, wordless. Sobbing beneath him, each word soaking into the next.

Good girl. Good girl. Daddy’s girl, that’s it. Daddy loves you so much, baby. Gonna fill this little cunt up so good.

When your walls pull tight again, your third orgasm flooding from every pore in your body – Joel’s movements halt.

He comes with a painful jolt – his cock shunting into you once, twice, until he’s pumping you full of his come. Twitching deep within you, pulsing warm and messy inside your pussy.

He comes with a sound like song. Your name, entangled in a throaty groan – lips tucked somewhere between your neck and shoulder.

You finally hear it – for the first time in your life.

How it’s supposed to sound: low like thunder, Texan in its swing. No one else, you realize, has ever gotten it right – this right – before. As if only his lips were meant to speak it, his tongue designed to carve around the letters. His vocal cords strung to send the sound to your ears.

It’s his, you decide. Your name – and every other piece of you. All of you. It all belongs to him, now.

“Fuck,” Joel pants, one hand on the headboard to steady himself. He lets it rain down over you: “I love you so much, you know that?”

“Come here,” you whisper, and he falls into your body, “Come love me forever.”

Half-conscious and full bliss, you laze in Joel’s bed – all fucking night.

Strong arms hooked around your shoulders, heart to heart. Breath shared, whispering nothings and everythings in the space between your lips. He’s still buried deep inside, still tucked between your legs.

Bundled in satin sheets, kept warm by his body around yours. Talking shit, poking fun, flirting and fucking around. You play with his hands, sizing your open palm against his. You compare the scars and scrapes on your skin, spill the bloody story behind each one.

“Alright, big girl,” Joel yawns, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m beat. You killed me.”

You snuggle under his chin. “Get some sleep, old man.”

He takes a second to respond. He’s already going. This is probably the closest he’s been to actually sleeping for a good three weeks.

“Love you,” he exhales then, like the thought just lapped past his lips again.

You smile. Take his big hands in yours and lift them closer to your chest, tuck your chin over your interlocked fingers.

Something deep inside you lurches. Tries to escape. You tighten Joel’s grip, as if choking the words on their way up.

Joel’s breathing slowly begins to draw out – tiny sighs passing his lips. Your thumbs trace the short hair between his nose and top lip, combing it, nail ghosting over the lines on his lips.

A warm feeling floods through your body. Suddenly – it starts in your chest and washes over in waves, dousing you and the world around you in a dreamy rose. Like a sunset paints its way across the walls, the glint of gold where the light catches on the tower in the distance.

Peace, you think.

Only – there’s no end to it. No sleek black car to drag you away. No broken promises and half-truths. The ache in your chest pulls gently – a reminder, no longer a threat.

This will never leave. He won’t let it. It’s as safe as you are, now, wrapped in his arms. Nothing and no one to break you apart.

“Joel?” you whisper.

His eyelashes flutter, like even asleep he knows it’s something worth hearing. Like everything you could possibly say – What should we have for breakfast? My foot itches. Did you know Martha box dyes her hair? – it’s all worth hearing.

You gulp. “Joel, I wanna – I wanna tell you something.”

He crackles to life, words melting into one another. “…What is it…darlin’…?”

Your lips morph around voiceless words. Your tongue lifts to the back of your teeth, trying to force the sound out.

It’s everything, you think. You’re everything. Say it. Say it say it say it.

But he’s already dropping off again. He’s already being swept away somewhere you’re too tense to reach. And you’re not brave enough to push through the fog on your own, stick a trembling hand into the unknown and swipe for his.

So you let it go. Watch the words float off somewhere Joel can’t hear them.

You shrink yourself, slotting your head beneath his jaw, your cheek to his chest. He sighs into the crown of your head. His heartbeat thuds a familiar bassline into your ear. Hi, old friend. I missed you.

Maybe in the morning, you can swing by your place and grab a bag. Pack a few days’ worth of clothes, spend the first few mornings of your new career drinking velvety coffee in bed next to Joel. Sharing the mug, sharing the newspaper, sharing the shower when it’s time to get up.

Maybe you should call Martha, and apologize for skipping your party. She can fill you in on the night – the drunken dramas, the secrets spilled. She won’t ask about you and Joel – she’ll just know. And that’s enough.

Maybe you’ll throw the phone to the end of the bed after you hang up, discarded amongst the tangle of sheets, and lie back down next to a still sleeping Joel. Lay your head on his chest, like it is right now. Listen to his heartbeat, run your fingers across the dark hair.

And maybe you’ll think over the same three words currently racing through your head. Maybe you’ll try to piece together a sentence for him to hear, when you’re ready to say it out loud.

Maybe by morning, you’ll be brave enough to admit it to yourself, first.

That…yeah.

You love him.

THE END

[unrelatedwaffle]

Old lady on tumblr rambles again

Hi again, people younger than 30, it's your rapidly-aging-due-to-stress aunt on Tumblr.com. Our country sucks at teaching even recent history, and I'm young enough that it's still shocking to me that some of you were born post 9/11, so I'm going to muse a bit on the experience of being young in a Republican-dominated era.

The Bush II years were dark. The Iraq War started when I was a junior in high school, and I was the only person I knew who was even remotely politically aware. Back then, if you didn't "support the troops" or froth at the mouth for America, you were considered a dangerous freak. 2000-2008 was a very, very difficult time to be politically left in this country, and it was isolating and scary. Watch The Simpsons where they get sent to Guantanamo, seriously. (Honestly, watch The Simpsons from the beginning. Political satire is a great coping mechanism). My advice to you on an individual level, though the situations are not necessarily comparable, because That Fucking Guy is so much worse than even Bush II, who was one of the worst people on the planet (although a lot of the same fucking people have been syncophanting for the frothing Right this entire time! Look them up! Newt Gingrich! Karl Rove! Dick Cheney was around during Iran fucking Contra!), is: * Read books. I'm serious, you gotta do it. If you need help with attention or getting better at reading, there are kind and caring people who can do that. Please ask someone for help if you struggle with reading or attention. It's a prerequisite for getting through this with your sanity intact. You are scoffing, but I'm serious. Books. BOOKS. * Read about history. Read books by Black and Indigenous Women in particular for the most honest and incisive looks at this complex and frustrating country. Try going a whole year only reading books and articles by black women. * Find like-minded people and stick close to them. Keep your distance from people who will hurt you. If you have to interact with people you can't trust, keep it surface-level. Do not be afraid to cut ties with peers who are unsafe. There is a graceful way to do this by letting the relationship slowly die, and they don't need to know why it did. Finding like-minded people just to be friends or activity buddies with feels more achievable than "finding an organization" or "creating community." Make dinner for a few friends and talk about how you're feeling right now. Call a friend you haven't seen in a while and ask how their folks are, how their job is. Write a letter or a card to someone you love far away. * If you cannot travel for financial reasons, consume long-form media (especially independent films, books, poetry, comics, journalism, weird stuff made by other thinking and sensitive people) from other countries and other kinds of people inside your own country as much as you can. Learn another language to a deep level, it will open up your mind and world, and is just a useful skill to have. * Do not forget who you are, know what your values are, and stick to them when things are tough. When you feel like you can't fight or absorb anymore, take a break. Check out for a day, a week, a month, but as a rough guide try not to mentally check out for more than a month unless you are going through some serious shit like grieving a loved one. If you do that it will be very hard to find motivation to come back and keep doing the work.

[coldasyou]

Hii how do you think Martin’s trial had an effect on the whitly’s? (Jessica ainsley malcolm?) Like how do you think they handled the situation? (Thinking that in the end he wasn’t really imprisoned but put in st claremont psychiatric)

great question! I’m super excited for prodigal son to explore the legal side of martin’s conviction bc rn…it’s kind of confusing lol. I first assumed that martin used his connections in the government and legal system to strike a plea deal; if he plead guilty, they’d declare him mentally unfit to stand trial and let him serve his life sentence in a psychiatric hospital rather than in prison. but now we know there was a trial, so I’m assuming he was found not guilty by reason of insanity and that’s why he was sent to claremount (which is VERY hard to do and I have trouble believing a jury would give that verdict to someone who killed 23 people and terrorized NYC for years, regardless of whether or not martin actually fits the definition of legally insane). or there’s some like TV twist ™ and he got a deal after being found guilty that let him stay in a psychiatric hospital rather than prison. the podcast also states martin “brings in money” for claremont by doing medical consultants over the phone which stretches my suspension of disbelief to the max but wtv he’s rich and white, so that also might be a reason he avoided prison. either way, I doubt the NYC public were happy with the sentence, especially since his cell has just gotten nicer over time lmao.

as to the effect on the family, obviously it was not a good time for anyone. a case like this would take months to reach trial (I’m thinking 6 or more, basing this off the OJ simpson trial, which started about 6 months after his arrest, since chris and sam have referenced that case when talking about martin’s trial). the trial also probably lasted for a long time (the simpson trial lasted from january to october) and jessica didn’t attended any of it. she might have been asked to be a witness but I feel like she would refuse to even be in the same room as martin by then and the prosecution could prove their case without her so she never was subpoenaed. malcolm on the other hand…I’m guessing had to testify. idk if that’s the direction the show is going to take bc I feel like if he did testify at trial it would have been brought up by now (talk about being retraumatized) but in my headcanon for now, he at least was called to testify about his 911 call. it just would have SO much drama potential; gil trying to fight against malcolm having to take the stand bc the kid went through enough already, jessica still not being able to be inside the courtroom bc she didn’t want to see martin but waiting in the lobby terrified the entire time malcolm was on the stand, martin telling his lawyer to go easy on his son during cross examination but his lawyer saying fuck that and martin standing up and screaming at him half way through it, malcolm shutting down again like when shannon interrogated him just the Angst ™.

and even if none of them were directly involved with the trial, it still was probably some of the worst months of their lives. it was the trial of the century, the GP hates the entire whitly family, the press never leaves them alone, malcolm is already dealing with PTSD and night terrors and the news being everywhere does nothing to help (jessica just straight up gets rid of cable and only lets ainsley and malcolm watch VHS bc she’s so worried they’ll accidentally find a news channel), ainsley has no idea what’s going on but she’s still so upset bc mommy is crying and drinking all the time and her brother never wants to play with her, jessica never sleeps and this is when she starts REALLY getting into alcohol as a coping mechanism, gil can’t even help that much bc he’s too busy with the trial himself, jackie comes over a lot to try and offer support but it’s just…by the end of it jessica doesn’t even care that her husband is somehow avoiding prison, she’s just so grateful it’s all over (or so she thinks, cut to 20 years later lmao).

[im-the-king-of-the-ocean]

Rules: tag 9 people with excellent taste 

I was tagged by @yellowmagicalgirl 

Colors that I’m Wearing:

Black, grey and pink-ish white, and various shades of blue 

(the black is jeans, the grey & pink-ish white is for a Jurassic Park shirt (the shirt is grey and the JP logo is the pink-ish white part), and I’m wearing socks that are made out of the kind of thread/yarn that gradients from almost white to dark blue).

Last Band That I Saw Live:

I’m gonna be honest, I don’t go out to see bands a lot (loud music + thick crowds of people = very overstimulating for me).  So, I’m fairly certain the last one was the outdoor concert at the Fourth of July fireworks show I go to with my family, last year.  I can’t remember the band name, but I did get an entire funnel cake I didn’t have to share with anyone (which, let’s face it, mattered way more).

Last Song I Listened To:

“A Wonderful Day” from The Roar of the Greasepaint - the Smell of the Crowd

(I haven’t actually seen the musical, but the song came up a couple times in my YouTube recommendations and I enjoy it so it’s one of my regular ‘background songs while I’m doing random stuff’).

Lipstick or Chapstick:

Neither.  I dislike the sensation of anything on my lips and have a tendency to rub either off after about five minutes.  I stopped trying ages ago.

Last Movie I Watched:

I’m going with Detective Pikachu.  I feel like there’s been one I watched on TV with family between when I went to see Pikachu and now, but I can’t remember what.  Also, Pikachu was the last time I actively made an effort to go out and see a movie in the theater.

Last 3 TV Shows I Watched:

1. 3Below

2. Disenchantment

3. Black Mirror

Last YouTube Video I Watched:

The Pixar short “Kitbull”

3 Characters I Identify With:

I wouldn’t say I identify strongly with any characters right now, but these are the ones I feel the most emotional attachment to.

1. Lucifer (from the Lucifer TV series).  I just really want to see him succeed, or get better.  Like I recognize a lot of his issues about self-worth and having really impulsive (and not particularly healthy) coping mechanisms.  I want to see him figure out he can have support, love, and maybe be happy.  Subsequently, he’s probably the character I’m most invested in at the moment.

2. Bean (from Disenchantment on Netflix).  She surprised me as a protagonist.  I don’t have the highest opinion of Matt Groening shows (The Simpsons, Futurama), so going into this one I expected maybe mild entertainment, but no actual attachment to the characters.  But then I grew to really like Bean (and found her really fun to watch), and am extremely curious on what’ll happen in part 2 (since pt1 ended on a sort of cliffhanger).

3. Pyrrha Nikos (from RWBY).  I don’t think I’ve ever been this upset at a character’s fate or wished it had gone differently.  Like, narratively, I applaud the writers for making me care so much.  But still.

(honorably mention is honestly going to be Penny Polendina from RWBY, for pretty similar reasons to Pyrrha).

Books I’m Currently Reading

The last physical book I read was “Good Omens” by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett.  Otherwise my current reading list is pretty much fanfics I’m keeping up with.

the most recent ones are:

(rereading) The Color of the Sun by Nerves (Trollhunters)

You are My Sunshine by rockymountainvixen (Trollhunters)

The Doctor, The Changeling, and their Super-Soldier Son by yellowmagicalgirl (Trollhunters)

I Never Wanted to Leave You by CascadingSilver (Trollhunters)

Almost Human by NotOneLine (Lucifer)

Fun in the Sun by onceinalifetime1 (Lucifer)

.

I’m gonna tag:

@archaeopter-ace, @autumnalfallingleaves, @tunafishprincess, @elizabethemerald, @rockymountainvixen, 

[cheylouwho]

South Park: The affect of Abuse and ACEs on Behavior

One thing that’s been a hot topic in the SP fandom as of late is the discussion of how the behavior (both past and present) of the child characters are affected by the experiences we’ve seen/heard about in canon. Today we’re going to talk a little about three of the most damning cases; Cartman, Tweek and Butters.

Disclaimer 1: This analysis will contain several mentions of childhood trauma such as abuse, neglect and sexual relations. Please be mindful that you have been warned.

Disclaimer 2: This is for the sake of analysis and application of knowledge that I (and those in the SP analysis discord) have. We are in no way professionals. I am only a preschool teacher so my knowledge in the field of abuse and neglect is limited to what I’ve been taught and what I have witnessed/experienced. Please take the speculation with a grain of salt… maybe even the whole shaker. Just dump it in your mouth and enjoy almost 4,000 words of fully sourced “its not that deep, fam”.

Preface: What We Know about Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs)

Before we can really dive into this whole thing, we need to discuss ACEs. These are, to put it simply, traumatic events that occur during childhood that can have lasting effects on a person’s social/emotional, cognitive and even physical development well into adulthood. They’re mostly used for identifying children/people at risk and for research. It’s pretty interesting how that’s done, so I implore you to research more if you’re curious. These experiences can include:

Physical abuse

Sexual abuse

Emotional abuse

Physical neglect

Emotional neglect

Intimate partner violence

Mother treated violently

Substance misuse within household

Household mental illness

Parental separation or divorce

Incarcerated household member

(Source)

Given we’re talking about Cartman, Butters and Tweek, I think you can see why I bring this up. Taking a look at this list and the canon evidence we have in show, it’s easy to say that they’ve all experienced some of these traumas. Two more important things from the source article should also be noted for the sake of this analysis:

ACEs cluster. Almost 40% of the Kaiser sample reported two or more ACEs and 12.5% experienced four or more. Because ACEs cluster, many subsequent studies now look at the cumulative effects of ACEs rather than the individual effects of each.

ACEs have a dose-response relationship with many health problems. As researchers followed participants over time, they discovered that a person’s cumulative ACEs score has a strong, graded relationship to numerous health, social, and behavioral problems throughout their lifespan, including substance use disorders.

“Chey, what the fuck are you on about? This doesn’t make sense!” you might be saying. To truly understand how these ACEs apply to these three kids and how they affect their behavior, let’s take a look at them on a case by case basis.

Cartman’s Case

Eric Cartman is probably the most interesting child in terms of applying the ACEs checklist, as well as other knowledge about abuse and neglect affects on children. We know, from canon, that Cartman lives with his single mother. He’s a low-income family. His mother has been/may still be a sex worker. He’s is very inclined to violence and seems obsessed with sexual topics. It’s very interesting to note that towards the beginning of the series, while evidences were present, Cartman was a lot more innocent. As the show went on and some of these ACE experiences actually happened in building canon, it’s worn on him and shaped him in real time into the character we know today.

ACE 1: Sexual Abuse. It’s been strongly implied that Cartman has been sexually abused.Here is a not-so-short list of examples from the fanon wiki (source). It’s long winded and detailed, so here are a few notable points (as well as some that I’ve added myself).

Engaged in inappropriate/sexual behavior for his age, such as “touching wieners” with one of his cousins (le petit tourette), giving handjobs (Fat Butt and Pancake Head), insisting on measuring penises of his classmates (TMI), putting Butters’ penis in his mouth (Cartman Sucks)

Has been sexually abused by his mother/because of his mother (An Elephant Makes Love to a Pig)

Has been abused by several adult men ON SCREEN (The Simpsons Already Did It, Cripple Fight, Cartman Joins NAMBLA, AWESOM-O, The Return of Chef, It’s A Jersey Thing)

There’s also the strong point that Cartman has come to associate sex/love as something undesired, humiliating or painful. Again, the wiki wonderfully spells these out, but I’ll summarize. Cartman constantly treats any form of sexual or romantic relations as rape and assault. One example is in the Coon and Friends trilogy, he believes a woman having a consensual relationship with a man in the park is being “raped” and needs to be saved. Another example is his expressed sadness at the New Kid’s “dad fucked your mom” backstory in FBW. Another one that is not often touched upon in his reaction to Tweek and Craig’s fight in Tweek X Craig, in which he exclaims wholeheartedly that the two of them getting into an alteration is “sex” and seems intrigued to watch what’s going to happen. He also uses sex as a form of humiliation. I’m sure this is common knowledge at this point but his infatuation with making Kyle suck his balls in Imaginationland but also in his culmination of Butters’ photographical humiliation (AKA, sticking his penis in his mouth).

It’s not talked about on the ACEs website, but children who are sexually abused are likely to exhibit disdain (but interest) in sexual relations and acting sexually mature for their age.

ACE 2 and 3: Emotional abuse and neglect. Now, before I start this, you’re probably going to say, “BUT CHEY! Liane loves and dotes on Cartman! That’s why he’s spoiled!” Boy, do I hear you, but I’m going to explain myself. While Liane does spoil Cartman to hell and back, I’d like to argue that it’s empty. Liane may often tell Cartman she loves him, she also uses tactics such as bribery (food and other things Cartman likes), neglect (Cartman has said in canon, and she’s admitted herself, to being too busy to deal with him due to being a single parent), and also exposes him to things he should not be exposed to (sex, drugs). She treats him like a friend or a companion rather than her son (Tsst) which allows Cartman to have free reign. But free reign is not always out of love and care. I’d like to argue a lot of Cartman’s power is from lack of parenting and involvement in his life.I’m sorry if this part isn’t phrased too well; I had a hard time articulating it.

This may also be why Cartman has such a mixed relationship with his mother. He’s fed the idea that things are okay and great, that nothing is wrong, and he literally eats it up. He’s not outwardly talkative about what goes on at home, and when he is, he seems to regret it immediately. His disdain for his mom may not be purely “selfish greedy child”, but completely justified “abused child”. As phrased wonderfully by one of our server members, “that’s why he calls her a bitch and all those kinds of things yet still protecting her whenever they try to rip on Liane. Because that’s the kind of love he’s used to.”

Furthermore, consider the situation around Cartman’s birth. Liane was young, drunk and the town “slut” (their words, not mine). Cartman’s father’s identity had to be hidden and there’s no doubt that took a tole on her. I’d imagine being a young, single mother is not the path she wanted for herself. I tend to think of it as a cycle- Liane doesn’t want to deal with her child due to his behavior so she checks out of the situation, actually making Cartman’s behavior worse and so on and so on. Another possibly related scene could be in “Cartman’s Mom Is A Dirty Slut”, when she still outwardly seeks an abortion for her 8 year old son.

On a slightly unrelated note, this may also be one of the reasons for Cartman’s infatuation with Kyle. He seems to mistake the traits of abuse/neglect (anger, fighting, etc) as love due to how his mother treats him. This is why he thinks Kyle enjoys his company/likes him as a friend despite how much Kyle pushes back.

Other likely ACES: Witnessing intimate partner violence (his mother is a sex worker and he’s claimed to have been in the room during these acts), mother treated violently (FBW’s little Liane arc gives me bad vibes), substance abuse within household (I forget which episodes specifically but Liane’s done drugs), parent separation or divorce (absent father figure).

Cartman’s Conclusion:

Cartman has a grand total of SEVEN potential ACEs. The reason why I started those two additional facts at the start of this is because they are culminating (several often pop up and are related to each other) and affect behavior and relationships. Cartman’s behavior, while obnoxious and impulsive at best and downright despicable at worst, can be somewhat explained by the experiences he’s faced. Abuse, neglect and sexual assault have led him to search for forms of power and control in his life, whether that be over himself, his mother or his friends. His views of the world are shaped by what he’s seen and felt. Unlike Tweek, however, he doesn’t have much of a support system, and with the “sugarcoating” under the guise of love and care, he’s less likely to get the help he needs. His risks for childhood and subsequently adulthood are very high.

Butters’ Case

Butter’s is your stereotypical abused child in terms of his behavior and coping mechanisms. I believe that even casual show-watchers would agree that he’s in some deep shit. Unlike Cartman who is a lot more nuanced about displaying what he’s experienced, Butters is naive and innocent and resilient. He easily follows what others (CARTMAN) ask of him. He assumes a more submissive role in his life, working hard to make others happy and put them first to avoid trouble. He’s an easy target for bullying and being humiliated or used. He says things out loud without noticing their implications to what has happened to him.

Unlike Liane who covers her (probably unintentional) neglect with the guise of love, he has no such outward statements from either parent. The closest we get is “this is for your own good”, but there is no loving undertone, it’s purely corporeal.  Their abuse is right in his face; it’s physical, it’s mental, it’s terrible. Steven Stotch is the primary abuser, and while Linda has done her fair share of harm, she’s generally more passive. She even states in Grounded Vindaloop that she “lets [Steven] handle the grounding”. Steven Stotch, as of FBW, is also a victim of abuse, showing that he’s perpetrating it in a cycle (you’ll notice this theme a few times in this little essay).

It’s clear as of season 20 that the effects of constant abuse have finally worn on Butters, due to his angry outbursts and sudden shift in attitude (if you want to look at it from a character standpoint and not as lazy writing cough cough). He’s hit a breaking point in what he can take, and the more he’s been exposed to his ACEs (like Cartman’s case) the more behaviorally challenged he’s become.

Another aspect to consider is his relationship with Cartman. Both share similar ACEs, but cope with them in different ways. Cartman chooses to be a controller to earn back what he’s lost, while Butters is more suited to take a backseat and follow. This is why they, despite having a very dysfunctional friendship, stick together. It may appear that Cartman is the only one benefiting, but I believe it’s more mutualistic based on their respective coping mechanisms.

ACE 1: Physical Abuse. Butters has been shown to be physically abused time and time again by Steven. He’s been hit, talked about being hit, and the biggest piece of evidence that scares the shit out of me personally is that Steven pulled off his belt and prepared to hit Butters in front of his classmates in Grounded Vindaloop. Corporal punishment has been shown time and time again to be detrimental to children’s psyc, which aligns given how Butters acts.

ACE 2: Sexual Abuse. Butters has mentioned in The Return Of Chef that he has been sexually abused by his uncle, which does not surprise me in the slightest. Butters, unlike Cartman, goes the total opposite direction of how to cope with this sort of experience; he’s blissfully unaware of what has happened and rather than let it consume him (ex. cartman) he brushes it off as no big deal. Whether this means he is truly unaware of the connotations of what was done to him or if he’s purposely repressing it is unclear, but the evidence is there that it did happen.

ACE 3 and 4: Emotional Abuse and Neglect. This one is abundant in examples. Steven appears to play a lot of mind games with Butters, whether it’s demanding he stop having nightmares (The Death of Eric Cartman), getting in trouble for looking a certain way (How To Eat With Your Butt and The List), or simply for being bullied. They constantly ground him for things that he has no control over, simple mistakes or things that he was not even involved in. I believe that Steven, similar to Cartman, takes the helplessness from childhood abuse and hurts Butters in order to feel in control of himself.

Other Possible ACEs: Household mental illness could be argued as one of the ACEs Butters experiences, although not officially confirmed in canon. I do believe that Linda has some form of mental illness due to her behavior in Butters Own Episode. Although not listed in the article, Steven’s infidelity and the tension that causes on his and Linda’s marriage is also a potential ACE, especially given that Butters was directly exposed to that whole fiasco.  

Butters’ Conclusion:

Butters’ innocence is likely a form of coping mechanism for what he’s encountered during his life. Constant physical and mental abuse have worn on him over the years, turning him more bitter and forcing him to act out. I believe this also can be accredited to his mental break in season 19’s “Safe Space”, as this is the big start of his downward spiral. Unlike Cartman, there is no cover-up for his abuse being simply that- abuse- so being able to divorce himself and his emotions will be easier for him if he were to receive support or help in some form.

Tweek’s Case

Tweek is an interesting case because while he does have emotional abuse, neglect and and forced substance abuse (coffee and/or meth addiction), he also has canon mental illness that exists outside of how he’s treated. The abuse and neglect of his parents only amplify the effects of said illness. I’ve had a selection of anons over time talk about his potential (though not confirmed) mental state, most agreeing it’s some form of panic disorder (the Tweaks claim it’s ADD, but this is really just a load of bullshit and we all know it). He is often exploited by his parents (ex. “Having a homosexual son is good for the business” in FBW) or outright lied to for the sake of business. They often brush off his worries or ignore him completely.

ACEs 1 and 2: Emotional Abuse and Neglect (EXPLOITATION). The Tweak family are no strangers to emotional abuse and neglect. Right from Tweek’s character introduction, we know something isn’t quite right. His parents feed him excessive coffee, which is later revealed to be laced with meth (did you know that meth increases body temperature, as well as caffeine overdose raising heart rate and induces anxiety? (X) Would you look at that evidence). They also frequently blackmail him into work through the threat of “selling him into slavery”.

His defining traits are usually watered down to “spaz”, and more recently, “homosexual”, hinting that his parents really don’t pay much attention to him to know much more than that. They either ignore or hardly acknowledge his fears and worries, leaving him to cope with anxiety and personal issues completely alone. He’s clearly unhappy and potentially aware of his shitty situation- in Tweek vs Craig, he slams his head against the table repeating that he “want[s] out” and that “you never help me”. In Tweek x Craig, his parents only seem to take interest in his developing relationship due to the rest of the town and their desire to look good. If you use this as anything to go off, most of their “parenting” is feeble attempts to keep up appearances.

In SOT, it’s strongly implied that Tweek is the one to usually pick up meth deliveries from Kenny’s house. This is another form of abuse, though I’m not sure if it’s exactly emotional, that he’s forced to endure. A ten year old child should not be exposed to those sort of environments, let alone be involved in the trade of drugs.

ACE 3: Substance Abuse in the Household. Whether it’s coffee, meth or other form of drugs, there’s something going on in the Tweek home that I am certain counts for this ACE. As stated in the preface, higher numbers of ACEs contribute to higher likelihoods of substance abuse- what if the child is already unintentionally abusing substances? He’s got coffee with METH INSIDE IT. I don’t think I need to go much further. There is also the possibility that with his misdiagnosis of ADD, Tweek may be provided access to other drugs for substance abuse. Meth is actually used as a way of treating ADD (X) and could be in reach for him. There’s also Amphetamine (X) which has noted side effects of "excessive grinding of the teeth,... profuse sweating,... and tics..." which could be related to his behavior. This is all purely speculation, however.

Tweek’s Conclusion:

Tweek’s struggle with mental illness is not helped by his parents frequence abuse and neglect. He’s often blackmailed into situations he doesn’t want to be in. Similar to Cartman, his forms of abuse are often sugarcoated as love, making it a little less obvious for him to pick up on. In contrast to Butters, however, he’s much less of a follower and can throw a punch when he needs to protect himself. He’s incredibly resilient and has managed to, despite early substance addiction and neglect, hold strong and even overcome massive obstacles. Of course, these are partly due to his newfound support from...

The Effect of Solid Support: Craig, Heidi, and Liane

Creek shipper or not, there is no denying that Craig has played a massive role in Tweek’s recovery. While Tweek appears to be very naturally resilient despite the odds stacked against him, the presence of someone who will actually listen to his problems and not brush them off is a huge step in the right direction. With Craig, there is a sense of trust and understanding as well as respect. He’s treated as more than a few buzzwords or free labor or any slew of hurtful remarks. His fears are able to be acknowledged and sorted though, whether it be Craig’s logical talk-throughs or someone to pat his back and say “that sucks and it’s okay” (Put It Down). Ever since the introduction of Craig as his boyfriend, we’ve seen some interesting steps in the right direction.

S21’s main theme of relationships drew a lot of interesting parallels between Creek and Heiman, namely the difference between a healthy relationship and an unhealthy relationship. Similar to Steven Stotch, as mentioned in Butters’ case, Cartman went from abused to abuser in his relationship with Heidi. However, this was not always the case.

In early S20, Heidi was in search of her own form of support after being abused by society, simply put. She was able to find this in Cartman, who was dealing with a similar situation at the time after being “murdered” by his friends. Her presence did arguably turn him around for awhile- he seemed much happier before his self-destructive tendencies and self-doubt came in full swing. The cycle was perpetrated- Heidi wasn’t what he needed, so he went from abused to abuser. Heidi could be argued to have turned into another Cartman because she faced a watered-down version of his interpretation of “love”, aka abuse.

Let’s consider another pivotal moment for Cartman: TSST. This one is such a telling episode. While Liane is the source of most of his issues, when she was able to step into her role as a parent and provide the structure and support Cartman needed, his entire personality turned around. It wasn’t until she began treating him like a friend or companion again that he slipped back into his old ways.

Between these two scenarios, I believe it shows that if the patience and care is taken when dealing with Cartman, there is the possibility of healing. Heidi failed because she too was equally vulnerable and not in the right headspace, ultimately harming both of them (this does not excuse how cartman treated and manipulated her, BTW). Liane failed because she fell back into her cycle instead of sticking with what she had built up.

Conclusion

In conclusion, despite sharing similar ACEs, all three children we’ve discussed have different forms of coping and managing their trauma. The abuse that Butters has faced is easier to “remove” from his life due to no emotional (love) being involved in corporal punishment; however, Tweek and Cartman’s abuse have longer lasting repercussions because they’ve accepted and adapted as “that’s just the way it is”. That’s not to say they’re beyond help; all three, if done soon like in Tweek’s case, can be used to heal.

I leave this post with a sort of “call to action”. While we are talking about purely fictional characters and situations that “aren’t that deep, fam”, there are actual children suffering from these kinds of experiences. If you are aware of them, or see the red flags, please don’t hesitate to get help or find someone who can. Nobody should be like Eric Cartman and display serious red flags but slip under the radar. Thank you very much for reading my long, LONG analysis.

Special thanks/credit to the south park analysis discord ( and @dumbthotticusplayer2) for helping brainstorm/discuss :)

[itspatsy]

Okay, after much thought, here’s my attempt to explain how I’m generally okay with Trish’s trajectory this season in theory, but why I feel the writers slipped up in execution. 

Addiction is a monster. It takes over your life, every facet of it, mind, body, and soul, and tears it to shreds. It controls you. It consumes you, fully. It leaves you lying to everyone around you, rationalizing, making excuses and justifications. It destroys your relationships. It makes you use, manipulate, and discard people, whether they be total strangers or your closest loved ones, because nothing is more important than getting your fix. It forces you to do things you never thought you would do, awful, immoral, degrading things. It twists you into someone you can’t even recognize. I get that. I get that this is what Trish’s storyline was about. And I get that none of the other characters were really in a position to help her deal with any of it, and how that shows the importance of having a support system to help you through a mental illness like this. 

And it wasn’t a character assassination, because all the pieces were there. The barely contained rage and taste for violence, the self-protectiveness and need to be in control, the fear of vulnerability, the reckless self-destruction and lack of impulse control, the low self-esteem and feelings of worthlessness, the undeveloped sense of self, the egocentrism and self-righteousness, the self-defensiveness and difficulty admitting wrongs, the envy of what others have, the obsessiveness, the apathy and trouble understanding others’ feelings, the overwhelming ambition to contribute something meaningful to the world, the desperate need to be someone that matters, really matters, to people. And there were shades of unhealthiness in her relationship with Jessica: codependency, envy, high expectations, the idealization, trying to live vicariously through her, pushing her into things that weren’t always best for her. 

Those were all aspects of Trish, some more negative or harmful than others, and most of them very much a response to severe trauma and abuse. I’ve talked a lot about those aspects of her character in the past. They were part of her in s1, but tempered to manageable levels, because she was in a reasonably stable place in her life and was making an active effort to improve herself and to get better. But then her best friend and only support system disappeared for 6 months, she was almost murdered multiple times despite all her self-defense training, she broke 10 years of being clean with Simpson’s pill to protect Jessica, and her abusive mom found a way to slither back into her life by hanging information about Jessica over her head. That stability and any sense of safety and control she’d been able to develop was gone, all of her resistance was lowered to critical levels, and it opened her up to this relapse, which then ate away at the most positive parts of her personality and amplified the worst ones x1000. I get that.

One quick look through this blog will show that I was not one of those fans that ever thought Trish was some pure precious cinnamon role and moral paragon. I knew that under her put-together facade, she was a walking disaster that was as traumatized and damaged and desperate and conflicted as Jessica. And I did want the show to explore that damage and how trauma presents itself in many different ways. I wanted it to be clear to viewers Trish is actually not okay and is still struggling with her past. I wanted her issues with addiction to be examined. I wanted then to move towards Hellcat. I even wanted her and Malcolm to interact more and develop their own dynamic. So I should be happy, right? They technically did what I wanted. Shit, like 90% of the songs on my Trish playlist just became significantly more relevant. But no, I’m not really feeling happy about it, because I got the wishing on a monkey’s paw version. 

A quick personal note: Trish means a lot to me, and her relationship with Jessica means a lot to me, and that’s something I can’t really put into words. My initial reaction to the season was just… an overwhelming sadness. And I don’t feel as bad now, but I keep bouncing between “sure, it does make sense” to “this is so awful, oh god, why would they do this???” Sometimes I feel this inspiration to write thousands of words of meta, but then it just as easily turns and suddenly I can’t stand thinking about it because it makes me nauseous. For the last year, I’ve thought about Trish every day in at least some capacity. I thought about her as I went to bed, when I drove, when I went for walks, when I had any short moment of time to myself. I’m not here to talk about whether using fictional characters like that is a particularly healthy coping mechanism, because that’s not the point right now. The point is, it was a pleasant distraction for me that helped me cope with other life things, but now it’s something that causes me pain and anxiety, and I’m stuck feeling like I have to detach from the thing that was helping me detach if I ever want to feel better. 

I’ve been trying to pinpoint what it is about all of this that’s making me feel that way. Why do I feel like someone literally died? I don’t think my problem is with the characterization in and of itself because I knew those things were sitting under the surface, and it’s not with telling this story of trauma and addiction and putting the full ugly reality of it on display. It definitely isn’t a problem with the acting: Rachael Taylor was amazing and knocked it out of the park. So what’s the problem? Why isn’t this sitting okay with me? I’m generally pretty rational, but I think most of my issues here are very perception and emotion based rather than anything obviously intellectual, and it’s hard to verbalize. I’ll try my best. And I don’t know, maybe my feelings will change if I watch again, but right now, the idea of that still hurts too much. 

So. The writers deconstructed Trish, which is fascinating in theory, but I just feel like they did it without… kindness? It felt like pure merciless brutality. Even mean-spirited sometimes. They debased every part of her life and her accomplishments, cheapened them, and put her in publicly humiliating situations at every opportunity. They left her without a shred of dignity, without her heart, without one positive relationship. And, no, addiction isn’t at all kind, it is cruel and demeaning and heartless, but I didn’t feel a sense of compassion from the writers themselves in how they handled her and her trauma and mental illness. That so many viewers are reacting so negatively to Trish doesn’t strike me as purely a failure to understand the impact of addiction, but that there was a failure on the writers’ part to show it in an empathetic, understanding way. Even I, someone that loves Trish so much and spends a lot of time in her head, feel like I have to do extra legwork. 

It felt as though they were prioritizing and emphasizing her motivations in a way that was intended to put her in the absolute worst light possible. Her most selfish motivations (”unholy” ambition, jealousy, wanting to be the special one) were on full display and consistently pointed out by other characters, but they often underplayed her more sympathetic, obviously trauma based motivations or the motivations that were sincerely about helping other people. She talked the talked about doing good, but there was no point where it was shown in action. It was almost always a manipulative ploy to help herself or get her fix. I know Trish does sincerely care about people, wants to make sure they never have to feel as small and helpless and voiceless as she’s been made to feel, and I think probably the writers do think of that as one of her many conflicting motivations, but they didn’t show it, they only told it and then contradicted it. It also definitely didn’t help that it felt like they were villainizing ambition, and as a result, villainizing her for daring to have it. I don’t think I need to explain why the implication that women having ambition will lead them down a road of power-hungry obsession and selfish callousness is… not great. 

And I feel like they just didn’t carry over what should have been obvious threads that would’ve helped make more sense of this downward spiral. What I said above about how her behavior here connects to the events of s1? That’s all headcanoning from me. The show didn’t actually draw those lines. It wasn’t clear that she was still reacting to having her vulnerability shoved so brutality back in her face by Simpson and Kilgrave. That she’d opened herself up to relapse after taking Simpson’s pill. That Kilgrave fractured her relationship with Jessica and the cracks still hadn’t been patched up. Or even that letting her mom near her again was reviving old traumas and pressures and expectations and unhealthy coping mechanisms. I think the whole thing moved too quickly, and they decided to give us the Darkest Timeline Trish without fully adding up the elements and explaining when and how we crossed the veil and dipped into that timeline. When I was plotting out an AU where she never met Jessica, s2 Trish is actually what I pictured. But that’s kind of the key point: it was a Trish that never had anyone’s love and support. That wasn’t true here. And I think at least pulling threads from s1 would’ve added more depth to it, instead of making it seem like she was only being driven by some desperation for MORE MORE MORE. 

And I don’t know, maybe it’s all just in my head, but I perceived a kind of near softening of Dorothy (not completely, obviously) that almost felt designed to pull even more sympathy away from Trish. It just felt like they were pulling back on her. There were a few points where it seemed they were trying to veer her closer to lovable asshole territory and trying to gloss over things we know she did from s1. I think viewers do need reminders sometimes, especially if you’ve been off the air for over two years, and it doesn’t help to have things completely vital to a character’s identity and formation mentioned offhandedly in a quick conversation. That Dorothy literally pimped her daughter out was sort of brushed over and the repercussions of her role in it weren’t examined. Even their body language shifted compared to the defensiveness of s1. Trish just let Dorothy into her personal space, let her casually touch her, like it didn’t mean anything, like there wasn’t years of physical abuse. And then to put Dorothy in a position to be the voice of reason was just… wow. To leave viewers with the ability to say, “damn, Trish is a selfish prick, and Dorothy is just telling it like it is,” it felt gross. 

By the end, the execution of all this felt more like a grueling punishment of the character than a complex, human story told with careful thoughtfulness and compassion. It felt villainizing. It felt like darkness for the sake of darkness. And listen, I love angst. I love complicated, difficult characters sometimes doing the wrong things. I love characters failing and falling and learning and building themselves back up. But I’m just so tired of hopelessly grimdark stories. I’m tired of shows destroying their light in a quest to compete for the title of sickest, saddest world. 

And yes, this show was already harsh in its first season, and it didn’t back away from cruel reality, but it wasn’t hopeless. It had its heart. And that beating, bleeding heart was the relationship between Jessica and Trish. But they chose to rip that heart out. And that’s the thing that bothers me the most. They took away the most positive thing in these women’s lives, and the most positive thing in the show and something the fandom loved, and for what purpose exactly? In s1, they gave us these broken, codependent women that could be messy and wrong, that could cause each other pain, but still shared a love that was powerful and supportive and uplifting. That’s an infinitely more valuable and meaningful thing to put on the screen than another common, cliched story about petty jealousy tearing women apart. 

And I’m aware it wasn’t as simple as a petty need to be the special-est person in the room driving Trish, that this envy stems from her knowing if she’d had Jessica’s power she’d have been able to protect herself from the things that still leave her feeling empty and small, how it continues to feed into her feelings of worthlessness and lack of control, that she’s been conditioned to believe nothing is good enough and she needs to be better and more than herself and have more than what she has if anyone is ever going to love her, but I also spend a lot of time in Trish’s head, thinking about her motivations and traumas. I doubt most viewers are going to take the time to dig deeper. And I don’t know, I can’t entirely blame the fandom for failing to afford Trish the same sympathy and understanding they’re willing to offer Jessica and her fuck ups when it feels like the show itself didn’t seem to want to give it to Trish or didn’t try to paint the fullest picture of where she was coming from. So the takeaway for a lot of people is going to be that the writers took this special, well-loved relationship and ripped it apart by making one of them a jealous, resentful, toxic creep. I can’t blame anyone for feeling upset or betrayed.

I can tell myself there was a point to all of this. I can tell myself they’ll pull Trish back from the edge, that she slipped, lost the plot, but that recovery is on the way, and she will make an honest effort to get better and be better and work to become her best self, which is the thing that makes a true hero. I can tell myself they’ll repair her relationship with Jessica, and the two of them will come out of this with a stronger, more healthy dynamic because they’ll finally openly address the ugly things that were festering. I can tell myself that, but I can’t trust it. 

I trusted the writers once already. I trusted them to treat Trish with compassion and kindness, even as they broke her down and took her to dark places. I trusted them to show a difficult, complicated but still ultimately affirming and unconditional love between her and Jessica. But they broke my trust. How can I have faith about what they’ll do next season? How can I believe they’ll lift Trish back up and mend things with Jessica instead of taking her down a path of outright villainy? Honestly, making her a villain seems about as likely as anything else at this point. So I can’t trust them, and because this show doesn’t follow a typical schedule, I also won’t even get to know what direction they’ll take for at least another two years. And it’s just not a good feeling to have to sit with. It sucks when you invest so much of yourself into something, and then the things that meant the most to you about it get pulled out from under you, and you can’t even trust that it’ll actually get better.

[hadarlaskey]

My Comfort Blanket Movie: Jackass 3D

When I was a child, certain television programmes were off-limits within our house: Family Guy, South Park, Beavis and Butt-Head; and crucially, the jewel in MTV’s crown, Jackass. In part these shows were shunned because I had a fairly religious father, but I think mainly my mother just thought they were crass, and thus chose to change the channel whenever they came within spitting distance of our young eyes and ears in the living room where we watched television.

It’s not as though I grew up in a cultural black hole – I still had The Simpsons, The Fresh of Bel Air and Buffy the Vampire Slayer for my quick fix of ’90s Americana. But it did mean I missed out on a certain cultural cache with some of my peers.

I was in my lonely first year of university and a voracious consumer of pop culture when I finally discovered Johnny Knoxville and company, in part due to my extensive blogging on Tumblr, where films and television shows were condensed to memes and subtitled screencaps with a finesse no other social media network has been able to replicate since.

My reason for finally watching Jackass was simple; I recognised the cute guy from Men in Black II, and then realised this was one of the things I’d never been allowed to watch when I was younger. A fit of 18-year-old independence and obsession with social media brought that plastic LoveFilm rental wallet to my door, and a love affair began that’s still going strong almost a decade later.

Perhaps being raised on the slapstick stylings of Monty Python and The Young Ones paved the way for my fascination with Jackass – even barred from watching the show, my siblings and I enacted our own stunts from an early age, hurling Barbies and Action Men out of our windows on lengths of elastic and riding down our house’s rather steep drive on an office chair. In my preteen days, pranks and pratfalls with my friends were all the rage, before I became a self-conscious teenager who would sooner die than make a fool out of herself in public.

But my own experience with self-mutilation and pain did not come from a desire to impress or to amuse other people. I began to self-harm when I was 13 (long after the Barbies, long before Jackass) as a form of control during the early days of my struggle with mental illness. It was some time before I was diagnosed, and it’s difficult to say how this unhealthy coping mechanism impacted my reaction to withstanding pain, but when I became acquainted with Jackass, I was incredibly unhappy, and still self-harming, some five years after it began.

My self-destructive tendencies were so distinct from the ones I watched on screen, which seemed fuelled by an adolescent fascination with the limits of human endurance, rather than a desire to control one’s body in the face of mental instability. But there was a kinship between performer and viewer established, as I watched men willing to taser themselves or drink each others’ sweat in the name of entertainment, pushing the limits of human endurance and the patience of the BBFC.

This cheerful reckoning with the fragility of the human body and the fleeting, possibly inconsequential nature of our very existence relative to the wider universe is a balm for the soul for someone as chronically unwell as I am, but another element of Jackass has always spoken to me too. There’s a deep sense throughout the trilogy (and the original television show) of how deeply each of these men cares for each other. Jokes, stunts and pranks aside, they’re quick to pick each other up and dust each other off.

Jackass 3D tips its hat to this with its delightful end credits sequence, which shows baby photos of all the stars and footage from their early days as the enfant terribles of cable television, as well as a clip of Knoxville’s teenage daughter Madison punching director Jeff Tremaine with a boxing glove, to which Knoxville replies “That’s my girl!”

It’s entirely possible that my love of the Jackass crew also stems from my own difficult relationship with men, primarily my absentee father and the ones I have encountered over the years who have shaped my attitudes towards intimacy and relationships. I don’t like to talk about the negative life experiences that have shaped who I am as a person, but now I’m much older (and a modicum wiser) now than I was when I became acquainted with Knoxville, Margera and Steve-O. I can understand why a group of chronically immature but ultimately sweet men who have genuine affection for each other and no interest in doing harm to anyone but themselves might appeal to me.

It’s a fantasy, but it’s a nice one, even with all the urine, faeces and vomit, and hearing the gang speak candidly about their own struggles with addiction, particularly following the death of Jackass mainstay Ryan Dunn in 2011, has encouraged me to consider my own reckless behaviour, particularly during the depths of my depression.

There’s also the intertextuality of Jackass, which appeals to my sensibilities as a meme historian and profound love of movies which acknowledge movies – in Jackass 3D, William Tell, Rocky and Duck Hunt all get a look-in, but it’s the recreation of the Maxell advert using a jet plane engine which always blows my mind. In the aftermath, the gang experiment throwing various objects into its downstream.

When Bam Margera decides to urinate into the current, unsurprisingly, it blows back and covers him before he is literally swept away. Knoxville, observing, gestures to Margera. “That’s the story of Jackass right there,” he says. “Just pissing in the wind.” But as the old adage goes, to play a piano badly, you have to know how to do it well; chaos reigns in the world of Jackass, but it’s always meticulously rendered.

As for Jackass 3D’s crowning glory, I have tried many times to describe the perverse joy I get out of the film’s opening stunt, which sees grown men being body slammed by a giant fibreglass hand on bungees, while their comrades proceed to collapse into giddy hysterics at the carnage. But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to do it justice since the greatest summation of the scene comes from Knoxville himself, who squeals, incredulous – while Ehren McGhehey lies dazed on the ground covered in the debris of a trayful of food – “He fell for the soup!” I think of this line more often than I think of perhaps any other quote from film or literature.

I can understand the reticence of some to attribute value to Jackass 3D, but for me there is nothing more I crave than the familiarity and deceptive simplicity offered by it. Even the songs that play over the end credits, Karen O’s cover of ‘If You’re Gonna Be Dumb, You Gotta Be Tough’ and Weezer’s ‘Memories’, speaks to the show’s heritage, but also encapsulate everything it stands for: nostalgia, camaraderie, tomfoolery and a healthy dose of sheer, dumb luck.

At a basic level, I just find Jackass funny – but I also firmly believe that at some point in our lives, we all fall for the metaphorical soup. It’s the Jackass crew who taught me to be willing to laugh about it.

The post My Comfort Blanket Movie: Jackass 3D appeared first on Little White Lies.

source https://lwlies.com/articles/jackass-3d-comfort-blanket-movie/

[defectivegembrain]

Special interests and depression

@walkinredinstead April Challenge day 4: special interests

So I was trying to think what to do for this topic, because it’s kind of complicated at the minute due to mental health issues, particularly depression. So I want to talk about how depression interacts with special interests. I think it’s important to consider the different ways depression presents itself in autistic people, especially as we are more likely than the general population to develop these sorts of issues.

First of all, what a special interest means to me in the first place. People often talk about them as coping mechanisms, as things that help us study/get jobs, as just entertainment. They are all those things. But that’s not all they are. My special interests have shaped my personality and life. They are a huge part of my identity. To this day, I am a vegetarian, and this started because I used to have a special interest in The Simpsons, specifically Lisa Simpson. My special interest in gender issues during my teens helped me come to terms with being a lesbian. My long-standing special interest in linguistics helped me understand some aspects of communication that don’t come so naturally to me. Special interests are essential to my personal development, sense of identity, and happiness. Special interests are like oxygen.

I think, to a certain extent, they can protect against problems like depression. They can keep the joy in life, increase energy and motivation. And considering the earlier point about special interests as coping mechanisms, sometimes we may be drawn to certain special interests because of depression. For example, I recently watched the show Crazy Ex-Girlfriend and it became a special interest because it was so relatable. It’s a form of escapism. Fixating on something means I don’t have to focus on my own pain for a while. Even fixating on something that relates to my pain, when it’s fictional and I can use it  to sort of distance myself and deal with it indirectly.

However, sometimes if you’re in an unstable state of mind, you may develop special interests in disturbing and harmful things. For instance, a while ago, it felt like cutting was becoming a special interest for me. Not only was I cutting myself regularly, I starting researching tips, other people’s stories and pictures, how different scars are categorised, etc. Of course allistic people can do things like that, because self-harm is addictive anyway, but I think maybe there’s a risk of increased intensity with autism.

Another problem is when special interests are diminished because of depression. Anhedonia is one of the worst depression symptoms, even for many allistic people, but when your interests are so intense and integral to your identity, it can be especially frustrating. I have heard of some autistic people being unable to have special interests because of depression. I don’t think mine have actually disappeared, but they’ve just become weaker...sort of dormant at times? Depression is a big part of the reason I have had to take time off from university, and one significant factor was that I was losing interest and motivation for linguistics. On the bright side though, yesterday I read a whole linguistics article for the first time in months.

[space--fox]

I recently did the “watch the whole series in a relatively short period of time” thing and I was FLOORED by how obviously the show hates Lisa after a certain point. Like, yes, she has always been the character who deals with being different and suffering because of it, but there ways an absolute shift in the reason why she suffered and the overall result.

In earlier seasons, especially when the flash forward episodes are considered, it seemed that the message with Lisa was “strive to be better than your environment expects/be the best version of yourself and you will achieve greatness, but you will likely have to suffer along the way”. And I have no problem with that, as long as the suffering has a greater payoff.

Suffering for the sake of suffering is not good storytelling.

When the first flash forward episode showing Lisa in a relationship with Milhouse happened, I just thought, “okay, this is the darkest timeline, it’s not the inevitability of Lisa’s life”. And then it kept happening, again and again, like a fucked up, prolonged Groundhog Day, with Lisa reliving Marge’s relationship mistakes (one couch gag shows Lisa pregnant in a wedding dress next to Milhouse), but with added hints at Milhouse having the potential to be abusive (he is likely on steroids in an episode showing him graduating from high school, but has definitely adopted an unhealthy body image coping mechanism of constantly working out that I have often seen as a co-occurrence with partner abuse).

Lisa Simpson, in the earlier episodes of the show, was a fucking role model for me. She was smart and witty and compassionate, and even though she suffered as a child because she was different, she still had friends who accepted her (NO REALLY SHE DID. She often went over to Janie’s house to hang out. Janie was to her as Milhouse was to Bart) and her family, overall, wanted to foster her curiosity and desire to learn, even if they couldn’t understand it, and when we saw what her future was like, it was not punishment for her being different, but reward in showing how Lisa’s hard work led her to greatness.

Lisa, and all of the women on the show after the shift in storytelling, whenever it happened, are just victims now, caught in a never-ending cycle of abuse at the hands of the creators.

this is long but very reasonably brutal

[familyvisionis2020]

Day 5 - Huntsville

Jeremy’s up the earliest and sends a text to us that he’s getting breakfast with Noah at a place called the Grit. Rather than opt to join I just post up on the porch with Trey and indulge in a long long blog post.The weather is cooler and grayer, joggers and dog-walkers and kids on bikes roll down the streets, slow syrupy sunday morning, humidity and gristle, butter pats wouldn’t melt if you left them out on your plate but they wouldn’t be too taut to sink your teeth into. I feel a fundamental sense of repair from typing, reviving a column of spirit I’d quietly suffocated, knock loose a clot of rust in my clockwork and the machinery is humming along again. Now that I have the link to the blog to share to people I feel like I’m gingerly handing the missing puzzle piece to my patrons and well-wishers and companions, indulging a curiosity and rounding something out to myself that might prove the regard and sensitivity my quietness can bely, might be a kindness or a service to people who find me austere or impenetrable or bristly. I was staring at a picture of a cactus and identifying with it the other day, tall, two arms, tiny head, spiky, full of water, not so bad if you’re careful with them, just like me. 

Later tonight I will watch Tired Frontier play the last set of their tiny tour with us and what will end up being our last show of the tour as well. Watching the face of the guys I see things so so different then when I saw them for the first time, when they were complete strangers, tourmates but sight unseen. What I saw in their faces the first time I saw them play: Royal is tall and broad-shouldered and country and active and maybe a little sloppy and expanive and reminds me a ton of my friend Mike, so I have love for him off the bat, also his weird tuning and rococo pedal board setup and heedless mustache and you know, wife, set off little clockworks of insecurity in me and my mind props up baseless criticisms of him sourced solely from my ignorance of him. After three shows we are not friends but I know him much better, have seen him from more angles, have a better sense of him, he loves doing bits and laughs high and loud and chills endlessly, in this way he matches the tone and cadence of Kabir magnificently. Paul is beautiful and has a face like a svelter Jim Carrey and kneads the keyboard effortlessly, digital dough, his fingers are narrow and elegant and move only enough to play the next keys, the same sort of parsimony of motion I used to see from chefs with expert knife skills. I envy his bouny raven thick-sable hair. Trey looks plainly joyful when he plays drums. He extends his crash cymbal hardware to the maximum length so his crash is preposterously high up. I can’t discern a reason other than it’s kind of fun or different. He’s enthusiastic about my writing, I get to share him some other work I’ve done, he says he loves it, I swell with gratitude and we exchange emails.

The morning in Athens goes more or less like the morning before: me and Kabir and John and Paul all go get breakfast at Donderos’ again, drink tea and coffee, pack up our stuff. We take some group photos with both bands outside on the porch with the orbs and they’re cute and silly. Kabir flipped a coin to decide whether me or John drives the next stretch, it’s me, I’m a little apprehensive because I haven’t driven a 15-passenger van in awhile, but once I’m in it’s like riding a bike, I have muscle memory of driving big vehicles from U-Haul trips and, before that, the box truck I drove to transport food donations to the pantry of the Servant Center in Greensboro. I’m a good driver, I check my mirrors, I put on a halloween mix I made in 2015 and I am feeling myself, focused, caffienated, surrounded by friends, there’s some clouds in the sky and drizzles but it’s not bad and we’re making good time. The boys just listen along with me to the DJ mix for awhile then start up a new crossword puzzle and we all 4 do it collaboratively, one person describing the clue, letters, cross-clues, and we brainstorm for answers, between the four of us we’re really good at this, and we’re all laughing and in great spirits as we methodically complete the puzzle. We stop in Marietta Georgia at one point to use the bathroom, we stop at a KFC with a 20-foot mechanized/animatronic chicken head whose eyes roll back in its head and whose giant beak opens and closes in regular time like a campy pendulum. I buy a postcard and a souveneir cup from here because I think my Mom has family from Marietta Georgia but when we’re back in the car I can’t remember if it’s Marietta Georgia or Marietta Ohio, but I figure it will be well-received either way. We get back on the road and now we’re off the highway and onto some more remote state routes and we pass into Alabama and the rain lets up but its still overcast so the light is gentle and diffuse, the hills are rolling, we pass a colony of tiny homes, weird, livestock, bulls with giant horns that when I see them I just say ‘aurochs’ absent mindedly, livestock and cotton fields and when we see police someone will just say ‘ops’ and the whole drive everyone is just in a good mood, making jokes, kind and breezy. I marvel at how these boys do not seem to carry the same sort of darkness I feel I do, or maybe they just don’t wear it on their sleeves, or maybe none of them are neurodivergent or addicted or traumatized, or maybe they are but hide it well, or have coped and healed…something I’m used to is being around people who require a space to talk about extremely serious and heavy and heartbraking things. Maybe it’s a vestige of a lifestyle I’ve left behind. In all the time I’ve spent with Kabir and Jeremy and John and David (our NC bassist who plays home shows when Jeremy is in NY), I’ve never seen anyone come close to losing their temper, yelling, crying, crumbling, whatever. I marvel at the putative stability of my friends. I like having stable friends, I like having a stable life, it’s not how my life has always been. There is a level of tranquility and calm that washes over me while I’m driving through rural Alabama with my stable friends in a well-maintained van in my healthy body wrapped around a heart that is not broken and a mind that feels as clear and capable as it has ever been. Grace is unearned, I’m told.

We make it to Huntsville on time, the venue is called the Salty Nut, kind of a spacious and tidy bar with a kind bartender my height but with a double thick country accent and the show booker is slight and soft spoken and exceedingly kind, he receives us and then points us in the direction of a nearby restaurant called Banditos Burritos. The restaurant is festooned with vaguely southwestern or hispanic decorations and also random camp like a dirty 1990s Bart Simpson doll, a ruined acoustic guitar, a King Khan poster, a garden gnome on an old-fashioned scale with the sliding thing, a skateboard without trucks painted with a sleeping cactus person wearing a sombrero, etc. The people there are so so nice and when we say we are playing the Salty Nut tonight the guy behind the counter explains that menu items with steak and all beers will cost, but otherwise we can order whatever we want for free. We get burritos, nachos, beans, rice, salsa, hot sauce, ice water in a paper cup. We feast, scarf down, all hungrier than we realized, it’s essentially a non-franchise Taco Bell by my appraisal, which is absolutely perfect as far as I’m concerned, the beans and rice feel good and substantial. Tired Frontier shows up a little after us, gets the same stuff basically, we eat and laugh and finish and go back to the venue and wait around for awhile, I join Jeremy and Royal outside skateboarding and act crazy and try to film them doing tricks but my phone dies and and eventually they stop and we go inside and set up and play. The show goes fine, TF sounds as good as they have so far. They’re playing to a crowd of the other two bands and maybe 8 people in the bar sitting at a table eating food they brought over for Banditos Burritos. The show is fine, unremarkable. When we play, I do the usual routine of trying to play my hardest and with my whole body, and end up dropping sticks more than once and missing some snare hits and not being able to keep up on the driving floor tom parts, mostly because I’m not warmed up and maybe not focusing enough, I’m letting myself get a little carried away trying to play hard and fast rather than keep things tight, I worry this may miff the other guys but after the show there is no indication that anyone even noticed it or cared. There was a cool part where I dropped a stick but instead of it falling to the floor it bounced around on top of the snare and tom and I managed to snatch it out of mid air and keep playing and Jeremy noticed that and that made me feel cool. We played hard and to my ear we got good claps between songs, we are pretty live and high energy and I think even if people don’t like our sound they appreciate the energy, but also some of the songs are earworms and catchy and people like that too, I’ve heard. We finish, the other drummer from the other band, Golden Flakes, says great set man, we perch at the merch table but sell nothng. We listen to Golden Flakes play for close to an hour, very jam band vibe, many many guitar solos, kind of sloppy, sort of high energy rock and roll I guess, I by this time am tired and pretty disinterested, get on my phone for most of it. Toward the end of their sets someone who I assume is a townie is drunk and heckling them between songs in a way that they are clearly fine with and they know the guy and to me for some reason he looks the way I imagine the way the protagonist John from Shit Town the podcast would look. We are in Alabama after all. He sounds like John (not from our band, from the podcast). He’s annoying and I’m being judgy in my head about him when I should maybe feel sorry or indifferent, idk. It feels sad to me, I don’t feel like writing more about it. It’s awkward enough, the heckling and banter from Golden Flakes, that by the end of the set we all kind of joke-rush out of there, quietly agreeing that what’s happening is awkward and unpleasant and we should go. We get put up in Thomas’s apartment, and on on the ride home the guys talk about how Huntsville’s claim to fame is being the place where the Nazi engineers taken during Operation Paperclip were taken after WW2, whose skills were put to use developing rockets, and that all manner of testing has taken place in and around the nearby military base, the Redstone Arsenal. Kabir tells a story about how a nuclear warhead was dropped on NC and by freak chance did not detonate. It would have wiped out the population of the entire Southeast. I didn’t believe it but you can read about it here:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1961_Goldsboro_B-52_crash?wprov=sfti1

At the apartment I make a b-line for the couch, get my sleeping stuff out, eat an apple and a banana and a bunch of peanut butter out the jar and go to sleep. At the end of every day I feel so much more irritable and grumpy than I do at other times. I still really treasure a quiet space all to myself to sleep in and so this troubles that. But I just listen to a youtube video on European history, learn nothing, and have no dreams I remember.

[flauntpage]

The Bills Keep Finding New Ways to Rip Your Heart Out

It’s impossible to ever fully understand the unique suffering that is the existence of a Buffalo Bills fan. The special torture that is cheering for a team that hasn’t been to the postseason in 17 years and is best known for losing four straight Super Bowls. It's Lucy pulling away the football from Charlie Brown, only instead of crashing on his back he lands on a couch that’s facing a TV set showing a Bills game.

Bills fans are trapped in a hell of their own choosing and can’t bring themselves to leave the cult of sadness, so it’s easy to understand why their coping mechanism is drunkenly doing backflips off car roofs and onto folding tables in parking lots in freezing temperatures.

Then the 2017 season got under way. There was a new coach, Sean McDermott, instilling hope into the shell-shocked fan base after a 7-9 season that saw Rex Ryan get fired. Through seven games, the Bills were 5-2 and looking like a playoff team. Sure, the Bills have done this before, but this time it would be different.

Then they got drubbed by the Jets. Then they allowed six rushing touchdowns to the Saints.

Suddenly, the rising Bills were 5-4. This was trampled territory for those who cheer on the Bills, with a brutal schedule on the horizon but hey, there’s a winnable game this week, and if Buffalo can beat the Chargers, they’re 6-4 and in a playoff spot with six weeks remaining.

And so, as if he were desperate to prove he could fit in with the organization’s motto of Ripping Your Heart Out Since 2000, McDermott benched his starting quarterback, Tyrod Taylor, for rookie Nathan Peterman, a 2017 fifth-round pick from Pittsburgh, a school best known for not being Penn State. One week after allowing 11 billion rushing yards to the Saints, McDermott decided Taylor’s 93.5 passer rating and 47-to-15 touchdown-to-interception ratio during his Bills career was the problem.

After a 30-point loss at the hands of the Chargers on Sunday, which included Peterman throwing five interceptions in the first half and completing six passes, what will McDermott determine is the problem after watching the film this week? Will he fire an equipment manager because the game balls were too shiny? Will he demand the traveling secretary be replaced by a hot-dog vendor? Will he remove all toilet paper from the practice facility because he wants his players to think their shit doesn’t stink?

None of those things would be as stupid and destructive as what McDermott did with his quarterbacks this week for seemingly no other reason than he is an instrument of anguish for Bills fans, sent from a circle of hell inhabited by the devil himself and eventually O.J. Simpson.

McDermott didn’t just derail this season; he likely did irreversible damage that will haunt Buffalo for years to come.

Peterman was set up to fail in his first start. The Chargers entered the day with a top-ten pass defense, so expecting anything other than a resounding loss would have been delusional. A deflection, two collapsing pockets, and one miscommunication led to Peterman’s first four interceptions. Only an oversized ego on a man desperate to show he’s the smartest person in the room could force Peterman back on the field to throw a fifth interception in the first half, and that’s exactly what McDermott did.

If McDermott’s coaching style were a meme, it would be the dog in the restaurant surrounded by flames saying, “This is fine.”

This usually would be par for the course for Bills fans—seriously, if you see one on the street today, ask if they’d like a hug—but McDermott scorched the earth.

At 5-5, the Bills aren’t exactly done, but they’ve found a way to make 5-5 seem hopeless. They’ve got two losses on the schedule coming at the hands of the Patriots, and you can be sure the Bills will lose one of their other four remaining games, probably as soon as this week when they visit Kansas City. Maybe the outcome Sunday would have been the same with Taylor under center for four quarters, but there was no other way it could have gone with Peterman starting.

The Bills tricking everyone into thinking they are for real in September and October only to pull out the rug in November and December isn’t new, but McDermott proved he is an innovator.

While scorching the earth, McDermott burnt any meaningful bridge to Taylor. Even if he returns the reins to the quarterback this week in a desperate attempt to save the season—although what would be the point now?—it has to be inevitable that the team and Taylor part ways in the off-season. The stubbornness of benching Taylor—only the third Bills quarterback with a winning record since Jack Kemp retired in 1969—will go down as the second most stubborn act in the city of Buffalo’s history behind refusing to admit that buffalo wings are overrated and the worst possible way to ingest chicken.

On top of that, what does a five-interception debut do to Peterman? The only other rookie to throw five picks in his debut was Keith Null, who either accomplished the feat in 2009 as a Ram or is a name I completely made up because you certainly don’t know the difference. Do you think it’s a good sign for Peterman that you have no recollection of Null (a real person) because his career was over three games after his five-pick initiation?

If McDermott reverses course and starts Taylor again, how do you start Peterman after that? If you go back to Peterman right away, how does he take the field next week in one of the toughest stadiums in the NFL with any confidence in either himself or the coaching staff to stick with him if he falters? What is the opposite of setting someone up for success?

In a way, McDermott has proved himself to be the ultimate Bills coach, as he has taken a page out of the Bills fan playbook by trapping himself in a hell of his own unnecessary creation.

Bills fans always had one thing that seemed untouchable—the idea that things could be better next year—but McDermott invented a way to take that away from them, too.

The Bills Keep Finding New Ways to Rip Your Heart Out published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[amtushinfosolutionspage]

The Bills Keep Finding New Ways to Rip Your Heart Out

It’s impossible to ever fully understand the unique suffering that is the existence of a Buffalo Bills fan. The special torture that is cheering for a team that hasn’t been to the postseason in 17 years and is best known for losing four straight Super Bowls. It’s Lucy pulling away the football from Charlie Brown, only instead of crashing on his back he lands on a couch that’s facing a TV set showing a Bills game.

Bills fans are trapped in a hell of their own choosing and can’t bring themselves to leave the cult of sadness, so it’s easy to understand why their coping mechanism is drunkenly doing backflips off car roofs and onto folding tables in parking lots in freezing temperatures.

Then the 2017 season got under way. There was a new coach, Sean McDermott, instilling hope into the shell-shocked fan base after a 7-9 season that saw Rex Ryan get fired. Through seven games, the Bills were 5-2 and looking like a playoff team. Sure, the Bills have done this before, but this time it would be different.

Then they got drubbed by the Jets. Then they allowed six rushing touchdowns to the Saints.

Suddenly, the rising Bills were 5-4. This was trampled territory for those who cheer on the Bills, with a brutal schedule on the horizon but hey, there’s a winnable game this week, and if Buffalo can beat the Chargers, they’re 6-4 and in a playoff spot with six weeks remaining.

And so, as if he were desperate to prove he could fit in with the organization’s motto of Ripping Your Heart Out Since 2000, McDermott benched his starting quarterback, Tyrod Taylor, for rookie Nathan Peterman, a 2017 fifth-round pick from Pittsburgh, a school best known for not being Penn State. One week after allowing 11 billion rushing yards to the Saints, McDermott decided Taylor’s 93.5 passer rating and 47-to-15 touchdown-to-interception ratio during his Bills career was the problem.

After a 30-point loss at the hands of the Chargers on Sunday, which included Peterman throwing five interceptions in the first half and completing six passes, what will McDermott determine is the problem after watching the film this week? Will he fire an equipment manager because the game balls were too shiny? Will he demand the traveling secretary be replaced by a hot-dog vendor? Will he remove all toilet paper from the practice facility because he wants his players to think their shit doesn’t stink?

None of those things would be as stupid and destructive as what McDermott did with his quarterbacks this week for seemingly no other reason than he is an instrument of anguish for Bills fans, sent from a circle of hell inhabited by the devil himself and eventually O.J. Simpson.

McDermott didn’t just derail this season; he likely did irreversible damage that will haunt Buffalo for years to come.

Peterman was set up to fail in his first start. The Chargers entered the day with a top-ten pass defense, so expecting anything other than a resounding loss would have been delusional. A deflection, two collapsing pockets, and one miscommunication led to Peterman’s first four interceptions. Only an oversized ego on a man desperate to show he’s the smartest person in the room could force Peterman back on the field to throw a fifth interception in the first half, and that’s exactly what McDermott did.

If McDermott’s coaching style were a meme, it would be the dog in the restaurant surrounded by flames saying, “This is fine.”

This usually would be par for the course for Bills fans—seriously, if you see one on the street today, ask if they’d like a hug—but McDermott scorched the earth.

At 5-5, the Bills aren’t exactly done, but they’ve found a way to make 5-5 seem hopeless. They’ve got two losses on the schedule coming at the hands of the Patriots, and you can be sure the Bills will lose one of their other four remaining games, probably as soon as this week when they visit Kansas City. Maybe the outcome Sunday would have been the same with Taylor under center for four quarters, but there was no other way it could have gone with Peterman starting.

The Bills tricking everyone into thinking they are for real in September and October only to pull out the rug in November and December isn’t new, but McDermott proved he is an innovator.

While scorching the earth, McDermott burnt any meaningful bridge to Taylor. Even if he returns the reins to the quarterback this week in a desperate attempt to save the season—although what would be the point now?—it has to be inevitable that the team and Taylor part ways in the off-season. The stubbornness of benching Taylor—only the third Bills quarterback with a winning record since Jack Kemp retired in 1969—will go down as the second most stubborn act in the city of Buffalo’s history behind refusing to admit that buffalo wings are overrated and the worst possible way to ingest chicken.

On top of that, what does a five-interception debut do to Peterman? The only other rookie to throw five picks in his debut was Keith Null, who either accomplished the feat in 2009 as a Ram or is a name I completely made up because you certainly don’t know the difference. Do you think it’s a good sign for Peterman that you have no recollection of Null (a real person) because his career was over three games after his five-pick initiation?

If McDermott reverses course and starts Taylor again, how do you start Peterman after that? If you go back to Peterman right away, how does he take the field next week in one of the toughest stadiums in the NFL with any confidence in either himself or the coaching staff to stick with him if he falters? What is the opposite of setting someone up for success?

In a way, McDermott has proved himself to be the ultimate Bills coach, as he has taken a page out of the Bills fan playbook by trapping himself in a hell of his own unnecessary creation.

Bills fans always had one thing that seemed untouchable—the idea that things could be better next year—but McDermott invented a way to take that away from them, too.

The Bills Keep Finding New Ways to Rip Your Heart Out syndicated from http://ift.tt/2ug2Ns6

[circlesandsoundwaves]

"Humor... puts things in to perspective.”: Interview with Rozwell Kid

Photo and interview by Molly Louise Hudelson.

Earlier this summer, Rozwell Kid released their latest album, Precious Art, on SideOneDummy Records. Don’t let the name fool you, though; rather than a high-brow piece of art that few are meant to understand, it’s down-to-earth and an incredibly fun record full of pop-culture references and plenty of self-aware humor.  That’s Rozwell Kid for you though; and in a way, the sheer absurdity of calling their album Precious Art- or making a music video that’s ten hours long- is exactly the point of doing so. Regarding the title, lead singer and guitarist Jordan Hudkins said, “You either get the joke or you think we are so full of ourselves. And that’s funny to me.”

While Precious Art, as well as antics like playing “Wish Man” three or more times in a row on stage, might make you laugh, it also might strike a chord deep inside. I met up with Hudkins for an interview before their recent Long Branch, New Jersey show, where we talked about using humor to cope, his love of The Simpsons, getting better at touring, and more. Read on for the interview!

CIRCLES & SOUNDWAVES: For the record, could you state your name, what you play in Rozwell Kid, and a fun fact about yourself?

Jordan Hudkins: Yes. I am Jordan Hudkins from Rozwell Kid and I play guitar and sing the vocals and write the songs, and a fun fact about me is I was valedictorian in my high school.

C&S: Really?

JH: Yeah. One of five, I think. We didn't have weighted grades so there were five people with a 4.0.

C&S: My high school did not do valedictorians at all. I hear stories about people competing over the valedictorian title; was it really competitive for you?

JH: I wasn't very competitive about it- I guess maybe a couple of people were. It was cool at the time, I felt proud, I guess- but it really isn't a big deal.

C&S: Did you give a speech at graduation?

JH: That was the only reason I wanted to be a valedictorian was to give a speech at graduation, and I did give a speech at graduation.

C&S: What'd you talk about in your speech? I always wished I could've been a valedictorian so I could've given some grandiose speech.

JH: I based my whole speech around some Clint Eastwood quote about buying a toaster.

C&S: Okay.

JH: Yeah, I don't really remember. [Laughs.] But I talked about toasters a lot. It was fun.

C&S: So you're currently out on your first proper full-US headlining tour- you've been touring pretty consistently for a couple years now, but how has it been being out on a headliner specifically?

JH: It's been really fun- it was nerve-wracking at first because I didn't know what to expect but all the shows have been great. We've been pleasantly surprised and it has exceeded our expectations.

C&S: Being in a band on the road, obviously shit happens and no band is immune to that. Having been touring for a few years now, do you feel like you can handle stuff better or when hiccups happen, like any kind of van issues or whatever, is it still a total freak-out?

JH: You know we've had our share of freak-outs in the past but I think we've gotten to a point now where we're pretty streamlined when it comes to dealing with the crisis. I guess we've done it enough to know what needs to get done and when it needs to get done and to quickly prioritize things and solve the problem as quick as possible.

C&S: Have there been any particular standout shows on this tour?

JH: Boston the other night was wild. Orlando was crazy. The whole East Coast has been great. The West Coast was amazing, Phoenix was really good… everywhere we went!

C&S: You just put out a record called Precious Art and I was reading other interviews where you said essentially, "Well, we're a rock band- if no one is gonna call what we make 'precious art', we might as well call it that." So it's that ironic, very self-aware humor I guess. Have people gotten that or do people ever actually think, "Wow, they really think this is the most pretentious piece of precious art?"

JH: I think for the most part, anybody who listens to our music and likes what we do seems to have the same sensibility that we do. So I think everybody gets it for the most part. I'm sure there's someone out there who doesn't know the band at all, saw the record title, and was like, "Who the hell do those guys think they are?" [Laughs.] Which, also, in a way, is pretty rock and roll and badass too, so I feel like it's a win-win title for us. You either get the joke or you think we are so full of ourselves. And that's funny to me.

C&S: There's a lot of humor on the record and in your music in general you tend to use humor to cope with and explain situations that are going on. Is that how you typically deal with things in life?

JH: Yeah. For sure. I mean- I don't make a joke out of everything and I know when to be sincere and treat things with the gravity they deserve, and maybe it's a defense mechanism or whatever- but I feel like humor is always my go-to just to diffuse a situation or to make me feel better about something that I'm bummed about, because it puts things in to perspective.

C&S: From my own experience, as I've been recovering from knee surgery the past several months- it sucks, but I'm making all these jokes about how like, "Oh, I get a frequent buyer card at my surgeon now" because I've had multiple surgeries.

JH: Right- there's nothing you can do to change your situation- you might as well…

C&S: Change how you look at it.

JH: Yeah, exactly! It can brighten your perspective a little bit and just make it not such a hellacious thing to deal with. It eases the pain.

C&S: Right- if you can't change your surroundings, ease the pain through humor.

You're a big Simpsons fan. What about The Simpsons is it that you enjoy?

JH: It's just some of the most unbelievably clever and hysterical writing that I've ever seen or heard. I feel like I've seen a lot of comedy, I've watched a lot of TV, but the writing on it- they had such an amazing team of writers in the first few seasons of that show, just these geniuses all working together in one room creating this phenomenal sitcom. And I know what people think about it now- whether or not the quality has dropped off- I don't really watch it anymore, I haven't watched it for years.

C&S: Will you still go back and watch reruns?

JH: Oh yeah, yeah- all the time. I have the DVDs up through Season 14. I've watched them so much that I go back and watch them with the commentary now. That's like, my new jam to chill out.

C&S: Well then you get to the level where- okay, so my favorite TV show of all time is Degrassi. I've gotten to a point with that show where I've watched every episode so many times that I'm starting to know the commentary. Have you gotten to that point with The Simpsons yet?

JH: No, I don't have the commentary memorized- not yet.

C&S: You'll get there!

JH: I will, I can't wait! [Laughs.]

C&S: It's a weird place, I will tell you.

JH: That's commitment. That's cool.

C&S: You put out a music video for "Wendy's Trash Can" that is ten hours long. Have you watched the whole thing through?

JH: No, I have not watched all ten hours. Someone live-tweeted themselves doing it over the last couple of days so I think there's a couple of people that have watched the whole thing- but I have not watched all ten hours.

C&S: I felt like I was slacking in my research that I didn't watch the entire thing straight.

JH: No, it's totally fine.

C&S: Well, the absurdity of the fact that it's ten hours is the point.

JH: And funny story about that- after the video came out I got a text from Tanner from You Blew It! and he said, "Dude, love the new video- I found the Easter egg in hour seven" and I didn't say anything. The next morning I got a text from him that said, "Hey, I just want to say that was a joke- I was joking about finding the Easter egg in hour seven." And I was like, "Okay, cool- I didn't want to admit that I hadn't watched my own ten-hour music video."

C&S: Whose idea was it to loop it for ten hours?

JH: We were brainstorming with Thomas, the director, about how to begin and end the video. We came up with the idea that it should end where it starts- and then Thomas just flippantly said, "Oh yeah and then we just loop it for ten hours" and we were all like- "Actually, yeah- let's do that. Can we loop the video for ten hours?"

C&S: Do people get that the whole point is just this complete absurdity or have people been like, "Come on, what are they doing?"

JH: I haven't seen any feedback where people have been upset about it, you know- I mean I'm sure there are people who have rolled their eyes at it, but I mean- whatever.

C&S: I'll be honest- when I first saw it, I was like, "Oh my god, Rozwell Kid made a ten-hour music video- I don't know if I can commit to that!"

JH: It's cool because I think we set people up with the headline and the video title, "Ten Hours"- and then when you watch it and you get that it's a loop, it's an emotional roller coaster. You're upset that you're gonna watch ten hours of a video and then you're relieved that it's looped over and over and you don't have to watch the rest- but if you wanted to, you could.

C&S: Unless you want to find the Easter egg in hour seven.

The song "Michael Keaton" is based on this idea you had for a screenplay about trying to meet him- if that screenplay were to actually be written and made into a movie, who would star in it? Would you?

JH: Michael Keaton. I think so- well, I don't know.

C&S: Would he play every role?

JH: Well, the main characters are children, so I don't think he could do that- I guess he could, I don't know. I figure Michael Keaton would be in it- but also, when I was thinking about the movie, I had this thought that maybe it would be kind of badass if they never found Michael Keaton. Like if he was the whole driving force behind the movie but they never actually met him. Maybe that would be cool. 

C&S: That would kind of tie in to that proverb of "life is about the journey, not the destination"- the search for Michael Keaton, not finding Michael Keaton.

JH: Yeah- Michael Keaton was in us all along. [Laughs.] Or the other idea was they get to Hollywood and he accidentally hits them with his car and then it's another three hours of courtroom drama.

C&S: As we talked about The Simpsons, if Rozwell Kid were to be in a Simpsons episode, what would you want the plot to be?

JH: I like the musical cameos that they always do, like where the Ramones played Mr. Burns' birthday party or where the Red Hot Chili Peppers were playing at Moe's bar - I'd like to do that. I wouldn't want to be a part of the plot, I would just wanna have a cameo playing in the episode.

C&S: It's less stress but it's still just as cool to be like, "Yeah, we were on the Simpsons."

JH: Yeah, maybe where we're playing a school dance or something, like a prom. Like Lisa petitions for them to have an elementary school prom.

C&S: You have a little bit left of this tour; what else do you have on the plate for the fall and the rest of this year?

JH: We're just gonna keep touring and touring. Try to go overseas [again] as soon as possible. We went to Australia last fall and we went to Europe last Spring.

C&S: How were those shows?

JH: It was awesome. It was really fun- we were in Europe with Into It. Over It. and The Hotelier, so it was a really lucky package to be a part of. In Australia, we toured with this band called The Bennies and it was just so much fun- it was amazing. I can't believe we got to go to Australia.

C&S: I've heard in Australia, everything is so far apart that you have to fly between a lot of cities.

JH: Yeah, we had to fly to gigs- it was cool.

C&S: Was that stressful? Anytime I have to fly with my camera gear, it's a little stressful.

JH: No, it wasn't that bad- I feel like their airport security laws are a little more lax there. It's not as much of a headache, and also everywhere we flew to there would be a backline of gear to use so we didn't have to take amps- just a bag and a guitar pretty much.

C&S: Did you do the koala thing in Australia?

JH: No, we did not- it was closed that day. I was bummed. Or we didn't have time- something happened.

C&S: Touring is weird because you travel and go all these places but you don't always actually get to do the fun thing.

JH: Yeah, that's what I've explained to people back at home. Someone's like, "Did you get any good food in San Francisco?"

C&S: It's whatever's across the street from the venue or like, Taco Bell or Burger King- whatever you find first on the highway. 

JH: Speaking of crisis solutions and solving problems on the road, another thing that you get good at after a while is figuring out how to make time to actually do shit and see stuff. So the more that we've gone out, the more that we're able to weasel our way around and do things.

C&S: Cool. Alright, well, thank you so much.

JH: Yeah, totally!

C&S: Anything else you want to say or anything else to add?

JH: No, I'm pretty good- thank you.

Thanks Jordan! You can watch the full, ten-hour “Wendy’s Trash Can” video here and listen to Precious Art on Spotify here. You can see a full list of Rozwell Kid’s upcoming shows (including a few recently announced shows for September and November) on their official website. Keep up with the band on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

[flauntpage]

The Bills Keep Finding New Ways to Rip Your Heart Out

It’s impossible to ever fully understand the unique suffering that is the existence of a Buffalo Bills fan. The special torture that is cheering for a team that hasn’t been to the postseason in 17 years and is best known for losing four straight Super Bowls. It's Lucy pulling away the football from Charlie Brown, only instead of crashing on his back he lands on a couch that’s facing a TV set showing a Bills game.

Bills fans are trapped in a hell of their own choosing and can’t bring themselves to leave the cult of sadness, so it’s easy to understand why their coping mechanism is drunkenly doing backflips off car roofs and onto folding tables in parking lots in freezing temperatures.

Then the 2017 season got under way. There was a new coach, Sean McDermott, instilling hope into the shell-shocked fan base after a 7-9 season that saw Rex Ryan get fired. Through seven games, the Bills were 5-2 and looking like a playoff team. Sure, the Bills have done this before, but this time it would be different.

Then they got drubbed by the Jets. Then they allowed six rushing touchdowns to the Saints.

Suddenly, the rising Bills were 5-4. This was trampled territory for those who cheer on the Bills, with a brutal schedule on the horizon but hey, there’s a winnable game this week, and if Buffalo can beat the Chargers, they’re 6-4 and in a playoff spot with six weeks remaining.

And so, as if he were desperate to prove he could fit in with the organization’s motto of Ripping Your Heart Out Since 2000, McDermott benched his starting quarterback, Tyrod Taylor, for rookie Nathan Peterman, a 2017 fifth-round pick from Pittsburgh, a school best known for not being Penn State. One week after allowing 11 billion rushing yards to the Saints, McDermott decided Taylor’s 93.5 passer rating and 47-to-15 touchdown-to-interception ratio during his Bills career was the problem.

After a 30-point loss at the hands of the Chargers on Sunday, which included Peterman throwing five interceptions in the first half and completing six passes, what will McDermott determine is the problem after watching the film this week? Will he fire an equipment manager because the game balls were too shiny? Will he demand the traveling secretary be replaced by a hot-dog vendor? Will he remove all toilet paper from the practice facility because he wants his players to think their shit doesn’t stink?

None of those things would be as stupid and destructive as what McDermott did with his quarterbacks this week for seemingly no other reason than he is an instrument of anguish for Bills fans, sent from a circle of hell inhabited by the devil himself and eventually O.J. Simpson.

McDermott didn’t just derail this season; he likely did irreversible damage that will haunt Buffalo for years to come.

Peterman was set up to fail in his first start. The Chargers entered the day with a top-ten pass defense, so expecting anything other than a resounding loss would have been delusional. A deflection, two collapsing pockets, and one miscommunication led to Peterman’s first four interceptions. Only an oversized ego on a man desperate to show he’s the smartest person in the room could force Peterman back on the field to throw a fifth interception in the first half, and that’s exactly what McDermott did.

If McDermott’s coaching style were a meme, it would be the dog in the restaurant surrounded by flames saying, “This is fine.”

This usually would be par for the course for Bills fans—seriously, if you see one on the street today, ask if they’d like a hug—but McDermott scorched the earth.

At 5-5, the Bills aren’t exactly done, but they’ve found a way to make 5-5 seem hopeless. They’ve got two losses on the schedule coming at the hands of the Patriots, and you can be sure the Bills will lose one of their other four remaining games, probably as soon as this week when they visit Kansas City. Maybe the outcome Sunday would have been the same with Taylor under center for four quarters, but there was no other way it could have gone with Peterman starting.

The Bills tricking everyone into thinking they are for real in September and October only to pull out the rug in November and December isn’t new, but McDermott proved he is an innovator.

While scorching the earth, McDermott burnt any meaningful bridge to Taylor. Even if he returns the reins to the quarterback this week in a desperate attempt to save the season—although what would be the point now?—it has to be inevitable that the team and Taylor part ways in the off-season. The stubbornness of benching Taylor—only the third Bills quarterback with a winning record since Jack Kemp retired in 1969—will go down as the second most stubborn act in the city of Buffalo’s history behind refusing to admit that buffalo wings are overrated and the worst possible way to ingest chicken.

On top of that, what does a five-interception debut do to Peterman? The only other rookie to throw five picks in his debut was Keith Null, who either accomplished the feat in 2009 as a Ram or is a name I completely made up because you certainly don’t know the difference. Do you think it’s a good sign for Peterman that you have no recollection of Null (a real person) because his career was over three games after his five-pick initiation?

If McDermott reverses course and starts Taylor again, how do you start Peterman after that? If you go back to Peterman right away, how does he take the field next week in one of the toughest stadiums in the NFL with any confidence in either himself or the coaching staff to stick with him if he falters? What is the opposite of setting someone up for success?

In a way, McDermott has proved himself to be the ultimate Bills coach, as he has taken a page out of the Bills fan playbook by trapping himself in a hell of his own unnecessary creation.

Bills fans always had one thing that seemed untouchable—the idea that things could be better next year—but McDermott invented a way to take that away from them, too.

The Bills Keep Finding New Ways to Rip Your Heart Out published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv

[flauntpage]

The Bills Keep Finding New Ways to Rip Your Heart Out

It’s impossible to ever fully understand the unique suffering that is the existence of a Buffalo Bills fan. The special torture that is cheering for a team that hasn’t been to the postseason in 17 years and is best known for losing four straight Super Bowls. It's Lucy pulling away the football from Charlie Brown, only instead of crashing on his back he lands on a couch that’s facing a TV set showing a Bills game.

Bills fans are trapped in a hell of their own choosing and can’t bring themselves to leave the cult of sadness, so it’s easy to understand why their coping mechanism is drunkenly doing backflips off car roofs and onto folding tables in parking lots in freezing temperatures.

Then the 2017 season got under way. There was a new coach, Sean McDermott, instilling hope into the shell-shocked fan base after a 7-9 season that saw Rex Ryan get fired. Through seven games, the Bills were 5-2 and looking like a playoff team. Sure, the Bills have done this before, but this time it would be different.

Then they got drubbed by the Jets. Then they allowed six rushing touchdowns to the Saints.

Suddenly, the rising Bills were 5-4. This was trampled territory for those who cheer on the Bills, with a brutal schedule on the horizon but hey, there’s a winnable game this week, and if Buffalo can beat the Chargers, they’re 6-4 and in a playoff spot with six weeks remaining.

And so, as if he were desperate to prove he could fit in with the organization’s motto of Ripping Your Heart Out Since 2000, McDermott benched his starting quarterback, Tyrod Taylor, for rookie Nathan Peterman, a 2017 fifth-round pick from Pittsburgh, a school best known for not being Penn State. One week after allowing 11 billion rushing yards to the Saints, McDermott decided Taylor’s 93.5 passer rating and 47-to-15 touchdown-to-interception ratio during his Bills career was the problem.

After a 30-point loss at the hands of the Chargers on Sunday, which included Peterman throwing five interceptions in the first half and completing six passes, what will McDermott determine is the problem after watching the film this week? Will he fire an equipment manager because the game balls were too shiny? Will he demand the traveling secretary be replaced by a hot-dog vendor? Will he remove all toilet paper from the practice facility because he wants his players to think their shit doesn’t stink?

None of those things would be as stupid and destructive as what McDermott did with his quarterbacks this week for seemingly no other reason than he is an instrument of anguish for Bills fans, sent from a circle of hell inhabited by the devil himself and eventually O.J. Simpson.

McDermott didn’t just derail this season; he likely did irreversible damage that will haunt Buffalo for years to come.

Peterman was set up to fail in his first start. The Chargers entered the day with a top-ten pass defense, so expecting anything other than a resounding loss would have been delusional. A deflection, two collapsing pockets, and one miscommunication led to Peterman’s first four interceptions. Only an oversized ego on a man desperate to show he’s the smartest person in the room could force Peterman back on the field to throw a fifth interception in the first half, and that’s exactly what McDermott did.

If McDermott’s coaching style were a meme, it would be the dog in the restaurant surrounded by flames saying, “This is fine.”

This usually would be par for the course for Bills fans—seriously, if you see one on the street today, ask if they’d like a hug—but McDermott scorched the earth.

At 5-5, the Bills aren’t exactly done, but they’ve found a way to make 5-5 seem hopeless. They’ve got two losses on the schedule coming at the hands of the Patriots, and you can be sure the Bills will lose one of their other four remaining games, probably as soon as this week when they visit Kansas City. Maybe the outcome Sunday would have been the same with Taylor under center for four quarters, but there was no other way it could have gone with Peterman starting.

The Bills tricking everyone into thinking they are for real in September and October only to pull out the rug in November and December isn’t new, but McDermott proved he is an innovator.

While scorching the earth, McDermott burnt any meaningful bridge to Taylor. Even if he returns the reins to the quarterback this week in a desperate attempt to save the season—although what would be the point now?—it has to be inevitable that the team and Taylor part ways in the off-season. The stubbornness of benching Taylor—only the third Bills quarterback with a winning record since Jack Kemp retired in 1969—will go down as the second most stubborn act in the city of Buffalo’s history behind refusing to admit that buffalo wings are overrated and the worst possible way to ingest chicken.

On top of that, what does a five-interception debut do to Peterman? The only other rookie to throw five picks in his debut was Keith Null, who either accomplished the feat in 2009 as a Ram or is a name I completely made up because you certainly don’t know the difference. Do you think it’s a good sign for Peterman that you have no recollection of Null (a real person) because his career was over three games after his five-pick initiation?

If McDermott reverses course and starts Taylor again, how do you start Peterman after that? If you go back to Peterman right away, how does he take the field next week in one of the toughest stadiums in the NFL with any confidence in either himself or the coaching staff to stick with him if he falters? What is the opposite of setting someone up for success?

In a way, McDermott has proved himself to be the ultimate Bills coach, as he has taken a page out of the Bills fan playbook by trapping himself in a hell of his own unnecessary creation.

Bills fans always had one thing that seemed untouchable—the idea that things could be better next year—but McDermott invented a way to take that away from them, too.

The Bills Keep Finding New Ways to Rip Your Heart Out published first on http://ift.tt/2pLTmlv