#like if you fail or you’re mediocre doesn’t matter that much if you cheat or not probably. still not happy but i get it

[straightlightyagami]

“the top students get their scores by cheating” fully not joking when i say that if i found out someone got a better average than me by cheating (ie cheated me out of having the best grades) i would probably irl murder them. or at least get them expelled and banned from returning to the school. in fact i would have a moral responsibility to do so

[uhhhhyandere]

my internet cut off when i was sending an ask so i don't know if it actually went through,, could you write something for reader and a possessive/protective mello? my birthday is coming up in 4 days - i don't have anyone to celebrate it with, and he happens to be my comfort character 😅 feel free to delete this if you don't want to that's totally ok!!

such lies, such lies!

you can celebrate your birthday with me and the rest of us in death note stan hell. i hope you can find some ways to celebrate getting through another year, and that this lil piece brings you the joy you deserve <3 ily

“Can we... uh... go out, then?” You scratched the back of your head. Mello’s eyes dragged across the room until they met yours. You twiddled your fingers together. 

“Why?” He rested his chin between his digits. You glanced around, making sure to scan the calendar to double-check a clearly true fact. 

“It’s my birthday, so I thought maybe we can do something.” Mello twisted in his seat and crossed his leg over the other. Elbow angles against the corner of the table, the hand of the same arm rested above his mouth. “Please? It can be something small. Dinner, or something.” He sighed. 

“Alright,” he agreed. “Take your pick, then.” Your smile grew and he rolled his eyes at the joy sparking on your features. “Don’t get too excited. It’s not that big of a deal, but,” he stressed, “don’t get any funny ideas, got it?” 

You were giddy while you finished fixing yourself up in the mirror. It’s been months since you’ve properly gone out anywhere, much less a date. The excitement of checking yourself out in the mirror (a few moments of self-deprecation, but compared to the last few months of work and stress, it was refreshing to look like a human again.) and the pile of failed outfits on top of your bed was so relieving. 

“Are you done?” 

“Are you done?” Mello always looked good, and there wasn’t any mystical reason as to why, so when he walked into the room in lieu of an invitation, you weren’t surprised to find him in all black, tight-fitting clothes. His eyes flickered from your face to your feet, then back to your head. “Looks like you are.” 

“We’re going to be late if you spend two more seconds in front of that mirror. What do you think is going to change? Whatever detail you fix will inevitably fall back down before we get there.” You shot him a glare. “You’re the one that asked to go out, and now you’re lagging behind.”

“Sorry, I haven’t gone out in a while! I wanted to look nice. For...” you cleared your throat, “you.”

“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.” You clicked your tongue. 

“Get a better glove next time then.” You twisted towards him. “Okay, done!” Spreading your arms wide, you presented yourself. “How do I look?”

“Presentable. Let’s go, then. The sooner we leave, the sooner we get back. The sooner so many people’s eyes will be off you.” He scowled. “Anyone looks at you for more than five seconds, I’m going to eradicate them.” You hummed and slipped on your shoes, using Mello’s shoulder for balance. Before you can take it off, however, his hand clasped your wrist tightly. He brought it towards his mouth and, without breaking intense eye contact, slotted a kiss between your knuckles. “I hope the place you chose is adequate.”

Adequate. Well, that’s not the exact words you would use for your favorite local restaurant, but that’s the reason why you loved it. After stressful days, you used to always find yourself here. The bar, for some reason, no matter the day, would be stock full of patrons. Most were regulars or friends of the owner until you eventually became friends with the owner too.

“Y/N! Wow, we haven’t seen you in a while! Who’s this?” Mello scowled next to you. Most likely because of the weekend crowd and the heavy smoke permeating the air. This definitely was not the type of place he frequented. 

“This is Mello. We’ve been together a few months now.” The regular smiled and regarded him. Mello’s grimace must have kept him from saying anything else since his focus quickly focused back on you. 

“Ah, I see. Get a boyfriend and you abandon us!” You laughed politely and scanned the floor for an open booth. One nestled in the corner, though still dirty from the previous occupants, was open. You smiled and offered him a few more concise words before leading Mello to the corner. 

“It’s disgusting in here.” 

“Food is nice and greasy. You can just get dessert if you want, though. It doesn’t matter to me. What does though is,” you nodded over to the nearby crowd huddled around a single table, “is that. I haven’t gambled in so long. I wonder if I still got it in me.” You dug your hand into your jacket pocket and pulled out the wrinkled, thinning plastic bag full of poker chips. “Doubt it, though.”

“You play poker?” You set the bag on the table. 

“Yeah. Got into it a few years ago. I’m terrible, though. Luckily, they don’t play for high stakes. Just shots or drinks or buying a round for the group.” He snatched the bag and rolled it around in his hands. “Not that many, I know, but I think I can maybe end the night even. Hopefully.” 

After your old-time favorite comfort meal and Mello’s dessert, you rose from the table with Mello following like a shadow. A few of the spectators you recognized greeted you before growing silent after making eye contact with Mello. A few eyes trained on him. Naturally. You didn’t even need to look back to know he was glaring at them. You grinned while approaching the table. “Deal me in the next round?”

“Y/N,” oh my - How did you not notice him? A devilish smirk on his face, he waved. “I didn’t expect you to be here. You haven’t been here in a long while. I missed you, babe.” You glanced to Mello. His eyebrow shot up and he stared at him. “Still mediocre?” 

“As if... yes...” You scratched the back of your head. “But it’s fun, so,” you shrugged. 

“Of course. I’m sure our pal can deal you in real soon. Just wait your little butt there.” ...Little? Mello hummed next to you but said nothing to acknowledge the aggravation on his face. Once a seat opened up, you sat yourself down. Mello’s hand rested on the back of it. Occasionally, the movement of his fingers would graze across your shoulder. “No cheating from the goth behind you, got it?”

“As if.” 

You tried to ignore the sultry gaze and sugary words from his mouth through the rounds. Not for your sake, but for the sake of the person lurking behind you. Mello didn’t deal with competition so well. You sighed. Maybe I shouldn’t have indulged too much.

Turns out you needed help from the goth behind you. They really managed to swingle you every time. By the number of chips remaining, you would only last two more rounds, and you didn’t want to go back empty-handed. “One more. Then I’m done. I can’t go home without anything. I’m nearly out of cash at this point. My pride would hurt too much.” 

“Alright, alright,” your old acquaintance said. “We just won’t use money or rounds or anything. Winner gets,” he hummed, “your underwear.” Normally, you’d say yes. Who really gave a shit? But that normally was before you and Mello became a thing. You shook your head. 

“Sure,” Mello answered. You paused, turning to him in bewilderment. His face was entirely serious. “One more round.” Did...did he know you’re probably going to fucking lose? Was he that pissed at you that he didn’t care? “It’s no problem, right?” He looked down at you. His eyes widened just a hair for just a second. What was he thinking?

As he flipped his hand at the very end, your stomach dropped. Mello’s face remained the same, however. Even as you stood to... follow through with the demands. Though, as soon as you stepped away from the chair, Mello slid into it, hands folded on the table. 

“One more,” he said. "Stakes are they keep their things, and you don’t look at them ever again. Not even a glance.” He paused. “That goes for every fucker in this shithole,” Mello called. You didn’t get a word in before he urged them to deal. 

He was... he was probably joking, right? 

You replaced Mello’s standing space behind the chair. On it, he leaned back cooly, legs spread with one bend up on the chair’s cushion, the other spread outwards on the ground. The cards in his hand close to himself, you were not able to get a good look at them with the downwards angle. 

“...Royal flush,” he said in the end, the cards sliding into a half circle into the table. Silence. “Did you all not remember the stakes here? Anyone even looks at them, I’ll carve your eyes from your head.” Mello rose, hand clasping yours, and dragged you out of the establishment. You were sure everyone would be glaring in your direction if they were able to look at you. You guessed it didn’t matter if you didn’t pay. It wasn’t like you were going back here ever again.

Once into the brisk air, you ripped your wrist from his hand. 

“What the fuck was that?” You hissed. 

“What the fuck was that? What about you bringing me here to watch all those greasy men leer at you like some piece of candy? What about you letting that fuck do and say anything he wanted? What the fuck was that?” His fingers gripped your chin. “Who do you belong to?” 

“W-what?” 

“Did I stutter?” At your lack of answer, he tightened his grip. “Who do you belong to?”

“You.”

“Yes, me.” Mello ripped his hand from your chin and dug it into his pocket. “I’ll make sure you know. I’ll make sure everyone knows you’re mine.” He pulled a switchblade from his pocket. 

“Mello, no -,” 

“Stay here.”

“Please,” 

“No. We’ll finish... celebrating your birthday at home, alright?” 

[gabby297]

Saudade - Prologue

Summary: "Saudade" - A nostalgic longing for a person or thing that was loved once, but is now lost.

Helmut Zemo's life was forever changed when the Avengers picked his country as a personal playground to fight their own creations. He would never regain the pieces of his life where he was a husband and a father of two. But the existence of new Super Soldiers might just bring him closer to that life he once had than he ever thought was possible. Madripoor holds secrets that even Baron Zemo does not know about.

Word Count: 3.9k

Helmut shut the book that he was reading with an audible snap. He stretched out of his position on the bed to put the book on the metal table nearby. He was reading it for the past hour and a half, making his eyes dry out enough for it to become a slight annoyance. Dropping his feet from the edge of the bed onto the ground, he sat up. He could hear his back cracking as he stretched out. Truly, prison was bad for his back and posture.

Helmut sighed and brought his hand to his eyes, rubbing the strain away. He dragged his hand down his face, feeling a few days worth of a stubble that covered his cheeks. Ivana would’ve already pestered him to shave it off, preferring a clean shaved look on him. He didn’t disagree with her on that but without the constant comments, it was harder to remember or find the motivation to shave every couple of days. Days tended to blend in together when you’re confined to a small room by yourself for most of the time. The cell itself collected small knickknacks over the couple of years that he was incarcerated, almost looking like someone was living here. A number of newspapers, books, playing cards, a small radio, and a worn-out chess board filled his space. Getting his belongings back, post-Snap, was somewhat a tiring experience, even with the little influence around that he had. From what he heard, almost half of the prison had been snapped away, creating chaos when everyone returned. It was surprising to blink and find someone else living in his cell because somehow five years had passed. They shared a cell for almost two weeks while the facility tried to relocate both prisoners and guards that appeared out of nowhere.

Helmut glanced over at the abandoned Chessboard that sat on top of the table. While he won it out of another prisoner a while back, it sat untouched for the last couple of days. At some point, playing chess against yourself just becomes boring. He rose from his bed. Reaching, he took a Bishop off the board and twirled it between his fingers. It was nothing compared to the set that he had back home. The paint had chipped off the edges and the small, wooden piece had dents in it.

“Ready to give up?” He raised his eyebrow. Nic hadn’t made a move for the last five minutes and from the looks of it, wasn’t going to make another one anytime soon. They sat by the fire, at the opposite sides of the chess table. The board had both ebony Chess pieces and Checkers on top of it.

Their games started off as simple rounds of Checkers months ago, since Carl wanted to play as well but didn't understand the intricacies of chess quite yet. But overtime, the two of them, incorporated the chess pieces into the game, made their own rules. They might have accidentally created a brand new game that neither Carl nor Ivana understood or cared for. So it became their pastime before dinner whenever he was home from the army.

“No, I got this,” Nic mumbled through her hands as her eyes scanned through the board. He had her cornered on almost every front, they both knew it, but Nic wasn’t someone who just gave up. Ivana was convinced and often complained that she was a mini version of him, but he had to disagree. The level of stubbornness that Nic possessed at times did not come solely from him alone.

“Care to make a move then?” He egged her on, leaning back on the leather wingback chair and crossing his legs. An hour had already passed since they started the game.

“I’m considering all my moves,” Nic grinned and moved her hand to tap the side of her head with her fingers.

“I’m sure you are,” He smirked lightly. “Although, it would be nice if you made a move before midnight.”

“Fine,” Nic sighed and picked up a Pawn and moved it back diagonally, taking out his Checker. “Happy?”

“No,” Helmut frowned sitting back up. “That is against the rules.”

“What? It so isn’t!” She defended herself, taking the piece and putting it to her side.

“It so is,” He reached and snatched it, placing it back on the board. “You can’t go backwards to get the Checker when you use a Pawn, only forward.”

“No, you can when you either use a Pawn or a Rook.”

“You are altering rules to cheat.” He accused her, narrowing his eyes at the giant grin that plastered her face. If that wasn’t the most mischievous expression he had ever seen, he didn’t know what was.

“I would never do that!”

She was saved from being caught by Carl coming into the room and disturbing their attention.

“Mum says if you two don’t come to the table I get your dessert.” He announced, making them both look at the clock. They most certainly were late for dinner. Again.

“Well we can’t have that.”

“Mom’s gonna kill us,” Nic mouthed, making him chuckle.

“Oh most definitely.” He agreed as they made their way into the kitchen.

“Look who finally remembered that dinnertime exists,” Ivana called out looking up from her phone as they came in. Carl and Nic took their seats, piling the food from the table into their plates. Ivana cooked steak with mashed potatoes and vegetables that night. The latter that both kids, made their best effort to stay clear from.

“Apologies, dear.” Helmut made his way and leaned over the back of her chair. He laid his hands on her shoulders and pressed his lips against her cheek, planting a quick kiss.

“Playing your silly game again?” She chuckled as she brought her hand to the back of his neck, slipping her fingers into his hair.

“It makes all the sense when you know the rules,” He remarked, leaning into the touch.

“Not when you two are the ones that made the rules and change them every game in order to cheat and win the game.”

“We never cheat,” He cast Nic a look who in turn smiled innocently at her mother.

With a gentle squeeze on Ivana’s shoulders, Helmut moved away to grab the bottle of Marcassin Estate Chardonnay from the counter and opened the drawer to find a bottle opener.

“Oh don’t even try to act cute Helmut. I know you two.”

“We can always play something else,” He suggested. “Backgammon? Nic and I against you and Carl?”

“You lost the last time,” Carl quipped in with a fork half raised to his mouth. “And the time before that.”

“It was a brief misfortune,” Helmut defended himself. “Those days are over.”

“Mum and I are going to kick your asses,” He retorted with a shrug.

“Carl! Language,” Ivana reprimanded as Helmut moved to pass her the glass of Chardonnay before pouring himself one as well.

“What? Nic always says it.”

“Since when?” Nic raised her eyebrow.

“Just cause Nic does something doesn’t mean you have to repeat it,” Ivana rolled her eyes, taking the glass. She cast him a glance and smiled. “Thank you, honey.”

“It doesn’t matter. Dad and I are going to wipe the floor with you,” Nic boasted.

“In your dreams. We always win.” Carl rolled his eyes and reached for the glass of water.

“You lost like yesterday what are you talking about?”

They started to bicker, recalling their previous matches and rubbing in victories to each other while Helmut half-listened to them as he ate.

“Anything to add?” Ivana rose her eyebrow at him playfully.

“Oh, I know better than to say anything.” He defended himself with a smile and tipped the glass to his mouth to prove the point.

The pieces fell in a heap after it connected with the Bishop that he held moments ago. Helmut exhaled deeply through his nose, his hands curling into fists. Damn it. He opened his eyes and looked down at the scattered chess pieces across the board. Some of them had fallen to the floor. He ran his hand through his hair, brushing through the small knots and grease that seemed to permanently stick to him, no matter how much he tried to scrub it off. He was tempted to convince one of the guards to bring him some of the products he used back home, but ever since everyone snapped back into existence, the number of times the same guards came by, had decreased. Besides, there were a limited number of favours he could pull at a given time. So he was stuck living with the mediocre, at best, shampoo. Such a pity.

He clenched his jaw tight, grinding his teeth, as he bent down to grab the fallen pieces, failing entirely to ignore how his chest tightened and air seemed to disappear from his lungs. No matter how much time had passed, it never got easier to breathe through it. It was like a disease that could never be fully gotten rid off no matter how much he tried to move past it. When the dust settled, and initial shock left him all those years ago, he was certain that he must be having a heart attack. Convinced that such intensity of agony that hit him over and over, seemingly at random times had to have some medical reason. Apparently, the never-ending sensation that liked to leave him breathless and choked for air, was simply just a permanent part of his new life. A life that he was forced to continue against his will. It was cruelty at its best.

Helmut moved his position from the bed to the desk by the time that lunchtime came around. He hunched over the crossword puzzle in the newspaper that the guards brought in this morning, when they brought him his lunch.

The alarm buzzed as the metal door to his cell opened from the outside. He glanced over to see that it was a guard that he met when he was first dropped here from the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre. Stefan was one of the younger guards, more chatty and naive than some of the others. It was something that he used to his advantage years ago, befriending him enough to gain his trust.

Stefan came in, bringing a plate of food and a mug of black coffee. Getting to know his guards had its perks, such as getting better quality coffee.

“Thank you, Stefan.” Helmut voiced his gratitude to the guard in German. He too had fallen victim to the Snap. Helmut was grateful that the young man resumed working after returning to existence. Without him, some of the possessions that Helmut had in his cell would have taken longer to get.

“How’s the crossword?” Stefan nodded towards the newspaper as he slipped the cup first through the opening at the bottom of the glass.

“Would be better if they did not repeat the questions so often,” Helmut shrugged as he stood up and walked over the glass barrier. He bent down to pick up the mug and took a sip, humming in appreciation.

“I’ll see what I can do about getting better crosswords. If I can borrow one of your books again.”

“Consider it done.” Helmut chuckled, lightly rocking back and forth on his feet. He reminded him of Nic sometimes. “Quiet shift?”

“You have no idea,” Stefan sighed. “Oh, I almost forgot. You have visitors scheduled for 4 o’clock today.”

Stefan informed him as he passed the plate onto his side of the cell. Helmut tilted his head and raised his eyebrow.

“Who?” He asked curiously. It was not often that he had people visiting him. Not without needing something out of him.

“Someone by the names of James Barnes and Sam Wilson.”

“Oh?” Winter soldier and an Avenger in one day? Something serious enough must be going on if they wanted to talk to him. Perhaps something that wasn’t publicized in the newspapers.

“Any reason why two Avengers want to see you?”

“Not a clue,” Helmut shrugged and took a couple of steps back to his desk where his books were placed. He picked up a copy of Middlemarch and passed it to him. “Here, this should keep you occupied for a while.”

“Huh,” Stefan hummed reading over the cover. “Never took you one for reading novels.”

“I have time to kill.” He sighed as he passed the empty mug back to the guard.

“Well thanks,” Stefan nodded. “I’ll let you know when they arrive.”

Helmut watched him leave before sighing and taking his plate from the floor. Chicken with steamed broccoli and gravy laid on his plate. Not the worst.

Setting It down on the desk, he smiled lightly as the young Wakandan King’s words echoed in his ears. ‘The living are not done with you yet.’. It seems like he was right after all.

This was certainly going to be interesting.

Helmut watched him enter, patiently tapping his fingers while the guard left. The Winter Soldier, James as he now called himself, stepped closer to the glass with his posture stiff and head held high. Picture definition of a perfect soldier.

“Longing. Rusted.” Helmut rolled the Russian words off his tongue, raising from his bed. They came easy to him, even after eight years. “Seventeen.”

He stopped and watched James. He didn’t need to list off all of them, just enough to gouge a reaction from him. To see how quickly could the illusion of a changed man crumble under slight pressure.

“Those days are over,” James responded in English, never breaking eye contact. He said it with confidence, but Helmut could see through the facade. There was uncertainty in James’ eyes. Doubt. The trigger words might have been deprogrammed and removed, but the years of destruction and killing could not just be erased and replaced with a new start. The instinct would not just disappear.

“I know,” Helmut tilted his head, goading. “I just wanted to see how the new you reacts to the old words.”

With the cell being small, it didn’t take much to walk closer to the soldier and look him down. Up close, it was even easier to see the missing pieces in his face. There was still something, deep inside, that craved orders. The fragments of the Winter Soldier were still there. His therapist must have either been blind or lacking any skill in her profession to let this man go back into any work, let alone to meet him. Unless he was acting behind their back. Helmut smacked his lips, as different thoughts of how he could explore it to his own advantage crossed his mind.

“Something is still in there. At least you were not conscious for most of your imprisonment.” Unlike himself who had nothing better to do but to be trapped with his own thoughts. He had to admit, he was almost jealous. Unfortunately, the five-year blip felt no longer than five minutes, not nearly long enough to make any difference. To rest from the burden of living.

“That time wasn’t exactly a picnic.”

Helmut could sympathize with that.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” He confessed, any goadiness leaving his voice entirely. And he was sorry, honestly, for the part that he played, no matter how necessary it was. “It was never personal. You were simply a means to a necessary end.”

“Someone recreated the Super-Soldier serum. I need to find out who.” James, changed the subject, catching his attention immediately. Helmut looked back at him. This was not something he expected. Granted, it was suspicious in itself that James wanted to meet with him which meant that he needed something out of him, but he figured it would have been about Hydra or even perhaps the Winter Soldier Program.

“You are assuming HYDRA has something to do with this,” He assessed. It was a logical guess; with HYDRA’s past involvement and reputation, it would make sense to think it was them behind this. Yet, Helmut had to wonder if HYDRA rebuilt themselves enough, ever since it was destroyed by mostly Steve Rogers, to recreate the Super-soldiers. Empires like that took years, if not decades to rebuild themselves to former glory. After all, last he heard, The Avengers were still broken, even post-Snap. Scattered. So, perhaps it was someone else. “Which is why you came to me, which means you are desperate. Luckily for you, I know where to begin.”

It wasn’t hard to think of Madripoor as the first stop. Years of trading and forging connections on the low, allowed him a personal insight into the city-state. For long enough to build a small safe-house, off the grid, that was just outside the city.

He watched James consider the proposal of his services, watched as different emotions passed through him. Hatred, anger, mistrust, contempt. Finally, they all dissolved into resignation. He knew that he needed him.

“You will be our prisoner until we bring you back,” James asserted, leaving no room for argument.

“Naturally,” Helmut smirked, half raising his clasped hands in mock surrender. James looked past him to his cell.

“What’s the book you’re reading?”

Helmut glanced at the book behind him. First Edition of Fortune is a River laid on his sheets. He glanced back at James, hoping his plan was not going to involve the book’s destruction. It was one of the more expensive books in his collection. He won it an auction in Madripoor after bidding B6.61, roughly 304,421 Euros. It would be a shame to ruin it.

“Machiavelli.”

James grunted and tilted his head for it. Helmut picked it up and slid the book to him. He examined it briefly as they went over James’ plan and the location where to meet, slid it back to him, and left without a word. The door shut loudly behind him, leaving Helmut alone again. He looked down at the book and flipped through it. Towards the back of the book, on page 235, he found a small, black key card that was responsible for the lock of his cell and other doors.

Not long after Helmut put the key card into his pocket, the alarm went off. Within moments, the chaos of shouts and heavy boots hitting the ground could be heard outside his cell. He didn’t hesitate to unlock his cell, step out and walk through the mostly empty hallways on the upper floor. He was met by one officer with his gun raised by the shower rooms, but with his training as a Colonel, it was easy enough to overpower him and knock out the gun from his hold. Helmut used the grip that he had on the guard’s arms, twisted him over his shoulder and threw his arm over the guard’s neck, rendering him useless. The guard tried to pry his hold but Helmut was faster and dragged him backwards into the shower stalls, knocking him out by hitting him against the wall.

Adrenaline surged through his veins as he fought against time to undress himself and the man and swap their clothes. The longer he took, the less chance he had of slipping through unnoticed. Confrontation with the guards would not be the smartest decision. Thankfully, the man was roughly his size, so the uniform was neither too baggy nor too tight on him. It would not make him stand out. From there, he rushed down the stairs, past where the fight broke out and used the key card to open the security door.

“Aufseher Menz.” Helmut called out the name of the guard, with a phone pressed to his ear. He tilted the hat lower to cover his face against the cameras. The doors made an audible click as the lock opened and he held the door for riot guards to march past him. From there it was easy enough to sneak out, he only needed to trip out the fire alarm and run behind couple of guards and prisoners to appear like he was doing his job. Spotting the I-3 passage door, he snuck by the guards and took the shortcut for another hallway. Following the emergency exit signs, he stayed away from the camera views until the facility was behind him.

Helmut pushed the door open of his private garage and stepped in. Locating it by Berlin Correctional Facility finally paid off. It was quite easy to find James and his partner, Sam, in the building since they seemingly pulled all the electrical switches that they could find, making their location quite obvious for anyone with eyes. He crossed the corridor and pushed past plastic coverings that divided the room.

“Whoa. Whoa, whoa.” Sam exclaimed, marching to him the moment he noticed his presence. So James didn’t tell him of his plan to break him out. Perhaps he didn’t trust his partner enough. Interesting. Helmut wondered briefly if it had anything to do with the Shield being passed to Sam instead of James. It would be understandable if James felt some resentment towards Sam, even though he didn’t keep the Shield for long. The news of the new Captain America and the details of the passing of the Shield were plastered across all the newspapers for the last couple of weeks, even in Germany.

“No, listen.” Bucky jumped in front of Sam, putting his arm in front of his chest to stop him.

“What are you doin’ here?” Sam demanded, looking at Helmut who simply approached them with his hands half-raised in surrender. He took the uniform’s hat off while James tried to explain himself.

“I didn’t tell ’cause I knew you wouldn’t let this happen.”

“What did you do?”

“We need him.”

“You’re going back to prison!”

“If I may…” Helmut tried to intervene in the conversation, fearing that he would have to stand around and listen to them bicker for the next couple of hours.

“No!” James and Sam shouted back in sync.

“Apologies.” That was the best he could think of to say. There was no point to poke the bear, or this apparent married couple, too much this soon. He couldn’t help but watch their dynamic.

“When Steve refused to sign the Sokovia Accords, you backed him. You broke the law, and you stuck your neck out for me. I’m asking you to do it again.”

“I really think I’m invaluable…” Helmut tried to interrupt again, knowing that the Avenger would need more convincing.

“Shut up.” Sam ordered, sending him a glare. Helmut frowned. Well, that was rude and not called for. He was not the one that had no leads.

“Okay.” Sam sighed, making up his mind as he pointed the flashlight towards James’ chest. He turned to Helmut. “If we do this, you don’t make a move without our permission.”

“Fair.” Helmut tilted his head. It wasn’t like he had that many options at the moment. Not when the prison was so close.

“Okay. Zemo, where do we start?” Sam asked, distrust seeping through his tone, but he had no other choice.

Helmut’s face split into a giant grin. It was music to his ears.

Note: This is Zemo-centric fic :) His family hasn't been talked about that much in the movies or series so I took some liberty. In this fiction, his wife is named Ivana, and he has two children. At the time of the Ultron attack, Carl was 10 and Nic was 15 but the story is going to explore different periods of Zemo's life. Quick points: Normal text format is for present times and if someone talks in English. Italics are for memories and if someone speaks in another language. English isn't my first language so if you spot mistakes please let me know :)

[mermaidsirennikita]

July 2017 Book Roundup

In July, I read eight books--most of which were unfortunately mediocre to poor.  However, there were a couple of standouts, and one of them was fantastic.  My favorite book of the month was Riley Sager’s Final Girls, a thinky thriller that deconstructs the concept of a final girl, while at the same time embracing the best parts of slasher movies.  If you love Scream and I Know What You Did Last Summer, you have to try this book.  

So--below is the good and the (unfortunately, moreso) bad or fair to middling.

Dividing Eden by Joelle Charbonneau.  2/5.  After the assassination of the king and crown prince, the kingdom of Eden is left in turmoil.  The crown would go to the king’s widow, but after she goes mad, that’s not an option anymore.  That means that twins Andreus and Carys are left to battle each other for the throne--or else give up their family’s rights to the kingdom and endanger their own lives.  Aaaand that’s pretty much it.  There are romances thrown in, but the book moves incredibly slow for its length.  The assassinations--events that we know occur because that’s the plot--take forever to actually happen, and for that matter once it does happen it’s really fucking nothing.  It’s super predictable, the villain can be spotted from a mile away, and that makes Carys and Andreus seem super stupid.  Also, Andreus is cursed or something and Carys has a magical drug addiction.  The other issue I have with the book is that so much is made of how close the twins are--and a brother-sister twin relationship is such a cool topic to write about--but the fact is that they aren’t close.  If they were, they wouldn’t be ready to stab each other in the back at a moment’s notice.  Not the smartest book.

The Shark Club by Ann Kidd Taylor.  3/5.  As a young girl, Maeve was bitten by a shark.  The event sparked a lifelong passion for the creatures, and at thirty she’s returning home to her grandmother’s hotel as a successful shark researcher.  Recently, she’s sparked the beginnings of a romance with fellow researcher Nicholas--but back home, she runs into former fiance and childhood love Daniel, now the chef at the hotel and the single father of a young girl.  Maeve’s feelings for Daniel return as she bonds with his daughter, the situation further complicated by an illegal shark finning operation nearby.  This book is well-written, and while it didn’t thrill me in any way, it was pleasant.  It’s very much a “finding yourself” story, and I think that a lot of people would like it--you could call it a thinking beach read.  At the same time, however, I found certain plot points to be rather predictable.  But I appreciated the focus on sharks, animals that I love, and the ongoing threat of finning.  

One True Loves by Taylor Jenkins Reid.  3/5.  Emma married her high school sweetheart, Jesse, with whom she was madly in love.  The day before their first wedding anniversary, he went missing, and was presumed dead.  Three and a half years later, Emma is engaged to her new love, Sam, when she receives the news that Jesse has been found alive.  Now--who does she really want to be with?  I gave this three stars because I read it over the course of a day and it was certainly engaging, and Reid writes romance in a really lovely way and many people have and will love this.  But this was no Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo.  It actually kind of infuriated me.  It’s painfully obvious what Emma’s choice will be, the first half of the book breezes through each romance in a way that makes it difficult to get attached to either one, and the latter half is largely Emma dithering and treating each guy like shit.  The thing that irritated me most is that--well, look, I felt condescended to.  The old Emma loved to travel and see the world, and it’s implied that this was all a part of her youth and now she’s more mature and values the Real Things.  She’s Mature.  And I’m like, bitch you’re just kinda boring now.  There’s a scene where she’s basically like “I don’t like to fuck on kitchen counters anymore, I’m not in my twenties anymore I’m in my thirties”.  BITCH YOU ARE THIRTY-ONE HE HAS BEEN MISSING FOR 3.5 YEARS NOT TWENTY.  Like I respect her moving on and have no issue with that time frame, but Emma acted as if Jesse had been away for decades when he just hadn’t.  Sigh.

The Incarnations by Susan Barker.  4/5.  Beijing taxi driver Wang begins receiving mysterious letters from a stranger that claims to be connected to him through their past lives.  Detailing their different lives together, the stranger clearly also knows a lot about Wang’s current life, including his troubled marriage and his young daughter.  Desperate to find out who his “stalker” is, Wang becomes obsessed with the letters, and in the process confronts his own troubled past.  This is a dark fucking book, and it isn’t for the faint of heart because it honestly has a little bit of everything--to the point that I couldn’t give it a 5/5 because I did find some points a bit too disturbing.  Not in a gratuitous sense--it was the right choice for the book, just not always for me the reader.  But it is so well-written, and really original, and interesting in a way that so many reincarnation books aren’t.  It goes to some very interesting places, and was incredibly gripping.  For that matter, you get to see a number of different periods of Chinese history, which is always fun to read about.  Highly recommend if you’re looking for something really different.

Because You Love to Hate Me, edited by Ameriie.  3/5.  This anthology--featuring authors like Renee Ahdieh, Marissa Meyer, Susan Dennard, and more--focuses on villains.  Each story is actually a response from the author to a challenge given by a different writer; the challenger follows up the story with an essay, reacting to the story and discussing villainy.  Many of the stories are takes on classic villains--Moriarty from the Sherlock Holmes series, The Little Mermaid’s sea witch, the Erl-King/Queen--while a few others are completely original.  As with almost any anthology, this was a bit of a mixed bag.  A few of the stories were really excellent.  “Marigold” was the first thing I’d read from Samantha Shannon, and now I’d really like to see something else from her.  “Jack” was one of the few stories I found actively gruesome, and “Gwen and Art and Lance” was a pleasant, different surprise.  “Indigo and Shade” and “The Sea Witch” were also interesting.  However, a few of the stories weren’t for me just because of their style or content, and a few more seemed to fail at really being... well, about villains.  I felt like I was reading a bit too much about sympathetic villains, you know?  And the essays weren’t really for me--they felt like Tumblr posts.  But with that being said, it was enjoyable, and I think a lot of people would love it.

Final Girls by Riley Sager.  5/5.  At nineteen, Quincy Carpenter survived a massacre at Pine Cottage, during which all of her friends was killed.  As the only survivor, Quincy was immortalized by the press as one of the “Final Girls”, the other two being Lisa Milner and Samantha Boyd, who survived similar such massacres.  Ten years later, Quincy is shocked when Lisa commits suicide, and the mysterious Samantha shows up on her doorstep immediately after.  If you’re a fan of slasher movies, I highly recommend this book, which not only deconstructs the “final girl” archetype but tells a hell of a story.  It shifts between the present and what happened to Quincy on the night she survived, and both stories are equally compelling.  Quincy is a remarkably complex and flawed character, as is Sam--I was enthralled by both.  While I had an inkling about one of the twists, I certainly didn’t predict all of them.  It’s not only a great story, but an important one--while few of us experience traumas as horrible as Quincy’s (thankfully) the way she dealt with hers was very familiar to me, and the Sager does an excellent job of examining the difference between being fine on the surface and being fine in reality.  A must-read.

Every Last Lie by Mary Kubica.  2/5.  Clara, mother to a four-year-old daughter and a newborn boy, has her world shattered when her husband is killed in a car wreck.  What is written off as a tragic accident becomes more complicated when their daughter, Maisie--who was in the car with Nick when he died--insists that her father was being chased by a “bad man”.  Becoming obsessed with what happened to Nick, Clara begins to trace the last few months of her husband’s life--while, in alternating chapters, we see the truth unveiled from Nick’s perspective.  I gave this book two stars instead of one because I do think it portrays grief well--Clara is irrational to the point where she becomes unhinged and obsessive, and this does ring true to me, especially since she’s probably suffering from postpartum depression as well.  But the ending.  UGH.  THE FUCKING ENDING.  It ruined the book for me, as did the fact that we were clearly supposed to sympathize with Nick when he was a complete dirtbag.  Spoiler alert: Nick wasn’t cheating on Clara like you might initially think (he keeps going on and on about her pregnant body, and I was like wait are you into this or are you resentful of it idek) but he was keeping a million things from her.  An ex-girlfriend showing up in his life again, a kid that was possibly fathered by Nick before he met Clara, a malpractice suit, the fact that he’s apparently the worst dentist on Earth and deserved the malpractice suit...  God.  I should have known that I would hate Nick as soon as I realized he was a dentist.  Clara isn’t much better.  She idolizes Nick, jumps from one conclusion to the other over the course of a couple pages, and honestly doesn’t seem to have any kind of life outside her husband and kids.  Drop this, read Final Girls.

Close to Shore by Michael Capuzzo.  3/5.  In 1916, the Jersey Shore experienced a series of shark attacks that would really be the first attacks in American history to capture the public’s imagination.  They remain pretty distinct, as they occurred in a short period (from July 1 to July 12) across both the ocean and a nearby creek, and four people were killed and one injured by what seemed to be a single shark.  I read this in honor of Shark Week and because I’ve always been seriously fascinated by these attacks, ever since I was very young.  Capuzzo does a good job of describing the shark’s potential life and the attacks themselves.  But he also spent a lot of time fleshing out the lives of people who often weren’t even the attack victims themselves but their loved ones, which like.. fine, I’m sure that worked for a lot of people, but I’m here for the attacks.  I also feel like more time should have been spent on discussing theories regarding shark behaviors and what made these attacks so unique--and were they really unique at all?  Capuzzo seemed to be very set on the idea that this was a juvenile great white, that it was attacking for these reasons, etc.  And not all scientists, at least from what I’ve read, agree with him--even a discussion of outlying, unlikely theories would have been nice.  Capuzzo also didn’t seem to explain why he was so set on the great white theory, when a bull shark would be another likely candidate--some would say more likely than a great white, especially during the creek attacks.  With that being said, if you’re interested in the topic it’s a quick read and nicely informative.  To paraphrase Jon Snow, I like the shark bits.

[thatbookcritic]

CICADA GIRL: Love Appraiser

Title: CICADA GIRL: Love Appraiser

Media: Webcomic

Author: Yuanqian Gong and Royalacg

Criticism written by: Kai

Editor: Julie

The Review:

Hello everyone! My name is Kai ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ I’m sure you all know who I am if you follow Julie’s and mine others blogs. If not, just know that I’m one of the reviewers in the blog ThatYandereCritic. Today, instead of rating or reviewing a yandere story, I’ll be reviewing a webcomic that I’ve been following for sometime…

Love Appraiser follows the story of a woman named Sally. As the title suggest, Sally is a “Love Appraiser”: a person who help wives and girlfriends verify their husband’s or boyfriend’s sincerity in the relationship (AKA would the guy cheat?). The entire time Sally was working as a love appraiser, not a single guy proved to be loyal. It was during one of her jobs that she met a man named Benny. Sally mistaken him as her target and was surprised to find that he was a tough nut to crack. Intrigued by Benny’s aloof nature, Sally decided to give love a chance and chase after Benny and the two eventually started dating. Of course, being a love appraiser, Sally have to make sure that Benny is loyal…

Aaand, that’s the whole story in a nutshell. There’s lots of drama in between with character dynamics and spoiler alert: Benny pass Sally’s test… for now. I want to first start out in saying that the art is absolutely breathtaking and incredibly detailed. It’s particularly unique and the way the women are drawn are really beautiful. As for the guys… eh, they’re fine. If the artist tried, I’m sure they can draw an attractive dude but for some reason, all the guys look average to mediocre. It just makes me go, “how can these guys hook up with all these hot chicks? Are they rich or “have a good personality”?” Anyways, the art is amazing and the dialogue is particularly interesting. It really draws you in and characters say some thought provoking lines. Too bad once you take away all the flowery language, you realize how stupid the characters are and that the “morality issue” is bullshit.

If you look pass the art and the grandiose dialogue, you realize that the message of “the morality of love” that the author is trying to get across is just plain weak and idiotic. Just like Shiki, Love Appraiser just fell flat with it’s “area of grey”. Stripping Love Appraiser of it fancy wrapping, all you find is a bunch of manchilds whining about how it’s women fault that they end up cheating. Christ, it’s like reading an incel forum if the incels were a little more eloquent with their words.

You see, dear readers, the author is trying to paint the conflict of “men’s desires vs. women’s distrust in love”. The comic is just one big show of “Women distrust men= woman test men= men fall into temptation= man cheats= they break up= self fulfilling prophecy.” But there are so many things wrong with this painting that I don’t even know where to start. First of all, the comic is stating that all men cheat and if given the chance a man will cheat. The message that is trying to get across here is “women need to accept the fact that men will cheat on you and to just live with it.” Just… no. Truly loyal men would never cheat. I recall there was a dialogue in the comic that basically boils down to: “Are you tell me that men shouldn’t cheat? Crazy.” YES. EXACTLY.  IF YOU’RE DATING SOMEONE. DON’T CHEAT DUMBASS.There was another message of how “it’s womens fault for why a man cheats.” A) No. It’s not. Women aren’t some puppet master that control your actions. Just say no and move on. B) Yes, the woman is at fault if she hired a “love appraiser” to test her man but it’s still the guys fault for even falling for it like a moron. Honestly, if you really want to hit home on “woman’s distrust” you don’t show it by proving the woman is right. If we see the man passing the test and then finding out that he was test; which leads up to the break up, that would be more meaningful for this message. C) Most women aren’t that distrustful in the first place, tbh. Unless there’s an insecurity, most women trust their partner. I like to think that most women have a “gut feeling” when if comes to when a guy is cheating on them. Basically, this point just falls flat no matter how you look at it. There was another issue where this guy was cheating on his wife (who he has kids with mind you). When Sally tried to put out how fucked up this was, the group of “friends” shut her down by shaming her and gave excuses why cheating is a good thing. They gave the excuses like “how messy divorce is”, “how married life ruined this guys life”, and “that he still loves his wife but also the mistress”. Just… fuck off. Just grow a pair of balls and commit to that divorce if you hate your married life so much and clearly he doesn’t love his wife enough if he willingly made her a cuck. The most infuriating point they made was when one of the guys said, “Dating this mistress made him (the cheater) act like himself again. It’s like he’s 18 again.” Oh? So what about the wife who’s acting her age in juggling a job, a household, and children? Because fuck her for “ruining his life”, am I right boys?! AY!

Fuck off assholes.

The more I read, the more angry I get yet I can’t look away like watching a trainwreck in motion. Authors always have a hard time in writing morality and it can fail horrible in a story, just like Love Appraiser. When you want to create a story about two clashing moral points, they have to weigh equally on a scale. Yes, there are some faults with a woman being distrust in a relationship, but that’s honestly normal. Relationships are scary but with trust and communication, it can be something secure. You know what isn’t normal? Cheating. No matter how the author tries to paint cheating, cheating is bad. Morally? Bad. Society? Bad. There’s nothing good about it and all parties get hurt. This isn’t polygamy where everyone is a consenting adults. It’s one person (maybe two) going behind their partner’s back without them knowing. “Poor the guys for having to put up with a relationship!” No, pity the women who have their trust broken by the person they trust the most. If you want to be with a different person, then be the bigger man and break up with your current partner; don’t cheat. Seriously, don’t. It ain’t rocket science folks.

Well, I might be harping too much since cheating is a big issue with me. I’m pretty morally loose person but if there’s two things I’m rigid on is loyalty and humility. I still encourage everyone to read this webcomic and come to your own conclusions but I only beg that you don’t be tricked by the pretty pictures and sparkly words. As your teachers like to preach: Think critically.

Overall Score: 5/10

(Kai’s note: People give yanderes a bad rep as a love interest but honestly, after reading this comic, they’re looking more ideal. Who doesn’t want a loyal partner who would literally do anything for you and never cheat on you? I don’t know about y’all but I can sleep more easily with a guy who’s could kill me instead of a normal guy who would cheat on me. I already risk getting murdered by random strangers everyday just by going outside, what’s the difference?)

[holmesoverture]

In Sherlock’s Room, Part Two

Part One Be Here

Title: In Sherlock’s Room Rating (for this half): PG Total Word Count: 6431 Pairing: bi Watson/ace trans Holmes Universe: Modern AU of the original canon Summary: Holmes solves a case in his jammies.  Watson does laundry and makes ravioli.

TW for this half: very vaguely implied past acephobia; another mention of past acephobia (probably past transphobia also) which is immediately followed by petty revenge

Editing was tedious work.  My editor, for all his many redeeming qualities, invariably failed to appreciate the flowery endings to my tales and insisted I cut them off far earlier than I should have preferred.

“People read your stories for two reasons,” he once told me after nearly a half-hour of increasingly stormy debate on the subject; “the mystery, and the solution to the mystery.  No one cares what happens to you once the crook is sitting in a jail cell.  You can spend the night giving each other gob-jobs for all anyone cares.  Oh, I’ve said something funny now, have I?”

The bundles of fan mail I received every week inquiring as to whether I was single and whether Holmes was any good at finding hidden sausages made me question his judgment, but I was paid very handsomely for my work.  I could afford to assume that he had been made editor for a reason.

My efforts to curtail the offending epilogues on my own proved futile and so I had given up altogether, allowing my fingers to stretch the story for as long as they pleased, knowing that my editor would cut it all anyway while cursing my name. I was well into an appallingly purple passage in which Holmes and I compare the seasonal changes of the leaves to the arc of the average criminal’s career when Holmes burst in, catching the door before it could slam into the wall.

“Ceromancy!” he cried.

“Gesundheit,” I said.

“Kommst du mit, Naseweis.”

One did not need to speak German to understand what he wanted.  I followed him back to his room.  He had turned on some music since I left, a whiplash-inducing blend of classical pieces and Eurovision finalists.  Several new items had taken up residence on his desk.  His laptop now sat amongst the clutter rather than on his bed, along with a large, overly fragrant lavender candle, either borrowed or stolen from Mrs Hudson, and a bowl of water with a vaguely egg-shaped bit of hardened wax floating in its centre.

“I take it this is somehow connected with cera… ciril—”

“Ceromancy.  It is the art of divining the future via wax images in water.  One of the methods involves adding certain ingredients to the water, including seeds of the cuminum cyminum, which Mrs Mulvehill reports smelling in her wife’s vehicle on more than one occasion, and sprigs of ruta graveolens, a toxic herb that can cause blisters.”

I recalled the neatly torn note in the package that had started Holmes’ day, in which Mrs Mulvehill remarked upon the blisters on her wife’s hand.

“Further,” Holmes continued, “this particular set of instructions involves tying two candles together with a red ribbon.”

He spun the laptop so I could see the screen, though I hardly needed to look to know what would be there: the photograph of the red ribbon tied to the rearview mirror.

“That looks about long enough to bind a pair of candles, does it not?” said he.

I thought it strange that a woman should drive five hours one way every weekend simply to have her fortune told, and said so to Holmes.

“I have not yet finished examining all of the evidence.  There may very well be another explanation for these clues that will become apparent once I reach the end of my investigation.”

“So there is still a chance that Polly Mulvehill is seeing another woman?”

“Unfortunately for our client, yes.”

He lifted a hand to swipe to the next photograph, then gave it a second thought and turned to me instead.

“Why do people do it?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Cheat.  Polly Mulvehill has a perfectly devoted and intelligent wife, but that wasn’t enough for her.  She still felt the need to fill her time and, presumably, various other things with someone else, all in pursuit of a few sweaty, sticky moments on a flat surface. What can possibly be so thrilling about sex that it drives people to betray those closest to them?  It can’t be any better than a concert at the Barbican, and I wouldn’t cheat on you for a box seat.”

That hadn’t ever been a concern of mine, but it was nice to know.

“Sex is pleasurable for a lot of people,” I said, “and for some, it confers a certain status that concert tickets don’t.  It makes them feel powerful, attractive, special, even loved—”

“That hardly justifies cheating.”

“Of course it doesn’t.  I suppose some people never learned the same sort of self-control that you have with regard to box seats.”

He laughed at the jab and began setting up his chemical apparatus as the delicate dénouement of Gluck’s Melodie ceded to the gravelly bombast of Lordi’s Hard Rock Hallelujah.

“What are you going to do now?” I asked.

“I must test the dirt samples sent to me by Mrs Mulvehill to determine if there is anything distinctive about them.  The definitive answer to the question of how Polly Mulvehill has been spending her weekends may well be lurking in one of these test tubes.”

He muttered a few more disparaging comments about unfaithful spouses before returning to work.  I sat on the edge of Holmes’ bed and ran a finger along a seam in his blanket.  It had some peculiar stains that I would have to remember to ask about, to make sure he wasn’t slowly poisoning himself in his sleep.  Not for the first time, I was grateful that we had elected to retain separate bedrooms even after starting our relationship.

At that time it had been almost a decade since I last slept with someone.  Her name was Allie, or something like it.  She was tall and dark and sarcastic and just barely passable in the bedroom.  I suppose it was the lingering memory of her mediocrity that helped reinforce the idea of there being more important elements than sex in a romantic relationship when Holmes wrote me the first of what would become an entire drawerful of love letters.  He made it clear from the very start that he could offer me every sort of intimacy except that one, but that does not make our relationship in any way less.  Maybe it’s the fact that I will never have the chance to confront this issue in my published works that compels me to be perfectly clear about it here: we are lovers, in every sense of the word except that one upon which our society places the most importance.

Well, I suppose I shouldn’t judge others for their ignorance.  I held a similar view in a past life.  “Experience of women on three continents” was, despite what my editor prefers to believe, not an exaggeration.  Nor is it an exaggeration to say I have never once regretted abandoning my old ways.  Who wouldn’t give up sex for love?

Perhaps not Polly Mulvehill.  Or perhaps she really did learn her lesson and would agree with me after all.  It seems to me such an obvious decision, but on those infrequent occasions when I have attempted to explain our relationship to an outsider, I am almost inevitably met with disbelief at best.  Mrs Hudson took it in her stride, bless her, but Lestrade got very confused when I responded to his barely veiled innuendos with the truth. I am slightly ashamed and very satisfied to say that I went for the jugular almost immediately.

“If your wife got sick and wasn’t able to have sex with you anymore, or if her hormones change as she gets older and her libido drops, which does happen by the way, would you walk out on her just because she wasn’t giving you any?”

“Of course not!”  To Lestrade’s credit, he looked scandalised at the very suggestion.  “She’s my wife, the mother of my children—”

“It’s the same with us.  Well, not exactly the same.  Obviously, there are some differences in our lines of reasoning, but my point is that you love your partner more than you love sex and so do I.  That is, I love my partner more than I love sex, not your partner.  You know what I meant,” I said, irritated, when he started laughing.

“You’re much more eloquent as a writer than as an orator,” he replied, but he bought me a pint as an apology and we never spoke on the matter again.

I suppose I could have laughed along with his jokes instead of lecturing him on asexuality, but I should have felt guilty allowing him to continue operating under the assumption that Holmes and I were doing it.  The mere idea of engaging in such activities makes Holmes so terribly uncomfortable.  Having to endure ribald ragging, no matter how good-natured, from the one police inspector he respects could only end unpleasantly for both parties.

Feeling suddenly maudlin, I moved my bad leg so it rested fully on the stained blanket, leaned back against the headboard, and watched as Holmes went about his work.  His hands, despite appearing ill-fittingly large on his slender wrists, always managed to look graceful when engaged in one of his chemical experiments.  But I suppose everyone looks more themselves when they are doing what they are best at.

I believe I drifted off a bit after that, lulled into a contented daze by the rhythm of clinking glass and the scratch of pencil on notebook paper.  I began to come out of my trance when he came out of his.  He tried and failed to control a smile.  A few scribbles later and he gave up all pretense of dignified detachment, jumping in place and clapping, sending the pencil clattering into the dustbin beside his desk.  That was alright.  He preferred to keep his writing implements in there anyway.

With but a short moment of warning he swept me into his arms, then released me and tugged me towards his desk before I had the chance to hug him back.

“This is far better than I could have hoped for!  What a splendid case this has turned out to be!”

“Such excitement for a bit of dirt,” I remarked.

“No mere ‘bit of dirt’ is this.  Have a look at the results of the soil analysis I ran.”

I did as he asked.  Even with my limited understanding of soil composition, I knew at once what had brought the light to his grey eyes.

“Iridium?”

“Yes.  It is exceedingly rare on Earth but much more common in meteorites.”

“I know what it is.  I just didn’t think you would, given your extreme disinterest in astronomy.”

“I looked it up,” Holmes said, witheringly.  Then, perking up, he added, “I suspect the sample in Polly Mulvehill’s boot came from such a meteorite, or perhaps from an object that was found within the iridium anomaly.”

“You did say she works at a museum.”

“She volunteers as a tour guide.  I rather doubt she has the authority to take archaeological treasures home with her.”

“So you’re saying—”

“Museums are a study in contrasts, my dear Watson.  In their exhibition rooms, they are well-organized, often beautifully laid out bastions of knowledge dedicated to preserving the past into the future.  However, safely shielded from the public eye is invariably an overcrowded and poorly catalogued backroom littered with valuables that could be missing for months or years before anyone noticed.  Why, I stole this very spoon from the British Museum over a decade ago and still they’re none the wiser!”

“Holmes!”

“Oh, come now, Boswell.  This is a soup spoon from my mother’s flatware collection.  Do you really think so little of me?”

“On the contrary, I think highly enough of you that I expect you could abscond with the British Museum’s entire collection of Egyptian antiquities and return them to Egypt before the guard could leave his chair.  Why do you have your mother’s soup spoon?”

Holmes abruptly stopped preening at my inquiry.

“After my last visit to Sussex, you asked why I was in such a strop and I wouldn’t tell you.”

“Yes?”

“She kept asking when you and I would give her grandchildren.  I should have run out at once and arranged for a hysterectomy if Mycroft hadn’t been there to stop me.  Instead I took her soup spoon.  Are you very angry with me?”

“Not with you, no.”  But the next time I was misfortunate enough to encounter Mrs Holmes, I thought I might distract her long enough for Holmes to make off with the rest of her flatware, and possibly a vase or two.  I did not tell him the specifics of my thoughts, instead running a careful hand through the tangles in his hair.  He was much more appreciative of such gestures when not occupied by a case.  Had I attempted to demonstrate any form of affection prior to the discovery of the iridium, he should have pulled back and shook his head, putting a stop to my ministrations.  Now, he not only permitted the display, he encouraged it, throwing back his head with a contented sigh.  He grasped my free hand with both of his, enjoying the light scratch of my callouses across his own, eyes closed so he could focus on the sensation.

At length he straightened in his chair and looked around, as if in search of something.

“I believe we have gotten rather off the subject,” he said.  He crowed with victory when he made visual confirmation of his laptop teetering precariously on the edge of his desk, where it had been shoved to make room for the chemistry equipment.  “I must get in touch with Mrs Mulvehill—Mrs Evelyn Mulvehill, that is—and alert her to the happy news.”

“I would hardly call the fact that her wife is stealing from her place of employment happy news, Holmes.”

“Perhaps not to you or I, but to a woman bracing herself for the news that her beloved has yet again been unfaithful, it may well be the highlight of her day.”

I never saw Evelyn Mulvehill’s response to the longwinded email Holmes sent containing his deductions, but Holmes informed me it was cordial and grateful and would I please stop scribbling in my notebook?  He had just learned the most wonderful new waltz that I was sure to love if only I’d pay it the attention it (and he) deserved.

We did not hear from the Mulvehills for nearly a fortnight.  At that time, as a harsh rain assaulted the streets and the rooftops of London, Holmes thrust an open envelope, sent from Kendal, Cumbria, under my nose.  Along with her cheque came a letter from our former client, thanking Holmes for his help and informing us of the full meaning behind the clues he had deciphered for her.  Evelyn confronted her wife about the matter the moment she returned from work on the day of Holmes’ revelation.  Polly, to her credit, admitted to the scheme at once, but the story which followed her confession was one that neither of us could have expected.

Polly Mulvehill loved her museum and the history it saved and displayed, but the longer she worked there, the more she realised how dependent it was upon artifacts illegally obtained when Britain was at her most imperialistic. What right did any museum, even the one she held so near and dear, have to keep such items?  She made then a vow to smuggle what she could out of the museum and back to the lands from which they had been taken.

She sought out a fence, a man based in Aberdeen who was very superstitious and insisted upon consulting a friend who specialised in divination, including ceromancy, before each and every step of their exchange.  At least twice, to Polly’s intense displeasure, the fence interpreted the candle drippings negatively and refused to accept the goods, forcing Polly to return with the stolen artifacts to Kendal until the following week.  Still, the trouble was worth it, Polly Mulvehill insisted, for the fence was just as devoted to repatriation as she and would do most anything, so long as the candles gave their blessing, to bring the haughty English down a peg. Upon receipt of the stolen items, the fence made his escape on a flight from Aberdeen International Airport, which Polly only made the mistake of booking a hotel next to once, compared with the eleven times she had travelled to Aberdeen on her self-imposed mission. One was also the number of times she made the mistake of handling the herbs which the fortune teller used to predict their chances of success.

Evelyn was so awestruck by her wife’s courage and integrity that she quit her accounting job and started an organisation dedicated to negotiating the legal return of all stolen artifacts to their countries of origin.  It is an organisation the Mulvehills run to this very day.  The missive ended with a plea veiled as a compliment, stating that Evelyn Mulvehill knew Holmes to be a gentleman of the utmost discretion, and that she trusted him to breathe not a word of her wife’s rashness to the authorities.  The final item enclosed in the envelope was a familiar, stout red ribbon.  Holmes smiled when I held up the ribbon and requested I put the note into the fire.

“Another mystery over and done with,” said he, snapping the blinds shut against the sight of the driving storm.  “Will you be writing up this case for your eager public?”

“I doubt it.  I spent more time folding your laundry than doing anything related to the case. Perhaps I could end it with a big car chase through Aberdeen between us and the superstitious fence.  Maybe throw in the Mulvehills for good measure.”

Holmes chuckled around the empty pipe in his teeth.

“It is no more or less ludicrous than anything else you have written,” he said.

I chose to interpret this remark in a positive light.

Were this a polished and published work rather than a hastily scribbled collection of remembrances in a shabby moleskin notebook, my editor should have ended the account with my destroying the evidence of Polly Mulvehill’s crimes and her wife’s complicity.  It is just as well.  Holmes is, despite the great fame I have inadvertently thrust upon him, an intensely private man.  I doubt he would appreciate the whole of the English-speaking world reading about how we sat together on the sofa, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, he kneading the pain from my bad leg with a practiced hand, I reading selections from the story I had been editing and taking note of the parts he disapproved of.  He certainly wouldn’t want anyone else knowing about how our light bickering over whether or not I was allowed to describe him as gentle ended in several minutes of kissing that served my argument rather better than his.  And, most of all, he would recoil at the slightest possibility of strangers spying after the fact as he pulled out his laptop and helped me work out plans for a weeklong holiday in Cumbria.

[wholeasscoyote]

1. True. Even if there weren’t any formal laws in place, I feel like human society as well as animals in nature create a sense of order and “this is ok/this is not ok” rules without really thinking much about it. Future generations learn from the older generations on how their behavior is supposed to be. Even when chaos occurs, people themselves do group together out of our necessary need as social animals and therefore having some sort of rules set in place even if they’re loose guidelines. It just is natural.

2. Nah forbidden knowledge is only things that don’t have defined answers yet. And I believe it’s extremely detrimental to forbid anyone from learning knowledge about anything. If I want to know something, I’m gonna spend hours researching even if its only a vague answer its more than nothing. So many people go about this world and damage their lives because they were never allowed or given the opportunity to learn and gain knowledge. Everyone should be allowed to learn whatever the heck they wanna learn.

3. I don’t want to horrifically cripple anyone even though its a sport that literally is just punching the shit outta each other until one gives up/passes out so both parties know the risks. But I personally don’t want that weight of the responsibility for the opponent’s injuries and the potential tarnished reputation that could cause a lot more problems in the long run than being mediocre at best and everyone is still healthy.

4. This is extremely difficult. Because I’m not happy UNLESS I’m secure. I worry so much about being secure in things that I miss out on times to make myself happy and I just slug along. I have to have security because otherwise I’m petrified of what the future will be and I will not be able to focus on anything including my own happiness if that foundation of security is there. So I guess I’d rather be secure because I find happiness through security even if its not ultimate happiness.

5. Not really no. I think destiny is a way for people to explain their subconscious’s end goals and life achievements by finding/taking opportunities as they arise within their life.

6. Yikes another difficult one. I guess moving onto curing diseases. Even though that’s a very farfetched idea due to biology and evolving superviruses and whatnot, a shitload of diseases like smallpox and the bubonic plague were pretty much wiped out thanks to vaccines. Now if only someone could knock some damn sense into anti-vaxxers so diseases could actually be hecking cured...

7. I’d say I’m mostly a realist. I try to be idealist but I see how it is and how it needs to be dealt with in the best way possible. Its not fun to compromise but often I see how a situation is and there will be no way to have everyone happy with the outcome so it’s better to be middle lane so it satisfies more than one outcome.

8. I’d choose A and take a crash course. After being in college I realized how little perfect grades really matter in life and its more like the sprinkles on top rather than the icing. I work my ass off to learn for tests but if I fail to prepare then I’m prepared to fail. I accept responsibility for that. And considering I was the “brainy” kid in high school that all the lazy fucks tried to cheat off of, I don’t want to get in that same category of people I hate. Plus, one bad grade doesn’t mean its the end of the world there’s so much more in the future even if that’s a temporary road block. That was very hard for me to accept going into college because I was raised (and taught in school) that absolute perfection is the only way and that half ass won’t get you anywhere so if you’re not trying 100% you might as well be at 0%. Which is so ungodly false it hurts. So yeah choice A.

9. I’d rather make the right decision and miss a vital opportunity. Hell that’s been my whole damn life. I didn’t get a driver’s license until I was 20 years old but my mental state changed significantly enough at that time so I was able to have said skill and freedom. But I missed out going to events and things because I didn’t have any transportation but that didn’t mean later opportunities didn’t happen! Plus making wrong decisions in a society that shames anything besides perfection doesn’t help someone with crippling undiagnosed anxiety.

10. later scathing revenge is so much more satisfying. Especially if its someone who did something that caused me to go off the rails for awhile. Slow and steady build up to a grand scheme is just so so much better...

11. True. I’d say this goes with how I answered about destiny earlier. You have to grab that horse by the reins and slap it on the patoot to get to your goals. Life is a damn greedy bitch and you gotta fight dirty sometimes to achieve what should be the simplest of tasks.

12. I trust my guts. They know what’s up. Mother nature has it on lockdown.

13. I feel like an ass saying freedom but I have to say freedom and equality are both important because one cannot exist without the other. If you’re free to do whatever, that means someone else out there isn’t equal to do the same. And if a group is all considered equal, then there always seems to be some form of restrictions to their freedom. I adore the idea of everyone having equality I think its very important. But some tit out there is going to force restrictions on SOMETHING or someone’s gonna bitch about someone getting to be equal to them so it’s just a perpetual circle of “well fuck what do we do now”

14. Establish house rules for sure. My last two roommates I had while living at the Arch apartments moved in before I ever had a chance to meet them and get everything settled and so there weren’t any established rules (like don’t slam the goddamn door at 5 in the fucking morning when everyone else is sleeping jesus fuckin titty christ). And it caused rifts to happen between us. And I’m the type that doesn’t like to complain or ask if things are okay because my anxiety says don’t be a bother AND stop being bothered by things. And it boils over into a hecking mess. Letting things evolve naturally doesn’t really help if base rules won’t even be followed.

15. I’d say nurture/environment. Because I had a revelation in 9th grade of how shit my behavior and way of thinking was (thanks to my upbringing) and I’ve had to tear down barriers I’ve made. I still have intrusive thoughts that happen sometimes that I have to swat away with a big stick because I know they aren’t okay. And I see a lot of people and can tell they are said way by looking at their parent/guardian’s home or behaviors. We learn from our environments.

16. 1, 2, 15

17. 4, 6, 13

Justfuckingnougat’s Magic: the Gathering color identity quiz

So I put way too much time and effort into tweaking and fine tuning these questions, and honestly I wish I could put more but I’m already like a week behind when I said I’d have this so here it is.

What are color identities?

The card game Magic: the Gathering contains within it a unique five-part philosophical spectrum represented by five colors, in order: White, Blue, Black, Red, and Green. Each color represents a unique philosophy defined mostly by motivation. Determining a one’s color identity is to me more telling and more satisfying than zodiac signs, Meyers-Briggs tests, or Harry Potter houses, partially because the colors are much more distinctly defined than any of those other personality indexes. 

How do I take this Quiz?

Please reblog and put your answers underneath the respective question (that makes my life soooo much easier) and I will reblog with the outcome and an explanation of what that means. You can also copy the questions and paste them with answers into my ask box if you prefer. Most of these questions ask you to make a choice between two options A and B. Assume any information given to you about the scenario they entail is 100% accurate and all outcomes are equally possible. Please answer them without attempting to answer C and get both. C is not an option, assume it is not an option, and understand that attempting to get at that option only undermines the quiz’s ability to accurately adjudicate you. You need only answer with your choice, but if you feel compelled to explain your reasoning as well feel free to do so.

1. True or False: Without Law there can be no civilization.

2. Is there such a thing as forbidden knowledge aka. things no one should know?

3. You are a boxer. The outcome of your next match will determine if you are stuck a mid-ranked nobody for the rest of your life (which will happen if you lose) or world-class and rich beyond your wildest dreams (which will happen if you win). However the only way you can win the fight is to horrifically and irreparably cripple your opponent. Yes or no, do you take this opportunity for victory?

4.True or False: it is more important to be happy than secure. 

5. Yes or no, do you believe in destiny?

6. You have just invented a no strings attached method to solve world hunger. Everyone won’t be very well fed and some vitamin supplement may be necessary but starvation is now a thing of the past. Which do you do: A. A job well done! Now to cure all diseases! or B. Vitamin supplements? Unacceptable. The project is only done once everyone can eat like a king.

7. Are you a realist or an idealist?

8. You are being given a test. The subject matter is something you consider to be very important but know nothing about, and the outcome of the test will significantly impact your life (negatively if do you poorly, positively if you do well). Which do you do: A. Take a crash course (this is your best chance to learn about this topic) but get worse results or B. Cheat and get a perfect score (you will not be caught or tested a second time) but gain absolutely no knowledge on the topic.

9. Is it better to risk a vital opportunity to insure making the right decision or to take a vital opportunity and risk making the wrong decision?

10. Someone has wronged you. You can either get a small but still satisfying revenge now, or a greater much more scathing revenge much later.

11. True or false: no destiny but what I make for myself.

12. Which do you trust more, your heart or your guts (instinct)?

13. Which is more important, freedom or equality?

14. You are moving in to a new apartment with several roommates. Would you rather sit down with them from the start and establish some house rules or just wait and allow everyone to develop their habits naturally?

15. Nature or Nurture (aka. are we more defined by the nature of our birth or the environment we grow up in)?  

16. Choose three from among questions 1-15 that you felt the most conviction in your choice.

17. Choose three from among questions 1-15 that you felt the least conviction in your choice.

[dawnasiler]

Is Kojic Acid The Best Hydroquinone Alternative To Fade Away Dark Spots?

Kojic Acid is the underdog of skin-lightening treatments. It’s not as famous as azelaic acid, infamous as hydroquinone, or common as Vitamin C. Heck, most people don’t even know it exists!

But it often succeeds at fading dark spots and hyperpigmentation when others have failed. Take that, Vitamin C.

Should you give it a try? Let’s find out:

What Is Kojic Acid?

Kojic acid is a skin-lightener made by bacteria. No kidding. It’s a by-product of the fermentation process of rice that’s used for sake (the Japanese rice wine).

FYI, Japanese’s diet is rich in foods with Kojic Acid, like soy, miso, and strawberries. They believe (rightly so) it has antioxidant properties that help fight free radicals, the nasty molecules that give you wrinkles, dark spots, and other ugly diseases.

What Is Kojic Acid Used For In Skincare?

Kojic Acid is a skin-lightener that can fade away all kinds of hyperpigmentation, including:

Here’s what Kojic Acid CAN’T do:

Related: How To Fade Away The Dark Marks Left Behind By Pimples

Not sure Kojic Acid is the right skin-lightener for you? Click on the image below to subscribe to the newsletter and receive the “Skin-Lighteners Cheatsheets” to find out:

✕

Best Skincare Routine For Sun Damaged Skin

Don't know how to best actives for sun-damaged skin fit in your skincare routine? Get the cheatsheet and find out!

Success! Now check your email to confirm your subscription and received the "Best Skincare Routine For Sun-Damaged Skin" cheatsheet.

How Does It Work?

Kojic Acid is a one tricky pony. It lightens skin in only one way: it inhibits the activity of tyrosinase, the enzyme necessary for melanin production.

Melanin is the pigment that gives your skin its beautiful natural colour. But sometimes, its production goes into overdrive. Blame it on aging and sun damage. They damage your skin so it pumps out too much pigment here and there.

By inhibiting tyrosinase, you regulate the production of melanin, so it stops releasing any excess pigment. Now everything’s back under control, your dark spots slowly go back to their natural lighter colour.

Does Kojic acid soap work?

Kojic Acid works. But I wouldn’t get my fix from a soap. Two reasons:

Effectiveness: Kojic Acid works better when left on the skin. When you rinse off the soap, you wash it down the drain, too.

Irritation: Soaps have a high pH that’s too harsh for skin. It disrupts the skin’s protective barrier, causing dryness and irritation.

Is it worth to irritate skin for mediocre results? Stay away from soaps and get yourself a cream instead.

Related: Why You Should Never Use Soap To Wash Your Face

How Do You Use It?

You need to use Kojic Acid twice a day every day for at least a couple of months to see results. If you expect a big improvement from the first application, boy, you’re gonna be disappointed!

It’s also a good idea to use it in 3 months cycles. What does that mean? Simple. You use Kojic Acid for 3 months, then switch to another skin-lightener (like hydroquinone or Arbutin), for 3 more months. Later, rinse, repeat.

WARNING! Use sunscreen every morning and reapply it throughout the day. UV rays are the biggest cause of sun spots. Skip sunscreen and any dark spots you’ve faded away will come back with a vengeance.

Can You Use Kojic Acid With Retinol, Glycolic Acid, Vitamin C, Niacinamide, Etc?

Yes – as long as your skin can take it.

Retinol, Vitamin C, glycolic acid, and niacinamide all have one thing in common: they help fade away dark spots. Using them with Kojic Acid will help you lighten any discolourations faster.

Question is, how much can you take? If you throw too much at your skin, you risk turning it into a dry, red, flaky mess. It’ll take a while to recover for that.

If you can take everything, here’s a good regimen to follow:

AMPMCleanserCleanserKojic Acid serumKojic Acid serumVitamin C serumRetinol/glycolic acid (alternate nights)SunscreenMoisturiser with niacinamide

If you find this skincare regimen is too harsh for you, remove something. You do NOT have to use everything. You have to use what works for YOU.

Related: The Best Skincare Routine To Fade Away Dark Spots

Is Kojic Acid Safe Or Will It Harm Your Skin ?

Yes, Kojic Acid is harsh. At 1% and higher concentrations, it has “high sensitising potential” and can cause irritations and allergies. But that’s all you have to worry about.

Here are other concerns people have about kojic acid that are unfounded:

Can It Give You Cancer?

According to the CIR, “While some animal data suggested tumor promotion and weak carcinogenicity, kojic acid is slowly absorbed into the circulation from human skin and likely would not reach the threshold at which these effects were seen.”

We’re not rats or mice. Just because something is bad for them, doesn’t mean it’s bad for us. In the low concentrations used in skincare products (anything too high will irritate skin, remember?), Kojic Acid does NOT cause cancer.

Can It Make Your Skin Darker/Cause Ochronosis?

Ochronosis is a bluish discolourations some people with darker skin tones sometimes get when they use hydroquinone (Kojic Acid’s biggest skin-lightening rival).

I couldn’t find any proof that Kojic Acid causes ochronosis, too. Or that it makes your skin darker in any way.

But – and this is an important but – you need to use sunscreen religiously. Sun damage can darken your skin, especially if you’re exfoliating (it makes skin more prone to sun damage, including dark spots).

Can It Make You Breakout Or Give You Acne?

Kojic Acid itself isn’t classified as comedogenic, so it won’t make you breakout.

But if the product you use has comedogenic ingredients, you may still get a breakout or two.

Related: Comedogenic Ingredients List

Is It Safe During Pregnancy?

Yes, Kojic Acid is a safe alternative to hydroquinone during pregnancy and breastfeeding.

Related: What Skincare Ingredients Should You Avoid During Pregnancy?

Is Kojic Dipalmitate A Safer Alternative?

Ever wondered why it’s rare to find a skin-lightening product with Kojic Acid? This stuff is highly unstable and goes bad quickly. It’s a pain to formulate with.

That’s why some brands use Kojic Dipalmitate. It’s a mix of kojic acid and palmitic acid that makes skin softer and smoother. It’s way more stable than Kojic Acid, BUT there’s no proof it can lighten dark spots and discolourations.

Don’t fall for the hype. Stick to the real thing.

Kojic Acid VS Hydroquinone: Which One Is Best?

Hydroquinone is the gold standard for treating hyperpigmentation. It works in two ways: It works by inhibiting the activity of tyrosinase (the enzyme that controls the synthesis of melanin) and by increasing the cytotoxicity of melanocytes (it kills the cells that produce melanin).

Studies show that Kojic Acid alone is less effective than 2% hydroquinone in treating hyperpigmentation. But what if you use it with other skin-lighteners?

Another study compared the effects of Kojic Acid + Glycolic Acid VS Hydroquinone + Glycolic Acid. The results? Both combinations faded hyperpigmentation and melasma equally well, BUT Kojic Acid was more irritating.

Hydroquinone is the best skin-lightener of the two. But you can only use it in 4 months cycles. During the breaks, you can turn to Kojic Acid instead (as long as your skin isn’t too sensitive).

Related: Kojic Acid VS Hydroquinone: Which One Is Right For You?

How Does Kojic Acid Compares With Other Skin-Lightening Ingredients?

Finding the right skin-lightening agent seems like a mission impossible. There are a dozen treatments out there, how do you know which one to pick?

I’m not gonna lie, it’s often a matter of trial and error. Even when science proves something works, you never know how well it works for you until you try it.

But some treatments work better than others. As we’ve already seen above, hydroquinone is more effective than Kojic Acid. And Kojic Acid is more effective than mulberry extract and Arbutin (a natural form of hydroquinone).

I couldn’t find any studies comparing Kojic Acid to other skin-lighteners, like Azelaic acid. But given the irritating potential of Kojic Acid, I’d still try gentler skin-lighteners like Arbutin and Azelaic acid first.

Related: The Battle Of The Skin-Lighteners: Which Is The Best Alternative To Hydroquinone?

Not sure which is the best skin-lightener for your needs? Click on the image below to subscribe to the newsletter and download the “Skin-Lighteners Cheatsheet” to find out.

✕

Best Skincare Routine For Sun Damaged Skin

Don't know how to best actives for sun-damaged skin fit in your skincare routine? Get the cheatsheet and find out!

Success! Now check your email to confirm your subscription and received the "Best Skincare Routine For Sun-Damaged Skin" cheatsheet.

What Are The Best Products With Kojic Acid?

Glytone Dark Spot Corrector ($38.00): Hydroquinone + Kojic Acid. Available at Dermstore.

La Roche Posay Mela-D Pigment Control ($52.00): Kojic Acid + Glycolic Acid. Available at Dermstore.

Skinceuticals Discoloration Defense ($98.00): Kojic Acid + niacinamide. Available at Blue Mercury and Dermstore.

The Bottom Line

Kojic Acid may not be the best skin-lightener out there, but it’s still a good contender – especially when used with other brightening agents, like glycolic acid and niacinamide. As long as your skin isn’t sensitive, of course!

Take The Guesswork Out Of Skincare Shopping

Get access to the “Pro Skincare Library” for exclusive skincare routine “cheat sheets” and tricks to help you navigate the beauty aisles jungle like a pro and immediately know what to pick off the shelves to achieve the gorgeous skin of your dreams - even when you’re drowning in an endless sea of skincare products.

Success! Now check your email to confirm your subscription and get access to the skin library.

Is Kojic Acid The Best Hydroquinone Alternative To Fade Away Dark Spots? syndicated from Beautiful With Brains

[deadcactuswalking]

REVIEWING THE CHARTS: 8th July 2018

All right, I really don’t want to talk about Drake. Let me elaborate: Drake has made a lot of music I love ever since he started rapping, but honestly, after a few years, he just got too popular and lost my interest because, like anyone at their peak, kind of got the mindset of “I can do whatever the hell I want and still get money” – which is, in fact, true. His laziest, mediocre, most boring and cheap songs seem to be his most successful, and that kind of aggravates me, when he’s capable of much better and puts it out, only for it to pale popularity-wise in comparison to the trash that he can spit out. Hence, I am glad UK chart regulations have shortened my Drake-load to only three songs, while America has 27 Drake songs in the Hot 100. Let’s stop rambling and get on into the top 10.

Top 10

Surprisingly, Drake just couldn’t knock George Ezra’s “Shotgun” off of its top spot, now at its second week there. That would be Drake’s third number-one debut this week if not for this track’s somewhat odd amount of strength as a hit. Huh.

Oh, yeah, speaking of Drake, we have “Don’t Matter to Me” from his latest album Scorpion, featuring posthumous vocals from Michael Jackson and uncredited vocals from Paul Anka, debuting at the runner-up spot.

“Solo” by Clean Bandit featuring Demi Lovato is down one spot to number-three, somehow still toppling two Drake songs.

The highest of those two being “Nonstop”, debuting at number-four.

Drake also takes up the number-five spot with “Emotionless”, and just like that, he takes up three spots in the top five of both the US and UK charts. Delightful, it’s like the charts are his house that he rents every Summer.

Due to Drake, we have some decent fallers in the top 10, including number-six, “2002” by Anne-Marie, down three spots to number-six.

Also down by three positions is “I’ll be There” by Jess Glynne, now at number-seven.

“I Like It” by Cardi B featuring Bad Bunny and J Balvin stays at number-eight from last week.

“If You’re Over Me” by Years & Years is also down three spaces to number-nine, but that will definitely rebound with their new album and all next week.

Finally, “Girls Like You” by Maroon 5 featuring Cardi B creeps into the top ten at #10 due to a three-spot increase.

Climbers

Yeah, not much increased this week at all. Mostly debuts from last week had smaller gains, but those aren’t really notable. There are seven-space jumps for “Taste” by Tyga featuring Offset up to #27 and “Nevermind” by Dennis Lloyd up to #32, but other than those and “Oh My” by Dappy featuring Ay Em going up five spots to #26, there’s nothing to go and talk to home about here.

Fallers

There are a LOT of small fallers this week, especially for trap-rap and hip-hop since Drake took over that demographic, so I’ll only mention the bigger ones for pop and go rapid-fire for hip-hop. “One Kiss” by Calvin Harris and Dua Lipa is down six to #16, as is “Familiar” by Liam Payne and J Balvin down to #20, as well as “no tears left to cry” by Ariana Grande now at #29. “Flames” by David Guetta and Sia took an eight-spot hit to #34, and “Girls” by Rita Ora featuring Cardi B, Bebe Rexha and Charli XCX didn’t fare well either, down eleven spots to #38, joining Cheat Codes and Little Mix at the bottom of the top 40 as their track “Only You” is down eight spaces to #40 after its debut last week.

Now, for hip-hop: XXXTENTACION – for obvious reasons – didn’t have a good week, with “SAD!” down nine to #14, “Moonlight” down 14 to #31, and “changes” down 15 to #37. Post Malone’s “Better Now” is also down eight to #15, taking an identical drop to “German” by EO, now at #23. And rapid-fire for the lesser falls: “Praise the Lord (Da Shine)” by A$AP Rocky and Skepta hit #21, alongside “Butterflies” by AJ Tracey and Not3s at #22. Women in hip-hop suffered too, as “Man Down” by Shakka and AlunaGeorge hit #30 and “Bed” by Nicki Minaj and Ariana Grande had a five-spot injury down to #35.

Dropouts

Drake dropped out the charts. Somehow, “Nice for What” featuring uncredited vocals from Big Freedia and 5thward Weebie is out of the charts from #25, despite the album release and it hitting #1 in the US. That’s really odd, actually.

Other than that, “Love Lies” by Khalid and Normani is out from #33, “Answerphone” by Banx & Ranx and Ella Eyre featuring Yxng Bane is out from #37 and “Family Tree” by Ramz is out from #38, with most of the songs being pretty much at the end of their run, although “Answerphone” is fading away much quicker than I expected it to.

Returning Entries

There is one returning entry this week due to the World Cup and it’s an interesting case. Let’s talk about it.

#24 – “Three Lions” – Baddiel, Skinner and the Lightning Seeds

“Three Lions” is a Britpop song written by rock band Lightning Seeds, as well as comedians David Baddiel and Frank Skinner, known for hosting the show Fantasy Football League together. It originally hit #1 in 1996 because it was made to celebrate England hosting the European championships, however it has since been recontextualised for World Cup events. In 1998, it was re-recorded and hit #1 once again, but that version never really stuck. Instead, every four years (and sometimes in between due to the European Championships), the original 1996 track kept on returning to the top 40 or top 100, peaking differently each time – in 2002 it was #16, while it was #9 in 2006, #10 in 2010 (alongside a second re-recording that peaked at #21, released with Robbie Williams and Russell Brand under the name THE SQUAD), #77 in 2012, #27 in 2014, #84 in 2016, and finally, #24 in 2018. It has a strong legacy and will go down as an official anthem for English sport, but is it actually any good?

Well, I’ve never been too much of a fan of music that’s too rowdy or ladsy (for lack of a better word), including a lot of Britpop, but this is too safe for even that. The hook is so weakly delivered with not really much of a passion at all, and I’m not sure if any of these guys can actually sing – don’t get me wrong, it’s catchy and I appreciate all the references to other notable English football moments, as well as some being sampled in an instrumental break that includes a nice guitar/synth refrain that slowly grows in intensity but then it all drops off at that anti-climactic, weaksauce chorus! Skinner’s vocoded, for God’s sake. Put some passion into the main vocals as much as you do with all the backing and left-ear-exclusive vocalising. Yeah, I’m not too much of a fan, but hey, I’ll chip in and have some hope for my own country. Come on, England! It’s coming home!

Wait, sorry, no, it’s not, we just lost against Croatia. God, it’s going to be depressingly ironic when this hits #1 next week – and it probably will.

DRAKE (new arrivals)

#5 – “Emotionless” – Drake featuring Mariah Carey

This is technically a solo Drake song that samples Mariah Carey, but I want to credit her as a feature here because I find it odd (and kind of awesome) how she’s done nothing of note this year and yet she’s still had two top 10 hits in the US since December simply by convenience, the first being “All I Want for Christmas is You”, the second being this new track from Scorpion, and, yeah, you know this is a No I.D. beat as soon as you hear Mariah Carey’s powerful vocals over the simple piano chords and a choir being pummelled by this bass and the skittering hi-hats, very similarly to “The Story of O.J.” by JAY-Z, which he produced last year, especially with how the sampled vocals are chopped-up at times, setting the stage for Drake to body this track with his rhymes about... condemning females using social media and modern technology to enjoy their time in foreign places, specifically Rome, and how he wasn’t hiding his kid from the world, he was hiding the world from his kid (that basically means the exact same thing, Drake, you can’t switch that!). He takes some shots at Kanye and mentions how the wise man once said nothing at all, which apparently, Drake cannot do throughout this year as he’s dissing Pusha T and Kanye throughout the album subtly, and then there’s an awkward fade-out to a nice funky, jazzy piano section that just seems kind of out of place and unnecessary? It doesn’t even lead up to the next song on the album (that’s “God’s Plan”), it’s just kind of there. Okay, but the beat is fantastic, so check this out anyway.

#4 – “Nonstop” – Drake

This nearly debuted at #1 in the US. I’m sorry, but what does anyone see in this?! This is boring. This is trash. This is Drake and his producers just not trying. Drake half-mumbles his verses for the most-part, with some pretty cringeworthy lines about how he’s light-skinned but still a dark man mentally, and how he’s a wig-splitter or whatever the hell. This beat is literally just a bass and some cheap trap percussion I could probably download from Loopmasters right now. This hook is literally just a sample from a Mack Daddy Ju song repeating with static effects and distortion, to the point where it’s unrecognisable and a massive waste of sample clearance money. I can’t believe Wheelchair Jimmy could make a Lil Xan song, but here we are: a sleep-inducing, probably drug-addled sleepwalk through Drake’s mind with more ad-libs than bars, which is probably how I’d describe his album – just replace ad-libs with pointless samples, for which “In My Feelings” is probably the worst case. I’m glad that one didn’t debut. Oh, yeah, and there’s the opening part, which is supposed to be cool and all but all he says is he flipped a switch and has some dumb “flip, flip” ad-lib afterwards, like, what are you trying to do, Drake? No matter what you’re trying to do, you’re failing immensely.

#2 – “Don’t Matter to Me” – Drake featuring Michael Jackson and Paul Anka

So, combining his enthusiasm for both lazy sampling and grave-robbery, Drake decided to buy some unreleased material from Michael Jackson that he wrote with Paul Anka, who provides additional vocals on the song, in 1983, recorded in the same session that lead to “Love Never Felt So Good”, another posthumous single Jackson released with Justin Timberlake in 2014. Surprisingly, Drake sloppily rap-singing over deceased R&B singers has proven to be a working formula, as he does the same stunt with Static Major on the best song on the album, “After Dark”. It’s vaguely tropical in its production, with some nice, warm synths and handclaps as well as some accentuated 808s that set the stage once again for Drake, who has a charm in his badly-sung verses. Michael Jackson’s pre-chorus is okay, and the King of Pop’s chorus is somewhat lowkey, which is a shockingly calm, subtle vocal hook for MJ but possibly an overly dramatic performance for self-certified wig-splitter Drake. Also, I know the audio was from the 1980s, but this could really have been mixed better, especially in the kind of excruciating pre-chorus and bridge (which is just all over the place with unnecessary reverb and echo). Come on, Drake, the mixing throughout this album is way too amateur for someone of your status. JAY-Z’s verse on “Talk Up” might as well have not been there before you made it louder when you pulled a Kanye and changed your own album, cluttering “In My Feelings” even more in the process and not changing this track and “March 14”, which need better mixing, or “Final Fantasy”, which really should have had the unnecessary bridge that samples the Maury skit cut, or “Emotionless”, which could do with you leaving the profanities intact on the explicit version of the album (how do you mess that up, honestly?), or even “Blue Tint”, by giving Future the verse he rightly deserves, instead of just sticking him onto the chorus as an uncredited hook-singer. Maybe you could have put songs on the right side of the album? Side A was darker hip-hop and trap, why is “God’s Plan” on there? Side B was smoother, funkier alternative R&B, why are “Blue Tint” and “Nice for What” on there? Thankfully, this will probably and hopefully be the last time I review a Drake song until my end-of-year lists – in which knowing Drake, he’ll probably make both worst AND best – so I can say I’ve slain this dragon for now (if Pusha T hadn’t done it already).

Conclusion

I mean, what do you think? I can’t give anything to the returning entries, so I have to give Drake something or other. “Nonstop” easily takes Worst of the Week – that is a dreadfully boring song – while I think I’ll give Best of the Week to “Emotionless”, and Honourable Mention to “Don’t Matter to Me” with Michael Jackson and Paul Anka for at least... trying. See you next week.

[michellemcnamara262003]

Your time lapse life

Lately, I have been looking at my life through a time lapse lens. Instagram shots of happy memories, pasted together to resemble a series of happy memories and perfectly photographed food strung together seemlessly like an endless impression of a moody yet flawless john Mayer music video. The time lapse is deceptive, and the magic lenses of a filtered camera has failed to capture the endless endless endless disappointment. When I was an undergraduate, I had a vision for myself. Like all 18 year olds, it was a magical vision. I would be a 4.0 student, a star athlete, the object of every boys desire. Success would fall into my hands, I would be surrounded by praise and affection and I would basically, in its essence, encounter a life where my every desire is met. As most adults know in hindsight, we almost always fall short of the ambitions we set for ourselves. And reflecting back, I believe my first encounters with failure were in sports. I was a scrappy soccer player. Quick, tenacious Nita little too small and a little too undisciplined. I loved the game. I detested most of my team mates. In high school I was put on the junior varsity two years in a row. In biology class, I sat next to a girl who was a soccer legend. She played for the best club team, was on the varsity team and had somehow managed to find herself on the junior national team. I sat behind her and watched her struggle in biology. That didn't seem to matter. She had everything I ever wanted, and I would have gladly changed places with her in a heartbeat- her soccer success for my A in biology. Her athleticism for my 3.56 average grades. But the world doesn't work like that, and the harder I worked, the further I found myself behind, falling short of my ambitions and goals. I switched schools my junior year. I was never going to make the varsity team. My short comings hurt to the point that I was failing at school. My adventures in public school were lonely. I never made friends. I ate lunch alone everyday. The glimmer of popularity I wanted was squished by my soft spoken way of existing, blending in so that no one would see me. I barely spoke my senior year. In English class, I downright refused to speak. It became more of a challenge then a solution. The teacher hardly noticed and again, I blended into the background of the public school system. In December of my senior year I suffered a tremendous loss. While running during a soccer match, I twisted the wrong way. My legs spun in one direction, while my torso moved in the other. I fell, and when I got up, I felt strange. I kept running, no thinking much of it until the game was over. Then, like a bolt of electricity a skreeching, blinding pain took over my entire body. For the next six months I struggled with a hernia. Two epideral injections and an extensive back surgery and I was not in pain. However, my psyche, my sense of invincibility was crushed. I was no longer the kid who wanted to be the best, I was the young adult with a lack of belonging. This was the beginning of the end of my soccer career. I had a bit of interest from colleges, but after this, I was limited. I was bitter. I chose Texas Christian. My dad was proud. I was going to college and playing division 1 sports. However, I just wasn't that athlete anymore. The coaches threatened to cut me multiple times. At the end of the season, they held true on those threats. I was cut. I was gone. I transferred. Centenary was a new start for me. At least it was suppose to be. I was the player from the big d-1 school, come to play at the little d-1 school. But I found myself in a similar place. Too small, not fast enough and just not fitting in. The coach threatened to cut me, but decided to keep me on for a little while longer to see if I improved. I improved, and stayed on for the spring season as a last resort sub. Now if you're hearing this story, you are expecting a Rudy moment. Too bad. There isn't one. I broke my tibia that next summer, red shirted the following season and quit that spring. I was done with soccer. I was tired of the rejection. I was tired of that feeling of not being good enough, because the fact was: I was not good enough. I remember the night I told my dad I didn't want to play anymore. He was supportive, but could t understand. He couldn't get it. Even the coach, chase couldn't understand why. He even made an off handed promise that I would play in some of the games the next season. I quit. I sometimes regret quitting. But I knew it's for the best. I threw myself into school, my friendships. I did well in school. My motivation was medical school. I wanted to be a physician more than anything. I packed my schedule with honors courses and science courses. I made As. Teachers praised me. But in the end, I realize I was a mediocre student with mediocre credentials. I applied to multiple medical schools. I did not even receive a single interview. I was defeated. After college, I moved home to my childhood home. My younger brother was still at home. My childhood wasn't great,and I often get suffocated by the hovering of my dad and grandma, the lack of friends and a lack of purpose in my life. I worked a few jobs: I was a barista at Starbucks, a tutor for an independent education company and a teachers aide at my dads school. It was a lonely year, and I had no friends. I often found myself broken down in tears,wondering if I would ever find my place in things. I had to get out of my parents house. I applied to graduate school with the sole purpose of getting far away. I chose Vermont. I started a phd program having very little sense of what I was doing. I was very close to flunking out of my first year. My grades were shotty. My apartment was a rickety moldy graduate apartment I shared with a medical student who would fill the bath tub up with water and leave it there. She never once took out the trash and did not own a single piece of furniture. To top it all off, she hated me. Not just a passive hate, but a literal, palpable sense of hate. My first lab rotation was a disaster. My first mentor told me on a daily basis that I shouldn't be in graduate school, I had no friends, no social skills and was not smart enough to be in graduate school. She even talked to the director of the program in an effort to get me kicked out. This was after two weeks of being in her lab. Luckily, the director stood up for me. She told me I belonged, that I could change rotations if I wanted, and even offered a rotation I her own lab. I decided to stay, even after she berated me everyday. Every single day. It was like being in an abusive relationship. At the end of my rotation I happily moved on. I joined the next lab I rotated in, for no specific reason other than I had no where else to go. I was there for four years. In those years I was unsuccessful. I didn't publish I didn't find anything new. I barely existed. When it was time to defend, I found myself at odds with a mountain of regret. What am I doing here? What am I doing with my life? During graduate school I made friends. For the first time in my life, I felt connections with people. My first friend in graduate school was a girl named Liana. She was in my graduate school cohort. We were both athletes, and we found a friendship between us. When she decided she no longer wanted to speak to me,I felt that overwhelming sense of depression that I experienced in high school. That feeling that I am weird I. An unironic way and that no one will ever love me. Why she stopped talking to me has a lot to Do with some of things I say being awkward and uncomfortable. I made other friends. I met a guy named Ben who fell in love with my weirdness, I met a girl named sherry who cheated on me, forever changing my faith in people's fidelity and a girl named Maria who truly broke my heart. I also met a drug addict who was semi obsessed with anal sex, a few alcoholic friends and an emotionally disturbed Asian girl who's bipolar impression of me leaves people on their toes when I am in the same room. I also met my wife, mae. I adopted a dog and a cat. I bought and sold a condo. So life hasn't always been bad. It's been good too. After graduate school I moved to Oregon. I gotta job in an inpatient treatment center for kids. I was physically and emotionally abused ten to twenty times a day. Children bit me, threw objects at me, punched, kicked, spit and down right attacked me. I was physically injured multiple times, and even was taken by ambulance to the emergency department. My employment ended shortly after that. I have never recovered emotionally, and I still feel anxious from time to time when I hear children scream. After that incident I found myself finding work difficult. I was j employed for over a month. I took the first job that came my way: an adjunct professorships at university of Portland. At first, I was surprised that such fortune came my way. When I got down to doing the job, I realized how undesirable this position was. One class over 4months ways $3000. After taxes I was taking home $700 a month. Hardly enough to survive. And I couldn't find other employment as this course was taught 3x a week from 12-1pm. One of the professors kindly told me that I would never advance at this institution. I still to this day do not know if she was being brutally kind or brutally aggressive. I left after 1 semester. I didn't fit within the confines of academia. I didn't belong there. I moved to Miami. I wanted a fresh start. I decided nursing would be a good fit. I was somewhat successful at school. I did well in course work, in clinic and in other areas demanded of me. However, I never really fit into the mold they were trying to squeeze me into. I was weird and quiet and uncomfortable. One of my clinical instructors asked me why nursing. I could t give her a valid reason. I couldn't figure it out. I am back in Vermont, still trying to find myself. Still trying to pick up the pieces of my life and put them together into a coherent story. I'm looking for a job, a solid landing pad. I want to join the military. I want them to take my hands and show me that I can be what I want and need. I've babbled for over an hour now. It's time for me to go. I have never believed in god. That has been my choice. But I dwell on things, so I must assume that is a form of prayer.

[if-you-do-follow-your-bliss]

Follow Your Bliss

“If you do follow your bliss you put yourself on a kind of track that has been there all the while, waiting for you, and the life that you ought to be living is the one you are living. Follow your bliss and don't be afraid, and doors will open where you didn't know they were going to be.” Joseph Campbell spoke to my heart that morning as I sat in my pajamas, set in the calm before the storm of living in a whole new country long term. This was something I did to relieve myself of what I felt were undue stresses of American capitalism from time to time, first after college I completed an internship and flew to Thailand to teach in a perfect corner of the world called Krabi. It was more than fair to say that I’d fallen in love, despite the food poisoning, my loud and cheating students, the Changovers, and motorbike accidents. I had settled into an exotic routine, between visiting the gym every night after school, ten dollar massages, glutting on fresh fruit and sunlight, weekend beach visits and occasional English workshops, I’d created an envious life for myself even if I didn’t make very much money and came home with plenty of stories to dazzle strangers and employers. Upon my return to the States I carved a somewhat less exciting routine in a borough of Philadelphia, and shortly found myself unfulfilled. Perhaps it was my roommate’s four-year old daughter who’d cry all night begging for help wiping her ass, the two-hour commute to and from work, or the menial and mind-numbing task of creating and editing content for commercial websites for eight hours a day, but I could feel my creative soul beginning to give way to some sort of apathy. Once I’d taken great pleasure in meticulously crafting verbose portraits of the world around me and the universe in my mind. I could feel that ebullience of accomplishment growing less and less appealing than an evening of “unwinding” with my dinner and my friend’s Netflix subscription. Leaving the job in order to save money in Brooklyn at my grandmother’s didn’t improve the ennui, so I decided to once again set off for new adventure. I admit my first choice was South Korea and I’d filled in an application to a Turkish agency as a safety, a smart decision as I doubt voicing concerns about South Korea’s almost fatally-competitive education system helped my late-in-the-season application. Teaching in Turkey’s acceptance email was all too well received. I scrambled to prepare for the trip and in preparation became familiar with Turkey’s bumbling bureaucracy. Due to a sheer mishap, my visa application was halted for two weeks because the consulate mistakenly thought it incomplete. Unaware I could have finished the process in Istanbul and sadly ignorant on the concept of flight insurance I spent my first month’s living expenses on another flight to accommodate the renewed visa application, and spent several nights before my new flight panting awake fretting about another delay and the money I didn’t have to book another trip.

Istanbul presented new challenges to me. The massive push for urbanization had transformed the once rolling pine-encrusted landscape with towering apartment buildings and commercial centers. Though the setting was less than romantic and for the first three weeks at least one of my students would start crying – and on one occasion so did I – it was with no delay that I was immediately swept up into a sense of benevolent Eastern hospitality. My father’s family, who up until that point were estranged thanks to Hasan’s sense of impropriety and general neglect, reached out to me with open arms. It didn’t matter that I could barely introduce myself in Turkish. I could always count on a fresh bed and a full plate when I went to visit.

So I didn’t expect I’d be raped. The thought hadn’t ever crossed my mind, up until that point in my life I’d believed myself too unattractive or intimidating. But the Sunday before Thanksgiving I didn’t want to do what he wanted, and after failing to placate my pleading with “relax” and “why not” he shoved his impatience and disdain up inside me and asked me later why I was crying. I rationalized away reporting it to the police or telling my co-workers Ellie and Esra at school – “No one will believe me, they’ll want to know what I was doing with him in the first place, probably they’ll blame me for what happened, probably they won’t call it rape” – so instead I did what I believed to be the smartest course of action. I started seeing a therapist, joined a gym to keep off the depression-weight and for a moment believed myself to be out of the woods.

But of course, something was still wrong. Almost every day riding the bus to work I’d battle a vicious onslaught of sharp, bitter tears. “Just give me ten more hours,” I told myself and pushed the truce of quietude for the day. “Ten more hours and you can go home and cry all you want. Just get through today.” Inevitably it’d work and after spending the day teaching and tickling my kindergartners I found my need to cry subsiding until the next morning bus-ride. One morning in January I couldn’t make it. The tears pierced my eyes and began to fall, one for each broken promise to cry at the end of the day. I’d hold them off to wipe them away but with each stroke of my hand a fresh crop of brine emerged. For almost a mile I walked with my sleeves in my eyes trying so hard to stop myself from breaking. In the bathroom at work I washed the salt and redness out of my face and kept my head down back to the teacher’s lounge, but cold water is no match for the watchful eye of a Russian mother. Esra asked me what was wrong and like a worn-down dam I shook, split, and shattered. The next few months, leading up to almost two years, I spent my days in a state of self-imposed isolation bound by work, food, self-medication and sleep. Eventually I found myself in Mobile, Alabama in a house it took me a year to realize was a slum, battling aspiring-to-mediocrity musicians and inexplicably gay Trump supporters threatening to spur my PTSD back into full swing. It was a half-life I was leading. I could smile but I seldom laughed. I’d wait for work, go to work, and come home. Outside my job, I spoke to barely anyone but the checkout clerk at the store, and only if the self-checkout line was too full of equally awkward shoppers. It didn’t matter that the people at work thought I was funny or that people wanted to hang out with me. They couldn’t save me from drowning so long as I let myself sink.

To be perfectly honest I’m not sure exactly what shook me out. In my experience with depression self-motivation was hardly influential enough a factor to spur myself into action. Perhaps it was fear I’d dry up, curl up and blow away. Maybe I was dreading that one day I’d grow as cold and unfeeling as the rocks on my altar. It’s very possible that I was just bored. Either way I decided it was time to hoist my stagnant and terrified self out of the delta swamp and hurl it into some new journey. I was a loosely bundled pack of nerves on the way to the airport. The company with whom I’d sought out a contract had yet to contact me regarding a definite position, and while I was comfortable enough going with the flow there was a pestering little voice in the back of my head that kept asking whether this was a waste of time and money. If I’d get to Colombia, be surrounded by beauty and still spend every day alone with my computer and my dinner before fitful sleep. If the saying was true, that it doesn’t matter where you go you’re the same person and be the same person until the day you die. Maybe I’d go all the way to another part of the world and just continue drying up like an autumn leaf ready to die. My passport was sweating between my fingers, a set of gambler’s dice about to fall. I could feel my heart fluttering and quivering and so unsure every step of the way, when looking to a corner of the room I felt a quick rush of calm. “You’re going to be fine.” Finally on the plane I shut my eyes and wedged my foam earplugs inside. This was a gamble, and I a veteran player knew to keep a stoic face. I could surrender to chaos in search of bliss. I could find new doors to catapult through to find my joy. I could make my heart soft once more. At this point I really didn’t have a choice.