#maybe the consequences will be i drink coffee and get mildly sick. maybe not.

[vpofcookies]

The cafe keeps giving me coffee and one day I'm just going to drink it and they can deal with the consequences

[plush-rabbit]

Uncertainty in the Household

Picture Perfect Series

TW: talk and action for miscarriage, slight manipulation

Word Count: 4.1K

A/N: I wanted to explore the reader and Danny’s relationship in this chapter, so i hope you like it, first part is p rough with the whole miscarriage, so you're free to skip to after the second - if you're uncomfy with that

-

Tears fall into your palms as your fingertips dig into your scalp, your belly- while still early in the pregnancy, still feels as if it’s protruding, and you sit on the shared bed, a faint smell of cigarettes and alcohol lingers in the air and you’re alone. For now, at least. It wouldn’t have been so bad if it were Danny who was the father. You want to kid yourself, to tell such lies that he could be the father, that sleeping with- that being forced into whatever sick game Ghostface has with you- that he didn’t impregnate you. You blame yourself. You should have taken the morning after pill, you should have purged yourself of everything and anything to make sure that you didn’t let yourself have his child. Your stomach twists and turns, a thin veil of acid on your tongue and you wonder how to explain this to Danny. If you even should. It’s still early, maybe you could get rid of the child before anyone has to know. Your eyes widen and you sit up, your eyes scanning the room and you let out a breath, nodding to yourself.

You can get rid of the child. No one knows. You made sure to throw away the pregnancy tests in a dumpster at a park and rip the receipts before anyone could ever see. No one has to know.

Loneliness, while always being your aggressor, has finally worked in your favor. You rush to put on your clothes, ignoring the burning desire to cry, your purse in your hand, you walk to the front door, pausing to leave a note to your partner.

“Went out, I’ll bring dinner.” Something short and simple. Marked with a little heart at the end that makes you feel a bit sick, like it’s something like a lie that you’re telling him. You place the pen down and grab the car keys, rushing down the steps. Each step down the stairs is something that feels heavy, chains around our ankle and the child- no, you can’t call it that. You know you’ll get attached. You���ve heard about the tactics that are used to pressure vulnerable people into keeping their unborn children, and you won’t be one of those. You can’t. Not now and you’re sure not ever. The car purrs to life, the steering wheel a bit too hot from being under the sun and you wait, letting the cool air fan against your already hot body and you reverse out of the parking lot.

-

You return with tuna, alcohol, fenugreek, a peppermint and aloe vera plant, a thin bag that is filled with peaches, different varieties of caffeine that you can already taste, and pineapple. Your hands ache, the base of your fingers sore from the heaviness of the bags that you stubbornly carried up to the apartment. You were not going to make multiple trips, that much was certain about your day. You hear his voice before you see him, a greeting cut off as he realizes just how much you’re carrying. Danny’s eyes widen, and he rushes off the couch, taking bags away and your palms are redden from the indents of the bags.

“Are we having a feast?” His hands are inside a bag and he pulls out wrapped fish, and he stops, turning to you, a tight smile on his lips that you don’t recognize. “I didn’t know you liked fish.” He places it down and watches as you carefully place a clinking bag down onto the table. “Alcohol too, huh? What-” he turns to you, a nervous chuckle filling the space of his words- “Did I forget a special date?”

You shake your head no, already biting into an unwashed peach, trying to ignore how many hands and bacteria have touched the fruit before you. “Just-” you speak with a full mouth and turn your head, covering your mouth with your hand and taking another bite. You swallow and take a gulp of air. “I was just craving fish is all. Why? Do you not like fish?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just that I- I just wanted soup, and-” your smile falls and he shakes his head. “I can get soup tomorrow. How long until the fish is down?”

“Actually-” you reach into another bag and pull out two containers- “I was able to buy some sushi on the way home.” You pull out a pack and slide the container to him. You spare him a glance as he stares at the sushi with an odd, angry feeling. “Oh, I’m uh, I have tomorrow off, by the way.” You meet his eyes for a minute and he gives you a nod, allowing you to continue.

“You’ve been throwing up lately,” he adds, taking a bite from his plate. Your heart sinks and you try to mask your emotions, turning around to grab a bottle opener from one the drawers. “I’ve been worried, you know. Maybe-” the chair squeaks and when you turn, he’s sitting down, an unopened beer beside his plate- “I should take tomorrow off too and we can go to the doctor. Just to see if you don’t have the flu or-” he tilts his head, his lips twitching- “if it isn’t anything else.”

A part of you wants to tell him your fear. You don’t want to be pregnant, and you hope that if you manifest it enough, it’ll be true. But you also fear that he wants a family and you’ll be the one ruining it for him. Maybe you aren’t even pregnant. Maybe it’s just needless worry over a few faulty exams, but you can’t risk it. Not now. Not if it has the chance to be someone other than Danny’s.

With a bottle opener in hand, you walk towards Danny, his eyes on you the entire time. You place the bottle opener beside his drink, a hand on his shoulder and the other brushing back his hair, combing it to the side. His hands leave his meal and rest against your hips, his gaze up at you and there’s a hint of a smile at his lips, and you lean down, pressing your lips over his scar that adorns his forehead.

“We have bills to pay Dan,” you mutter, “at least one of us should be responsible.” You close your eyes tightly to avoid tears spilling over, the hand on his shoulder tightening and when you pull away, he looks unbothered for a moment before giving you a forced smile. “Let’s eat, okay? You can tell me about your day.”

-

All it takes is one doctor appointment to confirm that you are not pregnant. It was just a scare. And as if life and everything else in control of you wanted to laugh, you bled through your underwear on the ride home. The vomiting in the morning was your body simply pretending to have the signs, your mind so strong that it created a falsehood of pregnancy, just because you were so scared and sure of it.

Life is odd for the moment. You tried so hard to get rid of the unwanted child and they were never there to begin with. You had to go through with the nervousness that consumed you. The call to the doctor, the waiting, the glances that Danny gave you as if he knew something. You wonder if he did know. He isn’t dumb, a bit dense when it comes to your feelings, but he’s smart in a way that matters. You hope that he doesn’t know, for both your sake and his. The little scare will be something that you take to your grave, hoping that it’ll remain just that.

The fan is turned on with a simple swipe of your hand against the light switch, the room filling with white noise. You sit on his couch, your body stiff as if it were the first time that you had visited his home. You still remember how it was. Dirty. You hadn’t expected that from him. There was trash all over, a sort of musty smell and an empty fridge. He hadn’t seemed embarrassed, but rather mildly inconvenienced even though he was the one to invite you over. However, now the place is as clean as it can be, the musty smell now replaced by a slight twinge of alcohol and tobacco, but with an overlapping floral scent from one of your candles. You can’t help but wonder if he minds that you added bits and pieces of yourself into his home. He calls it your home too, almost too eager to make sure that you know that you belong here, but even so, it doesn't feel like your home. It’s too empty, too devoid of your touch. You still feel as if you’re a guest, waiting and cleaning, tending to him when he needs it.

The simple fact of the matter is, this isn’t your home. Your stuff, your personal items that you decorated your home are still in boxes shoved under the bed. You miss your home. “I miss my home,” you say to yourself, tears pricking in your eyes. The rent was cheap, and the landlords were kind enough, but it’s gone. The place scooped up by some stranger and the thought has your stomach rising.

You’ve thought about leaving here. Perhaps not Danny, but maybe that would be a consequence of you leaving. It was too rushed. You were too scared of Ghostface invading your life again. You made a rash decision that the both of you now have to pay for. He lost his space, his privacy and you can tell he holds some resentment, the way he slams the doors close, how he locks the rooms and won’t speak to you until he needs something, until he’s pressuring you to kiss him with a half-hearted apology on his tongue.

You glance at the coffee table, old and cracked, the paint on the wood chipped and revealing the unfurnished finish. The photo frame is cold, a slight layer of dust over it, concealing your nervous smile and Danny’s wide one. He isn't happy, but he’s smiling. You both only have a few pictures with each other. It isn’t much, and you’re surprised that the photographer wouldn’t want more, but it can’t be helped.

The photo is placed back on the table, and you lay down on the sofa, grabbing at the throw blanket that you added. Your arms act as a pillow underneath your weary head, and you stare at the photo, training over how his arms are wrapped tight round you and how close that he holds you.

-

Daniel walks into his shared apartment with you, and he immediately spots your shoes in a different position than when he left. He frowns, walking further into the apartment, his eyes scan the room, his eyes landing on a crumpled bag of fast food on the table, the drink creating a water ring on the table. It isn’t like you to be so careless.

The drink rattles in his hand, nothing but cold liquid is inside the container. His bag is heavy as he leans it against the wall on the floor, and he finally finds you. You’re asleep on the couch, your body curled with the decorative throw blanket covering your body as the fan spins above.

He lowers himself to watch you, your soft breaths and the way your face is relaxed. You’re asleep and it brings him back to a time where you were under him, where night concealed him and he was able to hover above you. It’s much different now, you’re still scared but he’s able to kiss you, to have you rake your nails down his back and hold his hand as if it’s the only thing to keep you sane.

A calloused hand cups your cheek, your skin soft and blemished with faded scars that he’s studied meticulously night after night. You wake up with his fingers tracing over your face and he doesn’t make a sound, everything about him is stoic and he wonders how you are seeing this situation in your eyes. Are you scared? Do you know? Are you pregnant? What are you thinking of him at this very moment? You blink slowly at him and he’s reminded of a cat, watching and tired, and there’s a burning desire in him that wonders what you would do if he strangled you right now. Slowly, his hand lowers, his knuckles brushing over your cheekbones and down your jawline, touching against your pulse on your neck and he feels it quicken. Your eyes never leave his and he doesn’t look away. He’s sure that he could convince you that it was a joke or that maybe it was just a dream that you had. It’s been a while since you had such a vivid dream.

Your hand creeps from under the blanket and you hold the back of his hand, moving it back to your face, letting your lips press against the side of his palm in a soft kiss. “Danny,” you say in a sleepy voice as your eyes close. “How was work?” Your hand that holds his becomes limp and he watches as it slides down his hand, catching on the cuff of his sweater until it dangles off the couch.

It wasn’t smart of him to invite you to live with him. He was too reckless, too needy and desperate to have you beside him that he just wasn’t thinking. Even if you are naïve and easily pulled into a false sense of security, he can’t just explain his costume, he can’t explain the knife and all the careful cleaning kits that he has. This is all too risky.

But he can’t throw you out either. He’s become attached. You’re like a pet to him now, and as every disgruntled man says on television, don’t name something or else you’ll get attached. And now he’s fallen victim to it. It’s nice to have such an easy fuck around, to know that he cold do whatever he wanted to you and you’ll stay here with him, because the other option is much scarier. The corners of his lips pull upwards and he pulls his hand away, fixing the blanket above you and he rises from his knees with a sigh.

“Another dead body,” he says with a chipper voice that he can’t seem to hide. “All signs point to our residential serial killer.” It’s much too risky to have Ghostface visit you, you thought this as your safe haven, you have to know and think that it still is, but fuck does he miss your fear and how pitifully you cried. “You never told me why you hated him so much.” He has to bite the inside of his cheeks when your brows knit together. “I know he’s a killer, but did he ever hurt anyone close to you?”

Your eyes shift and you pull the blanket closer to you, the folds stretching across your frame and showing the curves of your body. “I’m not sure, I just-” you catch his eyes and he sees you visibly shrink away from him- “I’m scared of his mask.”

His mouth fills with saliva as he thinks about just how frightened you are. “What a shame, I was hoping to get into roleplay.” He could think about you know, how you'd hit and scream, how he could pretend that it was all part of the act and just hold you down, thinking about how you would put the pieces together and sob.

“That isn’t funny,” you say in a high-pitched voice, already cracking and sitting up to lessen the distance between the two of you. He rolls his eyes in response, standing up from his crouch with a hiss between his teeth. “People are dead,” you whine, as if he hasn’t been keeping up with the news with you. “He killed people.” You’re much more emotional than he thought, but you’ve held your mouth for so long, suffered in your silence and in your vulnerability; it's only natural you would have such strong emotions.

“Relax, it was a joke.” He takes off his jacket and tosses it beside you, watching as you pull yourself closer, further away from his jacket and only staring at it with confusion, as if he dared to have the audacity to throw something your way.

“A dumb one,” you say with with a pout, gripping tighter onto the blanket.

“I said relax,” Danny says in a stern voice, already done with the conversation. He may have been the one to start it but he was hoping for a more playful one, or rather one where you go along with him rather than try to fight him.

“Whatever,” you huff, and he sees you bundle the blanket in your arms, pushing yourself to the further end of the couch, looking at the wall with furrowed brows as your hand tries to discreetly cover your pout.

“Great,” he says sarcastically, turning around and walking towards the fridge. “Now, you’re angry,” he says loud enough for you to hear.

He rises back up with a bottle in his hand, toying with the cap, letting the ridges play against his fingertips. You don’t respond and he can feel his anger start to rise, something thick that lodges in his throat and makes it impossible to swallow. You aren’t answering him. Usually this would be a good sign, something that means he still has you wrapped around his finger, but it feels different. You aren’t moving from your spot, and you aren’t apologizing to him. He puts the bottle down, and runs his hand down his face with a heavy sigh.

“I think,” your voice is small, and he can barely hear it, but he can, “we both rushed into this… relationship. We should have taken it slow.” When you turn to him, he sees that your eyes are wet and you try to take steady breaths but to no avail. “I’m happy with you, but I don’t think we were thinking clearly when we chose to-” your eyes glance around and you look away from him- “to do this.”

His jaw twitches and he watches you, anger boiling inside of him, white-hot that makes it impossible to think and if he could, he'd grab the knife on the counter and stick it in your back but he can’t. Copper fills his mouth and he turns on his heel, the bedroom door slamming behind him, loud enough that he can hear your yelp and loud enough that it makes his ears ring. He wonders what the neighbors would think of it, but he can’t really bring himself to care. He’ll find an excuse, he always does.

His name is muted through the door and he rummages through the closet, pulling out a worn backpack and knocking a few clothes off the anger that he steps on. You enter the room just in time to witness him opening your drawer and throwing your things inside without a care.

“Danny?” Your voice sounds so fearful and it makes him stop for a second, and when he looks at you, your foot slides back out of the room. You’re terrified of him right now. “Danny, what are you doing?” You ask in a small voice, as you take a tentative step inside the room.

“You want to leave right?” He asks in a condescending tone, stepping closer to you with the back held tight in his hand. “Well, don’t worry. I’ll help you pack.”

“I didn’t-”

“Didn’t you say that we rushed into this?” With every word he stalks towards you and he tosses the backpack onto the bed, only to miss and have it slide down, the contents inside spilling onto the floor. You look away from him and that only adds fuel to the fire that is tarnishing him from the inside. “Didn’t you?” He shouts, slapping his hand on the dresses, rattling your bottles of perfume and creams. He stares at you, his nostrils flared and jaw tight as he tries to keep a sense of composure. “Did you or did you not?” He asks, his voice eerily calm as he lets his nails drag along the wall. “What? Cat got your tongue?”

“I’m sorry, Dan,” you cry, your eyes spilling over with tears. “I wasn’t thinking. Please, I promise, it was just a long day and I’m sorry.”

You’re pathetic and not in the way that he wants you. He turns around and you grab his arm, latching yourself around his forearm. His name is on your tongue and before you have a chance to finish it, he turns around, his hand raised, and mouth pulled into an ugly snarl. You let go of him immediately and try to shield yourself, but he aims for the wall instead. His palm stings and you let out a choked sob.

He can’t think. Not with you here. Not with his emotions running so high. Not when his palm stings and there’s something dark brooding inside of him. He takes a deep breath and he forces himself to look at you. You stare up at him with worry creasing your features.

“It's okay,” his words are still tense, but your body lowers its defenses slightly, and he knows he’s on the right track. “I was angry.” He pulls his hand away from the wall and rubs it with his other, the palm of his hand a light shade of pink. “Why don’t we have dinner, huh?” He tries to give you a charming smile, but it falls flat. “We’ll talk about it over dinner. You know-” he reaches for your hand and grabs it in both of his- “like couple’s therapy or some shit. How does that sound?”

You break away from his gaze, glancing at the floor, and he knows your habits and tics by now. You’ll scan the floor, and look up at him and smile and nod. You play your part so well, and if he had to be honest with himself, he can’t lose that. Not yet. Not when you’re so dependent on him and him on you. He waits for our smile, to give you his own to show that he’s okay, that his anger has subsided for now, but you never give him that. Your mouth parts open and there are tears in your eyes, your hand shakes and grows clammy in his. He calls your name, but you don’t respond. Your breath is ragged, sharp inhales and shaky exhales, and he follows your gaze to the floor under the bed.

In the corner of his eye, he spots white and his nails dig into your skin. “Go get me a beer, I’ll-” he looks down at you and your eyes are stuck, glued to the floor where you can see the face that has haunted you- “I’ll clean up, okay? Just give me a moment.” It isn’t enough, you’re still looking where the mask lays, the bottom half of the face peeking from under your undergarments. Your mouth opens in a silent question and when you look back at him, you’re scanning his face. His body runs hot, his mouth going dry and he says the only thing that can come to mind. “I told you I wanted to try roleplay.”

“I thought you were,” you hesitate, and your tongue peeks to wet your lips, “I thought you were kidding,” you say breathlessly, your words slow as if you were hypnotized and the truth of the matter is, is that you are. You’re ruined by the mask that lies on the floor, the mouth of it the only thing that you can see. You peel away from him and have your back turned to him, your arms coming up to give yourself a hug. “I’ll go get you a beer,” you say in a daze, and when you turn back, your smile is weak, and you can’t look at him for long, your eyes magnetized to the mask on the floor.

He’s left alone in the room, his nails digging into the palm of his hands and red in his vision. The worst part of it all is that he can’t go out tonight. Not when you saw his mask. You’re naïve, and easily spooked, but even you could put two and two together. Even your suspicions would start to rise as you questioned why there was a murder the night he went out. Why Ghostface hasn’t come back for you. You’d suspect him and he can’t have that, not when you’re already so fearful of him.

[londonlanded]

Week 17

I suppose this time, my week started at midnight, sitting in the office at work, with only the 37-year switchboard veteran Isabel as company. She walked me through the first of many night-shift roles, which are mostly allocated as such due to the amount of distractions that are inevitabilities during the day. At night, things are much more quiet. Isabel taught me to clean up the messes the day team makes. It’s a lot of accounting, reconciliation, drunk-dials and frankly, a lot of security and safety. Isabel wisely reiterated that “night time is for sleeping” and that our job is to ensure that’s what guests are able to do. We dealt with everything from noise complaints to suitors trying to get back to the people they had run into earlier in the evening, you name it and it’s happened during one of Isabel’s shifts. My director said to me earlier in the evening, that “no good story ever began with ‘it was around noon,’ most of mine begin around 4AM.” 

I’ll start with the benefits of the night shift; everyone treats everyone else like members of a big family. No one enjoys being up all night, no one wants anything bad to happen as a result of being up when no one else is, and there’s a certain camaraderie, a certain pride that comes about as a direct consequence of being one of 7-9 people responsible for keeping the contents of 193 bedrooms safe.  We go over the emergency response plan every night during the handover from the day-team, and by the end of my night training, I knew everyone on shift’s name and most of their stories. It’s really not that hard to stay up until 3, even 4AM, and there’s enough to do that time passes relatively quickly. There’s even a 3AM meal break, and the operator’s schedule crosses over with the night concierge’s, which meant I got to hang out with lovely Lea from France every night I worked. She also spent some time at FS Toronto, so having her around was a welcome reminder of home at a time I needed a bit of comfort since otherwise, all I had was Isabel’s lessons, a lot of coffee, and silence in a room that’s usually filled with the clamour of phones. 

The downsides had very little to do with the job, and mostly to do with my own physiology. As someone who’s had stomach issues since as long as I can remember, I’ve always known that late nights make me feel a bit like there are small thunderstorms going on in my abdomen. I knew I wouldn’t feel great working nights, but I definitely thought I knew what I was getting into. Turns out the hours of 5-6:30AM are my darkest, apparently every shift worker has a certain chunk of the night that they’re horrible at handling, so I spent that hour and a half alternating between sitting and standing to keep myself awake, and trying to focus in spite of the my body’s ongoing revolt. Regardless, I made it through the first night and blearily headed home, but not before running into Lea in the changeroom as we left, and having her laugh at my state. “It’s a bit like you’re drunk,” she said factually. And it honestly was - nothing made sense, and everything was funny, and all I could think about was my head hitting the pillow, which it promptly did once I got home. 

Here’s where it gets amusing and rather grim all at once - if you know me at all, you know I’m not very good at sitting still. I’ve taken a total of 1 nap in my entire memory, and I don’t plan on incorporating the habit into my life any time soon. Maybe it’s fear of missing out on life, maybe it’s anxiety, but regardless of the reasoning behind me staying up all day in spite of the exhaustion I may be experiencing, my resistance against napping quite frankly f#$k#@ me over on this one. I woke up around 15:30 after sleeping around 4.5 hours, and dragged myself to the gym after failing to fall back asleep. I’ve definitely worked harder on less sleep, but the second night was no easier than the first. I managed to make it through though, and I collapsed into my bed even earlier the second day, hoping my blacked out windows and the nutmeg that one of the room service staff had given me would help me conk out properly. No dice, I was wide awake 3 hours later, and try as I might, I wasn’t getting back to sleep. Okay, we can do three days of work on 8 hours sleep right? 

Good news, I was sort of starting to enjoy the peace of the early morning hours I spent at the hotel, and I was appreciating the group of people I was spending those hours with. While they certainly saw me at my silliest (read - disoriented and mildly incoherent with sleep deprivation and caffeine-induced delusions), they also saw me at my calmest, and I think I saw them at their purest as well. There is no one to impress when you’re up at 4AM, it’s very easy to just be yourself. 

Regardless, night shifts aren’t for me apparently. A sick-call later, I was groggily attempting to get back to a normal human schedule in preparation for my dad and step mum to arrive the following day. Thursday morning, I joined them on Hammersmith road, and naturally, I didn’t realize how much I missed them until they were right in front of me. 

We stopped at their hotel to check out the goodies they had brought me (the best part of the haul was probably the Oh Henry bars but the litre of maple syrup they added to the bag didn't hurt my happiness either). We walked down the road to Hammersmith's centre, and stopped for a pint and a bite in one of the pubs on the corner. Satisfied with their English experience thus far, they left me to my unpacking-my-early-christmas-devices and napped until walking to another English restaurant called Mustard that was about 20 minutes up the road. This probably goes without saying, but we ate well this weekend.

Friday was our first full day, and we started it off by heading to the theatre district to try and hunt down some tickets for that evening. On the hotel's advice, we headed to the theatre where 42nd street was playing, and got in line behind half a dozen other hopefuls that were also trying to get last minute tickets. We approached the counter and managed to score 3 tickets for that night's show, front row, for a total of £45. Hard to argue with that.

We explored the city between then and showtime, stopped at the Halcyon gallery to admire massive metal sculptures and exhorbitantly priced Bob Dylan original pieces, meandered through St. James market and accidentally caught a live string quartet performance, stopped at M&M World and walked away with about a kilo of candy (not complaining) and generally took it slow until arriving at NOPI where we had reserved a spot for lunch. It wasn't quite as good as it had been when I was with my aunt a few weeks earlier, but I was still more than satisfied at the end of our meal. One bonus that we got this time around but not last was that our waiter kindly gave us the entire ingredients lit for everything we had ordered because Lisa had a curiosity about one of the ingredients, so I got to see what went into every bite I had. Turns out there wasn’t anything I couldn’t pronounce or even just go get myself at the local Tesco, which was both unsurprising and somewhat encouraging, too. As complex as these dishes were, maybe if I find myself with a whole day to kill, I’ll take to making one or two of them myself? We’ll see. 

A bit more walking, and pre-theatre drinks and snacks at the bar across from the venue, and we were soon swept away by the bright lights and tap-shoed soundtrack of 42nd street, which was one of the most amazing shows I have ever seen. I can hardly walk and talk at the same time, let alone singing, dancing, tapping, and preventing my face from showing the strain it takes to coordinate all of those activities at once.

Saturday morning, we figured we'd try our luck a second time in the theatre district, and though we got rejected last minute from Book of Mormon, we managed to get 3 tickets to a play called the Ferryman, at a measly £12 each. I didn't think we could do better than we had the day before, but it was a pleasant surprise to be proven wrong. 

We spent the day exploring Dad's London, even stopped to buy cheese at Neal's Yard dairy, which backs up on Neal's Yard, the tiny open space that I remember sitting in with dad three years ago back when I decided I'd move to London if I ever got the chance to. It was a heartwarming experience to be there with him again, remembering the reasons I came to this city, and remembering where I was when I made that choice.

After the show, we headed home on the tube after meandering about Leicester square (look I spelled it right without checking google!!!!), hopped off at Baron's court, and noticed a few flashing police lights and stopped traffic head of us once we got to the main crosswalk by the station. I decided to jaywalk across a break in traffic, dad and Lisa stayed safely on the median to wait for the convoy to pass. One motorcycle stopped the intersection, another came up from behind it, a black Jag and a black Land Rover sped past us. It didn't seem like a massive parade of police, so I didn't think anyone too important would be en route past us, but I was still curious as to who might deserve their own escort, regardless of the size. The three Brits and I that were standing on the North side of the road all peered into the back seat of the Land Rover as it passed us, and in a flash of perfectly-timed police light, the person in the back seat's face and silhouette came into view, backlit by blue light and visible through what I was sure were tinted windows. A shock of white hair, head bent forward, the unmistakable features of the monarch were shockingly clear in spite of the darkness and glass that might have interfered. I would have questioned what I had just seen under any other occasion, but the three others on the corner with me were all experiencing the same post-Liz confused excitement. We shared looks of shock, and asked each other, "did you also just see the Queen?" We all consented that we had, and I yelled across the street to dad and Lisa who were still stuck on the median, "guys, that was the Queen!"

After our royal run-in, they came by my flat to see just where I've been living all this time, and I think they were happy with what they discovered. I describe it as a cupboard but it's really not that small, it's more of a walk-in than it is the cupboard under the stairs. Dinner at their hotel was probably the best meal we had all weekend, at least in my opinion, and I think the overall experience was good enough that they're (hopefully) plotting their return to the very same place. I'll probably still be living down the road, the way things are going. They hopped in a cab to head to Heathrow, and as I was walking back to my flat to go back to my version of reality, I saw some familiar flashing lights coming down the road ahead of me. The very same convoy passed me yet again, this time I didn't catch a glimpse of the woman in the back seat, but I have a feeling I was within feet of our Monarch twice in as many days. I was actually tempted to wave just for the hell of it. I know she was doing something in the city for Remembrance Day, so it's not crazy to think she spent the night here before heading home to Windsor.

The fam made it home safely, I got to bed at a human hour in spite of my Oh Henry sugar rush. Not a bad weekend.

Next week, more family adventures, with a little bit of academia mixed in!

e

[nathanberna-blog]

Day Four: Distraction

Hey there,

My primary goal has been “become a professional writer” for the past year. But that goal is vague at best, and raises many questions. How do you become a professional writer in 2017? What are you going to write about? What is the best path into writing? Whose wisdom do you follow? Whose do you ignore? And so on and so forth down the mildly infuriating rabbit hole we go.

A lot of times, the answer is, “Ignore all the hard questions and watch a YouTube video.” Or, “Read that Wait But Why article about procrastination. THAT will give you all the answers.”

No. Not productive.

But it’s hard, right? We all feel that sense of distraction. We open up our laptop to work, but hey, let’s impulsively click on Chrome, why not? You’re instantly presented with a million things competing for your attention. Did you hear? Netflix just dropped a big-budget Series of Unfortunate Events… series. Or hey, there’s this really alarming article about Trump you should read. And you should really catch up on that Nintendo Switch news… And if you dare open your Facebook feed, well… God rest your soul.

Then, to get away from all the noise on your laptop, you open your phone. There you’ve got text messages that need attention, emails that need replying, errands that need to be run, notifications for god knows what app.

And this is something that we all know about. It’s been talked about to death. People have written books about how to fix the problem, TED Talks have been shared millions of times about how to fix the problem. And then, you get online and see all sorts of people producing all sorts of cool, deep work, all the time. It should be surmountable, right?

No matter how many solutions are presented to you, no matter how hard you try to focus, that sea of distracting noise is always right there, looming over your shoulder. It’s like an alcoholic being constantly followed around by an open bar. A walking open bar with robot spider legs and a hot bartender who’ll listen to all your problems.

Like, how does Casey Neistat do it? Every time I open YouTube he’s got a new video, and they’re all good! Well… let’s check out his video on time management and see what he has to say… okay well now another 10 minutes are gone.

It’s a problem.

I think that there’s this message out there in our culture that YOU, the individual, are the problem. It’s YOUR job to rise above the noise and work hard / play hard. It’s your job to surf on the sea of distraction like Mark Gonzales surfs the streets of New York.

And yes, I agree that personal responsibility is important. I choose what I do with my time, I choose what vices I partake in, or don’t partake in. Nobody else is responsible for the consequences of my actions. The sea of distraction is no excuse for immaturity.

But if it were as simple as “handle yourself,” why is there this epidemic of anxiety and depression? Why do we have famous YouTube comedians talking about survivorship bias on Conan? Why are we auctioning tickets to unpaid internships for $22,000 dollars? Why do we have unpaid internships at all? There are incredible forces at work to poke at your very human weaknesses, 24 hours a day. Everyone wants to part you with your money, but nobody wants to give you any. Your attention is stretched to its breaking point, constantly.

Still with me? If you made it through that paragraph, you know what I’m talking about.

It’s a massive struggle to get a quiet moment for yourself, to calm that constant, negative, irrational chatter. It’s such a struggle that meditation has become an international, agnostic craze as we try to find peace among all the white noise.

There’s a reason books like “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck” are bestsellers right now. We’re desperate for ways to calm the monkey brain down, and cope with the world as it is.

Maybe we just aren’t built for it.

We are told: work hard, find your passion, drink coffee, and top off your day with a craft beer and your favorite syndicated drama. It’ll all work out, you’ll be the next big thing, and you’ll die a millionaire with no debt and children who adore you. Why can’t you be more like Elon Musk?!

But it’s not going to work out for most people. Only 1% of 1% of us are going to find the extreme success that we all crave. It feels like a deep-rooted sickness in our culture we all adapt to and ignore in order to survive. We have people like Casey Neistat that lead us, unintentionally, to reflecting on ourselves negatively. Why don’t I have his crazy work ethic? His dauntless positive attitude? How do I improve myself? Self assessment is definitely valuable, but aren’t a lot of us getting left to drown in the cultural quicksand? Are we just going to tell those people, “Sorry, you lost the game. Thanks for playing!” ?

And then we hear advice from smart, successful people, like our parents or our friends who have great careers, about how it’s not all that bad, how you just have to work hard and focus on your goals. These people are all generally older, and grew up in a different environment than we did. The advice has a lot of merit, certainly, but that’s not really what I’m getting at. It doesn’t address the deeper problems: the sea of distraction, the constant anxiety, the cloud of cultural dread. The advice generally deals with coping with the reality presented to you, and the coping skills don’t seem to work for everyone.

And “returning to nature and living simply” isn’t the answer either. Sure, it will work for a few enterprising people who make the decision to find a cheap plot of land and build a mud house and plant some potatoes. But the natural, rural world is shrinking all the time — if we all decided to pull an “Into the Wild”, the wild would be fucked. There’s a reason fantasy books and post-apocalptic movies have become so popular.

And that natural world, that rural world, is becoming more of a social commodity all the time, a way to demonstrate to others that you have the mental and financial capacity to leave the city and enjoy nature and travel whenever you please. And we look at their pictures on Instagram, and think about how once we finally get our careers in order, maybe we can have a life like that, too. Nature is being reduced to a place we go to take pictures of ourselves.

So yeah, pretty bleak stuff. But I think it’s important to be honest about both sides of the coin. For every “close your browser, work harder” message, there’s someone standing in the shower, trying to grasp for a moment of peace and clarity, wondering how the hell they’re going to change the trajectory of their life.

I don’t have any answers for these problems. Are there any real answers?

But hey, did you see that trailer for Zelda: Breath of the Wild? It looks great!