#memoirs of a man in pajamas

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Memoirs of a Man in Pajamas - Book Review

Artist and cartoonist Paco Roca takes viewers through his mind and life in his graphic novel "Memoirs of a Man in Pajamas". Read our review before you decide to pick the book.

⭐⭐⭐⭐ Rating: 3.5 out of 5. Sneha Jaiswal (X | Insta | FB | GoodReads) “Random Ramblings of a Cartoonist” should’ve probably been the title of this graphic novel, but you’ve got to admit – “Memoirs of a Man in Pajamas” sounds more fun. Written and illustrated by Paco Roca, the memoir is jammed with anecdotal tidbits, travel stories, jokes, opinions that range from extremely hilarious to kinda…

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Memoirs of a Man in Pajamas is packed with funny observations and moments

Memoirs of a Man in Pajamas is packed with funny observations and moments #comics #comicbooks #graphicnovel

At 40, cartoonist Paco Roca has finally achieved his childhood dream ― to spend all day at home in his pajamas! However, his blissful, loungewear-clad reverie is beset with a host of mundane problems. Spain’s answer to Seinfeld, these observational, relatable autobio vignettes by Spanish cartoonist Paco Roca poke fun at the vexing tribulations of modern life. Story: Paco RocaArt: Paco Roca Get…

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What's Out This Week? 8/30

Come aboard and bring along all your hopes and dreams this Thursday to our One Piece Live Action Watch Party and Craft Event!

Ancient Enemies: First Responder #1 - Dan DiDio, Mario Guevara, & Joe Prado

Trapped inside the shattered hull of an alien spacecraft and imprisoned for over twenty years, firefighter Sonny Palmer is transformed into something greater than and less than human.   He is THE FIRST RESPONDER and dedicated his life to saving others while unable to save himself.  In this one shot, we learn his origin and set up the world-shattering climax to the ANCIENT ENEMIES series.  

Everything's Coming Up Beatrix! GN - Georgia Dunn

Join Elvis, Puck, Lupin, Tommy, Beatrix, and the whole team for spooky tales around the space heater, daring hairstyles, not-so-hilarious sweaters, an Easter egg hunt disaster, new cat foods, "Heck on the Deck!", something called a papasan, and the first ever celebration of St. Catty's Day! Tune into a ghostly broadcast when Puck makes a harrowing journey to the attic and gets in over his head.... Can Elvis and Tabitha work together to save him?

The Devil's Cut One-Shot - Mirka Andolfo, Elsa Charretier & Jock

The Devil's Cut is your introduction to DSTLRY, a new publisher redefining creator-owned comics. In the aging process, the whiskey that evaporates is called the Angel's Share. But the most potent spirits are captured in the wood-the Devil's Cut.

This is The Devil's Cut - unfiltered stories from the most fearless creators, offering a distinct taste of the quality to come. 88 oversized pages printed on premium paper, featuring a flight of high-proof work from our Founding Creators including Scott Snyder, James Tynion IV, Tula Lotay, Mirka Andolfo, Jock, Becky Cloonan, Brian Azzarello, Marc Bernardin, Elsa Charretier, Lee Garbett, Joelle Jones, Stephanie Phillips, Ram V, Jamie McKelvie, Junko Mizuno  and friends including Francesco Francavilla, Ariela Kristantina, Eduardo Risso, Christian Ward, and more. Edited by the legendary Will Dennis.

Displacement SC - Cullen Bunn, Alison Sampson & Ray Shappell

Dr. Rachel Anderson treats those who suffer from the most extreme phobias. Fear of crowds. The fear of the outdoors. The fear of death. But after a session with a violent patient goes awry and her daughter goes missing, the only way Rachel will survive the night and save her daughter is to face her own fears.

Eden II TP - Kenny Wroten

A blistering critique of digital media and a kaleidoscopic depiction of consumer culture, Eden II is both fanciful and satirical, a combination of deft cartooning and virtuosic storytelling.

In the grungy, punk-inflected world Kenny Wroten creates, a cast of disaffected young characters struggle to find their purpose in life. Faced with a dying Earth and numbingly useless jobs, protagonists Ellis and Dr. Otis Heck invent an immersive virtual reality game, Eden II. But when Heck betrays Ellis and sells the game to a mysterious corporation, the lines between fantasy and reality begin to blur. As each chapter highlights a new character in the ensemble, the game's impact grows as the world becomes consumed by fantasy.

Far South: The Great Union Score - Rodolfo Santullo, Leandro Fernandez & Matias Bergara

Whatever the hell happens in the Far South stays in Far South! Montoya's bar has seen it all. Everyone who lives in the area frequents it, and those who don't, won't take long to do so. Everyone's a regular: scoundrels, prostitutes, thieves, truckers, bandits. There's wine and grappa to last for ages. Darkness is the only color you see there. So when the Police is looking for a culprit, they know where to knock first.

The hardboiled brutal land of the Mobsters and Gauchos continues to unfold, as bestselling international author Rodolfo Santullo and THE OLD GUARD superstar artist Leandro Fernandez present a new set of blood-soaked Noir tales, a must-read for fans of gritty crime fiction.

The Great Gatsby: The Essential Graphic Novel HC - F Scott Fitzgerald & Jorge Coehlo

An all-new faithful and beautifully illustrated graphic novel adaptation of F. Scott Fitzgerald's classic novel, The Great Gatsby. Adapted by Ted Adams (The Island of Doctor Moreau) and illustrated by Jorge Coelho (Loki, Rocket Raccoon). Whether you already love the book or are experiencing it for the first time, we've got you covered. It's all here, the roaring '20s in all its glory --the decadent parties, the gangsters, the car crashes, the love triangle, and so much more. Young and old can appreciate the dedication of veteran comic creators, Adams and Coelho, as they adapt this American classic story into the classic American art form of comics. "So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

It's Only Teenage Wasteland TP - Curt Pires, Jacoby Salcedo & Mark Dale

In the first days of the apocalypse, a group of high school boys may be the last alive in the city. When his parents go out of town for the weekend, Mexican-American high schooler Javi decides to throw a party-one that'll launch him and his buds into popularity! Or at least get them noticed by some girls. But no high school party goes off without a hitch. Javi can only watch as his friend takes a beating from the school bully, but then-BAM! The apocalypse has the worst timing. With few survivors-and even fewer sane ones-Javi and his friends will have to learn to survive together, and mend the fallout from the last party before the end of the world.

Kaptara: Universal Truths #1 (of 6) - Chip Zdarsky & Kagan McLeod

Back because YOU demanded it! Yes, you! Don't you remember? We were having drinks and you said, "Hey. Whatever happened to... was it KAPTANNA?"

CHIP ZDARSKY (PUBLIC DOMAIN, Batman) and KAGAN MCLEOD (Infinite Kung Fu, Cobra Kai) are BACK with a BRAND-NEW STORY ARC of their "beloved" "science" fiction series! Astronaut KEITH KANGA, trapped on the planet of Kaptara, is trying to find his way home, but first he needs to solve a mystery: who is stealing all the adorable CAT-TANKS? Who would DARE??? This wild and colorful series full of heart and chuckles could be yours for the low, low price of $3.99!

Kariba GN - James Clarke, Daniel Clarke & Daniel Snaddon

An African fantasy-adventure graphic novel inspired by the mythology of the Zambezi River and the history of the Kariba Dam, one of the largest dams ever constructed. Siku has always called the Zambezi River her home. But things are changing on the river-a great dam is being built-and things are changing in Siku, too, as her ability to manipulate water grows out of control, and visions of a great serpent pull her further from reality and her loving father, Tongai. When Tongai ventures to the Kariba Dam to find a cure for Siku and never returns, she sets off to find him with the help of Amedeo, the young son of Kariba's chief engineer. With the future of the Shonga resting on her shoulders, Siku must journey to the source of the river to understand the ancient power hidden within her.

The Knight Captain Is The New Princess To Be GN Vol 1 - Yakinikuteishoku

In this shojo rom-com tale, a dashing female bodyguard pretends to be engaged to her childhood friend, the prince... but is their fake betrothal really just an act to him? Christina, a.k.a. "Lady Chris," was born into a noble family and treated more or less like a boy growing up. Now a dashing young woman, Chris is not only captain of the imperial guards-she personally protects Prince Leonardo, who has been a dear friend since childhood. When his father, the king, demands he find a suitable girl to marry, Leo insists that he's already found one: Chris! Chris is shocked, but figures that Leo doesn't really love her like that; it's probably just some ploy to keep the king happy. Chris decides to play along, but as the charade goes on, she starts to wonder if maybe her princely pal has actually fallen for her!

Memoirs Of A Man In His Pajamas TP - Paco Roca

Spain's answer to Seinfeld, these observational, relatable autobio vignettes by Spanish cartoonist Paco Roca poke fun at the vexing tribulations of modern life. At 40, cartoonist Paco Roca has finally achieved his childhood dream - to spend all day at home in his pajamas! However, his blissful, loungewear-clad reverie is beset with a host of mundane problems: He dreads small talk with "the world's biggest bore," but his excuses and white lies are finally catching up with him. When a good friend breaks up, taking either side could lead to social disaster.

The simple mission to change his train ticket descends into an impossibly complicated, Kafka-esque affair. And worst of all, his partner keeps hanging the toilet paper roll the wrong way! In the vein of sitcoms like Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm, Roca's comic vignettes brilliantly satirize the pesky pitfalls of modern-day life. Like most of us, Roca's alter ego just wants to be liked and to do the right thing, but finds that through crippling indecision, cowardly behavior, and the absurd machinations of the universe, he is usually thwarted. The ensuing situations he finds himself embroiled in are as hilarious as they are often painfully relatable.

Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers 30th Anniversary Special - Ryan Parrott, Hendry Prasetya & Dan Mora

A landmark celebratory special featuring 5 brand new stories paying homage to the legacy of Rangers with stories by Ryan Parrott (Rogue Sun), Mat Groom (Inferno Girl Red), the original Mighty Morphin Pink Ranger Amy Jo Johnson and Matt Hotson (Titans), and young adult author Maria Ingrande Mora (Fragile Remedy), along with current Mighty Morphin Power Rangers superstar scribe Melissa Flores!

Joining the celebration are returning fan-favorite Power Rangers artists including Hendry Prasteya, Eleonora Carlini, and Marco Renna!

Between a spotlight on Ernie in Angel Grove, Alpha 5's struggle to find his true purpose, a mind-bending "What If?" story about Tommy's powers which introduces an all-new alternate universe, an additional tale about his marriage to Kat, and a deeper look at the Ranger Academy, this anniversary issue is truly packed full of content worthy of the 30-year legacy.

Along with 40 pages of brand new morphinominal material, celebrate 30 years of Power Rangers with an additional 24 pages of classic material that fans new and old will be delighted to experience!

The Plot Holes #1 (of 5) - Sean Gordon Murphy

THE PLOT HOLES are a squad of fictional warriors who transport themselves into the pages of other books, using their unique skills to save the plots in order to stop them from being destroyed. And Cliff is their newest recruit, a comic creator who's just realized his world isn't real-in fact, it's a complete fiction that literally exists inside a novel. The other members are misfits like him, pulled from unpublished books that couldn't be saved: a manga samurai, a barbarian tiger, a kid from a comic strip, and a vampire assassin. Outclassed by the other members, Cliff sets out to prove his worth to The Plot Holes as they fight to save as many books as possible.

Punch Up GN Vol 1 - Zachary Sterling

Young orphan Pitch is an aspiring tournament fighter who has big dreams of traveling to the city and competing in the Wide Plains Fighting Tournament. He also harbors a secret wish-to be trained by aging tournament fighter Sonny Chan. Can Pitch make it in a big city filled with unsavory types that want to do him harm? And is Emperor Jayson, host of the fighting tournament, one of those people? Will Sonny decide to act decent . . . for once? Find out in this exciting blast of battle energy!

Star Wars The High Republic Adventures: The Complete Phase I GN - Daniel Jose Older & Harvey Tolibas

"For light and life!" Set hundreds of years before the Skywalker Saga, Star Wars: The High Republic Adventures chronicles a time of galactic renaissance when the Jedi are at the height of their power and the Republic is experiencing unparalleled peace... until a mysterious force known as the Nihil, threatens to cast its shadow over all the free worlds of the galaxy!

Follow the adventures of Lula, Farzala, and Qort, untested Jedi Padawans, with their Masters, Torban Buck and Yoda, on their first mission to rescue the inhabitants of the planet Symant IV in the wake of a deadly Nihil attack. But the Nihil are not the only opposition they will face. Many of the planet's citizens resent and fear the Jedi, and two of those citizens will have to decide whether to go against all they believe and trust the Jedi lest they fall prey the Nihil's evil plans. Perfect for readers of all ages, The Complete Phase I collects the entire Star Wars: The High Republic Adventures (Phase I) series, with 6 never before collected issues, a new epilogue story, and of course, fan-favorite, The Galactic Bake-Off Spectactular one-shot!

The Witch's Marriage GN Vol 1 - studio HEADLINE

Opening the Door of Truth is the ultimate goal for many a witch. Gathering enough power to do so is no easy feat however, and a popular method is entering into a "Witches' Marriage," a contractual bond that generates more power the closer they grow. Melissa is one such witch-but is her heart truly immune to the adorable Tanya as she claims?

Whatcha scooping up to close out August, Fantom Fam?

[tarisilmarwen]

Rebels Rewatch: "Twin Suns"

In which the end of the Malachor arc is profoundly beautiful.

First off, obligatory live reaction version from 2017.

Second, I would be remiss if I did not link back to this close read of "Twin Suns" (by greenreticule here on Tumblr), from which I draw quite a bit of my own analysis and opinions about the themes and messages of the episode. Check it out sometime, there's ten parts (technically eleven but the last post in the series is more of a memoir/personal reflection by the author and therefore not as relevant to our meta purposes) and it is a loooooong read but worth it, in my opinion. I don't always agree with every single point of the analysis (the stuff about the Sequel Trilogy, for example) but there's a lot of things that resonate and that I incorporate into my own interpretation of the episode so I figured I'd mention the source.

Onwards!

Rather appropriately we open on a shot of the titular twin suns themselves.

The next series of shots are stark and empty, nothing but the vast white desert, emphasizing the loneliness and isolation of both Tatooine itself, and Maul in particular.

And he is not, ah... taking Ezra's rejection or the long wanderings out in the desert well. To say the least.

From this first opening monologue we can already tell that Maul is fraying. He spent ten years in the depths of madness and it seems like he's descending into madness once again. Even his clothing reflects this, sandblasted and torn, a ragged hood recalling the one he wore at the beginning of Malachor as he feigned being weak and decrepit, and uneven wrappings circling his arms, asymmetrically.

His mood swings from "Visions and Voices" are more pronounced, one moment warbling pitifully about being lost, about being so close to his target, the next shrieking Obi-Wan's name skyward like an obscenity.

Obi-Wan has managed to elude him all this time since Dathomir, and Maul is beginning to get desperate.

RIGHT, SO THIS IS THE PART WHERE I GET BACK INTO MY BLUBBERING KENOBI SHOW FEELINGS BECAUSE "JEDI CANNOT HELP WHAT THEY ARE. THEIR COMPASSION LEAVES A TRAIL. THE JEDI CODE IS LIKE AN ITCH. [THEY] CANNOT HELP IT." AND SOB FOREVER ABOUT HOW WHOEVER IT WAS ON THE WRITING TEAM THAT CAME UP WITH THAT RAW-ASS LINE, THEY UNDERSTOOD THE ASSIGNMENT.

So not only is this a callback to the previous times Maul lured Obi-Wan out to him in TCW, this now also a call-forward to Kenobi and I just want y'all to appreciate for a moment that Maul is using the exact same tactic on two different Jedi, simultaneously.

Maul is luring Ezra and taking advantage of Ezra's compassion, hero complex, guilt complex, and sense of hyper-responsibility, in order to then exploit Obi-Wan's compassion and protector-guardian streak, so that he can kill Obi-Wan when Obi-Wan comes to Ezra's rescue.

Because that's what Jedi do, that's what Jedi are, the Jedi Code is like an itch they cannot help it--frick man, I'm already emotional and we're not even two minutes in.

A general overview of the music this episode, and I'll comment on specific cues as they happen, but I mostly want to point out the frequent lack of music, actually. This episode is very stripped down in terms of theme and instrumentation and there are long stretches of utter silence, to help us absorb the atmosphere. It's very effective in making Tatooine feel utterly desolate, like we're alone on this journey with the characters.

This episode had originally been very ambitious, we've been told from behind-the-scenes commentary, longer, more complex, a lot more plot points, but as it was coming together they very wisely pared it way down to the barebone tacks, cutting out all the excesses and stripping things down to a simple character journey narrative, making the resulting story that much more profound and intimate.

(Plus the saved budget allowed us to get some absolutely gorgeous animation and new pajamas for Ezra. XD)

He looks so comfy in them.

This sequence is heavily styled after the cold open in "Legacy", camera movement and shot choice almost exactly matching. This is not a coincidence, as the basic premise of both episodes is the same: Ezra receives a vision through the Force, and it moves him to action.

Unlike in "Legacy", however, when the Force itself was moving to comfort Ezra and connect him to the voices and images of his parents one last time before their death, this vision is artificially constructed, sent to him by Maul--like the ones in "Visions and Voices"--to deliberately manipulate him, pull him away from his support network, make him act out of fear.

A false Call To Action, in an artificial Hero's Journey narrative that Maul has constructed for Ezra to follow. (More on that later.)

Side note, completely unrelated to all this meta, but an observation I just want to point out: It's the middle of the night and Kanan is not in his room on the Ghost. Where exactly was he eh? Perhaps a certain Twi'lek pilot's room? *eyebrow waggle*

Anyway, after Ezra's Weird Force Tele-Distance Holocron Call we move to a scene that is a bit heavy in the exposition department, by virtue of it having to hold the burden of the extra plotlines they pared down. It's maybe not quite as effective as it could have been but it serves its purpose: It establishes that they identified the "desert planet with two suns" as Tatooine sometime offscreen, and that they asked about Obi-Wan and Bail Organa lied through his teeth about the man being dead. So therefore they must have decided to give the matter up, and let Maul chase ghosts in the Tatooine sands.

Rex being clearly distraught at Obi-Wan's assumed death. :(

Kanan also reminds Ezra that the last visions he got from and about Maul were a trick designed to manipulate him.

Ezra's insistent though, as he always tends to be whenever the notion of being able to obtain "the key to destroying the Sith" pops up. So Hera takes him aside for a moment.

Her face and how often she touches Ezra's arms and shoulders in this scene hurts. :( And the strain in her voice when she asserts that if Obi-Wan were alive he wouldn't be hiding in the desert, he'd be helping them, Hera understands Jedi nature too, she just hasn't gotten the full picture, doesn't know the reason why Obi-Wan is doing... well... exactly that.

This is where the story beat parallels to "Legacy" end, because this time, Ezra does not receive Hera's blessing to go. Instead she reminds him, rather sternly, that he is supposed to be there with them, planning the attack on Lothal, she needs him and his focus here.

Recall Yoda's line about Luke: "Never his mind on where he was. What he was doing." Since all the way back in Season Two, when his mere presence started to become a danger to the safety of his friends, Ezra has been growing more and more obsessed with finding a way to kill the Sith, whenever Maul turns up more distracted. It ties straight back into his motivation for becoming a Jedi in the first place that he told Yoda in "Path of the Jedi".

"I just want to protect myself and my friends. And not just them, everyone. I'll protect everyone."

Ezra has an abundance of that natural Jedi urge to protect (planted by his parents, nurtured by Hera), the itch inside him intermingles with his clingyness and attachment to his Ghost family in particular. When everything went wrong on Malachor he internalized that failure severely, and his natural Jedi compulsions went overdrive into a crippling sense of hyper-responsibility, magnified by his guilt and leading him down the same path Anakin walked--seeking more power, from dubious and deceitful sources, in order to prevent another personal tragedy from happening to him again.

His desire to protect got twisted into attachment, into a clingy possessiveness, into a fear of more potential loss. In this way his flirtations with the Dark Side mirrored Anakin's, though ultimately Ezra never went far enough that he wasn't able to come back, the disaster at Reklam and his reconciliation with Kanan enough of a kick in the head from the Force for him to be all, "NOPE, I REGRET EVERYTHING, I'M NOT DOING THAT AGAIN."

But even though Ezra came to his senses and rejected the Dark Side, he was still not on the right path. The aftereffects of Malachor remained and he kept letting that Sisyphean unattainable goal of defeating the Sith--himself, personally, or else personally enabling it to happen--pull him away. Kept letting it move him out of place in the narrative.

He was supposed to be here, Hera needed him here. "You're in the wrong place, Ezra Bridger," Obi-Wan tells him gently, later. Ezra lets Maul, lets his obsession with destroying the Sith, yank him out of order in the cosmic destiny of things.

The Force has a place for him. But it is here and not there.

But he kind of has to go on this perilous journey for it to finally kick in.

(One of the scenes I do kind of wish they had kept from the original extended plot is the one where Hera and Kanan and Zeb all kind of commiserate about how "the kids", meaning Ezra and Sabine, are growing up and leaving home, and how they have to let them go, even if they might make bad choices, really playing into that whole parental angle and explaining why they didn't immediately rush off after Ezra.)

Despite Ezra's half-hearted assurance to Hera, it's clear he has no intention of obeying her order to stay put. His sense of impulsive hyper-responsibility is too strong, he's following the same instincts that led him to obsess over and misinterpret his other two major Force visions.

So he swipes a training A-wing.

He's such a little shit I love him. <3

This is the point of no return and Ezra is unwittingly drawn into Maul's trap, which mimics the beats of a classic Campbell Hero's Journey.

Joseph Campbell, for reference, is a writer and philosopher who purported the idea of the monomyth, that in all stories and all mythologies across cultures there are similar patterns and cycles. His Hero's Journey is often styled as a closed circle ("It ends where it began."), with a dividing line between the Known and Unknown worlds and various stops and characters and plot elements mentioned along the sides. The Hero's Journey monomyth, incidentally, was one of George Lucas's major inspirations for writing Star Wars, wanting to create one such classic mythological narrative.

So we have all the elements in place here. We have the Call To Adventure (the distorted holocron message). We have the Refusal Of The Call (Hera ordering Ezra to stay and him initially not fighting her). We have the Supernatural Aid (the pieces of the holocron that function as some kind of magic compass). We've outmaneuvered the Threshold Guardian and crossed over into the Unknown (Ezra swiping the A-wing from under the technician's nose). Along the way we'll pick up the Ally or Helper (it's revealed Chopper snuck along and went with him). And we will be facing Trials, Tests, and Tribulations (everything from the initial Tusken attack to braving the harsh elements of Tatooine's unforgiving sand and heat).

...But it's all wrong.

See, Ezra has already answered the Call to his own Hero's Journey, the one that started for him all the way back in the pilot, when he returned Kanan's lightsaber and crossed the Threshold into the Unknown world of being a Rebel and a Jedi Padawan. This falsely constructed cycle Maul has drawn him into is not his narrative. It was never intended to bring him enlightenment, never intended to complete, only to be used to further Maul's selfish ends.

That Ezra manages to find enlightenment and complete the cycle anyway is something that happens in spite of Maul, and not because of him, and takes some severe course-correcting from Obi-Wan. Over and over this episode we'll hear this idea repeated, that this was not where Ezra was supposed to be in the story, it's not his job or responsibility to deal with Maul, he is where "[he] should never have been".

We'll table that for now and come back to it, have a moment to enjoy some pretty caps.

Thus far, music-wise, we've had a couple ominous cues, and a bouncy jaunt full of Rebellion flutes and brass as Ezra made his escape, in between a couple of the aforementioned long bouts of silence. There's a bubbly little bit when Chopper is discovered. (And I can't even tell you how much I love the touch with Ezra startling so bad he smacks the A-wing cockpit window and bumps the steering column so that the ship swerves out of place--PART OF THE METAPHOR MUCH?) Soft vocals filter in as Ezra consults the holocron shards, holding in long, mystical notes. A lone viola sounds, mournfully. Higher strings sound with spiritual reverence as Ezra gets out of the A-wing, as if to suggest his goal, his enlightenment, is just up ahead.

Then, darker notes like a pulsing heartbeat. The voices go discordant.

Then the Tuskens attack and hell breaks loose.

One of the underlying threads this episode is Ezra and Chopper's devotion and loyalty to each other so I really like how, even though Ezra told him to find cover, Chopper doesn't and charges in to get a Tusken off Ezra instead. Ezra in turn shields him with his own body when the Tuskens score hits that make the A-wing explode.

And that's Ezra's, "I'm in so much trouble." look lol.

Maul, meanwhile, decides to go ahead and murder all the Tuskens and I would not fault you for thinking back to another lightsaber-fueled Tusken massacre.

In fact, probably any parallel or allusion you think of during this episode is in all likelihood deliberate. Frankly I'd argue that this is one of the most important episodes of the show, with how integral it is to Ezra's character arc.

Which is why it was so annoying and asinine that people complained that Ezra took up most of the episode's focus and whined that it should have been only about Maul. Hello, do you understand the concept of a protagonist?!

Speaking of allusions though, we get some lovely call backs to "Visions And Voices" with Maul once again letting Ezra hear him inside his head and catch fleeting glimpses of him, this time in order to lure him further out into the desert. Maul is still trying to keep him in the false cycle, tempting him away from escape.

And Ezra's sense of hyper-responsibility, of This is all my fault and I have to fix it, leads him right down Maul's preordained path.

"I have to help Master Kenobi, if I can." As if Obi-Wan needs any help dealing with Maul, ha ha.

Another moment of pure heartwarming loyalty from Chopper here, he has the opportunity to keep going along the path to safety, but begrudgingly chooses instead to stay with Ezra, through thick and thin.

Ezra once again returns the favor by refusing to leave his side when he runs out of power.

Subtle animation appreciation moment: The way Ezra staggers, looking completely exhausted. Also the sandblasting in his hair and clothes kjhfkasjfha.

Taylor's acting here is heartbreaking, he makes Ezra sound SO lost and scared. :(((((((

Maul decides to rub things in a bit and oh hey some mirror dialogue here, eerily similar to a certain exchange in "Gathering Forces". :D

Grand Inquisitor: The Darkness is too strong for you, orphan. It'll swallow you up even now. Ezra: No. Grand Inquisitor: Your master will die. Ezra: No! Grand Inquisitor: Your friends will die, and everything you've hoped for will be lost. This is the way the story ends. Ezra: NO!

And in comparison:

Maul: He is dead... He is dead. Ezra: No... Maul: You led me to him. Ezra: No. Maul: You failed your friends. Ezra: No! Maul: You will DIE!" Ezra: NOOOO!

~It's like poetry, it rhymes.~

Also this is terrifying.

So I've legitimately teared up like... twice watching this show. This was one of the times. This moment right here where Obi-Wan's feet step softly into frame.

Yeah it got me.

Cut to... Night. A quiet campfire. Ezra comes to and things are suddenly put into perspective.

"You're in the wrong place, Ezra Bridger."

(The voice they got for Obi-Wan is perfect btw, sounds just like Alec Guinness.)

Obi-Wan explains gently that he is not "the key to defeating the Sith". He never was. Maul's desires muddied the holocron vision, he used Ezra to get his own answers and left Ezra with only partial answers. Because Obi-Wan is associated with the key to defeating the Sith but he's not the Chosen One.

And neither is Ezra.

He is a narrative "chosen one", a key player picked by the Force, imbued with purpose, but defeating Vader, killing the Emperor... that was never his task to take. After the loss he suffered in "Legacy" Ezra had been letting himself get obsessed with the idea that he could fix that problem--the problem of the Sith--himself.

But that is not his role in the story.

It is not yet sunrise (Luke and Leia). So the moon (Ezra) must endure.

"You win by killing an Inquisitor." "No, you win by surviving."

Ever since before Malachor, Ezra has been stepping outside his station, trying to do things he was never meant to do, instead of what he was supposed to do, which was to help the people in front of him, right now, do what good he can in the moment. (Something that he'd gain clarity on via a falling out with Saw in Season Four.)

"What you need, you already have."

Ezra lost sight of that in the grief over his parents, in his guilt over Malachor. He was never going to be the one to defeat the Sith. Yoda and Obi-Wan both knew the only ones who even stood a chance... would be Vader's children. Maybe Ahsoka. Perhaps that was even why Yoda advised going to Malachor, to test and see if Vader could be saved, or killed, by his former padawan. Someone who he might have had a strong enough attachment to that it would cloud his judgement. (Just as Obi-Wan's mere presence would drive Vader mad with irrational murderous rage and yet, paradoxically, a cloying need to have him back.)

"We asked for a chance to destroy the Sith... and we failed."

Vader has no connection to Ezra, therefore Ezra will not be the one to end him.

His task is to endure, keep the darkness back, and hold the line until the narrative chosen one who will do that task (Luke) is ready to take up the sword. This is not Ezra's role in the story. He has his own destiny, his own part to play in the Rebellion.

And he needs to return to it.

Obi-Wan closes the broken cycle for Ezra, rescuing him from The Ordeal or Abyss, and sending him back to the Known world with the Boon (his sage wisdom) irregardless of how false the path there to him was. Ezra is freed from the obligations, responsibilities, and burdens he wrongly took on himself... to return home, and rejoin his own Hero Cycle.

And then all that's left is to "mend this old wound". (Maul)

Maul has what he wanted, or so he thinks. His old enemy, his past, ready for the killing. His future and legacy, his apprentice, within reach for taking.

But things have changed. Obi-Wan is older, wiser, more serene and at peace with himself and with the Force, in spite of all he's suffered. He has grown from his failures, let go of the past, and found balance, while Maul has regressed, repeated the same mistakes, clung to the hurt and pain in his past and deteriorated, been sucked almost dry by the Dark Side.

And Obi-Wan pities him.

Maul is scalded by this, upset that after everything he's endured, Obi-Wan seems to have taken no ill effect. And it's not like Order 66 and Anakin's betrayal didn't hurt him (hell we have all of the Kenobi show to demonstrate otherwise) but that he's processed those emotions and feelings and traumas, and returned to a settled baseline. He is more a Jedi now than ever, and revenge is not the Jedi way.

And can I flail a little bit inarticulately for a moment about the dichotomy between Obi-Wan's "I had no intention of fighting him, though that seems inevitable now." and Thrawn's "It was not my intention to utterly destroy Lothal but that is inevitable now."?

So Maul digs for something to bait Obi-Wan with, touching about the reason he's there on Tatooine to begin with, discerning that there is someone that Obi-Wan is protecting. Notes of Sith vocals creep into the music here, a sequence that sounds like Maul's arrival on Tatooine from Phantom Menace ("It ends where it began.").

And with this implicit threat towards Luke, Obi-Wan ignites his saber.

SO much ink has been spilled about this duel. I was surprised at how short it was at first too, but it makes perfect thematic sense in hindsight. The way Obi-Wan slowly baits Maul, drawing Maul's mental frame of mind back to Naboo, because he knows that Maul is stuck in the past, constantly reliving that moment of triumph and defeat over and over again, fixated on it as the shatterpoint where things in his life first went wrong. He can't let it go. He can't move on. He has to keep going back to that moment over and over to make things "correct" and kill the one he pins the blame on for his pain. (But this will not fix him, even if he accomplishes it.)

An entire story is told solely through foot placement and stances. Maul moves through the stances he's used in duels with Obi-Wan before. Obi-Wan shifts through his classic New Hope lightsaber grip, to his iconic Soresu.

And then he switches to Ataru, to the same stance Qui-Gon used.

The music has been tense throughout, but now the Force Theme creeps in. There's a flare of recognition in Maul's eyes; He knows this, this is familiar.

So he lunges, using the same lightsaber trick that he used to kill Qui-Gon...

...except it doesn't work.

I love the look of quiet realization and acceptance in Maul's expression. It's just like, "......Oh."

Maul submits and falls in defeat, into his enemy's arms, yet another parallel to Phantom Menace, to the start of everything between these two men. And then he asks something heartbreaking: Is Obi-Wan protecting the Chosen One? The one who would defeat the Sith?

And because Obi-Wan no longer believes that Vader can be saved, he answers yes. (Amazing how well this scene fits with the later Kenobi show.)

With his dying breath, Maul finally recognizes his true enemy, accepts and forgives Obi-Wan as his brother, as a fellow victim of Palpatine, and declares with almost prophetic insight, "He... will avenge us."

Not take revenge, avenge. As Trilla Sundari would admonish Cal Kestis in the Jedi Fallen Order video game, Maul also asks for restitution and justice with his last words.

(I do kind of wish we got one brief reaction shot from Ezra as he sensed Maul passing, just for confirmation that he knows. It's inferred but still.)

Back with Ezra as he returns home with the Boon, and he's also claimed the prize of Maul's ship, the Mandalorian gauntlet. (Again, just the briefest scene of him finding it, that would have been nice.)

"I was wrong. This is where I'm supposed to be. You're my family. And we should go home."

Ezra has finally forgiven himself for Malachor, completed the arc he started in "Legacy" (or maybe even earlier), and returned to his proper place. His family accepts him back with the laying of hands like a benediction.

And meanwhile, just to wring your heart one last time, we return to Tatooine, to watch Obi-Wan watch over Luke from a distance, a scene drenched in OT nostalgia, from using the exact audio of Aunt Beru calling Luke to closing us out with Luke's Theme and Binary Sunset for the credits, reminding us that the shadow will not hold sway forever.

Eventually, the sun will rise. And a new hope will emerge.

Trust in the Force.

Man, there aren't enough words to tell you how much I love this episode. It's so beautiful and poetic and thematic. It's the lynchpin of Ezra's character development, he needed to be in this episode, to go on this journey. It's gorgeously animated and there are so many many layers of parallels and themes, motifs and archetypes, that tie into the monomyth in general and Star Wars in particular. I'm astonished how well it melds with later canon material (JFO and Kenobi), but I guess that just speaks to how true to the spirit and essence of Star Wars it is.

It's just beautiful.

[cameronsactivities]

an f. scott fitzgerald companion

i found this book at a thrift shop and here are some of our beloved scotty's worst moments

"In their correspondence, Fitzgerald saved every letter Ginerva wrote him. He later had them typed up and bound with ribbon. Not a single one of Scott's letters to her survived. She threw all of them away."

From Ernest Hemingway's memoir:

"I had watched him drink two good solid whiskies and nothing happened"

"I had never heard, then, of a grown man missing a train; but on this trip I was to learn many new things."

"While I had been angry I had demoted him from Scott to Fitzgerald."

fitzgerald tries to mansplain pneumonia to hemingway

"Scott then asked me if I were afraid to die and I said more at sometimes than at others."

the entire saga of fitzgerald convincing himself he has pneumonia and hemingway being not quite sure how to react, which goes as follows: "You haven't any temperature. How the hell are you going to have congestion of the lungs without a temperature?" [Hemingway] "Don't swear at me," Scott said. "How do you know I haven't a temperature?" "Your pulse is normal and you haven't any fever to the touch." "To the touch," Scott said bitterly. "If you're a real friend, get me a thermometer." "I'm in pajamas."

More:

An entire section called "That Sad Young Man"

"he spent his whole freshman year at Princeton writing the Triangle Show, which left him no time for algebra, trigonometry, coordinate geometry, and hygiene."

"'F. Scott Fitzgerald,' I said. 'I thought he was dead.'"

he's 5'6 (this might have been exaggerated though)

[at the 20th century fox office] "Fitzgerald made himself comfortable by taking off his shoes"

closing remarks:

i think fitzgerald gets a bad rep for generally being an asshole, which is true, but i also feel really bad for this guy. after the 1920s and his success with this side of paradise and the great gatsby, the media started saying he was "wasting his talent" and basically calling him a one hit wonder. a lot of this was because of the great depression starting in 1929 which made his books unrelatable, like people started saying that the great gatsby was promoting that kind of excessive lifestyle. he fell out of favor with the public for the rest of his life, hence the "i thought he was dead" quote. people just forgot about him. this obviously caused a lot of financial struggle for the fitzgeralds and he later got really paranoid and perfectionist about his writing.

there's this part in the book that stands out to me, where he goes to a play adaptation of one of his short stories and absolutely nobody is there at the theater, which literally has benches instead of actual seats. this man continually got slandered by the media and faced this type of rejection from the public but still worked on his last novel (the last tycoon) up until the literal date of his death. and he was still hopeful that the novel would be his saving grace and planned to write more novels. even after his heart attack he continued to write despite bedridden. idk i just think that's respectable.

i know he was a jerk in MANY other ways but i will have to mention that he genuinely was trying to be better for zelda and his daughter, scottie. he lived frugally because he was paying for zelda's treatment/care and for scottie's boarding school. he was still in a lot of debt but he wasn't just perpetually wasted. speaking of which, he didn't drink for like the last year of his life and tried multiple times in his life to quit alcohol.

anyway this by no means excuses any of the other things he's done, but i think dying thinking that all your entire life was lived in vain is pretty bad. i still laugh at him because it's funny though.

[aninsecurewriter]

100 must-read books!

This is a list of books considered "must-reads" from various lists and online posters. I'll be reviewing them as I go but mainly keeping track of what I have and haven't read here.

American Gods by Neil Gaiman

Lord of the Flies by William Golding

Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Sophie's World by Jostein Gaarder

Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald

To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee

Matilda by Roald Dahl

The Secret History by Donna Tart

Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep by Philip K. Dick

The Godfather by Mario Puzo

Murder on the Orient Express by Agatha Christie

The Man Who Mistook His Wife for a Hat by Oliver Sacks

Noughts and Crosses by Malorie Blackman

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

Frankenstein by Mary Shelly

Alice's Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad

Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte

Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell

The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck

Norwegian Wood bt Haruki Murakami

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest by Ken Kesey

The Man in the Iron Mask by Alexandre Dumas

The Color Purple by Alice Walker

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson

Lolita Vladimir Nabokov

Great Expectations by Charles Dickens

The Harry Potter Series by J.K Rowling

His Dark Materials trilogy by Philip Pullman

The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

The Road by Cormac McCarthy

Ulysses by James Joyce

Bad Science by Ben Goldacre

I Capture the Castle by Dodie Smith

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson

Les Miserables by Victor Hugo

The Catcher in the Rye by J.D Salinger

The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame

Wild Swans by Jung Chang

The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy by John le Carre

Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain

Gulliver's Travels by Johnathan Swift

The War of the Worlds by H.G Wells

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

Freakonomics by Steven D. Levitt

Persuasion by Jane Austen

The Help by Kathryn Stockett

Beloved by Toni Morrison

A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis

Notes from a Small Island by Bill Bryson

Macbeth by Shakespeare

The Lord of the Rings (trilogy) by J.R.R Tolkien

The Outsiders by S.E Hinton

Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf

The Handmaid's Tale by Margaret Atwood

A Wild Sheep Chase by Haruki Murakami

Schindler's Ark by Thomas Keneally

London Fields by Martin Amis

Sherlock Holmes and the The Hound of the Baskerville's by Arthur Conan Doyle

My Man Jeeves by P.G Wodehouse

The English Patient by Michael Ondaatje

The Mill on the Floss by George Eliot

The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexander Dumas

Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

Gladys Aylward the Little Woman by Gladys Aylward

Mindnight's Children by Salman Rushdie

Tess of the D'Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy

The Boy in the Stripped Pajamas by John Boyne

Hamlet by William Shakespeare

Goodnight Mister Tom by Michelle Magorian

Dissolution by C.J Sansom

The Time Machine by H.G Wells

Winnie the Pooh (complete collection) by A.A Milne

Animal Farm by George Orwell

The Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Frank

The Castle by Franz Kafka

Dracula by Bram Stoker

All Quiet on the Western Front by Eric Maria Remarque

Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding

The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf

Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden

Misery by Stephen King

The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S Lewis

The Shining by Stephen King

The Odyssey by Homer

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy

The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson

Tell No One by Harlan Coben

Moby Dick by Herman Melville

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

Middlemarch by George Eliot

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte

[editrevue]

do either of you have any outfit that you'd like to wear grim any cards or memoirs?

HI ANON YES we do!!!! Moon and I constantly talk about how many outfits we’d love to wear from different cards and which are our favorites, so you asking this is!!!!!!! So so fun!!!!! So many designs in this source are like dream outfits tbh. Below the cut lists a few of our faves! ♡

Mod ☀️’s choices:

Stage cards:

Stage girl collection, Circus Artist and Fool Yachiyo, Castaway, Orpheus and Temperance Fumi, Hanged Man and Laelaps Hound Rui, Princess and Flora Karen, Musketeer and Viviane Junna, Fiend with Twenty Faces and Lovers Claudine, Juliet Stella, Yellow Frontier and Charity Tsukasa, Salaì Mahiru, Stage girl collection Yuyuko, Sailor Captain Shizuha, Snow White Queen Hisame, Snow White Koharu, Angels Blessing Ichie (or Fumi), Perceus Akira, Castaway Kaoruko, & any of the cheerleading or initial outfits, and Frontier and Siegfeld's revue outfits!

Memoirs:

Both of Yachiyo’s casuals (or any yachiyo outfit tbh), Fumi’s waitress outfit and her casual, Akira’s pajamas, Junna’s casual, Hisame's casual, Claudine’s casual, Rui’s casual, any of the birthday brilliance outfits, Karen’s casual, Tsukasa’s casual, and Ichie’s casual!

Mod 🌙’s choices:

Stage cards:

Heartfelt cooking and Hero Hikari, Groom Edward and Soul Revue Maya, Ghost Patrol, Teumessian Fox, and Death Tamao, Shuten Doji, Chariot, and White Rabbit Shiori, Alice and Procyon Aruru, Demon King and Leo Nana, Knight Luisa Shiro, Wheel of Fortune Karen, Sorcerer Mahiru, Lady Oscar Claudine, Merchant Kaoruko, Stage Girl Collection Futaba, Beast Akira, Hellsing Michiru, Circus Artist Yachiyo, Hades Rui, Ghost Patrol Ichie, Benikage Fumi, Arsene Lupin Lalafin, Little Prince Misora, Cheshire Cat Tsukasa, Delight Koharu, Jeanne D'arc Suzu, any initial or loyal retainer costumes, and Siegfeld and Seiran's revue outfits!

Memoirs:

Hikari's casual, Maya's casual, both of Mei Fan's casuals (they own suspenders irl!), Aruru's casual, Shiori's horse riding uniform, Nana's casual, Koharu's pajamas, Michiru's casual, Yuyuko's casual, Misora's casual, plus any birthday brilliance outfit!

There's tons more, but I hope this gives you a glimpse into the styles we love! ♡

[casbooks]

Book 12 of 2024 (★★★★)

Title: LBJ's Hired Gun Authors: John J. Gebhart

Series: 1 of Gebhart in Vietnam ISBN: 9781935149651 Tags: Aviation, Helicopter, US USMC United States Marine Corps, VMO-2, VMO-6, VNM Vietnam Rating: ★★★★ Subject: Books.Military.20th-21st Century.Asia.Vietnam War.Aviation.USMC.Helos

Description: Many Vietnam memoirs have appeared in recent years, but not a single one has the humor, pathos, poignancy, and often sheer hilarity of John J. Gebhart's riveting LBJ'S Hired Gun. As Gebhart tells it, he was a "smart-mouthed college boy" who joined the Marines to see the world and "dust a few black pajamas for Uncle Sam." Two grueling tours of duty later (1965-1967) he returned home as a sergeant after surviving 240 combat missions (12 air medals) and being shot down twice. On his chest was the Navy Commendation Award (with the combat V).

LBJ's Hired Gun launches with Gebhart's grim recollection of the intense old-school brutality that was Marine Corps training on Parris Island before transitioning to his difficult journey for Southeast Asia aboard a troop transport with 2,000 other nameless grunts. These hardships offered but a glimpse of the suffering he and his comrades were about to endure. PARA His candid account of life and death in Vietnam is written with a lively, infectious flair. But be forewarned: no attempt has been made to sanitize this memoir with politically-correct language. Gebhart tells his story exactly as he and his comrades spoke in the 1960s. The result is a gripping, no-holds-barred memoir of his "misadventures in-country." He spares no detail and no one in his effort to convey exactly what he and his comrades experienced in Vietnam.

Here is how the author describes Vietnam: "What was not to like about Vietnam? It was a tropical paradise filled with lush green forests and mountains, endless rice paddies, and beautiful beaches with clear green water. You get all the free ammunition you want, endless cold beer to drink, and boom-boom girls to party with. Who could ask for more? Of course, there were some minor problems like all the VCs and NVAs who wanted to kill us. Everyone counted the days they had left before rotating back to the land of the big PX. I was having such a great vacation I signed up for another 12-month tour. I spent twenty-four action-filled months dusting VCs and NVAs, rescuing reconnaissance teams, flying LZ prep missions, delivering mail to bases where you came in shooting and flew out the same way. Somewhere along the line they decided I should be decorated for killing the enemy."

This is not just another book about Vietnam written by an officer. LBJ's Hired Gun is the story of an enlisted man who lived on a dead-end street in West Philadelphia, intent on lifting your spirits and putting a smile on your face as you journey with him across the world and meet the people, explore the places, and relive the events that shaped Marine Corps history in Vietnam from September 1965 to September 1967.

There are many outstanding Vietnam memoirs. LBJ's Hired Gun stands heads and shoulders above them all.

[vickiabelson]

James Morrison Live on Game Changers with Vicki Abelson

How fortuitous that my first show back after an 8-week hiatus was with the stunningly soulful James Morrison––actor, writer, filmmaker, musician, husband, father, fellow, and stellar human. James was Chicken soup for my post-COVID soul. Discovering just before we went on the air that my treasured friend, Christinna Guzman had passed from cancer opened the door to an emotionally charged conversation about relationships…parent/child, James’ son, Seamus, is a brain cancer survivor… love partnerships, how James and Riad have thrived through their 35 years together, including through their son’s illness… art, which Christinna championed, and shared with me and oft shot for me, including my Women Who Write Literary Salons, and these Game Changers talk shows, where James has read and sung numerous times and Christinna and I bore witness. To honor her and James’ talents, James gifted us with a reading from his show, Leave Your Fears Here, sang, at my fervent request, his brilliant, Selfish Man, about a certain someone who continues to refuse to not grab the headlines, and then read from his brand new show, Satan’s Wild Animal Circus of Agony: A Five Ring Memoir, a most meaningful piece about his father’s end of life. Powerful, moving, important. 

We talked about sobriety and recovery, a passion James and I share, about adapting, growing, changing, and allowing space to be wrong. We talked about his and Riad’s documentary, Showing Up, an unprecedented look at the audition, with some of our most accomplished working actors reflecting on the process and how it affects them. Nathan Lane, Sam Rockwell, Eli Wallach, and Kristin Chenoweth are a few of those interviewed. I just watched it again and I’m rethinking this whole return to acting thing. It’s a wonderful film, raw and moving, and so damn honest. Like James himself. 

I adore this man and every moment in his exceptional company. I’ve said before, sitting down with 24's Bill Buchanan, AKA, James Morrison, is like wrapping myself up in my softest, warmest, coolest, comfiest, cutest, silkiest pajamas, and settling in for an easy, breezy, fun, loving, memorable night. This one had the added bonus of being a bear hug of support, comfort, and grace. I’m forever grateful for his friendship. 

For all things James: jpmorrison.com

James Morrison Live on Game Changers with Vicki Abelson

Wednesday, January 31, 5 PM PT, 8 PM ET 

Streamed Live on my Facebook

Replay here:

[blandmemoirs]

Choosing To Be Better (2023 Journal)

(The following is a LONG entry written for my public diary from June 26th, 2023 to December 19th, 2023, with edits made up to its posting date in January 2024; as it was not written in one sitting, it may move around and shift focus in ways that are different from a typical memoir of its kind, but it was always intended to be one piece, and so will be posted as one. It reflects much of the angst, trials, fears, and despair I have struggled with for some time, but also, I hope, displays the perseverance, growth, strength and passion for life that I have been fostering all this time. Read to your hearts content. There is no TL;DR you'll get from me)

At the beginning of this year I made a fundamental decision that has set the course I have followed these past months. As last year transitioned into this one, there was much weighing on my mind(for that post, which is a bit of a downer, go here). I was 23, to turn 24, a college dropout working a dead end job, with no money in savings, overweight and relatively out of shape, my YouTube channel was still below 500 subscribers after 10 years, still not halfway to monetization, I had committed to a feature film that was being produced at the snails pace I chose to work, much to the discomfort of my fellow filmmakers, who were eager to get to work, I am single and have never had a meaningful romantic relationship, as all my pursuits, few as they are, were fruitlessly aimed at ones who were uninterested in me, and as a cherry on top, I am balding at a rate much faster than years previous, or perhaps simply more noticeably than years previous. The hair in front had visibly thinned to a point that even combing the longer parts from the side could no longer cover it. I wore pajama pants no matter the occasion unless specifically asked to dress "nicer", I have never been to a doctor despite recently subscribing to the highest tier health insurance at my work, I have a 401k that takes a percentage of every one of my paychecks.  I do not believe in God and have not said a prayer in nearly a decade.  I am a grown adult with responsibilities and ambitions. I am surrounded by a community that I have played a large hand in cultivating and was soon going to be elected to be responsible for continuing to cultivate and chart out a future for. I am an artist who thinks all day about art, but produces relatively little of, as consuming art is much easier than creating art. I had repaired much of my inner self, having healed the resentment I felt towards my father(s), and thus cured the hatred I felt towards myself. I forgave my father the man who raised me, and we have deepened our bond, I forgave my biological father, the man who r*p*d my mom to give me life, and no longer have any need for him to be around. I met my biological grandmother, who has spent the last twenty years hanging on a thread of hope that she may see her only grandchild come to her home, and I was able to be a wish fulfilled, and fill her heart with joy at the end of her life. I have opened doors to friends and given them homes to rest, grow, and heal so they may transform into the best versions of themselves. My family is proud of me. I am proud of how far I have come from how low I had been, and for the longest time in my life I have loved myself and felt content with myself. No shortcoming or perceived personal flaw has held over me like a dark cloud in some time. For some odd years I felt an inner turbulence like a raging storm which seemed ceaseless and eternal, I felt that I was always to be angry at the world and the God that made it and hate the men who made me, and hate myself for seeing them in the mirror and noticing every odd similarity that existed between us. But the raging riot within my heart has felt some sense of peace and quiet in the last few years. It has not dampened my passion, or blinded me in serenity. I am still hungry, I am still looking forward to what comes next, I am not content with my contentedness, but I am less a monster hiding inside of a man, and more a man that has tamed and mellowed what monster remains. There have been moments, days, when I lost my patience, my temper flared, and I felt the cage rattle. But no bridges have burned that were not rebuilt, no words were said that could not be unsaid, no daggers were placed into the hearts of the people I love because I felt I needed to return the hurt I was feeling. There were temptations, opportunities, and reasons to strike, to be angry, to be bitter, but the trend I have desired, and the path I have chosen, is one in which I can be better.

Better than my past self, better than my worst self, better than my best self, better than the father who created me, and better than the father who actually made me. All to the tune of a song emblazoned with the title of my newest journey, "To Be Better" created by the talented Gavin aka Miracle of Sound, whose music has felt like a spiritual guide for me for some time. Ever since first discovering his tunes on a random YouTube music tribute to the Batman Arkham games, I have felt captivated by his works, which are often inspired by video games, or movies, or his own experiences. He has an ability that I would describe as being able to capture the soul or essence of a work, and translate it into beautiful music. Some time ago I wrote here about my relationship with my anger, and set it to the tune of his song, "Ode to Fury", and now, all this time later, we both return to the God of War series, and to Kratos specifically, to set a new checkpoint, a point in which myself, Kratos, and whoever else is so daring, can choose "To Be Better".

It is no secret that at the end of this year I will be dressing as Kratos for the annual Star Bandits Halloween Party, and that in preparation for this I have made the decision to work out to build up muscle, will be shaving my head, and growing out my beard. I've also been eating more olives to boot but that's neither here nor there. To some people that is enough information and that is the story, to others they think its because of some single insecurity or character flaw listed from the beginning, and some may wonder why I even feel the need to explain any of this at all. Whatever it is you are approaching this essay, novel, or epic for, I want you to know I will be spending the next few thousand words talking about myself, my insecurities, my lived experiences, the media I've consumed to understand them, my failures, my successes, the things I've made, the things I'm proud of, and attempting to explain in as many words as possible who I am and what I want, because no one single person is just one single thing, we are complex, multifaceted, hypocritical, contradictory, and impossible to understand in just a few words. So, if you want to get as close as you can to understanding me, or the me that I want you to see, this is for you. But ultimately, this piece is for me, a new entry in my public diary and maybe a piece to be included in my autobiography. As to write about a lifetime may very well take up a lifetime. The reason I am choosing to closely identify myself with some video game character to the point that I am dressing up as the closest approximation of the pixels I can manage is because it is a small part, however largely symbolic, of the greater act I am performing in choosing to better myself.

I am not a religious person. I don't have a holy book I look to for answers to the universe or life's mysteries or my grand purpose in life. I don't pray to a God and hope He listens so he may favor me and work miracles to turn my luck around or give me an Eternal Life in some far off paradise. I don't believe in any kind of grand plan or cosmic scheme or intelligent design tom explain this rock orbiting a hot ball of gas and our suffering on it. I believe religion exists to foster a polite and orderly society. It exists to cultivate social engagement and community, to provide a "purpose" to it all. It exists to explain the questions that we just can't answer. God is cope. And the explanation, the answer to the unanswerable, is "well, it is what it is because He made it that way and only He knows why". That's the circular logic I used in Elementary school when I tried to convert my friend Louie because I thought it was my "purpose" as a Good Christian(TM) to bring people to the Light and "save" their "souls" from the big fire pit down below where everyone is punished for not believing in something despite the loving, forgiving, all powerful, omnipotent God creating them knowing they would not find Him in their lives. 

In 8th Grade I was a rather outspoken Christian as I went through a whole "rebirth" phase in the 6th Grade when I got legally adopted by the father who raised me and took on his last name, becoming Robbie Bland. I believed at that same time I felt a call from God to be baptised and thus reborn. Washing Bell away with holy water to become the person I was meant to be. The reality is I just wanted a symbolic change to fit the legal, bureaucratic change that took place when I sat their in a legal office and told them "My name is Robert Otist Bland, not "Robert Otist Bell Jr, please and thank you". I didn't particularly need the baptism, I got to have my main character moment in the courtroom when I stood before a judge and said that same thing, only for him to remark about my intelligence and maturity for a 12 year old. If only he knew it was because I had to grow up so fast. Oh well. The baptism was just another symbolic piece of action I could take to FEEL new and FEEL different. It was capped off with a new cross necklace that I wore everyday for the next few years. I'd pray every night, and I'd ask for forgiveness for whatever wrongs I had done, and pray for healing and blessings to those who had less, and ask God for a nice thing here and there. It made me feel good and comfortable, and when I was in church I would SIIIIING my praises for the Lord to all the little karaoke church choir songs. One day I was even worshipping so hard I passed out and fell on a lady standing next to me. I thought that was a pretty wild experience at the time, nowadays I think it was the result of locking my knees standing and singing until I was breathless, y'know, two things that make a person pass out. I felt I had some kind of a relationship with God, that He was watching me, and everything I do, and then I got older. I became a teenager, I became more aware of the world, I became more aware of myself, I started committing more "sins" by touching myself where it felt good, something I was told I'm not supposed to do or God, who is watching me touch myself, will be upset with me. So I'd pray for forgiveness every night after finishing. Then I remembered I didn't even know what bible verse said I couldn't choke the chicken, so I decided I should probably get more familiar with the bible. I resolved to read it cover to cover, as any good book ought to be read, and that I would read it, every night before bed, as incentive to stop "sinning" as hormonal teenagers discovering themselves do.

And I... Couldn't make it past Genesis. It was boring, and nothing was "speaking to me" or revealing some kind of wisdom or knowledge I couldn't already find somewhere else. It was full of long lists of names and family trees and some weird stories of incest and it just made me go "huh, so this the bible when read like a book and not just cherry picked for quotes to be interpreted for me", and I gave up. I stopped reading. Comic books were more interesting and I felt like I was actually learning things about morality, empathy, humanity, and "purpose" that the bible just wasn't giving to me, and I think that's where it began. If it wasn't there it was when my 8th Grade drama teacher stopped one of my conversations with a classmate about my religion and why they should convert to pose a question: "If God knows Everything, do you have Free Will?" Well of course! I thought. The bible says so, or so I'm told. "But, if God knows every decision you will make before you make it, and God created you, did you make those decisions?" Well, of course! Because God gave me free will... I wasn't satisfied with my own answers and shame on the grown adult for owning me in an argument, buuuut honestly also thank you because you opened my mind so much on that day. I began to fixate on that question, and others I would come up with to challenge myself and poke holes in my thinking. "What if you are born in one of those indigenous communities that has no contact with the outside world and you still worship the sun or the rain and not Jesus Christ himself? Or what about the people who came before 0 AD when Jesus was born?" Rather specific, and some (hypothetical) answers damn those people to eternal darkness in purgatory for the crime of being born before they could know better and convert to "the right one" with the eternal kingdom everlasting. Other people are perhaps less tolerant than others and would happily damn those people to Hell, and some people are perhaps more merciful than others and think everyone who lives a virtuous life goes to the happy place because that's the way it should be. I started to believe that, but then that meant my religion no longer hinged on actually believing and worshipping my God to get past the Pearly Gates. It just required you to be a "good person", but then that led me back to my rather frequent monkey spanking, which while simultaneously making me go blind and grow hair on my hands, was also supposed to make me a bad person. "But why, why would God make something that feels so good, be so wrong?" A rather dangerous thought that, but God also gave men a G-spot up their rectum and said they aren't allowed to touch it, and he made food so good, but us get so fat when we eat! That's when it started to click.

Religion is about sacrifice! Hell, they all talk about it. Whether its animals, crops, indulgences, or fellow human beings, we gotta take some Ls, sometimes Lives, so that God can be nicer to us and reward our "service". Ugh, service? Religion is about serving God? The same God who doesn't talk to me like he talked to everyone else in the damn book? Where's my burning bush? Where are my easy answers. Faith is about trusting the process and not asking too many questions because I'm not supposed to understand. God is above me and incomprehensible and blah blah blah. Some religions even spout "submission" along with their service. I ain't submissive, that's not what I'm here for. If God wanted me to submit he'd give me a reason, and burning forever or rotting away in an abyss absent his light and love doesn't sound all that different from a Summer night in Texas getting bitten by skeeters. Damn bloodsuckers.

In 9th Grade I had the opportunity to get some way forward with my relationship with God and religion when I emceed an Interfaith Panel hosted by my school's Philosophy Club wherein we gathered many religious leaders from the community, some local, some not so local. We had a Rabbi, two muslims, a few priests, a Coptic Christian from Egypt, a Hindu who needed a translator because he didn't speak English, and like two buddhist guys one of 'em in full robe mode. They were all people who had authority and experience and knowledge over their religions, even if I don't remember all their specific titles, and by the end of the night, I liked the buddhist guys the most. So... Was I buddhist?

Nah, I mean. Karma made some sorta sense, reincarnation sounded, approachable, and also made some sorta cosmic sense in that all matter and energy is recycled as it is neither created or destroyed, supposedly, but Nirvana? Just sounds like Heaven but with extra steps. I don't want Heaven or Enlightenment or whatever the time and place after life is supposed to be. I just want this life, to LIVE this life, and to live it well. That Interfaith Panel was the end of my relationship with The Lord God Almighty and the beginning of my Atheism arc, because well, for me it was all or nothing. Not too be too Green Goblin about the whole thing, but the Agnosticism is just "There is a plan but we don't know it because only God knows" but more noncomittal. "I mean, there is a God, but I don't know, I'm not too sure, no one knows really". I just can't help but ask "Are you in or are you out?" and for me, I was out.

The only approachable religion left for me was deism, or the 'clockwork' God the Founding Fathers are accused of believing in, the one who made everything, like a big piece of clockwork, and now sits on his hands and watches his "intelligent, grand design" of an Ant Farm tick away, never interfering to make repairs or fix what's broken, because even a broken clock is right twice a day. That's why wars, and genoc1des and r*pe and all the bad things happen because God designed the world that way and it's supposed to happen by design, form, and function, because he knows best and we are so small and stupid and we can't conceive of why that two year old should get brain cancer and die. It must have... Just been "his time" because God "needed him in Heaven".

No we just live in an imperfect world as imperfect lifeforms that decay from the moment we are born until the decay outpaces our growth and we return to the dirt we were sculpted from, and we have genetic disorders, and diseases, and cancer causing chemicals in our homes, the food we eat, and the air we breath, and some of us actively pollute the air ourselves and others breathe because we have chemical addictions and oral fixations that are only satiated by sucking on chemical binkies, and hey man, from the moment we are born to the moment we die, babies need binkies. And I'm not knocking ya, but let's call a spade a spade, your inability to go two seconds without sucking on that binky is just you perpetuating your inner baby. It makes you feel safe and comfy, and thats what binky is for. Everyone does that, just different ways, because none of us ever really "grow up" we just change shape and form.

Anyways, Our God is an Awesome God He Reigns, or he built a clock and he's watching us tick each other off, and no matter what, no matter what interpretation you prefer from the classics, no matter what quote you pull or book you read, God allows awful things to happen, a real "why do bad things happen to good people" paradox, and you know, I get it, God is cope, we need God to surrender ourselves and our critical thinking to so that we can feel some comfort in the "master plan" that sometimes involves "master races" and "mass-ter extermination but absolutely NO masturbation. And absolutely NO sexual relations before marriage because you aren't supposed to know if you are sexually compatible with your spouse until the wedding night, and then you just gotta make it work, nevermind how important being able to physically please each other and fulfill each other's desires is. It still bugs me, it still unsettles me, and I don't want to cope, I want to live. I want to feel. And you know, I do think the story of my atheism being rooted in my being a teenage coomer is funny, but to people who think that's some major personal failure or character flaw, I choose to tell the truth, the whole story. The REAL, most RAW reason why I can never love a God that does not love me.

My mother was 15 when I was conceived, 16 when I was born. That's about the same age as The Virgin Mary.

My biological was 20 chasing after a girl in high school, even if you wanna adopt a United Nations 'modern' take on consent among the youth, that's still a grown man and a minor, ethically that is egregious, even if my mom may say it was her idea. What kind of world is it where we buy into that idea that a kid can "choose" to be in a relationship with an adult, that a kid can then "choose" whether to keep the kid that was conceived from that "choice" made from an ignorant, uninformed, and naïve perspective placed on them by a predator. Now how the Hell are we supposed to buy that a girl of that same age can consent to an "immaculate conception" from a higher being she can't possibly conceive or process. Now I'm applying "modern human standards" to He Who Cannot Be Understood by humans, but is God really so above us that we get to overlook the, uhm, frankly "problematic" age and power gap involved heah? Is that why we are to submit and sacrifice and be unquestioning? Because that's just the way it is it's all part of the plan, we can't possibly understand. No, what I don't understand is why my life, my conception, my existence and my ability to be on this Earth, came as a byproduct of, in the most liberal terms, statutory rape, and then hinged on the literal child making the "choice" to keep and raise me. How lucky me that I won the one in a million lottery to be one of the swimmers playing in the JV league to make it here. I don't get a representative in the room because I don't have a womb but it's insane that we just let adults rape kids and then let kids "make a choice" about their future. I think there should be more to it than that. Obviously you shouldn't force a life into the world to be raised by parents that are both unfit, and unwanting of the burden of parenting(*cough cough Casey cough cough*) because that's where tragedies become murders. And you know what? I was lucky. 

My mom did keep me, and she did do her best to raise me as a child raising a child, at the cost of stunting her growth and putting her life on hold to be mother to myself and my sister and brother who soon followed me. And I'm grateful. I love my mom, even when she let me down or couldn't quite reach the bar of "good" parent, as subjective as that can be, I never hated her for her personal flaws or shortcomings, because I always saw through it, that she was that 16 year old mom, trying to do right by the life(and later, lives) she chose to create. And though her parenting style was always "do as I say and not as I do" as she engaged in vice after vice after vice, I listened, even if she had to spank some of the vices out of me when they began to stick. I never drank, I never will. I never smoked, I never will. I didn't say bad words until I turned 18, as we agreed was most appropriate. I got good grades, made good friends, was involved in my education even when I wasn't passionate about it, and I didn't have any babies as a teenager, in fact, the fear of turning out the way my parents did was what made approaching any form of intimacy or romance for me... Difficult. And it still is, though I'm getting better at, trying, even if its all baby steps like "telling her how you feel". I'm so cautious and reserved and I mean dead-honest afraid of intimacy because I grew up seeing everything on fire all the time, and I've seen so many relationships end because people just aren't very good at taking care of each other, and in my limited experiences, sometimes people just don't know how to take care of themselves and they're just as scared of intimacy as I am. Oh well. I have to REALLY like someone before I can even begin to approach the idea of asking them out, and by that point, we are already close friends and now its "awkward". As has been stressed to me with great emphasis of late, you're not supposed to date your friends, apparently. I'll figure it out someday, it'll just take someone really special, as I've always said. All things considered, my mom didn't do the worst job in the world, especially for a teen mom who drowns in vices and can't financially plan very far ahead of her next paycheck. Even when she drunk drove me to a PTA meeting and slurred her words while the principals and counselors and teachers who all saw her son as a young prodigy shook her hand I forgave her, in spite of the disappointment and embarrassment, because that was my mom, the one who chose me, and the one who loved me and is proud of me. You can't quite resent that. It was harder to forgive my dad, even though he was similarly fucked up as a kid and just as if not more stunted and broken. I live as good a life as I can, on my own terms, because my birth forced my mom to live her life for me.

I think about Hulk a lot. I write about Hulk alot. Lately I've been writing scripts about Hulk alot. I wrote this line the other day-

"Banner: When I was born, I destroyed my mother's life."

Because in the comics Bruce Banner's dad, an abusive alcoholic who hated Bruce and hated his wife for having him, killed his mom when he was a child. Rebecca Banner died protecting her son from her husband, and it's something Bruce always blamed him for. When I wrote that line it sent something close to shivers up my back, I felt a strange resonance with it, and I think after this long essay full of rants and anecdotes about why I hate God and love my mother, you might be able to see why. I felt guilty for a long time, over a sin I did not commit, over a life I couldn't consent to or ask for, because of the sins of my biological father. It was a guilt that lingered within me for a long time, and apparently still rears its head from time to time. A root cause for me to hate myself, among the many other reasons I've found over the years, but all the same: it was this guilt that made me respect my mother, in the odd ways that I do. I do what she asks of me, I never raise a mean finger to her, because the last thing I ever want to do is hurt her. When she does something to hurt me or my siblings or my father or herself, I kind of just shrug it off, because I can't really stay mad at her. And maybe that's not right, or productive, or helpful, but the longer I reflect on my conception, the more I just can't bare to do anything else to hurt or inconvenience her, because I was already born. 

So yes, I hate God, because if God exists, that means his plan was to take my 15 year old mother, and absolutely f*ck her shit up, just so her eldest son could go on to... Be a virgin nerd college dropout in a cult with a nonprofit. I guess that's something? I'm not really seeing the vision because God is not real. There is no plan, there is just chaos. An imperfect world full of imperfect people seeking the logic and reason in illogical and unreasonable beings. We are driven by so many complex and contradictory emotions and chemicals and hormones and traumas and motivations that we can't see past our own noses sometimes. And you know what? I'm okay with that. I've made my peace with that. I'm responsible for myself, the people around me, and the actions I make that affect everything they touch. I like that, that feels more like free will. Sorting through competing impulses, learning discipline to make wise decisions, choosing when to sacrifice and when to indulge, weighing my perceived pros and cons, making a decision and committing to it, or only going halfway and backing my way out and watching it fall apart or turning my back on it entirely to avoid the consequences, if I can outrun them. But if you take that agency away from me, and tell me there's some divine being pulling all the strings, watching me and knowing every move I'll ever make before I ever even started playing, that shit sounds rigged. And why does some omnipotent, omnipresent, omni-loving motherfucker need to design a "perfect vessel" in "His Image" and give it the capacity to rape, murder and genocide? Was that really necessary in the design? You created these intelligent, reasoning creatures and damned half of them to darkness from birth and also decided the cherry on top was that they ought to be able to torture and destroy and hurt each other? That was necessary? And don't come at me with the suffering bullshit. We can suffer knowing our dogs will die before we do, we can suffer knowing that grandma isn't gonna see us graduate, we can suffer when we fall from a high place and break a leg, we can suffer when our hearts are broken by the perfect girl. We don't NEED the depths of suffering that come from the Japanese Empire's Literal "Rape of Nanking" or Nazi Germany's "Camps". Our all loving all powerful divine King looked at that shit and said "yeah I fucks with that lets ship it". And don't Devil bullshit me. Who created the fucking Devil??? The Devil has NO power that God doesn't give it. Women get periods and painful, life-risking child births because one of them decided to eat an apple and God said "fuck all of you". Fuck God. I hate God, and I'm so GOD DAMN glad that He is not REAL. Because if, IF, I'm wrong, I have a #1 hater and a nemesis, a sworn enemy and I have got to kill HIM. If God is real and instead of returning to the nothingness from whence I came I instead find myself being judged at the pearly gates, it is ON SIGHT. If God's damning me to Hell, I'm dragging him down with me. Because it is better to reign in Hell than to serve in His Heaven, if I'm gonna go full Devil Trigger.

If you believe in God, that's cool. There are reasonable, principle, moral, social, logical, personal reasons to believe in a higher power and want to find your purpose through it. I respect you and I respect your decision, I just don't respect your God, and I hope that you can separate those distinctions, because it's never me vs you if it's me vs your god. I can root against your favorite football team or think that your communist ideology is flawed too, that don't mean we can't get along. When I've spoken with creationists in less extensive debates, they always jump to "how can something come from nothing" and golly gee man I don't fucking know dude. I'm not born to know that. We can't time travel back to the beginning of everything, we can only study what's going on right here and now, and interpret what's left from back then. It's all theory and study and deduction and in 200 years it'll probably all be proven wrong anyways. I don't care how we got here, what we do know is WE ARE HERE, we are here right now, and there is no way of knowing what comes next. All we really know is we have this one life, because no one you've ever met came back from the other side or remembers what came before. That or they are making shit up, as all humans do. So why not live your life the way you want, pursue the things you like and are passionate about, and help and improve your community right now, because tomorrow is never guaranteed. Today is a gift from God and that's why they call it the present.

So when I'm hit with the gotcha of "something from nothing" all I can ever really think is "me born from rape" and it's not a polite thing to say, and I try to be more Obama and not say impolite things in public. Maybe it's a chip on my shoulder, it left me feeling guilty for some time, but really, it saved me from the delusion of some higher being with a plan and made me believe in my own agency and responsibility for my actions, the kinds of things that the predator who created me didn't think about when he was taking advantage of a minor. It's okay, I'm okay. In fact, what this long-winded expository life story expose was written for was to detail my background and mindset about gods, so that I can once again drag you through the muddy rabbit hole and synthesize everything with my relationship to the God of War, Kratos, the Ghost of Sparta.

To make a long story told across several incredible video games full of awesome and gory hack 'n' slash action with emotionally resonant stories with depth deeper than the shallow waters they trudge in, Kratos is a demigod, born into the Greek Pantheon as yet another bastard child of Zeus. What made Kratos special was his brother Deimos, who was borne with markings on his body that fit a prophecy which said a marked warrior would one day k1ll the gods and topple mount olympus. So Ares and Athena popped on the scene and latta'd his kid brother. To honor him, Kratos tattooed the same markings on himself, became a top ranking Spartan general, aaaand then got 300'd by some barbarians, and in his dying breath, swore allegiance and fealty to the God of War, Ares

Ares molded him into a perfect killing machine and a weapon of war, wielding the powerful Blades of Chaos permanently singed into the arms of his new warrior. Kratos was devout and loyal and did whatever the god asked of him, including ransacking and murderizing a town for the glory of his god. Only, as Kratos came down from his bloodlusted rage in service to Ares, he discovered that he had slain with his own hands, his wife and daughter in service to his god. As Kratos mourned the loss of his loved ones, at the design of the gods, Ares came to gloat that it would make him a great warrior. Ashamed and suicidal, Kratos engaged in as many self destructive vices as he could to hide from the guilt and bury the memory of what he had done as a monster for a god, and as Ares grew power hungry in the pantheon, Kratos was eventually recruited by sympathetic gods to take Ares down once and for all, and given the promise that his memories of his atrocity would be erased. So he embarked on a journey of epic proportions, even being slain by Ares, only to prove he was the original man too angry to die and to crawl out of Hades himself for some sweet revenge to gain the power needed to slay a god, which he did, only to be uno reverse carded and betrayed by the gods again, who instead of taking his memories from him, crowned him the new god of war. And that was just the beginning. Then he was doing usual God of War things like Ares before him, only for Zeus to grow extremely paranoid about the whole marked warrior thing and the fact that Kratos had in fact, killed a god, so he set off to do some dirty work himself and get ahead of fate and kill Kratos himself... Only for Kratos to be too angry to die, crawl back out of Hades, knock down the doors of the sisters of Fate and literally beat fate and take control of it for himself, travelling back in time to stop Zeus from killing him and then declaring war on all of Olympus. A war which, depsite its ups and downs, trials and tribulations, he was destined to win through sheer will alone.

But there are consequences to killing a god, and there are even more consequences to killing a pantheon of gods. Floods, disease, pestilence, hunger, darkness, and fear gripped the world of man in a ravaging vice as Kratos stood over the ruins of the new world he created by burning the old one to ash, in his quest for revenge he had lost his humanity and become a mindless monster, hellbent on destruction and ruin, no matter the cost, but now, at the very end, a mind once drunk on blood is sobered by the agony of bloodloss. There was only one god left to kill, that is, when Athena appeared, claiming to have ascended beyond Olympus into a realm of godhood above gods, and now that Olympus had fallen, she would return to rule over all that was left. Kratos, ever ready to stick it to the gods one last time, used the powers he had accrued in the destruction of the gods to destroy himself and free the power of hope to the people of the world, to make their own lives free from the gods, and seemingly ended his own life with his own hands, denying Athena her master plan's payoff and freeing mankind once and for all. 

Until you fast forward, some amount of years, decades or centuries is unknown, Kratos lives in isolation in the wintery world of midguard, having travelled across the world into a new land, one ruled by new gods with new rules. A land where the now much more mild mannered and even tempered Kratos once again tries to raise a family and move on from his dark past, avoiding the gaze of the gods, he is successful for some time, until the death of his wife, this time not by any malicious hands, sends him on a quest across the realms and into the path of the gods. Along the way he must teach and bond with his son all while attempting to hide his past and suppress his old violent habits borne from his inner rage. All this comes to a head as the boy begins manifesting his godly abilities but becomes ill by the contradictions his mind believes he is mortal but his body is that of a god, resulting in a sickness that could kill him, all because his father would not tell him the truth of his nature. Kratos is forced to dig up the old blades of chaos to venture into a realm where no fire can exist, except that of the primordial flames his blades produce, and encounter visions and spectres of his past which haunt and tease him, reminding him he cannot escape what he has done, for what he is, is a monster. Kratos remarks "But I am your monster no more" before using his blades not to destroy, but to save, not for revenge, but for love, ultimately rescuing his son and telling him the truth. Their quest continues and brings them into confrontation with the new gods of this realm, the Aesir, the gods who rule from Asgard, and as confrontations boil over Kratos is once again pushed to become what he was made to be, a godslayer. But as the saying goes, there are consequences to killing a god, something he must impress upon his son after the boy becomes vengeful. Their quest ends when they are faced with the near unkillable Baldur, a man who feels no pain and heals from any wound, a near equal to Kratos in strength and fury, who was cursed by his mother who feared prophecy that he would be slain someday. Her curse, meant to protect, was an overcorrect, as his lack of feelings drove him mad, numb from the numbness, he seeks to kill her in revenge, only for Kratos to intervene, and kill the unkillable god thanks to the help of the magic mistletoe-as-kryptonite arrows his son used to break the spell. "The cycle ends here" was Kratos' proclamation after urging Baldur to back down from repeating history and slaying his parents in revenge. And yet, there are consequences to killing a god. The death of Baldur signals the coming of Ragnarok, the end times. In attempting to stop the cycle, Kratos has only pushed it further.

This all comes to a head when Kratos is backed into corner after corner by the Norns, Norse Mythology's weavers of Fate, and the machinations of Odin the Allfather, who pits his Asgardians against Kratos and Atreus until they are both forced to play the roles they were born into, ultimately toppling Asgard and it's gods, once again freeing another world from the oppression of the gods, allowing them to make their own destinies, and to finally allow Kratos to find some peace, as the end of the game reveals that Kratos is prophesized to shed away his guilt and shame and pain and become a god worshipped by the people, rather than feared by them, at least until the next pantheon comes aknockin' on his door and forcing him to become that fateful godslayer once more.

This is an incredibly abridged version of Kratos' story, and one that doesn't do the whole of his character full justice, but it is important to outline his journey and give as much context as possible without doing a head over heels deep dive. The point is this, Kratos kills gods and commands his own fate. Those two things have always stuck with me. One of my favorite times playing video games was the entirety of God of War 2, which was my first time playing a game in the series, where the spectacle and hack n slash action was taken to a satisfying and fun peak, and the idea that the whole plot is just Kratos being too angry to die that he defies and defeats fate itself to undo his death is just fucking cool, man. So, when I heard the first few lines of Miracle of Sounds' song, "Break the hard chains of fate, roads we walk we create, for our futures are wide and vast" I was already starting to well up with emotion, from the nostalgia of that old game, paired with the rich journey in the new game, and the thematic truth I have come to believe in, that we are not static or unchanging, that we are not just the people we were born to be, but that the human spirit allows us to be who we choose to be. It is not easy, it is filled with trials and perils and backslides, and we are not perfect, but if we make good decisions, if we choose to do good things, we can overcome the beasts deep within, cast our fury into our past, and choose to be better at last.

I've made a lot of mistakes and I've let a lot of people down in my life. Every failure, every perceived shortcoming, every time I intentionally or unintentionally chose to be less than the person I want to be, haunts me. I have burned entire relationships with communities and individuals to the ground. I have chosen a scorched Earth over a long road to recovery and reconciliation. I once thought I had a "found family" in my former friends from the Theater Production Class of my 8th grade year. Comprised of some long-running friendships from Elementary all through middle school, I had known many of them for a long time at that point. Having spent many extracurricular hours together creating the bonds that only stageplay performances can create between its cast and crew. I had even been unanimously elected into a leadership position as theater club president, a position I did not originally volunteer for, as I was reticent to take on any position of power, being scared of what that might make me into. Yet, when the 8th grade year started and the position was vacant, before I could choose to run for the position, half the class told me it should be mine, and ever seeking to please and impress my peers, I ran and won a largely uncontested race after giving an impromptu speech about responsibility and commitment and passion to the craft. An event nearly mirrored some years later when I would intentionally run for the position of Inaugural Star Bandit Council Member, though I had more time to prepare and actually wanted the position, it was one that I seemed to slide into with little effort despite, or perhaps because of the gravity of it's responsibilities. That is one of the curious things I have discovered of myself, I never have much trouble taking responsibility or accountability for something, even when at times it feels intimidating or its something that should not be my fault or warrant my involvement, I am not afraid to take the heat and deal with the consequences, yet when there is a position which entails decision making, leadership, or "power" otherwise, I am scared shitless and reticent to involve myself. Perhaps its because I want to do the work and make things happen, but I don't want to disappoint or fall short of the expectations that come with being "a good leader". Sometimes I just like being a goon, following a plan, clearing a path for someone else's vision that drives me to passion.

Sometimes I think I'm best fit for a role which requires me to be accountable and involved, but not wholly in charge of the decisions and the crafting of a cohesive scheme. I much prefer being pitched a plan, tossing it around in my head, picking it apart, adding flesh to its bones, and returning it to its originator with a stronger idea than before. It's a role that I find more comfortable, but its also perhaps an easy thing that just anyone can do. Its easy to poke holes in a canvas than it is to paint a picture on one. I often wonder if I only fear the idea of "power" because of Thomas Jefferson's quote about its corrosive qualities.

"Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely".

That I internalized such an idea at a young age that it stunted me from taking on the challenges that come from power and influence. Then I remember that my parents had power over me, and that they had their share of powertrips, that their parents parents, my grandparents had power over them and me, and powertripped, and politicians and priests and people all the world over, once given the power to do as they please and take advantage of other people's vulnerabilities or weaknesses, often must resist the urge to powertrip, or be absolutely corrupted by their power and do awful deeds which hurt and destroy. 

I am afraid of power because I am afraid of myself, of what I might do when I become powerful. I worry that even my resolve and moral character can be corroded and hollowed out if not kept in check, something that becomes more and more difficult with ascending tiers of power. A scene from one of my favorite TV shows, Mr Robot, demonstrated what this anxiety or insecurity of mine looks like in manifest. Terry Colby is rich, powerful, and hollow, a good businessman. Through his position in his ultra powerful corporation, "E Corp", he helped cover up a chemical leak which gave cancer to many of his employees, a decision which became a death sentence for so many and which was the spark that lit the shows world on fire, as the main characters are the children of those workers. Yet, when backed into a corner and questioned on how and why he made such a decision, Colby casually recalls the air of the room, in which he and his peers lavished in decadence while they logically and callously decided to cover up their own failures, dooming their employees to desolation, all because a lawsuit would be cheaper than an actual fix. The piece that always stuck with me was that Colby acknowledged that he knew there was a human cost unaccounted for, but that, when all was said and done, he went home, ate breakfast the next day, and carried on, and soon enough it stopped mattering, because it never actually affected him in the first place. That callousness, the insensitive apathy held towards the people whose lives he had power over, that is what makes me afraid of power. When human lives are just numbers on a spreadsheet. This deep-seeded fear of mine manifests not just in my own reticence, but in a strange resentment of those who do take up these positions with perceived ease and calm. I resent my managers, even the most human and empathetic of them, I resent my government officials, even the ones I vote for or who pass laws I want. I struggle against myself and these feelings I have about power and people who seek it out. It can even make some interpersonal relationships tense as I project some of these insecurities onto people undeserving of such derision.

In Dragon Ball Z Budokai Tenkaichi 3, before Goku turns Super Saiyan 3 and uses his Dragon Fist attack, he exclaims "if I don't who will?" And that has always stuck with me. A call to action so simple yet so complete. If something must be done, we must step up and do it ourselves, else they will never happen at all. It is a modus operandi I operate on most of the time. If I don't take charge, who will? If I don't fix this, who will? If I don't strike up a conversation, who will? Sometimes there are others who will, oftentimes there are not. When I encounter those rare people who have a similar inclination to taking up the cause or leading the way, I often find it easy to step out of their way and provide my support, opting to help push them forward instead of dueling for the front of the locomotive, as every train needs a caboose.

Almost every one of my heroes was reluctant. Marc Spector killed for money until a change of heart sent him on a quest for redemption. Elisa Cameron woke up as a ghost with no memories of her previous life, having to overcome prejudices and piece together who she used to be, Jessica Cruz has to overcome anxiety, PTSD, and herself to focus her willpower on heroics, Bruce Banner believes he is the monster his dad saw him as, denying himself close relationships, Vic Sage was a selfish loner who fought for pleasure and thrills until he was broken by a question he couldn't answer, Kratos was hellbent on revenge and conquest before ever fighting for hope. Even historical figures I find fascinating had that reluctance to ascension to power, Washington was asked to run by the new republic, Lincoln wasn't going to free anyone until the South forced his hand, Oppenheimer created a weapon to end the world, and felt shame and guilt for his actions. There are consequences to the decisions we make. That is never far from my mind.

I've derailed from one of the points I wanted to make. In 8th grade I had what felt like a home away from home, something I have spent much of my life searching for, and something that I sometimes wonder if I may ever find forever. (The Star Band of Its friend group has outlasted the others by years, to which I would like to credit myself in part due to my patience and efforts to be a glue that binds and mends these characters' lives together. But I wonder as to the truth of that. As there have been times when in trying to diffuse I inadvertently stoked a fire that would erupt into a chaotic meltdown, and other times still when I was given pieces of information and manipulated into action and side-taking that would have never occurred when tempered against a complete story and the whole, honest truth. Worse still, there have been moments, hours, days, when that once dormant storm warmed inside me and became a hurricane of rage which rained down fury on those undeserving, no matter the slights they pulled to upset me, but lets get back to the point). I felt that I was close to these friends and that I knew them and that I had a place in their lives. Then I moved away, 2,000 miles to California. On my way out, I collected all their cell numbers so I could keep in touch with them. I would text them everyday as I walked home from school. At first it went well. I'd receive regular communication from most and it felt good to continue to be connected to these people I valued. Then as time went on replies got scarcer and scarcer. Not only were the responses less, but they were lesser, more small talk, less conversation. The friendships were drying up and I began to worry about how they actually felt about me. Was I annoying them? Was it too much? Maybe they were just busy. My favorite way to cope with disinterested spirits. Maybe they just had a lot going on and would get back to me in time. So, I waited. I stopped texting first, and I waited for the real ones to reach out. And no one did, at least, none of the ones I had expected or thought I wanted. The people who reached out were the people I thought I was least connected to, the ones who I felt existed on the outside of my ingroup. The distant cousins of my found family. Yet these friends reached out all the same, despite my undervaluing of their time and effort. And before long I learned that those people I thought I knew so well, didn't have many kind things to say about me when I was not in the room. I felt that resentment begin to build.

I went long periods without contacting them at all, waiting, waiting, fuming, stoking the flames of quiet discontentment. California was supposed to be a temporary departure from my regular life, it turned out to instead be a turning point that changed the trajectory of myself forever. I fell for a girl, but feared her rejection, so stored those feelings safe away as I soon discovered she had eyes for another. Yet we grew closer nonetheless, in part due to my insistence to be near her. She was my first friend in this foreign land where people look at you wrong when you hold the door open for them, and react with surprise or suspicion when you say "yes ma'am, no ma'am, yes sir, no sir" because no one ever taught them manners or that politeness we foster here in the South in the name of hospitality. I walked her to every class I could, and she was delighted to see me and spend time with me. I felt a gravity around her that I've never felt around anyone before or after, an unmitigable well of energy and enthusiasm for the world and all who inhabit it, a raw love for the world that warmed my heart in a time that felt so full of despair. When I first saw her I wrote her off as just some cringey nerd girl who didn't know anything but the textbooks in front of her. How right I was, how wrong I was. We sat next to each other in English class. I noticed her big poofey hair and liked it. She was noisy and a people pleaser, a teachers pet, a tried and true nerd. She reached out to me because I was the new guy, and that made me interesting. We eventually traded numbers. I taught her about Shrek is love, Shrek is life, she taught me about Filthy Frank. I realized this weird cringey nerd girl had something close to an edge to her, despite her naievette, and soon fell for her hard. I don't think she ever noticed, but she felt something too. (She once rejected to read the role of Juliet during a class reading of Romeo & as I was chosen to read for Romeo and she thought it was "too awkward". How would that be awkward between two people who are just friends?) We texted all day and night, from dawn to dusk. Through the school day and at the dinner table. She got in trouble with her dad who, for some reason, monitored the volume of text messages she sent each month. Despite her phone plan providing unlimited, infinite text message exchanges between her and whoever she was talking to, he scrutinized the numbers and was flabbergasted when she went from sending less than a hundred texts a month to several hundred or over a thousand a month, regularly. I guess that would cause some concern to any helicopter parent, as any abnormality is a sign of change, and change is scary when we can't control it.

But we texted anyways, in spite of his growing concern for his daughter's erratic behavior. She wasn't allowed to befriend boys in fear of retaliation from her father. She also wasn't allowed sleepovers, or birthday parties, or much of a social life outside of school in general. She wasn't allowed social media so when the concern over our texts grew to be too much we switch to... email, Gmail, to be specific, and google hangouts, a chat thread built into google mail. Our friendship was a secret, and my deeper feelings even moreso. It was almost a forbidden love. The kind in which the desire to prove it and triumph in spite of the opposition was so desirable, so fiercely "romantic" that I fell into a deep pit of love that took me years to recover from. She liked another guy. I knew this when I met him, he knew me when I met him. His first interaction with me was to question my feelings towards her. He asked, "do you have a crush on her?", to which, I lied, saying we were just friends. Perhaps that was the beginning of my own undoing, but it was also the beginning of his as well. I resolved then to drive as much of a wedge between them as I could. Little, small things that could mount into a wider divide. I was being ultra-present, to deny them time alone. When she would bring him up, I would question him, his intentions, and his actions towards her. Once I made her doubt him, his doom would be sealed. I remember much of this coming to a head when I hosted that Interfaith panel I spoke about earlier in the r/atheism section of this essay, but as host I was running around the venue the whole time with a mic to field audience questions. I was very good. I remember discovering the girl I liked sitting with the boy I disliked, and I noticed an evident uncomfortable disposition in her, and a desparate obliviousness in him. He wanted her to be his girlfriend, she wasn't sure about it. But they were holding hands. I felt a fire burn through my circulatory system. This would not stand. So, I used the one weapon I had honed for the occasion, I snuck up behind them during intermission, and asked a simple, piercing question

Do you feel enlightened yet?

With that, I accomplished my goal of c*ckblocking and disrupting, demonstrating that I was present and aware of them, and that they were not alone if I was around. The rest of the night went off without a hitch, I had chased him away for now, and kept my friend single another day for me to stay close to. The other guy of course continued his own pursuits, long after my dysfunctional family had a collective meltdown that necessitated an early move back to Texas a whole year earlier than planned, but I had planted enough seeds of doubt, enough distrust of him and his shifty, possessive, manipulative nature, that he lost what little chance he had from the start. 

Or did I? Did she ever really like him? By her own admission she did, would it have ever mounted had I not weaseled and wedged my way into their relationship? Different parties will draw different interpretations. My power is not absolute, but my ability to persuade is relatively adept when juggling the right pieces and from a position of close enough confidence. I would have made for a terrible boyfriend. I knew that, even then. I never asked her out. My own closeted repression and angst over my insecurities about wielding power and manipulation and social engineering learned through my time crafting a mask through the theater arts led me to avoid getting close enough to hurt her. But I still had to tell her how I felt. Eventually. So I waited, and I waited, and then one night my mom and dad had a fight and my dad pulled out his guns for a late night "cleaning" and my mom laughed at him and told him to kill himself and I cautiously, and quietly, slowly, painstakingly carefully as my body was riddled with fear of a murder suicide(Some say its the way to go!), secretly moved my pillow and blanket into the garage, as my room was connected to it through a door. Not a sound was made opening or closing the door, and I lay on the floor, listening intently for any sound that would signal a need to call the police and run from my home. I didn't think my father would actually do anything. But I knew he COULD do something, the story of a man driven to the brink and going postal on his family is nothing new in the world of true crime. It was the remotest possibility, but one I needed to be aware of and prepared for. When the muffled crying of my father or mother ceased and the house returned to silence, and I no longer felt the impending dread of tragedy about to strike, as the clock neared an hour before it was time to "wake up" for my walk to school, I silently, carefully, noiselessly, moved back into my bed and waited for my mom to open the door to "wake me up", hoping it would be my mother and nothing more dangerous.

That was an awful day at school, spent on the verge of tears all day trying to process my own self-inflicted scrape with near death. I was likely never in any danger at all as my dad didn't go postal, but even as the remotest possibility it only made sense that I secure myself. I was a zombie mortified by the lingering drain felt from the flushing of adrenaline, unable to focus and oh so very sad. I eventually broke into tears when my English teacher inquired about my dismal condition. The fights between my parents continued, never escalating to the height, or perhaps low, from that dreadful one, but the dysfunctional family was dysfunctioning and soon enough it was announced that my dad was leaving his job, the very job we moved across the country to live under the income of, and would be returning home a year earlier than anticipated, as an emotionally, financially, and spiritually crippled household. Thus the burden of affection I had shielded so closely to my heart demanded an early release. I would tell her how I felt about her on the last day of school, so that there could be no awkward phase of recalibration, and perhaps more importantly, no painful reminder of the rejection I knew was coming. As, before she could turn me away, it was the good lord above who ensured we could never have a chance in the first place by sending me back to where I came from. So, I wrote two pages of a confessional, devotional, honest love letter declaring my truest feelings in as few words as possible. On the day of delivery I pulled her aside, gave her the paper, and opened my heart to her.

She laughed in my face.

"This is a joke, you're joking" was not the reply I had anticipated. An "I don't feel the same way" or "I wish you told me sooner but lets just stay friends" or even an "ewwww" were in the cards, but not outright denial of my truth. Perhaps I had kept my feelings too closely guarded, or perhaps with an unclear intent both in my heart and desires made it impossible to decipher what it was I had wanted from the friendship. And friendship is what I had wanted. But the feelings I had kept deep inside made me want more from a relationship that would have been doomed to long distance and a high school experience. I had simultaneously felt that she was "the one" perfect partner for me but was aware it was a doomed dynamic from outside my heart. Her father would never let it happen, living 2,000 miles away would make seeing each other impossible, and all other variables aside, its not what she wanted. I knew that ever since I met and secretly sabotaged the other guy. I listened as she gushed about other boys and kpop stars and all the little crushes she had informed me from the beginning that it was my heart which would end up being crushed. But letting go is such a hard thing to do. Letting go of that feeling you get when your phone lights up from a new message she sent you, the weightlessness of your steps as you walk together and talk about nothing, the hearty laugh when a funny joke is told. The eternal moment of being lost in someone's eyes. But I was a fool, and a determined one. Because as I said to my confidant at the time, "You can see a bullet coming, that doesn't mean you'll be able to dodge it".

The rejection pierced my heart as I knew it would, whether its delivery method was anticipated or not, and then I moved away. I left it all behind to return to a place I had hoped would be familiar, so that I could actually forget that crazy wacky no good year in the hell state. We returned to our family home which had been lent out to a friend of my mom's, so we had some sense of normalcy, as though we had never left. That all changed when we tried to go back to school. I lived in the city of Deer Park, and for all the years I had lived in the city of Deer Park I had gone to schools within the Deer Park school district. It was in this school district that my friends, and projected found family, resided. Despite our patchy long distance near fallout, and the chip on my shoulder I felt about their seeming ignoring of me, I was confident a return to an in person relationship at the big Deer Park high school would be enough to get us back on track. It was never meant to be. For, despite living within the city and going to the school district which shared its name, I lived in Deer Park city, but La Porte school district. 

La Porte was the next town over and for some zoning reason I do not know, my neighborhood was within its reach EVEN THOUGH the Deer Park High school was closer to my house than the La Porte High school. It was an extra five or so minutes of driving to go to the school I was "assiged" to. As it turned out, the only reason I had been going to Deer Park schools was because we once DID live in Deer park School District, when our family resided in a tiny apartment home complex called... "Park Town" during the first and second grade of my school years. Then, when my parents finally bought a house, the house we lived in from the third grade onto the eighth grade and returned to during my sophomore year of high school, we moved to La Porte ISD. I only stayed in Deer Park because I had been grandfathered into the system through its "open enrollment" system and my having stayed within that district for so long. When we appealed to return to the school we had known, we were rejected, several times. My mother even got so far as to talk over the phone to the superintendent of the district, a man who had previously been principal of my middle school who had multiple one on one meetings with me to congratulate me for my academic and extracurricular achievements, turned me away, sourly.

That rejection, the rejection of the culmination of all my acheivement and accolades that I had worked hard for, highest GPA several years in a row, second place in a district wide Theater Arts UIL competition, Theater Club President, Honor Society, being privileged enough to be bussed to the same high school I was now trying to go to because my innate talents and skill when calculating mathematics was two years ahead of my age group, a privilege only one other person shared with me, a school program he knew about, endorsed and had to approve for me to ever participate in. I'm not going on some ego-trip when I say that THIS person knew what I was bringing to his school district, and I was denied all the same. If you ever wonder when the disenchantment with academia and schooling in general began, it was sitting there and watching my mother face my rejection over the phone. All my hard work, overacheiving, and educational discipline meant nothing as I was cast away from the place I knew and left to be neglected in a school district that could not meet my needs.

What is disenfranchisement supposed to do to someone besides build resentment?

So to La Porte I went, during the blackout year that was Sophomore year of high school. When I transferred in, despite all my advanced curriculum credits and acheivements, I was placed in "normal" classes, which to me were not normal, but instead SLOW and BORING and UNCHALLENGING and CLASSES I HAD ALREADY COMPLETED. Most egregious was math, where I should have been taking Pre-calculus I was instead placed in fucking Geometry. Do you KNOW how far behind me was? I took Geometry in 8th grade, now as a Sophomore, I was taking it again! My discontent was made known when I informed the teacher my placement was an error that would be corrected. And soon enough, corrected it was and I was placed back on the correct trajectory, Advanced Placement or Pre-Advanced Placement over regular curriculum classes, and I had enough credits leveraged to be the sole sophomore student in Pre-Calculus, an advanced Junior-level class, placing me back in my throne of being two years ahead of my peers in mathematics. Though this time I sat alone, as my friend was now also alone at Deer Park in their advanced trajectories. To say I slept through Sophomore Year is a literal statement. I had not yet given up on returning to my stomping grounds in deer Park, and was convinced once Open Enrollment opened up I could be returned. So I sought no permanent ties and no reason to root myself at La Porte. When lecture was finished, and my busy work was done, I would place my head down on the desk, and I would sleep, or pretend to sleep rather, as often times I was just staring at the dark side of my eyelids, imagining being out of this awful place. I began efforts to reconnect with the world I spent a year away from. 

That first year in La Porte high school proved to be transformative for many. I felt an outsider among "my people" who didn't seem all too eager to spend time with or around me. My best friend had made a habit of lying and behaving in performative ways that were untrue to the person I grew up with. My few California friends, and the very special friends I had made through  the YouTube comments section that I only knew digitally, seemed to be the only real friends I had, and they weren't around to help me. They could only hear my cries of agony as I languished in self-imposed social exile at school, and suffered being the ugly buckling in my herd of deer. Things weren't any better at home. Teenage angst and a lifetime of dysfunction pitted my father and I against each other many, many times. if ever there was a worst year of my life, it was Sophomore Year, and it really isn't any wonder then why I don't remember most of it, and how much of it has been intentionally, or subconsciously blocked out and forgotten as the darkest time in my life. Dark, because there was an absence of light.

The only thing that shone through the dark was the school's AV class, which was carried by a kind bleeding heart named Mr. Z, who noticed my abilities within audio video production and sought to advance me into his pet-class, LPTV. I told him, rather coldly, it wasn't going to happen, not because I didn't want it, because I did truthfully really, REALLY wanted to be in that class, but because "I was going to go back to Deer Park". At the end of the year I signed up for the class anyways, just in case. Sure enough, I didn't go back to Deer Park. I was rejected, again, it stung less this time. By this point, I had just about given up on my old "found family". I didn't feel respected or involved, they never invited me to things, and when I would show up I was greeted with cold shoulders. I'm painting with a broad brush. Some of them liked me. Some of them maintained a friendship with me. But the group dynamic was gone, and I felt homeless. This isolation, it paired poorly with an unfortunately popular online trend at the time. As you may know, this was around 2015-2016, when the internet was at its edgiest. Filthy Frank, the content creator I had grown to idolize, as introduced to me by the girl I was infatuated by, became a model for my humor that was just not flying around the group I wanted to be a part of. In fact, provocative, "ironic" awfulness only ever ensured I drifted apart from them. They didn't have the context, they didn't have the intimate understanding of irony. They didn't know, that the person acting like an asshole wasn't trying to BE an asshole, but was just trying to make them laugh by behaving like an asshole, because its.... Ironic.

Or is it? It turns out that when you behave like an ass, people will view you as an ass. No amount of context, irony, or excuses change the outcome of your intentions. In going into their group chats to shitpost and say offensive or derogatory statements as a childish and immature form of "satire, social commentary, or pure comedy" I was further pushing those people I cared about away. In the end, it only made for the perfect excuse to leave me behind, one fateful night when my "trolling" took things to the logical conclusion. Discontent from disconnectedness, I pushed the line as far as I could until I crossed it, using edginess to be combative and truly playing on an offensive, I lit the the match that burned the tattered bridge between my former friends and myself. When confronted for my behavior I spoiled the safety of our space further by adding my online friends who none of them knew, telling my rallied forces that this was a trolling campaign in retaliation to wrongs done to me, that I was being ganged on and needed reinforcements. Ever loyal, my "true" friends stood by my side and dished out further damage, until any hope of restoring my old relationships was lost. The few who remained attached to me reached out for understanding, trying to figure me out, and wanting to be heard I attempted to rationalize my behavior, that I believed the old ties would need to be burned away so that new ones could be built over them, stronger than ever, likening myself to a phoenix and making known a desire for reconciliation. But who wants to reconcile with a belligerent? Why would you want to take the hand of the person who pushed you over and spit on you? Its easier to pick yourself up and walk away from the person who hurt you in the first place, so that's what most of them did. 

The two who stuck around, olive branches and good graces extended to me, only really served as a reminder of all I had lost in my blaze of ironic glory. I wanted them to make up for lost time and severed ties, I wanted the comfort and safety of the family I didn't have at home. They did what they could, I do believe, but no one can stay close to a burning flame forever, lest they be burned as the others were. I maintained these final friendships as long as I could, desperate for a place to belong, desperate for companionship and to be close to people who valued me, only to learn for the final time that I do not matter to people just because they matter to me. In attempting to find solace with one of these friends, I confided in him the stress I was under due to the volatile conditions at home. His response? "Stop talking about your problems".

What is a friendship, if we cannot struggle together? Lean on each other when times are hard, find safety in each others confidence? Well, the discontentedness reared its ugly head again, and let out a final roar. This bridge was to be burned to ash and left to settle in the river, never to be built again.

I grew antagonistic, picking fights, arguments, anything. Anything I could to provoke so that we could settle the space between us with a truth: DO NOT CROSS, we are not friends. Eventually, he bit and in some very spirited DMs I became the worst version of myself I could have been. I played the role of the villain, allowing him to be the victim of angry, hate-fueled lashing with words. Telling him everything I thought, everything I felt, and layering it all with language that would give me the appearance of evil, so that we could go from this false friendship into a new phase: former friends. I wanted him to hate me so that I would never have to think about him again. And amidst all the irony I claimed to post, the greatest was this: I've never stopped thinking about that friend.

Because I did him dirty, I sabotaged the frayed threads dangling our friendship on its ends, severing the connection with a finality that would leave no room for redemption. It is the one falling out in life I regret the most, and the one I carry the most shame over, because despite what perceived slights or interpreted falseness existed in the rippling reflections between us, he was my friend, and I did care about him. 

This self-destructive, "I will become the villain you made me into" was a recurrent motif in my high school years. When push came to shove, and trouble poked its ugly head out from hiding, I would release whatever pent up frustration existed inside me and wear it as a mask to become the phantom of my own terrible opera. Creating such despicable characters that would ruin the relationships I had once so eagerly cared for. There was another girl, many of you know the story, most of you at this point may not. I was troubled, and she was constantly in trouble. When I first fell for her I prophesized my own ruin of the friendship when I thought to myself what our future may look like. Rolling an 8-ball in my head, the outlook was not so good. We grew close, I learned of her boyfriend, I found every fault he had, every failure of a partner he embodied, and I poked, prodded, needled and sowed the seeds of their destruction, pulling loose threads and yanking carpets, I helped manifest a much-desired break-up. In my defense he was a loser who didn't understand consent and he desperately needed to be done away with, but my intentions where not so pure as protecting a friend, so much as they were to get this person single, now aided by the knowledge that he was despicable. So desperate to fill the gaps, I turned him and his silly, absent minded quotes into a running joke between us, helping grow us closer. We found ourselves on the phone every night, sometimes even Skype, in a time before discord, we'd fall asleep listening to each other breathe. Then there was another guy who came along, bolder than me, proclaiming his love for she. I realized then that I hadn't completed my machinations, having only made her single. I followed after him, detailing my desire. She relented, and the two of us agreed to "figure it out" and "take it slow". Little did I know, slow was merely a pace at which time could be bought for someone to come along much bolder than me, once again. In a dramatic twist of fate, this man abandoned his girlfriend to seduce the girl I was fixated on, wrecking it all in one fell swoop. Despite a previous promise I had made to not feel betrayed should she dare to stray onto a new path without me(for I swore my love was selfless and unwanting), all I could feel was fear, fear and rage and confusion at the alarming bell of rejection and failure. It didn't help that the situation at my home didn't fare any better, as my father struck my mother. All that timid mild-mannered patience burst once again as I let loose the anger I had buried within. Thus, we find ourselves in a loop, as I had written about this friend whom I hurt, back in the entry where I wrote about Hulk, Bloodrayne, and my father. In the fallout of my rampage in which I promised to become the evil one to be so despised once again, I simultaneously swore that I was to become a phoenix once more and be reborn. How many times was that, then? From a Christian baptised under a new name, to an atheist shedding off some shame, I fell to a new rock bottom after playing a heart's game. Neither would this be the last time, as I was again born again the day I stepped away from the degree I was expected to see. Then once more when I shed my hair to please all but myself. How many times must I be broken and remade before Robbie Bland ceases to mean anything at all? 

Whatever the case, lets tie up this knot: despite it all, the tumult and pain, the two of us eventually found a satisfactory friendship in which our wounds could be mended and our hearts healed over. Despite my manipulations and false intentions, I respected this friend enough to apologize and forgive. Something the people we left in our past paths often neglected to do. It took awhile, but I got over her too. That's when and why this blog was made. I felt I needed to vent without becoming sus, so I wrote here, into a void where no one would see or care, but me. My own little channel for accountability. A place to confess and profess, to avoid protest and getting lost in my own head. In truth, I've found this place to be a refuge and a safe place, a fortress of solitude to brood and reflect. I forced myself to a breaking point mentally and emotionally so that I could begin learning to let go. Let go of all the shattered pieces of my broken heart, let go of all the bruises left by my father's belt, and let go of all the hatred I bore for the man in the mirror. In the last 5 or 6 years, I've come a long way from hiding in the corner of my shared bedroom typing my insomnia away. I made a breakthrough big enough to share, and eventually found I could make this place a record of all the writings I've made. And why? Well, sometimes the answer is why not? I want to feel like people know who I am, and that they can accept me in spite of my flaws, my past, and my failures. I want to be known, and I want to get to know, all of you. To do that, I must first cast off the rags of shame that shroud me, and tell the truth. I am tormented by failure. I want to be a leader, but I fear that when trusted with the position I will let people down and hurt them. I often tell myself that power corrupts, but as I age I want to instead believe that power reveals. Not that it corrodes you and warps you, but instead brings out who and what you truly are. In that, I must strive to be the best I can be. My starting point, so that I may earn the love and the trust and the acceptance I so covet, I must first learn to love, trust, and accept myself, by loving, trusting, and accepting you.

And so this is what its all been about. Getting to this moment, letting my scars be visible, the proof of my shortcomings, the reveal of my sins and my sorrows, as Kratos reveals the scars left on his arms by the chains which seared into his skin when he accepted the blades of chaos and service to Ares, I want my friends, the truest family I have ever known, to see me and know me. When my dad was in therapy he would share some of the lessons he learned with me. One of the most sticking was the piece of wisdom his therapist gave him when he was told that we all "tell yourself a story" about your life. It can be a good story, a bad story, whatever the narrative, it informs your perspective and the things you see and interpret as you navigate life. If the story you tell yourself is that you are a victim, of circumstance, society, a bad upbringing, or whatever else it is that has done you harm, you will live as a victim of those things. If you tell yourself that everyone is out to get you, to betray you, to twist you into their own machinations and manipulations, you will begin to perceive your friends as opportunists and groomers or worse. If you tell yourself that because you have a disability, you'll never be able to get out of bed and live your life, then you won't ever try to live with that disability. You'll just lay in bed and rot. That is mostly where manifestation comes from. If you tell yourself you'll meet your true love at the shopping mall on Thursday, well, you're certainly going to go looking, aren't you? And that's where the limits begin, you can control your perception of events, people, and all things inbetween through the way you frame them, but you can't actually control them. When someone hurts your feelings, you can decide to linger on the pain, or work to move past it, but you can't stop that person from hurting you altogether. For a long time, the story I have told myself of my life is that I am my fathers' son, and that I am doomed to fail and fall into cycle after cycle as my fathers fathers before me. That despite my reformations, I am a dormant volcano waiting to erupt in awful fire one day, that I cannot be trusted to lead or to help because I am more likely to cause further harm than healing. Maybe all of these things are true, made true by precedent and environment and trauma and colorful re-interpretations of my own life story. But if life is what we make it, let us make good.

I will continue to strive towards a better self. Because if even the monstrous Ghost of Sparta can find redemption, so too can we, if we choose to be better.

Break the hard chains of fate, roads we walk we create, for our future are wide and vast, I can choose to be better, at last.

Afterword, Epilogue, Circling Back to Square One...

How fitting that as I wrap up this journal entry, Santa Monica Studios releases a FREE DLC to the newest game, God of War Ragnarok, "Valhalla" a series of challenge maps where Kratos re-lives some of his greatest battles as the Valhalla of the GOW world is a never-ending series of battles pulled from your own lived experiences, even the past you wanted to bury. Kratos eventually finds himself back in Greece, battling minotaurs and sirens, just like old times, even re-living past events, which are now vivid traumas as Kratos is made to confront his own worst decisions. Such as times he killed needlessly, selfishly, to forward his own goals, now forced to face the consequences of them and try to find new solutions. He even finds himself with a familiar and loathsome companion, Helios, the God of the Sun, whose head is strapped to his belt and constantly pesters and berates him for the evil he made Greece suffer upon the slaying of their sun god, plunging them into eternal darkness. This all culminates in a final, climactic, one-sided confrontation wherein Kratos stares down his past self, sitting on the throne of the God of War, and makes peace. Recognizing his growth, accepting his past and understanding it, and choosing to have hope for his future. Ultimately retiring to that dreadful throne, now with a newfound calm, as he realizes it can be a throne which gives people hope. Kratos chooses to be better. And so have I.

This year did not go entirely as I wanted. I'd say it went about halfway. My goals were somewhat met. I DID workout, pretty regularly until about September. I fell off hard, stopped getting regular sleep and eating well, and just kind of, coasted. I had gained, enough muscle that I COULD dress as Kratos without doing myself a disservice, but I still have a long way to go. I DID shave my head, as you all saw, and it has been well received. I don't like it very much, but what else was there to expect? I liked having long hair. I like the way it felt in the wind, now the wind just feels cold. I liked brushing it when I was bored, I liked the feeling of washing it when it was too greasy. I liked the way it looked in pictures when it was extra poofy and wild. I liked how untamed it could get and how that made me feel. I felt like myself. And now, I have the memories.

These were taken the night before, at my best friend Liz's bachelor party. The next day was the Halloween Party and then the day after that was his wedding. A packed weekend. It feels somewhat like looking at a ghost when I see these pictures(how fitting that someone aspiring to become the Ghost of Sparta sees themselves as a ghost?), receiving them so soon after I had shaved sent a deep series of butterflies into my system, I knew then what I still know now, I'm going to miss my hair. But it won't come back. I made this decision, I'm gonna live with it. Other people like it. No one has said, "I miss the way you used to look". Oh well. I can't go back even if I wanted to, it was already thinning and falling out on its own, in the process of re-growth it would only continue doing that. Maybe when I'm in my 40s and its socially acceptable again to have a partially bald head it can come back. Time will tell. I reject paying a subscription fee to some drug company to get a full head of hair, and I will never be vain enough to buy implants. Cosmetic surgery as a whole is kinda lame to me. I'm more interested in finding a way to embrace what nature has made me. I sold myself on the idea not because my friends told me I was ugly with my hair, but because I wanted to dress up as Kratos, and now that I've done it, the options for cosplay are wide open. I think of how the Epic Rap Battles of History guys keep their heads shaved because they always wear wigs and prosthetics and whatnot to become the different characters they portray in their videos, and I think I can chart my own path down that trail. After all, I've always enjoyed being Darth Maul...

In middle school and freshman year of high school he WAS my go-to Halloween costume for like 3-4 years in a row. I got so good at drawing his face-tattoos that I didn't need a reference photo(or figure) by the last few times. Instead of wearing a bald cap I would just put the hood up to cover my hair and only use those first three horns. Now that I have a shaven head, the possibilities are wide open. I can do a Darth Maul cosplay with a full head of horns. I'd just have to ditch the beard, for a little bit. It grows back fast enough I wouldn't miss it for long. I think that is what I will do. Darth Maul @ Star Bandits Halloween Party 2024.

In other news, I didn't quite get the finances together, in fact I only created more problems for myself, but I am figuring them out and keeping my head above the water. I've created an accountability system with my grandmas to create some long-term savings, and its being taken care of. I've gotten used to working a bunch to pay for this expensive life, and I have no intention of scaling back, just working harder. The pajama pants are off, the purple pants are in.

I've finished 4 stop-motions that are in various stages of editing. My 2024 game-plan is to post one video a month. Abandoning my previous "post it when its done" strategy. I'm developing a release schedule and a content cycle that will hopefully actually stimulate growth for blandclanvideos. I want to find a way to make money on this passion of mine, and I think I can get monetization in 2024 if I just don't let up. We will see! I've never felt more optimistic though. I finally passed 500 subscribers after ten years. The sky truly is the limit if I develop the discipline for consistency!

In other, bigger news I was able to put an original work to stage after the inaugural STARGAZE Theater Festival, brought to you by THE STAR BANDITS in association with STAR BANDIT FOUNDATION. I am a councilman and board member to this silly little found family and nonprofit of mine. My life enjoyed a full circle moment as after many long years since the 8th grade, where my short play I directed for the end of year showcase never made it to stage, a new debut show, "Robin Hood vs Dracula" written, directed by, and starring me got put to stage in its place, and it was loved. My crowd pleasing show was well received, and my confidence as a writer/director/actor have never been more affirmed. I finally feel ready to make Downturn. Just have to get my money up to pay for it... The future does truly look bright. I'm excited for what this new year brings. Not finding myself filled with an inner turbulence and dread, I don't know how much I will write in this new year. Instead, I feel much like the guy this has all been about, Kratos himself. I, kind of just want to sit here awhile...

Until next time, when my restless spirit needs to find solace in the clickity clack of fast moving fingers across a keyboard. I am Robbie Bland, and I am choosing To Be Better.

[krohft]

why do you do what you do?

Lara paused , contemplating an answer . It wasn’t the first time someone had questioned her motives , nor would it be the last , but the implications still bothered her . There was no glory in what she did . No code of honor she could claim to bury her own misgivings and failures . Just that ever - lasting ache in her chest .

❝ It’s all that makes sense now , ❞ she finally said , searching the pockets of an extremely incapable mercenary . ❝ No matter where I go … Trinity is always three steps behind . Even if I wanted to , I couldn’t stop now . ❞

If he wanted to arrest her , she figured he’d have done so already — not requested a memoir . Besides , if there ever was a case to be made about self - defense , having to fight an armed stranger in her pajamas ought to be it . ❝ He won’t be identifiable . Trinity’s men never are . ❞

Rising from her crouch , Lara flipped through the man’s wallet . No IDs of any kind — she’d figured as much — but a number of keycards , polaroid photos , and handwritten notes . Trinity intel , she supposed . Nothing she could use to track them down , but she figured it could prove useless nonetheless , and pocketed the lot . ❝ You’re welcome , by the way . ❞

MEME TAG ↷ currently accepting . ᜶ @dtperez .

[graphicpolicy]

Weekly Preview! Fantagraphics, manga, and more!

Weekly Preview! Fantagraphics, manga, and more! See what's coming to GPTV! #comics #comicbooks

There are a lot of comics coming out every week to be covered. Check out some of what we’ll be reviewing and this is only the beginning! This week’s reviews include: Cloven Vol. 2 (Fantagraphics) Devil’s Cut (DSTLRY) Eden II (Fantagraphics) Game of Familia Family Senki Vol. 1 (Yen Press) Memoirs of a Man in Pajamas (Fantagraphics) The Witches Marriage Vol. 1 (Yen Press) Yen Press and…

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Thanks so much for the tag, @obsessed-n-stressed!!

favourite piece of clothing you own: a wool bomber jacket I bought a couple winters ago, a red muscle shirt, my emotional support men’s henleys, a kelly-green linen dress, a pair of plaid trousers my cousin once undermined the punkness of by asking if I was wearing pajamas (jfc, Marina, do you see the BUCKLES??)

your comfort food: a bagel with cream cheese, shepherd’s pie, pumpkin cheesecake

favourite time of year: we’re just coming up to it: the first warm days of spring!

favourite song:

life’s too short to have just one favourite song, blah blah blah

“Ode to the Mets” - The Strokes

“Love Train” - The O’Jays

“I Can See For Miles” - The Who

“Drive” - Ziggy Marley cover

“Harvest Moon” - Poolside cover

“Cold Cold Man” - Saint Motel

“I Get Along Without You Very Well” - Chet Baker

“This Will Be Our Year” - The Zombies

“Witchcraft” - Graveyard Club

“Words” - Bee Gees

film/tv score addendum:

“Planetarium” - Justin Hurwitz (from La La Land)

“The Magnificent Seven” - Elmer Bernstein (from... guess)

“The Chairman’s Waltz” - J. Williams, I. Perlman, Y. Ma (from Memoirs of a Geisha)

“Night Boarders” - Jerry Goldsmith (from The Mummy)

“Dream Kitchen” - Hans Zimmer (from The Holiday)

“Rowing” - Jóhann Jóhannsson (from The Theory of Everything)

“Vantage” - Siddhartha Khosla (from Only Murders in the Building)

“The Bertinelli Revenge” - Daniel Pemberton (from Birds of Prey)

plus all of Michael Brook’s score for Brooklyn, Ramin Djawadi’s for Westworld, and John Williams’ for Hook

do you collect something: felt mice, accidentally

favourite drink: oh man, probably apple cider

favourite fanfiction: I haven’t read much fanfiction for a couple years, but I’m starting to get back into it! This one and this one are eternal faves by two of my supremely talented pals.

tagging: @spiderman-homecomeme @mjonesing @eowima @karinaisloud @a24thegreenknight @mistressaccost @rowenamckinnon @cocoamoonmalfoy

[ascottywrites]

AO3 History

That list that I, for some reason, think is valid enough to share. My personal Ao3 History. 

Saddle up. The inner interests of my brain are kind of all over the place. 

The Basement by My_Write_Life (Wip: 25/? | 40,696) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

Stiles doubles back to the Argent’s house to free Erica and Boyd before making it back home. In which Stiles, not forgetting all about Erica and Boyd very much remaining in the basement saves them, Derek and Peter killing Jackson does make him go through the process of rebirth but he is brought back human and not a werewolf. Allison and her family go through the very legal repercussions of abducting three teenagers and Scott and Stiles friendship is put on hold because of that. Derek’s still the alpha.

Strip by Fessst (Wip: 12/? | 54,439) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

"Singletail whip. Your favorite, isn't it?" Red. Stiles felt nauseated as he bent over the bench. Red. The tremble only increased when his wrists and ankles were secured with leather straps. Red. He heard the Dom behind him give a sample crack of the whip in the air. Red. This would likely pierce his skin. So fucking Red. "What's your safeword?" Red. "Stiles?" "The... the stoplights, Sir."

When Your Back’s Against the Wall by A_Diamond, Michicant123 (Complete: one-shot | 11,976) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

Fifteen years ago, the country of Beacon was shaken to its core when three slaves murdered most of the royal Hale family and one of the politically powerful Argents in the course of a single night.

Six years ago, Stiles Stilinski was forced to grow up fast and hard when his dying mother, herself a freed slave, left him at the head of an abolitionist revolution.

Two months ago, beloved princess-to-be Allison Argent was assassinated; three weeks ago, Stiles was caught and charged with her death.

Five hours ago, he was sentenced to serve the remaining Hales—tyrannical King Peter and reclusive Prince Derek—as a slave for the rest of his life. In a palace where the only people who may hate him more than the king are the ever-present family of the woman he’s convicted of murdering, the best he can hope for is that death will only be a few torturous years away.

Caution: swallowing dick may lead to injury - memoirs of a size queen

by

raeupchen (Complete: one-shot | 7,115) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

“Derek, can you give me my phone? I want to document this memorable moment,” Stiles said, before making grabby motions in the direction of his phone. Derek – unable to deny the other man anything – gave him the device before sitting back in his chair. He only raised one eyebrow when he saw what Stiles was up to. Apparently ‘documenting this memorable moment’ meant for Stiles to take a selfie and post it online. He showed Derek the picture with the caption ‘Dick sent me to the ER’.

soulmates tbh by bleep0bleep (Complete: one-shot | 1,423) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated Teen and Up] 

"It’s been five months," Derek says darkly. "Why am I still getting these proposals? You know these are probably all fake marks."

Five months since the paparazzi had snapped that photo of him with the overzealous fan tugging at his shirt, five months since millions of people on the Internet realized that the birthmark revealed was in fact, the mark, five months Derek was inundated by claims from people who desperately wanted him to believe that they were his soul-mate.

Cornerstone by Vendelin for foreverblue_navy (Complete: 6/6 | 83,738) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

Suffering from PTSD, ex-Marine Derek Hale moves back to Beacon Hills to open a bookshop and find a calmer life. That’s where he meets Stiles, completely by accident. Stiles is talkative, charming and curious. Somehow, despite the fact that he’s blind, he’s able to read Derek like no one else.

The Triskelion Mafia - Volume I by JamesAlexander (Complete: 10/10 | 20,834) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

Derek Aletto saw his family being killed in front of him. Years of ruling the underworld of the organized crime were flushed down with the flames and the shot of a gun. Sixteen years later, under the name of the Triskelion Mafia, the family is back, leaded by Derek. He keeps his most trusted people close, for the Argento family is forever watching, trying to usurp Derek's prestige among the hidden world of New York. And everything seems to go according to plan, until the Argentos set an ambush for Derek's consigliere, Lydia Martini, and in the middle of the rush for survival, she ends up bringing Stiles along with her to the family's hideout.

tipping scales by jdphoenix (Complete: 2/2 | 3,810) Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.: BioSpecialist [Rated Teen and Up] 

An early morning emergency wakes Jemma and Grant.

Slick As A Baby Seal by Faradaze (Wip: 52/? | 131,098) Game Of Thrones: Brimund TarthBane [Rated E]

Tormund is in love/lust. Brienne is repulsed, then intrigued. The story begins shortly after Brienne arrives at Castle Black. This is my interpretation and expansion of the greatest ship that never was. Spoilers for GoT season 6, canon divergent as of season 7.

Rich Man, Poor Man by TyReed (Complete: 10/10 | 58,055) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated M]

During a first date gone horribly wrong, Stiles Stilinksi realizes that the snarky guy he's been asked out by is actually Derek Hale, an heir to Hale Industries, one of the most profitable companies in the entire world. Who is, for whatever reason, interested in the son of a teacher and a cop, a loser who spends all weekend watching movies in his pajamas, and who is also possibly one of the biggest dorks on the Internet.

At the same time, after screwing up their first date horribly, Derek Hale realizes that the funny guy he's asked out is Stiles Stilinksi, the warmest and kindest individual he's ever met in his life, with a family just a loving and caring. Who is, for whatever reason, interested in a guy who screws up everything he does, lacks any semblance of a backbone, and who is possibly one of the biggest history dorks in all of the United States.

These rich and poor men will come to experience a taste of each other's lives, and learn where the real blessings in the world can be found.

Bonds of Blood, Bonds of Family, Bonds of Love by TyReed (Complete: 10/10 | 44,003) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated M]

After being beaten up by a door, werewolf Stiles Stilinksi finds himself bonded to Derek Hale, of the Hale Noble Bloodline. For a scrawny, wimpy, Tainted Bloodline werewolf, Stiles runs away, embarrassed and humiliated as he worries about bringing shame to the Hale Family, and even more shame to himself. Because the Nobles and Tainted just don't mix, never have, never will.

Except, things aren't exactly what they seem.

With the help of the (meddling) Hale family, his adoptive (meddling) human parents John and Claudia Stilinksi, and one very persistent Alpha Derek Hale, Stiles might come to see himself as more than just the blood that runs through his veins, and open his heart to find the happiness, friends, pack, and the family that he'd always wanted.

Matenapped by xcaellachx (Complete: 12/12 | 36,671) Teen Wolf: Sterek [Rated E]

Alpha Derek Hale has known Spark Stiles Stilinski was his mate for over six years. The traumatized Spark had killed the rogue alpha who tried to kill his friend so many years ago and was still scarred by the experience. Now, Stiles was settled in as a magic shop owner and Derek was ready to claim him for his own. The ritual of matenapping was an old but accepted tradition and Derek had his den ready to receive his mate. It was time.

Stiles Stilinski thought Lydia was insane for thinking the sexy alpha wanted to matenap him. He was damaged by his past and determined to stay single so he didn't harm anyone. He kept his magic tightly leashed and couldn't believe that anyone could want him. Not a murderer. Even when the wolf came to see him and touched him gently, winking at him and looking at him longingly, he just couldn't accept it.

Very soon, Stiles wouldn't have a choice but to believe it. Derek was taking his mate and bringing him to his mating den where he would court and woo him until he couldn't help but fall in love with him.

(A/N: This is a lighthearted fic for the most part. This isn't an evil kidnapping/fall in love with your captor type. Not very serious at all, to be honest. Enjoy!)

**I could have sworn I had more eclectic tastes but I guess in 2018 I was firmly about the Sterek. 

[100gayicons]

Roy Scherer, Jr. and Andrew Kelm had a lot in common. They had abusive fathers; their parents marriages ended in divorce; and they spent their formative years living with their mothers. After serving time in the military (Andrew in the Coast Guard, Roy in the Navy) they found their way to Hollywood.

They both became clients of Henry Willson, a talent agent who specialized in making young good looking men into movie stars. Willson always gave his male clients masculine and memorable stage names - Roy became Rock Hudson (and eventually a major star for Universal) and Andrew became Tab Hunter, a future Warner Brothers star. And Rock and Tab both had a secret that could destroy their careers - they were gay.

Tab’s mother was religious and she sent him and his brother to a catholic school. Athletic, Tab developed a love of figure skating, and competed in both singles and pairs. But it was his love of horses that eventually led to an acting career.

Tab was working at a Southern California stable when a crew arrived to take photos of actress Ann Blythe. Actor (later agent) Dick Clayton was on hand and noticed young Andrew and asked him if he ever considered being an actor. Boy, that sounds like a pickup line! A few years later, after Tab’s stint in the Coast Guard, Tab met Clayton again in New York and Clayton immediately began introducing him to people in show business.

That eventual led to a meeting with Henry Willson, an agent with a reputation for making young men into movie stars (among other things he made some of those men do).

Hunter progressed quickly at Warner. He had his first minor role in 1950 (The Lawless) and by 1954 he was the a leading man (Return to Treasure Island) with Linda Darnell as his love interest. Warner Brothers notice his potential in and offered him a contract. He had a hit with his next film too - “Battle Cry” about marines fighting in the Pacific.

But after 4 films with various studios, he became unhappy with Henry Willson and decided to change agents. That would have its consequences.

Meanwhile agent Henry Willson has a big problem. A scandal magazine threaten to publish an article revealing that his star client Rock Hudson was gay. Willson made a deal with the magazine - he would give them dirt on two other actors in exchange for burning the Hudson story. The first was Rory Calhoun who had an arrest record and spent time in a Juvenal prison. Calhoun’s on screen persona was that of a tough guy, so the article just help to prop up his image.

The other actor thrown under the bus was his former client Tab Hunter. In 1950 Hunter had attended a “pajama party for men only” that was raided by the police. Hunter was arrested (along with 20 other young men) and briefly detained. While this could have ended Hunter’s budding career - he was sparred. In fact, only a few months later he was named a promising young new comer in a national poll.

The studio would regularly send him on on public dates with his costars and fabricate sham resonances with rising young starlets.

Over the next few years, while continuing to star in hit films, Hunter experimented with singing and had a #1 record with “Young Love” in 1957. Based on its success, Warner Brothers actually creates a new division (Warner Bros Records) for him to release more albums. They even bought the rights to the Broadway musical “Damn Yankee” for him to star in the film version (1958).

But what if his love life?

In the 1950s Hunter met Olympic figure skater Ronnie Roberts and they started a long term relationship. Hunter, who always loved skating, sponsored Roberts training (athletes then performed under strict amateur guideline).

They spent spent as much time as possible together - once driving cross-country together so Robbiecould attend training in Lake Placid, NY. Hunter became friends with Roberts family too. But the skating world resented Hunter’s presence are events. And this began affecting Roberts scores. The two eventually parted but remain friends.

“I was infatuated with Ronnie.... To most folks, Ronnie and I were good buddies, sharing the ice. Few people considered what else we were sharing.”

Hunter next serious relationship was with fellow actor Anthony Perkins.

“I had a wonderful relationship with him,” Hunter said.

They met at the pool at the Chateau Marmont, and Hunter was immediately attracted to Perkins. The two went on double dates (the photos of which can easily be found on the internet). In them it’s clear the boys paid more attention to each other than the girls.

Venetia Stevenson, a young actress that the studio assigned as Hunter’s beard (fake girlfriend) thought Tab was more in love with Tony than Tony was with Tab. Hunter also felt betrayed when Perkins convinced his Paramount to buy a script for him, knowing that Hunter had already played the role on TV and working working to get Warner to buy the script as well. That was the beginning of the end of their relationship.

“You never really knew Tony 100 percent. There was always a secret side, and he was a bit of a game-player with people’s minds,” said Hunter.

Hunter said of his life in Hollywood, “(it) was difficult for me, because I was living two lives at that time. A private life of my own, which I never discussed, never talked about to anyone. And then my Hollywood life, which was just trying to learn my (craft). There was a lot written about my sexuality, and the press was pretty cruel.”

At this point Hunter was feeling unfulfilled with the other roles the studio offered to him. So by 1959, he bought out his contract with Warner Brothers. The consequences of going out on his own was that he didn’t have the power of the studio promoting him. The quality of his films diminished during the 1960s and 1970s.

But in 1989, Tab Hunter had an unexpected career resurgence. Alt director John Waters asked him to star in “Polyester” opposite the ultimate Drag Queen Divine. Hunter’s his agent tried to convince him not to take the role but he decided, “What have I got to lose?”

The film was such a hit that Hunter decided to produce another film himself, costarring Divine. That effort would proved another turning point in his life.

Waters could only afford Hunter for one week. “I’m sure it was the least Tab Hunter had ever been earned on a film, and it was the most I ever paid an actor,” said Waters. “Polyester” was a hit, reviving Hunter’s film career.

While meeting with studios to raise money for what would eventually be call “Lust in the Dust”, Hunter met Allan Glaser, young executive at Fox. Sparks flew and the two soon became partners. Glaser also took on the role as producer of the film.

Hunter and Glaser settle on a ranch in Southern California when Tab regularly enjoyed horse back riding. Although out to friends, Tab was a private man. So he didn’t come out to the public until 2005 when he published his memoir. Hunter and Glaser married in 2013. The two were together for 35 years until Tab’s death in 2018.

[myelocin]

blue curtains and red roses | sakusa kiyoomi

synopsis: it’s supposed to be simple. the author made the curtains blue because he liked the color blue, so sakusa’s more confused than anything when you come into his life and challenge that thought.

characters: sakusa kiyoomi, you

genre/warnings: tw: character death, hurt/slight comfort, angst lol, head empty just a bunch of talking n metaphors i think

wc: 1.7k+

a/n: xave this is all ur fault; i’m supposed to be in my pajamas now watching henry cavil interviews yet here we are with an angst,,,i kid, ily too much ;w;

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“Why does the author color the curtains blue?”

The answer can be as simple as it could be complex. But really, it’s all subjective.

In one perspective, blue could depict the author’s use of imagery to further emphasize and convey the atmosphere of sadness—if the story was, well, sad. A somber shade of blue—like the color the world associated with sadness, or even a deep midnight blue, like the void the author must have felt when he spiraled down after the story’s climax.

Then again, in another point of view—blue could mean that it was simply just the color of the curtain. Blue could have meant the subtle blend from the window to the skies outside and maybe even flesh out a metaphor from that. Something along the lines of how easily the things crafted by man could still find a way to blend back into the roots of nature.  

Bits of poetry always settled between the lines, Sakusa likes to think.

Rather, he prefers to settle on the thought that the author colored the curtains blue because he just liked the color blue. Nothing more, nothing less.

He just liked blue, that’s all; there wasn’t a metaphor hidden in that, either.

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You came into his life, constantly revising the answer to that same question and unnervingly boggling his mind every time.

“You’re exaggerating,” he recalls telling you, but would sigh then relent when you pinched him on the arm to get him to focus again.

“It’s just a curtain,” he explains, before you sighed and would restart your explanation from the beginning. Sakusa would never admit it—but he liked to listen to you talk, that’s why his interruptions and counter arguments were a frequent presence in between your explanations.

“It is,” you huffed (a memory Sakusa always smiles at), as you crossed your hands over your chest. “—but it tells as much as we allow it to.”

“When we read, we always have the ability and choice to set the scene the way we want to look at it. I mean, the story’s there and the dialogue sets the pace, but I could always decide whether I wanted to be the protagonist or antagonist in the story that day,” you said.

“Whatever day it is, the lines I love you stays constant on the page, but some days it could mean a happily ever after, while others, it could mean a love lost to a rival. When I’ll read that the curtain’s blue, I could think that it’s empathizing with my sadness one day and how it’s there to sway with the dip of my thoughts, or I could think that it’s blue to remind me how the blue skies outside speak of opportunities and tomorrows.”

“But what if the author just liked the color blue?” Sakusa challenges, and you’d perk up at his sudden interest in the conversation and would be quick to retort.

“Then blue becomes that constant in the background that reminds you that whether the world is ending or beginning—there will always be those things that remain despite the turmoil in your head. The blue curtain becomes that. Just a spectator in the rollercoaster. It’s hard to find simplicity because everything just feels that connected, Omi.”

You finish your spill, smiling. Radiant, he thinks; intoxication from passion had always been the look that suit you the most.

“You’re not changing your mind are you?” Sakusa laughs out, and you shake your head no, laughing along with him.

It’s fine, Sakusa thinks, he prefers you that way.

He remembers you that way; inquisitive and abstract in a world that was anything but.

He remembers you in the metaphors you’ve entangled your words in—that he listened to over and over again and would nod his head, expression pondering, like it was the first time he’d heard of such thoughts.

In the photographs he’s kept in even stacks inside a box he hasn’t touched in a little over a year now. Collecting dust, probably. Something Sakusa itches to dust off—but backs out the second he sees the familiar scrawl of your handwriting sitting on the flap that’s folded close.

He looks to the right, to the window of an emptied bedroom, the curtains a dull gray instead of blue—and he thinks it’s rather fitting. At the moment Sakusa supposes he does feel a little gray.

“There’s poetry in every moment,” he hears the voice in his head say—your voice.

So like the pull of the sun as the earth falls in orbit, Sakusa gravitates towards pandora’s box where he knows with one push of a flap it’d be enough to tangle him in thoughts of you.

He laughs, a little dryly; not a day goes by where he doesn’t connect metaphors to the world for the sake of adding a couple sentences to the memoir he writes for you.

He holds his breath as he opens the box and smiles as the first color he sees just so happens to be red. He drags the box to the other side of the room—the side facing right across the window and takes a seat as he dives.

The first thing he sees is a photo of you. The photo that followed him for a little over a year now. He remembered he took that photo maybe two or three years ago, in the garden by the park a few blocks away from home. Your dress was white—fitting, he thinks. A literal angel, really. He knows you’d snort at the joke, so he lets out a small chuckle instead; Sakusa knows you appreciate crumbs of happiness sprinkled over clouds of grief, so he hopes that wherever you are, you’re listening and happy.

It’s the photo he stared at when he read your eulogy in a room where the silence thundered over cries, and where the midnight blue curtains in the lobby empathized with the void he felt suffocated in.

Next he sees a sketchbook with red. The same kind of roses you painted over and over again, the stems and petals in vines and overlapping one another, looking like a crown. The stems were smooth, he noticed, void of thorns and cracked petals. He thinks it makes the pages look alive—you’ve always seen the world a little differently, a little more beautifully.

Sakusa smiles when he realizes that it was because of you that he gave the world another shot at beauty too.

“Why do you paint the roses red?” he wants to ask you, so he poses the question into a silent room again. A listening world, you’d chide, so he smiles.

“Because you liked red roses the best,” he says because that would be the most obvious answer. And in a way it’s true—he knows that red roses to you meant the memory of home and love.

But after a moment passes, Sakusa sighs because when he thinks of the roses you drew again—he sees the thorns sprout this time.

His chest tightens when petals of red—bloody red, line his vision and fill his lungs when the veins, thorns and all dig into the skin of his shoulders and render him trapped.

He inhales—and Sakusa feels like he can’t let it out.

“Why must the roses always be red?” he asks again, and this time, he answers that it is because red is the color of blood.

The color that stained the sheets of white when you left, a goodbye the last thing on your mind as the world decided to return you back to the earth.

Red, the color of your lipstick that you kissed and imprinted on his cheeks as a joke an hour before the world took you. The roses are red, because red is the color that symbolized his grief and anger when he stared at the mirror not wanting to wash his face and erase the last of your traces.

It’s red, Sakusa cries, because it’s the color of the blood that’s pumping in his veins.

Like the one that trickled from yours. Where just like that, it danced between the space of life and death.

Pumping.

Seeping.

Pooling.

Staining.

The color of the roses you painted were always in some shade of red, because red was the color you painted the beginning and end of your life with.

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Sakusa stands in the middle of the room, the opened box collecting dust a mere foot away from him and he continues to stare at the blue sky past the gray of the curtains. It’s a cloudless day; so he smiles.

Because you love blue skies like that—Sakusa inhales—shaky—then exhales. Then he allows himself to cry: soft and silent, like it’s a secret he’s murmuring into the listening ears of a kind world.

“It sort of is,” he can practically hear you say, and Sakusa wishes you were actually present so that he could hear more explanations of the metaphors you must have unearthed by now.

“(Y/n),” he calls out, his voice broken. This must be heartbreak, he thinks. It’s slow and a little suffocating, but he can exhale now, so Sakusa supposes it’s a necessary step to take.  

“The sky’s blue for you today,” he whispers again, like talking to you is still some sort of secret, though he knows he’ll only receive silence as a reply.

“A blue sky means there’s tomorrow right?”

The grey curtain rustles with the breeze and Sakusa closes his eyes, thinking of your words from before. How you can decide to set the scene in any way you’d like, so he sets it as this:

Even though the curtain’s colored grey, and the thorns on the roses you painted served as the constant in the story, he’d look at the blue sky instead—and think that it’s your way of telling him to seek for tomorrow.

Then for the first time, Sakusa Kiyoomi supposes you’re right.       

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