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sarahowritesostucky · 9 months

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📖"Body Heat" : A Snowpiercer-Marvel Mashup Story

Part 2 - "A Microcosm of Humanity, Boiled Down to its Base Elements" (Wait! I haven't read Part 1 yet!)

Rated: Explicit

Pairing: Curtis Everett x ofc

Tags: dystopia, food insecurity, post apocalypse, age difference (18/34), dark!fic, implied/referenced suicide, background character death (offscreen), poverty, arranged marriage, implied/referenced past cannibalism, hurt/comfort, attempted rape, dub-con

Summary: Curtis stops a would-be assailant in the wash car. Still worried for Rose's safety, he brings her back to his bunk to sleep.

Author's Note: This fic is dark. This chapter includes explicit, non-gory mentions of: past cannibalism, the consumption of rat meat, and a character who attempts to rape another character but is stopped just in time. 🖤DNI if you can't handle it 🖤

Part 2 - "A Microcosm of Humanity, Boiled Down to its Base Elements"

Mealtimes in the Tail are more about social interaction than they are about food—Kind of hard to have a dinner party when the only things there are to feast on are protein blocks and a meat that you’re pretending is chicken, after all. But they make due.

They have dishes now, at least. A couple hundred plastic bowls and cafeteria cups, dimpled and chipped at the rims, but still serviceable. They’re some of the newer amenities, part of the package that the council negotiated for in last year’s talks. It’s never much but it’s something, brings them just a smidge closer to being able to live like human beings, rather than animals.

It’s been twelve years, and still they’re celebrating over bowls when they should be aiming for antibiotics. But conditions were so miserable after Boarding that even the smallest concession from uptrain feels like a luxury now. Curtis would prefer the progress be faster, but he’s not in charge. He’s Gillam’s second in command, and Gillam’s so old and frail now. After the turmoil of the Year Two (and Three, and Five) Revolts, Curtis made him a tacit promise to not resort to such violent measures again lightly. For now, negotiated castoffs and increased recyclables from uptrain will have to do.

He doesn’t see Rose again for the rest of the afternoon. Four hundred people living in a metal box tend to brew discontent and interpersonal problems over the tiniest of things, and as one of the Tail’s five elected, a big chunk of Curtis’ days are spent solving petty conflicts between the Tailies. He navigates his way through a list of waiting disputes in the market car and in the bunks, making his rulings on what’s fair, and trying not to worry obsessively over Rose and where she is and how she may be doing and who may be bothering her.

But he’s not entirely successful, because something still loosens in his chest when he catches sight of her—looking peaceful and sitting quietly alone at dinnertime. He walks over, grinning the closer he gets as she continues not to notice his approach. “Hey Petal!” he whisper-yells right beside her as he taps her shoulder and sinks down to sit next to her on the floor.

She gasps and almost drops her bowl, but a relieved smile splits her face when she sees that it’s him. “Curtis! Hey. It’s you.”

“Course it’s me.” He frowns quizzically at just how relieved she looks. “Who’d you think it was?”

“Nobody,” she excuses quickly, shaking her head and inching over to make more room for him. “Just glad to see you, is all. Today’s been … long.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Did you get the clothes to Gilliam?”

Her smile softens and she nods. “Yeah. And the arm to Coulson.” She gestures down the car to where Phil is sitting, using the rudimentary limb with clumsiness but steadfast determination. “He has to practice, but I think it’s gonna work pretty well for him.”

“I’ll bet.” Curtis smiles, happy for him. Phil’s also one of the elected, and along with Gilliam, Curtis, The (recently deceased) Man, and Banner, he’s always done his best to help the people in the Tail survive. That’s why he’s currently missing his arm from just above the elbow.

Curtis remembers the taste of human flesh. He wishes he didn’t, but he does. And what’s more, he wishes it’d tasted worse than it had, wishes he didn’t have the memory of how his mouth had watered when he’d finally gotten to eat for the first time in over a week. He averts his eyes from Coulson, ashamed, setting his bowl on the floor and sliding his right hand up under his left coat sleeve to trace the jagged evidence of his own failure.

It hadn’t tasted bad. That’s something he’s never said out loud. Because it’s too shameful. Talking about the early days isn’t forbidden, per say, but there’s an understanding amongst the Tailies that you don’t discuss the actual experience of eating human flesh. Unless it’s in private with someone very, very close to you, you don’t talk about the worst things that went down in those days.

Curtis glances back to Phil, wondering. He doesn’t actually know who he’s eaten. Back in the Desperation, there had been a decision amongst the volunteers that their donations would be mingled and prepared anonymously, to avoid people knowing—even family members, even the donors themselves. Curtis gets lost in the horror of the memory for a minute or two as he stares across the car at Phil, wondering, remembering the taste …

He snaps out of it when Rose says something to him, and he realizes that he’s still got his right hand stuck up his left coat sleeve, touching the scar. Rose’s voice pulls him out of it, like a fog suddenly lifting, and Curtis hastily picks his bowl back up, asking Rose to repeat herself and then mustering a cheerful answer for her as he puts the memories of the past back in the box on the shelf in his mind.

He and Rose sit shoulder to shoulder and converse over their bowls of stew. It’s one of only a few things that Tailies ever have to eat, and it consists of broth made from cooked down protein blocks, and chunks of meat from the only other animal that shares the tail section with them.

Yeah, they eat rats. Curtis has stopped caring at this point. In fact, he’s not sure he ever really cared in the first place. Once you start with cannibalism, the only way to go is up. And it doesn’t taste too bad—especially since they’ve graduated from catching the rats to actually breeding them in cages. Between that and the artificial salt substitute that Curtis negotiated as part of last year’s package, things have a nicer flavor to them than they used to.

“Didn’t you work in the kitchen car for a hot second?” he says between one sip and another, when he’s paused to try and use his fingernail to get a stringy bit of meat out from between his teeth. “What’d Wanda have you and MJ doing in there?”

Rose makes a face. “There're only a couple steps to making this slop, Curtis. Use your imagination.”

He laughs at the comical shudder she gives, and she kicks him for laughing at her. “So dramatic,” he teases. “What do you have to compare it to, anyway, huh?” He rolls his eyes. “Train babies. Don’t realize how good you have it.”

She gasps and pokes him as though he’s heaved a grave insult at her. “I am not a train baby!”

“Barely.”

“I’m eighteen!” she says, as if that makes her a full fledged adult. “I remember food from Before,” she insists, and Curtis shakes his head in amusement at her.

“Fine. What do you remember?” He’s breaking one of his own rules for her, talking about Before. It should alarm him but it doesn’t. “What food?” he taunts.

She sticks her chin out haughtily and thinks about it, before declaring, “Goldfish. And noodles. I remember noodles.”

It takes all Curtis has inside him not to snicker at her expense. He does want this girl to like him, after all. He looks down at his own bowl of stew and smiles fondly. “Goldfish crackers and noodles. That’s very specific.” The kind of thing a young child would remember. “Is that all?”

She twists her lips and admits, “Yeah.”

You have blocked a lot of it out, Curtis thinks sadly. Just not the parts that happened after Boarding. “It’s better that way,” he tells her. “Makes all of this more bearable.” Rose has never really had a life that was anything other than “bearable,” and while that is something of a mercy for her, it also makes Curtis want to be the one to give her more; be the one to introduce her to finery and pleasure, show her what it can taste like, what it can feel like. “There’s things I want to get for us,” he tells her, speaking quietly because he doesn’t need the people nearby overhearing and getting themselves worked up. “Things for the Tail, food I want to negotiate for. I think this might be the year.”

Rose looks intrigued. “What?”

“Lean closer,” Curtis whispers. “This is top secret.”

She smirks and scootches even closer to him, until they’re pressed together from hip to shoulder. “What?” she whispers.

Curtis looks her in the eye and lets the tension build for a moment, trying his damnedest to keep his expression serious, and then he declares, “Goldfish and noodles.”

She gives an outraged squawk and swats at him for making fun of her, though she’s laughing herself. “You suck!”

Curtis stays her hand, pulling her into a one-armed hug and apologizing through his own laughter. “Wait, wait, wait. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Shh. I’ll tell you.” He calms down from laughing. “I’ll tell you, I will.”

“Jerk,” she mutters, but he can hear the fondness in her voice.

“Chickens,” he whispers in her ear. “You remember those?”

She purses her lips thoughtfully, then shrugs in a way that tells him she really doesn’t. “That’s an animal,” she says, in what she doesn’t realize is a sad demonstration of her limited knowledge. “A bird.”

“Yeah,” Curtis says. “Yeah it is. You know the New Year’s eggs?” Every year since Year Five, a wheelbarrow from uptrain arrives on New Year’s Day bearing the coveted gift of hundreds of gleaming white, hard-boiled eggs—one for each blasted soul who lives trapped in the Tail section. Rose hums and Curtis nods. “Those come from chickens. They lay the eggs and you can eat them. It’s a good source of food. And you can kill the chickens and eat them, too. Eat their meat.”

“But … don’t baby chickens come from the eggs?” Rose asks naively.

Curtis smirks. “Yeah, but that’s when they’re fertilized. If a male chicken isn’t around fucking the hens, then the eggs just come out, and you can eat ‘em. They don’t have baby chicks in them.” He watches Rose’s face screw up at the stark visual, and is surprised when she bluntly declares,

“Oh. So … like a period, with us.”

Curtis almost swallows his tongue. First of all, he wouldn’t have expected Rose to be able to make the comparison. Because she may be old enough to bleed, but they don’t exactly have comprehensive sex ed in the Tail. As far as Curtis knows, the girls are taught young—very young—what sex is, what it leads to, and how to avoid it at all costs. Curtis doesn’t think he’s heard a person talk openly about these things since before Boarding. It just isn’t done. The women handle their stuff themselves, and the men have their heads bitten off if they interfere.

“Um,” he says, face heating. “Yeah, I guess. Except you don't lay eggs." Rose snorts and Curtis winces and scratches awkwardly behind his ear. “So anyway, I want to get us some chickens. If we had those, it’d help a lot.”

Rose stares pensively into the depths of her soup bowl, with its globulous broth and stringy bits of meat. “It’d taste better than this?”

Curtis scoffs. “Most things do, Petal.”

“Jeez, you’re really sticking with that, aren’t you?”

He wraps an arm around her shoulders and gives her a squeeze, laying out his vision for the future. “I want to negotiate for another car. With dirt and chickens.”

“Dirt?”

“Yeah. They grow things uptrain. Crops. We could too. We could raise chickens in half of it, grow potatoes in the other half.”

Rose looks at him like he’s just announced he’ll be negotiating for the moon. “They’ll never give it to you,” she whispers. “Why would they?”

“If I could threaten them with something big enough. We might have the bargaining power.”

“What would you threaten them with?”

He smiles sadly and squeezes her shoulder. “I dunno. That’s what I’ve gotta figure out.”

“But you’re not gonna … I mean there’s not going to be another war, is there? Not like before …”

There’s genuine fear in her voice when she asks, which makes Curtis feel like crap. Everyone had suffered back then. Many had died. He thinks about how Rose would’ve only been eleven or so, during the Year Five Rebellion. Just a kid, still playing with the crummy little doll Curtis made for her. “No, Hon,” he promises gently. “No. There are other ways. Other things we can do to gain leverage. It just takes time.”

“What ways?”

He shakes his head and smiles. “Don’t worry about it.”

“I can’t help it,” she pouts. “I may not know many things. But I like to know them.”

He smiles fondly. “I know, Petal. You’re curious. Always have been. You like to 'know the scuttlebutt', as they say. You’re not afraid to ask questions. I like that about you.”

“You do?”

“... Among other things.” He sees her cheeks color prettily, and realizes he’d better stop talking. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’d tell you if I could, but these things are above your paygrade. Me and Gilliam’ll figure it out.” He shoots her a wink. “That’s why they pay us the big bucks.”

She titters at that, because they both know that there’s no such thing as money in the Tail. Oh there’s currency, for sure, just not the kind that’s handed over as stacks of bills. Curtis lets his eyes drag over the few parts of Rose’s body that he can see: her attractive face and the slope of her neck, the delicate suggestion of a collar bone where it peeks out before it’s swallowed up by her sweater. He looks away. “I want to improve things for us. Change is possible. There are things we can get. We just have to work for it.”

“What things?” she presses, leaning closer.

He thinks about brushing her off, but he can see that she’s genuinely curious, and the interested gleam in her eyes sways him. Because ideas can mean hope, and he wants her to have hope. They’ve both seen what can happen when there isn’t any.

He tells her about the basic medicines and medical supplies that could be useful, tells her about the items they could receive if people uptrain were more willing to bargain. “More castoffs would go to us, instead of into the recycling machines,” he tells her. While it is true that some old and unwanted items eventually make their way into the Tailies’ “market,” the sad fact is that many more materials are cleansed, disintegrated, and recycled for use through the train’s 3d printing machines. Curtis has never seen them, but due to his yearly talks with a woman named Melanie, he now knows that they exist, and they’re why not much gets sent back to the Tailies.

“We’d have more clothes, toys and books, all sorts of new things.” Of course when he says “new” he only means new in the sense of new to them. To people in the front, Tailies are second class citizens at best, subhumans at worst. The funny thing is, Curtis doesn’t take offense at it like he used to. He’s learned by now that it’s human nature to kill, cheat and steal, clamoring all over each other whenever resources are limited. They’ve literally eaten the weak in the Tail, after all. It’d be hypocritical to hold the first class passengers to a higher standard.

No, Snowpiercer is just a microcosm of humanity boiled down to its base elements. Nine-hundred people surviving on a miserable little train, barreling endlessly around the frozen corpse of the planet. Of course there’s going to be subjugation of the weak so that others can have more. Curtis doesn’t hold it against them anymore, but he sure as hell isn’t going to take it lying down. The Tailies were never ticketed passengers. They forced their way on, they scraped and scrounged and earned their survival. And if they ever get the chance, they’ll turn the tables on the passengers uptrain in a heartbeat. Curtis makes speeches about “leveling the playing field,” but he doesn’t have visions of utopia. Not really. He just wants to die in a feather bed.

“What would we have after chickens?” Rose asks, drawing Curtis out of his gloom. She knows as well as he does, what the definition of a 'pipe dream' is, but it’s fun to pretend with someone you like, and Curtis likes her. Always has. He likes that she hasn’t turned grey and dull like everyone else in the Tail. So he indulges her 'what ifs' and they continue to tease each other over various colorful and increasingly stupid imaginings: how they’ll have potatoes, and then beef, then televisions, bathtubs, a swimming pool.

At some point, Curtis realizes that he’s actually managed to make her smile, and giggle. Even sitting on a cold steel floor slurping at a bowl of rat and god-knows-what stew, he feels like a king knowing he was able to do that. “You’re really beautiful when you smile,” he blurts out, soaking up the way that her eyes get just a little bit wider and her lips part in surprise. He averts his attention back down to his bowl, pleased as punch. “‘Course, I always think you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, fully intending for her to hear.

She gets quiet after that, bashful and seemingly deep in thought. Curtis doesn’t worry though, because when everybody settles in to listen to that night’s story, she goes to fetch one of the blankets off her bunk and brings it back. She plops herself right back down next to Curtis and hands him a corner of the blanket to wrap it around both of their shoulders. He obliges. The assembly car fills up for that night’s entertainment, and just before the lights are dimmed down to their lowest level, Curtis locks eyes with Tanya from across the car, who’s shooting him a scrutinizing look. He’s grateful to escape her judgment for the moment, but he knows she’ll be on him before long.

They set out the tall stool at the head of the car, and Painter, the Tail’s historian, climbs up and settles on it.

A quiet man of short stature, Painter’s been performing the nightly stories since almost from the very beginning. He has a way of seeing things that others don’t, a way of weaving words and details together in graduating, elaborative cadence; like his drawings, like strings on a loom, always managing to convey the true heart of a matter in a way that resonates with people. It’s the closest thing to watching a movie any of them will probably ever get again, and in Curtis’ opinion it has just as much value as the food they feed their bodies with. People need more than just food to survive. They need community, they need love, they need hope.

Painter sits silently at first—a sign that he hasn’t decided on the topic and is taking suggestions that night. Someone calls out in the dimness to suggest The Man for tonight’s story, and a murmur of general agreement goes through the crowd. Up ahead on his stool, Painter nods. The Man was well known in the Tail, having long-served on Gillam’s council, among other things. Curtis hadn’t been lying to Rose, when he’d said that her father had been a good leader.

In the crook of his arm, he feels her shift subtly. Aware that this might be hard for her, he leans over and kisses the top of her head. “Hey, are you okay?” he whispers, giving her the option. “You want to go?” But she shakes her head and tucks herself further into him, so Curtis relaxes back, looking forward to getting to hold her in his arms for the next hour or two.

Painter does The Man justice. Children are always kept in another car during storytime, so that the plotlines don’t have to be watered down for their sensibilities, but even still, Curtis doesn’t doubt that Painter knows Rose is present, because he takes care to soften the corners of the story where she features, and to use gentle words when the most painful memories are fleshed out.

For over an hour, Curtis lets his eyes slip closed and the words wash over him. He tucks his nose into Rose’s hair and breathes the scent of her in, holding her small, soft body against him. He can feel every shift and sway that she gives as she hears the story, too, and they enjoy their time together, connecting over the shared intimacy of Painter’s words.

At some point, he brings her into his lap, and she comes so easily—like she was just waiting for the invitation, and is relieved that he wants her there. This isn’t something they’ve done before. Not like this. And he can tell by the slight tension in her body that she knows it, too. This is new. It could be the first time a man has ever showed her attention like this, and Curtis wants it to be good and easy for her. He gently rubs her back as the story stretches on, relieved when he can feel all the tension slowly leaving her. “Good girl,” he whispers against her hair.

She hums and rubs her cheek on his chest with complete trust, and Curtis suddenly remembers what it used to feel like to sink into a full, hot bath. Is this what it means to be touch starved? he wonders. Probably. It’s been so long since he’s been genuinely intimate with another person, that he’d almost forgotten the feeling.

Eventually he can hear the tone of Painter’s words changing, can hear it all coming to a close as he wraps up his retelling of that night’s story. Curtis has never hated anything more. Please, he thinks. Please let him keep going. Let him keep talking just a little bit longer so she’ll stay in my arms. He doesn’t want to let her go.

… Maybe if he plays his cards right, he won’t have to.

Tanya does confront him that night, cornering him by her spot before he can follow after Rose on her path to the wash car. “Pretty sure that girl knows how to bathe herself,” she says, hand planted firmly on Curtis’ chest. “She doesn’t need you, Curtis.”

Curtis loses sight of Rose going into the next bunk car, and he settles back onto his heels, glaring at Tanya. “I’m trying to look out for her.”

Tanya raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “You sure that’s all you’re trying to do?”

Curtis’s eyes narrow. “Have you been paying attention? Look around.” He nods at the crowded bunk car around them and speaks in a hushed tone. “You’re in charge of all the female stuff, you should know better than anyone what’ll happen now that her father’s gone. I’m only trying to protect her.”

Tanya purses her lips. “Uh huh. Protect her with your penis, is that how?”

“Jesus.” Curtis takes a step back, crossing his arms in frustration. He leans back against a metal rail. “I’m just being realistic,” he eventually says, after sulking over it for a moment. He respects Tanya—she’s a crucial part of the Tail, helping the women who get pregnant and give birth, helping the girls when they start developing (and, eventually, when they start attracting the attention of the men). “You’ve seen them looking?” he asks, not having to look at Tanya to know that she understands him. “So what am I supposed to do? Just wait until somebody else stakes their claim?”

Tanya makes an angry sound, though it isn’t directed at Curtis. “I stop them.”

“You stop the ones you can,” Curtis says lowly. “But eventually—”

“Eventually is eventually. Right now is right now,” she hisses.

Curtis turns back to her. “We play it your way and the first guy who stakes his claim gets her. That’s how it works. You know that. Is that what you want, huh?” Tanya’s face works in frustration, and Curtis softens. “Hey,” he says, placing a consoling hand on her shoulder. “I don’t like it either. We do the best we can with what we have.” He feels her shoulders rise and fall in a beleaguered sigh.

“I boxed Batroc’s ears last week,” she tells him; her way of giving tacit approval. “Keep an eye on that dirtbag.”

Curtis nods. He’s aware of who the biggest threats are, currently. It’s the men in their twenties and thirties who prey on the up and coming girls. Marriage isn’t a thing in the tail so much as claiming is. The men have a sort of ‘first dibs’ honor system that Curtis despises, but that he can’t change on his own. Not when the majority is so set on it. “I’m not going to force her,” he promises Tanya. “Okay? I’ll give her the choice. You know I will.”

Tanya’s jaw works, but eventually she nods and turns to the side to let him pass. Curtis pats her shoulder in thanks and heads off in the direction that Rose went with her towel.

He gets there just a few seconds too late—or at least, that’s what he thinks when he hears her crying out from the women’s side of the wash car. Curtis barrels around the partition, heedless of whoever else may be in there when he can hear Rose in distress.

There’s a man standing at her back, pushing her face up against the wall of one of the stalls. She’s naked, the shower spraying aimlessly not even a foot away. She’s struggling, crying … and the man’s pants are halfway down his thighs.

Curtis sees red. “Get the fuck off her!”

Everything happens in a blur: him pulling the man back by his shirt and throwing him onto the floor at the opposite side of the car, the man’s head hitting the wall, Rose crying out in fear, Curtis going over to gather her naked body into his arms. “Are you okay?” he asks breathlessly, holding her as she sobs and presses her head of soaked hair against him. His hands slide over the water-slicked skin of her back, his heart in his throat. “Did he hurt you?”

She sobs and shakes her head, clinging to him. “Curtis!”

“Shh, you’re okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He looks across the car at the man, who’s now rubbing his head with a pained wince. Curtis feels rage consume him and he has no control over his actions as he abandons Rose by the stall and stalks across the car to punch the guy square in the face. He immediately grabs his shirt collar and hauls him back in. “Who the fuck do you think you are?!” he roars.

“Stop!” the man—a guy Curtis knows only as Hodge—coughs out, speaking through blood and what’s likely a broken nose. He holds up his hands to defend himself from further assault, and Curtis shakes him with a furious growl.

“Did you touch her?! What did you do? I’ll kill you!”

“I didn’t!” Hodge coughs, pushing against Curtis. “I didn’t do anything! I was just—”

Curtis slams him back into the wall of the car. “Then why’s your dick out?!” Hodge sinks down the wall to the floor and Curtis follows him down. “Answer me!”

“I just wanted to talk to her!”

He’s about to reach down and rip this guy’s nuts off, but Rose calling to him from the other side of the car draws his attention away: “Curtis, please. Curtis!” She’s standing there—naked, wet and shivering, futilely trying to cover herself. She looks at him pleadingly through her tears. “He didn’t. You stopped him. He didn’t.”

It’s enough to make Curtis rein himself in from further violence. Rose needs him more than he needs to hurt Hodge. Still, he shakes the man again as he hauls him back up to standing and shoves him towards the exit of the car. “This isn’t finished,” he warns him at the door, pushing him through hard enough that he falls to his ass on the other side. Curtis points at him. “You’ll pay for this.”

He slams the door and goes back to Rose, who’s still standing there looking lost, shivering, cold. The shower’s still running, so Curtis hurries over to turn the water off. He grabs the towel that’s hanging on the hook and brings it to Rose, intending to bundle her up as quickly as he can. She takes it and wraps it around herself, but it ends at mid thigh and Curtis’ eyes are drawn to a trickle of red running down her inner thigh. All the blood drains from his face. “You’re bleeding,” he says, horrified.

Rose looks down at it and sniffles. “Oh.”

“I’ll fucking kill him,” Curtis breathes, already turning to go back out and finish the job.

“Curtis! Curtis wait!” Rose grabs his arm with both hands as she shakes her head frantically. “I’m fine. It’s my period. He didn’t hurt me.”

Curtis calms down, his chest heaving from adrenaline. “You swear?” he urges, grabbing her upper arms and holding her in front of himself to get a better look at her. Now that he’s paying attention, he can see that she’s dripping wet and rattled, but not visibly hurt.

“I swear. I’m okay.”

His eyes track back down to the blood on her leg, suspicious until he looks beyond and sees her pile of clothing sitting over on a shelf. There’s a small folded rag there the likes of which he’s seen before; what the women pass around silently amongst themselves when they bleed. Curtis calms down as he realizes that Rose is telling the truth and not just lying to keep him from murdering Hodge. He lets go of her upper arms, suddenly aware that she may not want him touching her right at this moment. “Sorry,” he mutters, not knowing what else to say. He feels like he’s just run a marathon, his heart is beating so fast.

Rose surprises him by throwing herself into his arms again, a sob making her whole body heave against him. “Thank you,” she cries, hugging him, hiding her face against his chest. “Curtis, god. If you hadn’t come in …”

“Shh. I did. I did come,” he reassures her, wrapping his arms around her fully again now that he knows it’s welcome. She feels so small. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

They stand there for who knows how long. Minutes, at least. Calming down together. Rose’s crying fades, and Curtis’ blood pressure re-enters the stratosphere. He can feel the red hot anger and instinct to kill bleeding out of his mind the longer that time stretches on. He becomes aware of how cold Rose must be in only her towel and still all wet. “Here,” he says, ushering her back towards the shower. The stalls have changing areas right in front of them, and he steps back so that she can have privacy. “Get dried off. Get dressed,” he says. “I’ll …” his gaze falls back down to the trail of red on her leg. He swallows thickly and averts his eyes. “I’ll be right here.”

Shakily, she nods and pulls the curtain. She gets dressed, and when she opens the curtain again, her hair has been towel-dried and hangs limply about her face. She looks shyly up at Curtis. “Hey.”

“C’mere, Honey.”

She folds back herself into his arms eagerly, whining and pressing into him. “Thank you,” she whispers. “God, Curtis. Thank you.”

“I should’ve been here,” he grunts, thinking of how Tanya had held him back. He silently curses her. “I knew something like this would happen,” he hisses to himself, though he regrets saying it when he feels how it makes her shudder against him.

“Can we get out of here, please?”

He nods and starts to lead them towards the door of the car. He’s not surprised to find Hodge gone on the other side. Curtis silently fumes about what he’d walked in on, as he leads Rose backtrain. They walk through the car where her spot is, and Curtis gives her hand a squeeze when she looks back at it and makes a questioning noise. “I want you with me tonight,” he tells her, gentle but firm, because no way in hell is he leaving her alone now. “Please?” he coaxes, pleased when she looks up to him and nods.

“Okay.”

He smiles softly. “Good girl.”

Curtis has a good sized spot. Certainly big enough for two, which he’s grateful for when he guides her to scoot in across the bed. His is the third bunk up out of four, which means climbing a few rungs, but once you’re up there it affords a fair sense of privacy, especially once he draws the curtain across to close them in together. He flicks the small lamp on, its dim bulb flickering to life and giving just enough light to see by.

He’s got his blankets spread out on the bed. There’s plenty of room enough to sit up and move around, all of his worldly possessions hung to the wall or else strapped against the top of the bunk above. “Home sweet home,” he says, gesturing around half heartedly. “Nothing special.”

“It’s nice.” Rose looks around with a little curiosity before tucking her head down. She shrugs. “You’ve got one of the lights. Our spot doesn’t. I mean … my spot,” she amends quietly. “Our neighbor has the light.”

The lights are built into the walls, meant to faintly illuminate what were once the train’s original baggage racks, powered by the Arc Reactor and impossible to move. But some people have managed to rig up their own lamps from salvaged materials and a little creative wiring over the years. There are no windows in the Tail. Curtis has heard that there are windows uptrain, but he doesn’t know whether to be jealous or not. Would it really improve anything, to have a view of the wasted, frozen world they left behind? He’s not so sure. At least this way they can pretend that Snowpiercer is all there is, the delusion only ruined whenever the Jackboots arrive to deliver food or raid them.

Curtis settles beside her and knocks their legs together. “I’ll keep my eye out for something in the market,” he promises. “Someone as pretty as you shouldn’t be in the dark.”

She smiles as though pained, looking down at her lap. “Being pretty is what got me into this mess.”

Curtis sighs. “No. It’s not just that, Hon.” He cups her face, stroking his thumb over her cheekbone. “It’s not just that.”

“What then?”

He smiles sadly. “Look, if there’s one thing you gotta understand about men, it’s that we covet the rare … and the pure. You’re good. Truly good, in a way most of us aren’t. In a way we can’t afford to be.” He drops his hand and turns away, feeling gross for having told her that, for having included himself in the roster of ‘men’ who think like that. But it’s true. “That’s why you stand out,” he mutters. “None of us are good the way you’re good.”

“What? But you’re good.”

Curtis scoffs. “Please.”

“You are! You’re on council aren’t you?”

He rolls his eyes. “That means I’m good with people, not good. There’s a difference.”

“No,” Rose insists. “No, you help everyone. You lead us, try to make life better for us.” She gets incensed when he continues to disagree. “You do! You … you make dolls for little girls who’ve lost all their toys. You protect us.”

Curtis slumps back against the wall. “Is that what I did back there? Protected you?”

“Yes. Curtis you saved me. You stopped him from …” She falters, unable to say the word, and the silence grows uncomfortable between them. Eventually she stares down at her lap and scoffs bitterly.

Curtis looks over. He doesn’t like the pinch that’s settled between her eyebrows. There’s something strangely self-deprecating about it, and he can’t figure out what’s going on in her head. “Hey.” He nudges her knee with his. “What are you thinking, Hon?”

She shakes her head. “Hodge,” she whispers. “He said things.”

“Oh god. Don’t. Rosie, don’t pay attention to anything that cretin said. Did he threaten you? Because if he did, you know I still have half a mind to rip off his—”

“He said that somebody would choose me, and if it isn’t him it’ll be someone else ‘staking their claim’.” She looks rather mortified as she repeats it. “And he’s not wrong. I mean that’s the way it’s done, isn’t it?” she asks bitterly. “The men. They choose who they want. We don’t get a say. Not really.”

“Rosie,” Curtis mourns, wishing that he could spare her, wishing he could tell her that she has choices, choices that people will respect. But he doesn’t want to lie. She doesn’t deserve to be lied to. “Hey,” he says instead. “You know I care about you, right?”

She nods, sniffling. “Yeah.”

“You should sleep here. Not just tonight but every night.” He can tell by her reaction that she realizes what he means, and he’s pleased when she leans against his side, still seeking comfort in him. He relaxes now that the hardest part is done. “Would you like that, Petal?” he asks softly, wrapping his arm around her and holding her close. She scoffs at the nickname, and Curtis kisses the top of her head. It’s been a long time since he’s had another person in his bunk—a long time. Not having a partner is lonely, sure, but with the way things are in the tail, it’s easier just to jerk off. Romance is all but dead, as is evidenced by the Tailies’ near-transactional customs regarding sex and relationships. “Will you?” he checks, relieved when she gives a little nod and a sniffle.

“I don’t want to be alone.”

“I don’t want that either.”

They sit there in silence for a while, and just as Curtis starts to wonder if Rose has fallen asleep, she whispers, “What was it like?”

“What was what like?”

“Men and women. Before. How did it …” she pauses, considering what she wants to say, or perhaps how to ask. “My dad and my mom,” she settles on. “They loved each other. Nobody claimed my mom. They chose each other.”

Curtis nods and gives her arm a squeeze. “Yeah. That’s how it was.”

“Tell me?” she asks, sounding for all the world like a child asking for a bedtime story. “Please?”

Curtis rubs her back, resigning himself to telling her the truth. “People met,” he says. “At school, at work, through friends. If they liked each other romantically, they dated.”

“What’s ‘dated’?”

He winces where she can’t see. “When you liked someone, you’d ask them out on a date. You’d meet them and go do something nice together. Something fun. Get a drink or see a movie, eat a meal in a restaurant.”

“Did the man decide the dates?”

He frowns. “Sometimes. Women would too, though. Sometimes they’d be the one to ask the guy out. It just depended.”

“What happened next?” Rose asks.

“Well … you’d just keep spending time together, you’d keep dating. If the people decided not to date anybody else, they’d agree to be a couple. Boyfriend and girlfriend. … Or husband and wife.”

“What’s the difference?”

Curtis winces at how sad it is that she doesn’t know that. The long term implications of their confinement in the Tail section are obvious and jarring, at times like this. He licks his lips. “Marriage was more serious than dating. More permanent. You might break up with your girlfriend eventually, but if you made her your wife, then that was like saying you wanted to be together forever.” He doesn’t bother getting into the concept of divorce, knowing that she just needs a basic understanding of the matter. “That’s how it was,” he finishes. “Before.”

Rose is quiet for a long while, thinking it over. Eventually she says, “And now the men choose.”

Curtis hates how resigned she sounds about it. “What happened in the wash car isn’t allowed,” he says, aware of the way her body tenses against him. “I’ll make sure Hodge is punished. But the thing is, Sweetheart … I’m worried he won’t be the last.”

Rose sniffles. “It’s ‘cause my dad’s gone, isn’t it?”

“That doesn’t help the matter. But you’ve been old enough for a while now, for some. And I’ve seen them looking.”

“For some?” Rose peeks up at him. “Not you?”

Curtis hesitates to answer. “... You’re young, Honey.” It’s not like he can say that he wants her. But saying that he doesn’t would be a total lie. He might not be looking yet, if he didn’t have the other men to worry about; but he does have to worry about them, and so he has been looking. “I’ll make sure Hodge is punished,” he reiterates. “Severely. Even with the way things are now, that was completely beyond the pale.” He feels that hot surge of fury boil up inside him again as he thinks about it: Rose standing there, shivering and crying, Hodge with his hands on her, his dick hanging out of his pants. “He was going to rape you,” Curtis growls. “He needs to pay.”

“And the others?” she asks. “You’ll stop them?”

His chest aches at her unshakable faith in him and what she thinks he can do. “I can only protect you one way,” he murmurs, pulling her close and burying his nose in her hair so that she can’t look up at him with those big doe eyes again. “Has Tanya talked to you much?” he asks. Her head moves against him in a little nod, but she doesn’t say anything. Curtis kisses her hair. “What happened in the wash car could happen again. Someone’ll want to claim you.” She whines and rubs her face against his sweater, clinging to him. He pulls her into his lap just like he had during storytime, earlier that night. “Hey,” he soothes, “I wish it could be different, you know? Wish I could take you outta here, make other people respect your choices.” He sighs sadly. “That’s just not how it works anymore, Petal.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “Would you take me on a date, Before?” He hesitates, and she notices. She looks up at him. “You wouldn’t?”

“You’re too young for me,” he admits. “Or you would’ve been. Before.”

“Now I’m not?” she asks, and Curtis averts his eyes uncomfortably, because of course she’s still too fucking young. If they were still in the World she’d be finishing up high school, going to prom and the mall, glued to her phone. Learning about sex from school and porn and from fumbling encounters with boys her own age, not from some jaded midwife in a squalid train car.

“Now …” he sighs. “Now, it’s different. It doesn’t make it right, but girls become fair game once they’re about your age. And any man who’s interested can try for you.”

“I know that,” she whispers. “But what about you? Are you interested?”

Curtis’ mouth is dry. He can’t answer. So he nods smally instead. He’s surprised when she doesn’t seem frightened or upset by this admission. He lets his hands hold her more securely, fingers dipping into the curve of her waist from over her sweater. “I care about you,” he croaks. “I want to protect you. And the only way I know to do that is to claim you myself.”

“Will you?” she asks. She lays her cheek back against his chest and yawns. “Claim me?”

Above her resting head, Curtis grinds his teeth. “Let’s just take it one day at a time, okay Hon?”

“Mm.” She nods sleepily. “Okay. I trust you, Curtis. Thank you for helping me today.”

He doesn’t answer her, just holds her against him and rubs her back as she gradually falls to sleep. He’s not the man she thinks he is, and she should be in her own spot right now, not tucked away in here with him, because sooner or later he knows he’s going to take advantage. He’ll have her, and he’ll make sure that every other man in the train knows that she’s his. That may not be what she really wants, or even what’s good for her.

But oh well, he thinks. At least it’s better than the alternative.

Masterlist

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#curtis everett #curtis everett x female reader #curtis everett x you #curtis everett x reader #reader insert #curtis everett x ofc #snowpiercer au #snowpiercer #marvel/snowpiercer mashup #marvel mcu #fandom mashup #fanfiction #fanfic #dark fic #smut fic #chris evans #chris evans characters #train au #bad things happen bingo

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tuliptiger · 1 year

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I dont think i will ever meet someone as passionate as I am about birds or anything I like tbh. I feel lonely and I know yadda yadda yadda your experiences and etc aren't unique yadda yadda but no one ever mentions the very important missing piece of information that you'd have to actually find that person in some capacity, connect, AND somehow communicate the shared feelings effectively.

There ARE people as passionate as I and more so but there are different ways of feeling passion and different reasons across the spectrum as to WHY and HOW you feel that way. I cannot share my feelings and that is the lonely part. I want to be understood so badly.

And yet I don't feel I will be in this moment of time and the next best thing is to fortify my experiences and internalize them, share them with myself, and rejoice in the fact that I love something so deeply without abandon. It means a lot to me and I am glad that it does.

Connected but separate, I've met birders, enjoyers of birds, etc at varying levels. I haven't really felt connected to any of them whatsoever. In fact I think I've almost felt MORE alienated afterwards by my interactions with them. Maybe I need to ask them more about themselves and their feelings rather than focusing on my own idk.

Is being understood understanding others? I don't know. I think newer people to the interest/awareness of birds and natural life have been closer than professionals or "serious" birders. Ive always been incredibly grateful for meeting professionals because I always learn something fantastic but.

They're kind of idkkkkkk idk shut off/upitty/Far too chatty ORRR secretive (trying not to say too much, about endangered or unique birds which is FAIR and valid!! But it creates a weird environment of like well idk if you're worthy or not or luke sussing you out). It's like not too terribly fun to be around those people but it is useful and worthwhile usually.

And talking with any normal average person about birds is even more disheartening than anything else. Nobody cares about birds. Sports or drinking or cars, jobs, money, travelling, food etc. Is free game and accepted for the most part. Nobody cares about the sparrows and crows and pigeon geese etc.

Nobody owes me anything they're not obligated nor do i expect them to care or find what im talking about interesting but it does hurt. I think thats fair to say. Talking to people about things you care about hurts.

Anyway. Goodnight I'm drunk and need to sleep

#words #feelings #rant #vent #drinking #drunk #alcohol

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ketsubankoya · 4 months

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I love my neighborhood.

I lived in a suburb for a few years. Lovely townhouse. Sterile environment. There was an HOA, of course, so everything was perfectly manicured and neutral. I don't remember ever seeing my neighbors, off the top of my head. On my way home from work one morning I did help someone jumpstart their car, but I think that's the only interaction I ever had with anyone else who lived there. I was renting, fortunately, so I wasn't stuck.

Now I live in a regular neighborhood in town. Normal blocks, on straight roads that make sense. It's Sunday evening. I hear power tools somewhere. I regularly do. There are a lot of renovations being done this spring. That tells me that most of the people on my street, like me, own their own homes. A young couple just strolled past my window. There's usually someone out walking their dog. I often hear children playing, lawn mowers running, people working on and enjoying their property. I've had friendly conversations with both of my neighbors. Someone up the block has chickens in the backyard. All the houses are different, all the lawns are different, all reflections of the families who live there. It's so much more alive than anywhere else I've ever lived.

I feel so lucky to be here, in a real neighborhood. For most Americans, it's an increasingly distant dream. Maybe it's being relatively close to what's widely considered a "bad" area that's protected us from being a target for the landlords and investors that are buying up everything else. My neighborhood is a hidden island of community that nobody expects to be where it is.

I get concerned looks from my peers when I tell them where I live. I could've gotten a bigger, newer house for my money if I lived where most of my coworkers do. But I'd much rather be here than a lifeless, antisocial, "safe" suburb full of the superficial display of comfort and little else.

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screamingiminlovewithyou · 5 years

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i got 25mpg on the highway...blessed

#nobody with newer cars interact #i cant deal with your 37mpg bullshit i just cant #i get 12 in the city jskdkdkdkdk

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cauliflowercounty · 4 years

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You’re Not Alone Pt. II

Warnings: None! Some Fluff/A Little Angst. Enjoy!

Clyde’s been home for a while, but doesn’t have a job yet. The reader sees a listing on a bulletin board and makes a move.

----

Adjusting to life without his hand was frustrating for Clyde. In the first few days he was awake and still in the hospital, his arm was still very swollen and hurt, but you were with him as much as you could be. He appreciated that a lot and loved finally having you near him again after months of wishing, infrequent letters and day dreaming. You only left for your work and to get a change of clothes while he was in recovery. You were there when the doctors said he could be released from the hospital because there hadn’t been any complications with the operation and no blood clots, thank goodness. The doctors told him he couldn’t be in better health, but whenever the doctors told him that, Clyde always thought “besides the arm” to himself. After being released from the hospital in the car hime, Clyde was excited to go home for the first time in a long while, but the thought also made him sad because of how different things would be.

The moment he stepped back into the trailer, he almost started to cry. Nothing had changed. The furniture was still the same. The decor was a tiny bit different. There was a new framed photo of you and him on the shelf, the TV was newer, and there was a vase of fresh flowers with a welcome home card in the coffee table. Even with these slight differences, it was almost as if he’d never left, but he knew that wasn’t true because he had a missing hand to show for it.

“Welcome home,” you’d said to him, reaching up to kiss him on the cheek with a warm smile. “What are you thinking about, Clyde?” you asked, knowing he’s got something heavy in his mind.”

“Darlin’ I don’ know if I can do this...,” he replied. “I feel so weak... I don’t think I can ever take care of myself... Nobody’s gonna want a one-armed employee.”

“You aren’t weak, Clyde. I know you and you are one of the strongest people I know. I know it feels strange and a bit hopeless now, but it’ll be a process. We’ll work this out together. I’m sure of this. One step at a time, Clyde,” you reassured him, saddened that he was hurting. You’d led him back to the bedroom where you snuggled all through the night for the first time in forever. Clyde felt like he never wanted to let go.

After that day, you both rolled into a routine. You’d both get up. Clyde would take his meds and take a shower, taking extra care on cleaning his stump. He’d put on his compression garment and change clothes. All of this was an adjustment and it took a while to get used to doing with only one hand.come out to the kitchen and help you prepare breakfast, smiling each time you’d make the bacon extra crispy like he likes it. After eating together, you’d go off to work and kiss him goodbye. You’d come home after work and tell him about your work stories, which he always listened to intently, laughing at your jokes. Of course, you’d always as him how his day was, too, and he shared as much as he could. Sometimes, he’d go to the store or try a new hobby, all of which almost never worked out. Sometimes, Mellie or Jimmy would come by to check on him, but he days were long for Clyde. You’d noticed he was getting twitchy and bored, and you begun to think of ways to change that.

“Have a great day, y/n!” your boss says as you leave work after your shift. You wave at her as you head for the door, but a poster on the bulletin board catches your eye.

“Hey, Mariana?” you call as you step closer to get a better look. “Can I take this poster? I think Clyde might wanna look at it.”

“Go for it,” she replies, walking away. You say your thanks as you remove the paper from the board, folding it neatly. As you drive home, you’re smiling to yourself, trying to think of a way to tell Clyde your idea. Soon enough, you pull into the driveway and park your car. You rush inside to see Clyde watching the TV, beer in hand.

“Darlin’!” he smiles as you come over, giving him a proper kiss on the mouth. He pulls you down to sit next to him on the couch, and you wrap your arms around him “How was your day?”

“Work was normal, but I have something to tell you,” you say. “Can I turn down the TV a bit?”

“Must be serious,” Clyde jokes as you reach for the remote.

“So. I was leaving work and I saw... this on the notice board. Take a look,” you say, producing the poster from your pocket. Clyde puts down his beer on the table and takes it from you and unfolds the paper, reading carefully. “The bar off the highways’s owner is retiring and he’s selling the space. I was thinking we could go and check it out tomorrow for our Saturday outing.”

“Why?” Clyde asks, a bit puzzled.

“I thought you might be interested in buying it. Getting back to work. I’ve noticed you seem sad lately. As much of a quiet stoic man you are, I know you like to see people. And I know that you’ve always wanted to learn to make a good drink,” you say, trying to convince him.

“I don’t know, Darlin’... My hand and all... I’m afraid no one ‘d come to a bar owned by someone like me, especially if I’m the bartender ‘n’ all,” he mumbles, looking down at his prothesis and raising it to you. You sigh.

“Clyde... I know it’s hard, but you’ve adapted to doing things so well so quickly. You’re a quick learner and I’d think this would be really fun. I don’t want to force you to do anything you’re not comfortable with, but at least consider it? I don’t like seeing you all mopey,” you smile, wrapping your arms back around him, tucking your head in the crook of his neck.

“Alright...”

“Hmm?”

“I’ll come and take a look at the space tomorrow. You’re right. I should be gettin’ out more and this is just a first step,” Clyde agrees.

“Yes!” You exclaim, kissing him again.

“I think this’ll be really good for me,” Clyde smiles. “Thanks for suggestin’ it.”

~~~

After you both get up, you head out in the car towards the bar. As he pulls up to the bar, you can see Clyde’s getting more excited. Stepping out of the car, you both walk up the stairs outside and go up to the door where Clyde knocks on it. You smile at him and encouraging look and he takes your hand in his. An old man opens the door wearing a worn down grey shirt with a couple holes in it and a pair of army green cargo shorts.

“Hey, are you John?” Clyde asks.

“Yep,” the man says, taking a drag from his cigarette. “

“We saw your flyer about sellin’ your space. Is it still available?” Clyde asks as John eyes him a bit, which makes Clyde worry. Had he already sold the bar? Were they too late?

“You look familiar,” John says.

“I do?” Clyde asks, almost squeaking.

“You’re one of them Logans, ain’t ya?” John exclaims, pointing a finger at Clyde, and Clyde nods his head, thinking he already blew it.

“I remember... A while ago your brother Jimmy came in and told me all about his brother in the military... Seems you’re that brother,” John explains, a slight smile on his face as he recalls his encounter.

“Right you are and this is my girlfriend, y/n” Clyde responds, relieved that that that interaction didn’t turn south.

“Come on in, you both. Don’t be shy,” John says, leading the way. Inside you immediately see the bar that sticks out from the wall near the entrance, but the space opens up to reveal a large space with the occasional wood column that includes some sitting areas and a couple of pool tables. The walls are wood and have beer posters on them. Some of the surfaces look a bit dusty.

“Nice bar you got, John,” Clyde comments.

“Yeah, She got some good bones. The location’s good, too. There’s people who come in as regulars and then the passer by from the highway. It’s got AC an’ everythin’” John explains, pointing around the place to show it off. “What do you think?”

“I think it’s great,” Clyde smiles. “What’s your impression, Darlin’?”

“I can see you being really happy here Clyde... but it’s your decision, really,” you smile. “How do you feel?”

“I feel good. Hey John, can I see the back?” Clyde asks, pointing to a door marked with the sign “employees only.” John nods and beckons Clyde behind the bar. You wave him on to tell him to go without you. He disappears with John through the door, leaving you to walk around the main space.

As you look around, you can really start to see how Clyde can make the space his own. He could put some neon signs up and add some nice lighting to the back, so it’s not so dark. You look to the side and see a dusty old jukebox that hasn’t been used in 10 years, but you can imagine Clyde fixing it up and filling it with Bob Seger, classic rock, and old country music. The chairs are a bit run down, but you know someone who can reupholster them at a discount.

You look back to see John and Clyde emerging from the back with smiles on their face. They’re laughing and John sticks his hand out for Clyde to shake, and Clyde takes it eagerly.

“I’ll be hearin’ from you Mr. Logan,” John says. “Travel safe.”

Clyde rushes back to you and takes your hand excitedly, taking you back out to the car. As you climb in, you can feel the happiness radiating from Clyde.

“What happened?” you ask, knowing what happened already, but wanting to hear it from him. You smile, looking at the lovable goofy smile Clyde has plastered on his face.

“I just bought a bar,” Clyde says.

“Oh my god! Clyde! That’s so great!” you exclaim.

“... and I have you to thank for it. Thanks for encouraging me to do it. I got his phone number in my pocket and we’ll talk paperwork in the next few days.”

“That was fast! I didn’t expect you to make a decision today! Clyde I’m so happy for you,” you gasp, pulling him towards you for a hug. He wraps his arms around you and kisses you gently on the cheek. You giggle as you feel his beard tickle you as it brushes against your skin.

“I think this was a good decision,” Clyde smiles. “This means I’ll be workin’ again... and maybe you could come work with me too?”

“Really? You’re serious?” you say, a bit surprised. “You want me tow work with you?”

“Of course. I love you and I’ve already spent too much time away from you and people who work at bard have crazy late hours ‘n’ all...” he reasons.

Clyde! Of course I’ll come wrk at the bar with you!” you say to him, grabbing the sides of his head, kissing him on the lips this time. You break away, both of you smiling like idiots. “So, Mr Business owner. What’s next?”

“I was thinkin’ a name for it,” Clyde replies.

“Oh? Did you have any ideas?”

“Duck Tape,” Clyde says after a few moments of silence and the name makes you both grin, knowing this’ll be the best thing you’ll have done together yet.

#logan lucky #adam driver #clyde logan #clyde logan x reader

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atimefordragons · 4 years

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Get to know me tag game

thanks for the tag lovely @queen-of-salt-and-fury!

Nicknames: lol, I mean, my fake internet name is basically a nickname, also “C”, all the broski, brosauce, etc variations me and my bestie use, speaking of, could also consider Elsa a nickname, or Cristina, because we are stone cold adults to refer to each other as our respective personality double in favourite duos (Elsa and Anna, and Meredith and Cristina) - yeah, we know we are fucking lame. My sister calls me “Titly”, which means butterfly, you may now also refer to me as Your Majesty, because I bought Elsa’s crown as a birthday gift for myself and gave myself a coronation, thereby legally making me Arendelle’s Queen. This is how it works now right? Declaring something online immediately makes it true.

Real name: Clara, lol, it’s not, it’s just what I’ve been using online for nearly a decade or so now, so what’s the point? But my real middle name is “Taika”, which is a name I share with Taika Waititi, which is cool.

Zodiac: Scorpio

Favourite Musicians / Band: Taylor Swift, Dima Bilan, Sergey Lazarev, Anime OST (deep into Code Geass and Bleash OST atm, god they were iconic), OST in general, KAZKA (thank you again so much @pulltheskydown for introducing me to her), Alma, Amir, Rihanna, Polina Gagarina, been in a Britney mood the last few weeks. Idk, I just have music I like, and music I don’t like, and some people I am very thirsty for. Also, also, literally any song from any Shahrukh Khan movie. I always was, still am, and always will be, one of those SRK loving bitches. The man is ICONIC.

Do I get asks?: Once in a blue moon.

Favourite sports team: I support the national teams ‘cause Go Canada Go or whatever. Also more invested in the Raptors than I ever thought I’d be, but hey, them winning the NBA last year gave me more serotonin than I ever thought boring sports could give me. It’s still so boring, but I do follow the scores when they appear on CP24 (local news channel), feels good when your city’s teams win. Guess that means by default I also support the Blue Jays and the Maple Leafs, but whatever.

Other blogs: lol, you are talking to the Queen of Too Many blogs right here. My first ever main was @livesinabluebox (which has gone through a few url changes, namely melanin-monster and moonrxvenge, but it’s 2012 again so I switched back to my og url), I’m trying to clear out all my likes so I’m still posting there, but trying to move to my new main over @moonrxvenge. And I also have 600 million sideblogs for characters and roleplays and resources and whatever. I have so many that I need to keep a masterlist, and yes, it is HELLA out of date. (I still say hella)

Tumblr Crushes: meh, I never really befriended people on tumblr until much more recently, and like all those people are friends I made elsewhere, ie polyvore (I shy, tumblr scary and got far too many stupid peoples opinions).

Obvs, shoutouts to my loves @kzombi3 / @thots4daze @themadmonarchist @celestialfairies @alittlebitluna @eternalsailorstar @ayzrules @themonsterslut @turquoisesiren @pulltheskydown

some tumblr people who are v cool and maybe I say things or just do that whole “senpai notice me” lowkey stalking from my main, main: @queen-of-salt-and-fury @daenerys-targaryen @salty-sailors-unite @wellstartled and loads of others I’m probably forgetting rn

Lucky numbers: as a kid I considered 7 and 13 lucky, also 735 or something like that for islam reasons I forgot, but I don’t have any now. I think it’s all bull.

What am I wearing: blue pajamas. my shirt says “happy monday - said nobody ever”, it is thursday.

Dream holiday: Russia and Japan are definitely my number ones, all the historical places like the Winter Palace and Himeji Castle, and the cities.

Dream car: Tesla, it was a blue Model S, but that was 5 years ago (4? 3? idk, a time ago) and I’m sure there are newer models now that I am too lazy look up

Favourite food: Macarons

Drink of choice: Tim Hortons Ice Coffee with a shot of caramel

Instruments: I technically played the flute for a year (maybe three) in middle school music class, but it was mandated and I don’t remember. I could play the beginning of To Love’s End from Inuyasha back then, but not now. I can play the main tune, like just the first few notes, of Kuch Kuch Hota Hai’s main theme on the piano, but I just memorized the keys. Idk the actual notes. F or G or E I guess? Idk.

Languages: English, Bengali, Hindi, Urdu, technically French, but I didn’t really retain anything from it, like I can read French, but got little to no idea what I’m saying. Straight up surprised when I do understand. I think it’s in there, but barely. Also supposed to be able to speak Arabic, but retained less of that than French.

Celebrity crushes: Chris Evans, Jenna Coleman, SRK (lol, since I was born probably), Kajol, Bruna Marquezine, Yuki Kimisawa, and loads of others. I’m a hoe for the fictional and the theoretical, what can I say?

Random facts: Buying notebooks and using them are two entirely different hobbies, and, okay, this isn’t like interesting in the least but I am OBSESSING over the drama that went down between Salman Khan and Zayn over his cover of Allah Duhai Hai - yeah, I know I’m 2 years late to this, but whatever, no fucking told me about it and I can’t find any definitive information and I’m going crazy! Please, someone explain what happened 'cause I am dying!!! I need to know!! (also, salman fans don’t interact, vo kuni hai yaar, tu phagal hai kya?)

I’ll tag: all of you lovelies @kzombi3 / @thots4daze @themadmonarchist @celestialfairies @alittlebitluna @eternalsailorstar @ayzrules @themonsterslut @turquoisesiren @pulltheskydown @queen-of-salt-and-fury @daenerys-targaryen @salty-sailors-unite @wellstartled + whoever else wants to do it (and ofc tag me and befriend me, I am but a thirsty ass hoe for friendship)

#tag games #mine

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anotherwayoutforme · 4 years

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Just remembered...

...that I had this blog. My previous blog aged like a fungal infection -- reading it was so cringe, I retched at the foul taste it brought in my mouth.

And then to the main part, what I had primarily come here for: last night’s unimaginably painful existential crisis.

What sadistic pleasure do we get from stalking our exes online?

Months after a breakup, regardless of how inconsequential a relationship was, you still check their socials in hopes of getting...what?

And then you find yourself annoyed; you’re annoyed at their previous interactions with others of your sex, wondering at just how false the words spoken to you were, wondering if everyone cherry picked the nicecities from previous relationships and tried to merge them with their current ones. You’re annoyed at being disingenuous with people you claim have done you wrong; you’re annoyed at your lack of true human relationships.

And then you check the socials of people who’ve done better than you. Somewhere you find metrics dealing with their success, their absolute greatness.

How will you ever compare?

You wonder if your parents were right, you’re not meant for greatness.

You shudder at the thought of bursting your various bubbles because other people’s success hurts you deeply.

You wonder if you’re ready for a master’s. After all, higher studies should be afforded to those who can afford it -- and those who’re mature enough to handle it.

You shudder at the thought of sinking to a newer low; your elitism is bothered by the dredges of the society left behind to toil and spend as extravagantly as their meagre salaries can allow them to.

You worry about your future, yet do nothing to get better.

You’re the average Joe then, the one the news anchors worry about, the one with the average merch, the one with average thoughts.

You watch movies that seem intellectual to delude yourself in believing in your greatness, your superiority, your contentment with your average life.

You whittle away time ‘reading’ to appear to be more cultured than you are; you read fiction, because you can’t digest non-fiction text.

You partake in pseudointellectual discussions about superficial politics, lacking an understanding of the theory, lacking an understanding of world economics, lacking an understanding of anthropology and social sciences.

You remember an echo of the words you’d written in a long forgotten diary about not wanting to end up yelling at the TV. You turn the volume up and scream a little more. These fools, these idiots, what do they know about policy making. Ask me, in my pajamas, eating dinner, scaring my young kids.

Ask me, you beg.

You climb the career ladder till the point after which bowing down and doing your work won’t get you anywhere; at that point, at forty something, you buy a bigger house, perhaps, teach your kids to work hard.

You buy yourself nice things, nice clothes, nice furniture, a fancy car; things to alleviate the pain of your small-mindedness, your materialistic, parochial obsession with extravagance, your lack of understanding of wealth and wealth management.

Because you tried all that time ago, sometime in the morning, pulling an all-nighter to get your life on track and be someone after, perhaps, spying an ex-colleague appraised globally for their work.

You lament your inability to think, for it’s been a while since you truly used your brain.

You lament, as you look up ways to network, and invest, and grow, that you’ve moved on from the place of wanting to do something great, to one of wanting to be someone great.

You lament at the state of your life, because unlike the college exams you scraped through, a whole life, your life, cannot be fixed magically by pulling an all-nighter.

You give up after a day, or a week, of trying to be better.

You give up and work on what you’ve been given.

You grow old then. If you’re lucky, you grow old with a modicum of happiness -- companionship. If not, you grow old more bitterly than the others, fatigued by a mediocre life, annoyed by your lack of wealth, your lack of action, your wasted time.

You remember your novice ideas at maintaining a legacy; you laugh mirthlessly at your naivete.

What legacy, you ask yourself?

What parentage to make your life great?

You die and you waste away.

No one remembers you.

No one appreciates the mediocre work you did as a mid-level employee at a company which marked your existence with a randomly generated employee id.

You don’t matter.

You started to not matter as soon as you started giving up on yourself.

Your parents were always right. Your detractors, prophetic.

You don’t matter.

You never did.

So who were you?

Nobody.

#blog #existential crisis #cringe

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dentalrecordsmusic · 6 years

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Will Wood Interviews Will Wood

I’m going to be honest: I get a lot of press releases and most of them get thrown in the trash. They are, of course, entirely positive information about the given artist and therefore entirely boring. However, when I got a strange (unnecessarily big) package in the mail containing three (3) pieces of glitter, a very small gentlemen’s hat, and the following interview of Will Wood answering questions from himself, I felt it was important enough to pass along to our readers.

AN INTERVIEW WITH WILL WOOD

BY WILL WOOD

In this pre-apocalyptic wasteland of whataboutism and Russian disinformation, it can be difficult to pick all the pyrite from the proverbial pan. That’s an idiom now. In the old days, knowledge was banned and burned and buried in temple ruins and conquered libraries. It was suppressed and scarce and it took a hungry mind and a passion for discovery to shine light onto dark ages. The information age is upon us now – and while we can all tap into a bottomless well of knowledge at any time, we are no better off. The light is already so bright, the sound so deafening, that anything you have to show or say is already washed out in the cacophony. We still know nothing, because while we can see so much, we cannot distinguish illumination from illusion.

That’s what attempting to prepare for an interview with Will Wood taught me. Some information checked out, but everywhere I looked I saw misprints, inconsistencies, lies, theatrical exaggeration, errors, and the constant churning of the rumor mill. I read everything from errors in basic information, to full-blown criminal accusations. For instance, one source claimed they had found he had a home in a town called Glen Ridge, when in reality his P.O. Box is in Glen Rock, and his home is in Egg Harbor. Another source said he once kicked a pregnant woman in the stomach at a Renaissance Faire.

I like to think I prepared as well as anyone could have. Which means I prepared quite poorly. So arriving at the beach outside the B.L. England refinery in Egg Harbor New Jersey where Mr. Wood agreed to meet me had me feeling like a dead man walking. He was standing there in a bright green trench coat and aviator sunglasses, holding a steel briefcase. He greeted me with a firm handshake and a slight bow before sitting right down in the sand and lighting a hand-rolled cigarette.

Q: Do you do drugs?

A: I had a really bad trip on a low dose of antipsychotics recently. Don’t drive until you’ve adjusted to a medication. Almost ran over my own car.

Q: What are your thoughts on the affect social media has had on the arts?

A: I’m fairly certain Mark Zuckerberg technically holds the copyright to all of my intellectual property and he’s a demon lizard. But hey, that’s showbiz.

Q: Is it challenging to be openly queer in the music industry?

A: Nobody cared about my feelings until I put on makeup. I’d wear dresses more often but I’m getting paunchy from too many trips to Golden Corral. I never get my money’s worth but I always try. And the harder I try, the less its worth.

Q: So you came here from North Carolina a few years ago, what was it like making that adjustment?

A: I had to lose the accent because people kept asking me if I played country music.

Q: Do you like working out here?

A: You see that lighthouse? It’s actually a cosmetically enhanced sulfur-scrubber. It reeks of eggs for miles. I work out of a back room at Lee’s Food, which also reeks of eggs. Yes it’s a real place. Probably not for long though.

Q: And you like that?

A: Have you ever tried filing your income taxes on a fold-up card table in an 85 degree spare bedroom while eight staff members shout at each other in Mandarin while trying to make Japanese food to serve in a Korean restaurant and your daughter is running in the back door holding the neckbones of a great blue heron asking you to hold on to it while she tried to find the head?

Q: That sounds like a no.

A: I didn’t say that.

Q: What’s it like trying to raise a child? Is it difficult to juggle family life and work life?

A: Mildred is getting old enough to take care of herself. My partner and I skipped most of the ugly years where they’re too stupid to talk or eat on their own and they scream at you to pull your tit out in the middle of Thompkins Square Park. Then again, lots of people in Thompkins square park will do that to you.

Q: Okay. So. Is it difficult to juggle family life and work life?

A: You just asked me that.

Q: Right, but you-

A: We were going to adopt a little boy and name it Oliver but the orphanage thought we were being funny so they shoved a moody tween at us and lost the paperwork. But let’s not talk about Millie. I don’t like her getting attention from press, I’m sure you can see what that’s doing to Jacob Sartorius and that kid from “It.”

Q: Does press attention bother you personally?

A: Look, this is going to sound like some Sean Spicer shit. But a lot of press out there about me is just plain false. For instance, someone quoted me as liking Billy Joel back in 2015. I said a lot of stuff in 2015 I didn’t mean but I have always been a staunch Elton John man. Even though his lyrics are trash. His lyricist’s lyrics, I mean. He should just write his own, his lyrics can’t be any worse than that walking beard’s drivel.

Q: And… so, the inaccurate reporting- does it bother you?

A: Let me put it to you this way. Imagine if someone said that you liked Uptown Girl without your consent.

Q: You seem to be very critical of other musicians, you’ve been quoted repeatedly as saying “I hate music.” What makes you feel this way?

A: When you hate 99% of something, it’s most efficient and pretty effective to just say you hate that thing. A Nazi who gets along well with 1% of Jews is still a Nazi. Most of the world’s music is painfully banal or no fun to listen to.

Q: What sort of music do you like then?

A: Anything by Green Day. Everyone seems to laugh when I say that but it’s entirely true. Billie Joe Armstrong is my biggest songwriting influence and the world needs to know that.

Q: One of the defining features of mental illness is the manner in which it inhibits “functionality,” but short of suicide as a risk to one’s life its difficult to say if there’s a clearly objective definition of healthy psychoemotional functionality. We can really only work with one’s ability to reconcile their personality with cultural norms, and their own idea as to how comfortable they should feel in their own skin on a regular basis, which is also partially informed through socialization. One can cite psychosis and acute mania as definitive examples of why its necessary to consider various mental and behavioral traits as medical concerns, but its also worth noting that in some cultures throughout history hallucinations and what would appear to be delusional states have been valued and seen as sacred.

Is mental health seen as a medical problem only because social systems with enormous power have designed ways to remove nonconforming or negative natural phenomena through medical intervention, and if so, should we be more distrusting of psychiatry and the ever-changing spectrum of mental health diagnoses? Should we really call them sicknesses?

A: We only see the flu as a medical problem because physical medicine exists. Before the study of pathogens began to arise, it was simply seen and spoken about as a part of nature, and sometimes seen as divine or diabolical intervention – much like the examples of mental illness you gave. All health concerns ultimately amount to levels of social functionality, the individual’s personal experience, their mortality in extreme cases, and the illness’s threat of compromising those things in others. This is everything from cancer to the common cold – the only distinction is that we as a culture identify with our minds in ways we do not our bodies. This is ultimately arbitrary, and a socialized distinction, as the brain is a physical organ, our sensory organs are part of our mind’s subjective experience, and the body is inseparably connected with the brain as one singular organic being.

When one realizes this fully, one could likely start to see that what you are saying is true, but does not challenge the validity of the science itself. It is important to participate in this newer and complicated field of science wisely, and draw your own distinctions between problems that need medical attention and don’t, (only you can tell how much a physical injury hurts) but that does not mean that there cannot objectively be a disease. The importance of considering mental illnesses as diseases and giving diagnoses lies in our ability to communicate and interact with the topic – accurate and mostly agreeable language must be used to classify ideas and phenomenon. It was giving names to certain psychoemotional and behavioral states that first allowed scientists to organize the information necessary to invent life-saving interventions in therapy and medication. Seeing mental well-being as a medical concern the way we see physical well-being is not only accurate, but useful.

Q: Are you getting tired of writing this?

A: Well it’s good character work. World-building.

Q: Is any of what you said true up there?

A: It actually is but since I’ve made up a couple fun little things in interviews or used flowery language in the past a lot of people just assume everything I say is theatrics now. You know?

Q: I guess that makes sense. I’ve made some stuff up in my writing before too, I get it.

A: That wasn’t a question. As a matter of fact, that was an answer so you should be A and I should be Q.

A: That’s stupid. Just because you asked “you know” doesn’t mean we need to switch the only thing that identifies us in the article.

Q: Wait hold up though, my last response was also an answer, so I should still be an A.

A: Wait, so who’s going to be A, and who’s going to be Q?

A: You’re going to be Q now, because you asked who’s going to be Q. You’re the questioner.

Q: Isn’t this going to get confusing?

Q: I’m Q now too because I have to ask you if you have a better idea. Put a question mark on there so I can stay Q, that way people don’t get confused. ? Yeah right there just like that.

A: Why don’t we just use our actual initials, since it’s become less of an interview and more of a conversation? Should I be Q? It’s a response but it’s-

Q: Why didn’t I think of that?

W.W.: Oh, you did think of that.

W.W.: That’s true, I did.

W.W.: You shouldn’t have, it’s as stupid as the switching of Q’s and A’s.

W.W.: That was your idea, so we’re even.

W.W.: First base.

W.W.: THE WILL WOOD AND THE TAPEWORMS THREE YEAR ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION IS HAPPENING MAY 25TH AND 26TH WITH A VERY SPECIAL IN-STUDIO PERFORMANCE BY WILL WOOD AT THE VERY PLACE WWATT’S FIRST ALBUM “EVERYTHING IS A LOT” WAS RECORDED! TICKETS TO NIGHT ONE ARE ALMOST GONE AND VIP PACKAGES & TICKETS TO NIGHT TWO ARE LIMITED TO GO TO WWW.WILLWOODANDTHETAPEWORMS.BIGCARTEL.COM NOW AND SEND ME YOUR MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEY MONEYVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Purchase tickets here, or buy them at the door at Backroom Studios.

Catherine Dempsey has no idea how Will Wood got her address. She is scared. You can follow her on Instagram.

#will wood #will wood and the tapeworms #new jersey #punk rock #cabaret punk #interview #catherine dempsey #music news

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herushingu · 6 years

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Long thing. Suuuuper super long thing about doing your idea even if youre scared to... Hellsing fandom positivity and a "new" Alucard (someone has to have done it before, but...)

But long ass post. FUCKIN LONG. "Keep scrolling cuz its gonna keell you" long!

Okay... I harshed on myself some for this, and even more for making this post, just cuz... what DON'T I harsh on myself about? ^^; I mean, I was making a Hellsing positivity sideblog and I could just make the blog and NOT make this post, right? I mean, a stupid post talking about it, just make a short promo post and don't waste anyone's time, right?

I just keep thinking about others who feel similar as me, and I know how validating it is to read someone else having same thoughts... I don't think anything I do will have any horribly great impact, and in a POSITIVE WAY no less (in fact, I'm stunned when ONE person says I've made their day better... like, are they high at the time or did they dial the wrong number??) but on the chance it can help one person just a tiny bit, it's one drop in an ocean that's made up of tiny drops. It's always a straw ("a small thing") that breaks the camel's back.

Yeah

I've had an idea for a Hellsing positivity blog for a while now and a couple days ago set about getting things ready. Yesterday morning, though, I got a different idea, realizing it was just what was lacking from the previous idea. A general positivity blog is fine and good, but there was something distant about it somehow. Then yesterday as I was driving home from dropping my nephew off to school I just kinda chuckled to myself about how everyone's making "ask" blogs now (the one Father Anderson's been there for a while, but we have a newer joint Alucard/Seras, an Iscariot-Seras, and now a Punkcard one, etc...) and that it was cute and awesome how everyone was having fun. I hadn't thought about making one until just that moment. It would deal with the "distance" factor that was missing from the first positivity blog idea. People can have a character personality to interact with.

Parking the car [from taking nephew to school] and walking to the house I mentally skidded to a halt as it hit me. The idea that surfaced was an abscure one, it was literally random but I had found it PERFECT--but then came the worries.

The idea was basically "Priestcard." Alucard if he was a priest, except for some reason creativity wants this to be a PART of Alucard, like say some familiar that gets cut off from him (don't question the sciences on this... DARK MAGIC, somethingsomething), someone who was a priest or at least thinks he was, remembers nothing, not even of being a priest, and just looks like Alucard as priest. Being the most popular character in the Hellsing franchise, who better to "host" a Hellsing positivity blog? But when the Father Anderson blog did that Andervamp event they got anon hate because someone else already had a vampire Anderson RP blog (who fully supported the Andervamp event and did NOT support the anon hate)... and Anderson is basically Alucard as a priest anyway (canon)... both the Anderson and the Andervamp blogs are run by totally chill people, I know they won't mind my Priestcard idea one bit. Walking up to the house [after taking nephew to school] as I realized some of the possible shit certain others may want to stir up scared me. Even now in typing this hours later, I'm shaking just a bit.

But I've really wanted this blog, no matter who the fictional host was or wasn't. Priestcard had nothing to do with Anderson or their blogs, it was a random thought brought on by multiple people making ask blogs conveniently solving a distance problem. Maybe my random thought was Priestcard because of subconscious attachment to Iscariot lately (I mean... Anderson blog, Andervamp blog, Iscariot Seras blog... it MAY have all influenced me without my knowing). But it doesnt matter. I've wanted mere Hellsing positivity in the community to be more active since before the PSA linked in my Herushingu blog description. I wanted to reblog that thing to my RP account and give the same thing to others, but was insecure about being able to be in-character enough for it. If even one person came to me in need of character cheering up I didn't want to fail them. So I didn't reblog it there. Shortly after I thought about a whole blog just for positive vibes. Nobody asked for it. I'm sure it won't gain many (if any) followers, but like I said, if it helps one person then that's all that matters.

I'm still scared. But dammit I'm tired of doing nothing when I've got an idea just because "what if" someone decides to be a douche and start drama... Let fear stop me on the next idea. It won't stop me from THIS one. This can be that one in ten thousand ideas that actually makes it to at least creation. If someone starts shit, let it be on them. I don't have to acknowledge it.

If anyone's still reading this far then lol, I'll send flowers to your funeral after this lengthy load of whatever kills you, but thanks for sticking around for this idiotic prattle. Let's move on to the blog details themselves, hm?

Priestcard will be 100% passive sugarcoated sweetheart material that will make Mr. Rogers look like a gangster. He won't remember being a vampire so for all he knows he's not one (since, you know, Alucard is immune to sunlight, so Priestcard thinks "sunlight doesn't hurt me, so I CAN'T be a vampire..."), he's just an ordinary priest-guy who also for some reason he can't fathom knows nothing about being a priest besides "be nice to people and God loves everyone." He's taken up residence in an abandoned church that he has decided needs some TLC and should not be thrown away so quickly. A little tidying up and anyone can be saved, one small step at a time. People call it "his" church but he insists it's "a church for everyone, even nonbelievers" who he finds no fault in merely for that. I'm making some basic emote art for him now. Oh--he's Father Vlad Dragulya, and no he doesn't know why that's his name (but it's one of the two ways actual Vlad Dracula signed his name). He's walking anmesia, lol. His actual conscious memories start when he woke up, alone, a separate being (from Alucard) just down the road from this very church. All he wants is for you to feel better from anything that bothers you. Anything. (my heart bleeds for Priestcard, I swear... <3) The interesting parts will be when someone has a papercut around him and he "feels strangly facinated" about it or the rare (suuuper rare) ocassions when he actually gets angry and dark powers flare up. ;)

but yeah... these are the types of posts I don't usually make anymore. "Once upon a time" kind of thing. This long LONG "my exact thoughts and here's what's going on behind the scenes" delightful bullshit. Maybe it's pointless. It wont become a habit lol ^^;

I just want anyone who feels scared of doing a thing to know YOU'RE NOT ALONE, READ ALL THIS, SERIOUSLY, THIS LITTLE THING HAS ME SCARED HALF OUT OF MY WITS and I'm still doing it. Try thinking about other people who want to see that thing you want to do anyway. DO IT. MAKE IT HAPPEN. Some people think I'm fearless because I'm so passionate about my opinion HAHAHA, NNNOPE. Look at what I've typed here and ask yourself if you would tell me not to do this thing, make that Priestcard blog, that you (at least as someone who I presume doesn't hate me, lol) don't want me to have this thing... if you can't say it about me then you can't say it about yourself. If I deserve THING, then you deserve THING too.

GO!

DO THING!

and tell us all about it because it's probably going to be awesome and we don't wanna miss out!! <3 <3 <3

#Just me being stupid #What do you expect by now?

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charmspoint · 3 years

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I know you said they don't have a concrete story yet, but would you be ok with telling us more about Zan and Ghost? They seem really interesting

Anon you don't know what you unleashed its like past 1am here but I could talk about them forever.

This is gonna be under the cut because nobody has to be subjected to this.

General quick point: Both of these started off as bnha oc's but then reached that point where I was like 'yeah, I want them in their own story' so rn their powers are just powers with no wider context since I aint got that story

I'm gonna start with Zan cuz he's older by creation and my fav oc atm. For him we have TW's of child abuse and neglect, familial death, trauma, drug abuse, depression and anxiety, though I'll be running through this points as quickly and non graphically as I can cuz...I'm not gonna make you read my thesis so it should be fine.

His full legal name is Kazuya Moriyama but he goes by Zan Mori, he's 24. Zan was created to be two things 1. Character design with a fully body tattoo 2. Someone to use a power I came up with but didn't match with a character yet.

Here's that power, yes I have a copy paste off it:

Nightmare fuel is a power that terrorizes everyone, including its user. Zan’s sweat contains a special kind of chemical that when smelled causes mild to severe hallucinations, paranoia and other fear responses by interacting with victims brain chemistry. However, this chemical is only contained in sweat that he produces as a result of fear so, for example if he goes running in the gym, nothing bad will happen. The strength of the power depends on how much Zan himself is afraid and how much sweat he is producing. A weak dose will only result in sense of unease, a feeling of being watched, escalating through general paranoia, with its worst manifestation being complete loss of touch with reality and intense hallucinations. It's odorless and since it’s a chemical can be stored for later use. The last stages of it are very hard to reach because they require for Zan to be at similar levels of severe distress. It affects him as well, often resulting in endless loop of him being afraid, activating his power because of his fear, the power causing more intense fear and so on.

So here is where we start to build.

Zan's backstory hinges on him developing this power very early on in his life, as a result of mutation that his parents were not ready for. Kids get scared of things, a lot, especially when their own power feeds back into that fear. His family quickly spiraled from it, going from trying to figure out how to help him to neglecting him to dying very bloodily in front of him as a result of the constant psychological distress. After that he was cycled through different foster and youth homes with pretty similar result before striking it on his own basically as soon as he could.

Zan's main motivation is to find a way to get rid of his power. He hates it, hates what it represents and how it essentially stripped away his ability to connect with anyone. He doesn't control it, he doesn't activate it, it simply happens to him whenever he gets distressed and as someone with deep seated anxiety caused by that very same power, he gets distressed a lot.

He self-medicates. He self medicates a lot. I don't really have the world planned out but it's very much a world where powers are a new thing and the society just doesn't have systems in place to catch people like Zan. So he basically keeps himself high as much as he can, to numb himself out so he doesn't feel anything so he doesn't get scared so his power doesn't get activated.

When I created Zan, I expected him to be a very jaded, angry, abrasive character and in some ways he is. He's very slow to trust and tends to keep away from people. His first instinct is to mock and insult, he dresses like an emo reject, he's absolutely covered in tattoos, he's a dark humored pessimist and just not the kind of person you want to be around for long. He's also probably one of the most empathic characters I have on the roster atm. He's like, a natural big brother. Any kids younger then him, fuck older than him but awkward and unsure, he's instantly adopting. Fuck everything else, his kids now, he'll make them lunch and make sure they get to school. Zan is more so abrasive out of need than out of actual malice or bad attitude. He does want to be close to people he just knows how that always ends so keeping away is a lot safer. He is genuinely very loving and soft when he lets himself be. He's not great about advice but he's a good listener and the type to throw everything on the backburner to come and help a friend out. He is inherently kind, he just doesn't allow himself to be so very often, unless someone damn well takes a chisel and digs it out of him.

Fun fact time:

He's got a knack for painting and idolizes Van Gogh

He's got a cat named Shikei who he picked up after it got run over by a car, it likes only him and wants to see the rest of humanity burn

Here are his established tattoos, yes I have a copy paste for that too:

Full body tattoo in shape of a jungle of thorns crawling over his entire body, save most of his face. The whole piece is done in eerie, cold colors, with a sudden splash of warmer color here and there, the thorns themselves being colored in misty and muted blues and greens. Over his heart, there is a tattoo of a birds nest, but the nest is breaking apart, suffocated by the thorns clustering around it and breaking into it, its branches drenched in blood, the baby birds in it barely even noticeable. Along the length of his spine and over the width of his hips an ornate cross of st. peter is painted, also crumbling, red spider lilies breaking through the frail rock. His shoulder blades are covered in sunflowers, strikingly bright on the cold surface of the thorns and painted in Van Gogh style. There is a chain of daisies lines across his neck and down to his chest, covering an old scar and a tiny ring of roses over his ring finger. On the nape of his neck, two butterflies are pinned by the thorns, appearing to still be alive and in agony as their bodies are pierced. A silver snake slithers through the thorns on his right arm, though its shade helps it blend in with the color of thorns, it’s body a tiny bit coiled, considering should it strike or not. On the back of his left hand there is a tiny leaf bug, trying to hide amidst the bare thorns and on the outer shell of his ear, mostly hidden from view by his head, is a ladybug, wings spread like it is about to fly away. A swarm of blue butterflies paint the silhouette of his lungs across his skin and two koi fishes circle each other endlessly on his hip. In thorns climbing up and down his neck, there are tiny fireflies, just barely bright enough to be seen. Two thin thorn branches separate themselves from the cluster on his neck and climb across his temples, their thorns appearing to be piercing through his skin and letting blood flow.

The tattoo is still in progress.

This was the brief summary.

Ghost! Ghost is a lot newer than Zan, I only made them at the start of this year so they are a lot less detailed but they hit the ground running. Their tw are mostly prostitution and existentialist feelings but I'm not getting into anything in detail.

Their full name is Ghostown Verb and yes they did name themselves that. They are 27 and their power is Forget me not, as I said previously, as soon as they are out of someone's line of sight, to that person it's like they never existed. The memories of meeting them return as soon as they are back in the field of vision but uhh you can see how it would be super easy to lose a child like that.

Ghost grew up on the street in a kind of do whatever you can when you can how you can attitude. Turns out it's really hard to get help from anyone when they can't remember you as soon as they stop looking at you, which includes but is not limited to social workers, well meaning passerby, police, foster homes and landlords. The name and face for the paperwork doesn't exist and people just find themselves grasping at nothing, feeling like they are forgetting something but not knowing what it is. It works in some ways, shoplifting is a lot easier when you're sure that you can just turn a corner and be safe, but it's mostly just a hassle. Ghost is homeless most of the time and when they were old enough for it their career of choice became prostitution simply because it's pretty much the only job where the customer doesn't need to remember you after they're no longer looking at you and it's not like Ghost has to answer to any boss who would have to either.

They had not had a kind life but they are the let and let live type. They don't stress a lot about things and generally take everything in a fly. They are very extroverted, very loud, very friendly. They form friendships fast because they know they'll lose them fast and same goes with love affairs. They live in the moment because for everyone else the moment is the only place where they exist. Loud fashion, loud words, loud actions, provocative and noticeable, they just want to be seen by people, remembered by people, they want the attention on them even though they know it's useless. Much like Zan they also have no control of their power so all they can do is live with it. At least it doesn't bring anyone any direct harm, they are grateful for that much.

But it does leave them displaced, unanchored. They don't have any support system, no family, no long term friends. The system can't even remember them for long enough to decide it isn't equipped to deal with them. They flitter through peoples lives, there one moment and gone the next. The biggest impact they can hope to have is the nagging feeling of having forgotten something.

It's not like they are exactly sad about it, their main mentality is just not to worry about things they can't change. These are the cards they've been dealt with and play those cards they shall. At the very least they are having fun with their life, doing whatever they want with no one remembering them long enough to stop them.

But it's a lonely existence with no viable human connection. That much does get to them.

Fun facts!

They have a tattoo of a forget-me-not on their shoulder, I haven't decided do they have it before the plot whatever it is starts, or do they get it cuz Zan's influence.

They like to make their own clothes when they can, though having a stable enough place to be for a long enough time is rare.

Their biggest fear is that when they die nobody will remember to look for their body :)

That was a brief rundown of these two! If you made it to the end damn congrats I love you

#anon #oc talk #I CAN TALK A VERY LONG TIME ABOUT MY OCS THIS ISNT EVEN THE DEEP DIVE #it might look like i like ghost less cuz i got way less for them but bls remember that zan is like....fuck like 3-4 years old #probs 3 as he is #4 if we count the thrown away beta design #ghost was born in February this year he's not even a full year old what a baby #ahhhh but anyway thank you for asking im always super excited to talk about my ocs #thank you for letting me geek out!!!!#i am NOT going to spell check all of that rn its almost 3am if i wrote something badly you'll have to live with it #zan mori #ghostown verb #they should have their own tags they deserve it #zan #ghost

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anettrolikova · 4 years

Text

Mastery and Mimicry by Sep Kamvar

You have everything you need right here, he told me. Look at it. Good surf, good friends, this sunset. The problem with having a lot of stuff, he said, is that at some point the stuff starts ruling you.

A recurring theme in science fiction is the idea that one day, our technologies will become self-aware, grow their population, and take over the world. Of course, humans will still be around, otherwise there’s no story, but they will be second-class citizens to the tools that they invented.

I've often wondered why self-awareness always comes first. Perhaps it's because it makes for a more interesting storyline. After all, a technology doesn't need to be self-aware to be self-reinforcing.

There is a story of Bill Joy asking Danny Hillis what he thought about the scenario in which humans one day merge with robots. Danny responded that the changes would come gradually, and we'd get used to it.

That's the way it is with technology. We get used to it.

When the mechanical clock was invented, one of its early uses was to set the arrival and departure times of factory workers during the industrial revolution. At the time, people hated the idea of getting to work at a certain time; it felt like the ultimate victory of machine over man. Now, it's seen as responsible behavior.

But if aliens come from outer space and see people wake up grudgingly every morning to the beeping of an alarm clock, they might wonder who is the master and who is the tool.

Inside of each of us, there are about 10 trillion human cells, and about 100 trillion bacterial cells. By cell count, we are only 10% human.

Given how outnumbered we are, it's surprising that we don't die more often from bacterial disease. You might expect that, of the hundreds of species of bacteria that live inside of us, at least a few would have the habit of getting out of line and growing at our expense.

We can give credit to antibiotics for saving us, but I think that would miss the point. Even before antibiotics, a surprisingly small number of people died from bacteria considering how many of them we host. And if we could invent an antibiotic that would get rid of all bacteria, we wouldn't want to. Our bacteria help us digest our food, store our fats, produce our vitamins, and train our immune systems.

The truth is that we are not alive in spite of the hordes of bacteria that inhabit us. We are alive because of them.

Relationships tend to develop a rich texture as they mature, and us and our symbiotic bacteria have been going at this for some time now. I'm reminded of an older couple, where both partners have their quirks, but each knows how far to go, when to pull back, and what to tolerate; where each knows the other so well, and is so dependent on the other, that it's hard to tell where one person stops and where the other begins.

The relationship between us and our tools is newer, like a younger love. It's fiery and exciting, and we're still trying to figure out our boundaries.

Our tools, like most things, have natural limits to their utility. Up to a certain point, e-mail makes us more efficient. After that, the mounds of e-mail in our inbox take time away from our real work. Up to a certain point, time spent on social networks brings us closer to our friends. After that, it takes away from time we spend with them in person.

Our bacteria can offer us some wisdom here. If we want tools that respect their natural limits, we can design limitation into the tools themselves.

If the idea of self-limiting tools seems antithetical to technology and capitalism, let me suggest that we already build them. A search engine is a self-limiting tool. As is an online dating site. When these tools succeed, people leave the site. Video games and TVs, on the other hand, are self-reinforcing. Their use doesn't lead to disuse; their use leads to more use.

The more self-reinforcing a tool is, the more likely we are to use it at our own expense. On the other hand, the more self-limiting a tool is, the more likely it is to die out.

The key is to find the balance.

Gandhi fiercely opposed expensive technology. And at the time, modern technology was expensive technology. If you opposed the factory, you opposed modernity.

But what Gandhi understood is that tools are most useful to the people that own them.

And villagers didn’t own factories.

We use tools to build our tools. We use an ax, a hammer, and a saw to make a cabin, and we use Python, Django, and Apache to build a web service. These upstream tools are crucial in shaping our society. A world with no hammers would have no houses.

The web, for the most part, gets this right. Most web services are built on top of free operating systems, databases, web servers, and programming languages. They are marketed by accessible tools like Facebook and Twitter and Adwords. And they are often funded by accessible funding sources like YCombinator, or Kickstarter, or by sales through App Stores. The pace of innovation on the web, and the outsized role that software has played in shaping our lives, is in large part because these upstream mechanisms for production, distribution, and financing are more available than they are in other industries.

Look for upstream tools that are accessible, and make them more powerful. The recent efforts around JavaScript, like Crankshaft and processing.js, are nice examples here.

Like the sun, our upstream tools should be accessible and empowering to all

When we build our tools, we should aim for the latter.

An individual ant is a feckless creature. It wanders around aimlessly, seeming to have no ability or purpose. But when you get a lot of them together, it's like alchemy. They transform into creatures that astound us with their intellect.

If software follows content, I imagine we'll start to see lots of APIs that do small things. But they will easily interact with one another to together do big things. And if hardware then follows software, I imagine that we will see lots of small devices that do simple things alone, but complex things together. They might remind us of ants.

When we build our tools, we often depend on metrics to guide our development. We keep graphs of unique visitors and pageviews and watch them closely. This keeps us honest. It's hard to convince anybody that we're building a useful tool if our metrics show that nobody is using it.

But we must take care when we use metrics. Metrics can be like the horse in the old Zen story. Once we decide on them, they have a habit of setting the agenda. As the old adage goes, what gets measured gets managed.

It is useful, therefore, to have missions to balance our metrics. Of course, each tool should have its own mission. But if I were to suggest one mission for all tools, it might be this:

Every tool should nourish the things upon which it depends.

We see this principle at varying levels in some of our tools today. I call them cyclical tools. The iPhone empowers the developer ecosystem that helps drive its adoption. A bike strengthens the person who pedals it. Open-source software educates its potential contributors. A hallmark of cyclical tools is that they create open loops: the bike strengthens its rider to do things other than just pedal the bike.

Cyclical tools are like trees, whose falling leaves fertilize the soil in which they grow.

It’s difficult to build cyclical tools because the alternative is so tempting. Cars are faster than bikes.

But you can’t measure the impact of tools on their own. You must measure them by the ecosystems that they co-create.

Our heads cultivate reason. Our hearts cultivate intuition.

Our heads seek opportunity. Our hearts seek purpose.

Our heads maximize utility. Our hearts give gifts.

Our heads think of self. Our hearts feel connection.

Today, our technologies reflect reason and utility and opportunity and self. But this may be an artifact of our time. We could equally imagine building technologies that reflect intuition and purpose and gift and connection. I might say we're already starting.

When people talk of gift economies, often they talk about them as a replacement for the market economy. But gift economies and market economies have operated side-by-side for much of history. Child care, until recently, was exclusively a gift economy — neighbors would babysit one another’s kids. The creative arts and science have historically been gift economies, and to a large extent they still are. And today, free, open-source software sits alongside ad-supported and paid software.

#humans #technology #progress #processes #bacteria #collaboration #web #ads #open source #sumup

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stupidpianist · 6 years

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10 October 2018

08:00: Woke extremely blearily. Was like, “Jesus, I feel like I didn’t get any sleep last night.” Was one of those nights where you’re sort of phasing in-and-out of sleep but you’re never fully asleep and never fully conscious. Remember distinctly thinking, at multiple moments throughout the night, that my pillow “felt inordinately uncomfortable,” without being able to cognize why, even after visual/tactile investigation of said pillow. First emotion I recall upon waking: extreme, almost shocking levels of stress/anxiety. Told myself, “breathe, just deep breathe, like you see in those meditation videos,” and rationalised that cortisol levels follow a strong diurnal rhythm, with “high levels in the morning that peak 30-45 minutes after waking, dropping rapidly for the next several hours and declining slowly throughout the rest of the day, until a low point of around midnight.” Deep breathing seemed to have an opposite effect, felt distinctly “out-of-breath” like I had been running for five-to-ten minutes, felt increasingly panicked.

08:55: Felt a sensation like I “might as well” get up, stood, walked to bathroom, splashed water on my face. Chose hair product I haven’t used in months to try and “switch things up,” feeling a little mischievous, or something. I usually use this Gatsby branded Asian hair product, but “went with” my pink Reuzel “heavy grease” one today, with pretty good results, maybe, possibly. Then walked to sink, where I made a G Fuel energy shake and drank it while standing and staring at my wall, feeling “extremely surprised” that I “somehow didn’t feel tired” despite not really sleeping the entire night.

09:10: Moved to bed and idly browsed Facebook while thinking, “do a ‘mix-and-match’ outfit today, go ahead, go crazy,” and chose slightly older jeans and a slightly newer jacket. Felt medium-to-high levels of panic re: entire future of my life, short-term tasks I hadn’t done yet, long term-tasks I hadn’t done yet. Attempted to force “positive thinking” on myself through unrelentingly repeating aphorisms in my head, and ceaselessly telling myself that “I can do it,” and that “I’ll get through it,” and will “feel better in an hour or two.”

09:35: Walked to “Animal Behaviour and Theory” lecture, vaguely annoyed that it was drizzling a little. Decided to be a “polite pedestrian,” a “law-abiding citizen” and didn’t jaywalk, despite sometimes being at intersections with no cars within eyeshot, waiting for the walk signal to illuminate. Felt strangely unable to decide what music to play from iPod, switching between bands before settling on Kero Kero Bonito.

10:04: Notes from margins of my notebook from lecture:

-Chose to write with “classic pen” over “fancy pen”

-Energy… fading…

-Seem unable to stop shaking left leg

-Is this a homemade carbonara sauce?

-Gosh I’m tired

For most of the lecture I actually felt, like, attentive and focused. I really like the professor who teaches this class, who I also took another psych course with over the summer. He’s my favourite professor this semester “by a long shot,” and I genuinely enjoy going to his classes. Distinctly remember a lot of the jokes he makes, and am also appreciative that he goes over denser topics at a reasonable rate, whilst not overdoing simpler ones. Another observation—he always has the same thermos, unfalliably, every class, and I’m pretty certain it’s filled with coffee. Seems like he drinks an egregious amount of coffee, like, more than almost anyone I’ve ever met. I looked him up on Facebook one night, just out of curiosity, and saw that he listens to thrash metal, which makes a lot of sense, ie. corroborates well with his general presence. He once made a small exclamation of astonishment that there are scientists who “study blue jays”; I felt similarly surprised.

11:36: Hardcore debating with myself whether or not to “stick it through” and just spend the rest of the day on campus practicing piano and studying, then going home, or if I should go back home for a bit and nap. Unsure if I have… the “stamina”... the “drive”... the “tactical know-how”... the “desire” to push on…

Okay, no, no, I’ve decided, I have to do this, I can’t break down on the second day of liveblogging, NOT ON THE SECOND DAY. My head is going “you can’t do this to yourself, George, you can’t quit now,” like, in a motivational, Will Smith-esque voice. Imagining Will Smith leaning over my shoulder, one arm around me, with slightly furrowed eyebrows going, “come on, man, you can do it, you can D-O I-T,” and really annunciating the last few consonants. Yes, yes, feeling “renewed energy,” feeling like I’m gonna go practice, then go to my last lecture, and “finish off the day,” just “tie it off in one fell swoop.”

12:07: Reading Megan’s Liveblog with the intent to stop reading it once my need to use the bathroom becomes “unavoidable.” Still listening to Kero Kero Bonito. Feel strongly that this is going to be the “vibe” for today, and felt immediate aversion towards using the word “vibe” in a viscerally disgusted manner.

Feel earnest and tear-inducing empathy towards song “Sometimes” by Kero Kero Bonito, semi-dancing to it with my torso and head in the library. Softly singing along to the lyrics:

“Sometimes, life gets you down

But you can turn it all around

The raindrops keep falling, you're soaking to the bone

And you can't see for the clouds

Sometimes, life isn't fair

But you can beat it, don't despair

You win some, you lose some

And then you lose some more

You even played your best

But just round the corner

The sun's looking dapper

And Lady Luck's his date

The happy days are coming again

Sometimes, life is a drag

But get that chin up, don't be sad

'Cause somebody up there is looking out for you

And now they're makin' plans

But just round the corner

Well, the real truth of it's that nobody really knows

Life sure doesn't make sense

But on your boots you can bet

That everybody gets the blues sometimes”

I feel like a major part of why I’ve been so endeared to this band for years is just its honest, down-to-earth, non-elaborated-nor-ornamented, non-pessimistic but non-optimistic, just truthful look at life. Feel like it “mixes well” with the slightly childlike, but forlorn instrumentals. Feel like this is definitely “intentional,” and I’m “nowhere near” the first person to point this out, but still feel good that personally observing this elicited such strong, benevolent emotional feedback.

12:25: Really, really considering going to Burger King for “Whopper Wednesday” and getting a cheapass Whopper meal… Feel my stomach “churning for that Whopper.” Brain is going, in sing-song-ey voice, “you want that Whopper, dontcha, big boy, you want that Whopper digesting in your big ol’ tummy huh big boy.”

12:34: Sent a Snapchat to best friend Felix while leaving library in direction of Burger King. The Snap read “Yo wanna hit up Burger King Whopper Wednesday today”. Meant it as a bit of a joke, as Felix lives in Ottawa (and I live in Montreal). Used to enjoy getting food with him to a significant, nearly unbelievable degree. Imagined him opening the Snap while on break at work and smiling, maybe even grinning a bit.

12:45: My internal voice just announced, “Now arriving at Burger King,” with a subway-announcer-like cadence and tone, as I entered the Burger King, slightly afraid that there would be a massive line, being that I was arriving around, or just after “peak lunch hours.” Well guess what?? Barely a line. Barely one at all. Must have taken just shy of five minutes to place an order. “One Whopper meal, please,” I said. It was a “smooth interaction.” No hiccups or speed bumps or unforseen conversation points brought up without proper preparation.

Ahead of me were two people who asked for “the spicy sauce,” and the person behind the counter placed “buffalo” sauce on their tray, which made me think, “why not, treat yourself, go for it, how many times can a man eat buffalo Burger King sauce?” and so I asked the lady for “some buffalo sauce, please.” Made me feel a little spoiled.

Chose “Cherry Coke” and almost immediately regretted it after first sip. Should have gone with “ol’ faithful,” the “OG” Coke, sans extra flavourings. An amateur mistake, and one that I’ll learn from in the future.

I sat near a window, and while eating, conspicuously stared outside and people-watched, and made direct, extended eye contact with thirty, maybe forty, maybe even fifty people?? A lot of them seemed to have actively depressed facial expressions, which, combined with the grey weather, made me feel slightly concerned for the general public as a whole.

Attempted to offset this feeling of desperation/dysphoria by strategising the most optimal way to consume french fries whilst also eating a burger. Tried a multitude of different “tactics,” including:

-pre-dipping and leaving the french fries in the sauce, so they could accumulate “sauce flavour” and be “ready for the picking” whenever you wanted one

-placing the fries inside the burger so as to eat both at the same time and sort-of do the whole “two birds one stone” thing

-assigning one hand as the “dedicated fry hand,” the other hand as the “dedicated burger hand,” and ensuring that, while taking bites of the burger, the other hand reached and grabbed more fries; this seemed to be a little complicated as the meal went on, given the messiness of the burger, which became increasingly sloppy with each bite

After these experiments I eventually just settled on holding the burger with both hands (still in the wrapper to minimise direct skin-on-food contact) and routinely putting it down on the papered tray to stuff some fries in my mouth. Sad.

13:05: Left Burger King. Walking to practice rooms. It’s a lot colder now than when it was when I first walked to campus. Like, much colder. Like, much, much colder.

13:13: Smelled pungent odour in basement of music building, seemed like a byproduct of Vietnamese banh mi/pho place in the music cafeteria?

13:18: Practiced Schubert “therapeutically,” Alkan “aggressively, then Thalberg “for maintenance.” Completely forgot about my previous tiredness, also temporarily forgot about ~90% of the external world for a good portion of the “practice session,” which surprised me. Made me want to “keep going.” Responded to Facebook messages from best friend Poppy, who lives in the same apartment complex as me, in response to how much colder the day had gotten since both of us woke up.

15:09: Practice session rudely interrupted by protesters outside on sidewalk blaring horn sounds. Didn’t notice them while practicing, but now that I’ve started fixating on them, I can’t hear anything except for their interminable squawking. ALERT!!! SHUT UP!!!! NOBODY CAN HEAR THEMSELVES!!!! YOUR PROTEST HAS FOUR PEOPLE!!!! WHAT ARE YOU PROTESTING!!!! YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE A SIGN!! I HATE YOU!!!

I don’t actually hate them I shoiuldn’t have typed that, “hate” is too strong a word to use 99.99% of the time, I feel, in any situation. Need to “get the hell out of here,” though, cannot possibly concentrate with this din.

15:15: Walking back to McLennan library to “work on things” on computer before next lecture, “Intro to Behavioural Neuroscience.” Reading music reviews of recently-released albums on phone while walking. Feel high spikes of excitement to listen to Marissa Nadler’s new album, For My Crimes, all my favourite music reviewers are unanimously praising it. Really loved her last album, Strangers. Reading Pitchfork blurb for this new one: “On her moody eighth album, the Boston singer-songwriter examines the icy terrain of marital strife through the lens of her habitual gothic folk.” Thinking, “yes, yes, yes, good, good, thank you, yes, amazing.” Also thinking, “Wait, she’s from Boston?”

15:25: Seated at desktop workstation in McLennan ground floor. Reading any articles on Marissa Nadler I can find, Megan Boyle’s Liveblog open in another tab, Spotify open in another tab, Marissa Nadler’s new album playing. Sounds so good so far.

Woman seated to the right of me is bobbing her head to a song with a similar rhythmic pattern to the song playing for me… We’re both bobbing our heads a little, we’re in sync… Looks like a miniature silent dance party in this corner of the library, in this corner of the library we really “know how to party,” we really “get it on.” We’re a “coupla party animals” up in THIS corner of the library, i tell you what.

16:03: Woman to my right packed up her supplies and left. Sad. Was studying some history course on France. Enjoyed our “moment” together. Feel strongly that anonymous, limited, spontaneous connections with strangers, often based on music, are immensely enjoyable, some of the most enjoyable interactions one can have, I feel.

Recalling “silent disco night”: showed up to the venue, everyone put on headphones and loaded up the pre-made mix, started the mix at the same time. At around ten pm, disco leader danced in front of us leading “the pack” through the streets as we all aggressively danced to mix nobody else could hear. A “life changing” experience. Please do it at least once in your life, you “owe it to yourself.”

Marissa Nadler album seeming to “sync up” perfectly to reading Megan’s Liveblog in an uncanny way. Unfortunately feel mounting dread over going to next lecture, knowing I will likely be nodding off for ~60-70% of it, not because the material is uninteresting, but the format of the lecture is unfortunately unconducive towards holding interest, I feel… Am trying not to “trash talk” anyone, feel distinctly worried that this could come across as “trash talking” to some of u, trust me, I am not trash talking this class, the problem is me, not the lectures, I am just a bad student, trust me, please, please…

Contemplated not going, then reverted back to my “no, George, you can’t just skip class willy nilly like this” thinking. Feeling this liveblog actively coercing me to do things like go to class in a beneficial manner. “Thank you, liveblog,” I’m thinking, softly, in my head.

16:31: Speedwalking to lecture. Feeling “determined,” almost recklessly so, to attempt to remain focused for the entirety of this class.

16:59: Notes scrawled while sitting in class:

-Oh my gosh i should just leave, eh?

-Sensory transduction

-Feel focus fading fast

-Reading Megan’s Liveblog in class via phone

-Need to go pee anyways

-Gonna leave after another ~30ish minutes, I think... That’s a “healthy medium,” right? Have I FAILED MYSELF? Ha ha. Na.

-Just gotta rly catch up on these lectures

-Three other people left, thought, “three down,” classroom seems only 1/2 full since first day of class

-Jeez I gotta pee I’m so leaving gosh I’m so bad I’m so behind in this class anyways but all the lectures are recorded so I think I’ll be fine...

17:12: Couldn’t do it. That’s right, folks. I’ve “thrown in the towel.” Feel free to beat on my lazy dumb rump, just come up to me and backhand smack me across the face. Don’t be afraid to knock a few teeth loose, it’s been a long time coming.

I am feeling “vaguely adventurous,” though, I’m going to use one of the bathrooms in the Leacock/Arts building underground tunnel that I almost never use; last time I used it was when I did the all day full reading of Milton’s Paradise Lost like almost a full year ago. That was really life changing, I don’t think the professor is doing it again this year, but I hope I can get an invite to Miltonmas again?

(You’re wondering what Miltonmas is. It’s hosted by the resident Milton expert professor here at McGill, and it’s this get together on Milton’s birthday, which always falls nicely and coincidentally near holiday break. I went last year and it was, like, super fun. Not very Milton-themed though, just a lot of wine, a lot of English students, and then at the end of the night there was caroling. Now you know what Miltonmas is, you’re welcome.)

UPDATE: used the bathroom. They had one of those newfangled Dyson Airblade V dryers that I always go crazy for (”Now 30% quieter & costs 69% less to run than other hand dryers. Free 5 year warranty available.”), though not as crazy as those Airblade dB ones you shove your hands down vertically into.

Check this bad boy out:

Bumped into one of the volunteers for the community piano program I help coordinate and he said he was about to take an organic chem midterm and I made an exaggeratedly concerned facial expression, then said, “good luck, man.” He responded, “see you” a few seconds later after I had already walked away a bit, and I spun around again said, “yea, see you soon,” then continued walking home.

17:28: Y’all won’t even believe the kind of shenanigans I’m about to get myself into. Guess what I’m about to do? Take your wildest, I can almost guarantee you’re gonna be so so off the mark.

I’m getting grocery store sushi.

That’s right, I, George, a simple peon, am treating myself to TWO meals out in ONE day. I have no idea why I’m doing this. I was just walking home and my brain said, “you know what’d be good? Cheap, cold, bad grocery store sushi. Go get it, go, fetch, you dog, fetch for me, I want it.”

18:05: Ate the sushi while watching videos of people preparing sushi on YouTube. It was extremely unsatisfying and tremendously filling to the point where I regret even buying it. I should have known better. Filing this one in another one of “today’s failures,” and in the entire-orders-of-magnitude larger folder of “my life’s failures.” Shoot.

#liveblog #blog #writing

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