#or worse if you tell them that theyre doing a good job losing weight as is advocated for in the o.besity section

[bean-pronounced-bawn]

My pathophysiology textbook follows a pretty standard pattern in each chapter. Module 1 is The Topic, module 2 is What Happens When The Topic Gets Fucked Up, then module three is Clinical Models of The Topic. Each clinical model also follows a pattern, where is goes over the pathophysiology of the disease, the clinical manifestations of the disease, the diagnostic process, and treatment.

One of the chapters for this week is altered nutrition, so module 1 talked about macro/micronutrients and how digestion and absorption works, and module 2 talked about undernutrition, malabsorption, allergies, and overnutrition. In the clinical models, along with things like a.norexi.a nervosa, iron deficient a.nemia, and p.henyketonuria, they talked about o.besity. And I thought it was wild how they managed to call o.besity a disease while not giving anything to show how it's a disease.

As expected, they called it a concerning epidemic yada yada, and then in the pathophysiology section they basically explained the mechanisms of fat storage and said that ob.esity is a complex multifactorial condition where genetics influence 1/3, neurohormonal messages and hormones play a major role, and lifestyle factors (they talked about socioeconomic status and environmental factors involved, which was nice ig bc I 100% expected it to be just "these people eat too much"...). Which, yeah, that's how fat storage works and what influences it, but that doesn't tell me anything about how it's a disease. Compare that to anemia, where they talked about how iron is requires for hemoglobin synthesis and electron transport, and how deficiency is more common in people who menstruate (the book confuses female/woman, so they say women, but whatever) because of blood loss, and how a lack of iron directly leads to chronic hypoxia resulting in lack of function of organs like the heart and skin and brain and such. For o.besity, other than "people are fat," they give nothing for how this constitutes a disease.

Then in the clinical manifestations, they say "excess body fat" (wow), and then talk about comorbidities, some of which I know from other class research projects have been shown to have no statistically significant correlation to weight (joint issues). While these may be influenced by being fat, none of these are inherent aspects of being fat the way hypoxia is an inherent aspect of anemia. You can be class 3 o.bese and never have any of these problems. You cannot be clinically anemic and not eventually experience hypoxia (anemia has slow onset symptoms as tissues go longer without adequate oxygen, so you can be diagnosed without symptoms if it gets caught early or isn't clinically significant). That's like saying being female is a disease because there's a correlation between autoimmune conditions and the female sex, thereby making autoimmunity a comorbidity of being female. Like, you can say being female is a risk factor to developing autoimmunity, and you can say being fat is a risk factor to developing these conditions, but it's weird to say it's a disease on its own.

The diagnostic criteria talked about BMI uncritically and talked about diagnosing the comorbidities, which, whatever. We knew they had nothing to say about being fat itself. Then in the frickin treatment section, after having the whole conversation about all the different factors that go into being fat and how complex of a condition it is with multiple etiologies, they talk about drugs that suppress appetite, and diet and exercise as a treatment. (Along with chopping off your frickin stomach and all that fun stuff). Aside from the fact that diet and exercise doesn't result in long-term weight loss and that short term weight loss results in more long -term regain and that weight yoyoing has stronger frickin correlations to all the comorbidities than weight-maintained o.besity does, they literally said that lack of diet and exercise is a small part of weight determination and then said "well if you diet and exercise you'll stop being fat 🤪✌️."

Like, not only did they directly contradict themselves, but they have given me no reason to think o.besity should be considered a disease. The one thing that they could have expanded upon was that adipocytes modulate pro-inflammatory cytokines (they promote inflammation), but they didn't talk about it beyond one sentence, so I don't know how that impacts body systems. Does it trigger inflammation? Are fat people in a perpetual state of immune response? Does it damage nearby tissues? How so? Does it increase the response-ability of the immune system, leading to increased risk of overreaction? Does it increase stress signals like cortisol, leading to the whole cascade of damage that cortisol is known to cause? We'll never fucking know because the only concrete potential evidence of the damage ob.esity might cause was part of one sentence.

[reesewestonarchive]

chapter seven / rem belongs to @forlornraven / masterpost / mature content

Twenty five cents seems so much heavier than it should. A weight in his pocket, in his palm, and Nakoa knows getting the heaviness from him will only make him feel better, but…

He still can’t pick up the receiver.

Rain pelts against the side of the phone booth, and Nakoa shivers. Across the street, Rem sits in the van, his feet kicked up on the dashboard, smoking. Nakoa can just barely make him out through the foggy window panes.

They haven’t talked all morning. Not even so much as a hello.

With shaking fingers, Nakoa drops the coins into the payphone and lifts the receiver. Dials home, and waits.

If his father picks up, Nakoa will hang up. He’ll return to the car, he’ll ride off into the sunset with Rem. If his father picks up, Nakoa won’t listen, won’t even speak. He’ll let the fucker wonder.

“Hello?”

It’s his mother. Nakoa’s heart clenches, nausea twists his stomach into knots. He voice cracks a, “Mom?” and he feels twelve years old again, the first time Michael hit him. Donna says nothing, though, so Nakoa says, “Did I lose you…?”

“No, one moment, let me get a pad…” Then, distantly, “Just someone from work, Michael, I’ll take this in the other room.”

Relief spreads through his veins, and his eyes burn with unshed tears. She’s keeping him from Michael, and—he chokes out a laugh. Thinks if she’s stood up for him years ago, this wouldn’t have happened.

“Nakoa,” she says, her voice watery and weak. “Are you okay? I won’t ask where you are, but are you okay? Do you need money? I can—” She pauses. “I don’t know how I would get it to you, but I /could/, sweetheart, I could.”

Nakoa grips the receiver, closes his eyes tight against the onslaught of tears. Fuck. “I didn’t—No, Mom, I’m fine. Are you okay?”

A sigh of relief. “Now I know you’re safe, yes.” Another pause. “Why did you leave?”

“Don’t—this isn’t. I’m not—” He leans his head against the phone box. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I miss you so much,” Donna says. It feels like Michael’s hands around his throat, hearing her words. “I wish you would come home.”

“I can’t. You know I can’t.” He swallows. “I just wanted to let you know I’m okay. Okay?”

“You’ll visit, though, won’t you?”

Fear grips him tight around the throat. “No—I can’t—” Once upon a time, Nakoa thought maybe he’d never get out of his father’s sight. Now that he has, the idea of ever seeing him again…

He looks back at the van, at Rem playing air guitar in the driver’s seat. “I’ll—I’ll call again, okay?”

“Nakoa, wait!” Donna hesitates, then says, “He has people looking for you. You know your father is an influential man, I just… please be careful.”

People—why the fuck would Michael care about it. Why would he waste resources on finding his own fuck up of a son?

Nakoa shakes, anxiety rocking him apart. “I gotta go. Love you, bye.”

He slams the phone down in its cradle harder than he needs to, steps out of the phone box, and stumbles to the van. The rain’s at a downpour now, and when Nakoa climbs in the passenger seat, next to Rem, he’s soaked.

“How’d it go?” Rem asks, turning down the music. Then, seeing Nakoa’s expression, asks, “Hey, what the fuck—what’s wrong?”

Nakoa’s throat feels tight, tears burning at the corner of his eyes again. He blinks, says, “Nothing,” but then Rem’s hand is on his shoulder and Nakoa breaks.

His sobs are silent, quiet things sung to the backdrop of The Cure, and Rem pulls Nakoa into a hug, awkward from the angle but no less appreciated. He speaks against Nakoa’s ears, but the blood roars too loudly in his ears to be heard.

Searching for him. Nakoa thinks about the stories Rem’s told him, about the guy with a bat, the windshield, and, when he can speak, Nakoa asks, “Did you know?”

“Know what?” But Rem sounds sufficiently confused, and Nakoa doesn’t want to believe he’d lie to him, so he decides he doesn’t believe it. “Hey.”

Nakoa doesn’t look at him. Thinks back to all the stupid shit he’s said and done, the mixtape, leaving in the first place without a plan. “Rem.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.” His voice is soft, and in the storm, Nakoa thinks this is the safest he’s ever felt. Locked away from the world in Rem’s arms.

Maybe it’s how lost he feels, maybe it’s Rem’s breath warm against his neck, but Nakoa still feels safe enough to say, “I think I’m in love with you.”

It doesn’t hurt to say them. Nakoa’s not sure if it’s because he already hurts so much, another piece of it won’t make it worse, or if it’s…

Rem’a lips brush against his neck, soft, softer than Nakoa’s used to from him, but he says nothing. After their morning, Nakoa’s surprised by his closeness, surprised by how easily he came to Nakoa, but.

“I’m an idiot,” Rem says.

Nakoa blinks. “That’s not exactly the response a guy wants to hear.” Rem laughs. “Neither is that.”

“It’s not… badly received, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Rem clears his throat, pulls away. “…you’re…that’s…”

“I wasn’t going to say it,” Nakoa says. “That’s what the tape was for. Kind of let you figure it out on your own.” Without Rem’s body heat, the van’s cold. Nakoa reaches for the knob for the heater, fingers shaking again. “I didn’t wanna fuck this up.”

Rem’s voice is soft when he says, “You wouldn’t have fucked it up. Hell, if I haven’t fucked it up…”

But commitment’s a different storm than… whatever it is they’ve been doing. Intertwined, but Nakoa knows the feelings he gets from Rem, but he’s wanted to fuck plenty of people. Rem goes farther than that.

He always has.

“Hey,” Rem says, knocking his elbow against Nakoa’s. “We’ll figure this out. That’s what we do, right?”

Figure it out. A weight settles in Nakoa’s chest. “Right.” He turns away. The van no longer feels like home, but like a prison. Maybe he was better off at home, under Michael’s thumb, or…

With a frustrated sigh, Rem says, “I’m not. I don’t mean—”

“Can we just not talk about it? Forget I said anything.”

“I can’t say it back.” Rem gives a frustrated groan. “I’ll get there, okay, I will. Just, this is important. You’re important.”

Nakoa certainly doesn’t feel that way. He clears his throat, wipes a hand down his face, and says, “Can we just go?”

-

He splurges for a hotel on the coast. It takes half of what Nakoa has left, but it’s worth it for two nights of the view of the ocean, for two nights with the salty breeze.

For two nights of Rem getting decent rest in his own bed.

They arrive at 9am to the hotel. Nakoa’s kept his distance for a while, after his accidental confession, and he hasn’t touched Rem without being touched since. He’s passed out in the passenger seat, instead of sleeping with Rem on the mattress, because the closeness feels wrong in the aftermath of Nakoa’s words.

But he steps out of the van and closes his eyes at the wind coming off the ocean, and feels peace. Water droplets spray his face, and Nakoa imagines what it might be like to drift away on waves like these, away from Michael, from money and the concern of where they’re going to sleep next.

Rem takes two towels from their room for the beach, and Nakoa disappears with a fake ID to the nearest liquor st to surprise him with a bottle of whiskey.

“Aw,” Rem says, twisting the top off. Behind him a sign reads, NO ALCOHOL ON BEACH. Rem downs half the small bottle and hands the rest to Nakoa. “You spoil me.”

Nakoa shrugs, downs the rest of it.

With the people around, Nakoa keeps to himself a little more, thankful for the excuse. Still, Rem has other ideas. “No one knows us here,” Rem says, against Nakoa’s neck. “We could fuck on the beach if you wanted.”

“And get thrown into jail?” Nakoa snorts. “Actually, fucking you might be worth the public indecency charge.”

Rem’s mouth is warm at his neck, sends shivers down Nakoa’s spine. “You think you can take me?” His voice is low, rough against Nakoa’s ear.

“Bold words,” Nakoa says, but instead of turning around and pulling him into a kiss, Nakoa elbows him in the ribs and ducks away, laughing as he takes off down the beach.

They settle, finally, a good distance away from the others. Nakoa slathers sunscreen across Rem’s back after he writes ‘fuck me’ with the lotion, feels the reverberation of Rem’s voice against his own hands as Rem speaks.

“I thought we could head back through the mountains, right? Montana, then through North Dakota.”

Nakoa wants to tell him they should go back to Colorado, but the place still has Nakoa checking over his shoulder, so maybe not. Maybe this is best, this haphazard map searching.

“Maybe settle in for a week somewhere,” Rem says. “Get a job or something.”

“You mean I get a job. When was the last time you held down anything?”

Rem shoots him a look over his shoulder, reaching for the lotion. “Depends. When was the last time I fucked you?” He pushes Nakoa back against the towel, bites at his neck. “I miss handcuffs.”

Through the fog building in his head and the heat building in his stomach, Nakoa says, “You lost the keys last time!”

“They were plastic!”

“You had to cut me out of them with wire cutters,” Nakoa says, but he’s grinning. Rem’s pressing kisses along his torso as he goes down, his hands holding him up, sinking into the sand. Nakoa really doesn’t want sand in his business anymore than strictly necessary. “I’d rather not be locked up and at your mercy for the rest of my life.”

“No?”

“Gotta have my fun too, don’t I?” For a few seconds, he just stares into Rem’s eyes, hoping, searching… until Rem pulls back with a goofy grin, and the world rights itself.

“What?” Rem’s eyes are shining.

Nakoa shrugs. “Nothing, just…” His gaze drifts, over Rem’s eyes, his hair, his tattoos—down the horizon, down the beach, across the water. From their spot in the sand, it’s hard to see anyone at all. They’re almost completely hidden by a small spot on the beach which is hidden by rocks. Rem has a mischievous glint in his eye, and he unbuttons Nakoa’s jeans, fingers moving so slow Nakoa can barely handle it, before Nakoa shoves him away with a laugh.

“Come on!”

“I’m not fucking you here,” Nakoa says, grinning like a fucking fool at Rem. He thinks about the mixtape, about Rem’s response. He thinks about what Rem had said about not being able to say it back.

He thinks about Rem, about how much Nakoa does love him, in spite of his bullshit, in spite of the shitty things that he drags them through.

Nakoa’s hands ache for a joint, and all he wants to do is get high and fuck, slow and leisurely, until Nakoa’s not sure where he ends and Rem begins, but Rem, here, sober and smiling and pleased…

He’ll take it.

Rem covers him in sunscreen and presses open mouthed kisses along Nakoa’s shoulders, then pulls him up against a rock and leans against one of the shadowed sides. Sunglasses sit atop Rem’s nose, blocking out the sun. He’s already turning red, though, Rem.

With a longing glance towards the water, Nakoa crawls up to lie beside Rem. He sinks into the warm sand, like a backrub against his muscles, cramped from the van. If he lifts his head, just a little, he sees Rem.

The warmth, the breeze, the distant sound of kids playing. Rem sitting at his feet, his breathing quiet and steady.

It’s more like this than it isn’t, but it’s still not often enough that Nakoa won’t take the brief respite from the bullshit.

Nakoa dozes. Dreams of small ocean-side cottages and sex in motel rooms, in resorts. Working at a job he doesn’t hate, of Rem’s smile and his laugh and the cadence to his voice when he’s trying to turn Nakoa on (so, always).

When he wakes, Rem’s fucking with a Walkman, fumbling tapes between his fingers. “Hey,” he says, nudging Nakoa with his foot. “Come here.”

So Nakoa goes, because he always goes, settles in between Rem’s legs, his back to Rem’s chest, and waits for Rem to plop the Walkman in his lap. Rem shoves the headphones on over Nakoa’s ears and says, “Listen. Yeah?”

His hand brushes down along Nakoa’s arm, and, after hesitating for just a second, Rem presses play.

[twilights-800-cats]

<< Allegiances | Chapter 13 | Chapter 14 | Chapter 15 | From the Beginning >>

Chapter 14

“T-Tinystar?”

The small voice woke Tinystar from a restless slumber. It had been two days since the incident with Stonepaw at Sunningrocks. Tinystar lifted his head from Sandstorm’s flank, blinking sleep from his eyes. He peered into the predawn light filtering through into his den and spotted the kit-small shape of Sorrelkit.

Tinystar nudged Sandstorm awake. The pale ginger she-cat protested, but her jaws shut when she scented Sorrelkit at the entrance. Her green eyes flashed with concern.

“He’s gone again, isn’t he?” Tinystar guessed.

Sorrelkit nodded. The kitten’s yellow eyes were filled with worry.

“Then let’s be after him,” Sandstorm decided briskly. “There’s no time to lose.”

“I’m coming, too?” Sorrelkit asked as Tinystar and Sandstorm got to their paws.

Tinystar shook moss from his pelt. “Of course,” he told her. Sandstorm flashed him a warning gaze, but Tinystar returned it with a soft look. He’d given Sorrelkit this mission – she would be downhearted if she were left out. He whispered into Sandstorm’s ear, “I don’t think Stonepaw would attack his own Clanmate. It’s likely that this isn’t as bad as we fear.”

Sandstorm huffed, but didn’t protest.

They were on their paws and on their way in a matter of moments, with Sorrelkit leading the way out of camp. Tinystar needed only a moment to put Whitestorm in charge of camp – the white warrior was worried about his kit going off into the forest, but he seemed alright with Tinystar and Sandstorm accompanying her.

Tinystar hoped they wouldn’t be gone long.

As they pushed their way through the gorse tunnel, Tinystar felt an uncomfortable prickle behind his ears. The last time he and Sandstorm had tracked an apprentice like this, it had been Cloudtail during her training… and at the end of the trail Cloudtail had been taken away from them by Twolegs.

He hoped this wouldn’t end the same way.

———————————————————-

“He went this way!”

Sorrelkit raised her dappled tail, looking back at Tinystar and Sandstorm. Tinystar opened his jaws. Stonepaw’s scent crossed his scent glands. He nodded to Sorrelkit. “Good job,” he offered.

The kitten’s fur fluffed. “T-Thanks!” She wiggled excitedly. “He usually takes the same way – off the paths the other warriors take. You can smell it!”

She was right – Stonepaw’s scent was deep in the earth on this off-path track. Tinystar glanced worriedly at Sandstorm.

“Let’s hurry on,” Sandstorm meowed. “Lead the way, Sorrelkit.”

Sorrelkit nodded, her own excitement tempered by worry for her Clanmate. She turned about and pushed through the ragged undergrowth. Tinystar and Sandstorm followed, their paws itching to go faster than a kitten’s pace.

“She’s a good tracker,” Sandstorm meowed into Tinystar’s ear. “Spunky, too.”

Tinystar nodded. “She’ll make a great apprentice,” he agreed. “I’m just worried where that nose of her’s is leading us.”

Sunningrocks loomed through the trees ahead. Tinystar and Sandstorm caught up to Sorrelkit, pushing her between them despite the kitten’s protests. They kept their bodies low, their tails still above the leaf litter, like they were stalking prey. Sorrelkit, thankfully, kept her jaws shut as they crept through the last paces of undergrowth.

This is where Stonepaw always goes, Tinystar thought, scanning the pebbly shore. Where is he?

“There!” hissed Sorrelkit, stretching out a paw to point.

Sandstorm hushed the kit. Tinystar followed Sorrelkit’s paw, which pointed downstream, towards the stepping-stones. Tinystar’s fur prickled. Stonepaw sat on one of the stepping-stones near the ThunderClan bank, his tail wrapped around his paws and his back to his onlookers.

On the stone just before him was Darkstripe.

“I knew it,” hissed Sandstorm. “Of course it’s Darkstripe!”

Sorrelkit bristled indignantly. “He’s such a fox-heart!” she hissed. “Come on, Tinystar – let’s get Stonepaw away from him!”

“Wait,” Tinystar hushed, planting a paw on Sorrelkit’s back to keep her haunches from disturbing the foliage. “We can’t let them know we’re here just yet – I want to hear what they’re talking about first.”

They hunkered down more, Sandstorm and Tinystar pressing Sorrelkit’s fidgeting body between them in hopes of dampening the sounds she was making. Horror crept over Tinystar’s pelt as he looked at Darkstripe – the sleek black tabby was fit and healthy, looking down at Stonepaw with confidence in his pale eyes.

LionClan made this possible, Tinystar thought, his belly clenching. Darkstripe would never be able to get so close to the stepping-stones like this!

Tinystar strained his ears.

“… are you feeling, Stonepaw?” The water was thankfully gentle today, making Darkstripe’s mew easier to hear.

Stonepaw was shaking his head. “It’s still the same – worse, even,” he meowed. His tone was panicked and sorrowful. “Everyone’s judging me, like you said they would. I can see it in their eyes when they look at me… Mistypaw won’t believe me when I say they look at her like that, too! She won’t listen to me about anything anymore, it feels like…”

Darkstripe’s eyes softened piteously. Tinystar dug his claws into the earth.

“You shouldn’t have to fight for your Clanmate’s approval,” Darkstripe said softly. “That’s not fair.”

“It’s not!” Stonepaw snapped back. His neck fur bristled. “It’s not fair at all! But that’s all anyone keeps telling me – do everything better than anyone else or everyone thinks you’re a traitor! Do you know how frustrating that is?!”

Oh, Stonepaw, Tinystar thought, glancing at Sandstorm. The pale she-cat’s eyes were round with sorrow. I should have done more for you! I have to!

Darkstripe’s tail wound around his paws. He was nodding. “My offer still stands, Stonepaw – in LionClan there would be none of this nonsense,” he meowed. “The longer you stay in ThunderClan, the more unwanted you’ll feel. You’d be able to see everything with your own eyes – not through ThunderClan’s… bias. You know they refuse to see that Bluestar has changed.”

Stonepaw stiffened on his stepping-stone.

Tinystar’s eyes widened. How long had Darkstripe been trying to coax Stonepaw into LionClan – or ShadowClan, for that matter? Sandstorm held a low growl in her throat, her eyes flashing protectively.

“Stop!”

Tinystar felt his fur burn as Sorrelkit rocketed out from between himself and Sandstorm. The calico kitten streaked across the shore, bounding over the stepping-stones without a care and pushing past Stonepaw to lunge herself at Darkstripe, paws and claws outstretched to latch onto the dark tabby warrior.

“Sorrelkit!” Sandstorm cried.

Tinystar burst through the undergrowth to chase after the kit as she and Darkstripe wrestled on the small stone. Darkstripe’s claws flashed. Sandstorm pulled ahead, scattering pebbles in her wake. When Darkstripe thrust Sorrelkit into the river, Sandstorm dove in immediately after her. Tinystar skidded to a stop at the shore, his pads burning against the stones.

“You see, Stonepaw?” hissed Darkstripe. Tinystar turned his gaze, narrowing his ice-blue eyes at the dark warrior. Darkstripe was adjusting himself on his stone, his claws clinging to its edges. “You see? Do you know what they’ll do to you just for speaking to me? Exile!”

Stonepaw’s eyes were wide, his legs trembling. “N-No!”

“Yes!” snapped Darkstripe.

“That’s not true, Stonepaw!” Tinystar called. He tried to keep his eye on the river, on Sandstorm struggling in the water with Sorrelkit, but he had to focus. “We came here to talk to you!”

Stonepaw’s eyes flashed between Tinystar and Darkstripe. He swallowed, shivering.

“Are you going to listen to the one cat who judges you most for being Bluestar’s son?” Darkstripe snapped, neck fur bristling. “When has he ever looked at you or your littermates and not seen her?”

Fury flashed through Tinystar’s pelt. He unsheathed his claws. “Do you really think I’m so small-minded?” he snarled to Darkstripe. “I know their worth, and so will ThunderClan!”

“When?” sneered Darkstripe. “How much blood must Stonepaw shed before his so-called Clanmates finally recognize his loyalty? You of all cats should know that no matter what you do, some cats will see you as nothing more than a useless kittypet.”

Tinystar bunched his muscles.

“Stonepaw, don’t listen to him!” Tinystar pleaded. “Please! There are cats in ThunderClan who love you, who need you! What about Mistypaw? Mosspaw? Oakheart?”

From the corner of his eye Tinystar spotted Sandstorm pulling herself out of the river, dragging Sorrelkit behind her. Both were sodden, drenched to the bone.

Stonepaw looked between Darkstripe and Tinystar. His eyes narrowed. “They never understood why I was upset,” he snapped. “We shouldn’t have to work harder than anyone else to prove our loyalty just because of what our mother did!”

“Yes,” Darkstripe purred. “Yes, Stonepaw!”

“I-I’m tired of the way cats look at me,” Stonepaw went on. “Of the way they treat me. I’m sorry, Tinystar – I’m grateful that you tried, but you just didn’t try hard enough. I don’t feel like I belong anywhere right now – but I know I don’t belong in ThunderClan.”

Tinystar’s heart plummeted.

Darkstripe raised his head, his eyes sparkling with triumph.

Tinystar bunched himself, preparing to spring.

“Tinystar! Sorrelkit isn’t breathing!”

Tinystar started.

“Go on, Tinystar,” Darkstripe sneered. “Take care of your Clanmate. After all, that is your job, isn’t it?”

Tinystar bristled. He snapped back, “Close your jaws! If she dies, it’ll be on your head, traitor!”

“Come on, Stonepaw,” Darkstripe meowed, grinning. “LionClan is waiting for you.”

Stonepaw hesitated, looking back at Tinystar with worry in his eyes. But Darkstripe leaned over the gap between their stones and grasped Stonepaw’s scruff in his jaws, tugging him along. Tinystar had to push them out of sight and mind to go to Sandstorm, who was desperately trying to push the water out of Sorrelkit.

“I-It’s not coming out!” Sandstorm meowed frantically. “Oh StarClan, don’t take her!”

Tinystar bristled, fury and frustration filling his body. He planted his paws against Sorrelkit’s lungs and pushed with near all his might. The kit shuddered under his weight and gasped, vomiting up a lungful of river water.

“Oh, Tinystar…” Sandstorm sighed. “Oh, thank StarClan!”

Sorrelkit bunched herself up, groaning and shivering. Sandstorm began furiously lapping at her pelt, pushing the fur the wrong way to warm her. Tinystar joined her, but he felt so disconnected from the task at his paws.

Stonepaw was gone.

Gone to LionClan.

And it’s my fault.

———————————————————-

They were in the medicine cat’s den as quickly as they could manage – but the moments stretched into seasons for Tinystar, especially when he had to tell the Clan what had happened. His Clanmate’s reactions hit like a blow – from the devastation in their eyes, Tinystar knew he ought to have tried so much harder to keep Stonepaw from falling into LionClan clutches.

“I never meant to…” Mousefur bristled. “I never meant to make him feel like that!”

“None of us did,” Cinderpelt mewed gently. “We had no idea he was hurting so much…”

Dustpelt dropped his gaze to his paws. “We of all cats ought to know not to judge others by their birth…”

Mistypaw wailed, and Mosspaw was shivering beside her sister. Disbelief hung in their blue eyes, even as they watched over Sorrelkit. Brackenfur was tending to her, with Willowpelt wrapped around her little kit.

“There’s no place in StarClan for one who’d toss a kitten in the river,” Brackenfur declared. “He could have drowned her!”

Willowpelt’s body rippled with grief. “I must have been such a poor mother, for Darkstripe to end up such a villain…”

“That’s not true!” Rainkit chimed in.

Sootkit, by his brother’s side, was bristling. “It’s not! You’re the best mother ever!”

“This isn’t your fault, Willowpelt,” Tinystar meowed, touching his nose to the queen’s forehead. “He was always on Bluestar’s side, likely from the moment he was her apprentice.”

“I thought she would teach him well!” Willowpelt breathed, her eyes wide and filled with sorrow. “But look at what he’s become! Look at what they’ve both become! How can a kit turn out so different from either of his parents?”

Brackenfur hushed her, lapping gently at Willowpelt’s flank. “Don’t blame yourself, Willowpelt. StarClan knows you’re not the cause. There, there… let your kits calm you. Sorrelkit needs to be kept warm or she’ll catch a chill!”

“She’s not moving!” Rainkit mewled as he settled beside his sister.

“She’s in shock,” Brackenfur explained. “She’ll wake soon, and she’ll feel a lot better when she does. Can you feel her breathing?”

Rainkit nodded. He and Sootkit, along with Willowpelt, formed a protective ring around Sorrelkit, warm and soft with all their leaf-bare fluff. Tinystar knew that the kitten would be alright - especially with Brackenfur to care for her.

Tinystar had to leave the medicine den then. There was nothing more for him there. He sagged under the weight of his guilt and it seemed like guilt clouded over the entire clearing. Cats had their heads low, their tails still. They had lost one of their own but there was no body to mourn for Stonepaw. His presence would likely never be felt in the clearing again.

It’s my fault. Tinystar couldn’t stop the nagging doubt in his mind. I should have done so much more for him. How could he call himself leader if one of his own cats was so easily convinced to leave his Clan altogether?

“What are you going to do?”

The voice was trembling with sorrow, but backed up by indignation. Tinystar looked up from his paws to see Mistypaw and Mosspaw standing before him, their shoulders both squared and their tails bristling.

“Well?” Mistypaw asked, stepping forward. “Are you going to go get him back?”

Tinystar sighed. “I don’t know that I can, Mistypaw,” he breathed, looking over the sisters. “He left of his own volition.”

“He was tricked!” Mosspaw insisted. “He had to have been!”

“Stonepaw is a ThunderClan cat!” Mistypaw went on. Her eyes glittered. “We need to fight for him! You always said that Bluestar just wanted to use us! She’s going to use him, too!”

“StarClan can’t let this happen!” Mosspaw added, shaking her head. “They just can’t!”

Tinystar felt so badly for the sisters, and so badly for himself. The weight of failure as a warrior or deputy or apprentice did not hang so heavy or sting as hard as failure did for a leader. He felt as if he hadn’t just failed one small clique of cats – Tinystar knew he had failed his Clan as a whole.

“We’re going to try,” Tinystar meowed. “It’s all we can do.”

“And if he doesn’t want to come back?” Mistypaw murmured.

Tinystar touched his nose to her muzzle, the reply of then nothing can be done hanging in the air. Tinystar felt right now that if he spoke those words aloud he would believe them for the rest of his days. There had to be something he could do – but right now the thought of being capable of doing anything wasn’t occurring.

Mistypaw and Mosspaw padded away, their tails twined and pelts brushing. They disappeared into the medicine cat’s den together.

Sandstorm brushed against him, wrapping her tail with his. “This is my fault,” she breathed. “If I had been a better mentor…”

“It’s my fault,” Tinystar insisted. He looked out at the clearing, at all the grieving cats. At Oakheart, who paced in front of Whitestorm and Longtail with his tail kinked and his eyes wild with the worry of a desperate father. “I needed to do more. I needed to make him feel more accepted. I needed to make sure he felt no different than any other cat.”

“You’re Clan leader now,” Sandstorm admonished. “You can’t possibly have time for every little thing. There’s more I could have done, too – like helping him deal with Ashpaw or even not being so strict at times.” She worked her paws into the earth. “I won’t let anything like this ever happen to one of my apprentices again – and if Stonepaw wants to come back… and wants me as his mentor… I’ll give him better than my best.”

Tinystar took heart in her confidence and determination despite the circumstances – losing her apprentice to Darkstripe was a low blow to her pride. Tinystar leaned against his mate, looking out at his Clanmates, feeling her determination swell up inside his chest.

“We’ll get him back,” he decided. “We have to try.”

Tigerstar’s words came back to him, words spoken when Tinystar admitted to sneaking Ravenpaw away from ThunderClan so long ago, words he’d echoed to Mistypaw, too: That not every cat had the heart of a Clan cat. Not every cat was born where they belonged.

Did that apply to Stonepaw, too?

We’ll get him back… If that’s even what he really wants.

[winstonhcomedy]

“Dope A-F”- 1/24-1/25 - “Booed Off Stage and Reg Charity”

Sweet lord almighty. Thursday/Friday were some slobbrerknockers of shows. I’ve got three bad boys to cover so let’s hop right to it laydees.

Earlier in the week I got asked by Travis Carl if I could fill in for him at The Richmond Funny Bone hosting for the “Fresh Drunk Stoned Tour”. I of course agreed. Luckily the open mic this night was The Camel hosted by Jameson Babbowski. This was an early mic so I got to get two sets in.

I head over to The Camel right after work. I am the first comic there. The Camel always has a chill fun vibe to it. When Jameson gets there I look at the lineup and I know like half of the comics. The influx of new comedians continues. It is getting kind of insane. I feel like more and more experienced comics are either moving away/giving it up/taking a step back from standup. Which is a shame. I love the new comics, but I do miss the feeling of going to an open mic and it being filled with all the dudes I started with.

New comics are always good for a scene. As people trickle out you need more comics to trickle in. They bring audience members, and a sense of enthusiasm that is kind of gone from people who have been doing standup a while. The downside is when your scene becomes all new comics booking showcases becomes difficult. You want to give people opportunities, but at the same time a showcase full of newbies is just an open mic.

There is a family with a small child at the show. They tell Jameson they are ok with the swearing and are going to leave aft4er a quick bite. I get to see a few of my friends like Alex Castagne and Mike Engle. So that was a nice little hang.

Jameson goes up and does a quick hosting set before bringing me up. I go up and talk to the kid a little bit and get a few laughs. The crowd is interesting. Paying attention, but not really loving the comedy yet. My set goes pretty well. I need to write some new stuff because I am getting to the point where the new stuff I am working on is starting to become fully formed. The jokes go ok. Some hit pretty hard and some get nothing. All in all I was able to riff a couple new tings, and work on wording. I’d give this set a C-. I grab my stuff and run to my car to head to Short Pump to get to the Funny Bone.

It has been a while since I have been on a show here. I walk in and say hi to the staff. Every time I come by they have some new wait staff, but a lot of the people who’ve been there for years are still around. People like Cory, Derek, Buz, Brittany, and of course Jason the gm. I get to talk to everybody for a bit and shoot the shit before the comics from the “Fresh, Drunk, and Stoned” tour show up.

They were coming from VB so they had a comic down there drive them up and they gave them a guest spot. Drew Grizzly is the comedian who drove them. I have only seen him perform a couple times at clash so I don’t know much about his standup. I know the couple times at clash I wasn’t super impressed, but also that was forever ago and I think he was a super new comic at that time.

All three of the headliners were super cool. They were Tim Hanlon (LA), Matt Bellak (Chi) and Franco Harris (Chi). Very chill dudes and fun to hang with. all real professionals as well. Franco came in and had the complete run down written up ready to hand over to the sound guy Buz. I was going to be doing 10 up top, Drew was going to do 7, then each of them would do 20 each to close out the show.

They also did a great job of packing the show on a Thursday night. They didn’t sell out but they came damn close. I think there was close to about 220 people in there. Which is definitely a treat for a Thursday.

I go up first and have a super strong hosting set. I tried some material I’ve never done there before and it went over great. My “problems with China” bit hit super hard, and my “Angel/Devil” closer really got them. I’d give this set a B+. I really had them in a good place to get this show going and I bring up Drew.

I walk to the green room while he starts his set. I don’t really pay attention to it. He’s not getting a huge laugh or anything, but I don't think anything of it. I am talking in the back with the guys, and after like 2 minutes we start to hear a noise coming from the green room. I can’t really tell what the noise it, but is most assuredly not laughter.

I start to listen closer and realize it is boos. Drew is bombing so hard he is getting booed. Tim and I go out to check it out and we are just in awe. This crowd that was super into the show had now completely turned on him. Apparently he had started his set and said he had weird pubes. A woman responded, “you got a problem.” Instead of rolling with it he doubled down and started to be aggressive with the lady. He had not built up the goodwill in his set to warrant this type of response. So the crowd started to turn. He also mentioned that he doesn’t date black women (he is a black guy) which honestly is where he really lost the crowd (primarily black audience).

I have never seen this kind of shit before. It is surreal. People are losing their minds yelling at him, booing him, screaming to get him off the stage. People are standing up out of their seats. Like it had the vibe that someone was going to come up on stage and get him. Jason came out of his office wondering what was going on. It was too much for security to silence everyone. He was getting the light from the back, and he wouldn’t get off stage.

I don’t know how much time he did but it felt like a millennium in that atmosphere. It might be the worst set I've ever seen in my life. I was inching closer and closer to the stage trying to give him a hint. Also I was worried I was going to have to go on stage and take the microphone from him. The worst part is I have to go up after this. I tell Tim I am going to try my best to get the crowd back and do something before he gets on stage.

Drew finally gets off, and I go back up amidst a sea of boos. They’re still yelling and I give them a second to see if they’ll die down enough to try to get a word in. I finally grab the mic and say, “I think this is the first time in history where a room full of black people are like, ‘Thank God the white guys back’”, and it absolutely murders. People stand back up and are screaming and hollering. People are giving me high fives, and I'm really selling it leaning over with the mic stand talking to people and getting them pumped up. I bring Tim Hanlon on stage and the show is back on track. This is now one of my favorite comedy memories.

I go back to the green room and Drew is talking about it, and Franco and Matt are giving him good advice. Bombing happens, everybody does it, this is not a reflection of an entire comedians career or act. I do know that I have never in my life seen a worse set, and at least Drew knows it can’t get worse. He was in good spirits, and we all ended up having a dope rest of our night. I get a lot of compliments and I get to watch Tim, Matt, and Franco have super hot sets to end this amazing night. I also get a weekend of work from Jason in March. I love filling in dates on my calendar.

After the show I stick around, take some pictures, and meet some people. I say my goodbyes to everybody and then head to my car. I drive home enjoying the end of this awesome night.

1/25

The next day after work I took a nice nap, and then headed down to perform on Tidewater Tonight in Virginia Beach at Pinboys. This is a talkshow co-created and hosted by Roberto Lundgren Rodrigues. This isn’t a standup show. I had to create a character to be interviewed. I low-key love stuff like this, but I don’t get the opportunity to do it often.

I came up with the character several months ago when I was first asked, but I kept having to reschedule. I finally got an open Friday and was ready to unveil Reg Charity.  Basically the character idea I had was I'd be a disgraced, southern, ex PBA bowler who was banned from the sport due to my rampant alcoholism. So after my PBA career I started inventing. All my inventions are supposed to do the opposite of what they normally do (sunglasses that brighten the room, chips that help you lose weight, whiskey that sobers you up, and a toaster that turns toast into bread). It slowly becomes apparent during the interview that none of them work, and I get drunker and drunker on my “non-alcoholic” whiskey. 

I get to the venue early and am just hanging out with the people who run the show. Ryan Dix, Roberto, Laura Batty, and a few others. My buddy Nick Deez showed up also.

So after they set up for the show we wait for it to start. There is a tiny audience of maybe 5 or 6 who aren’t involved in the show. That’s ok though because everybody is super into the show. I am so excited to see how the video turns out because I am super excited about it. I improvised the entire thing. I feel like I went in and out of my accent, but I honestly don’t care. It was super fun, and I got people laughing. I had an absurd outfit on, and some great lines. I’d give it a solid B. If I get to go back I know I’ll do even better.

They do some ads, and a singing commercial. Then Donna Lewis goes up and is doing the character of an ex child star. She is having a hot one, and everyone is having a blast. The show ends and it was definitely a success.

They make several attempts to lift the couch up with me in it. We get some funny pictures of me falling out of it, and them failing to lift me. We keep chatting for about an hour, and just talk shop, and shit. It was a super dope show, and I can’t wait to do it again.

All in all this was a helluva two days of shows. A real hoot and a half. I just want to give everybody who reads this blog a million kisses. XOXO I love you and I’ll be back to recap the weekend tomorrow sweeties! GOODBYE LAYDEES!!!!

[somedaypast-thesunset]

so i went to this therapy session. it consiisted of this woman asking me what i thought my issues were and going through a list of “important life factors” before she readily prescribed CBT. and like.. ive learned to play the game with these people; if you influence them by giving too much or focusing on the wrong thing, they can suggest stupid things. so i gave her very concise and bare bones answers. 

unlike my family doctor, she had little focus on the traumas. she said the traumas must have created behaviors that needed to be examined. i mean, yeah. science? and like, i’ve learned to handle my anxiety atleast 30 - 40% better than say, last year. by using things similar to CBT techniques, like examining all possible outcomes and taking time to examine my anxieties rather than react on them. this has allowed me certain control over a lot of previusly panic inducing situations. but now im plateaued because the anxiety is not so much an issue -- i don’t care. i used to care alot more before. like i wanted to be seen as a good person and i went out of my way to be a good person and put myself and needs aside for it. but now i dont care? i find i have even less anxiety going out and meeting new people because i dont care? the apathy is overwhelming.

CBT doesnt fix apathy. and i dnt know if anything fixes apathy. 

heres what i do KNOW from this year of self improvement: the only thing that has made me feel remotely better and that has made sound logical sense since it came to be acknowledged is really standard old school talk therapy. in no fucking way can cure anxiety about being alone or having no family by “positive affirmations”. you can try and see some positives in but if you try to fool yourself so far that youre “totally okay” with no one, there will always be one day that comes when you regret “totally okay”. 

but absolutely no one cares about examining the known. no one cares why or how the family dynamic works except people literally studying it. all anyone knows is that by default, you’re handed a group of people who share similar dna to you and whatever happens after that is up to fate and chance. more often than not people have SOME kind of family. even those who say they dont “really” have family have some cousin or distance aunt or someone they manage to stay in close contact with. 

heres what i also know: he is “right” about one thing - the people we know, including himself, were shaped and influenced by a community; there’s half a million strong here but yet if you’re in our age group and you’re white you can probably play six degrees of seperation. and a lot of people turned to drugs, a lot of people came from bad homes, a lot of people have untreated mental illnesses -- and these are the people i am turning to for support. because i have no real choice right now. it’s literally trying to survive and you cannot pick and choose in survival. you take whatever you can get wherever you can get it. and thats not even to say these are bad people. clearly if they offer any support at all they are good people in their hearts. no matter what issue they have, they’re decent people.

but in no fucking way what so ever are they equipped to support another person emotionally or even leave their own foundations of support because i mean, who does that? logically? 

i went through all of this stuff. and like i’m nt trying to have a pissing contest of whos life was worse? my own parents lives were worse than mine. a close friend of mine - definitely way worse than mine. this could totally be worse but what difference does that make? you cut off a finger and you’re like “well didnt lose the hand” but youre still living with no finger. you still have to cope and deal with n finger every second of the day despite how much worse it “could” be. 

to me my power and release and way i feel good is not through meditation or yoga or taking a walk - it’s being heard. i want to be heard. i lived in silence an was sheltered for a long time and i didnt get to speak on a lot of things that legitimately shaped the way i lived my life. and like i’m not asking for these things to be analyzed. theyre not here for like a game of psychology. this is my life. this is what i lived and i want to speak about it. i want to be able to speak for ten minutes straight on what happened to me and how i feel. and secondly i want to be understood. like im not speaking a different language. there is no hidden meaning i am just telling a story i want to have understood by the listener. when you read a book, you dont stop thrugh a paragraph and be like “oh i remember the time my mom did this and this” and go off into a new tangent for yourself. you give it focus and attention to understand the nuances of this person’s perspective. 

and my doctor gave me the freedom to speak to him at anytime. i can literally go and be like i am upset and here is why and he will just listen to me. because my problem is not about me. my problem is the things that happened to me. CBT literally tells you that statements like “i am a victim to outside circumstances” is “harmful”. but i am? like i’m not saying this t promote an internal victimization but that outside circumstances happened to which i had little to no control over anything BUT my own reaction. 

and the thing is - no one at all will ever fix what happened. very bad things happened. this is without a doubt now, bad things happened. almost all of the time. and people cannot even fathom such trauma without bringing up sexual abuse or physical abuse because it more often manifests those ways but this was a unique circumstance of very different factors - none of which are special in the world but just a timeline that by using all of these factors created a very jarring and traumatic time. 

so you cannot give me medication. im not sick. im experiencing a natural reaction to long term trauma. like.. the brain is damaged now but who is to say filling it with synthetic chemicals to “fix” or cover the damage is any better? what happens when youre no longer on them? 

you cant tell me to meditate on it; sit silently and dont think about it? cruel. how o you think i made it this far? i deserve to talk about these things, outloud, without judgement. i dont even need a group. in fact right now i deserve one single human to give me the respect and time. because literally? sometimes i need like.. one hour in a month. just one hour in 30 days to speak out loud everything that haunted me that month and have it acknowledged in reality without personal opinion inserted. 

i explained to him why i didnt like cbt and why i felt like i wanted to be left alone now; like i was tired of being psychoanalyzed, i knew what my problem was, i knew what i wanted in life. he immediately brought up how i should be seeing a psychologist or psychiatrist instead and that i just needed to have that. i realize now that hes put alot of weight on a psychologist or w.e. solving my issues and “giving me coping techniques” and by me saying i wanted to be left alone triggered anger, like he assumed i was “giving up”? still, it went into an argument which led to him saying things like i needed to have a job to deserve a family which is very hateful and emotionally abusive thing to say. i walked away when we got to his place and then went to a friends for an hour or so before he picked me up. he commented on the way back, “just for the record, i’m just too real for people.” -- but ive started not to care. i told him he wasnt real, he was mentally ill and projected a lot of things on to people around him when he was a textbook example of toxic thinking. i said he should get therapy, but he wont because it takes work and it might mean he wont be great anymore but i still loved him regardless. 

he sat quiet for a bit and when we got back to his place he made a casual remark asking if we had talked about him. i said sure and he asked what was said. i told him the only thing im ever told about him is to not listen to him because hes crazy. he laughed a bit and asked how and why and who. i doubled down and said even my doctor has told me to not listen to him because what he says is harmful and misunderstood. he got very quiet and then seemed to be upset the rest of the night. i couldnt understand entirely why though? did he feel bad about it? did he think i was wrong? did he have shame people held this opinion or was he angry they knew about him at all? 

he was still a bit upset this morning but seemed to try and at least fake it? he told me he loved me when i left but it just seemed weird. i feel like he feels bad? like maybe he realized he was causing damage but now couldnt take it back? i certainly dont think he’d tell me he loved me if he was angry.