#or write anything of substance

[meilas]

Mozart was the pop artist of his day. Beethoven was the true musician.

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The “you know I left a part of my back in New York” to “I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath” pipeline—

Something about how New York symbolized freedom and rebirth and adulthood and the then-summit of her career until it crumbled and London became the at-first necessary retreat from the world when it got to be too much to bear.

And the part of herself she left in New York symbolically could have been the part of her that still craved the attention, the performing, the superstardom, that she felt like she had to abandon to live her life. Among all the other questions about “hoax” about a painful betrayal, the questioning in the bridge is like, I left this part of me behind to make this work and you knew what it cost me, but you still did what you did. So I gave up this part of my life to make a life with you, and in the end you still betrayed me and metaphorically (or actually) abandoned me along with it.

Again not saying this is right or that that’s what hoax is about but just noting an interesting thematic parallel etc.

[blueskittlesart]

at a certain point i think we need to acknowledge that art is very rarely created accidentally. if you can see a theme in a work than that theme was, more likely than not, at least somewhat intentional on behalf of the creator. you don't put a piece of yourself out into the world without thinking about what it means at least a little bit.

[omnipotent-omnicube]

i haven't really read a lot of people's posts on here but i've read a few on twitter and i'm glad that other people are also recognizing that xia fei is almost definitely being at least somewhat manipulated by vein

[rosylix]

i love that yall scream with me abt felix and stuff lolllll. i feel weird sometimes like i shouldnt post if im not writing cus yall are pretty much here for my writing.. so if im not writing like no one cares abt me lol but idk its still fun and it makes me so happy that yall still think of me even when ive not been active like thats so sweet?? jdnsjfjjs IDKK i cant articulate my thoughts correctly rn but i just wanted to say ily guys! 🤍🤍

[conanssummerchild]

writing a fic abt rick having an ed bcs why would i recover when i can just project all my issues onto fictional old men in cartoons and pretend everythings better now ‼️

tw eating disorder, minor self harm and vomit near the end

Morty stopped in the open doorway of the garage, watching Rick who was sat scribbling down some kind of invention idea, or equation, or whatever it was he did when Morty wasn't around, for all Morty knew he might well be writing fanfiction.

An involuntary smile pulled at his lips at the idea of his almost 70 year old genius grandfather spending his free time writing silly little stories at his work bench. What would he even write? Ball Fondlers fanfic? Maybe he wrote about his stoic bird friend, Rick had always been touchy with him and Rick wasn't touchy with anyone.

When Morty focused back on Rick he wasn't writing anymore, the slightly crumpled piece of paper shoved to the side as he fiddled with what looked like a small metal box with a bunch of brightly coloured wires poking out of the sides. A small spark shot out of one of the wires Rick was holding and he cursed loudly, shaking his hand.

"Fuck, Morty, are you just gonna– gonna stand there, or are you gonna pass me the fucking, uh– the thing."

Rick waved his hand in the general direction of the shelf nearest to Morty, but there were so many assorted trinkets on the shelves, Morty had no idea if Rick wanted a wrench, or a hammer, or one of his laser guns, maybe the box was like a new battery for them?

"W-what thing, Rick?"

"The thing, Morty! The fucking– the uh, destornillador."

"What? Rick, I don't know what that means. W-w-what is that?"

"Jeez, Morty, what are they teaching you at that crap school you love so much?" Rick scowled, tossing the box to the side and getting up to grab the screwdriver himself.

"I havent been to school in like a month, Rick!" Morty exclaimed. "And even then I only got to stay for like an hour before you were dragging me out again!"

"Whatever." Rick said with a burp, "School's dumb, Morty. I'll teach you Spanish myself. B-but, uh, not now."

He turned back to his box, done with the conversation, but Morty stayed hovering in the room, remembering what he had come for in the first place.

"Okay, um, w-w-well lunch is ready."

"I'm busy."

Morty sighed, having expected that answer already. "When's the last time you ate, Rick? Or slept? Or... showered?" Morty said, wrinkling his nose a little.

Rick ignored him, pulling at a blue wire.

"Rick!" Morty frowned.

"What, Morty? J-jesus christ, what the fuck do you want?"

"I want you to have lunch with the family."

"And I said no, so screw off."

"Rick, come on, it would make mom so happy."

Rick glared at him, not bothering with an answer.

"...Wouldn't y-you do it for your original Beth if you could?" Morty tried.

Rick slammed the box on the table, causing the thin metallic shell to crack, sparks flying from it, the sudden noise making Morty jump.

"The fuck did you just say?" Rick snarled.

"S-s-sorry!" Morty squeaked. "I didn't m-mean– mean it in a bad way!"

"Get the fuck out." Rick said icily, eyes blazing.

Morty stumbled out of the room, shutting the door behind him to the sound of something crashing. Probably Rick throwing the damaged box across the room.

Morty winced. In his defense he was worried about Rick, and sometimes, depending on his mood, something like that would've gotten Rick to cave, clearly he wasn't feeling so sentimental today, more annoyed and angry.

"What was that about?"

Morty startled a little and turned to see Summer looking at her phone behind him.

"Just, y'know, Rick being... Rick."

"Mhm, pro tip, don't bring up his dead daughter to try and blackmail him into something he hates." Summer drawled. "You can only do that if he's already half convinced, or if he's feeling especially depressed sometimes.

"Summer! That's– that's messed up!"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah, so only you can manipulate grandpa Rick?" Summer scoffed. "God forbid women do anything." She said sarcastically and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" Morty fidgeted with his hands. "Can you... help me? To get him to have lunch w-with us? Please?"

"Yes, but not now. He's already upset so if we double down on trying to get him to eat he's only gonna clam up."

Morty nodded. "I know that– but how do you? You don't spend as much time with Rick as I do."

"Because he's like mom. Who do you think got her to stop drinking before parent-teacher conferences at school?"

"Wow. That's pretty fucked up that you had to do that, though, y'know, Summer."

"Yeah, well, we're the Smiths, Morty. Is anyone in this house not disordered?"

Morty winced at the blunt statement, Rick really was rubbing off on her. But it was kind of true.

"Guess it runs in the family." He muttered

"Guess it does."

---

Morty hadn't been planning on seeing Rick again until the next day. He knew that when Rick got upset he needed his space. Morty didn't quite get it because when he was upset all he wanted was for someone to hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay, but Rick wasn't like him he supposed.

If he was being honest it made him nervous to leave Rick alone in those bad headspaces he got into. Rick was volatile and unpredictable and a borderline danger to himself and often others. He'd walked in on a couple... compromising situations where Rick had had to explain away why he was passed out in his chair or why there was blood on his hands and his lab coat despite being the only person in the room.

Morty pretended to believe him when he said he had been doing a messy dissection experiment or that "This isn't blood, this is Balorkian dust I mixed with red Squanchenite fluid from Planet Squanch, Morty." But truthfully those moments haunted him.

However, he didn't want to invade Rick's space, so he let him be and tried to eat and sleep until Rick emerged like nothing had happened, even though Morty knew what habits of his went on behind those closed doors.

Of course Morty's patience had it's limits, like when two hours after he had left Rick in the garage, angry, there was the sound of something smashing, closely followed by an unmistakable sound that Morty had grown too familiar with since Rick had moved in. The sound of a body thudding to the ground.

He was up from the sofa in a flash, at the garage door before Summer could even put down her phone, flinging it open.

He felt like he couldn't breathe, but the only sight that greeted him was a smashed bottle and rick lying on the floor next to it, not looking any more dead than usual, looking up at Morty blearily, cracking a smile.

"Oh, hi Morty. H-hey buddy." He slurred, clearly drunk out of his mind.

"Jesus fucking christ, Rick." Morty said weakly.

"What happened?" Summer breathed, now standing at his side.

"He's just drunk." Morty muttered, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering smell that he hadn't registered before between his state of panic and shallow breathing.

Summer ventured into the garage, picking up an empty bottle and sniffing it. "God, grandpa Rick, what the hell are you drinking in here, fucking rubbing alcohol?"

"Sum-Sum! 'M just having some– some fun drinks. Fun drinks just a lil' bit. Besides I only ever drank rub-rubbin' alcohol once, n' it was– tasted like shit."

"What? I was being sarcastic, why would you drink that?"

"Because I was sad... was sad 'nd lonely after B-b-blood Ridge, couldn't find anythin' else. But 'm not s-sad now."

"What's Blood Ridge?" Summer frowned, "Actually it doesn't matter right now, you need to sober up."

"Get him some water," Morty interjected. "I'll clean up the glass. I also know where he keeps all his hangover serums and stuff, but he told me not to let you into any of his drug stashes."

"Fair enough." Summer shrugged, leaving to get Rick some much needed water.

While she was gone, Morty felt along the wall until he found the small hidden panel under Rick's desk. He fished out the light blue vial of fluid for hangovers, the red one he'd forced Rick to make that would sober him up and a green one that basically equivalated to getting your stomach pumped if you took it, just in case he'd taken more than just alcohol.

He shut the panel securely and placed the three coloured vials on Rick's work bench, grabbing a purple tube-like gadget from a shelf. He pressed a button on the back of it and typed in "Broken Glass" on a small hologram keyboard that emerged, then pressed that first button again. A blue ray shot out, scanning the garage, and the pieces of smashed bottle disappeared in a matter of seconds.

Morty looked over at Rick, who was still lying on the floor, but now he was tracing his fingers along a crack in the cold ground, his expression so solemn he almost looked sober.

"Rick?" Morty asked hesitantly.

"I miss her." He said flatly. "I miss her s-so much."

His words were still a little slurred but his tone had lost all the previous levity.

"I tried to save her, Morty, I t-t-tried, but I couldn't bring her back. And no one could ever replace her." A rough sob escaped his throat. Morty felt frozen. "I'm a crappy fuckin'– piece of shit father but I didn't want to be. I was gonna fuckin' give– give up everything for them, and I would've been happy. I would've been so happy as long as I had them, but he fuckin' took that from me! I nnever even got a chance."

Rick was crying, he was crying so hard that his tears stained the concrete dark grey and snot ran down his face sideways. He was shaking like a leaf and gasping for air.

Morty crouched down next to him, fists clenching and unclenching, unsure if he should hug Rick, or if that would make it worse. What else could he do?

"Oh– oh shit, Rick, I–"

"My little girl, my baby." Rick continued between sobs. "She meant everything to me. S-so yeah, I would be better f-for her if I could, but she's gone. There's no point."

Rick's sudden fit of violent sobs was calming down, replaced by a look that Morty could only describe as pure hoplessness and defeat washing over his features.

"'S no point in anything."

Shit, this was bad. Rick didn't admit defeat, and he certainly didn't talk so openly about his feelings like this.

"Aw jeez, Rick, come on don't– don't– don't say that. we killed Rick Prime, remember?" Morty said, wringing his hands anxiously.

"Yeah, I remember." Rick said, tone now devoid of emotion. "I remember killin' him with my bare hands, watchin' the life drain out of his eyes as his blood dripped down my fists. And I remember nothing changing. W-w-what d'ya do when you achieve your life long goal and nothin's better? It didn't bring them back, it didn't– didn't give me closure or give me a reason to live. I still can't sleep, petrified he's in the fucking house, comin' for my new family, that he'll kill all of you to teach me that t-that's what happens when I-I care about people."

Rick wiped his face with his lab coat sleeve, rubbing away the snot, drool and dried tears while Morty just kneeled next to him, frozen and unsure what to say.

"Rick..." he started but then Summer stepped through the doorway and Rick's demeanour instantly changed.

"Summerfest!" he called out and Morty watched, a little shocked, as Rick's whole face changed in the blink of an eye, going back to the cheerful, goofy expression he'd been wearing when he and Summer first came in. It didn't look artificial to Morty at all, even now that he knew it was. How could Rick just switch it on and off just like that?

"I brought water and coffee." Was all Summer said, placing two mugs on the workbench. "And a cereal bar."

The second statement sounded a little more unsure and Morty could've sworn he saw Rick's jaw clench for a second.

"Gimmie coffee." Rick said, making grabby hands, still lying on the floor.

"Water first." Summer replied, handing him the larger of the two mugs.

Rick pouted a little but as soon as the mug was in his hands he drank thirstily, finishing the whole thing in one go.

"You want more?" Summer asked, taking the mug, but he just shook his head quietly.

"Okay," Morty cleared his throat when his voice came out a little shaky. "drink this."

He handed Rick the red 'get sober' vial and Rick chugged it obediently, making a face. "Tastes like– like shit." He offered.

While he seemed a little calmer after the water and serum, his eyes were still unfocused and his voice sounded thick, like his tongue didn't fit in his mouth properly, hints of his accent were slipping through too.

"Did you- are you on drugs r-right now?" Morty asked, reaching for the green vial of serum.

"Maybe." Rick mumbled. His eyelids were starting to droop a little and he curled up more comfortably on the floor.

"Hey, Rick, don't go to sleep okay? What did you take?" Summer asked, crouching down next to him, shaking him a little. He groaned. "Come on, we just have to make sure you're not overdosing and then you can sleep. Maybe not on the floor."

"'M not overdosing." Rick grumbled.

"What did you take?"

"I dunno. Just some random alien drugs I found i-in my pocket." He said dismissively with a burp. "Actually one of 'em was probably adderall. Look at me bein' all responsible an-and takin' my meds n' shit."

He of course immediately showed his 'responsibilty' by gagging and then throwing up on the floor.

Morty winced, reaching for the purple device again while Summer tried to coax him into drinking the green liquid, frowning deeply.

Finally Rick gave in, sipping from the small vial, and almost instantly his eyes began to clear up a little bit.

"Why'd I make these work so well?" He groaned. Then, "My head is killing me, I want coffee."

Summer passed him the second mug and he gestured toward the hangover serum, which Morty promptly passed to him and Rick poured it in his coffee.

He gulped down half the coffee and sighed, wiping his mouth with his already rather dirty sleeve. "Fuck, that's better."

He downed the rest of it and placed the mug on the ground, getting to his feet shakily. He swayed and nearly fell, leaning onto the wall to steady himself as the dizzy spell passed, and then stretched, his back cracking loudly.

He took a few wobbly steps towards the door but Summer blocked the way.

"Fuck– fuck off Summer I gotta– I'm gonna go take a nap."

"Could you maybe eat something first?" She asked firmly, holding up the cereal bar.

"No."

Rick tried to sidestep her but she blocked the way again.

"Summer, don't fucking piss me off right now, I'm serious."

She stood her ground. "Just eat the cereal bar, grandpa Rick. Please."

"Summer, for fuck's sake, I said no!"

"Grandpa," She sighed, the arm holding the bar dropping defeatedly back down to her side. "Do you have an eating disorder?"

The garage was deathly quiet for a second.

"Wha-What?! I'm not a teenage girl in a f-f-f– goddamn netflix drama, Summer." Rick snarled. "What the fuck kinda question is that?"

He gestured wildly, taking another step forwards, which quickly seemed to be the wrong option as a sudden wave of dizziness hit him hard, making him almost loose his balance. He blindly tried to grab onto the back of his chair somewhere behind him, but missed and fell on his ass.

"Rick!" Morty and Summer both rushed to his side, Morty's eyes beginning to well up a little from all the stress of the day.

"I'm fine, don't– don't fucking touch me." He said, shaking Summer's hand off his shoulder, which caused another wave of nausea to hit.

"Please eat this." Summer said nervously, voice shaking as she pushed the cereal bar into his left hand, his right one gripping at his hair.

"Summer, I promise you if I eat that shit right now I'm gonna throw the fuck up."

"Please?" Morty pouted, eyes big and teary.

All it took was one look at him, and with only a brief moment of hesitation Rick snatched the cereal bar from Summer, muttering angrily under his breath.

Morty only caught "Me cago en la puta." and "Maldito cabrón." which he more or less understood, more familiar with swear words than any other words in the Spanish language.

Rick peeled away the wrapper slowly with unsteady hands and took a small bite.

Morty and Summer watched in silence, not wanting to discourage him by saying the wrong thing—which with Rick could be anything—as Rick uncomfortably ate the cereal bar.

"There you fucking go." He said weakly, Throwing the now empty wrapper at Summer, but missing as it was too light to travel more than a couple centimetres, landing somewhere by his feet.

"Thank you." Summer almost whispered.

They sat in silence for a while, Morty sniffling and rubbing at his eyes and Summer shuffling a bit closer to him for both of their comfort.

Rick was sitting with his knees losely bent and his head braced in his hands, trying to overcome another hit of nausea.

He wouldn't exactly say he tried super hard to keep the cereal bar down, but it wasn't deliberate when he vomited it down the front of his shirt.

"Oh! Aw jeez..." Morty winced.

"I did warn you."

"In our defense, you had every reason to be lying to us."

"Fuck you, Summer." It sounded weak even to his own ears.

She sighed softly.

"Morty, get his shirt off. Do you have pijamas or do you sleep in jeans and a lab coat?"

"Jeans an-and a lab coat."

"...I was joking, but okay." Summer said, flipping the switch that opened Rick's garage closet and grabbing one of his sets of identical outfits.

Rick squirmed, making noises of complaint as Morty tried to take off his current shirt.

"Rick– stay still, you have vomit on your clothes."

"I'm not fucking two years old, Morty." He scowled. "I can change by myself."

Rick tried to sit up but wobbled and then slumped back against the wall, needing more time to recover. Morty reached for his shirt again and this time Rick let him pull it carefully up over his head without resisting. Morty took the new set of clothes from where Summer had left them on the floor next to him.

Summer wasn't looking but Morty still shielded Rick's body from sight with his own, pointedly not mentioning the raised scars and jagged, angry, red cuts littering his arms which he had already suspected would be there.

Rick shifted uncomfortably, seeming relieved when Morty didn't want to talk about it.

"Okay." Morty said, helping Rick pull on his clean lab coat too.

"I'm going to bed." Rick grumbled, not waiting for him to continue, just getting up slowly.

He felt weak and shaky and his brittle old bones weren't exactly helping out. Despite his thousands of cybernetic implants he was still human, much to his dismay, and he couldn't treat his body as badly as he did when he was 30. Not that that ever seemed to stop him, managing to still maintain the same shitty habits he'd had for years at the ripe age of 67.

He stumbled through the dining room, Morty and Summer trailing after him, not discouraged by the glare he sent their way.

As soon as he reached his room, he slumped onto his bed with a groan.

"R-rick?"

"Fuck off, Morty." He snapped into his pillow, a little muffled by it.

Morty hesitated, exchanging a glance with Summer, who shrugged.

"...Ookay, Rick. Uh, see– see you at dinner, today? maybe?'

"Don't count on it."

Summer frowned, Starting to say something, but Rick interrupted, "I'm gonna apply my room's Lock Protocols in ten seconds, so i-if you're still in here, I'm not letting you out until I'm done sleeping. A-a-and if you're standing in the doorway, you're gonna get fucking squashed in the doors."

"Whatever, Rick, fuck you too." Summer huffed, pulling Morty out of the doorway with her.

"Room, activate Sensory Protocol 2. And t-tell Summer to go fuck herself."

"Sensory Protocol 2 activated." Came the mechanical voice and a heavy metal door snapped shut. "Go fuck yourself, Summer."

Summer scoffed. "Dick." Followed by a sigh. "What are we gonna do?"

"I-I don't know." Morty admitted. "There's not much we can do if Rick won't accept help. And he won't."

"So what? We just give up on him?" Summer asked accusingly, putting her hands on her hips.

"No, Summer, J-jeez. I just– We're gonna have to get creative."

"Fuck."

---

thats it thats the end i didnt know how tf to end this but my goal wasnt to rewrite like the bible idfk it was just to put rick through shit and put completely unfair expectations on summer and mortys shoulders so that they could ALL suffer in this fic !! :3 also this is so mf long i sincerely apologise if u read all that

[evelhak]

"Everything is complex" or "Things are not black and white" should not be used as shortcuts to avoid a problem, they should be used as the basis for a discussion. They're not conclusions, they're the beginning to finding understanding and solutions. These statements should inspire openness to learn more, not give a free pass to deflect everything you don't like hearing.

[ego-meliorem-esse]

I wish I had the skills to write something like interview with the vampire with france as lestat and england as louis. I'd change so much but it would be so much fun. I'll keep just hoping someday our dreams of vampires will turn true and Matt will get the daddies he deserves

Write it! Write the fic! Holy shit write the fic! When you do send the raw material my way IMMEDIATELY! Lord knows i love my google doc fics….

Please god write it i need old men yaoi with vampires oh my god bože sačuvaj jebote

[musashi]

the thing i dont get is why did my psych even switch my meds in the first place like last time we talked i was like dude i am doing soooo good this shit rocks i feel like a person again yay im so happy. and he asked if i was having trouble remembering my second dose and i was like nah i'm very good at developing routines and havent missed one. the only thing i said was that the initial euphoria was wearing off and that i knew it would do that because i did some research. but he isn't like a "im mad that you did research" psych he's super chill. why did he change me to XR. i hate you XR. i want my friend IR back

[strechanadi]

So my Mayerling review is only 2200 word long.

I mean... an amateurism, that's what it is!

[unopenablebox]

i need to finally implement the beta changes i was supposed to do on this fic like 3 weeks ago before work presentation prep ate my brain. they kept postponing the work reveals deadline, giving me an excuse to not bother, but i probably shouldnt bank on that happening again in two days even though there does still seem to be an unclaimed pinch hit even now

[girl-bateman]

am I overreacting yes or no QUICKLY

[naked-peet]

okay I'm writing a fanfic for that tentative self indulgent fanfic blog because I can't take it anymore and I'm looking at my word count and uh. Dudes I'm not even a third of the way through this beast and it's already the length of the average chapter I'd write on wattpad. What was high school me thinking

[befuddled-calico-whump]

arc one of t$$ is "meet the crew" and arc two is "help I'm stuck in a one-on-one conversation with Sahota and it's really awkward"

[lesbianyosano]

deeply hypocritical of asagiri to try to pivot the story into the fake deep commentary on the state while completely ignoring the question of carceral system even with mersault at the heart of the story for years

[torresxpatrick]

full name:  patrick alberto torres

nicknames:  pat, patty

aesthetics:  here is his pinterest board :) 

age & dob:  35, may 15

residence:  jackson hill. he owns his home and has lived there for less than a year. 

occupation:  owner of rose’s gym

appearance:

faceclaim:  oscaar isaac (all physical traits like hair, eye color, height, etc. align with oscar isaac however patrick does have tattoos and is more muscular and broad than oscar isaac).

style:  mostly a jean, leather or work jacket thrown over a plain tshirt with jeans and boots. if he is going to the gym, he often is wearing joggers/sweaters with a big hoodie and has his gym duffle bag with him. 

personality:

positive traits:  calm, innovative, hospitable

negative traits: disorganized, forgetful, blunt

likes:  working out, his cat, restoring furniture and features in his home, building things, cooking, mixing cocktails 

dislikes: being told what to do, hot weather, the feeling of sand between his toes, hospitals, flat pillows 

fears:  hospitals, being buried alive, road rage

pet peeves:  cesaer salads that have fake parm instead of fresh grated, when people hum the music playing in their own headphones at the gym, somehow messing up his coffee in the morning even though he swears he makes it the same every, the feeling of microfiber cloths

faves:

ice cream flavor:  rocky road

time of the day / night:  dawn into sunrise

weather:  snowy, dark

breakfast food:  french toast with some kind of fruit element 

dinner food:  a homemade alfredo - simple, but classic 

colors:  he loves dark purple which is so cute but would never admit it. if asked, he’ll say blue 

songs:  better together by jack johnson

other random stuff:

a cherished item:  his mother’s rosary

usual mood: agreeable, friendly

1 thing they want to do / experience before they die:  scuba diving but he is terrified 

___

Patrick was an accidental pregnancy to a mid-twenties couple, Rosalia & Alberto. His father was in the military and his mother was a teacher. When Patrick was six, his father was offered a promotion in the Air Force that would have moved the family to D.C. However, Patrick’s mother refused to move - she knew that Alberto had been cheating on her throughout the entirety of their relationship and used the move as an opportunity to divorce Alberto and start fresh. Alberto put up no fight for custody but never missed a child support payment and often sent more than required.

Patrick and his mother thrived on their own, up until about middle school. He found himself getting frustrated in classes, wanting to talk to his friends or read his books instead. He won’t receive his diagnosis until he’s well into his 30s, but hearing ADD leave his psychiatrist’s mouth felt like putting a final piece into a puzzle. Patrick wishes he could relieve his younger days with this knowledge, he’s sure it would have made a hell of a difference. Instead, like most kids before the turn of the century, Patrick was just labeled a ‘troublemaker’, maybe a ‘class clown’ if his humor was compatible with whatever teacher was not interesting enough to keep his attention.

Due to this, he struggled throughout middle and high school. With a combination of scolding from his mother and pressure from the guidance counselor (who probably needed to increase her ratio of graduates who attended college), Patrick got through high school with a C average and managed an acceptance to a small art school in California. It was here that his impulsiveness and lack of effort was magnified - he quickly found himself with a ‘stoner’ reputation on campus and soon dropped out to sell.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t smart enough to stay out of trouble for too long. After a short stint of living it up as a ‘unemployed’ 20-something in California, Patrick made the dumb mistake of trying to sell to an undercover officer at a nightclub. He was promptly handcuffed and carted away for 2 years with possession and intent to sell charges. He didn’t change much in prison, maybe calmed down a bit (it’s never good to make waves behind bars) and refocused himself on his boxing. It wasn’t until he was in his halfway house a year or so after being released that he got a call from his mother, who he hadn’t spoken to since he told her he was dropping out of college.

Patrick’s mother had cancer, her doctors thought she had maybe 5 years left. With the permission of his probation office and under the pretense of his good behavior the past few years, he moved home, settled right back into routine with his mom. It wasn’t five years, but the few that he had with her were filled with good food and laughter. When she passed, he wrote to his father informing him of the service information. He received a short but empathetic letter back, with a check paperclipped to its corner. To this day, he has not spoken to his father and does not know if he is dead or alive.

Patrick took the check and moved to Woodside where he moved into a tiny studio apartment for a year, worked odd jobs for a few years to get the bills paid. He did a year stint at Rustic House and still has a lasting appreciation for mixing a lovely cocktail and plating a well-paired meal with it. (this has potential to turn into a wanted connection if anyone is interest!)

(if you’re reading this, this is a wanted connection!) A few years into living in Woodside, Patrick received a letter and found his quiet life disrupted. His father had indeed been cheating on his mother and there was a child to prove it. Well now into their thirties, just as he was, they wanted to let him know that Alberto had passed - it was peaceful and he had expressed a desire to know his son more. They wrote that no one in the family had known he had a son and Alberto insisted they find Patrick. When first receiving this, he had no desire to give this person any space in his life however, as time has passed and he has softened, the line of communication has been reopened. Never too wide and never for too long, but every so often Patrick checks in with them, asks about their family. After all, they’re all the family he has left.

After years and years of working and saving, Patrick finally had enough to pursue his dream since high school - opening a boxing gym. He named it Rose’s Gym, after his mother and worked tirelessly to open it. After another year of renovations, equipment purchasing, interviewing for staff, and everything else that comes along with opening a business, Patrick kept himself quite busy.

It’s been a few years now and Rose’s Gym is as successful as ever. He’s well known with high schools and therapists in town and often gets the ‘troublemakers’ referred to his after-school program called Fight the Fury - corny, he knows. He’s managed to buy a house in Jackson Hill, an older two-story that has so much character his mother would probably worry about ghosts haunting its walls.