#pretentious drunken poetry from

[masterofd1saster]

CJ free speech - fantastic essay by Matt Taibbi

is one of the best essays I've ever seen on free speech.

Saying no is very American. From “Don’t Tread on Me!” to “Nuts” to “You Cannot Be Serious!,” defiance is in our DNA. Now disagreement is seen as a threat, and according to John Kerry, must be “hammered out of existence.” The former presidential candidate just complained at a World Economic Forum meeting that “it’s really hard to govern” and “our First Amendment stands as a major block” to the important work of hammering out unhealthy choices. In the open he said this! I was telling Tim Pool about this backstage, and he asked, “Was black ooze coming out of his mouth?” Kerry added that it’s “really hard to build consensus,” and told forum members they need to “win the right to govern” and “be free to implement change.” What do they need to be free of? The First Amendment, yes, but more importantly: us. Complainers. That’s our shared experience. We are obstacles to consensus.

***

Let me pause to say something about America’s current intellectual class, from which the “anti-disinformation” complex comes. By the way: There are no working-class censors, poor censors, hungry censors. The dirty secret of “content moderation” everywhere is that it’s a tiny sliver of the educated rich correcting everyone else. It’s telling people what fork to use, but you can get a degree in it. America has the most useless aristocrats in history. Even the French dandies marched to the razor by the Jacobins were towering specimens of humanity compared to the Michael Haydens, John Brennans, James Clappers, Mike McFauls, and Rick Stengels who make up America’s self-appointed behavior police. In prerevolutionary France, even the most drunken, depraved, debauched libertine had to be prepared to back up an insolent act with a sword duel to the death. Our aristocrats pee themselves at the sight of mean tweets. They have no honor, no belief, no poetry, art, or humor, no patriotism, no loyalty, no dreams, and no accomplishments. They’re simultaneously illiterate and pretentious, which is very hard to pull off.

***

Thomas Paine’s central message was that the humblest farmer was a towering moral giant compared to the invertebrate scum who wore crowns and lived in British castles. Common Sense told us to stand up straight. Never bow, especially not to a politician, because as Paine explained—I want you to think of Kerry and Hayden and Cheney here—“Men who look upon themselves as born to reign, and others to obey. . . are frequently the most ignorant and unfit of any throughout the dominions.” Oscar Wilde noted ours was the only country in the world where being a kook was respectable. Every other country shunned the tinkerer or mad inventor and cheerfully donated them to us, turbocharging our American experiment. We welcomed crazy, and the world has light bulbs, the telephone, movies, airplanes, submarines, the internet, false teeth, the Colt .45, rock and roll, hip-hop, and monster dunks as a result. 

***

To all those snoops and nosy parkers sitting in their Homeland Security–funded “Centers of Excellence,” telling us day after day we must think as they say and vote as they say or else we’re traitorous Putin-loving fascists and enablers of “dangerous” disinformation: Motherfucker, I’m an American. That shit does not work on me. And how can you impugn my patriotism, when you’re sitting in Klaus Schwab’s lap, apologizing for the First Amendment to a crowd of Europeans? Look in the mirror.  I’m not the problem. We’re not the problem. You’re the problem.  You suck. Thank you.

Get on your feet and give Matt a standing ovation.

[tangiblejournal56]

8/14/11

My occasional run-ins with the Caveman grow more & more surreal, as though he was a joke being played on me by faces I cannot see.  Yesterday he showed me his “poetry,” unrelievedly awful, kept importantly in a black portfolio in his backpack.  I skimmed over them quickly, wanting to yell at him that words have meaning, they require attention, care.  Instead I mumbled “interesting,” the most benign adjective I could spit out.  Unable to be cruel, yet I could not bring myself to encourage such a waste of paper.  My coldness, another anecdote to bring home to Jacob.  We all must have someone to feel superior to, it seems.  I am no better.

I am over my delusions that Jacob may hold any feelings stronger than friendly endearment toward me.  I was reading signs that weren’t there, gestures hollow that my loneliness attempted to breathe life into.  With Josh out of town last night I played about with Jacob, drinking whiskey, smoking pot, trying to put a haze between my thoughts & myself.  We went swimming, we laid on my bed watching a bootleg of the latest Harry Potter film (of Jacob’s interest, not my own).  On the living room floor we wrestled, I was smothering him with a pillow, as I enjoy doing, being silly to make him laugh, “Pay attention to me Jacob!  I want attention!”  I was sitting atop his splayed body & I could feel his erection smacking against my ass through the thin material of his pajama bottoms, & suddenly he thrust me off of him, “I don’t want to be strangled anymore,” keeping a casual tone.  I pouted at him, “It’s not fun without you,” & he looked at me, “Strangle yourself,” his phrasing ripe with innuendo.  It was then that I got it.  If there is a real attraction there he does not want to feel it.  So familiar with that situation I let it go.  Who am I to insist on anything better?

Alone, I went to my bed, “strangling myself,” & as he does when my loneliness gets the best of me, Ryan popped up in my head.  Not strictly the sexual moments I sometimes revisit for these purposes, but a whole series of memories like snapshots zipping through my mind, razor-sharp & dangerous.  His head on my lap as I read to him from House of Incest & the legends of the greek gods.  Him sitting on my lap in the arcade at Double Dave’s.  In the cabin at Wildlife Ridge, the blanket concealing our sex as the others flitted in & out of the cabin.  Slow dancing alone in our apartment to Toussaint McCall.  Coming home to tell me he’d gotten hard just thinking of me at work & had to hide his erection.  Making out like two teenagers for hours on our tiny couch.  These memories like very sharp knives slicing into every part of me, & I the girl mad as birds, crying & masturbating alone in the dark.  This city is no good for me any longer.  I used to feel myself growing here like a tree, adding new limbs & leaves for every new experience.  Now however there is only stagnation, a putrid rot on the surface of every day, & I am haunted by Ryan’s ghost everywhere I go.  I am not strong, I am too weak to fight the soft decay of my limbs, my mind.  I sink each day further into misery, & even Josh & Jacob cannot pull me out of it.  I hide this self from them, I am not their responsibility & I have no desire to make them feel bad that I cannot be happy here.  I relate all of this only to Max, who probably tires of hearing it, as he seems to be doing alright since I left.  No more injured ankles, slowing down his drunken revelries.  I fear somewhat dramatically that I may never be happy, anywhere, again.  Not with the whisper of the happiness I’d found with Ryan hanging over me.  Over four years have passed since I met him.  Over two since I’ve last seen him.  When does it end?  Why can’t I get past this?  Thom told me he’d always found Ryan to be pretentious, & that bothered me, even now.  I could tell he was only trying to help, to stretch for a flaw to make Ryan seem undesirable, but pretentiousness was never a presence in Ryan’s character.  He was accepting & curious of all lifestyles & traits, he always wanted to know how others live.  Perhaps that’s why it’s so hard to rebound, because I honestly cannot say he is a bad or even unlikeable person.  Even Thom liked him, despite his opinion now.  He is funny & clever & charismatic, no prejudices.  He’s intelligent & outgoing, inventive, sarcastic, has a way of making you feel important, all of his attention on you & you alone like the sun’s rays pouring golden upon your form.  Loving & romantic & sexy, those heavy-lidded chocolate eyes the ultimate aphrodisiac, the half-smile & low, lazy voice when we’d make love like gods, all morning, all afternoon, into the evenings.  Pulling up the blankets, the pillows, pretending he was searching for something, “Where are your flaws, I can’t find them!”  Laughing, he’d collapse next to me, his head on my chest, his arms around me tight as he could.  The fire burning in me for those moments, that undiluted flow of love.  Something I’d never known even existed, didn’t even know what was there to long for.  I was lucky, when would a girl like me ever be loved like that?  Should I wish that it had never happened, so that I may still be blissfully ignorant of that attention?  But I cannot, even now knowing how short-lived his love is, how easily he can give into the next girl who comes along.  This does not make it any less genuine, or make what we had any less real.  I cannot even hate him for it, he simply gives all of himself in any relationship, he lives fully in life.  How can he do this again & again amazes me, as just the one time it exhausted me, physically, mentally.  I am unable to pour myself into every person I am with, I’d perish from the strain.  He & Max are the only two men I’ve ever fully loved, without question, & Ryan is the only person I’ve given myself to.  Handed over the keys & trusted him not to throw them away.  Instead we threw each other away, burned through decades of love & experience in less than two years.  I miss it, yes, but often I miss him, just him, his own self as a fact, so easy to enjoy life with.  The way I miss Shawn, or Thom, someone to find fun in anything.  He was not only capable of easing my blues, he chased them off like he’d waged war.  A war I suppose he lost.  Both of us.

[megabadbunny]

I want to feel like this for ever

I am terribly drunk

And it is

Amazing

[omphalos]

Chapters: 18/18 Fandom: 魔道祖师 - 墨香铜臭 | Módào Zǔshī - Mòxiāng Tóngxiù, 陈情令 | The Untamed (TV) Rating: Mature Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín/Lán Huàn | Lán Xīchén Characters: Jiang Cheng | Jiang Wanyin, Lan Huan | Lan Xichen, Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian, Jin Ling | Jin Rulan, Lan Zhan | Lan Wangji, Lan Qiren, Lan Jingyi, Lan Yuan | Lan Sizhui, Nie Huaisang, Original Characters Additional Tags: Background Relationships, Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín & Wèi Yīng | Wèi Wúxiàn Reconciliation, Angst with a Happy Ending, Drunkenness, Part Epistolary, Mental Health Issues, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, past xiyao, Demisexual Jiāng Chéng | Jiāng Wǎnyín, Healing, Blatant Plot Device, Post-Canon, pretentious titles taken from ancient Chinese poetry, too much use of Pinyin, Footnotes, CQL-heavy multicanon, British English Summary:

Lan Xichen is a broken man no longer able to trust his own judgement. Jiang Wanyin was broken long ago, and he healed... badly. The cultivation world is off-balance, and it hasn't gone unnoticed.

In the middle of an icy winter, a comet appears in the sky. Is it a warning? A celestial dragon? Have the gods, weary of waiting for cultivators to sort out their own mess, decided to take action?

Over the course of three seasons, the two sect leaders are forced closer as they attempt to appease the gods and rebalance their land. Perhaps, in the course of their adventures, they will also find a way to rebalance themselves.

TLDR: In which a fiery plot device in the sky forces two lonely, broken men to sort their shit out and find everything they'd been lacking in each other.

[steamedtangerine]

Rhonda Barbee (RIP)

This Memorial Weekend I’ve focused on some out-of-the-ordinary personalities who have passed on that I never got to meet from Boston and New York (Mr. Butch, Walter Monheit), but now I want to focus on one I did meet and was a neighbor of mine and who was a regular co-fixture at many venues in the Detroit area.

When I came to the porch of the punk rock house one afternoon in 1993, there was the entire gang enjoying the summer sun starting to sink behind the buildings. They were yakking it up with a neighbor-one they were all too amused in having me meet for the first time.

Within five minutes of meeting Rhonda (who was well into a 40 oz. of Mickeys she was openly chugging), she eyed me, and proceeded to ask if I wanted to see her boobies. When I declined, she launched into “Oh, c’mon, I know you want to.” and then began to hump me most vigorously. My attempts to detach myself (as was my normal custom when being sexually assaulted by a stranger I just met) only elicited more laughs from the guys on the porch loving this spectacle.

Rhonda Barbee was a close friend of one of the residents at the punk rock house. They were in Communist Youth Brigade together (but both left after they saw too much of a rise of people showing up who got way too fundamental and started superficially cheering things on too dogmatically with cringe-worthy sloganeering). They remained misfit nighttime marauders and drinking buddies, sometimes hopping from bar to seedy bar and ending up at the infamous Red Door afterhours. Although Rhonda often identified as “lesbian”, often we wondered if any drinking benders between her and her former-Commie buddy (later to become my roommate) ever resulted in any spicy scandals.

Rhonda later became my neighbor in late 93′. Though I never associated much with the other side of the huge brownstone we all occupied on Alexandrine St. (there was a dang good reason measures were taken to have the landlord seal off all connecting passages from one side of the house with the other), we sometimes could hear Rhonda’s raucous laughter come from the walls. Mocking her in return, we could then expect her to pound the wall with a surly “Shaddup!”.

The one time I did “crossover to the other side”, one of my roommates and I succumb to heavy drinking (and other excesses) while we watched in amusement Rhonda openly growling at some bubbly pretentious hippie coke-bimbo (who had some simple-minded over-opinionated ideals of “how the world could be a better place”) how much she “hated her guts” from across the coffeetable stained with spilled liquor, marijuana seeds, and “Devil’s Dandruff” (yeah, we had very low patience for clueless hippies back in the 90′s).

When Zoot’s Coffeehouse opened, my roommate was one of the first to land a job there (along with his close friend Toby, who sadly was the first casualty of our crew-a tragic suicide that affected many people’s lives). Rhonda, naturally became a regular porch-dweller-sometimes drinking, sometimes concocting new schemes to tear the evening up, sometimes planning her next road-trip, or sometimes letting Chico, the Super from the nearby Blackstone (or Crackstone, as we called it), rile her up with his brazen overtures (she can be just as harassed as she was a harasser).

Beneath her “I-don’-give-a-fuck” punk rock exterior lurked an intellectual and lover of all things eccentric (perfect Tumblr material). There were many like that in that scene-drunken, raucous punks who inarticulately said “fuck-shit” all the time but were classical music majors or big into writing deep poetry. In Rhonda’s case, she wrote poetry and would occasionally participate in readings (under the name Rhokmi Barbi) with my roommate.

She even made a small punk zine that I have filed away with many of my friends’ other endeavors. Although I cannot print it in all of it’s splendor (what with all the articles dedicated to the Church of John Coltrane, her love of bagels, horoscopes, adult film reviews, etc.), here is a major portion of it:

I still love it and all that it represents of indie culture from the 90′s.

-and these photos of her that people posted on the Zoot’s Coffeehouse Show Archive on Facebook:

(her on the right)

Riding in the D

This glamor-shot, of course, on the porch of Zoot’s.

My favorite personal pic of me taking a picture of her taking a picture of me.

Rhonda at her most subdued was when I actually saw her dating a dude for close to a year (same guy also stayed in a very long-term committed relationship with an ex of mine); she got back into weed-smoking at that time, but it clearly kept her placated, and she had way too much energy to be living like that.

Around the turn-of-the-century, Rhonda became a Roadie and touring partner (and fellow on-stage go-go dancer) for the local burlesque punk band The Demolition Doll Rods. It must’ve been a strong high point in her life, as many noticed how full of life she was.

...however, Rhonda had a spark and a velocity about her that could not be contained. She had a lot of that Belushi energy about her. If one tried to admonish her too chill out and try to sober-up, she’d just scowl, say “yer’ no fun.”, and go find someone who would keep up with her self-destructive momentum.

...so, shortly after touring, Rhonda developed a horribly intense relationship with a toxic personality who moved to Detroit in 1994 (a person who supposedly died last year after stealing thousands of dollars from a company and getting caught). That person pushed Rhonda into heroin (a part-time issue that plagued her from time to time, but no where as bad until she chummed with this person). She had Rhonda trapped into a viscous cycle of spiraling her bad into her habit, and then, at the brink, would drop her off at rehab...as soon as Rhonda left rehab weeks later, she’d rope her back into the bad stuff again.

The last time I saw Rhonda alive was the third time I saw The Melvins at St. Andrew’s Hall. She was slow slam-dancing with her toxic buddy and me and my companion had to grab our drinks and dodge them while rolling our eyes.

Around early of 2003, we were told Rhonda was on the streets of Detroit turning tricks for her habit. That’s when we just knew it was out of our hands, and she may very well be dead soon.

It was around that time, that someone we knew who worked at the Wayne State University Mortuary Science Building (which used to be two doors down from the punk rock house and was the only thing keeping us “officially within Wayne State U boundaries”) was doing their usual task of taking pictures of the new Does that came in. When he pulled back the sheet of one, he dropped his camera....he knew this person. Rhonda had been found as an overdose case in an abandoned building. A needle was found lying near here. She also was without her pants and a used condom lay nearby.

Her funeral was one of the most awkward and cringe-worthy thing we ever experienced. Her family from the south (all hard-nosed Baptists) came up and sat on one side of the room, while all of Rhonda’s freaky friends from the Cass Corridor stayed to the other side. The service was hosted by the very toxic person who was edging Rhonda down that path, while she applied her usual trademark skills of diplomatically sporting a tin halo.

We felt an immense hostility from the family side wondering “how we can ever let this happen?” (while none of us was happy to see the host there narrating things). Most of us there never even fucked with heroin (including myself). Rhonda was a free spirit we could not subdue...she would have none of it. “How could any one of us stopped it?” would’ve been the better question? The choice to sober up always remained on her, and nobody could force her arm on that.

The wake afterwards was a beautiful collection of folks at an art gallery relating wonderful stories they recall of partying, traveling, taking part in activist events, or doing some side project with Rhonda.

People still reminisce fondly of Rhonda on the Zoot’s Coffeehouse Show Archive Facebook page.

If you have read all this so far, thank you. 17 years is a long time to not elaborate about the passing of one who shown so bright. I most especially wanted to share most of that zine she made. I hope there’s something constructive you can take away from all of this.

Maybe that’s what Memorial Days are for.

[theblobmaster]

first part fic rec: got7

GOT7/JJP

(very unfinished js)

the ones with hearts are favourites :)

All In A Day’s Work | Multiple Pairings, Youngjae-Centric | 2.749w

Youngjae woke up one morning to the feeling of sweat trickling down his back. Considering he was on his side, it was not a comfortable feeling.

Definite Soul | JJ Project | 81.467w

In this world, people just wants to be acknowledged. Praised for their acting. Applauded for their singing. Or just by doing their job well. But a select few just want to be remembered.

Wilder | JJ Project | 76.619w

Newly graduated, Jinyoung is determined to try new things. New parties, new boys, and when Mark asks for a favor, even volunteering as a counselor at summer camp. But new experiences can get complicated, and he quickly finds himself a little out of his depth.

the grandfather paradox | JJ Project | 32.822w | ♥

Jaebum locks himself in a cyclic normalcy of work, home, life, and the two people he now loves most in the world- his husband Jinyoung and six-year-old son Yugyeom. So when a mysterious teenager shows up in his life and messes all that up, to say that he's just a little displeased by the change would be an understatement. But Jaebum soon discovers there's more to this quiet, truthful boy than meets the eye, and knows that he has just about four days to find out why.

tea lights | Mark/Jackson | 72.146w

in his first year of high school, jackson joins the astronomy club and meets a quiet, star-loving boy called mark.

pushing daisies | JJ Project | 68.639w

in which jaebum insists he's never seen jinyoung before, and jinyoung insists he doesn't care, and the beginning of spring is late, but there are flowers everywhere.

hooked | JJ Project | Ongoing | ♥

Jinri is one of the newest cast members of We Got Married. Jaebum, of course, is Completely Fine With This. (Coed GOT7 AU)

you have stolen (me heart) | JJ Project | 13.275w

In retrospect, maybe a stripper would have been a better alternative to getting a hybrid as a pet.

read you like a magazine | JJ Project | 42.515w | ♥

Ever since Jaebum passed auditions and he didn't, Jinyoung's been hell-bent on hating the guy. Now that they're in uni together, it's like destiny is screwing up all of his plans.

Better Late Than Never | JJ Project | 45.302w

An AU in which Jinyoung and Jaebum are both pretentious rich boys who go to a prestigious college. All their lives they've hated each other, constantly competing for attention and approval from each other's parents and peers and just generally despising each other. But when Jaebum suddenly disappears in high school, Jinyoung doesn't have to worry about him anymore--until Jaebum shows up at Jinyoung's college five years later and everything goes straight to hell. Disastrous photoshoots, drunken camaraderie, and aggressive makeout sessions.

Of douchebags and pretty boys | JJ Project | 7.151w

You steal my parking spot all the time and I was just heading out to leave a strongly worded note under your windshield wiper but oh no you're hot AU Starring Jinyoung the kindergarten teacher and Jaebum the (arrogant yet dorky) business man

we never go (out of style) | JJ Project | 5.027w

(you’ve got that james deen daydream look in your eyes)

Jinyoung and Jaebum don’t have bad blood, you heard it here first

soloist!JB and actor!Jr au

Mark of the Monster | Jackson/Mark | 11.192w

Jackson turns quickly, face still skywards, and he watches with fascination as Mark takes off. He's not sure he's ever seen anything more beautiful.

Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters/X-Men AU

This Christmas (I’ll give you my heart) | JJ Project | 33.736w

Jaebum and Jinyoung have a fight at the supermarket in the morning. Jaebum and Jinyoung find out they're arranged to be married in the evening. Jaebum and Jinyoung fall in love, but only in time.

OR

Shouting match over the last Christmas goose at the grocery store AU

yellow heart | JJ Project | 1.813w

there are quite a lot of mistakes a person can make when people shift up and down their snapchat best friends list, and it happens by chance that jackson fucks up the order on jinyoung’s phone by sending him endless videos of himself lip-syncing to old pop songs.

aka au where jinyoung sends jaebum nudes by accident

(why don’t you) speak it out loud | JJ Project | 9.477w | ♥

either way, jaebum suffers.

write your story | JJ Project | 3.505w

"Do you ever stop and worry sometimes about what would happen if you suddenly get hit by a car, and when you lay there bleeding out on the ground, the first thing anyone sees on your phone is a lesbian OT3 fic from the kink meme," Bambam wonders.

"No," says Jinyoung, because the thing he worries about the most isn't lesbian porn, but of anyone finding his growing collection of Jaebum's dick pics accumulated over the years. "I don't."

Or: a fandom/fic writer AU.

How to Get a Dick Pic in Five Steps | Mark/Jackson | 3.221w

It was three weeks since Mark hooked up with a guy he's been nonstop texting. With some pressuring from his asshole friends and a helpful five step list from Youngjae, Mark gets a dick pic.

keep it upstairs (for the grand finale) | Hyung-Line | 6.201w

Jaebum sees romantic, sexual, all and any other partners - Jaebum has always seen them as point a or point b, as parallel lines, separate entities. You pick one or you pick the other.

Jinyoung, on the other hand, puts point a and point b in a circle together, Jinyoung draws lines that criss and cross. Jinyoung pushes people together until they fuse. An alchemist creating something new.

king missile | multiple pairings | 6.721w

Jaebum and Jinyoung returned to the study room only to see five crying boys in front of them. Bambam was on his hands and knees, bowing repeatedly to a screaming Mark, who was being held back by Jackson.

Yugyeom was shaking underneath the table, cradling his head in his arms as he rocked back and forth. Youngjae was face down, another sticky note on his forehead which read, “He’s dead, I killed him.”

or: They have a group project final that everyone forgot about.

The Line That Separates Us | JJ Project | 19.659w

When Jinyoung turns eleven he can't wait to join his best friend Jaebum at Hogwarts. He isn't expecting something as trivial as being sorted into a different house to divide them.

opportunity cost | JJ Project | 4.377w | ♥

kim yugyeom, 25, is PA to park jinyoung, 29, feared ceo of park powers (this sounds marginally less ridiculous in korean). a lot more intellectually insulting and ghei than it sounds.

Love So Sweet | JJ Project | 6.763w

Jinyoung has a secret admirer that leaves him candies with messages on it. All he wants to do is to find out who it is, thank them for the affection, reject their feelings and then go back to thinking of Im Jaebum 24/7.

look  at me for a sec (don’t be too awkward) | JJ Project | 10.021w

in which a bludger shatters jinyoung's shoulder and jaebum ends up volunteering to feed him breakfast.

when i was a young boy | JJ Project | 8.011w

Gryffindors and Slytherins Do Not get along, every one knows this. It's bit unfortunate for Jinyoung and Jaebum, childhood friends sorted into the two rival houses.

Jaebum might not handle it very well.

(Alternately: Jaebum makes overdramatic generalisations and probably writes angsty early teen poetry.)

Untitled | JJ Project | 9.7K w | ♥

Flirting through the drive through radio

[anterocash]

October 5th, 2020

It sounded like a cool idea. He had been laying in the hospital bed watching television, someone had a house and a restaurant underneath it on whatever he was watching and it just seemed so damn cool. Cash wasn’t looking for a payday when his accident happened. He was on the way to the movies with some friends and he has shitty luck. He wasn’t going to say no when the regretful parents of the jackass who rammed his car into a street light decided the only way to make peace with themselves was to give him their dead son’s inheritance since he didn’t have any use for it.

After being touted around for more checks, he had enough to turn his gifted building into his dream, something even better than what he saw on the TV the year prior, and now he was finally going to enjoy the fruits of his labor, some of it. He had to let the professionals do what they do best, after the dustpan was put to the side, Cash hired his fleet of employees and opened Bean Through Coffeehouse, a few hiccups but things were settling into a rhythm and work was going good.

People were showing up, he was learning more about the neighborhood. Hongdae was the perfect place to open a coffeehouse, with all the university students living off of caffeine and needing the wifi for their studies, there was always someone in a seat so there was always business to be had and Cash didn’t mind keeping the place open late, he was learning how to cook and bake along with the whole coffee making and the mechanics of what along with it. Being near the University meant parties and parties meant drunken early twenty-somethings causing a ruckus outside after a certain period of time once the sun went down and Cash was adapting to the noise, he didn’t mind it, he’s never been too fond of silence, even when he’s alone. He prefers some sort of noise whether it’s music or TV or his video games or a movie.

A productive Friday night was underway when he went to take the trash out. Wiping his hands, he slipped a joint between his lips he rolled minutes prior and lit it, the smoke filling his mouth as he listened to the kids out on the main road outside the different venues that neighbored his building, ashing the joint, he sighs as he turns, he can’t stay out there too long, he’s got croissants in the oven. “Who the hell am I?” He chuckled out loud, taking another hit before putting the joint out to finish later, turning towards the alley again, it happened pretty fast, something hard and cold hits him in the back of the head, his hat being the only thing separating his head and… a can of Cass? Before he can properly turn around he’s being shoved and he whips around to see what the hell is going on when he sees his face.  

Cash has only met Ryu Hwan once, it was an awkward dinner: Larry brought Cash to their house, introducing him to Ryu Hwan and his mother, he ate a lot and spoke very little, leaving Larry to man the conversation as he always has, ignoring the tension in the air.

“Hyung,” Ryu Hwan slurs, pushing at his chest once more.

Cash pushes his hands off him. “Don’t call me that — are you even old enough to drink?” Ryu Hwan sucks his teeth, “fuck you! I’m twenty-two years old. And what’s the matter, dad teach you not to claim me either? Why am I not surprised? What’s so great about you anyway huh?” He shoves at Cash again, who’s feet are planted firmly on the pavement but he doesn’t fight the younger man off, “I’m handsome, smart… he pays my tuition so he knows I got into university, I’ve stayed out of trouble my whole life —“

Larry’s lifestyle and personal choices have always been a topic that Cash doesn’t touch, he’s learned some from the man himself and a lot from just being around the literary world, Larry’s philandering ways aren’t a secret, it’s the reminders scattered around the world that are… to an extent. All Cash knows is that Larry and Ryu Hwan’s mother don’t have the best relationship and Larry really didn’t want anything to do with her and he painted the picture that she felt the same way about him, that doesn’t mean Ryu Hwan had to suffer because of it, Cash doesn’t feel like he’s involved but great, Larry roped him into it.

Ryu Hwan doesn’t expect an answer, he doesn’t give Cash the chance to give one as he continues, “you never said why he likes you so much. You really aren’t that great of a writer. You’re an oversized pretentious fuckwad who can’t keep it in his pants. Is that it? The beauty of the internet right? Girls love to kiss and tell on there.”

“You don’t know me —“

“Oh, but I do, Mr. Anterograded Skies, you might be able to con your legion of idiot fangirls on the internet but I see right through your shitty poetry and your crappy book, I wouldn’t be surprised if he bought your place on the list— “

“Why are you so fixated on me? He’s just my agent.”

“Tell me, hyung. Why did our dad say you’re the son he’s never had when he’s had one this whole time?”

Cash finally swats Ryu Hwan’s hands away. “I am not your enemy.” Not voluntarily at least. How can Cash fix this? Larry won’t but Cash can try.

The sound of the door opening breaks them both from their thoughts, turning to see at the same time, Kiha walking out into the alley eyeing them both suspiciously. “Uh, Won? The oven stopped and you’ve been out here for a while, I thought maybe that girl you were talking to at the counter was back here and I didn’t want to get in your way but when the oven beeped twice I took your croissants out before they burned the building down and wanted to come and check on you.”

Ryu Hwan opens his mouth to speak and Cash cuts him off, “we were just talking, thanks man, I’ll be back in a second.”

“Are you sure everything is okay?” It’s clear in the lit alley how drunk Ryu Hwan is and while Cash has them both beat in height, Kiha has shown countless times how fast his reflexes are working with a klutz like Cash.

“I said it’s fine --”

Ryu Hwan promptly bends over and vomits on the pavement between the three of them and when he stops he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, stands up straight, looks between a silent Cash and Kiha, and takes off running in the direction he had come from. Cash sighs, rolling his shoulders into a slouch as he relights his joint. “Let’s not talk about this?” He suggests.

“Talk about what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

[captainpoopweinersoldier]

Any KYS head canons when it comes to Sigurd? Aside from constantly butting heads with Ivar and starting drunken arguments?

Sigurd I kind of base off of that pretentious theater kid who wears a scarf indoors and is just like “oh, you mean you can’t quote Hamlet? What are you, poor?” *puffs on an american spirit*

He plays guitar and jams to 70′s rock music, will judge you if you enjoy Green Day beyond the year 2004. 

He smokes a lot of pot, burns a lot of incense. If you go in his bedroom, the ceilings are draped in psychedelic-esq tapestries. 

He really doesn’t like working for the family business. If he ever has to go on a job, he tags along with Hvitserk because he doesn’t like getting his hands dirty. He’ll mostly stick to rent collections because he’d rather count stacks of money.

He’s great at math and writes his own music and poetry. Wants to be a self employed musician, specifically for theater.

He’s pansexual. Not outed to his family, though.

The ‘neglect’ he received from Aslaug has made him a bit of a misogynist. If you don’t meet his standard of woman, he will think you’re bound to be a ‘homewrecker like she was’. 

He’s not very athletically inclined, but does love to watch sports. He’s the type to bring a knitted blanket to the field, plop down on the sidelines with some snacks and a rack of IPA’s and watch a game. If Hvitserk was ever participating, Sigurd especially would always attend. 

Him and Ragnar didn’t bond well too frequently. Mostly because they had different interests - Ragnar would try to take him to the docks and teach him how to fish, sail or navigate and Sigurd would stuff his face in a book the whole time.

Sigurd is a foodie. He likes to go to the new hip places in Copenhagen and is a stickler for leaving reviews.

He, like Ivar, has OCPD. This also causes a lot of conflict between them because they can’t ever agree on their own requirements. Their bedrooms are on total opposite sides - and on different floors - of the house so they can avoid intruding each other’s space at all costs. 

He loves animals. He always wants to adopt pets but no one in the household really has the time to care for them. 

He’s quite bratty, and very needy, so he tends not to go out with the other brothers on social occasions because he doesn’t like being in their shadow. He likes to have his own clique from the choir or theater where he can feel like he’s most important.

And he does have an excellent singing voice.

But yes, a wee bit of a drinking problem there. He craves attention and has no real sense of loyalty. 

[likesolastalgia]

black sails thoughts

I’ve been OBSESSED with Black Sails, so I wrote a little fanfic which is pretty terrible because i’m bad at writing anything that isn’t pretentious poetry. Sorry.

--

Sober, James thinks that Thomas Hamilton is brilliant. He is safe and warm and his presence is a soft glow that brightens the ridged structure of James’ mind. Drunk, he believes that Thomas should own the goddamn world.

It’s late, much too late for a polite social call, but the Hamiltons have never been strict on propriety and maybe if he clasps his arms tight enough behind his back no one will notice how his hands are shaking, or the bruises on his knuckles. They’re definitely going to notice the swelling around his eye, but there’s not much he can do about that now.

The man who opened the door had given him a strange look, and now, staring blankly at the bookshelf behind Thomas’ desk, James can’t help but agree that he’s horribly out of place here. His anger has no place in this lavish household full of hopeful people, it is too much and too little all at once. They deserve so much more than he can give.

“James! I’m sorry you had to wait, I wasn’t expecting you tonight.” He turns, sees Thomas’s smile slide off his face. Then, “What happened?”  

Thomas is at his side, there are gentle fingers turning his head, ghosting over the swelling at the side of his face and James squeezes his eyes shut against the concern, the scrutiny. “They were talking about you,” he says finally. His voice sounds rough, too loud inside his own head. “I asked them to stop.”

He unclasps his hands, brings them up between them, shows Thomas the newly formed scabs on his knuckles and immediately wishes he could hide them away again when the worry lines in his forehead deepen. “I asked them…in a manner of speaking.”

There’s a little smile Thomas gives him, whenever he’s amused by something that he knows he shouldn’t be. James sees a ghost of that smile now, as he brings James’ hand to his lips, kisses the bruises.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Thomas turns his hand over and murmurs into his palm, “They’re always going to talk. I knew that from the moment I tried to change anything, they would fight against it.”

James looks up at him, into Thomas’ eyes, bright blue in the dark, the curve of his jaw, the quirk of his mouth. “But they shouldn’t fight you, it’s not right. They don’t even know you!” The words are wrong, not exactly what he means to say in the face of Thomas’ eloquence, but his hands are shaking again and he’s pretty sure he gets the meaning across because there’s a soft hitch of breath in his ear as Thomas’ arms fold around him.

There’s a hand at the base of his neck, long fingers running through his hair, and Thomas is murmuring platitudes into the quiet space between them. James feels the adrenaline slowly drain out of him, until all he’s left with is a soft pulse of pain in his head and the warmth of Thomas’ skin beneath his own.

He presses a kiss to the side of Thomas’s neck. “Next time I promise I won’t be…” A drunken mess? So in love he could barely breathe? On the losing side of a bar fight? “So obvious about it.”

Arms tighten around him and there’s a reluctant smile in Thomas’ voice when he speaks. “I think you’ve fought for my honor quite enough for one day.”

“Let’s go to bed.” 

[kane-and-griffin]

dear kabby mom, how do I make my broken heart stop hurting? I fell in love with a girl who I thought was falling back for me too....but now I don't think so anymore. this sucks.

Oh, my sweetsad baby.  

It does suck. 

It absolutely sucks. 

There is nothing I can say that will makethat not true.  There is nothing anyonecan say or do that will make it suck any less except time.

 And I know that’s not the answer you want tohear, that’s not the answer anyone wants to hear, because it doesn’t fixanything right now.  It doesn’t save youfrom having to go through the thing you have to go through right now.  It doesn’t make any of the things that hurtright now any less painful to know that in ten years (or five years) (or sixmonths) this will all feel different. It’s the truest thing that I have to tell you, but I also know thatit is in some degree useless to you right now.

You say thatyou think she doesn’t have feelings for you. Have you talked to her?  Have youdone the excruciating and mortifying and emotionally naked thingwhere you open up your heart to someone without any idea what will happennext?  Maybe you don’t need to ask; maybeyou know already.  Maybe she likessomeone else.  Maybe her feelings aboutyou are platonic and she’s made that clear. But if there’s gray area – if there’s a piece of your heart or mind that’sstill whispering, “But maybe, but maybe …” – maybe with a little time,maybe she’ll change her mind, maybe she’ll see you differently in a year, maybeit won’t work out with the girl she’s dating now – then it might be helpful tosay it out loud, to stop the “But Maybe” train in its tracks before it derails you.  Sometimes you can’t let go andput it behind you until you’ve heard the real “No.”  Until the bubble has been burst.  I don’t know your situation, but I know morethan once in my life that’s been true for me. I knew I’d hold onto unreasonably stubborn optimism, willfullymisinterpreting whatever they said as a “sign,” until I finally got up thecourage to just say it out loud, get my heart smashed into a hundred tiny pieces, pick them up, and keep walking.  It was miserable but it was also the only way forward. 

And you, baby, need to figure out what youneed to move forward.

You’re feeling big things right now, and you need to use whateverhealthy outlets are available to you to start processing them.  Cry to your friends.  Write, draw, sing.  Make sad playlists, watch sad movies.  Swap stories with the peoplein your life about their heartbreaks, to remind yourself that you’re notexperiencing this alone.  Eat goodchocolate.  Go for walks.  Breathe fresh air.  Stay busy. Spend time with as many good dogs and adorable non-annoying children asyou can find.  Dogs and children do notlet you get away with wallowing.  They will absolutely force you to remember that you are alive.

What youabsolutely must under no circumstances do is let heartbreak feed intoobsession.  Don’t check her social mediaa hundred times a day to think about all the other people she might choose whenshe didn’t choose you, or how much fun she’s having doing things you wish shewas doing with you instead, but isn’t.  Don’t useher to process the emotions you need to process, even if she’s yourfriend.  Do not make her responsible foryour broken heart.  Do not punish her, orany future person she dates, for the fact that she didn’t choose you.  If you need to vent these feelings do them quietlyand privately with your closest most trustworthy friends.  Never publicly, and never to her.  Do not vagueblog or subtweet in a forum whereshe might see it, and know, and feel terrible. You have every right to process every inch of the feelings that you’refeeling but you owe it to her to make sure you do it in a respectful way. 

She has not done anything wrong. 

No one here has done anything wrong.  

The first timeI realized I had feelings for someone who didn’t have them back I wastwelve.  The first time I told someone Ihad feelings for them and they didn’t say it back to me, I was twenty.  The most recent time was just last year.  

Once I showedup at a girl’s house for a brunch date and her drunken hookup from the night before answered the door, but I was too polite to bolt so we just satthere eating our eggs and pretending it wasn’t awkward and I was just there because the girl and I were just friends.

Once in highschool I told the tall beautiful blonde star of the basketball team who satnext to me in algebra and with whom I had been silently smitten all year thatshe had beautiful eyes, and when she gave me a weird look I got up and ran outof the room and pretended like I just needed to get something from mylocker.  

Once I didn’trealize that the date I was on wasn’t a date and that the girl was straightuntil I tried to kiss her, at which point she backed away in horror and neithershe nor her friends ever spoke to me again. She lives in my city now and once six years ago we were at a partytogether and even though at that point it had been close to a decade since theincident, she still never came anywhere near me.

I’ve hadfriendships end over this.  I’ve hadfriendships grow ten times as strong over this. I’m thirty-five and I’ve been in the place you’re currently in moretimes than I can count, and the only thing I can tell you from where I’msitting right now which might be in any way helpful is that the thing you areexperiencing is universal. 

Everyone thatyou know has been through this at least once. Some people have been on both sides of it.  All of us have been there.  All of us have been there.  Everyone you love and admire, everyone youthink is tough and strong, everyone you think never lets their feelings get tothem or who you’ve never seen cry, everyone who’s in a relationship of whichyou’re secretly envious because you assume the fact that they’re happy nowmeans they’ve never known what it’s like to be unhappy.  All of us. All of us.  We’re all right herewith you.  And what that means is that weall survived it. 

And you will too.  I promise, baby.  You will too. You’re experiencing one of those things that poets write about.  You’ll listen to melancholy love songs andwatch sad movies differently from now on. You know a thing now about your heart that you didn’t know before, andit’s beautiful and terrible and there will be times that you will probably wishfor it to disappear.

But please don’t.  

Let me tellyou why.

When I was akid, I was quiet and awkward and introverted and shy, and kept everythinginside.  I began to come out of my shella little bit in high school, but I didn’t really blossom until college, when Ifinally found my people, and suddenly it was like I was Dorothy moving from ablack-and-white world to a Technicolor one. I was in love with everything and everyone.  I was in love with the pretentious gayphilosophy major who lived downstairs and I was in love with the blondesorority girl down the hall who is now a major writer for Buzzfeed and I was inlove with anyone who would stay up with me until the sun rose, sitting in thedorm lounge and talking about books.  Ihad this big colorful soft squishy heart that I’d kept hidden my whole life and I justwanted to give it to someone, but every experience was new, so I gave it toeveryone, and because it was all new to me, I had no defense mechanisms to protect myself or avoid getting hurt.  I was forever falling forpeople who didn’t want me back and breaking my own heart and crying and feelingdevastated and writing terrible poetry and being afraid I’d never feel anythingever again.  But hearts are elastic, they bounce back when we let them, they’re made for love and if you just give them alittle time they’ll heal and move on to somebody else.

Then when Iwas twenty-four, my mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness, andI shut down.

The only way Icould cope with the panic and the grief was to force myself not to feelit.  I knew my mother was not fine, but Itold myself over and over that she would be. I knew that I was not fine, but I told myself over and over that Iwas.  Sometimes when I was alone at nightI would feel it, this huge dark cloud thing hovering over me, and I would feelmyself, very firmly, very carefully, shoving it back down into a box andlocking it up.  It was an almost physicalsensation.  I can remember it vividly.  It was spectacularly unhealthy, but it wasalso the only way I could survive. 

Shedied when I was twenty-seven, and my clearest memory of that day, and of theperiod immediately after, was that I felt nothing.  I cried when I got the phone call from mydad, because of the shock.  I didn’t cryagain – about her, or about anything – for years.  I went from being someone who would burst into tears at, like, a Verizon commercial about grandparents, to someone who didn’t cry at her own mother’s funeral.  Some switch had flipped inside me, and it waslike the part of me that could feel things was just gone.  I lost three grandparents in the years aftermy mom died, and I sang at all their funerals, and I felt nothing.  I knew that I loved them, and I knew that this thing that was happening was sad, but I felt it in this very muffled, dim, distant, far-off way where ifyou had asked me if I was okay I would have told you that I was fine and Iwould have believed that to be perfectly true.

It wasterrible.

Grief made mysister more emotional – she cried a lot, she was more demonstrative, she wantedto process her feelings out loud – but it shut me down completely.  And it took that big sparkly heart full oflove for everybody with it.  I tried,every once in awhile, half-heartedly, to go out on an internet date, but I feltnothing.  I didn’t know then what “demisexual”meant, and that I’m simply not wired to sit across the table in a bar from atotal stranger and feel the things you’re supposed to feel in that situation; Ineed that emotional connection before any of the other stuff happens.  But I wasn’t able to form that emotionalconnection.  From time to time I mightfeel a fleeting spark of a wistful crush on the cute divorced older lady poetin my writing group, or develop complicated feelings for one of the revolvingdoor of tortured, dramatic, toxic artistic men that seem to be foreverpopulating my life, but it wasn’t the same. I spent ten years convinced that I was broken; that my mom’s death meantthat the part of me that knew how to feel things was dead too.  I would, at that moment, have givenabsolutely anything to be that heartbroken twenty-year-old sobbing over beingrejected by a pretty straight girl, because at least that Claire could feelthings.

It took me ten years for the switch to flip back on, for me to catch feelings for someone and then get my heart broken again, not that long ago, and it was so disorienting to be feeling things again after all that time, but I was really grateful too.  Because it meant that I wasn’t dead inside.  I was a person who could feel things again.

I’m tellingyou all of this because right now you are heartbroken, and in the depths ofyour pain you feel like this is a terrible thing to be, and you want to make itstop.  And I am here to tell you, yourheart will heal, because that is what hearts do when we give them permission;but in the midst of your heartbreak, remember to be grateful for the capacityto be heartbroken.  For the fact that youhave a breakable heart.  For the factthat you are the kind of person who loves big, even when you aren’t sure theother person is going to love you back. That’s the best kind of person to be.

You’re goingto be okay, cupcake.  I promise.  

[jjps]

My favourite JJP fics. [listography]

→ Citation ♡ {favourite}

When the one book he needs for an important term paper has to remain in the campus library, Jinyoung catches the eye of Jaebum, a library assistant.

→ I Fix Nothing, I Let It Go ♡ {favourite}

I wish you could die with me, Jinyoung definitely said. He had sighed and snuggled closer, slotting his jaw into the crook of his neck, placing himself like an ornament in a nook, content to stay hidden forever.

→ I Can Be What You Want ♡

Where Jinyoung's attempt in running away from his problems leads him to awkwardly meeting Jaebum and maybe, sort of, kind of falling in love with him.

→ Lavender Notes ♡

Two years later, jaebum is still in love with jinyoung.

→ Caramel Macchiato Days ♡

In his last year of high school, jaebum joins a band and falls in love with his best friend.

→ You Have Stolen (My Heart) ♡ {favourite}

In retrospect, maybe a stripper would have been a better alternative to getting a hybrid as a pet.

→ In Heat ♡ {favourite}

Jaebum comes home to Jinyoung in need of immediate help.

→ Don’t You Remember? ♡ {favourite}

Jinyoung gets someone standing in front of the door. It's not just anyone though.

→ Protect My Wounded Heart ♡ {favourite}

Jinyoung’s been abandoned by his family, so Jaebum takes him home.

→ Before Midnight ♡

Because Jinyoung is worth crossing the fine lines.

→ Only ♡ {favourite}

Mindless plotless pointless domestic fluff in an AU where Jaebum is a model and Jinyoung is a writer.

→ We Fit Together ♡

With all the mornings he spends in bed with Jaebum instead of going to class, Jinyoung's probably going to fail poetry this semester

→ Bed Sheets ♡ {favourite}

Jinyoung, a young man who's nothing but a “simple prostitute” (in his own words,) finds himself falling in love with one of his clients – someone who's far from within his reach and just as vulnerable as him. Complications ensue.

→ The Grandfather Paradox ♡ {favourite}

Jaebum locks himself in a cyclic normalcy of work, home, life, and the two people he now loves most in the world- his husband Jinyoung and six-year-old son Yugyeom. So when a mysterious teenager shows up in his life and messes all that up, to say that he's just a little displeased by the change would be an understatement. But Jaebum soon discovers there's more to this quiet, truthful boy than meets the eye, and knows that he has just about four days to find out why.

→ Lagoon ♡

In elegant terms, jaebum is jinyoung's sponsor. In inelegant terms, he's jinyoung's sugar daddy.

→ You're The Canvas Of My Heart ♡

I love you I love you I love you I love you,” Jinyoung writes, etching each stroke of the characters onto Jaebum’s back.

→ Wilder ♡ {favourite}

Newly graduated, Jinyoung is determined to try new things. New parties, new boys, and when Mark asks for a favor, even volunteering as a counselor at summer camp. But new experiences can get complicated, and he quickly finds himself a little out of his depth.

→ Pushing Daisies ♡ {favourite}

In which Jaebum insists he's never seen Jinyoung before, and Jinyoung insists he doesn't care, and the beginning of spring is late, but there are flowers everywhere.

→ One Day, Robots Will Cry ♡ {favourite}

Jaebum is the owner of an android repair shop. Jinyoung is a prototype that gets abandoned on his front step one night in desperate need of repairs, and also quite possibly the best thing that ever happened to Jaebum.

→ The Line That Separates Us ♡ {favourite}

When Jinyoung turns eleven he can't wait to join his best friend Jaebum at Hogwarts. He isn't expecting something as trivial as being sorted into a different house to divide them.

→ Click ♡ {favourite}

Jinyoung wasn’t dainty, or light, and he most certainly wasn’t “the personification of grace and beauty,” or any of the similar sounding bullshit people tended to spew when praising models. He did, however, seem to exude an aura of calm around him- quiet, peaceful, and steady.

→ Cause We Have No Time For Getting Old ♡

Jinyoung and Jaebum want to know if they are really the cost of their wishes from the paper stars.

→ Pretty Little Star ♡ {favourite}

There are people who make Jaebum breathless. And then there is Jinyoung who makes breathing worth it.

→ Let Me In ♡

Jinyoung lost his keys but found Jaebum.

→ Grayscale ♡

Jinyoung is a poet, who sees the world in black and white, whereas Jaebum is an artist that wants to encapsulate each colour in his work.

→ Disappear Here ♡

Homicide detective Im Jaebum's career has been steady and his personal life mostly uneventful, until the morning officer Choi Youngjae wakes him up at 3am and he finds out his childhood best friend and ex-partner has been murdered. He takes the case only to watch everything he's ever known slip through his fingers like sand and to finally figure out that sometimes life is all about finding forgiveness.

→ Make That Turn (Before We Crash and Burn) ♡

It's not the end of the world when people break up, but Jinyoung wonders why it feels like it is.

→ On The Road To Happiness ♡

Jinyoung doesn't expect much to happen when he goes to Mark's wedding. Except maybe drowning his feelings in drinks. But in a strange turn of events, that night, he ends up miles away from home without money or his memory.

→ Ghosts Of Guilt (Bodies Of Grief) ♡

Jaebum grasped Jinyoung’s shoulders so hard Jinyoung winced. "Everyone dies in that arena," Jaebum told him. “You’re never the same. You’ll never forget what happened. Just because you walk out of the arena, doesn’t mean you walk out alive.” Jaebum survived the 35th Hunger Games only to see his best friend become a tribute in the 37th.

→ Maeil ♡

Every day with Jinyoung is a blessing Jaebum will take nothing in exchange for.

→ Sweet Petals and Thrashing Thorns ♡ {favourite}

Jaebum's hopelessly in love with Jinyoung and it feels as if he's fourteen again, drowning in the wrath of first loves.

→ Ease ♡

He's made of stars and the fabric of dreams, that man.

→ Yellow ♡

A world where jaebum is a tired medical student and jinyoung has a yellow umbrella.

→ Wildcat ♡

No one really talks about it, but it's a well known secret that Jaebum’s real vice is racing cars. Dangerous and incredibly illegal, street racing is the one thing Jaebum is good at (besides being the nation’s first pain in the ass) and has never been caught for. How he does it, nobody knows: Jaebum's been caught for drugs, for stealing, for fighting, but it seems like the one thing the police can never pin him down for is the one thing he loves the most. He represents everything that Jinyoung can't stand, and Jinyoung hates him.

→ Better Late Than Never ♡ {favourite}

An AU in which Jinyoung and Jaebum are both pretentious rich boys who go to a prestigious college. All their lives they've hated each other, constantly competing for attention and approval from each other's parents and peers and just generally despising each other. But when Jaebum suddenly disappears in high school, Jinyoung doesn't have to worry about him anymore--until Jaebum shows up at Jinyoung's college five years later and everything goes straight to hell. Disastrous photoshoots, drunken camaraderie, and aggressive makeout sessions.

→ Pace Is Trick ♡

Jaebum was always so sure that he'd never hurt Park Jinyoung ever again--after growing up hating each other, cosmic justice planted them in the most incredible relationship either of them have ever had, and he's convinced that it's forever. That is, until, work gets in the way. The day Park Jinyoung walks out on him is the day he feels like he'll never be able to breathe again.

→ Definite Soul ♡

In this world, people just wants to be acknowledged. Praised for their acting. Applauded for their singing. Or just by doing their job well. But a select few just want to be remembered.

→ Glass Fingertips ♡ {favourite}

On that cold hard ground, surrounded by a hundred blank faces, Jinyoung wonders, with his arm burning and his head spinning, how he had possibly managed to find his soulmate, and how he had lost them.

→ Sempiternal ♡

No matter what, Jaebum will always ask first before kissing Jinyoung.

→ You Think You've Tried Love, I'll Give You More ♡

Jaebum films Jinyoung's life as a dancer for his senior thesis. Jinyoung falls in love along the way.

[dustedmagazine]

Sleaford Mods—English Tapas (Rough Trade)

Sleaford Mods, the Nottingham duo that sounds like the Fall but looks and functions like a hip hop MC/DJ collaboration, is back with another round of raucous chants and bitterly funny barks, riding bare, dirty, mechanized beats over drunken dystopias that are festooned with arresting poetry. (Though perhaps the kind of poetry that would beat you bloody if it heard you calling it that.)  English Tapas, named for an actual, probably inedible bar menu item, is harder and sharper than 2015’s chart-topping Key Markets, right in line with the brutal humor of Divide and Exit from 2014.

Sleaford Mods’ word-slinger Jason Williamson talk-sings in a broad Midlands spate of scorn, whether he describes pumped up military types (“Army Nights”), pretentious little bastards on social media (“Just Like We do”) or domesticated dads carrying with babies in sacks (“Snout”). Though the main subject of Sleaford Mods will likely always be getting hammered (“Drayton Manored” reminisces “I woke up in the pool with my boxer shorts covered in the stool”), it’s not the only thing. The characters in these kitchen sink dramas are varied. “Army Nights” comes about as close to sitting in a bar next to a bulked-up gym rat as a song can do. Williamson rattles on without a break to breathe or swallow in this persona, “I lift weights /Make people puke up texting me/I feel awful/Ruin me/That’s why you pay me/Don’t mess about/I burn it off/Pay the gym a bit of rent/Turn it up/Run ragged/65 kilos I did/Serve the corps.”  You can almost hear the weights clanging to the floor.

But it’s no good reading the words. Chances are, given the spit and snarl of their delivery, you’ll get them wrong, and anyway on the page, they shrink to blunted insignificance. What you have to do is listen to them, braced by the most low-end of taped accompaniments, drum machine beats so thumpingly unvaried, bass lines so stunted and repetitive that the most DIY of Messthetics punk sounds orchestral alongside. And yet, these brutal elements shake you to the bone, turning bleak narratives into bristling, belligerent celebrations. Williamson scrawls blackly funny caricatures on white board, while Andrew Fearn brings them to spasmodic, antic life.

Key Markets and the follow-up EP T.C.R., to me, sounded a little thin, as if the concept of Sleaford Mods, whatever it was, had already been fully explored, the meat pried out, the beginnings of self-parody creeping in.  English Tapas reverses this trend. It returns to the sly humor, the hypnotic barking aggression, the occasional whiffs of wistful tune-ish-ness slipped in between robotic beats of Divide and Exit and maybe does it one better.

Jennifer Kelly 

[limejuicer1862]

F WORD WARNING

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger. The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do.

Martin Appleby

is a punk, poet, vegetarian, cider drinker and editor of Paper and Ink Literary Zine from Hastings, England. Follow on Facebook/Instagram/Twitter @paperandinkzine

The Interview 1. What inspired you  to write poetry?

Women. Quite simply. The first poem I ever wrote was as a love struck teenager about a girl I had a crush on but was too afraid to tell. Then when I started writing poetry again in my twenties it was drunken ramblings scrawled in a notebook after a break up. It wasn’t until my late twenties that, for the first time, I wrote a poem that wasn’t about a woman.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

Henry Charles Bukowski Jr. His words opened my eyes to a whole new world. Poetry was no longer just the flowery, pretentious nonsense they had tried to teach me in school. It was simple, honest, raw, brutal, beautiful and working class. It was a gateway drug that lead me to discovering an underground wonderland of beats, outlaws and outsiders.

3. How aware were you of the dominating presence of older poets?

It is not something I have thought about too much. I guess the older you are, the more shit you have seen, the more life experience you have to draw from, and the more equipped you are to articulate it? I don’t know, maybe you have to be a certain age before you start to appreciate poetry.

4. What is your daily writing routine?

I fucking wish I had a daily writing routine. I write when I feel like it, when I feel that I have something to say. Sometimes that may be two or three poems in a day, sometimes that may be two or three in a month.

5. What motivates you to write?

That is a very good question. I guess all writing comes down to ego doesn’t it? The feeling that whatever you have to say is so important that it needs to be written down. Documented. Recorded. For posterity or publication, it’s all just ego. I don’t have any children and don’t plan to have any, so I like the idea that my poems will live on after I’m gone. A piece of me that will survive  long after my body packs up.

6. What is your work ethic?

I run a submission based literary magazine, so I am always working on the next issue. So, if I am not writing poetry, I am at the very least reading it. I also publish the odd poetry collection, the latest one being Too Many Drinks Ago by my friend John D Robinson. I am always  working on something. It’s what keeps me sane.

7. How do the writers you read when you were young influence you today?

I still love Bukowski’s writing, and whilst I don’t necessarily agree with some of the things that he wrote about – he had some problematic views which have been well documented – his writing will always stand out to me as a beacon of excellence, and continue to inspire me. As a kid I used to read things like Goosebumps and Star Wars novels , and whilst I enjoy the odd horror and sci-fi novel, I don’t think they particularly inform the stuff I write today.

8. Who of today’s writers do you admire the most and why?

I admire anyone who takes action. Anyone who doesn’t wait around for things to happen to them, but makes them happen. Anyone who has the fortitude to put their truth out into the world to be judged by total strangers.

1. Why do you write?

I like telling stories. I love the rush, the exhilaration, and the sense of accomplishment when it all comes together – when you’ve written the perfect sentence, or poem – when everything ties together in a neat little knot. Plus, how else am I supposed to tell people about all of the stupid shit I have done in my life? Start a fucking podcast or YouTube channel like very other brainless idiot these days?

2. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

One thing that I hate more than anything is people who describe themselves as “aspiring” writers/poets. It’s bullshit. Don’t aspire, be. Don’t try, do. Start typing.

1. Tell me about the writing projects you have on at the moment.

I started writing a novel in 2015 which I am yet to finish the first draft of. I would like to finish it before I die, but at the moment I’d say the chance of that is 50/50. I am also working on Issue 14 of my literary magazine, Paper and Ink – the theme is missed connections and  features a fantastic line up of writers, poets and artists from all over the world and all walks of

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Martin Appleby F WORD WARNING Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

[magnvs]

I DIDN’T KILL HIM,  IF THAT’S WHAT YOU’RE WONDERING !   alternatively titled:  a jagnus soulmates au fic for my dearest mari.

✧･ﾟ:* HAPPY BIRTHDAY ,  @goldenherons!!! 💋

Jace  is  twenty - one  years  old  and     COMPLETELY     hungover  the  first  time  it  happens.

It’s  midday ,     and  he’s  still  lying  languidly  in  the  bed  that  is  much  too  large  for  comfort  in  an  apparent  attempt  to  ascertain  how  long  he  can  remain  tucked  away  in  his  corner  of  the  world  before  someone  comes  looking  for  him .     The  lingering  silence  in  his  bedroom  is  shattered  by  the  slow  rustling  of  sheets  as  he  shifts  his  legs  atop  the  mattress ,     and  for  a  moment ,     he  finds  that  the  allure  of  going  back  to  sleep  may  just  win  him  over .

He’s  just  heaved  out  what  seems  to  be  the  upteenth  sigh ,     and  is  moving  to  blindly  raise  his  arms  up  above  his  head  to  stretch  them  out  before  finally  opening  his  eyes ,     and  furrowing  his  brows  as  his  gaze  settles  on …     A  flower .

❝     The  Hell ??     ❞          He  whispers ,     immediately  drawing  his  arm  close  and  rubbing  insistently  at  the  monochromatic  mark     (  even  though  there’s  hardly  any  use     ---     not  when  it  has  clearly  been  drawn  on  with  permanent  marker  ) .     It  takes  a  moment ,     but  Jace  eventually  gathers  the  strength  to  roll  over  until  he’s  sliding  from  the  bed  and  his  feet  are  hitting  the  floor .     With  a  residual  gait  from  his  drunken  state  during  the  previous  night ,     he  makes  his  way  towards  the  desk  situated  by  the  window  and  snatches  up  a  marker  of  his  own  to  hastily  shade  over  the  symbol .

It’s  dangerous  to  start  assuming  things  so  quickly     ---     especially  with  the  past  that  he’s  had .

When  he  collapses  atop  the  sheets  once  more ,     however ,     marker  still  in  hand ,     he’s  gazing  directly  at  his  forearm  when  another  flower  is  scrawled  next  to  the  first     (  which  is  now  nothing  more  than  a  collection  of  nonsensical scribbles ,     thanks  to  Jace’s  quick  handiwork  ) .     His  intended  whisper  involving  various  expletives  catches  rather  uncomfortably  in  his  throat  as  he  stares ,     and  he’s  quick  to  pop  the  marker’s  cap  off  before  connecting  the  tip  of  the  pen  with  his  arm  once  more.

He  spends  minutes     (  many  more  than  necessary ,     if  he’s  being  completely  honest  with  himself  )     trying  to  think  of  something  suitable  to  say ,     but  when  his  pen  disconnects  from  his  skin ,     the  resulting  words  are  rather  childish .

‘ STOP  IT . ’

It’s  hardly  eloquent     ---     but  a  test ,     all  the  same .

As  Jace  sits  in  the  near - darkness ,     he  is  quick  to  assert  that  he’s  not  scared     (  he  is  ) .     With  each  moment  that  passes ,     he  starts  a  new  attempt  to  tell  himself  that  holding  his  arm  so  close  to  his  face  that  he  begins  to  see  double  is  hardly  going  to  determine  whether  or  not  he’ll  get  a  reply     (  he  does  it  anyway  ) .

When  he  finally  receives a  response ,     it  isn’t  exactly  anything  along  the  lines  of  the  words  he’d  been  hoping  to  first  exchange  with  his  soulmate.

‘ YOU  WILL  BE  ALONE  ALWAYS  AND  THEN  YOU  WILL  DIE . ’

The  silence  seems  to  hang  on  Jace’s  shoulders  rather  heavily  as  he  squints  down  at  the  words  for  a  moment  or  two .     It’s …     Well ,     it  feels  strangely     FAMILIAR ,     rather  than  foreboding.

Hang  on .

His  phone  is  ripped  mercilessly  from  its  charging  station ,     and  he  is  quick  to  type  the  statement  into  Google  before  huffing  out  a  terribly  triumphant  snort  when  his  suspicions  are  proved  correct .

❝     ‘ Every  morning  the  same  big  and  little  words  all  spelling  out  desire ,     all  spelling  out …     You  will  be  alone  always  and  then  you  will  die , ’    ❞          are  the  words  Jace  reads  aloud  from  the  poetry  website .     Eyes  narrowing ,     his  phone  is  soon  tossed  carelessly  onto  his  sheets  so  that  he  may  take  hold  of  his  marker  once  more .  

‘ SIKEN ??     REALLY? ’     Pretentious  ass .

‘ IT  WOULD  SEEM  AS  IF  I’VE  BEEN  MATCHED  WITH  AN  INTELLECTUAL . ’

As  if  on  instinct ,     he  rolls  his  eyes  as  a  scoff  tumbles  from  his  lips .    ‘ EVEN  IF  I  WASN’T ,     YOU’D  STILL  BE  STUCK  WITH  ME . ’

It’s  not  exactly  the  best  way  to  bond     ---     but  Jace  has  never  been  one  to  tolerate  superiority ;     the  person  on  the  other  end  is  simply  going  to  have  to  get  used  to  it .     He’s  swift  in  his  decision  to  shove  his  arms  beneath  his  pillow  and  make  a  resolution  to  wear  long  sleeves  for  the  rest  of  the  day ,     but  his  curiosity  eventually  wins  out .     When  he  moves  his  forearm  into  view  once  more ,     the  written  reply  causes  him  to  carry  out  yet  another  tired  heave  of  his  shoulders  as  he  lets  out  a  frustrated  sigh .

' UNFORTUNATELY . ’

Fucking  soulmates .

----------------

Once  they     (  mostly  Jace  )     are  both  calm  enough  to  uphold  both  ends  of  a  conversation  without  inserting  any  expletives  or  allowing  their  tempers  to  leak  into  each  response ,    the  pair  exchange  basic  niceties  with  the  use  of  their  arms .     Soon  enough ,     Jace  finds  out  that  his  soulmate’s  name  is  Magnus ,     he  lives  in  New  York  City  too ,  and  is  also  twenty - one .

It  would  be  almost  too  easy  to  narrow  him  down  to  a  page  of  names  and  addresses  based  on  that  information  alone     (  it’s  what  his  father  had  done  with  his  mother  ) ,     but  Jace  eventually  decides  that  it  would  take  the  fun  out  of  it .     He  isn’t  usually  one  to  take  up  a  challenge  like  this     ---     to  get  to  know  Magnus  slowly ,     rather  than  appear  at  his  door  with  roses  and  chocolates  accompanied  by  an  eagerness  for  the  pair  to  fall  in  love  on     HIS     terms     ---     but  it’s  a  change  to  his  usual  pace  of  rushed  romances  that  are  filled  with  a  flurry  of  alcohol  and  mistakes  that  had  been  realised  too  late ,     and  Jace  learns  to  welcome  this  change .

----------------

After  a  few  weeks ,     Magnus  tells  Jace  that  he  isn’t  ready  to  meet  him  in  person  just  yet .

He’s  had  a  bad  experience  in  the  past .     Some  guy  had  a  one - sided  soulmate  bond  with  him ,     and  while  Magnus'  marks  had  showed  up  on  his  body ,     the  connection  was  never  reciprocated .     ‘ IT  RUINED  US  BOTH ,     ESPECIALLY  SINCE  WE’D  BEEN  FRIENDS .     HIM  MORE  THAN  I ,     IN  HINDSIGHT . ’

When  Jace  asks  where  he  is  now ,     the  answer  he  gets  is  soon  scrawled  rather  slowly  across  his  forearm .     ‘ HE’S  DEAD . ’     As  he  continues  to  survey  the  reply ,     a  further  explanation  appears .     ‘ I  DIDN’T  KILL  HIM ,     IF  THAT’S  WHAT  YOU’RE  WONDERING . ’

Almost  unconsciously ,     Jace  begins  to  wonder  whether  all  of  Magnus'  hasty  flowers  and  scrolling  displays  of  penmanship  continue  to  adorn  the  man’s  body  like  expressions  of  sorrow  even  as  he  lies  in  his  grave .

' HOW  DID  HE  DIE ,     THEN ?? ’

‘ THE  PROBLEM  WITH  YOU  SEEMS  TO  BE  THAT  YOU’RE  SMART ,     BUT  YOU’RE  NOT  SMART  ENOUGH .     LEARN  HOW  TO  TAKE  A  HINT ,     DARLING . ’ 

At  this  rate ,     Magnus  is  going  to  give  Jace  premature  wrinkles     ---     but  he  seeks  to  answer  his  own  question  as  his  eyes  run  over  their  previous  exchanges ,     fingertips  trailing  close  behind .

' IT  RUINED  US  BOTH , ’     are  the  words  that  finally  click  the  answer  into  place  for  Jace .     ' HIM  MORE  THAN  ME . ’

Oh .

---------------------

It  takes  time  for  Jace  to  finally  reveal  that  an  identical  scenario  had  been  forced  upon  himself  a  few  years  earlier .     ‘ HIS  NAME  WAS  SIMON ,’     he  writes  with  trembling  hands  that     ACHE     to  scratch  the  name  from  the  surface  of  his  skin  as  soon  as  it’s  been  inked  in     ---     there's  always  a  chance  that  removing  the  mark  will  also  erase  every  memory  that  Jace  has  of  Simon's  hasty  shopping  list  appearing  on  the  back  of  his  own  hand ,     of  his  excitement  at  the  realisation  and  the  subsequent  pain  that  had  reached  his  heart  in  waves  upon  realising  that  Simon  hadn't  received  any  of  the  tentative  doodles  that  Jace  had  scrawled  across  his  own  palm  in  reply .

His  best  friend  had  been  matched  with  someone  else .     A  girl .     Pretty ,     brunette ,     normal .     In  response ,     Jace  had  told  himself  that  it  was  fine     ---     that  he  didn’t  do     COMPLICATED ,     anyway .

But  his  feelings  towards  Simon  had  been  anything  but  complicated ,     really .

In  the  end ,     the  marks  had  faded ,     and  nothing  else  had  replaced  them .     After  Simon ,     Jace  hadn’t  expected  to  see  someone  else’s  words  decorate  his  body  ever  again .     He’d  heard  of  people  having  more  than  one  soulmate  throughout  their  lives ,     but  hadn’t  thought  that  he’d  be  deserving  enough  to  attain  a  second  chance .

Clearly ,     he  and  Magnus  had  both  been  a  little  lucky  in  the  end     (  or  perhaps ,     just  deserving  of  each  other  ) .

----------------

They  talk  at  the  oddest  of  times     ---     ultimately ,     it’s  when  they  need  each  other  the  most.

In  an  apparent  act  of  fate ,     Jace  wakes  up  at  an  ungodly  hour  one  morning  to  find  that  Magnus  is  drunk  beyond  reason  and  alone  and  needs  advice ,     needs  a  friend  to  comfort  him  so  that  he  won’t  turn  to  the  cigarettes  that  have  burnt  his  skin  multiple  times  before  in  an  attempt  to  feel  something ,     ANYTHING     other  than  the  loneliness  that  had  encircled  his  heart  ever  since  his  mother  had  retired  to  her  bedroom  for  the  last  time  in  her  mortal  life .     He  wouldn’t  exactly  go  so  far  as  to  call  himself  an  expert  on  the  whole     ‘ comfort ’     thing ,     but  he  gives  it  a  try  anyway .

When  the  conversation  slowly  evolves  from  pain  and  hurt  and     REGRET     to  a  debate  on  the  complete  ridiculousness  of  modern  consumerism ,     Jace  knows  that  he’s  done  his  job .

Conversely ,     Jace  finds  comfort  in  Magnus  when  he’s  taking  the  subway  to  work  days  later ,     the  weight  of  his  adoptive  father’s  death  hanging  over  his  shoulders  like  a  suit  that  is  far  too  big  as  he  takes  a  seat  by  one  of  the  dust - stained  windows  and  pushes  up  his  sleeve  in  search  of  a  distraction .

Instead  of  a  blank  canvas ,     he  finds  lines  of  poetry  that  stir  emotions  in  his  chest  unlike  anything  he’s  ever  felt  before ,     and  he  can’t  stop  the  small  smile  that  spreads  across  his  lips  when  he  raises  his  free  hand  to  trace  the  delicate  curves  of  the  vowels  and  edges  of  the  consonants .     For  once ,     Jace  stops  thinking  about  what  Valentine  would  say  upon  finding  out  that  he’d  been  paired  with     ANOTHER     boy ,     or  the  disappointment  his  father  would  undoubtedly  harbour  due  to  the  decision  he’s  about  to  make  in  regards  to  college .     He’s     HAPPY ,     and  he  stays  that  way  long  after  stepping  out  onto  the  streets .

----------------

On  one  particular  Wednesday  afternoon ,     Jace  finds  himself  stepping  into  a  Starbucks  branch  to  escape  the  usual  chill  that  sweeps  through  the  city  a  few  days  before  Christmas .     It’s  not  the  place  he’s  used  to  visiting  when  it  comes  to  fulfilling  his  caffeine  needs     ---     most  of  the  staff  at  his  regular  haunt  greet  him  by  name  and  remember  his  coffee  order     ---     but  he’s  due  to  attend  a  job  interview  in  a  nearby  building  in  fifteen  minutes ,    and  is  desperate  for  some  liquid  courage     (  it’s  hardly  alcohol ,     but  he  can  make  do  ) .

A  shiver  ripples  through  his  body  as  he  steps  into  the  crowded  store ,     but  the  blonde  soon  feels  relaxed  enough  to  withdraw  his  hands  from  the  pockets  of  his  jacket .     His  search  for  enough  single  dollar  bills  to  fulfil  the  amount  needed  for  his  order  begins  the  moment  that  he  steps  into  the  line  leading  up  to  the  counter ,     but  Jace  is  soon  distracted  by  a  loud  voice  that  sounds  from  across  the  room .

He’s  beautiful .

He’s  wearing  a  long  coat  and  ridiculously  lavish  rings ,     which  glimmer  beneath  the  lights  as  his  hands  move  exuberantly  as  a  consequence  of  his  conversation  with  the  barista  from  his  position  at  the  front  of  the  order  line     (  it�� almost  gives  Jace  the  feeling  that  he  isn’t  simply  talking  about  coffee  orders  ) .     His  laugh  echoes  throughout  the  room  and  settles  comfortably  around  Jace's  ribcage  as  if  it  had  been  made  to  fit  in  the  space  where  his  heart  is ,     and  the  brunette  just     KNOWS     that  it’s  him .

The  other’s  voice  entrances  him  like  music ,     and  Jace  has  to  take  a  moment  to  wonder  how  the  Hell  someone  like  Magnus  was  matched  with  someone  like  HIM .

He  looks  down  at  his  bare  wrist  every  minute  or  so  while  he  waits  for  his  order .     It’s  kind  of  endearing ,     actually     ---     Jace's  heart  swells  when  he  realises ,     and  subsequently  begins  to  wonder  whether  or  not  he  unconsciously  does  the  same     (  and  if  so ,     do  people  notice ??     Do  they  smile ,     too ??     Or  do  they  simply  roll  their  eyes  at  the  rather  unsubtle  hint  towards  a  newfound  bond  and  carry  on ??  ) .

He  can’t  bring  himself  to  look  away  from  the  young  man  even  as  his  hands  hastily  dive  back  into  his  pockets  to  search  for  the  pen  that  he  usually  keeps  in  his  jacket ,     and  when  he  finally  extracts  the  writing  tool ,     he’s  quick  to  uncap  the  lid  with  a  firm  tug  of  his  fingers .    When  the  cap  falls  to  the  floor  with  a  clatter ,    Jace  can’t  quite  bring  himself  to  care     ---     he ,     after  all ,     is  much  too  busy  with  his  current  task  of  thinking  about  what  he  could  possibly  say ,     what  he  could  possibly  write  that  won’t  make  his  soulmate  think  that  he’s  being  an  utter  stalker .

' THE  MUSIC  THEY’RE  PLAYING  IN  HERE  SUCKS . ‘

--- Well ,     he  tried .

He  barely  registers  the  fact  that  he's  moving  out  of  the  line  and  towards  the  counter  until  he  has  come  to  an  abrupt  halt  in  front  of  the  brunette ,     and  it’s  as  if  he's  been  drawn  towards  him  by  an  unseen  force     ---     although ,     Jace  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  the  entire  world  felt  like  this ;     if  every  living  being  found  themselves  happily  orbiting  around  the  magnetic  pull  of  the  miniature  sun ,     the  Apollo  reincarnate  on  their  undeserving  Earth  who  is  currently  standing  before  him .

Magnus'  brows  furrow  as  he  reads  what  has  been  written  on  his  wrist ,     and  he  turns  to  look  around  the  store  with  such  grace  that  Jace  thinks  that  he  could  almost  be  mistaken  for  living  marble  as  he  draws  close .     This  new  vantage  point  from  which  he  may  look  at  the  other  gives  him  the  strangest  urge  to  reach  up  and  brush  away  the  stray  flakes  of  snow  that  are  smattered  lightly  across  his  shoulders .

Though  he  seems  quite  confused  at  first ,     his  soulmate  is  smiling  as  he  glances  from  the  writing  on  his  own  arm  to  the  pen  in  Jace's  hands .     After  taking  a  small  step  forward ,     he  reaches  for  Jace's  own  forearm  and  gazes  down  at  it  once  the  blonde  has  willingly  surrendered  his  limb  to  the  other's  grasp.

When  he  has  found  the  confirmation  that  he  had  been  searching  for     (  the  childish  complaint ,     still  strikingly  complementary  against  Jace's  pale  skin  in  the  place  where  he’d  initially  inked  it  across  his  wrist  ) ,     Magnus  looks  up  with  an  expression  so  startlingly     HAPPY     that  the  blonde  almost  keels  over .

While  he  is  actively  resisting  the  urge  to  reach  out ,    to  voice  his  soul's  insistent  cry  of     ‘ oh ,     THERE     you  are ,     I’ve  been  looking  for  you  forever , ’     Magnus  saves  him  from  the  embarrassment  of  saying  anything  excruciatingly  sappy     &&     honest  by  chiming  in  with  a  teasing  opinion  of  his  own .

❝ I’ll  have  you  know  that  White  Christmas  is  a     CLASSIC . ❞

[floating-on-blog1]

10/5/17: Up-and-up

So...I guess in the last post one thing I didn’t really elaborate on was the breakup. And it’s an important thing in my life, recently; so I guess I should talk a bit about it.

Last Friday, like one day less than a week ago at this point, I broke up with my (now) ex. Honestly, though I’m the one who pulled the trigger on ending it, she pushed me to do it. She clearly didn’t want me there anymore. I was still very, desperately in love with her, willing to do just about anything to keep things going, but she was just shitting on my efforts for no apparent reason. So, I guess, I just couldn’t keep that up. She wanted me gone anyway.

Honestly, the days since have been super rough.

I already talked a little bit about my drunken birthday in the last post. And that sucked. But unfortunately, it just kept sucking after that. Monday was shit, Tuesday was shit, and Wednesday was shit. In fact, on Wednesday, after being unable to just hold it all inside myself for so long, I asked her best friend if we could talk a bit (I was friends with her too, but I have a feeling we’re not gonna have a relationship going forward. My ex got claim to her in the breakup, so to speak lol). And I just poured out everything to her. How alone I feel without my ex, how my friends all seem to be too busy to see me anymore since this semester started, how I had the shittiest birthday of my life by far, and just how worn down I was. Honestly, she tried her best to be there for me but didn’t have much to say.

In fact, I even learned from her that, well, my ex came to the conclusion that she had never loved me anyway. Just the relationship.

And I mean. That’s devastating.

It was a gut punch. I just felt even worse that night, if it was possible. I felt so worthless, tossed to the side, and used. Eventually I just told the friend that she shouldn’t be expected to deal with my problems, and just stopped texting her.

Aaaaand immediately texted another friend, who, on my birthday, told me if I ever needed to talk, she was there. So I was ready to cash in. I just unloaded everything about the relationship that I was so strung up about, which she knew almost nothing about. And she was supportive, and gave me some advice and ideas to move forward. So that’s helpful. At the time, i felt dismissive of that like everything else, but in retrospect, it’s allowed me some mental clarity I didn’t have before.

So this morning I woke up feeling terrible like usual.

Natural progression of feeling worse and worse until I get to class and am able to focus somewhat on the lecture, numbing my brain a little bit. I just started feeling worse and worse as class went on, and honestly once it was over I was just left empty again.

I thought, you know what, I dunno. Maybe I can get help. I need someone who can support me, and idk where I can even find it. I don’t wanna bother my friends. So my thought was, maybe I’ll look into counseling. My university offers it free, so I got onto their website. Took a self-evaluation test, said I might be experiencing depression symptoms. But w/e, this just started. It prolly isn’t even long term.

Honestly, I didn’t have the guts to go and actually set up an appointment or something. It feels like an admission of weakness. Ironically, i don’t feel strong enough to admit that i can’t just handle this with me and my friends. Feels like admitting I don’t have friends or something.

So then I took my friend from last night’s advice and checked out some student groups at my college. I got online and crawled through the directory of them, and emailed two interesting ones: a volunteering group (honestly, maybe doing something good and surrounding myself with people who wanna do good will give me some purpose in my life), and a slam poetry group (I’ve always loved the idea of it...never had the guts to put myself out there for it though). I felt better already, just imagining some hypothetical future where I can have a slick-ass poem prepared to get on stage and deliver it to a crowd of attentive, like-minded hipsters. I’m a narcissist, and I’m soooo ready for that.

And the rest of the day just got better. My roommate and I traded ridiculous jokes about our terrible programming homework, and later I went to work out with one of my friends, and he asked if I felt comfortable talking about my breakup.

And honestly, finally, I was comfortable. I did want to talk about it.

I told him just about everything I’ve told this blog diary, and a bit more. He listened and was understanding, and was happy to hear that today, I was doing better. He had noticed me being down, and I’d mentioned to him the previous day that things just felt rough. It felt good to finally open up.

Tonight, I thanked my friend from last night, and talked a bit more with her. I knew her in high school, but only occasionally texted her now. It seemed like she was doing really well in her college in a different state, which was great to hear about. And I told her how much better I was feeling, and how her advice had been helpful to me and let me recover a bit. And she was really happy to hear that, and I was just really happy to finally feel a bit more free. I don’t feel a slave to my worst emotions anymore. They’re still there, a bit, but they aren’t controlling me. They’re smaller. And me, inside my soul, I’m finally bigger than them again.

I feel like it’s time to remake myself.

I wanna double down on this slam poetry, or something else artsy. I wanna get even more hipstery. I like all that pretentious shit, tbh. I wanna be in it, and just indulge. I wanna meet new people, too. I want all sorts of interesting new friends. I want to get out of the computer science tech crowd and find different types of people—and not just dudes! There’s waaaayy too many men in computer science, for the record, and I know I’m just contributing to the problem...but I actually really like programming, so sue me ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Well, anyway. That’s how I’m doing. I’m better!

And somehow, I never made a sad blog. I think I just didn’t want my second only blog to be a total downer. Maybe you’ll still get one soon! We’ll see. It’s 2AM here—have a good night!

[inhabitonline]

INHABIT: DOUG DELIA AT HOME

SPONSORED by lil indies (Facebook): Inhabit is a new series by local photographer David Lawrence (Website), that shares stories about the people who call Orlando home. It’s an exploration of where people live and spend their days, whether that be at home, in an office, the streets of downtown, or anywhere in between. Lawrence explores who people are and how they ended there.

Every other week we will be sharing Lawrence’s interviews, featuring a different Orlandoan and telling the story of the places they inhabit.

*This interview was transcribed and edited from an audio interview on 5/09/2017

Who are you?

“My name is Doug Delia. I’m 70 years old and I’m an old hippie. I grew up in the Sixties and still maintain the values of working for change and peace activism. I’m an artist, which for me involves writing and poetry; I’ve written quite a few theatre pieces and plays. I have done a lot of photography and I’m looking for ways to integrate those modalities together. Right now I have two books out that I call Poetography as they are a combination of poems and pictures. I’m trying to integrate photography into my artwork by painting over photographs and using photography in unusual ways.”

“I think that art history needs to be told by artists, not by historians, and I’m working on that; using my poetry as an avenue to tell stories. Lately I’ve been inviting friends to come and play music while I read poetry. I’m very interested in collaborations of any kind with people. Bringing people’s talents together in one place and playing off each other.”

Is art something you have always done?

“I think that you manifest whatever it is you’re meant to do at a very early age. I think that if you have parents or friends that are supportive and you have outlets, you can go from there. Some people go right from childhood into art school and they become an artist and they are in galleries and all that. But that wasn’t my route and its not most people’s route either. We tend to go on. As John Lennon said, ‘Life is what happens while you are doing other things.'”

“For me, that’s what happened. There were a lot of things that intervened for me. I wrote some poetry. I remember being in one anthology in high school. I submitted a couple poems that were in the anthology and right after that I went to community college in Holyok, Massachusetts. I wrote a theatre piece that was produced by the college. They were looking for some original materials, so I wrote this thing about going back and forth in time between the beatnik era and the hippie era.”

Note: Doug ended up flunking out of college and was faced with two options in his small town; work in the mill or enlist in the military. He was a conscientious objector, but decided to join, just as Vietnam was beginning to ramp up.

How does a conscientious objector join the military? I want to hear all about it.

“Well, the rest of the story was that because I was joining, and there were so few joining at that time, I had some leverage. I joined the Air Force and I told the recruiter I would only join if I could be in either the chaplain’s office or I could be a medic.”

“He told me he couldn’t guarantee anything. However, I did get to become a medic. I helped with the wounded as they came back. There wasn’t enough resources in country to handle all of the casualties, especially after the Tet Offensive. The casualties were taken to the Philippines or to Guam. I was never in combat, but I was stationed in Guam as a medic and ambulance driver. We would go down to the runway every day at 5 o’clock to the ambulances and help transport the soldiers back to the naval hospital on the other side of the island.”

“I always say I didn’t go to war, but war came to me. I saw the atrocities of war without actually being stationed in Vietnam.”

It’s easy to oppose things and remove yourself from a situation instead of saying ‘I don’t agree with this, but I’m still going to be here and help.’

“Well, I had a set of moral values that I wanted to adhere to. I never wanted to kill or injure anyone else. I wanted to be on the other side of that, the healing aspect of that. That continued after the war. I went to college at UCF with my Veterans benefits and got a degree in Philosophy and Religion; later in life I became a massage therapist, which is in the healing arts, and from there I started two schools in central New York training people for licensure in massage therapy. I feel good about that path…because it allowed me to create healers, thousands of graduates who are out there in the world, healing people. I feel like I was the tree and they were the branches and it was a blessing to have that opportunity. I think healing has been a part of my life and I think that my writing and my art is an extension of that. A lot of my writing is about healing our wounds, whether it is the war experience, childhood abuse, political or anything that has to do with healing the planet or self.”

Where are we currently and how did you end up here?

“Well, you know, I love College Park. It was either going to be Thornton Park or College Park for me because those were the places where they have the cute little bungalows. I didn’t want to live in a mansion type house. I like a big house, but I don’t want it to be pretentious. I’m not a pretentious person. By most people’s standards I have a lot of wealth, but I don’t want to be perceived in that way. I drive a Subaru, not a Mercedes. I dress in bangles and beads because that’s what I feel comfortable in. Being in College Park really fits into that sort of lifestyle.”

“So I have this little oasis back here in my backyard. I put most of these trees in because they weren’t here when I moved in. I enjoy being out here and writing and of course, Credo is a haven too. I love that I can wake up and walk over to a coffee shop and I get to sit there for a couple hours and work on photography and writing. It’s sort of like an office and the wonderful people that come in there, like you. You get to network with people and share ideas and thoughts––that’s community––and I love that I can probably live here without a car. I can walk to restaurants. Everything I need is right there. So, I like that idea.”

Besides Credo, do you have other places in Orlando that are important to you that you don’t find in other cities?

“There’s a great abundance of independent coffee shops here. Stardust coffee is a very interesting place with all the books. I’ve read poetry there. I’ve done the storytelling nights and I really enjoy that area. It’s a little enclave and I love the used clothing stores over there. It’s very Boho. I also like going down to Drunken Monkey. Its across from Barnes and Noble. You can have a cup of coffee and work there and you can go and look through the books. So that’s interesting. And you know, I’m a Starbucks fan too. I know it’s a chain and I prefer indies, but it also does a lot of great work. It’s a Seattle-based company and I feel they have a lot of integrity.”

You told me when we were walking over to your house, about your marriage and your kids- I’d love if you could share about your family.

“You know- I’ve been married three times. I used to say that reluctantly. People think that if you’ve been married more than once, there’s something wrong with you. As I’ve grown older, I’ve come to understand that’s not the case. It’s a natural progression for people to grow apart at some point. Not everyone of course. Some people are very content.”

“I married very young. I think I was 20 years old when I first married and I don’t think that I had any concept of what a relationship was. So, of course, I don’t want to say it was doomed, but it was an immature love.”

“I’ve been married to Liz now for 27 years and she’s an artist. She does pottery and we have two girls together. At this age, we are more independent now. We don’t cling to each other like we would at 20. We live independent lives. Sometimes she’s up north and I’m here. She does her pottery and I do my art. We come together and have date night and make sure we do enough things to sustain the couple-ship, but we are more independent now. I think that’s a healthy thing at this age. My goals for myself are different than they were when I was 20. I’m looking at a limited lifespan at 70. I realize that.”

If you’re curious about Doug’s work- He currently has a showing called Feed Your Head, on exhibit at Henao Contemporary Center. It is a sampling of photography projects he has been working on over the past year. You can also follow him on Instagram at @dougvandelia