#slow killing of L.A.

[shaunashipman]

When they say Oliver is so disgusted you can see it in his face all I read is that they think this man is so unprofessional that he can’t read his lines and act? Like idk but I don’t think he’s taking a stand again a light hearted daddy joke bc at the end of the day it’s his job. If he can say he’s an ally ✊without breaking the fourth wall I think he can make silly eyes even if it kills him lmfao. I remember when the episode aired and I hadn’t blocked most people yet I saw somebody gif bucks face after Tommy made the hospital wing joke and say Oliver hates the scene he can’t even hold it in when the whole point of him acting like that was so Tommy could catch on that he was upset and ask him if he’s ok. I’m willing to engage in anti bucktommy/tommy takes in good faith bc I love reading all sides of things but some of these have me so confused 😭

no nonny, you don't understand, oliver is supposed to be showing that buck is subtly disgusted by tommy, it's intentional because............

yeah I don't understand it. how exactly does it work it their head? they insist that buck is put off and put down by tommy, that he is disappointed by tommy, that he is disgusted by tommy. so why is buck staying with him? it's not even like with taylor in s5, where he was clearly in a bad place, his fear of losing ppl was coming true with maddie and chimney gone and chimney angry with him, with Eddie going through a slow breakdown, so he clutched at taylor so he didn't lose someone else, passed the point of him being unhappy, all the way to him cheating and then trapping her. bad story, didn't like it, but it makes sense emotionally.

this bullshit "theory" they're running with simply does not make sense. buck is in a good place, he wasn't shown questioning his place anywhere at the start of the season, all of his friends and family are doing good (up to the last episode and a half), and though he broke up with natalia, he did it for perfectly normal reasons, no one had to be the bad guy, they just weren't compatible, and there's nothing to suggest it wasn't an amicable or at least neutral break-up, showing growth in the relationship and ending there of department.

so why would he have a problem ending it with tommy, or you know, just not calling him for coffee after tommy so callously abandoned him to fend for himself in the scary wilds of downtown L.A? unless you just ignore all the growth he's had, there is no reason buck would stay with someone who made him as unhappy as they claim

and how does this go with buck having feelings for eddie? either he doesn't know it yet and is transferring his feelings to tommy, because this man who treats buck so terribly is just so similar to eddie (huh?), or he does know it and? is staying? with tommy? anyway?

literally no part of it makes sense. not from a story-telling perspective and not from a character perspective.

(and yeah, i remember after the ep aired they were using a shot of buck from earlier in the date or from when he was talking to eddie at the beginning to try and say he was uncomfortable. and when called out their response was basically "what's your point")

[fallininlust]

THIS SIDE OF PARADISE

pair. nick x m!reader. genre. angst w a minor fluff undertone

word count : [ 1k ]

description : not quite lovers at all / reader with commitment issues (def not projecting, hush) / nick is in love / but is reader? / soft spoken moments / loneliness can kill / there is a silent distance between them, an unexplained one to be defined by the world / lingering touches / sad eyes / sad songs / rainy nights / and the low rumble of an engine

loneliness: noun. sadness because one has no […] company.

Two lonely people are never good together, that much isn’t discovered until after losing each other — which is the most heartbreaking part of falling in love.

Nick was lonely. He’d even go as far as to say he’d always had a lonesome soul. As a triplet, that only worsened when he realized just how much he differed from his younger brothers. He didn’t fantasize about the girls at school, the ones online, or the ones in the magazines. He didn’t like girls. Not the way his brothers did.

It had always scared him.

More than he’d like to admit.

And as he grew, that feeling increased. Especially after becoming a public figure. The world was at his fingertips, but that same world turned him into a puppet. The strings attached to him were the ones to move him in different directions, steering him away from his true sense of self.

Being in L.A. felt like a breath of fresh air.

It was where he met you.

You were everything he’d been searching for.

(To the point where the “relationship” was unhealthy and codependent and constantly on the very edge of a tightrope.)

Every day since you both got together, without fail, you showed up at his door at the same time.

It was always late at night.

Nick had a shitty sleep schedule, thus affecting yours. And late nights in L.A. were the only moments of silence — where the eyes and ears on the street closed and the only time he felt truly comfortable being out with you.

Every night when Nick would hear the low rumble of your modified car outside of his house, he’d walk out of his front door — not saying a word to his brother’s who’d grown used to his late night disappearances — and got into your passenger seat, comfortably resting as you pulled out of first gear and released the parking brake.

There was a specific parking lot the pair of you enjoyed sitting in. The stars always seemed to shine so much brighter when you were with him. The same twinkle shone in his eyes as he stared at you, listening to your slow responses to every curious question or introspective comment he had at late hours.

You were calm, sleepy almost, and he always admired how handsome you looked underneath the night’s natural light.

He had his shoes off, knees pulled up to his chest after he’d rested the seat back as far as your car allowed him to. His head was tilted ever so slightly, observing you carefully. He watched every word fall from your slightly parted lips, enjoying the rasp in your voice.

One of his hands reached out, slowly intertwining it with one of yours, feeling a slight chill — one that wasn’t from the cold. He saw your gaze fall to your intertwined hands, a curious look in your eyes that he didn’t understand entirely.

“You’re right here, yet I still miss you.” Nick murmured, squeezing your hand.

A small, half-hearted (but slightly bitter) smile tugged at your lips. “I know.”

Nick’s eyes wandered back up to your face, locked in on the hooded nature of your tired eyes — each curvature that made up your visage’s bone structure. He was admiring you so dearly, fondly. “You’re so pretty, y’know?”

Leave it to him to take an important conversation that he knew needed to happen and turn it into something of the opposite nature.

“Thank you, baby,” you whispered — your voice was carried off by the soft breeze, “you’re beautiful, too. The most handsome.”

His cheeks flushed.

“You’re too sweet to me.” He shook his head, gaze falling back down to your interlocked hands. There was something new about the hold — it was as if something had changed.

(Nothing had, really. He’d just never wanted to see it. Who would genuinely like to realize the person they were clinging to was pulling away? Or had they never been close to begin with?)

Typically, your eyes were sleepy — always hazy with your exhaustion. But that night, there was a new sense of stillness. It was something that resembled realization.

As he focused on your hands, he noticed that yours was limp while his was tight around your knuckles. His body was fully facing yours, while yours was turned forward.

On the drive back, the soft sounds of White Ferrari by Frank Ocean’s calming lull resonated in the rumbling car. He couldn’t understand why, but Nick had tears in his eyes as he watched the road ahead of him. His face (and salty, red-rimmed waterline) was only illuminated when you’d reach a stoplight. His saddened gaze only enhanced whenever you’d take a glance at him, something akin to sympathy lined within those irises.

When you finally parked in front of his house, he got out of the passenger seat slowly. He felt like his legs were numb underneath him, just barely standing on his own two feet outside of your car. His back shuddered with his own feeling of dread. His hands trembled by his sides.

“See you tomorrow, baby.”

There was a sad smile on your lips that night.

His body rattled with his own sobs, just barely dragging his body into his house.

(Nick never saw you again.)

(He couldn’t understand what had finally tipped your relationship — if he could even call it that — over the edge of the tightrope it’d been leaning off of. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized you were never really together. You never saw each other during the day, the texts you sent each other were curt and to the point, and calls were only made if one of you were running late during your nightly rendezvous.)

(The truth was, you’d both just been lonely. But when you found each other, there was a solace in being lonely together. It was comforting, but you seemed to know better than him. That warm feeling shared at night in your car was temporary — much like a relationship built on loneliness.)

icarus inquires . . . first fic on tumblr, thanks all for reading <3 feedback is very very very welcomed here. reposts and comments are appreciated !!!!

[johnwickb1tsch]

Vino Veritas - Part VII

A Destination Wedding Frank x Fem!Reader Fic

Attending the wedding of your ex-fiancé gets slightly better when you meet someone having just as miserable a time as you... Warnings: Nothing too serious holy shit. Cursing. Broken engagement. Nihilism, existential bullshit, copious amounts of sarcasm. NSFW. Angst. Grump/sunshine trope. Loosely based on the movie but I'm not that smart. Or bitter. 😆 chapter map.

VII. Everything’s On Fire And It’s Perfectly Fine

You cannot exactly claim the next few weeks go well for you. 

You do a lot of cliché sunset beach walking, heavy sighing, and general wallowing in self pity.

You’re simply miserable, without him, and the feeling does not fade with time. 

Usually you are pretty content with your stupid little existence. Yet now, you feel like something is genuinely missing that you need. There’s a Frank-shaped hole in your heart–and you are bleeding out. 

It’s so bad that your regulars notice the change in your demeanor, when they come in to browse. They ask what’s wrong, and all you can do is shrug and make a lame excuse. It’s just not professional, to tell your customers that you're dying inside.

Anytime you try to coax yourself into just moving on, trying someone else, anything else…the thought dies a bitter death on a sword sharpened to a killing edge on the memory of that hilariously acerbic, utterly singular, wonderful grouch of a man. He hated everything, but for what felt like just a fleeting moment…he’d liked you. It certainly doesn’t help either, that he’s the only man you’ve ever felt comfortable enough with to really connect with on a carnal level. There was no putting on a show for Frank. No possibility of lying to him. He saw through everything, and that man just had your number in a way that you fear you’ll never encounter again. 

You’d be a liar, if you said you didn’t consider driving up to J.D. Power with that boombox. You even looked it up on Google maps. One hour, forty-five minutes, up the coast, if traffic was good. Of course in L.A. traffic was never good.

You would have braved it anyway.

Except, it turns out you are a total coward, and you know that if he rejected you, you really would want to die.

Then, you start to think you’re actually losing your mind, when you keep thinking you see him around. On the beach, a stranger in the distance is his very doppelganger. Then in town, you think you see him around a corner. By the time you rush down the block to look, he’s gone. 

You try to exorcize him by sketching his face from memory instead, at your tablet on the easel by the window that faces the ocean, up in your live-in studio above the store. It soothes you and agitates you all at once. You wonder what he thought, when he realized you slipped your possum shirt in his bag, in the airport when he wasn’t looking.

On a slow day due to rain, you decide to retreat back upstairs to your nest. The gray skies match your mood, and it won’t be the first time you’ve curled up and let the day go by, watching the relentlessly breaking waves.

Of course, just as you get settled in with a soft blanket, you hear the bell above the door downstairs chime. Usually the promise of a new customer fills you with a thrill of excitement, even after all these years, but today…you half regret not turning the OPEN sign in the window.

You check yourself briefly in the mirror, deem yourself half-passable, which is as good as it gets these days. Your hair is wild, and your eyes are sad. At least your clothes are clean, your time-worn ruffled sundress and oversized cardigan against the chill coming off the waves. You make your way down the stairs–and you almost eat shit on a cluster of colorful rocks left right in the middle of the runner. You catch yourself with a few choice words, gripping the bannister white-knuckled.

How the fuck did those get there?

Then you realize they’re similar to the ones you sell in your shop–but not exact.

You examine them, realizing that the one closest to your foot has a word engraved on it in curly slanted script: Fuck.

You look more closely at the other rocks in their now somewhat jumbled order. “I Miss Fuck You?” you read to yourself aloud, puzzled.

“You have got to be the clumsiest person I’ve ever met.”

Startled, you look up, scanning what you thought was an empty shop. But then you see him attempting to conceal his obscenely tall form behind an art card rack. It’s ridiculous–and your heart does its best imitation of a supernova.

Boom.

“You asshole!”

He frowns, but has no time to deliver a scathing retort, because you have leapt the remaining stairs and bound the short space to throw yourself into his arms–or more truthfully, just at him. An onlooker might have testified assault over ardor, in your frenzied tackle, as you throw your arms around his neck. He catches you with a surprised, “Oomph,” solid as a wall. You take heart in that his grip is just as desperate as yours. He still tries to get in that riposte, but you head him off again with your mouth on his.

You actually feel the tension leave his body, as you kiss him, and he kisses you, practically picking you up with his arms like iron bands around your waist.

“That’s your big gesture?” you finally demand. “Booby trapping my stairs with profane rocks?”

He honest to god growls at you, and it thrills you to your now curling toes. “It was supposed to say Fuck I miss you, but you had to ruin it.”

“Sorry I almost died?”

Then he is smiling down at you with that glitter in his dark eyes, and you are simply overcome with emotion, your fingers curling in the lapels of his jacket. “I fucking missed you too,” you admit, unable to stop yourself from tugging on him for emphasis.

He is breathing through his nose as he looks down at you, his expression somewhere between affection and constipation. It dawns on you that it’s more than a little likely he was terrified up until two seconds ago, and you soften even more for him, reaching up to stroke his beard. He leans into your hand, closing his eyes, and you know this is it for you. You are done for, and there is no further hope for your sanity. 

“Come upstairs,” you say, pulling on his lapels back in the direction from whence you came. You’re not sure how it’s possible for those midnight black eyes to darken more as he looks down at you, but he follows you without a word with his hand in yours. You flip the Open sign on the door as you pass by, turning the deadbolt without breaking stride. 

You have something important to do. 

***

Between kisses he looks around your second-floor apartment, smiling to himself with that judgy amusement in his eyes. It’s an open space, and there’s no hiding anything really, from your brightly clothed bed to the living area with its mismatched seating draped in bright fabrics, to your little studio space by the window to the miniscule nook of the blue-painted kitchen cabinetry.

“What?” you ask, poking him in the ribs, certain he’s going to make fun of you for your hippy-dippy boho decor. 

“Nothing,” he grunts, smiling against your mouth, assisting you in pushing his jacket from his shoulders. You’re tempted to throw it across the room, but you behave yourself and drape it nicely over the back of a chair. 

“Let me guess. ‘It looks like Pier 1 vomited in here.’” 

He snorts with laughter. “You said it, not me.” 

With a feral little growl you push him to sit on your bed. He’s so tall it just puts you eye to eye, and you cannot stop yourself from crawling into his lap. He gathers you closer greedily, his big hands engulfing your backside. God how you missed this man, and the way you fit together.

“Honestly? It’s exactly what I pictured,” he tells you gently, that tenderness in his dark eyes that utterly melts your last brain cells.     

“Does that mean…you’ve been thinking about me?”

He makes that strangled huff of a sound that passes for laughter, steeped with self-deprecation. “Yeah. You could say that.”

For a long few moments you just look at each other, caught up in the unlikely miracle that you’re here, together, once more. 

You really had believed you would never see him again. You’d believed it to the bone, and now this feels more than a little surreal. 

You consider what to do. Do you play the game, and try not to let on how absolutely bat-fuck insane you’ve been, without him? Would it be unseemly, to clamor with all your affection worn proudly on your sleeve, now that this man has dared to give you a second chance? As you look at him now, moved to the bottom of your soul that he swallowed his pride and his fear to appear at your door–you are done with games. You’re not going to hold a piece of yourself back, just in case. If this man breaks your heart again–at least you’ll know you gave it your all. 

“I’ve really missed you,” you tell him again, cupping his bearded cheeks in your hands, holding him lightly. 

He flinches at that, his eyes narrowing as for once, it seems like he is at a loss for a reply. He did good with the rock schtick, but saying it out loud in actual words from his mouth seems to present a problem for him. With his truth stuck on his tongue, he settles for pulling you into his embrace, burying his face in the bend of your neck with his arms wrapped tightly around you, like you might disappear if he lets go. And then his lips are on your neck, and his big hands are dragging down your ribcage to your hips, and you feel the circuits in your brain spark and melt for this man’s touch. 

You’d be a liar, if you said you hadn’t put yourself to sleep more than a few times, thinking about him with your hand in your panties and his name on your lips like a prayer. Straddling his lap now with his warm palms smoothing up your thighs, underneath your skirts to cup your ass–you are a one-woman stick of dynamite ready to explode. The way he squeezes your flesh with a groan from deep in his throat–you are soaked through your panties, your empty pussy clenching to the point of pain. 

Maybe it would be better, in the long run, to sit and talk this out a little bit before jumping into bed. Your libido, however, seems to find this rational suggestion from your higher brain utterly laughable.  

The pure longing this man calls up from within you–it really should be illegal, and you almost wish it only had to do with the fact that he’s the most handsome man you’ve ever seen. That would be simpler. Safer, somehow. Less painful, maybe, if and when it all goes to shit. But you know it’s too late to pretend. Where your body goes with this man, your heart follows, skipping blithely off to its doom. 

This is fine, you think, as he lowers you onto your back, his delicious weight pressing you down into your soft bed as he claims your mouth with his. 

Everything’s on fire, and it’s perfectly fine. 

“Y/n…” He sits up on his elbows, looking down at you with that haunted, totally lost expression again. You reach up to run your fingers through the silken waves of his hair. It’s obvious there’s something he wants to say, but the words keep sticking on his tongue. 

“It’s ok, Frank,” you try to assure him. Like allowing him to lay on top of you in your bed isn’t indication enough of your happiness with his presence. 

“I can’t say I didn’t hope this would go this way. But I’m not such a narcissist as to think it’s the only way it should have gone. I absolutely deserve a kick in the balls for the way I treated you.”

You raise an eyebrow to this, trying not to laugh at the mental image. “I hate to tell you,” you inform him, twining your leg with his. The bulge pressing against your center practically makes your mouth water. “But that’s not the plan I have for your balls.”

“Very kind of you. I’m serious though.”

“Me too. Believe it or not…” You brush his hair behind his ear. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You realize this might be a foreign concept to him.

“Y/n…” He closes his eyes momentarily, maybe because you are petting him, and maybe because this is all too much.  “Aren’t you angry at all?”

You think on it. Really think on it, rather than give some off the cuff answer that maybe isn’t exactly true. “No,” you finally answer, and you mean it. “I’m just…relieved. I really thought I’d never see you again, and I was too chicken to go after you. I was afraid you’d say mean things to me and turn me away.” You blink back the moisture that gathers in the corners of your eyes.

“I probably would have,” he admits with a frown, more for himself than you, you’re beginning to realize. His eyes widen as he looks down at you, his long fingers stroking the hair at your temples. “I’m a fucking menace, y/n. I…if we do this, I’m going to hurt you.” The realization at saying it out loud really seems to drive it home for him. He bows his head to rest on your chest, as though ashamed of something he hasn’t even done yet. “Fuck.” 

He shifts as though he means to extricate himself from you, abandon you, again. You thwart him at least for the moment by wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him back to you. You know if you have a real wrestling match, this man who is twice your size is so going to win, but maybe, just maybe, he’ll listen to you for another five seconds. 

“Please don’t leave me over something that hasn’t even happened yet.” You know you sound more than a little pathetic–but you also know if he walks out the door again like this it will destroy you. 

“Y/n…” He growls your name, and the sound does unmentionable things to your insides. “You’re so sweet and pretty and talented, and you deserve good things in your life.” It seems more than a little surreal to you, that this man, who sees the world exactly for what it is and pulls no punches, puts you of all people on a pedestal. That tingling electric feeling is coursing through your limbs again, to your very bones. It’s the most alive you’ve felt in a long while. 

“Excellent,” you inform him brightly. “I’ll start with having you.” 

“You’re not listening to me.”

“You’re not listening to me. We’ll take it day by day,” you think out loud, stroking his cheek with the blade of your thumb. “And if you hurt my feelings, you’ll say you’re sorry, and I’ll forgive you. And hopefully you’ll have the same patience for me, because fuck knows I’m no picnic either.”

With a sigh that comes from the depths of his soul Frank rests his head on your chest, finally relaxing a little. 

“You have so much hope,” he grumbles at your breast, like he’s annoyed about it.

“Only as of fifteen minutes ago, I assure you,” you tell him honestly, running your fingers through his hair. You can’t seem to stop yourself.

He makes that animalistic sound in the back of his throat, snarling at all the doubts and contingencies running at breakneck speed through his over-analytical brain. His next words come so quietly you almost miss them. 

“I think I need you.”

A long breath made of pure relief escapes you,  and you keep running your fingers through his hair. “You’ve got me.”

“That easily?”

You snort. “You call this easy?”

“I don’t even know anymore. I feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind.” 

You don’t get a chance to make some pithy reply, because suddenly his mouth is on yours again, and your ability to produce coherent thought evaporates into a red cloud of desire. Somehow between kisses and urgent, fumbling fingers you manage to divest each other of your various garments, until the world is right again, with your bare skin against his, and his cock buried deep in your needy little cunt. Frank makes love to you while looking into your very soul, and you know that thing you told him what feels like a lifetime ago was absolutely true:   

What’s it like to fall in love? 

It’s like going insane. 

What you didn’t know to add at the time, is how absolutely wonderful it is. 

***

When you wake from your post-coital snooze you panic a little when you don’t feel him right beside you, shooting up in bed. Did he decide he’d made a mistake after all and flee the scene?

But then you realize he is sitting by the window, in the comfy chair in front of your easel with a blanket wrapped around his otherwise nude form. He is staring at your tablet, where you have sketched his face umpteen times in your miserable longing. You freeze at seeing him sitting there, certain he will make fun of you for being a lovesick little fool. 

Instead, he could have pushed you over with a feather, when he just shoots you a soft smile. “You’re very good,” he says quietly, as though afraid of breaking the sacred hush of the room. You’d be a liar, if you said your best work hasn’t always been fueled by longing of some kind. If you were a happy and content individual, you’re not sure you’d create anything of merit at all. 

“Thank you.” 

Then he smirks at you, picking up a pencil. “I’ll draw you,” he says cheekily, making a show of measuring your angles with the instrument, putting down bold marks. “Voila. My masterpiece.” 

You slide out from the covers to join him in the chair, snuggling into the warm curve of his large body behind you. When you look at what he drew you burst out in laughter, hiding in the dip of his neck. It’s a stick figure…with two emphatically drawn circles in the chest area. “Oh my god. Frank…” 

“You don’t recognize my raw artistic talent?” he teases, resting his chin on top of your head. 

“I see you’re not into the graphic design side of marketing at JD Power.”

He snorts at that. “What do you mean? I’m putting this on our next campaign.” 

You are chuckling so deeply it hurts in your core. This man. This man brings you such joy, and you’ve been withering without him. It’s not good–but it’s true. 

“Great. When they fire you, you can come shack up with me.” 

It’s a relief when he snorts at your joke–you didn’t mean to invite him to move in with you within the first few hours of seeing him again, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He even holds you a little tighter, which plays unfair havoc with your insides.

“Frank?”

“Present.” From the angle of his head, you’re guessing he’s looking out the window, at the ocean. It’s a pretty killer view–if you hadn’t inherited this place from a great aunt, you never could have afforded it. You nearly die of a heart attack every year when the property tax bill comes. 

“What…made you change your mind?”

He grumbles behind you. You feel it more than hear it, with his chest pressed to your back. Maybe you shouldn’t have brought it up just yet, but god. You need to know, as a matter of keeping your sanity.

“I realized…that every time I walked through the lobby of my office building, I was hoping to see you there, ready to terrorize us all with Peter Gabriel playing at ear-splitting volumes.”

“Oh Frank…” 

“Then for a week or so I resented you for not being there, for not coming after me even though I pushed you away in no uncertain terms.” 

You listen to him speak, quietly tucked under his chin. You would never guess from the level of his tone, but you can feel the thundering of his heart against your back, feel it in the slight way his grip tightens on you. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but your eyes blur with tears, that wonderfully uncomfortable electric feeling coursing all the way to your fingertips. 

“Then I realized that was pretty fucked up, to be mad at you for respecting my wishes, even though it clearly hurt you to do so. So…here I am. I am…a goddamn mess, y/n. I’m a grouchy old man, and I still don’t understand why you seem to like me, but if you do…?”

You think on how those three little words, here I am, actually involved this no-nonsense man remembering that ridiculous little conversation you’d had ages ago, dreaming up the scheme with the rocks, hunting them down or ordering them custom engraved online, and driving all this way in the rain having no idea if you would actually be happy to see him or if you would tell him to go to hell. 

You don’t think it’s just blind optimism, that makes you think he’s not half as broken as he thinks he is. You’re smart enough not to call him sensitive to his face, but he has just been kicked one too many times by people near him who go through life with a lot less thought about how their actions affect those around them. He’s hardened himself as a matter of survival–and that you understand all too well. 

“I do like you, Frank. I really, really, do.” You punctuate each word with a kiss until your mouth is pressed to his, and the grumble of his approval vibrates on a wavelength through your body, to the depths of your very soul. 

“And,” he adds with a wry note, just in case things were getting too sappy, “Your rat shirt is starting to smell more like me than you now. It needs a recharge.” 

This does make you giggle. “What have you been doing with my possum shirt, Frank?”

“You probably don’t want to know,” he answers with that rogue glitter in his dark eyes that curls your toes. 

You scoff–and wonder how many grains of truth are hiding in the lie. The thought of Frank snuggling your shirt at night wishing it was you…you really might melt into a puddle.  

“I still have your black t-shirt under my pillow,” you confess in the spirit of solidarity. 

He looks down at you with a raised brow, amused. “I wondered where that went. You sneaky little thief.” Suddenly he is standing with you in his arms, carrying you towards the bed again. He drops you on the foot of the bed, and you have no zero time to regroup before he is on you, pressing open mouthed kisses to the insides of your thighs, up to eat your pussy like he means to devour you. 

“Fuck!” you gasp, writhing against him holding you down as he wrecks you with his tongue. “How are you even better at that than I remember?”

He withdraws with a long hard lick that makes you see stars. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” he admits, manhandling you to the edge of the bed with those big hands on your hips, plunging inside you with a groan that lifts every little hair on your body, fucking into you like you belong to him. 

And maybe, you do.

“And how is this sweet little snatch even tighter than what I remember?” he pants back, trembling with the effort to keep his thrusts slow and deep, like he knows exactly what you need to climb that shining peak–you are running up that mountain with his beautiful manhood teeming inside you.  

“I’ve been working out…” you answer with a laugh that comes out half moan, so happy you could die as he lowers his weight down on you, cupping your head in his hands, his long fingers in your hair. 

“I’m not sure I know what that means…” he answers, losing himself with his eyes closed as he bottoms out against your cervix, catching your mouth in a sloppy kiss that makes you clench and pulse around him. 

“Just say thank you.” You don’t know how you have the courage to tease this man, while he’s inside you. But you feel like your heart is made of pure sunshine in that moment, and nothing bad can touch either of you. 

“I’m trying to,” he chuckles, having just as much fun trading pithy remarks during this intimate moment as you, his thumb sneaking between you to rub your aching button to the rhythm of his body moving inside yours. You’re going to cum, to know it in your bones, but even if you weren’t this perfect handful of seconds of connection with Frank would be purest bliss. Those three dangerous words are dancing on the tip of your tongue, and you bite yourself until you taste blood to keep them in. 

I love you. 

You’ll tell him soon enough. 

The pleasure of your orgasm blindsides you like a truck t-boning you in a four-way stop–it’s as mental as it is physical, this absolute, all consuming rapture for having this man in your arms again, in your body, in your life, if you dare to believe it. 

Frank is not far behind you, moaning into the bend of your neck as he cums, filling you to the brim with his hips locked against yours. In the aftermath he sighs something softly into your hair, something utterly inaudible over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears and your heavy breathing. 

It’s something short though. Something three syllables. 

“What?” you whisper, sweeping the hair from his face with a trembling hand. 

 “Nothing,” he answers, pulling back with a sleepy smile. He shifts to the side and drags over the comforter, wrapping you up in his arms and the cloud-soft blanket. “You know,” he says sleepily, “I was miserable for so long, I think I forgot what happiness feels like. So thanks for scaring the shit out of me, I guess.”

“Anytime,” you chortle, snuggled under his chin. 

Everything is on fire…and maybe it will be perfectly fine. 

----

Epilogue coming soon...

[itsametaphorbriansblog]

Dreams

A.N: Wellcome guys! This is my first try at a series and fanfiction overall so all types of comments, messages, or criticism works for me. Also, English is not my first language so be considerate regarding that, I´m going to try my best. I´m really excited about this one, it´s going to be a titanic job, I´ve been working a lot on it, and I´m going to try and upload every Saturday since most of the outline is done! it´s looking up to be between 24-30 chapters so I hope yall get along for the ride!

Warnings (will be updated as the series progress): bisexual!reader, fem!reader (this is me but I image reader being not-hegemonic) sexism, drugs, homophobia, angst, love triangle? Almost?, unrequited love, slow burn, fluff, friends to lovers.

Pairing: Daisy Jones x reader, Eddie Roundtree x reader

Playlist of the series: Dreams

When the rain washes you clean you'll know (Album one)

Intro

track one: I´d do anything just to feel with you

track two: My words shoot to kill when I'm mad

track three: Move on up

track four: I keep your picture with me, Daisy

track five: How strange when life unfolds this way

track six: L.A. Woman, Sunny Afternoon

track seven: One more bad break could bring a fall 

track eight:

[samwpmarleau]

fic: sometime around midnight

idk man, i saw “night walks” on a prompt list and this came out. set in an alt-season 4 (probably).

She likes walking at night. There’s far too much light pollution in L.A. to see much of the stars, but the endless blanket of nothingness above is comforting all the same. The temperature cools enough to make long sleeves pleasant instead of just a statement. It’s freeing, too, to walk around without any fear or feeling like she needs to thread her fingers around her car keys with her head on a swivel. The buzzing beneath her skin from the million and one creatures and objects around her waiting to be manipulated renders any potential danger a nonissue.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doing on her own so late?”

Daisy smiles to herself. Even without a voice to accompany it, the unique vibration of Robbie Reyes shines through the white noise of all the rest.

“I don’t think pickup lines are supposed to sound threatening,” she says, slowing her pace just a fraction so he can catch up.

“I was being — it wasn’t a pickup line.”

“A threat, then? You should know better than that by now.”

Daisy takes her hands out of her pockets and points them downward, causing the pavement to shiver just enough to be unsettling. Still a far cry from their first meeting, when she cracked the ground beneath his feet and sent him to his knees. He’s been on his knees since, too, but it’s never taken a quake to do it.

“You wake up on the wrong side of the bed or something? Retract those claws, girl.”

Daisy has a retort to that prepared as she turns down an alleyway — What would you know about my bed? perhaps — but opts for the truth instead, just this once. “Sorry. Long day.”

Robbie grabs her hand to tug her to a stop. His handsome features are marred by a frown, every trace of playfulness gone. “Daisy.”

She leans forward to smush her face into his chest, inhaling the familiar scent of old leather and motor oil. Robbie stiffens in surprise before slowly wrapping his arms around her.

She supposes she can’t blame him for being tentative; until now, things had never been like this, so serious and fraught. They work better as strangers. As enemies. Or pretending as such, anyway. This isn’t the first time he’s weakened her armor, each kernel of information he drops about himself heightening her intrigue, but this is the first time she’s let him penetrate it.

The fact that he can’t die helps. That much she’ll admit. She’s a walking cancer to everyone else, a hazard to anyone who gets too close, but not him. Hell, she’d tried to kill him in the beginning, and it didn’t take.

He’ll always be here, in one form or another.

She calms, a little, as she shuts out the rest of the world to listen to the beat of his heart and tune into the specific timbre of his vibrational frequency. Frequencies plural, really. His, steady and low, and the Rider’s, frenetic and high. The latter’s barely noticeable at the moment, however. The demon inside him doesn’t usually bother to rouse itself anymore when she’s nearby.

“Cariño,” Robbie murmurs, the endearment soft as silk on his tongue, “you’re scaring me.”

She lets out a weak snort. “Ghost Rider’s got jokes. Come on, I’m not scaring —”

“I mean it. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

She doesn’t want to tell him — she can’t tell him, not yet — but she doesn’t want to lie either. Quietly, she asks, “Just hold me?”

“Yeah,” he says, so immediately and without question that it makes her start to cry.

Once she starts she can’t seem to stop, for a certainty getting snot and makeup and tears on his beloved jacket, but he doesn’t mention it. He merely does as asked, holds her so tightly it almost hurts — almost burns, like he’s trying to keep her in one piece long enough to cauterize her wounds.

He could kill her like this, she muses, if he wanted to. Sizzle her flesh and char her bones with the touch of a finger. In turn, she could quake his organs apart, maim him so thoroughly it’d take the Rider a week to stitch him back together.

They’re two of the most dangerous people in the world, the pair of them, and maybe one day that’ll be a problem.

But for now, all Daisy feels is safe.

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟

:)

Ohhhh idk if there's 159 left in the chapter... Let's see!

Turns out I do!

---

While Eddie’s back route decision avoided the outskirts of L.A. - though not lions - they do have to drive through two cities before reaching Sunport. Ventura and Santa Barbara. The cities always make Eddie nervous. There is just so much more to worry about. 

It’s in Venture, on the 101, that they first see the ocean. This brings Eddie a sense of relief. The more they stick by the water, the better their chances of avoiding zombies. That is Eddie’s first thought when he sees the glittering blue of the Pacific. 

It’s not Christopher’s. 

“WOW!” Chris gasps. “WOW, THE OCEAN!” 

Oh, right. Christopher has never seen it. He’s never been. 

Eddie smiles. After all this time, after all this danger, there is still a sense of awe in him. 

“Yeah, kiddo.” Eddie tells him. “That’s the Pacific Ocean. It’s not the same ocean you can see in Texas.” 

“It’s SO BIG!” Chris enthuses. “And so beautiful!” 

Eddie feels his cheeks ache from the strength of his grin. 

“It really is, buddy.” Eddie agrees.

“Can we go?” Chris asks, edge of a whine in his tone. 

“Go?” Eddie asks.

“Can we go see it? I want to touch it!”

Shoot.

“Oh, bud. We’ve got to get Maddie to her brother, okay?” Eddie explains. “But we’re almost there, and I bet there’s lots of ocean there, too. It’s on the coast.”

Chris pouts. “Dad, please. We never get to do anything but drive.”

“Christopher, it’s not the right time.”

Maddie looks at Eddie. She mouths it’s okay. Do it. 

“Are you sure?” Eddie asks her. 

Maddie nods. “Let him be a kid for a sec, right?”

He could hug her.

“Say thank you, Maddie,” Eddie tells Chris. “That’s very generous.”

“Thank you, Maddie!” Chris beams. “Thank you!”

Maddie chuckles. “You are so welcome, Chris. I’ve never seen the Pacific before, either.”

“Really?” Chris asks. Mind-boggled. Like, she’s an adult, she should have seen everything by now. 

“Really. But when I lived in Boston, I saw the Atlantic all the time.”

“Wow!” Chris exclaims. 

They pull over a little past Ventura. A little thin, rocky stretch of beach that is easily accessible from the road called Emma Wood State Beach. Eddie takes off Christopher’s shoes, rolls up his pant legs, and carries him over the rocks to the water’s edge, setting him down in the sand where the waves are reaching as they crash. Maddie follows behind them too, slower because of their injury. 

If he’s being honest, it takes everything in him not to cry at the way Chris giggles and squeals as the water crashes and recedes over his toes. There is so much pure, unadulterated joy. So much childhood innocence. 

“Do you love it?” Eddie asks Chris.

“I love it!” He announces giddily. 

They spend a few minutes collecting shells and sea glass before returning, sandy and damp, to the truck. 

“Thank you, Maddie,” Eddie says. 

Maddie just smiles at him and nods. He has a sense that some of her earlier reservations about him are breaking down. 

▪️▪️▪️

The good mood doesn’t last them all the way to Sunport, unfortunately. Driving by Santa Barbara, it’s quickly clear that the long stretch of zombie-free road they’ve enjoyed has come to an end. Which does pose a concern for Sunport. 

They’re not in danger, though. Not really. They pass a collection of zombies - four or five - dragging themselves along the side of the highway, clearly at the end of their life. Or whatever you can call it, at this stage. Some of them are badly wounded; missing limbs and chunks of their face. Some of them are rail thin and skeletal. It’s sad, really. What humanity has been reduced to. 

Before Eddie can think too much about it, he’s slowing down the truck. 

“What are you doing?” Maddie asks. 

“Just give me a second,” Eddie asks as he kills the ignition. 

“Dad?” Chris asks. 

“Close your eyes, buddy. You know the drill.”

Chris clamps his hands over his eyes. Eddie grabs his gun and climbs out of the truck. 

His presence stirs some sort of last ditch fight in the dying former people. They start making low-pitched moaning noises, raspy and guttural in their damaged throats. The pace of their clawing picks up, direction shifting towards Eddie. Like lemmings towards the edge of a cliff. 

Eddie fires off five quick shots. Clean and concise. Head shots. For a former medic, he’s always been a crack shot. Precise. Steady. 

They all die quietly. 

Eddie returns to the truck without a second look. 

He doesn’t enjoy the sight of their destruction. That’s not why he does this. That’s not why he, in all honesty, wastes his ammunition. He does it because every time he sees them, inching towards the end, completely lacking in dignity, he thinks of his parents. And what they might have become. He thinks of everyone he has ever known - save perhaps his sisters and brother-in-law - and what they might now be. And it is a tragedy. Eddie has thus far been spared from this grisly end, perhaps some divine mercy to allow him to protect his son. Otherwise, he’s not sure why. 

He’s not sure why his luck hasn’t run out yet. He’s not sure why he’s here, with his life and his mind and his body, when people who were certainly once decently good were reduced to crawling things on the shoulder of the highway. He doesn’t understand. 

There’s so much about Eddie’s life and existence he still doesn’t understand. For a long time, he kept waiting to be punished. Smited. That now was the time for the retribution to find him, for not being what he’s supposed to be, what he said he was, what he tried to be. After all this time, he wonders if maybe none of it ever really mattered. 

Maybe the only thing that matters is the look on his son’s face, the sound of his laugh, when he feels the ocean for the first time. 

As Eddie buckles himself in and starts the truck again, he finds Maddie watching him. There’s a curious look in her eyes. She doesn’t ask why he did what he did. She doesn’t seem to need to. Maybe she gets it, too. 

“Alright,” Eddie says, pulling back onto the road. “Almost there.”

“How many more minutes?” Chris asks.

“Maybe twenty-five?” Eddie says. 

“Twenty-five minutes until we see your brother, Maddie!” Chris announces happily. 

Maddie smiles warmly. “That’s right. I can’t wait.”

[tropes-and-tales]

Drunk dancing with Benny Magalon please 🥺

AN: I'm sorry in advance, bebe. 🥲

You knew you’d see him tonight.  It’s your mutual friends who are marrying, and hell—you can’t avoid the man forever.  L.A. isn’t that big, really.

He sidles up to you at the bar, and you don’t even have to look to know it’s him.  He smells the same, even a year later:  the same smoky, musky scent shot through with faint cigarette smoke.  You hate how your body still responds to him despite the time that’s passed.  You can feel your heart rate picking up, heat flooding your cheeks. 

He doesn’t say the trite shit.  He doesn’t say that it’s good to see you, doesn’t ask how you are.  Instead, he surprises you, especially given the last words he spoke to you before tonight.

“Dance with me?” he asks in his soft voice, and you smell the whiskey on his breath.  You know you shouldn’t, but weddings make you stupid and sentimental, so you finally look at your ex-boyfriend.

You nod.  “Sure, Ben.”

-----

You’re stiff in his arms for a moment, but on the dark dance floor of the wedding reception, it’s easy to fall back into old habits.  Everything about him is familiar—the smell of him, the feel of his arms, the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

“Was hoping you’d be here,” he says against your ear, and he’s not slurring his words, but he’s annunciating them crisp and clear—a sure sign he’s drunk and he knows it and he’s trying to hide it.

“Well, here I am,” you reply lamely.

He hums, and you hear him draw a breath like he’s about to say something…but he doesn’t.  He spreads his hand wider on your lower back, splays out his fingers as if he’s trying to grasp more of you.  And you should hate the dull ache it raises in you, the ache of missing him, of wanting him, but you can’t care at the moment.

The song starts its final verse when he finally mumbles, “missed you.”

You huff, irritated.  “Okay.”

“I did.  I do.”

“Okay, well…”  You trail off, unsure what to say.  You’ve never been that quick on your feet in uncomfortable conversations.  Case in point:  the last time you and Ben were in the same room.  When he stared at you with a blank expression and unceremoniously dumped you.  You hadn’t been able to speak much then either.

The song ends and another slow one begins.  When you go to step away from him, he holds you firm.  He pulls you closer to him until you’re flush against him.  He sets the two of you in the same meandering, swaying steps on the dance floor.

“Knew I made a mistake,” he continues, and it comes out mish-take, his whiskey-laden tongue heavy and slurring finally.  “Knew it the moment you left.”

“You mean the moment you dumped me.”  It comes out mean and you don’t care if it stings. 

He sighs, turns his head to press his nose in your hair.  “Yeah, then.”

You never got to do a post-mortem on your relationship with Benny Magalon.  He never gave you a straight reason, but you could guess at what drove him to break up.  He’d been growing more and more distant in the months leading up to it.  You always thought it was his job—the awful things he investigated, the worst people doing terrible things.  He had already started a slow fade before he dealt the killing blow.

As the song continues, he shifts his hold on you, wraps his arms around you outright.  You don’t fight him.  He’s drunk on whiskey, but you’re just as drunk on a heady blend of nostalgia, of melancholy, of disparate feelings.  You hate him.  You still love him.  You wish you never saw him again.  You miss him keenly.

“Sorry,” he says against your head.  “I’m sorry, baby.”

“Ben—”

“So fucking sorry.”  He takes a shaky breath, and adds, “I’d take it back.  If I could.”

You hate the way your heart leaps at that, the stubborn traitor.  You hate the hot bloom of hope unfurling in your chest, tickling against your ribcage.

“You’ve had too much to drink,” you reply weakly.

“Yeah, but still.  Mean it.”  He tightens his hold on you, presses you against him.  “Always miss you.  Always wanna take it back.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you say nothing.  You go quiet as he sways with you on the dance floor, as he holds you like he never wants to let you go.  And with that hot-bloom of hope filling you, you realize you don’t want him to.

[eisforeidolon]

Question: Why was Dean decided to get killed at the end of the series?

Jared: Yeah, why did he choose that?

Jensen: If you look closely, if you play it in slow motion, you actually you can see me steering and telling the guy where the nail was. A little to the left ... a little to the ... yep, yep, right there. Put me on it. End this misery. Uh, no. No man, that was not my choice, that was not Dean's choice by any means. It was certainly something that was heavily talked about and discussed and we knew, we essentially knew that ending when we started that season. And, you know, it's no secret that it took -

Jared: We've all seen the finale, correct?

Jensen: Spoiler alert. It was something that it took me a while to come around to - yeah, I didn't want to see Dean die, either. So it was - and we were talking about this earlier at our meet & greet, just about when really important characters get killed in shows and movies and stuff, that it unfortunately it sucks sometimes but it does make for good storytelling. It does make for good drama, and that's what we're in the business of doing.

Jared: And you're not getting off the hook, 'cause Sam died, too, dude. So, I don't know if you just stopped it at that part, but everybody's seen the spoiler alert. No, we actually, he's not joking, between seasons 14 and 15, when we knew 15 was the final season, we met up with Andrew Dabb and Bob Singer in L.A. and they kinda told us the short pitch. Like, hey, we don't know what every episode's about, what every scene's about, but here's what we're thinking we're working towards. And it kinda caught us both off guard, like, okay. And I think probably every season of Supernatural in the writers' room started off with one idea and it changed. You know, as a for instance, Genevieve, my wife, was supposed to be in, like, three episodes, she ended up being throughout the entire season and she came back and got married. [waggles finger] If you like it then you better put a ring on it! [Jensen shakes head] [Jared flips hair] I can do it again! I've got hair again! But it was also, it was a - I think he and I both, having chatted about it in the earlier parts of season 15? It kinda made sense for the storyline. Because I think if Sam died first, and Dean knew that he took Sam out of college to bring him back into the life, then that would have been the end of it, you know, like he wouldn't have been a very happy fellow. So I think it happened for a reason, but it is Supernatural, and people can come back to life, so we have someone writing season 16 over here [points to fan from previous panel]. So hopefully we get to see the boys ride again.

[gachag0d]

Blasting Joji at 3 A.M. ANGST|Obey Me x Joji Ballads 1

Synopsis: Sorting the Obey Me characters into which Joji Ballads 1 Songs I think they would blast at 3 A.M during sad hours.

Characters: The Brothers and The Dateable (-Luke)

CW: Joji's music is explicit and contains Swearing, Mentions of Self Harm, Thoughts of Suicide, Alcohol and Drug Abuse, Implied Violence, Unrequited love, & Possessiveness.

A/N: This is my first time trying my hand at something like this. I'm sure this is a little niche, but I will be doing the other Joji albums as well! Please enjoy!

Ballads 1 | In Tongues | Nectar pt. 1 | Nectar pt. 2 | Smithereens

"Girl, would it kill you just to throw a little bit of attention? If I hurt you, I'm afraid that's gonna teach me a lesson Now would you hate me if I said goodbye

So quick you could eat my dust? Now would you hate me if I run like hell

In the wind from dawn 'til dusk? When you cry, you waste your time Over boys you never liked Can you not be so obvious?"

SOLOMON, Mammon, Asmodeus, Leviathan

"When I'm around Slow dancing in the dark Don't follow me You'll end up in my arms You done made up your mind I don't need no more signs Can you? Can you? Give me reasons we should be complete You should be with him, I can't compete You looked at me like I was someone else, oh well Can't you see? I don't wanna slow dance In the dark"

LEVIATHAN, Barbados, Diavolo, Solomon, Simeon, Mammon

"She don't wanna tell lies She don't wanna tell lies She just wanna feel alive She just wanted more time I'm looking for a long ride She just want a test drive (what do you want, babe?) Now you on the west side (what do you want, babe?) I'll see you in the next life (who do you want, babe?)"

SIMEON, MAMMON, Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub

"I know I've been missing a long time To know I had to move I've been waiting my whole life To know I wanted you Are you feeling me slowly? You can take your fucking time And I promise I won't lie We'll make it out alive"

SATAN, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Barbados, Simeon, Diavolo

"I can't get over you Can't get over you And before I die I pray that I could be the one That I could be the one But I won't be no fun If I can't have you no one can"

MAMMON, Leviathan, Belphegor, Solomon

"I'ma fuck up my life I'ma fuck up my life We gon' party all night She don't care if I die Yeah, right, yeah, right Yeah, I bet you won't cry Yeah, I bet you won't try But you know I don't mind But you know I don't mind"

ASMODEUS, Mammon

"I don't wanna live forever, no, L.A I don't wanna live like that no more, L.A Only when we sleep A promise that you'll keep That you will never weep Until you fail to breathe So sleep tight You were right all my life"

BELPHEGOR, Lucifer, Simeon

"Yeah, I can't get no sleep I look so good in green I run, I run, I run (I run, I run) And I don't have no more dreams I drive around on my own Feel dead, but I feel my bones (My bones) I hide out on my throne (My throne) Open up, now my cover's blown Yeah, now my cover's blown Yeah, now my cover's blown Oh, now my cover's blown Oh, now my cover's—"

DIAVOLO, Asmodeus, Mammon

"Won't you come through? Water on me We gon' walk right through And I'm swimming like Nemo No caller ID, no You don't really like me, no And I don't really like people But you're better by default"

BELPHEGOR, LEVIATHAN, Barbados

"There's no more time Just lay it on me If I lost my life You can blame it on me Are you ready or not? We can start right here Take you on them rocks So crystal clear Woah, I would die for you I would die for you, yeah"

BEELZEBUB, Mammon, Lucifer, Simeon

"I don't really wanna run around, yeah Time is goin' slow and I don't mind, yeah Tell me if you know I'm really found, yeah Fuck around a bit and get it right Yeah, yeah, yeah yeah I don't really wanna run around 'Round, 'round, 'round, 'round, 'round, 'round, 'round, 'round Saying all the rhymes that make your world go 'Round, 'round, 'round, 'round, 'round, 'round, 'round, 'round Fuck around and you won't stay Tellin' me that you're okay Just better if you stay away Better if you stay away Won't you stay away?"

LUCIFER, Barbados, Satan, Belphegor

"I was hiding too It's alright (It's alright) It's alright (It's alright) If you were 22 forever, would be nice (Would be nice) Would be nice (Would be nice) Why you dare to take that way (That way) I don't understand (I don't understand) I could name a thousand different reasons you could fight All your might, I know I'm right"

LUCIFER, Simeon, Diavolo

[brokethedrawer]

Ran into this while browsing through some older sites--an article/interview from 2004, mostly about Everybody Loves a Happy Ending. I especially love what Charlton says about "Size of Sorrow."

In case the Wayback Machine link ever stops working, here's a copy:

INTERNAL CONFLICTS ARE PRACTICALLY a requisite for every pop duo, the in-fighting associated with Simon & Garfunkel, Oasis and The Everly Brothers almost as well-known as the songs they produced.

Up until recently, Tears for Fears had sustained an impressive impasse of their own, with one half of the pair, Curt Smith, abandoning the synth group for more than a decade. What was thought to be a permanent vacation, however, is snapped on April 6 with the release of Everybody Loves a Happy Ending (Arista), the first CD by the original British duo since 1989’s Top 10 album The Seeds of Love.

The full track list: "Everybody Loves a Happy Ending," "Closest Thing to Heaven" (first single), "Call Me Mellow," "Size of Sorrow," "Who Killed Tangerine?," "Quiet Ones," "Who You Are," "The Devil," "Secret World," "Killing with Kindness," "Ladybird" and "Last Days on Earth."

Smith and partner Roland Orzabal grew up as childhood friends in Bath, England, devoting many years to the cultivation of Tears for Fears (and Graduate, prior to that) before breaking though with The Hurting in 1983.

The band ruled the airwaves in ’85, tallying two singles that topped the charts for a combined five weeks: "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" and "Shout." But despite the mega-success of Songs from the Big Chair that year (five-times platinum) and the strong reception garnered by its follow-up, The Seeds of Love, four years later, the union eventually proved ill-fated. Smith exited in 1992.

Orzabal upheld the Tears for Fears moniker despite Smith’s absence throughout the ’90s, but the amount of material he created was minimal: Elemental in 1993 and Raoul and the Kings of Spain two years later. In the meantime, Smith periodically issued obscure solo discs, including 2000’s Aeroplane.

"About two-and-a-half years ago, they started talking again," newly recruited guitarist Charlton Pettus, who also played on Aeroplane, tells ICE. "I think they had both arrived at similar places musically, and whatever personal stuff there was, it was long ago enough that no one cared anymore. Their dynamic partnership is one that they didn’t fully appreciate until they didn’t have it. When they got back into it, they just kept going."

Once the reunion became official, the band devoted winter 2002-’03 to writing and laying down demos. The bulk of the recording took place in Los Angeles starting in February, and lasted through the summer.

"We took about four trips between Roland’s house in England and [L.A.] before we really started recording," says Pettus, who co-produced the album with the band. "So it was a gradual, get-back-into-the-water thing at first."

Whereas Orzabal traditionally performs guitar and keyboards and Smith the bass, the members occasionally swapped duties during this recording. Pettus filled all three roles when needed, and Orzabal even stepped behind the drum kit for "Closest Thing to Heaven." The album is also infused with B3 organ, Wurlitzer, acoustic piano, Mellotron, clarinet and other instruments.

While Pettus claims the recording was slow-moving, "Ladybird," the first song the duo attempted, "went fairly quickly and naturally," he says. "There was no conscious effort to sound like Tears for Fears… they just do."

Despite the long gap of time between recordings, the group only looked to the past for one Everybody selection, "Size of Sorrow"; the rest were all written specifically for the new album.

The Orzabal-penned "Size of Sorrow," at least seven years old, was casually recalled during the recording sessions, eventually winding up on the album. "It was from the period right after they broke up, so hearing Curt sing it was kind of an epiphany," Pettus states. "When we were going through songs midway through the process, there was a song of Roland’s that he’d never recorded a version of which he liked. Me and Curt thought it was a beautiful song… we messed around with it for awhile and loved it."

Pettus says that the majority of initial tracks were preserved for the final versions of the songs.

"More than half the tracks on there are first-take quickies," he says. "A lot of the guitar solos are first-take noodles that we got attached to. It’s a demo/record hybrid — nothing was erased."

He points to the title track specifically: "The middle part of that song is Roland singing and playing acoustic guitar together on one mike. He did just one take as a reference, so we could lay out the song structure. We thought there was something magical about the take, so that was it."

The studio residency resulted in roughly 12 leftover tracks, some of which will surface as B-sides and others that will not be finished. Pettus hints at one track in particular, "Out of Control," as being an especially beloved remainder.

Once the recordings were finished, the pair inked a deal with Arista — the first time they had ever been involved with the label. "[Arista president] L.A. Reid has always been a big fan," VP of Marketing Adam Lowenberg tells ICE. "Everyone at Arista is so excited about this… there’s nothing else like it on our roster."

–Kurt Orzeck © 2004 Howard Communications, Inc. All rights reserved.

[iloveabunchofgames]

#JakeReviewsItch

An American Werewolf in LA

by PlayMedusa

Price (US): $1

Included In: Bundle for Racial Justice and Equality, Bundle for Ukraine, Indie Bundle for Abortion Funds

Genre: Action

Pitch: An old-school beat-them-up inspired by motion pictures of the 1980s. Dodge, dash, and punch until the timer runs out or you die trying.

My expectations: If you're going to make '80s-nostalgia-sploitation, go all the way. I have as much affinity for that decade's pop culture as the next person, I suppose. What stands out most in the screenshots is all the movie poster in the background. I hope the references go a little deeper than "here is the famous poster from a famous movie." And I could always do with a little less reverence toward Michael Jackson, Bill Murray, and the Landis family. Your nostalgia shouldn't make me go, "Huh, relatively, the Republican governor isn't so bad."

Review:

Remember when Herschel Walker said, “Vampires are some cool people,” before telling us that werewolves are even cooler? That wasn’t just politics. He cited sources. A werewolf can kill a vampire. There’s evidence a werewolf can surf on a car and is permitted to participate in high school athletics (unless the werewolf’s trans; that would be unfair, dangerous, and difficult to explain to my children).

An American Werewolf In LA takes liberties with these creatures. Werewolf movement is herky-jerky, actions are delayed, and the werewolf’s range is laughable. There’s this huge Teen Wolf sprite, with massive jaws and burly arms, but he can’t connect a hit without practically standing on his target.

Punches have a long wind-up, but the stiff animation doesn’t sell the power, especially when the wolf’s jacket blends into the background. Long, slow combos continue to play out after enemies are defeated, with no apparent way to cancel them.

Blocking is more effective than dodging, but since they’re both the same button, it’s difficult. Attempts to turn and block typically result in a dash straight into an oncoming attack or a block without turning. Fighting feels bad, and there’s nothing to this game except fighting, sooooooo…

+ This isn't a typical brawler, where the goal is to defeat every enemy and then progress to the next wave. Instead, the objective is to survive long enough to run out the clock. I like that. + Big, bold sprites that never stop bobbing up and down. I like them. + I gave up on the second level, but assuming they continue to add new enemy types and environmental obstacles to each stage, you can expect a decent amount of variety and challenge along the road to L.A. + A limited set of mechanics that are flexible enough for both fast, masterful action and slow, careful strategy.

– Fighting feels bad, and it's all fighting. – Stiff animations. Actions are difficult to read. – Movement speed, action speed, jump height, button mapping, animation length, input buffer, projectile speed, hit-detection, character size, character shape, sprite/background contrast—these are boring nerd things that I don't think about when they're all in tune with one another. Fundamentally, mathematically, An American Werewolf In LA disagrees with itself. – I'm putting a lot of blame on the visuals, but the audio doesn't sell the action or provide adequate feedback, either. The music is what someone thinks rockin', arcade-brawler music is, but it is not.

🧡🧡🤍🤍🤍 Bottom Line: There's a good chance you're looking at clips of An American Werewolf In LA, and thinking, "Well, of course Jake doesn't like it. He's bad at it!" You're right. I am bad at this game, but not this genre. Give me a brawler with something to offer, and I'll learn to overcome every quirk. Give me a confused jumble of ill-fitting pieces and '80s nostalgia, and I'll recommend you trust me when I say it feels worse than it looks.

#JakeReviewsItch is a series of daily game reviews. You can learn more here. You can also browse past reviews...

• By name • By rating • By genre

[candy-floss-crazy]

Now, we are a corporate entertainments company. We specialise in catering, funfair rides and photography services. So why are we posting about a little known bank robber from the days of the Wild West? Well, read on to hear about a macabre tale of how the star of our tale, ended up as an exhibit on a travelling carnival show. A brief bio shows that McCurdy was born on 1st January 1980 to an unmarried mother, and an unknown father (allegedly his mothers cousin). He joined the army in 1907 as a machine gun operator and received (minimal) training in the use of nitroglycerin. Which for those who don't know is an explosive compound used in the early years for blowing things up. The Robbery Years McCurdy decided to incorporate his explosive training into his outlaw activities. Sadly like many an idiot, his skill with the stuff fell short of what any semi competent bank robber required. Indeed many of his robberies were marked by him blowing the safe and its contents to smithereens. A case of "You were only supposed to blow the bloody doors off", as a certain Mr Caine would later remark. After his final robbery he was tracked down by a posse, and whilst being drunk was killed in the shootout. Embalming Now this is the point where the tale would normally end. If he was a particularly famous outlaw, he might have ended up in the famous Boot Hill cemetery. More likely being a third rate clown, he would have been dumped into a paupers grave, unmarked and unloved. For one of those reasons lost in time. The body was taken to Joseph L. Johnson, an undertaker in Pawhuska Oklahoma. Here it was embalmed with arsenic, shaven, dressed and stored in the back of the funeral home. The body remained unclaimed, and the undertaker, unhappy at working for nothing decided to exhibit the body to earn a little money on it. Variously known as the Embalmed Bandit, the Oklahoma Outlaw and The Man Who Wouldn't Die. Johnson charged a nickel a visit. The Carnival Con It would have remained an obscure and quickly forgotten piece of folklore. If it wasn't for James and Charles Patterson, owners of the Great Patterson Carnival Show. They turned up claiming to be McCurdy's brothers. Having already gained permission from the local sheriff, they took possession of the body to give it a 'proper' burial in San Francisco. Instead they redirected it to Arkansas City in Kansas. The erstwhile McCrudy was exhibited as 'The Outlaw Who Would Never Be Captured Alive.' Museum Of Crime In 1922, Patterson sold his carnival to a Louis Sonney. He exhibited a travelling museum of crime, featuring wax replicas of famous bandits and outlaws. The exhibited corpse accompanied the official sideshow that toured the country with the first Trans-American footrace, a multi day race across the USA. Narcotic, The Movie The corpse had a slight diversion when it was used by a director, Dwain Esper to promote his exploitation film titled Narcotic. It was actually placed in the entrances to theatres as The Dead Dope Fiend. A bandit who supposedly died robbing a chemist to support his drug habit. Sonney died in 1949 and Elmer McCurdy was placed in storage in a warehouse in L.A. It made a brief appearance in another film in 1967 called She Freak. making him I suppose more successful than many an actor who only appeared in one film. By 1968 he had moved on again. This time to Spoony Singh, owner of a wax work museum, and was exhibited at Mount Rushmore. He was a little worse for wear by this time, with the tips of his ears, fingers and toes being blown off. He then moved to his last exhibition gig, being placed inside a funhouse at the Pike Amusement zone in California. Making him unusually well travelled for a corpse. Rediscovery Our intrepid hero's story came to an end in 1976. The Six Million Dollar Man, remember that one, Steve Austin, who ran really quickly in slow motion, was being filmed at the Pike. A prop man moved what he took to be a wax figure hanging from a gallows. Unfortunately it happened to be Elmer McCurdy, and in being moved his arm promptly fell off. The worker saw that human bone and muscle was visible in what was left of the arm and realised it was a human corpse. Police were duly called and the figure transported to a coroner's office. A doctor conducted an autopsy and concluded, quite correctly, that it was of a male who had died from a gunshot wound. Inside the corpses mouth was a ticket stub for Louis Sonneys Museum of crime. Dan Sonney was contacted and confirmed the identity of our hero. A forensic specialist was also called in, who using techniques to identify corpses confirmed the identity. Boot Hill On 22nd April 1977, Elmer McCurdy was transported to the Boot Hill cemetery in Guthrie Oklahoma and laid to rest at a service attended by 300 people. He was buried to Bill Doolin, another Old West outlaw. To ensure he stayed put this time, he was entombed in two feet of concrete. If you look at the map of his travels, you will see he travelled coast to coast. Read the full article

[infiniteglitterfall]

Time for a Media Literacy Moment!

This tweet is offering a FALSE BINARY.

The problem of people actively spreading antisemitic tropes and misinformation is SEPARATE from the problem of military funding.

Nobody is pitting them against each other except OP.

Wow, I just realized the subtext here.

The tweet also deliberately minimizes and uses vague claims in the first part of the false binary, making sure not to specify that the problem is wildly accelerating antisemitism.

It deliberately amps up the language in the second part, using concrete terms, and conjuring images of massive nuclear genocide.

And when it pits the two against each other....

The implication is that diaspora Jews either support, or just don't care about, genocide.

And are actively trying to distract you from it.

By telling you instead that "the problem" is the rising antisemitism that's accompanied and fueled by this exact kind of argument.

Meanwhile....

Russia started having pogroms again. Someone also burned down a Jewish community center there.

A guy broke into a Jewish family's home in L.A. and threatened to kill them. Police reports said he was screaming "Free Palestine!" as he was arrested.

Someone in Florida, threatening to bomb a Jewish school and synagogue, said "I am Hamas."

Protests around the world in support of Palestine have featured intense antisemitism. Like the one in Australia where people chanted "Gas the Jews!" The one in New York where someone had a big swastika. The one in Philadelphia that stopped in front of a restaurant owned by an Israeli-American Jew and chanted, "Goldie, Goldie, you can't hide! We charge you with genocide!" The many where people have chanted "We are Hamas!"

Someone smashed the windows and door of a Kosher restaurant in a predominantly Jewish part of London, and graffitied "Free Palestine" nearby.

I know of neighborhoods where people have posted flyers listing "Zionist businesses to boycott" that are just local Jewish or Jewish-owned businesses.

During the Hamas massacre, a stranger said “dirty Jew” to someone walking to synagogue in London and told them, “no wonder you’re all getting raped.”

Outside a northeast London synagogue, a passing car slowed and occupants shouted “Kill Jews” and “Death to Israel” while waving a Palestinian flag.

A Jewish student in Birmingham received an Instagram message from a stranger that read: “May a slow and painful death be granted to you and every other Zionist like you.”

People have been beaten up for putting up pictures of the hostages (or catching someone in the act of tearing them down?), for walking to the synagogue, for arguing with protesters, for being Jewish, for taking down torn week-old posters for pro-Palestine protests.

And I regularly see people playing into blatant antisemitic tropes in their attempts to protest the war. The kind of tropes that absolutely dehumanize Jewish people and lead to violence.

The really fun part is that the author of that tweet is Jewish. Based on his Twitter and Substack, he is unaware of all the antisemitic attacks going on, of the details of Hamas's massacre, and a lot more.

He's just another really earnest person who cares a lot about the safety of the Palestinian people, like literally everyone on all sides of this situation.

And who, like most people, doesn't hear about any of this stuff, and believes the stuff he does hear. That it's a distraction. That it's silencing genuine criticism. That this stuff is not a problem.

But the problem is real.

[loveinalifelessplace]

“Shit,” I hiss, sliding my little stolen gun into my lap as I start to slow.

Please don’t kill me or take my supplies.

Joel keeps his hands up and visible as he moves to the side of your truck, deciding to go to the passenger window. Maybe that way you'll worry less about him snatching you. And it gives him a millisecond more reaction time if you decide to shoot him. So many things to think about these days.

"Hey there," he greets you, his hands still up, "My name's Joel. Joel Miller. That's my brother Tommy, an' our friend Tess. We're on our way to the L.A. QZ. You comin' from there?"

[jodilin65]

THURSDAY, APRIL 22, 1993 I made $86 at work tonight, but the thing that pissed me off is that Scott never showed up and he hasn’t been home all day. I hope he is OK and not in the hospital. I’d die if anything happened to him, even though I’ve only known him for almost 4 months. He’s such a great person but he really pushes himself. I told him several times to slow down, but he just won’t.

To add to things, Steve’s sick and John’s not working tonight, so a guy named TJ came and got me. He also brought me home. He gave me funny vibes but he didn’t dare pull any shit on me. I’d kill him, but obviously, Steve must trust him. Steve told me to page him at 6:30 if I knew I needed a ride and if he couldn’t make it, he’d send someone else. This guy also said he also picks up other dancers regularly, so that’s cool.

I told Sasha all about Celeste and she was happy for me. Who knows when it’ll be when we see each other again, but yes, I see us winding up in bed eventually. I sure do hope so, cuz she’s beautiful and I know it’d be another year and 4 months before I got this lucky again. Celeste really does seem to like me, but I was shocked when she told me she was a romantic and to let her know if she ever smothers me. I thought people who only wanted casual sex didn’t act romantic and smother people. We did agree up front that all the two of us wanted was casual sex, so why would she then be worried about smothering me? Why would she want to go slow and get to know me and be romantic? That just does not go together very well, but I won’t jump the gun in paranoia. I will just sit back, play it cool, and see what she does.

That dancer Lacy is back after having some personal problems. Everyone says we look alike. We do, but not in the face. She’s right about my height, but she’s a little bigger than me and my hair’s longer. Pete, the DJ, was gonna have us both dance together to the song called Double Vision, but we never did. Oh well.

There were a bunch of rich Germans who came in tonight. If it weren’t for them, we would’ve all had such a shitty night. It was shitty, but it could’ve been a lot worse.

So, what the fuck happened to Scott? I hope nothing’s wrong. Especially now. It’d be shitty timing if I’m not going to L.A.

When I returned home, I went out alone quickly to the Jacuzzi. I mean alone. Usually, there’s almost always someone else out there. It seems like there are even more night people here than at the VV Then again, we all know that the VV’s not the place to be if you’re a night person. I know that for sure and so do Andy and others. This Jacuzzi is strange. Sometimes it’s really hot and other times it’s lukewarm and other times cold. It was much too cool tonight and when I got out I was freezing. The air out there right now is very dry, even though it’s warm and I have my AC on. Tomorrow it’s gonna be close to 100º once again.

I wonder if Steve’s on patrol tonight? I didn’t see him and the lights in the guardhouse are off. The door’s locked, too. I think he may have gotten it on with that girl Chris last night since Bonnie’s out of town. She must be on vacation. I haven’t seen her in the office since last week. I met Chris at the pool and she said she used to dance at Sha Na Na’s but didn’t like it. She said she gave her life to the Lord 8 months ago. Oh well. Whatever turns you on. Steve says it’s hard for him to live with Bonnie cuz of the way he feels so much for her. Maybe he didn’t do anything with Chris, cuz he never pressures or pursues sex with me.

I’m dreading the time he goes to Georgia to get his daughter Brianne for a month. I hope to hell that I’m not gonna have to declare war on my end if I’m getting woken up by lots of screaming or banging. I told them all about the butch at the VV. I also told them up front that if I’m woken up, they will be, too. I won’t know how it’ll go till the kid gets here, but I sure do hope I’m worrying over nothing. God, I can’t fucking stand kids!

Scott told me that in one of the houses he fixes, he found me a combination bookcase/desk. It’s normally used for a computer, but it’d be perfect for my typewriter. I could also put journals on their shelves. He says he can bring it here in a few days, but I know he really means a few weeks. I appreciate from the bottom of my heart all that Scott’s done for me. I just wish he wouldn’t procrastinate so much. This way I’m not all psyched up for something for so long. I hate having to be waiting and waiting.

I bought Mom’s Mother’s Day card, not that she deserves it. I haven’t sent it yet but maybe I’ll accidentally mail it a wee bit too late.

There’s this gorgeous girl at work named Christine. Sasha says she’s made sexual gestures to her. Christine has, I mean, and somewhat has to me, too. Is she just being friendly, or does she like me in that kind of way?

Well, I’m so fucking beat as I said before, so I’m gonna listen to music and then try to get some sleep. I need to try to get to the pool tomorrow to get some very much-needed color. With my luck, there’ll be 10 million screaming kids out there!

Later…

Well, so much for going to sleep. I only lay down just to wake right up again.

I really hope all’s well with Scott. Now that I live so close and have gotten to know him more and more, I’m more in tune with him. I can sense when things are going well and when they’re not. I do have a bad vibe, unfortunately. I wonder if Scott could’ve been arrested. He did say that there was a warrant out for his arrest due to this tax thing he’s been trying to clear up cuz it’s dealing with a lot of money. I hope not. I hope he gets things cleared up with the IRS soon. I also hope he’s not sick or in the hospital having a heart attack or something like that due to stress. I only know way too well just what stress can do to you.

NOTE: The journal entries between April 23rd and May 21st were lost. Therefore, I’m going to fill in the gaps as best as I can.

The only significant thing I remember during this lost month is moving to the back of the complex, away from the pool. It was a second-floor apartment, identical to the 2-bedroom I had at the front of the complex next to Tom, my future husband, unbeknownst to me at the time. It was also at the end like the other apartment was. At first, it was quieter, with a single black guy below me and a single guy next to me that was hardly ever home. Then it became very noisy when the guy next door moved and a bunch of college kids moved in. The complaints to the office by me and the people below them were useless but I would only be in this apartment for a few months, fortunately.

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 21, 1993 Today, now yesterday, I awoke at 2 PM. I saw Scott for about 10 minutes. He was cooking dinner and his parents were on their way over for dinner.

I told him all about Celeste and that she may visit again that night. I guess he told Andy that Bill T will be in PHX for two days on business at the end of May or the beginning of June. This will be when he, Scott, and I fly to L.A. to Capitol Records studios on his private leer jet. God, this sounds weird!

Celeste came over again tonight for about an hour and a half. She met Steve downstairs who said he’d babysit for her son Josh anytime she needed if he were home. I told Steve earlier to tell Bonnie I got my bangs trimmed. She’s in Tucson seeing some guy she’s dating. Let me back up a minute and say that as I was walking back from Scott’s, I saw a woman on her patio cutting some girl’s hair. I yelled out that I needed my bangs trimmed and she said to come on up. For $5, she did a nice job and we exchanged phone numbers. Now I have a hairdresser. I may even have her put a gel or an acrylic overlay on my nails. Even though my nails get long, the ridges I have aren’t too pretty. And then if I do break a nail it looks stupid with all the rest of them long.

TUESDAY, APRIL 20, 1993 I have some totally shocking and totally amazing news. Before I do, though, I want to back up and update a few more things I haven’t yet. The bad news is that on the 6th of this month, I had my second asthma attack and I had to go to the ER by ambulance. I ran downstairs to Steve when this happened cuz he’s a paramedic and I panicked. It’s hard to deal with things alone if you can help it. Bonnie was a big help too. I was there for 3 hours, then I took a cab home cuz I couldn’t reach Scott.

Speaking of Bonnie and Steve, well, they’re super cool people and there was always something I really liked a lot about Steve from the get-go. So, I began to wonder whether or not I should consider going back to the good old days of settling. I was realizing how so many women aren’t attracted to me and how so many of them never go further than always guaranteed to go through with a sex deal or get together or whatever you want to call it. They don’t lead you on as much and they’re the ones who are attracted to me.

But then there are a few fears of mine like AIDS and pregnancy, even though I highly doubt it, as well as trying to find a guy who can handle having only oral sex with me. Using my good judgment of character, I could pretty much sense I’d be safe with Steve and that he wouldn’t go getting carried away. So we sat down in the guardhouse one night after I’d gotten off of work and had a long and very honest talk. He’s divorced with a 2-year-old daughter which he showed me pictures of, and he’s different from most guys cuz he wants a relationship that might turn into marriage. He doesn’t just fool around.

He’s very much in love with Bonnie whom he wants to marry, but she doesn’t want to marry him.

We both mutually decided right then and there that we should never get together sexually.

I’ve had a few talks with Celeste here and there and late Sunday night she told me she’d be able to see me. She lives all the way out in Tempe which is about 45 minutes away from here, but she’s got a friend who lives right near me. This friend was to have dental work done today, which is now yesterday. Then this girl - Donna’s her name - was to drive to Celeste’s place, pick her up and bring her here. Now, of course, I was going by past experiences and I pretty much thought she was full of shit even though she really sounded like she meant it. She actually did show up! I was even attracted to her!!! She was attracted to me!!! She liked my eyes, hair, butt and even how tiny I am! And I think she’s a definite 7½ on a scale of 1-10. Her eyes and eyebrows are so much like Gloria’s, but her eyes are green. Her hair is medium brown. It’s permed and it’s shoulder-length. It’ll definitely look better when it grows longer, but at least she’s no Miss Military Diesel Butch. She’s 5‘ 6”, 130 pounds. Her body’s proportioned nicely and she dresses nicely and does her makeup well. We chatted and watched a little TV. She didn’t have too much time as she had to go catch the bus. I’m glad I finally got to see the face behind the phone for the last 3 months.

I laid it down honestly about her 2-year-old son. He can’t come here, and she understood how I feel. Why do I always get people with kids? In a way this is good and it gives me extra added peace of mind that she’s not gonna smother me. You can’t with a kid unless you live together cuz you’re tied down and you have no life. She’ll always be chasing down babysitters. She tells me that within a few months, she should have a car. I do hope so, cuz that will surely help us out with her living so far away and I have no car. I also like her living so far away.

She sure called a lot after she left and was even gonna try to see if she could get a babysitter, as she ended up missing the bus after some people picked her up here and brought her to her father’s.

She did seem clean and sober enough and intent on staying that way. Although, this isn’t a major concern for me as I don’t do relationships. She seems very nice, friendly, understanding and honest. I like her character so far and she may be passable enough to sleep with. In other words, she isn’t scary in any way. She doesn’t give me bad threatening vibes. She did say on the phone to tell her if she smothers me too much by calling a lot. This was weird as I thought I wouldn’t have to worry about that from her. She seems too much more into guys and not getting attached right now. Especially after coming out of a divorce. I hope she doesn’t end up falling more than she ever thought she could or would but I’m 99.9% sure she’ll be OK and not smother me.

She and I went to the Jacuzzi for a little while. Then we came up and watched some TV and talked. She’s really cool and she looked beautiful. She’s got so much Gloria in her. Way more than Ann Marie did.

When her brother came to get her, she kissed me (vigorously) and it was nice for a girl who isn’t so much into mushy, wet, sloppy French kissing. I’m glad I did meet her after the many many times I was gonna call it quits with her and never meet her.

A short while ago Andy and I called people with ads in the New Times looking for singers and guitar players and shit like that and played with their heads.

Later…

Since I met Scott I’ve had more and more visions of fame and fortune. When I look back a few pages at what I wrote about Bill, his private leer jet, L.A., and Capitol, it’s like - oh my God! That’s something I’d only write as a fantasy, but I wrote it for real. I meant it. It’s real. Wait till I tell my family when this actually happens. I want Scott, or someone to take pictures as this all happens, so no one thinks I’m pulling their leg. It’s all going as predicted. I knew God would have to throw me literally by a freak chance into a proper, decent, honest connection. What better person than Bill T’s nephew? I made a mistake before when I said they were cousins. Now I know more than ever that the NHA was supposed to be so bad in order to be my ticket out west. I always figured that whenever the planner above felt it was just about time, I’d somehow leave the east coast. More and more I realize how important it was for me to meet Tonya. If I didn’t dance I would still be broke and I’d never have met Scott or gotten this apartment.

Anyway, I listened to music a little while ago, but I guess I’m not quite ready yet to fall asleep. I am drowsy, though.

When I was first at Steve’s before Celeste came over, he handed me some banana nut bread on my way out the door and one of his cats ran out. They have two cats. Patches and Shadow, which seems to be a popular cat name. Patches ran out, but right before Andy called two hours ago, I heard meowing and she came in. Steve and a girl I met a few nights ago at the pool came up and trapped it. When I told Andy they came up and trapped it, he asked, “They came up in traffic?” I was cracking up.

Then a half-hour later Steve knocked. He bummed a few cigarettes and I asked if he heard me laughing. He said yes, and he and Andy said hello over the speakerphone. I told Steve what Andy thought I said and told Andy how Steve met Celeste.

“She’s fucking hot!” Steve told Andy.

Later…

In about 5 minutes I have to page Steve to pick me up for work at 7:30.

It sure was a hot 100º today and it will be tomorrow, too.

I called FL and Ma answered. She got the picture and she’s keeping it. A picture of me she actually likes - how amazing!

I called CT and spoke with Lisa for about 5 minutes.

I called Celeste as she was on her way out the door to find a job. She said she may or may not be able to stop by where I work tonight.

I left a message on Brian and Angel’s machine telling them how much I love it here and I gave them my new number. So far, management’s been really cool, but I’ll just have to wait and see. They wave and smile every time I walk by.

I forgot to mention that Celeste used to do topless dancing, too. She used the name, Jade, just like a dancer we have, but I think she quit. Actually, I think she was fired for talking too much. Celeste’s full name is Celeste Brianne K. I love the first and middle names but her last name is no better than mine.

I finally got my deposit from SRP for $107. Scott also owes me $111 for the food stamps. I wouldn’t care as he’s done so much for me, but I want to lend Andy the $150 he needs to borrow by May 4th.

I really wish Scott would hurry up and call Tammy, fix my typewriter cord, program my VCR and install my bedroom ceiling fan. I know he’s very busy, but I know I’ll be waiting months and I hate that. Besides, he gave me his word that he’d do these things.

Andy called me and said he saw “Fuck Face,” as we call Donna, at the pool. We had thought she moved. Fuck Face dumped Angel and Brian and we’re not surprised. I said she’s the type who’ll dump everyone and have a problem with everyone she meets. Andy said the way she said she dumped Angel was totally cruel and I believe it. She claims Angel was always inviting herself over for dinner so she gave Angel the cold shoulder and Angel eventually got the message. I don’t buy it, though, as I feel I know Angel well enough to say it’s not her style to do stuff like that. Then again, we all know Donna tends to over-flatter herself and she told me the day we met that she has no friends. Gee, I wonder why?

Andy said she did ask how I was. He told her where I work and that I make lots of money and moved to a beautiful 2-bedroom apartment He said he really rubbed it in, but I couldn’t care less about her opinion. Andy says he knows to basically stay away and only say hi if they meet at the pool. She’d only dump on him too, but he’s moving to Glendale on June 1st.

I pity the poor girl who’s moving into my place on May 1st. I hope she’s a day person, loves kids, and is hardly home.

Well, now I’m gonna go gather up everything I need for work. I really hope now that the major holidays and taxes are over that the money gets better.

Not too much else is going on. I got a call today from Fran telling me he just got the best letter I ever wrote. OK, that’s cool enough with me. He absolutely hates it where he is, due to tons of screaming kids which even I could hear loud and clear. It sounded just like the NHA to me. He’s gonna move again as soon as he can.

I also spoke to Nervous, but not for too long. He was just getting in the door with the letter I sent him with the tissue I wiped my crotch with.

I also called Tammy and told her all about Celeste and that Scott did go to Vegas. He’s back, though, and tomorrow he and I are gonna do mega food shopping. I need food in here badly.

MONDAY, APRIL 19, 1993 I ordered new address labels as well as CDs, dolls, and plates. I also sent shit to Barbara, Debbie and Fran.

Scott may or may not be going to Vegas for a business meeting.

I saw John last Saturday night at work and couldn’t stop laughing over his spittoon. I told Steve (my cab driver) and he was cracking up.

I got an awesome outfit at K-Mart shortly after I moved here. It’s a spandex tank top/shorts. It’s a 1-piece outfit and it looks nice on me. If I were 10 pounds heavier, I couldn’t cut it in it.

I finally got my phone bill from Sprint and can you believe it was only $65! I made 50 calls and so many of them were for almost an hour.

Last night I ordered from KFC and they screwed up the order which cost $8. I called them back and they returned with the correct order for free.

I got 4 new fancy writing pads for letters as well as new envelopes of assorted colors.

I sent Nervous a letter with a tissue that I wiped my crotch with. Speaking of Nerv, I’ve had some nice talks with him, both with and without Andy. I have so much editing to do that it isn’t even funny.

A little while ago I had a TV dinner and listened to music.

Andy also called and a few days ago he told me some neat jokes.

For $8 I bought a costume from a dancer named Kim. It’s really cool. It’s a 2-piece with a zipper down the front of the crotch. Of course, there’s a lining inside the zipper, as it’d be illegal not to have it there. It’s denim with black lace and some greenish glittery thing on it. I also got two other things from a dancer named Tyra for $10. A strapless bathing suit top. I love the colors and I can wear it with my solid pink bathing suit bottoms I got from Mom right before I left CT. It’s got pink, blue, purple and black. Some of my favorite colors. Tyra also sold me a solid hot pink G-string. It’s more like underwear and it can be used as regular underwear by me. I had to gather the front and back of it from the inside, though. This girl is much bigger than me. It looks great on me.

Lastly, as far as the costumes go, I ripped the feathers off that burgundy dress I bought at Sha Na Na’s. I also took them off the matching G-string. No more feathers floating around everywhere and the DJ asking, “Is someone plucking Mystery’s feathers?”

A girl who works the 3rd shift where Andy works did a very stupid, yet great thing for both of us. Her name’s Sarah Sandy and she gave Andy her phone number and her VM code which he gave to me. We’ve been listening to some of her messages.

I’ve met several people here at the pool. Once again, they’re usually the ones who strike up the conversation.

Asshole Stacey sent my parents a letter about the rent owed up till May 1st. I spoke to my parents and told them the truth about why I moved, and that some girl is moving in on the 1st of May. I told them that they probably will get more letters, but to throw them out. Dad said to tell them that he wants no more letters from them. I left a message saying I’ve had it with them, they lie, they’re not getting another penny, grow up, get a life, never contact us again.

SUNDAY, APRIL 18, 1993 I made $93 at work tonight. John came in, but Scott drove me home. Steve brought me to work.

I got my picture from Montgomery/Ward. It didn’t come out too bad. I’ve sent it to my parents.

Another dancer named Kim may put a gel on my nails to fill in my ridges and make them stronger. She’s got 4 costumes to sell me too.

Here are some of the dancer’s names: Christine, Jill, Sasha, Heather, Nicki, Nicole, Sue, Stevie, Jasmine, Sativa, Shelley, Tia, Lisa, Kay, Mariah, Jessie, Jade, Lacy, Meagan, Brooke, Mandy, and there are many more.

I got bored one time and called and got Leanne’s machine. I said simply, “Leanne, you’re an asshole.”

When I returned from work I had a message saying, “I didn’t appreciate the message. I’m sorry I’ve got no time. I’m raising 4 orphan cats and working 60 hours a week, so please just be a friend.”

My final message was, “If you knew you didn’t want to get together, and you didn’t, why’d you take my number and call me? If you’re not interested in someone, don’t take their number and no, there’s no friendship. You probably are busy, but if you wanted to get together, you’d find the time to do so.”

I’m used to these kinds of games, but it sure gets annoyingly old.

Neither Gail nor I have called each other. If she does call, I’m not gonna set a time or suggest getting together.

Celeste left a message last week saying she’s OK to meet people. Sure. Well, it ain’t gonna be me. If she ever comes to where I work - fine, but I know she won’t.

I’m still waiting for the posters Scott’s making up. Maybe they’ll be ready this week.

Scott fixed Andy’s VCR and tape player and gave me a 19” color TV! It’s great and so is having cable.

Mystery’s somewhat of an outdoor cat till he’s neutered, declawed, and bathed in Head & Shoulders to curb my allergies. Two nights ago I had his cat, Fluffy, while they re-carpeted his place. It never shut up, so I put it on the patio. Luckily, with the waterfall sounds and my music and the master bedroom being far from the patio, I couldn’t hear her meowing in here.

Andy came to see a 1-bedroom model. He loved it, but he doesn’t want the 3rd floor which is all they had, so he got an apartment elsewhere. He’ll be moving on June 1st.

Later…

I just went and got my other Barbie-themed pad. I have 3 and I keep one in the spare bedroom by the typewriter. One with my editing notes by the stereo. One by my bed for journal notes.

Scott may soon be here to fix my typewriter cord. I can type, but the cord needs electrical tape, rather than scotch tape. He’ll also have to program my VCR when he gets the chance. He fixed Andy’s stuff and he came over today. He was gone, though, so Andy hung out here for a half-hour or so.

He asked to hear some Tracy K edits and I gave him some Ibuprofen for his toothache. He needs dental work done and I may lend him $150 by May 4th. He’ll pay me back in June with his tax refund check.

This place looks great and Scott’s neighbor gave me two tables she was gonna toss out. They’re of silver and gold chrome and Scott’s gonna cut glass tops to fit. They’re my style, too. Very modern.

FRIDAY, APRIL 16, 1993 The last two nights at work were dead, but the funniest thing happened Wednesday night to make up for it. Scott and John were in and so Scott and several others saw this. John had a “spittoon,” a can he spits in. He had it sitting on the table when I reached across to grab a cigarette and knocked it onto his crotch. I laughed so hard that my stomach and throat were killing me. It looked like he peed his pants and I could see how red his face was, even in those dim lights. He was so embarrassed and said, “I’d rather have you spit on me than you knock my own spit on me.”

MONDAY, APRIL 12, 1993 I finally got my place all set up, so now I can quickly update all that’s been going on. My place looks great and I haven’t been woken up yet. They were kind enough to hold off the blowers and parking lot sweepers until very late this afternoon. The only thing I ever hear are the kids here and there at the pool, but music or TV drowns that out. Occasionally at night, I hear Bonnie and Steve’s cabinets and door below me, but it’s such a joke compared to the butch and they’ve never woken me up. The butch changed her phone number. I also whited out my name on Bob’s letter which I sent her. Rick and Rosemarie and Ellie are getting letters, too.

I’ve spoken with Kara and Mary.

Last Saturday night after work John and I went and got the last carload out of VV. I am completely out of there. There was a letter on my door about late rent. My father got one too, and I explained how they’re trying to make a last-minute quick buck. Last week I noticed VV called while I was out. I called back to see what she’d say. She said she re-rented my place for May 1st to some girl.

On our way out with the final load, I put the keys in the rent drop-box. Andi also has some goodies on her patio, as with just my luck, she was gone at the time. She has an empty box of cornflakes, some wire hangers, and dead plant leaves John dumped.

Later…

I spoke to Mary a little while ago. She’s gonna come check out my place and see some models maybe this weekend.

I met my neighbor next to me last week. His name is Tom, and in a month or so he’ll be moving. Tom brought me to K-Mart today and I bought a Dirt Devil vacuum for $69. It works really well. I also got some vacuum bags and plant food. Also a little timer for when I’m out tanning. The whole charge came to $91 which I paid in cash. I had $150 on me.

Work’s been going great. I cut around $300 this week as well as last week. I now work Wednesday-Saturday 8 PM to 1 AM. I had to use most of the money for the electric deposit, food, and odds and ends. I have to pay a $7 house tip, which is a new thing they just began, 10% to the DJ, then there are food and transportation. Friday night Scott never showed up, so the new doorman Ray took me home. It turns out that he ended up in the hospital due to stress and chest pains.

Last Saturday night I met a couple who came in there. They’d been living together for a year and a half and they have an open relationship. I don’t know if he’s bi, but he seems nice enough not to get in the way. His girlfriend Gail’s really pretty and she’s bi. I freaked when she told me she was 43. I thought she was 30-35! I gave her a table dance and my number. She called, and who knows if we’ll ever get together. I doubt it, even though we discussed it. I was supposed to call her tonight, but I forgot.

A few days after I got here I got a call from Celeste. She said I was probably “wondering” why I haven’t heard from her and went on to tell me she was divorcing her husband Joe. She just couldn’t wait to be free. She also said she had Hepatitis A, the least serious of A, B and C, but is now better. She also said her doctor said no more drugs or alcohol or she’ll die.

I told her there was no way we’ll ever meet unless she comes to the club, but she can call all she wants.

There was this waitress at work who seemed really nice with hair as long as mine. She said she was a hairdresser and she’d trim my bangs. Lots of people give phony numbers which is a fact I’m used to, but I’m shocked she did. She never called me either and hasn’t been to work. So she was just looking to give people bogus numbers knowing she was quitting work.

That dancer, Sasha, likes me but was only teasing about getting together. This is cool with me, though, as I don’t dig her crew cut. Plus, she’s too cool as a friend to ruin that with sex.

The dancers here are so much cooler, not that they were bad at Sha Na Na’s. The customers are a bit better. They’re a bit more affluent.

I just called the payphone at Sha Na Na’s. Now I can hit on some of the pretty ones and hope they don’t transfer to the Mile High. But then again, it’s not like they’d shoot me and these girls are all either bi or used to bi people. The phone’s just ringing and ringing. I’m calling it now for the fourth time. I was hung up on 3 times. Or maybe this phone disconnects you after so many rings. Yes, that’s definitely it cuz you can tell when someone picks up or hangs up. Plus, I would’ve heard the loud music in the background. I have to call when someone’s in the bathroom to answer.

Just got lucky two minutes ago. Dawn answered and I asked for Alex and Alicia, but they were off. Then I asked for Christine, but she was on stage. I’m gonna call back.

Later…

Just got lucky again and Christine answered herself. Using “Norah’s” English accent I asked for Christine P (I’ve seen her last name on the bar tip-out sheet). I said I couldn’t tell her who I was but that my boyfriend and I were discussing something we overheard. We thought she should know that her ex swears he’s gonna storm the bar at 12:45 and hurt her. She asked where I heard it. I said it was from some company I had at my house. I used to know Ralph (she said his name) and how crazy he is.

Was I telling the truth? she asked, and then, “OK, thank you,” and she hung up.

MONDAY, APRIL 5, 1993 Crystal Creek…

Well, I am finally here! It feels great to finally be out of the Vista Ventana.

I have a million things to write about, so I’d better get started. I thought I wouldn’t be moving till Sun., but Scott and I pulled some stuff out Saturday, then on Sunday, he and I and his friend Eric who also lives here, went over to load the pickup truck. I think Scott and I are gonna hopefully clean out the rest of the place tonight at 11:00 when that butch is hopefully sleeping.

Now, let me back up to last Saturday night and start updating in order. I made $111 Saturday night and only $15 of it was from Scott. He came in with two employees and another dancer. Eric, who was there Friday night, has a 15-day-old daughter and a girlfriend, so when I came here Saturday night, I pretended I was meeting him for the first time. He, his girlfriend, and Scott and I had steak dinners.

Last Saturday afternoon Mary came up to my old place. I had been sleeping on and off and Mary said that the butch next door woke her up with her cleaning at 8:30 in the morning. She was pissed, and I surely don’t blame her. She said she waved to her the day before and Andi just gave her this look. This bitch cares about nothing but herself, is very selfish and thinks she owns the world. This bitch is never gonna get along with her neighbors. No wonder the butch doesn’t have too many friends. She may have a huge family, but no friends.

Unfortunately, the butch wasn’t home when we were loading stuff yesterday. She will be tonight. I saw Mary yesterday and I left her a message earlier tonight. I’ve got to get in touch with Kara. I must also write to several people including Kim and Bob and let them know the new address and number.

I’ll be getting 50 stamps in the mail for $14.50. It’s a very convenient service.

My photo from Montgomery/Ward is gonna be mailed to me.

Before I get to writing about my apartment, Dave and I had a chat last Friday night as I was waiting for Steve to come get me. He said he’s gonna miss me and I feel the same. He was the perfect neighbor and very nice. I wish Mary lived next to me and Dave lived below me here.

Sat. Andy drove me to work and Scott brought me home all 3 nights. We also stopped at Fry’s and got tons of boxes.

Also, I’m now gonna be working Wed-Sat from 8 PM-1 AM.

Mystery won’t be declawed for another week cuz he has an infection in his foot.

Today’s my dad’s birthday and I sent him a card and I spoke to him. I also spoke to Bill and Lisa, but haven’t gotten ahold of Tammy yet since I’ve been here. They’re now 3 hours ahead of us back east.

The 2nd was John’s birthday, but I haven’t been able to reach him, either. I told Steve to give him my new address and number. Last I knew his beeper was busted. He’s also driving the cab more as Circle K suspended him. They think he stole money, but I don’t believe it for one minute any more than Steve does.

Later…

I just spoke to Kim and gave her the new information. She’s gonna pass it along to Bob.

I guess Scott could be calling or coming over any time now to go to the old place to pick up stuff.

I still need to go to APS and pay the $117 deposit. I also need to go to the cable co. to get a cable box, since my TV isn’t cable-ready.

I need to hack off my nails cuz they’re a pain in the ass and I can’t type too well with them. Right now I am typing all this in the spare bedroom. I shall soon copy all this into my journal.

The apartment is beautiful and it is humongous! It sure feels great to have all this space once again. Having too much space is better than having too little. But, within time, little by little I’ll fill this place up. There are only two things I don’t like about it here. There’s no shower door like I had thought and hoped there would be, and this past weekend was fucking noisier than all hell! This is, of course, cuz I’m right by the pool, and there are a lot of divorced people here whose kids come to visit on weekends. Today it was quiet and it was a blessing not to have to hear the very loud and very obnoxious lawnmowers. The only thing I could hear was the blowers, but they’re not as loud. This is cuz the little monster kids trash the gravel rocks and so they blow rocks back into place. I guess it’s better to have noisy weekends rather than noise in the building and such a tiny apartment I’ve only heard a couple of bangs from the people below me, but it ain’t shit compared to the butch I had to live next to. You can’t hear any footsteps or closet doors. I can slightly hear the door below me and I’ve never heard a peep from whoever’s next door to me. I guess this is all worth the weekend shit I have to deal with. I slept OK yesterday and today, but yes, I’m sure I’ll get woken up a few times a week. We’ll just have to wait and give it more time and wait and see. It’s a kid’s world out there today and it’s not fair. I still don’t think it’s prejudiced to have complexes for families and complexes for singles. It’s discrimination to separate blacks, Jews and gays, but this is different. I think people should be given a choice.

I have more trees around me than at the other place. This complex is much more beautiful. Another great thing here is that I no longer have to buy bottled water. It’s run through a purifier so it doesn’t taste like bleach.

Later…

My wall clock says it’s 11:15 and I set the stove clock and clock radio at 10:55, so I think I goofed by 20 minutes.

I hope Scott knocks any minute now so we can go get some stuff out of my old apartment My first night here which was last Saturday night I slept on two couch cushions Scott lent me. Not too comfortable, but better than the other place. Last night I had my bed and all day today I’ve had my cat and his. This is cuz they are fixing a problem in his place with the roof and wall. I think they’re gonna transfer him.

These cats are really good. Very friendly and not as destructive as I thought they’d be. The cat box is in the spare bedroom along with this typewriter and the stool, my guitar, keyboard, the stool/ladder, which is busted, and I put my crystal night lamp in here. To be able to see while I type, I brought in the lamp I usually have in the living room.

In the living room, I have the stereo, TV, round wicker chair, the tall wicker basket of flowers, beanbag, round glass shelves, and other little stuff.

In the master bedroom, I have the bed and some plastic stacking shelves.

Of course, my kitchen table is right over the bar where the living room starts.

I’m using Scott’s phone now as mine’s still packed in the other place. I have about 5%-10% of my stuff still over there. It looks like we’re not getting it tonight.

Andy was over earlier tonight. He brought his VCR over for Scott to fix and then we ran over to the store. He’s very impressed with it here.

There is a guy and a girl below me and they’re very nice. I think they’re just roommates, not lovers. He’s the courtesy patrol, as well as a paramedic/fireman, and she’s a leasing agent in the office.

Well, I’m gonna sign off now and write more some other time. I’m hungry and I’m gonna go make a bite to eat and listen to music.

FRIDAY, APRIL 2, 1993 Tonight I made $113 and last night I made $70. Scott and one of his employees came in tonight. Scott and several others gave me $70. Andy brought me to work Wednesday and Scott brought me home the last two nights. Steve brought me into work tonight cuz Andy had to go to Donna’s birthday party.

I have quite a bit more to write about, but I’m too tired to do it now.