#someone I canno have

[noname-404s-blog]

-Tales by Gendys

[opens-up-4-nobody]

...

[serdtse]

//

[woodlandscab1n]

Cleon insanity when Claire is like "hey have you ever wanted kids" and Leons whole world comes collapsing on itself yet again because actually, he has just Not thought about them, he never thought he'd be in a position where he could just have a family ever in his life as of yet, and when he did think about it he pushed it away because he thought he'd never be good at it anyways given his circumstances.

And the worst thing, Claire knows this. But she wants to invite him to try that kind of life both of them know it will be extremely difficult to achieve. Because she wants him to know he's still human, and isn't incapable of living what one would describe as the normal life to live just because of his past, or trauma. She herself also deals with the struggle if she'll ever be able to have a life like that, like she sort of imagined when she was a child. Perhaps not children, but...just make a family out of her partner. Spouses, making life what they want, making a home, traveling, making something together. She still holds the hope she can have that, and that other's can.

That's why she fights so hard so that other's can also live that life, or any life they desire without fearing they'd be incapable to do so given the state of the world. Making a family, marrying, having a partner or someone to take care of is now something that could so easily turn into you needing to kill them in the end, or them killing you, or both of you. But she won't let that get in the way of her or other's happiness because she believes connection is the most important thing in a human life.

And she wants that for Leon, share that with him.

Anyways t4t cleon 4eva. be happy, trans your gender, queer it up yall.

[five-thousand-loaves-of-bread]

my frustration with “going nonverbal/nonspeaking” (as a fully nonverbal person)

transcript: my frustration with “going nonverbal/nonspeaking” (as a fully nonverbal person)

this written for instagram because of this post. but thought tumblr may like it too. “you” means general you, no one specific.

the instagram post and this on wordpress

this disclaimer is for instagram but also for anyone new to this discussion:

in full honestly, don’t know how to write this. am tired, language and complex ideas too much at time of writing, and general exhaust at having to argue same thing over and over again and justify own existence. tired of being minority within minority, wish there are others to do these work for me so i don’t have to do it all by self, singlehandedly advocate for everyone (not to mention problem with that—i can’t speak for everyone).

so honestly, if you don’t have anything nice to say, especially if you speaking (yes, even if you lose speech. include you), just don't say anything at all. move on.

online actually autistic community (AAut) dominated by white, lower support needs. level 1, speaking, late diagnosed, high masking autistics. find people like you is great, what not great is you treat your very narrow community as “voice of all autistic” and your experience as ultimate autistic experience. i write plenty about that, many more elaborate than this, if you not familiar with this concept.

many people in this community experience times when cannot speak, sometimes because overwhelm, shutdown, dissociate, or anxiety (situational mutism), but do not struggle with act of speaking rest of time (some struggle with speech all the time but still can speak - more on that later). the community call “going nonverbal/nonspeaking,” or even “when i am nonverbal nonspeaking” (not talking about those nonverbal as child and verbal now older), after clinical term “nonverbal” (nonverbal autism) and term coined by apraxic nonspeaking autistics “nonspeaking.”

both of which talk about it as an “all the time” experience.

when i search nonverbal or nonspeaking because i want community too, want see people like me too, two category i see: 1) parents of nonverbal nonspeaking children, whom can’t relate to because age, who can’t write own experience because their age and developmental ability. and 2) overwhelming amount of speaking autistic talk about going nonverbal going nonspeaking.

and the very very few fully nonverbal nonspeaking voices. drowned out. cannot find anyone.

nonverbal used to be term to describe us, people who can’t speak or cannot functionally speak beyond few words. medical term, alright, so some of us don’t like. so some of us reject that and create term all of our own, called nonspeaking. created by nonspeaking autistics with severe apraxia and brain body disconnect, describe their own experience of able to think in words able to spell out words (with great dedication and work and support), just cannot do that with mouth. their term. they create.

and you take it? without knowing context? without reading anything by those same nonspeaking coiners?

when is last time you purposely seek out nonverbal nonspeaking voices? when is last time you accidentally came across us? can you name any nonverbal nonspeaking advocate that talk about their experiences? one? two? three? a BIPOC person, a (specifically) Black person? a Black woman? a trans person? a physically disabled person? a person not from western world?

same narrative over and over. “i can speak for nonverbal autistic i understand their experience because i am autistic i can’t talk sometimes” no you cannot. as someone who was able to speak when young who lose speech (”go nonverbal”) but now have no speech to lose because full time nonverbal. no the experience not the same. not comparable. you gain it back. i don’t. you can explain with mouth words what happen when you get out. i can’t, i only have AAC. countless nonverbal nonspeaking people without AAC or sign cannot, at all. you never experience daily small and big struggle of casually being nonverbal all the time.

your experience of lose speech unique from my nonverbal. but if you so insist to compare and equate, you only guest to my experience, my daily life.

“when i go nonverbal and no one understand so have to force to speak” i cannot force words out. know you don’t mean to say this, and not saying you at fault for this, but nevertheless accidental perpetuate and reinforce idea that anyone who don’t speak can just be forced to speak if try hard enough. but often not how it works. and this exact harmful rhetoric devoid and delays nonverbal nonspeaking people given access to AAC, because “need try to force words out first, AAC unnatural so last resort.”

this may be new concept for you. new concept to instagram, to tiktok. to other places. it may seem i only one with this problem, “i once saw a nonspeaking person’s account and they don’t have problem.”

yeah, because we are not monolith. some nonverbal nonspeaking people don’t care. some nonverbal nonspeaking people may even welcome “go nonverbal nonspeaking” or “when i am nonverbal nonspeaking.”

but don’t be fooled into believe i only one. have many nonverbal/nonspeaking and/or higher support needs friends on tumblr, who talk about this who have been saying this for years. *years*. years before i joined. i am not creator, i only bring message here, because many of us are too high support needs too disabled to do anything else. many of us only stay on our small corner of tumblr because it most peaceful, because at least some listen, because least hostile, because need to defend our experience against our own community the least. (but it happens less doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen, we still exhausted.) many of us only stay on our small corner of tumblr because that all we can handle, or because we not allowed or shouldn’t be on other social media because age or abilities or both.

i cannot handle conflict i do not do well and i shouldn’t be here. but if not me, who else? if i don’t do it, who else is going to?

some nonverbal nonspeaking people and parents of them may question, why you start debate about useless term when so many nonverbal nonspeaking people don’t even have access to communicate, real problems. to that i say i do those work too. and to that i say this is real problem too, because am autistic so online actually autistic community should also be my space too but it not. but it hostile. because am lonely because seeing yourself so crucial because don’t know anyone in person like me don’t have any friends in person like me, so i go online to find people like me and i cannot because no own term to search and what used to be term many people without similar experience insist they understand and can speak for me because they say we have similar experience. because this aloneness and the unique difficulty from being full time nonverbal and the struggle of future and the unique mistreatment from both outside but also inside community have drove me over edge many times and it is presence and knowing their presence of my tumblr nonverbal nonspeaking / higher support needs friends that gave me hope to stay. because so many people don’t listen and instead speak over. terminology only a symptom of problem. address roots, sure, but part of address roots is address symptoms.

‘well nonverbal people are never around” maybe it because you don’t make it welcome for us to join.

“fully nonverbal rare anyway” estimated 30% of us nonverbal nonspeaking, which this statistic probably only count those nonverbal since birth. even more are minimally speaking or without full functional communication, abilities limited to requests. sure, 30% still not majority. but significant amount never the less. speaking lower support needs autistic without intellectual disability not majority anyway too but your experience still deserve heard. ours too.

“see less nonverbal people because they don't have ability to communicate and use social media” yes, many nonverbal nonspeaking people not given access to communication (like AAC), forced to live in silence (because body language communication not enough alone!). silence from birth to teenage years, to adulthood, even until they die. some cannot understand social media or AAC because intellectual disability or cognitive ability. some not allowed on there because safety, some not allowed on because presumed incompetent and abused. all true. do you advocate for them too? or is it just talking point against me, pretend you care?

but not all of us, we exist. some of us thankfully supportive parents all along, parents given resources, us given resources, so we access to AAC since beginning. some of us became nonverbal later in life (which not same experience as those early in life, i acknowledge). some of us after years of forced silence, finally given access to AAC and can now communicate and advocate! some of us on social media - do you listen?

but you see none of us in your community anyway. maybe one token person.

you can go nonverbal. i cannot go verbal. see difference? you can come close to my experience, but i never will have (future) ability to go to yours.

it frustrate that have to specify am nonverbal **all the time** when write this, because if don’t do that will be assumed otherwise. frustrate that when in neurodivergent space stranger see me AAC they assume i can speak because they only know part time users (know part time users frustrate too because people assume they cannot speak and get surprised when they do. me being assumed automatic part time is not fault of part time AAC users.)

even been told am privileged to be nonverbal nonspeaking, privilege over speaking autistic who lose speech because in their mind it mean i get all support i need i get all recognition get all the representation. which. couldn’t be farther from truth.

all that. is fraction of reason i frustrate at “going nonverbal nonspeaking” and “when i was nonverbal nonspeaking.”

so many other words. lose speech. intermittent speech.

just want have own sub community where can find people similar experience.

[lostinforestbound]

Hi! Could I request hcs from you on Rolan being jealous?

Absolutely! I had fun exploring this topic, so I hope you enjoy! This will be Rolan and a GN!Tav. To the people reading, Please feel free to add on to this and share your ideas!

Rolan and Jealousy

In Rolan's opinion, Jealousy is an improper and ugly thing to have; it sounds hypocritical when he gets jealous of a lot of things himself.

It's instinctive; his life has never been fair to him, and he never got to have what a lot of others do. It's deep rooted into his insecurity.

Loving parents? He wanted that, as his own family abandoned him. Food on the table? He wanted that too, why did he deserve to starve? Wizard Schooling? As an orphan, he never stood a chance of getting into one. No matter though, he doesn't need schooling! He's a prodigy!

Gods, he knows he shouldn't be jealous at all anymore, he will have everything he could ever want soon. It's unbelievably petty.

This jealousy starts extending towards Tav without him meaning to.

When they start taking interest in someone else, even if it's a simple conversation, his mind trails into the thought "That should be me."

As much of a loud, prickly person he is, he surprisingly says nothing about it. Instead is stews in his heart ready to burst, but he keeps it together.

Why is he so jealous if they're not even his partner? It's absurd and childish. Especially since he is unworthy of their attention. Once he has everything to provide for Cal and Lia, then he'll be worthy.

If Tav and him are together, it is a different story.

His jealousy is still quiet, but they notice how he holds their hand tighter when they speak to certain people. How his tail wraps around their calf. How he glares when other people decide to flirt with them.

Once he works on his own insecurity and Tav's reassurance that he's the only one for them, his jealousy starts fading away to nothing.

That doesn't stop him from playfully stealing them away from their companions with a "fuck off, they're mine".

Writing Blurb

When did he become such a prickly, bitter person? When, at some point of his life, did he become so jealous? Why is he so jealous of Tav, of all bloody people? Is it because they're a savior? That they saved his siblings where he couldn't? He should be grateful!

So why is he bitter, even though they saved everyone, including himself? Is he truly this entitled?

He doesn't see them approach him as he stews in his own thoughts. Usually he's not this insecure with himself, but he feels unworthy of them. He doesn't deserve them, not yet. The tower is not truly his, he has to refurnish everything to make it all of their homes. Cal and Lia love it so far, but there's still so much to be done.

Files need to be organized. All of the dealings fall on his shoulders now thanks to Lorroakan's demise. There's so much to do so he cannot truly have them yet-

His thoughts stop short when Tav kisses his cheek. "You're still dealing with these people? Don't you think it's time for a break?"

He subconsciously leans into the touch but stops when he realizes they pulled away. "I can't yet. There's too many-"

"You can do it later. Come have tea with me, or would you prefer some wine?"

He waves a dismissive hand, staring back down at the mess of papers in front of him. "I can't, Tav, they're all-"

A hand comes to his face, gently but firmly turning his head towards theirs. They don't say say anything at first, looking him straight into the eyes which makes him shut up instantly. He knows that determined look too well, and his mouth goes dry.

"You know I love you very much, right?" Before he could speak up, they continue on, "I'm already impressed with you. I don't need you to work yourself to death to prove you want to make this work. I love it here, and I love you. You shouldn't have to 'prove' anything to anyone, especially not to me."

"You're a savior-" Finger press to his lips before he finishes.

"I couldn't have done that without your help. Your arcane cannon saved my life that day. I thought I was done for until I called for your help," They state, pressing a kiss to his jaw then lips, "You're more than enough for me. Now, how about some reading and wine?" He closes his eyes briefly before that playful smirk returns, looking up at them. "I suppose if you want me to read to you that badly, I shall."

[divinelolita]

Can you do head cannos with bill and tom (separate) were male reader is like the interview guy and hes interviewing them and keeps flirting with them and geting them to blush

KAULITZ TWINS X M! INTERVIEWER READER (seperate)

BILL:

・He'd get so flustered bro 🙏

・Would start stuttering on his words, barley being able to bite down a smile whenever you complimented him.

・You flirt with him to the point where he has to cover his face due to the blush.

・He's soooo red 😭

・He absolutely FOLDS if you do the triangle method

・Sometimes he gets distracted if you stare at him while talking

・Like slowly starts to trail off as he gets lost in your eyes.

・If you touch his shoulder/hand he gets extremely flustered.

・Goes limp if you touch him

・Complimenting his looks makes him go wild.

"You're very handsome, Bill." "I love your outfit." etc.

・He just fell in love with you.

・If he comes on your show frequently he likes to dress up even more (if that's possible). Making sure his makeup is on point andvhis hair is perfect.

・He doesn't care your a guy, he just can't stop thinking about you.

TOM:

・He'd try to act smug and chill but really he's a flustered mess inside.

・Can't help but smile whenever you flirt with him

・Tries to act confident and sassy.

"So, Tom, have you ever thought about having intimacy with men?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

・If you compliment him enough he'll start to blush and try to excuse it by saying he's hot.

・Eye contact makes him FLUSHED.

・He has to look away from you to keep from stuttering.

・Compliment his fashion sense? He's on his knees.

・He can't stop himself from staring at you once in a while

・Finds himself glancing down at your lips quite often, actually.

・You were definitely his bi-panic, he likes watching your show on TV at home. He never paid attention to the person being interviewed, but rather you.

・He wants to throw the TV out if he sees you flirt with someone else.

[wintercandle42]

explain the shut in au to someone who’s never heard of the game (i beg)

Oh boy you don’t even have to beg

So, the game Shut In is about a guy trying to get ready to go Outside but. His house is. Rather dangerous and strange.

Sleep in bed too long, get crushed by a shelf. Go to the basement and you risk being boiled alive by streams of steam. The staircase has been ripped up and huh how did that happen? Ig it can’t be a big jump- wrong you’re dead.

The creator of the game says it is based off their own experience with agoraphobia and things. It’s a beautiful game, though very very dark. If you are alright with such topics I highly recommend checking it out. Personally I watched Markiplier’s playthrough of it. It’s like an hour and a half or something.

Now. What made my friend @/justsomedumbstuff recommend it to me was how the Narrarator could totally be Nagito’s inner monologue. It’s so casual, self loathing, and grim. Some examples:

(If you jump down the stairs assuming the jump can’t be too far) “There’s certainly a ground floor somewhere, though. Your mangled corpse is smeared all over it. By the way, that wasn’t a very impressive jump. Lets just pretend you slipped, shall we?”

(If you pull the plug on a rather sketchy outlet) “For a split second, you feel the searing heat of over 200 volts of electricity coursing through your body. Luckily, before your head can process the pain your heart stops completely. You’re dead in seconds. You don’t even have time to reflect on your poor decision making capabilities. Which part of you thought that was a sensible idea?”

And every single death ends in “But don’t worry. Try again tomorrow.”

So uh. Yeah. Very Nagito. It got me thinking.

What if, instead of death, the Future Foundation wished to punish the Remnants of Despair further? Well. Most of them have already been killed or jailed, but they only need one or two in order to make an example of them to the world. Show everyone what happens if you stick by despair’s side.

Despair so terrible not even Ultimate Despair can withstand it.

So they place Nagito Komaeda and Izuru Kamukura in two separate simulations where time is slower, and life is torture.

Nagito’s torture is essentially the game. He wakes up in his childhood home and. Quickly learns how dangerous it is. The first day, he succumbs to the bugs in the shower. He sees them falling out of the shower head but oh no, where is the door handle to the bathroom? He’s stuck. Oh no no no no.

And he dies. It’s horrible. He remembers every detail of his death. But then he wakes up in bed again. Huh weird dream yeah and then it happens again and he knows something is Wrong.

And he has to live like this for months. In a house where one wrong step and he’s bleeding out on the floor for hours in agony before he dies. And sure, he isn’t super afraid of death at first, but after dying again and again and again and again and again and again it takes its toll.

He doesn’t wanna be blinded on the floor by a broken lightbulb again, unable to do anything but bleed out until he falls unconscious. He doesn’t want to tip over the boiling pot again, burning himself so badly that he can’t even move.

He grows paranoid. He doesn’t want to move but he’ll die if he stays in bed. He’s so hungry but going to get food means he has to climb down to the first floor and ohh it’s so uncomfortable. The walls covered in drawings and markings… and then when he gets into the kitchen. Oh it’s awful. The smell of gas. The monsters trying to get him. The darkness. He doesn’t want it but. He needs to eat.

Over and over and over again. It’s hell.

And Izuru. Izuru is stuck in that room he was kept in for so long. It’s the same routine every day. Same meals. Same time. There is nothing to do. Nothing to stimulate his mind. Just months of Nothing. He can pace but for how long will that be less boring? He can starve himself but he just. Wakes up again in bed if he dies. There is nothing he can do. He can’t escape. He cannot do anything.

He is so under-stimulated and it is driving him crazy

But thankfully, resident cutie patootie of the Future foundation, Makoto Naegi, has mercy on them and breaks them out of the simulation, realizing they’re. Not gonna be actively searching for and spreading despair anymore.

And. The state they’re in is just… depressing. He can’t let them live like this.

[thetommoway-oioii]

For Buddie, what about an established relationship prompt where they tell Christopher they're engaged? 💕

Hi @iced-coffee-jesus (love the pfp)!!! thank you for the ask! since there aren't many details I'm gonna assume you want me to take creative liberties! :D

anyway here it goes! apologies for any mistakes, I'm not a native English speaker or a good editor.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

You and Me Until The End

Buck paced a hole into Eddie's living room. It was like watching a clock pendulum. Eddie was sat on the sofa, warily watching Buck. Buck came to a halt, gave Eddie a look that either read 'I'm nervous and scared' or 'I'm about to punch something'. Eddie was about 87% sure that it was the first one. Buck went back to pacing around. Eddie continued his brainstorming for making Buck stop.

"It's gonna be fin-" Eddie started but Buck was staring at him as if daring him to continue.

"Don't you dare tell me it's gonna be fine." Buck stated and continued walking around nervously, his hand now at his mouth, biting nails. Not a thing he often did but a bad habit he'd picked up as a kid whenever he was scared.

Eddie raised his hands in surrender. He was fond and worried about how much Buck was overthinking. Fond because he couldn't believe that the blond loved him enough to be this anxious and worried because he was certain Buck was overthinking too much.

"Babe" Eddie spoke gently and patted the empty couch space beside him.

Buck stopped in his tracks and contemplated what to do. He sighed heavily and plopped down next to Eddie, immediately leaning on his shoulder. Eddie wrapped an arm around Buck and pulled him closer, running his fingers through the blond's curls.

"You know he loves you to death right?" Eddie started, pressing a kiss to Buck's temple.

"I know.. what if he thinks I'm trying to replace Shannon though?" Buck hid his face into Eddie's abdomen. He loved Christopher so much. He didn't wanna lose the boy. He had been scared to tell him about his relationship with Eddie even though, rationally he knew Chris was secretly rooting for it. Relationship was one thing, engagement was another. This was serious now. He was afraid that even though Chris loved him, he wouldn't feel comfortable having someone replace his mother's place.

"Honey, he knows how much you love him and respect him and that you'd never ever try to do anything that he wasn't comfortable with. Plus he already sees you like a second parent Buck. You're not replacing Shannon in his mind or heart, he is gaining another extra parent. Someone who will love him just like I do and just like Shannon did. Please stop worrying so much." Eddie continued stroking Buck's hair, trying to comfort the man.

"I hope you're right because I canno-" Buck stopped when he heard keys rattling behind the front door. He sat up straight and immediately took off his engagement ring and slipped it into his pocket. He took a deep breath in as Carla opened the door and Chris walked in, his face lighting up immediately seeing both Buck and Eddie at the couch.

"Sorry boys, can't come in, I'm running late." Carla said from the front door before slipping out and shutting it behind her. Chris slowly made his way toward the both of them. Buck moved to the side and made space for Chris between him and Eddie. Chris sat down and gave a hug to each of them.

"Welcome back buddy. Did you have fun at school?" Buck asked, all his anxiety carefully placed behind a unbreakable mask.

"Yeah! We worked around in school's terrace garden today. It was really cool and fun!" Chris said enthusiastically.

"That's great buddy! Listen, there was something Buck and I wanted to talk to you about." Eddie sat up a straight, the mood shifting to a more serious tone.

Chris looked between Buck and Eddie and nodded, "Is it about the engagement?" He asked, shocking both the firefighters.

"You.. uh you know about that?" Buck asked, the mask slipping ever so slightly.

"Yeah," Chris nodded. "I saw the ring besides the kitchen sink a few days ago. I figured you'd tell me soon." He smiled brightly. If his expressions were anything to go by, he didn't seem upset at all.

Buck let out a half relieved sigh, though not completely sure if this was gonna end badly or not. "And.. how do you feel about that? Like are you okay with me and your dad getting married?" Buck asked tentatively, not sure if he was ready to hear the answer.

Chris looked at him with a weird face before turning to Eddie and giving him a look that read 'Is he serious?' Eddie half managed to contain his chuckle at Chris' expression. Chris turned to Buck and gave him a big smile.

"Of course Buck! I love you and Dad loves you too! I'm happy that you're officially gonna be my family now. I can have two dads now!" Chris moves closer to Buck and gives him a hug. He wasn't sure why Buck looked so scared but hugs always made everything better so he decided to give his Buck one too. Maybe now he'll be more at ease.

Buck slowly relaxed as he held Chris in his arms. Logically he was about 90% sure that this was gonna go well but his mind had spewed all kinds of doubts all day. Now, seeing the smile and love on Chris' face, he could let go of those doubts. Buck looked over to Eddie over Chris' shoulder and saw the most adorable, softest look on the man's face. He beckoned him forward to join in the hug as well and when Eddie held them both in his arms, Buck knew, nothing in the world could ever take this away from him.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

(title from The Greatest by Louis Tomlinson)

that's it! I hope you like it. if you have any other requests or prompts please don't hesitate to send an ask.

again apologies for any mistakes.

[aconflagrationofmyown]

You go to my head, like a summer with a thousand Julys

A Sarge and lil Mama fic

Summary: THE BEGINNING of the Sarge and lil Mama universe

Warnings: fantasizing about breeding a young woman, masturbation with a stuffed animal, antiquated gender norms, slight grooming (I don’t know what else to call it even though it’s really not that and no one is under age) mentions of parental death, slightly manipulative Elvis, emotional infidelity on Elvis’ part towards his current girlfriends

Circa: 1954-57 due to playing fast and loose with the historical timeline of both Elvis’ basic training and Gladys’ death

Elvis Presley is an affectionate young man, he has a sweetness about him in all his interactions, and while he is famous and you don’t know him well he is devastatingly warm and you enjoy his attentions. He comes to your father’s studio often and he is affectionate when he does.

An affectionate acquaintance is what he is, he remains as such in a tidy little world where he hugs you during his visits and holds onto your waist as he chows down on the sandwiches you bring as refreshment for his Memphis Mafia. And there is nothing more to be said or thought. You learn to burn the bacon bound for his BLT because you like the way his eyes widen when it hits his tongue and how he groans around a bite:

“Honey, you shouldn’t’ve”.

In the coming months you learn to leave off the lettuce, too, once he’s back from touring again. Back to make another record, more juice for the machine and your father is gleeful at the unprecedented success of one of his artists. He took a chance on him and now Elvis’ life is fast, so very fast and the faces blur for him, blonde and brown and black and all of them want something he doesn’t quite feel like he can live up to.

It gets so bad he begs Wanda one night on tour just to sit with him, let him put his arm around her and just sit. When he walks back into the studio after months away and finds you there, it’s quieting. He hugs you and you smile and ask him how he is and it’s slow and steady and nice. He doesn’t have to manufacture calm with you, you are calm incarnate.

New songs mean new stages and life gets fast again. It happens like that more than a couple times. He feels older than twenty two when he’s blowing out as many candles atop a birthday cake on a movie set, his mother’s usual homemade creation missing and some fancy icinged concoction in its place. It doesn’t sit right in his belly and he tosses and turns that night wanting to be home.

Home is Memphis, the recording studio is there but he hasn’t gone yet, he takes a few days just to soak up Graceland and eat his mother’s food.

It doesn’t matter as you are not absent in his home, his mother speaks of you the first morning he is home. He shovels eggs into his mouth as she praises how you’ve grown up this summer, how you’ve been helping out at the church and took a part time job at the hospital. He’s not surprised, your father is a good fella, your mother of even better character and some kids are just born sweet -that’s how people like you get made, he figures. His mother assures him you’ve not grown into a career woman, she seems very insistent on how you’re just filling your time till you get married. She’s talked with you about it. And Elvis figures this is going down the road of how Billy and you would make a good match, and he wants to tell his mother you’re too much of a kid to be messed with by someone like Billy.

He doesn’t expect her to say, “She’s a good one Booby, the sort of girl who is bright and smart but would be happiest taking care of a man. Some gals are just built for that life, not that you’ll meet many on the road like that. But y/n? She’d make a good wife and even better mother, probably won’t really bloom until she’s had a baby. Some girls are just like that, kinda plain until they start opening up….”

The rest is lost in a blur. He is tired. It’s a perfect excuse considering he just came home. But when he goes to nap he cannot think of anything but you. You swollen and blooming with his child. You are younger in his memory, and it hits wrong. He gets angry at himself for thinking of you that way and ludicrously enraged at the suspicion anyone else might be, too.

Seeing you again will cure him, he knows that. He’ll hug you and you’ll ask him how he is and he’ll be reminded that you’re his old friend’s daughter and he’ll recall why he never bothered messing around with you. You’re steady and calm and nothing like this frantic emotion he suddenly feels at the thought of you opening up because of him… he stops trying to nap and goes to the shooting range instead.

Elvis Presley is reserved. The hug you anticipate never materializes as he steps through the door of the studio, and there is no cheeky grin when you ask him how touring was. He doesn’t smile or say much, he doesn't try to touch you at all, he is reserved. You feel cold.

But he watches. He watches you when he thinks you can’t see him, but the glass reflects and you notice his blazing eyes behind the microphone.

This has been happening to you more and more lately, men staring when they think you don’t see. Your mama says it’s because of your pretty smile. She has no answer when you tell her it happens even when you do not smile at all. You are not smiling now as you are confused, confused why he watches you like he wants to reach out to you and yet treats you like he does not, like the familiarity he usually wears like a second skin has been shed, lost somewhere on the road. Maybe he has a girl, you reason, and while that never affected his behavior before, maybe she’s a Hollywood one and a jealous type. Maybe he’s sad and tired like he says he is. He doesn’t eat the cookies you make. His voice breaks often and the session is scrapped early.

He hugs you sideways as he leaves and mumbles that he’s heard you’ve been keeping busy. You tell him you have and watch for some glimmer of approval. He stares at your lips and then flees outside to the sidewalk. Your father asks if you know what’s gotten into him. You do not.

That night, alone in his bed, he tosses and turns and refuses to touch the ache between his legs. You’d looked at him so earnestly that afternoon, trying to solve him and all he could think of was -you’re grown now. Bleeding every month, settling into a bra size, probably waking up with slick between your legs, your breasts getting sore and you don’t know why. Don’t know that all these things are happening to you so that a man can plough you open, pump you full and plant a garden inside you. He ought to be that man. He has the power to stop your bleeding, make your slick become a fountain and make you swell, filling the emptiness you register but do not understand.

He grabs the massive teddy bear sitting in the corner of his room. A fan gift, juvenile for a fellow well passed such toys, but he appreciates the thought. He appreciates the way the fur parts and rubs his weeping tip as he lays atop it and humps it miserably, pretending it’s you, pretending it’s somehow better to splatter all over synthetic fur at the thought of shocking you with his passion instead of touching himself to the thought of you swollen and dripping. He comes with a shout buried into the shoulder of the bear and registers in agony that his stiffness hasn’t gone down. He rolls over and calls up his costar. Tries to remind himself of that first, bubbly taste of a glamorous woman. She indulges him and he hates it, hates knowing what they both know: that he’s one of many, that she’d never in a million years risk her career to carry his child.

Thanksgiving morning you work alongside Gladys on the buffet line at the Methodist Children’s outreach and you ask her about her absent son. She worries for him, makes you worry in turn, is glad to have a companion in fretting, someone who understands why she can’t just “enjoy the ride.” You admit you’ve noticed a change in him. The buffet runs out of baked beans. Your mother says she’ll drive over and grab more from the market. It’s icy outside on the roads, your mother never comes back.

Your house is full to bursting that night, full of well meaning people who skip their Thanksgiving dinners to file past you and your father in a long line, awkwardly patting your arms and clasping his shoulder. They talk in subdued, measured tones about heaven and time and how they can’t imagine what you’re going through. Their restraint sets the tone for your grieving, you are subdued and rational until alone at dawn, clasping your pillow and sobbing, listening to your father do the same over the muffled noise of the TV.

When someone tells you that you’re the “woman of the house now” it feels like you’ve betrayed her again. It doesn’t sit right in your belly. You are sick with it, can’t eat from it churning in your gut, ironically you want mother to comfort you for her loss.

He comes back to Memphis in time for the funeral. He comes over to the house early, it doesn’t matter as neither you or your father sleep. Upon crossing the threshold, Elvis Presley does not awkwardly pat your father, clasp his hand or encourage him to be strong. He folds your father into a hug and doesn't let go for sometime, not until your father has wept for what he’s lost and Elvis meets your eyes over his shoulder, and he looks like he knows how this feels, like this is his worst nightmare you’re living. He is not removed from your pain, he dreads it and yet he partakes of it with you both. Gladys has brought a pot roast, she smoothes your hair back like she does her son’s before putting the meal in the oven, going back out to speak with your father.

Elvis’ eyes are watery when he approaches you, his freedom of emotion gives you courage to let loose, you sob, you wail and you babble and he cradles your head against his shoulder, swaying you in the middle of your mother’s kitchen as he mutters,

“that’s it, that’s it, you loved her didn’t ya?”

It’s the truest thing anyone has said all day.

He sits you down at the kitchen table and brushes your hair, powders your nose, brings you your black leather heels, holds out your coat for you to slip on. It’s not until years later you realize he must have taken the liberty of rummaging through your room to procure those items. It is odd that it was not his mother who took charge of such things.

At the graveside you are presentable in the manner in which he crafted you, your image is sad and tragic, but dignified and evocative.

Mother is buried in a coffin he bought, six feet under a plot of land he purchased, with a space next to it for your father when his time comes. There is no third space, and once the dirt is heaped over her you wonder where you’ll rest your bones, why he didn’t think to provide you a place in the earth, too. Your father calls him “a good boy” as the wind kicks up and the mourners disperse.

You ride back to the reception at your house, wedged snugly between Elvis and Anita. She hands you a monogrammed hanky in the back seat and it smells like rosewater. She sweetly lets you hold her hand and it’s icy from the cruel November wind while Elvis burns your right side, his arm thrown back behind your head and some thrumming turmoil roiling beneath his flushed skin. You can see the pulse thumping in his neck, above the fuzzy upturned collar of his coat and you instinctively press your free hand to it, trying to calm the flutter. He jolts at your touch and the vessel only pounds harder.

“You sick?” you ask him as your hand feels his sweaty skin. It’s wintertime and everybody at the hospital has come down with bugs and he feels like he’s raging with a fever. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping much either, he gets those same dark circles under his eyes as Gladys. They’ve both got them lately. Death has made you paranoid, you know.

“Nah, m’fine, it’s just from cryin.” he takes your hand down and holds it. Anita let’s go of yours, to open the car door as you arrive.

Whoever made it tradition for the bereaved family to have their house swamped by the community right after burying a loved one must've never known the bone deep desire to curl up and just process it all. Alone. So you stand again for hours and let them file past and it’s all very much the same as the other days and your stomach is in knots but you behave how your mother would’ve wanted, only occasionally sneaking off to the kitchen to load the emptying cheese trays and to just breathe. It goes on for hours, your feet ache and your throat is dry.

You escape back to the chilly sunroom to sit down for a minute and find him there, alone, sat on the wicker sofa and thumbing at one of your mother’s gardening books. If it were anyone else that would feel like a violation but since it’s him, it feels like he’s just trying to get to know her. And you appreciate that.

“Have you eaten, honey?” he asks you and nods at the apron you’ve donned as you just stand there and take him in.

“Uh, no, I’m not hungry.” you wave his frown away.

“Sit down honey, runnin’ yourself ragged like this.” and he pats the small space of cushion beside him as you think about your guests, think about how nice it would be to just relax with someone who values silence, but you can’t, you’ve gotta go back and host, it’s the right thing to do.

Except that his hand encircles your wrist and tugs and you go limply, folding into his side and he shouldn’t feel so warm, so safe, so right -you don’t know him that well. But he wears his heart on his sleeve and it’s bleeding for you and you suppose that puts you two ahead of a lot of so-called friends.

“They can eat sandwiches and make themselves feel compassionate without you hurtin those little feet any longer.” he declares and pulls you into his lap, tipping you back to cradle you like a baby, his hands running down your legs until they meet your ankles and he’s pulling off your heels with finality.

You’ve never had a boy touch you like this, you’ve never pressed your cheek against a hard chest and felt the thump, thump of a masculine heart radiate through your limbs. But he’s so final about it all, and so certain and so at ease you feel foolish for gasping and shuddering at the famillairties he takes as he rubs one hurting arch of your foot and then the other. He’s got an authority about him tonight you’d never noticed before, and you’d as soon question your pastor on a point of doctrine as question Elvis Presley on the propriety of rocking you to sleep, yards away from a substantial amount of Memphis’ most devout population.

Your last thought as you drift off is that you hope Anita understands you're just a kid to him, you hope you’re not shaming your mother on the very night of her funeral by tucking your head into his shoulder and sleeping for the first time since she died. Your stomach unwinds, your breathing evens out and your legs fall apart in your sleep, you dream of plush lips dragging along your forehead. You wake in the morning curled around a pillow, snug in your own bed, rested. Father tells you Elvis carried you up there himself before he left.

“He’s a good boy.” you agree with Father at breakfast.

He hadn’t felt boyish when he’d wrapped you in his arms. And you hadn’t felt girlish either, for all that you had been rocked and petted. Your stomach stays loose and molten for a few more hours before the grief catches up again and the newly empty house plagues you.

That’s why they invite the crowds in after a death, it takes half the city to make up for a single loved one’s absence.

You flee from the haunted space, longer shifts at the hospital and longer hours at the shelters. At night you sit and feed father your mother’s recipes, ask each other about the other’s day as if any of that matters now.

The Memphis division of the March of Dimes Charity approaches you to replace your mother on the board. Hustling you into your new position and entrusting you with the Christmas organizations all before the holiday itself is unheard of and rushed, but it all makes sense once you hear a doner put in a good word for you, requesting you be put in charge. There’s no bigger or quieter doner than Elvis Presley, so when he speaks up and asks for a thing -it happens.

Mere hours before catching a train to New York, he pops in to the event and makes the room shimmer with his presence, he kisses cheeks, chats with everyone and tosses kids who’ve been treated like glass up in the air, making them laugh for the first time in months. He signs ever so many posters and records and casts and he watches you all the while. The way you host and rustle about in your black heels and plaid taffeta crinoline as the function you put on runs like a well oiled machine. It doesn’t feel like a Christmas event without mistletoe or dancing, but it’s still a damn fine shindig, he’ll give ya that. And he notices what he suspected: when you’re busy working those grieving furrows of your brow clear and he finds he can breathe easier.

Before he leaves to catch his night train you get pulled into a photograph with him, poofy skirt crushed against his leg, arms helping balance a massive cake as he holds a kid who seems to think you want to eat globs of frosting off his fingers. You’re not about to deny a five year old boy in crutches so you slurp it off laughingly and the cameras capture Elvis watching that hungrily. The cake, not your pink tongue languorously licking white icing…

You walk him to the door and he leaves you in the warm glow of the charity function surrounded by children and folks you’re making feel welcome as only you can, and he boards the damn train that ships his ass to New York, calling Anita dutifully before slumping into the narrow bed and wringing his cock out to the thought of marrying you and keeping you full of him all your days.

You go on the date with Billy cause you figure it will get your mind off your grief and he tells you he wants one last happy memory before he leaves everything familiar and gets shipped across the world to get killed. Billy is being dramatic, as there’s no war on right now, but the draft is an atrocity all the same and you don’t mind giving Billy one last happy memory. Something in you has been curious about men since that night Elvis forced you to sleep on him by sheer masculine authority alone. You curl around your pillow at night and pretend it’s him, or someone, a man, you think. You pretend it’s a man.

You think it must be missing your mother that’s done this to you, she’d have kept you distracted but without her, and your father a reticent shell of himself, it makes sense you’re lonely and craving some stability, someone to tell you how it’s gonna be.

Billy isn’t exactly that, he can’t even decide on where to take you for this date, it’s up to you to suggest places, finally landing on the drive-in theater. It’s safe but mature enough to be a little thrilling. He doesn’t own a car so you drive in the car Elvis bought you when you became a March of Dimes board member. Father sets a curfew, and you try to soothe your nerves at the notion you might feel a man again tonight, your curiosity peaked and eager.

The theater lot is strangely empty when y’all arrive and you wonder if maybe Billy called in a favor. Halfway through the film you feel Billy’s hand on your thigh and you shudder and respond in kind, just a gentle resting on his own, but this spurs him on, soon he is ignoring the film altogether and fumbling to get under your velvet skirt and that’s a little surprising. You’re processing whether you like this or not when he leans over, pulls down your fur collar and glues his mouth to your neck like a pufferfish to the side of a tank. It’s not very romantic but it makes you flush and it shocks you and you like that. More shocking still is the blinding light that suddenly pierces the nighttime seclusion of your car cab, and there at your window is Elvis Presley wielding a police grade flashlight directly into your eyes, smiling like a shark against the glass.

“How’s it goin kids?” he grins, his breath frosting the frigid glass.

“Elvis, I-I- I’m on a date.” You laugh while stating the obvious.

“I know, I know,” he nods, opening your door and sliding in next to you, gently shoving you till he’s in front of the wheel and you're wedged in the middle, “Bill here told me you were handin out free dates to poor drafted boys, so I’m here for mine.”

“You’ve been drafted, too?” you cry out, Billy quite forgotten, “They’ll not make you with-“

-with his career you mean, but he gives you a pout and nod and that’s that. So is the way his arm slides around you and pulls you closer and you feel like you’re in the middle of a contest you didn’t sign up for. “I’ll miss you boys.” you sigh.

“Aww, you’re sweet honey, ain’t she sweet, Billy? She taste sweet, too?”

Billy mumbles something under his breath about not getting the chance and you realize Elvis has his hand gripping the poor kid’s neck.

“Elvis you're being rude.” you chide meekly.

“Nah, it’s rude to kiss a lady’s neck with so little finesse as Bill was yours, that’s what’s rude.” Elvis declares and you get that feeling again of being unable to question him. You just hush and stay put until the credits roll and he offers Billy a ride home which the kid accepts. He drives your car and you don’t bother protesting when he drops Billy off with a:

“See ya in the barracks, bucko!”

It’s rude and cocky and no one’s ever fought over you before and while you don’t appreciate him interrupting your exploration of a male specimen, it’s rather nice to matter a little to Elvis Presley. It’s heady and makes your heart thump and your legs feel heavy and you wipe your sweaty palms on the velvet of your skirt.

“How’d you know that, that I was there?” you ask him, timid now you’re alone with him and the gentleness he once showed you isn’t present, he is gnawing on his bottom lip, leg not pressing the gas is jiggling like it does before a performance and it attracts your eye by instinct.

He’s wound up and you feel a little suffocated from the warmth rolling off him as he drives you through the dark streets, back to your home. “He asked me to clear the lot out.” he confirms your suspicion, “Then your daddy asked me to look out for ya, make sure all was right and proper.”

You are surprised and a little hurt that your father wouldn’t trust his child who has been as unfailingly upright as yourself on a movie date, more strange still that he’d trust someone as, well -loose might be a unkind word- but someone as loose as Elvis Presley to enforce morality on such a night. “I don’t believe you.” you admit barely above a whisper.

Elvis’ foot slips at your little whisper and he revs over the curb outside your house with a thump, before he curses and backs up, head cranning to look out the rear window and you wanna touch his throat.

He kills the lights and turns to you and you're so ashamed by your craving thoughts you fear he can sniff them like blood in water, figure out that you wanna run your finger down his cheek, that you wanted to touch Billy cause you’ve been curious of him. “Now honey,” he admonishes you in the still dark and it’s all you can do not to shrink against the car door under the weight of his stare, “I don’t wanna have to report to your daddy what I saw in this here cab, so why don’t you tell me why it was you were lettin’ that boy touch on you so. You was leanin in, I saw ya, you was leanin in and you liked it.”

“Elvis,” you plead, face aflame and it makes him twitch in his seat to see you squirm so, “you, Elvis you know I haven’t -this was my first date! I didn’t do nothin wrong. It was exciting, that’s all.”

He looks at you sternly and it makes you angry, you're about to resume a defense when he takes his hand off the wheel to clasp your thigh, higher up than Billy ever dared. “This feel exciting, lil one?”

Your lungs feel crushed and your thigh trembles under his hot palm, “What’re you doin?” you gasp, feeling very, very wrong and near starving for it.

“This feel right to you?” he presses, unrelenting, hand rhythmically squeezing your soft flesh and you can see father’s silhouette in his usual chair by the window, reading and oblivious.

“I said exciting.” you cleared your throat, “And I said it was when Billy did it. And he never went that- that- that high up.”

“Oh nah? Hmm, well, now that I’m there, how’s it feel, honey? Hmm?”

You squeeze your eyes shut after a moment, watching his hand creep higher and nearer to where you feel your heart beat thudding between your legs proving to be a bit much.

“Ain’t right or fittin for Limp Dick Billy to be gettin a quality girl like you excited.” he shakes his head, “Save your bosom heavin for better stuff.”

“Limp Dick -what’s that mean?” you repeat him, bewildered as your world narrows to his lush lips and the searing heat of his hand near that place you’ve grown to notice more and more lately.

“Aww that’s just, that’s nothin, just a bad name we use for fellas whose uh, well, whose hair won’t uh, won’t stand up right.”

“Not everybody can have hair like you, E.” you mumble and watch the way the lamplight makes his rings glitters against the velvet of your skirt.

That’s an admission on your part that he drinks in like a dying man, happy to have some glimmer of superiority in your mind over his fellows, and he rubs his thumb soothingly over your twitching thigh as your skirt folds dip between your legs, highlighting them perfectly. He can see the outline of your little cunt between your pressed thighs and he feels rash, feels like spreading his hand a little further and brushing his pinky there against that place he’s imagined so many times.

“Elvis,” you whisper into the silent cab, “what’re you doing?”

That’s a question for the ages and one he hasn’t got a clean answer for. “Tryin to make you excited.” he admits.

“Why?” you puzzle and you’ve heard that this is why he’s called trouble. It isn’t fitting for the sexes to know too much about each other, and Elvis knows too much about women, that’s the talk anyways.

The motion of his thumb against your thigh makes you agree, he knows a little too much and you know too little.

“Tell me,” he leans in further and you feel trapped and your heart is bounding from being the object of his droopy eyed assessment, “does this feel like doin nothin?” he demands and then he’s pressing a fluttery kiss to your pulsing throat and the catch of your breath is audible in the small space.

“Don’t.” you beg, confused and wanting it to never end.

“Why not?” his breath chills the damp little spot where he pressed his kiss.

“You’ve got a girl.” you protest.

“Thought you said this weren’t nothin.” he growls.

“Alright maybe it is.” You squirm away from his touches until your back is pressed against the glovebox. “I-I don’t know. I just - I don’t think you should be doing this with me.”

“Alright then.” he smirks, “You'd best not give me reason to tell your father bout any future such nothin’s with boys, alright honey?”

“If you stop behavin in a way that would make Miss Gladys inclined to whoop you, then I will.” you fire back and he thinks he’s in love. Cause you’re right, his mama would be livid at him flustering you and trying you out without making it honest. Your supreme capabilities in social matters, mixed with your utter dumbness in regards to the slick sliding down your legs with each swipe of his thumb against velvet, makes him nearly primal in his wants.

“Deal.” he smiles, “I’ll be gone away to basic training soon, anyhow,” and he notices your little frown at that, “won’t be here to bother you or protect ya, either way. So you’d best just swear off men, ya hear me? Just for a little while till I can come back and vet ‘em.”

“You’ll be gone in the army for a couple years!” you protest his sentencing you to a nunnery.

“Yeah, yeah, and your eggs will keep a couple more years.” he laughs at what must’ve been a good joke that you missed while you were occupied trying to breathe after he patted your lower belly and got out of the car to hand you out by curfew.

On the front porch he tells your daddy a version of the truth. A version that paints you as quite blameless, himself in a starring role of protector and Billy as a no good kid who ain’t quality enough to be hanging out with nice girls like yourself. You are forbidden from seeing Billy again, Elvis is commended, your father goes upstairs to bed and leaves you alone with a young man whose lingering fingers and bitten lips make you lightheaded -you think maybe Elvis has the right idea, your father is blind as a bat when it comes to threats.

Not that Elvis is a threat, he just lounges against the kitchen counter and watches you put up dishes like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

“You don’t think Anita would mind you hanging around like this?” You ask him after his lip licking stare gets a little too heavy and you feel somewhat dizzy from being so closely watched by a guy who you know doesn't mean anything by it.

It’s just Elvis’ way of things, he makes people feel and it’s not his fault.

You’ve tried to not blame him for that building feeling you get when he’s around, the one like your lower belly is made of molten lead. That’s a physical abnormality, not his fault in the slightest.

You just do worry about how people might see this, seeing him walking home from your house late at night. You've heard the older ladies on the board whispering about you and how you haven’t got a protector, how your father can’t see what’s right in front of him. You presume they mean about Billy and his straying hands or the old donor who tried to tug you into a closet with him. Elvis is just trying to fill in the slack your father’s grief has left. Anyone with eyes could tell he’s just looking out for you. He had to be pulled off the old doner before he murdered him after he heard. It’s only that you notice Anita has turned a little cold towards you, and mama always said to be careful about letting a taken man take too much interest in ya. And Elvis does seem very interested in something about you, maybe just cause people stare and he thinks it’s rude, thinks getting pulled into closets is ungallant. He does plenty of his own staring, though.

“What about Anita?” his head snaps up and he takes his eyes off your shiny little leather belt to ask you to repeat yourself.

Something about having his focus back on your face makes you feel dumb about your worries and you change the question slightly. “Y’all gonna get married?” you ask instead.

“I dunno.”

“But with you going into the army, what’s gonna happen, what���ve you two sorted out?” you press, scooting him to the side so you can put a dish away behind him.

“She says she’ll wait for me.” he replies, sounding like her faithfulness is an imposition and you get a little mad for her, “she’s always tryin to nail things down I-I-I’ve told her, I just d-d-dunno.”

“She’s been very accommodating of you, Elvis.” you plead her case the way your mother used to plead yours to your father about dance lessons.

“Yeah, sure, sure.” he agrees dryly, leaning on the counter again and staring at his feet, “Gonna put a pause on her damn career and everything, least for a year or two. Big whoop. Who's gonna take care of the babies once she goes back to work, that’s what I wanna know. No children of mine’s gonna get raised by some passel ‘a mamies like a bunch of Wall Street brats while their mother is off kissin men for a living.`` By the end of this tirade his voice is close to a shout and you think he’s shockingly worked up over a rather hypocritical grievance.

But it makes sense, “Guess a career woman isn’t the best mother.” you agree tentatively and his eyes shoot up to your face. You’ve no more dishes to dry and your hands hang uselessly by your side.

“Oh hell, look at us ruinin our evening over her,” he shakes himself, “don’t mind her she’s just being an ole biddy about it all.”

“With some reason!” you laugh, “ And the point could be made that you’re actin a bit like an ass.”

“Oh hell not you, too!”

“It’s not nice to lead a gal on like that -or two in the case of Dixie and June- and then get mad at her when you decide she isn’t what you want after all!”

“Didn’t realize you were so invested in my private life.” he sneers.

“I’m not. But the Evening Herald is.”

“Don’t let the papers turn ya onto a nagging puss, lil girl, doesn't suit your sweet temper.”

“I’m not turnin into anything, just stating facts.” you murmur and clasp your hands before you anxiously. You swear you can feel the heat coming off of him, anger you presume, “And I’m a little tired.” you add sheepishly.

“Course you are.” he murmurs, visage smoothing like magic and he comes up to you, cradling your face in his hands as you back away and bump into the stove, “Been a big day and a lotta new feelin’s, hmm?”

“Yes.” you gasp, your chest hot and his hands are so large and warm and it’s like he blocks out the rest of the world full of his girls and your father and what’s right or wrong, cradling your cheeks with his thumbs running along your cheekbones, “You gonna be good and do what I asked ya?”

Your mind is so fixated on the plump curve of his bottom lip that you surface with a frantic splutter, trying to recall what he’s referencing.

“You gonna lay off the datin’ till I get back, yeah?” he reminds you helpfully as his fingers work the back of your neck to jello, your core pulsing in a strangely distracting response as he tells you how it’s gonna be, gives the very direction you’ve been craving.

“Yes, yeah.” you breathe and your voice sounds like those gals on the screen when they’re overcome by romance, but here is none that you can find, just Elvis looking out for you and patiently bearing with your stupid naïveté when it comes to boys. He’ll make sure you land the right one, start house with a fella who’ll give you security and direction. It’s just your loneliness with father being so mellow that has you going on stupid dates with boring boys. Elvis is right. You admit it to him.

He smiles in response and it looks like the kind he gives before he punches someone in his films. It’s a promise.

You shiver against the stove and grip the dish towel hanging from the handle.

“And you’ll let me know if anybody is botherin, ya while i'm gone, right?” he rewards your obedience with the promise of security, just like all those knights in fairytales.

Women obey and men provide, it’s the natural way of things and your heart swoops at the first taste of a married dynamic. You feel like you should offer him some favor, some reward for giving you his defense. You’ve heard stories about girls who feel the way you do, who get overcome by gratitude to a fella before getting married and they are ruined. You grip the dish towel harder, unsure of what motion you might make which would ruin you, what touch it is that seals your fate, puts a baby in a girl before it’s time. It can’t be a hug, surely not just a kiss, but you wouldn’t know as you’ve never dared. You’ll wait for Elvis to come back and make sure the fella you date and marry won’t get you in trouble in any of these ways. It’s complicated and confusing being a woman, and since that night of the funeral he seems to have taken the place of your mother, and you trust him in this.

“I’ll let you know.” you swear earnestly.

He kisses your cheek gently in response. Just a dry peck. That must not be the ruinous action in question, he wouldn’t do anything to tarnish you. It’s Elvis.

Elvis is a sullen but brave boy as he boards the army bus to ship him down south where it’s more Mexico than truly civilized but the world just calls it Texas. Or that’s what you hear from Gladys. You were not there to see him off, why should you be? You are busy and you have sworn off men and there’s a great deal to do in those dismal post holiday weeks. You do not pine for distractions, you don't have much energy to lie awake at night for long and rehearse the way his hand felt on your thigh, or his lips against your throat, or his fingers grazing the little swell of your belly where your womb is housed. These are passing, fitful and frantic thoughts, that pass through your mind before sleep takes you.

And Elvis is much the same, basic training is unkind, even to a man whose performances required much stamina. He crawls into his bunk and collapses most nights, staring with hooded eyes, at the newspaper clipping of you licking that damn icing, the picture he’s shown his new army buddies while announcing to them proudly “that’s ma girl, no, no, not the sort to fool with. The one I’m gonna have carrying my babies. Soon.”

Soon.

It’s a waste in the meantime, the way he spews his seed over the panties he stole from your room that morning he dressed you for the funeral, it’s a waste of precious fuel— fuel for his dream as it impotently coats and drips from the silk and makes him angry that he can’t find it in him to tamp down that restless heart of his, just settle down. Marry you already. Be a little respectable— sounds relaxing, sounds satisfactory. Sounds like something the Colonel would love for this whole “new image.”

That sours it all and he rolls over in his bunk with the sodden scrap of silk that no longer smells of you but of him and his wasted desire.

Soon, he tells himself, soon. After a little while.

It’s tragic really, the way we postpone snagging those things we know we want, the ones our gut lurches for, our soul craves as our conscience whispers “just do it.” Put off because life is too exciting to tone down, fun and girls are in abundance, and time seems very plentiful until it runs out in a great big whoosh of sand from the hour glass, taking with it those steady, stable, sure things we’ve counted on being there for an endless little while. Like your Mother. Just gone, and the universe doesn't pause to acknowledge your world is fractured, for everyone else it’s just tomorrow. Tomorrow is here and they’re not.

The shock of it jolts you, the regret nags you, the grief strips you back down to the bare bones of what you want and need. Elvis only knows one other person who he thinks gets how this feels as his train hurdles homeward to a coffin and a future that doesn't make any sense. Mama should have gotten to see him out of the army, gotten to see him do more, hit thirty, marry. Mama shoulda been able to meet those grandbabies she’d pestered him about but he put off for tomorrow.

Tomorrow is a bitter pill and he wants to spit it out, start over, refashion it just so. No more regrets, no more fighting his gut. He’d like to dig a shallow grave for a little while, fold himself into it and just rest a minute, learn to forgive his stupid ambition, catch a break. Wake up some thawed spring morning to the sight of you beside him in the daffodil covered earth, find the reason in your eyes that makes him choose to live again.

Still, he finds it in a little fur trimmed peacoat standing and waiting forlornly for him at the station.

You’re not a girlfriend, you’re not a fan, you’re just someone who lost their mama too, somebody who knows there’s not much to say, just a hug there on the crowded platform and “she was the reason for everything you ever did, wasn’t she?”

Was. She was. Now is about what is.

[baeddel]

tips for writing a character with type 1 diabetes

people make these for whatever disability they have. but most of the time they're not really about writing, they're just informative about the disability, which isn't always that helpful. i thought it'd be fun to do one that takes the writing part seriously. so, here's mine!

the only fictional depiction of diabetes i'm aware of is Paul Blart Mall Cop. it's a pretty stupid point of reference, so i'm mostly going to be talking about the protrayal of the blood plague in Bloodborne instead. perhaps surprisingly, this post contains Bloodborne spoilers.

Table of Contents

Preface on Modes of Narrative Discourse

Tip 1: Varieties of Diabetes

Tip 2: Onset of Diabetes

Tip 3: History of Diabetes

Tip 4: Living with Untreated Diabetes

Tip 5: Treatment of Diabetes Today

Tip 6: Hypoglycemia

Tip 7: Diabetes is an Immune System Disorder

Conclusion

before we start, in this post i'm going to use the division of the narrator's discourse employed by Lubomír Doležel in Narrative Modes in Czech Literature, 1973, 5-10, except i'm using 'third person' and 'first person' instead of Er-form and Ich-form because you'll stop reading if i call them that. here's his chart for reference:

the objective narrators (first and third person) are totally external to the events they narrate and have no interpretations to make about what they see—they write in the detached manner of an ornithologist's field journal. example: Hemmingway's 'the Killers.'

the rhetorical third person narrator gets to interpret what it sees; the interpreter in rhetorical third person will generally be someone not involved in the story, such as the author themselves or a fictional storyteller like Shazarad. example: Balzac's 'Sarrasine' (once the Sarrasine sequence actually starts).

the subjective third person narrator is when the answer to 'who speaks?' and 'who sees?' is different. here, the narrator confines their interpretation to the point of view of a specific character within the story. Dolezel's example: "When Helenka was finishing her internship in orthopaedics, there was in the ward a young man who had broken his thigh-bone. Such a common femur fracture, a rather uninteresting case" (M. Pujmanova, Playing with Fire). the comment that the fracture is "uninteresting" is spoken by the narrator, but it is obviously Helenka's interpretation.

the personal and rhetorical first person narrator is a character within the story who can report on their own thoughts and feelings. the personal narrator acts within the story, while the rhetorical narrator merely comments; generally first-person stories will contain all three kinds of first-person narration; personal for their own actions, rhetorical for the actions of others, and observer's for things like providing context about the enviornment. example: Hajime Kanzaka's 'Slayers.'

i promise it's going to be important. now for the tips!

TIP 1: there are different kinds of diabetes

Type 1 diabetes (5-10% of cases), MODY (1-2%) and MIDD (1%) are genetic, whereas Type 2 (90%) and Gestational Diabetes are acquired. you get Gestational Diabetes during pregnancy and then it goes away (it occurs in 6% of all pregnancies), and you acquire Type 2 diabetes pretty much randomly although it's highly correlated with bodyweight. MIDD is accompanied by hearing loss. there is another unrelated disease which is also called diabetes, diabetes insipidus.

if you're writing about a historical period Type 2 is going to be much less common. the number of people with Type 2 has exploded since the 1960s. "As of 2015 there were approximately 392 million people diagnosed with the disease compared to around 30 million in 1985" (wiki). personally i don't know jack shit about any of those other kinds, so i'm only going to talk about Type 1.

TIP 2: onset is prolonged and dangerous

while Type 1 is entirely genetic, onset doesn't actually start until your teens or twenties. basically, your pancreas just stops working. you cannot predict if this will happen, and you won't notice as soon as it does happen.

when you eat carbs or sugar you're absorbing glucose. your body detects the presence of glucose and the pancreas creates insulin which converts glucose into energy. when your pancreas stops working, you will not produce enough insulin to convert the glucose and it'll stick around in your system indefinitely. this is called 'hyperglycemia' or 'high blood sugars' and it is extremely perilous, but its effects come on slowly.

first of all, you will suffer fatigue and tiredness because you aren't making enough energy. at the same time, all the excess glucose your body isn't using will stick to your cells and cause problems. it sticks to the retina, causing vision problems (everything is white and gooey, like you've been rubbing your eyes). it collects in veins and arteries, slowing the flow of blood to the extremities, causing your hands and feet to become severely cold. you'll be lightheaded and dizzy all the time. you urinate constantly, and you also become extremely thirsty, nothing will parch your thirst, and your urine will be completely clear, like water. you lose a lot of weight. you sleep for extremely long periods of time and no one can wake you up. eventually you'll start to collapse during the day and lose consciousness. then you'll die.

if you're reading this and think you have some of those symptoms, please see a doctor!

for myself, i was collapsing unconscious regularly before anyone realized something was wrong. while i've just described these things as symptoms of a disease, your characters are probably not likely to interpret it as a disease right away. i was about fifteen, so my family probably thought i was just a teenager. i didn't want to go to school, but no teenager wants to go to school. i was sleeping in all the time, but that just meant i was lazy and needed to be disciplined. these years (years!) were very hard in my family; every morning i would fight back visciously to stay in bed. i would refuse to attend school and i would defend myself if they tried to drag me. punching and clawing. i was a disobedient teenager with behavioural problems and poor attendance. in fact, i was very close to death. it was only after i started passing out that it became evident to anyone (including me) that something was wrong with my health. when they took me to the doctors they hospitalized me immediately.

so if you're going to write about a character experiencing the onset of diabetes, they are going to have most of these symptoms, but they will probably not experience them as symptoms. if they are from a society like ours, which puts a lot of value on work ethic, they'll probably blame themselves for their flinching self-discipline. they are not likely to connect things like their worsening eyesight to their sleep and behaviour changes; they all come on slowly, over a long time, and don't look connected. other characters will notice gradual changes in their behaviour; their lover might find that they've become distant and disinterested in sex, the people at their church might notice that they attend less, and so forth. they're likely to have become isolated from the people in their life before they start passing out, so no one might be around to notice. i dropped out of my social life before anyone learned i had diabetes, so my old friends don't know what happened.

so, the onset period of Type 1 Diabetes is inherently denpa (see). it also has a natural narrative arc; there is a period of confusion, uncertainty and conflict which culminates in the dramatic symptoms of prolonged hyperglycemia—the sudden fall from unconsciousness. the diagnosis recontextualizes everything the reader has previously witnessed about this character. it therefore fits well in a slow story which takes place over a long time, months or years, and wants a coy narrator who can fairly hide information from the reader: personal first person, observer's first person, objecive third person or subjective third person. in this situation it's an especially good red herring, for example in a mystery or horror novel where the reader is paying close attention to out-of-character behaviour, and a long, slow, character-focused story is expected. but you could also pick a rhetorical third person narrator who conveys information to us which the characters are ignorant of, allowing the reader to cringe as the characters act on their misapprehensions. example:

once Eric didn't open the door on the third day of knocking Lune said "what the hell, you bastard," and then they said "i didn't need you anyway, and i'm not sad you're breaking up with me." then they went and wrote him a pissed-off letter about how they would just go to Denver on their own after all and they stuffed it in the letterbox. four days later when Eric woke up from his diabetic coma he found the letter.

i understand that suggestions like this can be a bit less than useful, since a lot of writing ideas only work in one story, so if you read it in a post someplace it's probably already too late to use it. i would like to make the case, however, that Type 1 diabetes onset can be a generically useful trope. Amnesia is a generically useful disorder in fiction because of how efficiently it solves narrative problems; it allows first person and subjective third person narrators to hide information, and it gives the characters an excuse to explain known information to the reader—the character just forgot all the important stuff. Type 1 diabetes can't be quite that useful to narrators, but it is quite useful; untreated diabetes causes a person to be inconsistent, unreliable and uanvailable. if you ever need a character to fail to show up at a crucial moment in the story, but you don't have a reason yet—it was the diabetes! EZ! this turns what might have been an inconsistency into a set-up for a later payoff, when they figure out what was wrong with them.

more generally than Type 1 diabetes, 'life-changing symptoms which no one realizes are symptoms' and 'slow onset of an unpreventable disease' are common situations in real life, but don't happen very often in fiction, so you should feel free to use them. it's a device that's used to excellent effect in Bloodborne, where it affects almost every character in the game, since everyone uses a substance the tragic effects of which they could not foreknow. because in Bloodborne it's happening to every character all the time the trope has a stochastic impact on the player; as the player learns more about the plague curiosity gradually shades into dread, the heart sinks with each new phase of the moon as the player worries about the characters they've left back at Oedon Chapel.

TIP 3: diabetes was understood from ancient times all over the world

there's a bit of a misconception that nobody knew anything about health and illness until very recently, and past peoples attributed everything to magic. for example, there have been countless attempts to diagnose Hildegard von Bingen with Temporal Lobe Epilespy based on her descriptions of her mystical visions, which—while it isn't refuted by this evidence—seems a bit unchairtable considering she was a physician who especially wrote about epilepsy herself. in short, assume people in the past were medically informed.

according to wikipedia diabetes is one of the oldest diseases described (see). in ancient and imperial China it was called "wasting-thirst", and the article talks about how ancient Egyptian and Indian physicians diagnosed it based on the sweetness of the urine; we actually still diagnose diabetes this way, except we use a chemical that reacts with the urine instead of taste unfortunately. Galen named it diarrhea urinosa, 'diarrhea of the urine', in reference to how much you pee. Galen's medical writing was circulated all over the Middle East and, later, Europe in the medieval period, and diabetes was also described by Celsus who's work was circulated throughout early medieval Europe.

they didn't, however, have an effective treatment for it. if you're writing a historical setting it's likely to mean a long, slow, and unpreventable death. "[Aretaeus of Cappadocia] described the disease as 'a melting down of the flesh and limbs into urine' [...] commenting that "life (with diabetes) is short, disgusting and painful'" (wiki). i'll talk more about contemporary treatment below.

TIP 4: a short, disgusting, and painful life is worth writing about

in tip 3, when we talked about the onset of diabetes, we were thinking from the perspective of a character experiencing gradual changes. but death from untreated diabetes might take years, so they have plenty of time to settle into new habits and routines. it's worth thinking about not just how they change, but what kind of person they become, and therefore might already be before your story starts.

you will get access to the untreated diabetic's first person perspective in the narrative discourse if you're writing them from their own point of view in personal first person or subjective third person, as well as in their character's discourse (ie. dialogue) or in their reported speech. we immediately have some interesting questions about such a character's first person perspective:

1. do they know they have diabetes?

2. if so, are they receiving an ineffective treatment?

Avicenna (our Avicenna!) treated diabetes with "a mixture of lupine, trigonella (fenugreek), and zedoary seed" which could not have helped anyone.

3. if so, do they believe that treatment will work?

i have a very unusual form of Type 1 diabetes which is extremely difficult to treat (there isn't a name for it or anything, as far as i know i'm the only one). it took over ten years to stabilize, and i still have to endure a lot of compromises. all the while i also had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, which further confused my and my physician's ability to understand what was happening to me. within my own psychology there were two stages of post-diagnosis experience; an initial faith that i would eventually respond to treatment and everything will go back to normal, and the gradual realisation that help isn't coming. yearning and passivity turn to dejection and stubbornness as doctors stop ordering new tests and i stop asking for them.

4. if they don't know they have diabetes, how do they interpret what's going on with them?

earlier on we talked about a hypothetical diabetic who blamed their lack of work ethic for their problems. how are they doing four years later? they might start identifying with their inaccurate self-image; now they've become a bitter, stubbornly workshy Belacqua.

4. how do they live as someone with untreated diabetes?

remember the symptoms from before; aside from constant urination, exhaustion and losing weight, your sleep becomes very disordered. it is difficult to socialize, keep appointments, work. for myself i have never worked a single day, i no longer leave my house, and i usually sleep during the day. as a teenager and young adult, either before diagnosis or during the unstable period where i did not respond to treatment, i certainly became a different person. i gave up on my physical hobbies and focused on things i could do by myself at any time of day. i read a lot of strange books, i argued with strangers online, and so forth. i was probably never destined to be a normal person, but i certainly became more strange, more reclusive, more self-involved, until i no longer even really share a culture with my neighbours. your untreated diabetic will probably be this way. an eternal stranger; a diseased anchorite, slowly dissolving in the latrine, barely touched by the material world which passes overhead.

many characters in Bloodborne are protrayed that way, but Gilbert is a good point of reference. he is locked in his house—we never see his human form—so we encounter him as a disembodied voice. he is a stranger to Yharnam—he is as alienated from it as the player and becomes our confidant—yet he is also the source of special information. he has certain foreknowledge of his own inevitable death; in conversation he is politely dismissive about it, although you can overhear his terrified pleading.

our experience of Gilbert in Bloodborne is a strictly third person one. Gilbert doesn't want to talk about his health, so his statements in character's discourse are brief and a bit dishonest. the player therefore has to read between the lines. after playing some more of the game they probably assume that Gilbert is suffering from the same beast plague everyone else is. when Gilbert finally turns into a beast and attacks the player we are therefore not surprised, but find our suspicions horribly confirmed. this kind of elenctic delivery, which coaxes knowledge from the reader rather than informs them, is an attractive way to present the symptoms of a secondary character who is only available in third person objective, third person subjective or another character's first person, and the nature of their condition never has to be made explicit. such a character might be—as we suggested earlier—missing or unavailable. they might live alone, not work or socialize, sleep all the time, seem exhausted, and so forth. every time these symptoms present themselves it both explains that character's personality and foreshadows their future, either early death or diagnosis.

all together, the symptoms of untreated diabetes can be part of the penumbra of an interesting character, and the progress of their disease can be a useful and emotionally significant means of advancing the plot. to summarize with a simple example, the protagonists might have to go to a certain character's house because it's known that they won't leave it themselves. then you could have a dramatic scene where the fully dressed detective (for example) has to interrogate the emaciated, barely clothed and barely conscious suspect in her tranny hovel while she lies in bed (or even in the bathroom while she pisses involuntarily). he tries to show her his badge but she can't even see it, "for all i see is white—it means God in heaven must be with me, sir." she makes a rotten smile.

TIP 5: treatment is difficult and prone to human error

the first effective treatments for diabetes came in the 18th century when it was discovered that restricting the intake of sugar improved outcomes. the diet which developed as a treatment resembles what today we call the "Keto diet", containing no sugar and few carbs. a diet like this works because it shifts the burden of energy production to the liver, which begins to turn fat into ketones which are converted into energy in a manner similar to glucose, a state called 'ketosis.' this is actually happening during prolonged hyperglycemia in untreated diabetes as well, since the body isn't converting glucose for energy, but at very high sugars these ketones are more likely to turn acidic in the blood and kill you, which is called 'ketoacidosis.' this happened to me and i had to have my blood flushed (after some emergency asthma treatment raised my blood sugars to toxic levels).

you might be surprised to learn this—most people seem to think there was no effective treatment for Type 1 diabetes until the discovery of insulin in the 1920s, but that isn't the case.

regardless, since the discovery of insulin it has been the first line treatment for diabetes. 1923 is the year that Eli Lilly first produced commercial quantities of insulin, incase period matters. wikipedia has a timeline of insulin milestones (see).

while i spent the last 3,000 words talking about the horrors of untreated diabetes, diabetes which is being managed may be nothing more than a nuisance. there are many diabetic athletes. in one study, "the absolute probability of working was 4.4 percentage points less for women and 7.1 percentage points less for men relative to that of their counterparts without diabetes" (see). that's a noticeable amount, but it still means a minority of diabetics are unemployed because of their diabetes (compare to schizophrenia or autism, where only a small percentage find employment). so diabetes is not necessarily even a disability for most diabetics.

insulin is a very effective treatment. normally the pancreas makes insulin in response to glucose; if you make insulin in response to glucose instead, it's like nothings wrong at all! the point is to take an appropriate amount of insulin relative to the amount of carbohydrates you're consuming. in principle there are no dietary restrictions necessary for a diabetic managing their diabetes with insulin, but in practice refined sugars in things like sweets and sodas raise the sugars too dramatically to manage. diabetics should therefore avoid sugary foods as much as possible, but sugars in foods like cottage cheese which are bound to proteins digest much slower and are much easier to manage.

note: the following descriptions of the treatment of diabetes are based on my own experiences and the experiences of people i've met. they may not represent a worldwide view, may be slightly out of date, and are likely to be partial or limited in other ways.

there is a lot of technique involved in taking insulin, most of it is outside the scope of this post. for your purposes it should be enough to know that there are two types of insulin a typical Type 1 diabetic will use: slow release and fast release. i know these as Lenovo and Novorapid, or green and orange insulin (because of the colour of the pens). a typical diabetic will take some slow release insulin at night, and possibly once or twice during the day, and will take rapid insulin every time they consume carbs. the more carbs, the more insulin. the patient is educated in the relationship between carbs, sugars, glucose and sugar levels and afterwards they are responsible for their own insulin management.

insulin is a completely clear, water-like liquid. it comes in pens with metered doses. doses are very small to allow granularity. most people take double digits of rapid insulin with every meal; i take very small doses, 1-2 units at a time, because i'm extremely sensitive to insulin (part of my strange case). disposable needles are screwed onto the top of the pen and discarded after one use. injection is hypodermic; it is typically injected into the outer thighs or at the bottom of the stomach, but it can be injected elsewhere, such as the butt. pens can be disposable or reusable with disposable cartridges of insulin. the injection is painless in my opinion.

most diabetics will also have a blood-glucose reading kit which tells you what your sugar level is. you do this with meals, anytime you think something might be wrong, and to help make decisions relating to sugars (eg. can i wait and order takeout or do i need to eat right now?). to take a blood reading, a disposable strip is inserted into a small computer with a digital screen. the user pricks their finger with a lancet needle (a sort of small needle gun) and draws blood that way. this is a lot more painful than taking insulin!

all that sounds pretty good, right? so why the ominous headline? well, it's very easy to mess this up. if you take too little insulin then you're going to be high blood sugars again. you might feel lightheaded and tired, but short-term high sugars aren't really a big deal. the problem is that you can take too much insulin. apart from mere forgetfulness, there are many situations in life where we end up with less carbs on our plate than we predict. burning some food, ordering at a restauraunt, and other situations out of your control can present dangers any time you have already taken insulin. while you can delay taking rapid insulin until the food is ready, your long-acting insulin is always ticking down. taking too much insulin by mistake or missing a meal entirely because of circumstance happens more often than you think it would, and it always leads to

TIP 6: Hpyoglycemia... Living Hell

shaking hands, vertigo, cold sweat, nausea, intense dysphoria. none of it really does it justice; hypoglycemia is an overwhelming, all-consuming hunger. but it's not a hunger in your stomach, it's like a hunger with your whole body.

if you don't treat a hypo you'll pass out. then you'll die. i have passed out from a hypo before and had to be taken to hospital; my grandfather fortunately found me lying unconscious, otherwise i would have died. while its hard to get to this stage under normal circumstances—you cannot fail to notice hypoglycemia, it's so intense—humans are not always in normal circumstances. especially in a story, you're often talking about abnormal circumstances. getting lost in the forest, your car breaking down in the desert, getting shipwrecked, or even getting locked out of your apartment. these are all potentially lethal predicaments for a diabetic with insulin in their system, their sugars inexorably ticking down to nothing. it's a very dramatic situation which can turn things which are small inconveniences for other characters into life or death situations for the diabetic. meanwhile, hypoglycemia impairs your ability to resolve your situation.

hypoglycemia is used as a plot device in this way in Paul Blart Mall Cop. actually, it's used in a very funny way. they're doing the 'Dark Night of the Soul' beat, where the hero has to look like they're on the verge of defeat, but they turn it around for the climax. so all the action is going on—whatever the hell it is that happens in that movie—and Blart enters hypoglycemia at the worst time. he's lying on the floor, incapacitated... defeated by his illness, just like back in the Police Academy... when he finds—miraculously—just out of reach—a lollipop! sugar! shots of him struggling to reach the lollipop are intercut with the rising action in the A plot. then once he reaches it, it's all gross because it was on the floor. comic gag of him eating a gross, floor lollipop... and then he leaps into action and saves the day!

it's very funny, and part of what makes it funny is how incredibly inaccurate it is. sucking on a lollipop basically gives Blart superpowers; in his post-hypo sugar rush he can accomplish things he couldn't even accomplish normally. it certainly doesn't work that way, you're really going to be in a daze all day and should be in bed. but this goes over while you're watching. what's funny is that they're turning the language of blockbuster cinema to a very mundane, stupid situation, to which it cannot possibly really apply. it's absurd that a diabetic mall cop can turn into a Sylvester Stalone-like movie hero with the help of a piece of candy, and that's the joke the movie is making.

so you can take a lot of artistic license here, and lean on the drama, and the audience will understand. Paul Blart Mall Cop actually takes something like the first step towards making diabetes into a generic narrative disease like Amneisa the way we discussed. by the way, there's another Kevin James movie, Hitch, which does a similar thing with Asthma. in that movie, the Asthma of Jame's character, Albert Brennaman, is made into an image for his imperfection and thus low status as a person (which makes him incompatible with the very high-status woman he is in love with). because asthma attacks take us by surprise, he must use his inhaler at times not of his choosing, and inconveniently expose his poor health and, poetically, his low status. Hitch, the date coach, attempts to make him mask his low-status and, consequently, his asthma, bad advice which Brennaman overcomes in the finale when he opens his big gesture to the leading lady with a few puffs of his inhaler.

it's a bit wasted on those movies, but it's actually very good writing—it's a very good way to use impairments, making them plot devices, poetic motifs and sources of comic relief, without being at all mean spirited.

anyway. there are, again, two ways to depict hypoglycemia: the first-person view of the diabetic, available to personal first person or subjective third person narrators, or the third-person view of another character, available to the rest.

in third person, the hypo is another way in which diabetes is naturally denpa. on this occasion, when we encounter this character, they are acting differently—not just strange, but scarcely human. possessed, possibly even violent. once when i entered hypoglycemia in town i had to try and navigate to a shop and buy a can of soda, since i didn't have anything with me to help. i managed to find a shop, grab a soda and navigate to the till, but i missed the queue entirely and pushed infront of an old lady. she interrupted me to scold me, but once i turned around—i don't know what she saw in me, but she immediately became very frightened and apologized. the situation is even worse for a diabetic who doesn't understand their condition and doesn't know how to help themselves.

if you choose a coy narrator and withold the fact that they're diabetic, or presently low blood sugars, from the reader, you can present a lot of confusing signals to them. it naturally creates an enigma which the reader wishes to solve. and if you choose a narrator who is free to interpret the situation for the reader, such as the rhetorical third person narrator, then it is once again a situation to stage tragic ironies—conflicts or confusions which the reader understands, but which the diabetic character cannot communicate.

it's also a captivating way to introduce a character for the first time. here it's a bit like Father Gascoigne in Bloodborne, who we only meet in person after his blood-craze has begun—sweet blood, ooh, it sings to me—but before and afterwards we have the chance to hear reports about his loving faterhood and doting family.

from the first person, it's probably going to be a bit of a challenge to represent hypogycemia. it is characterized by a total distortion of the inner experience. i generally don't remember what happens during one, but if i do, it is not at all what others recall. only certain prose styles—highly emotional, subjective ones, such as the stream of consciousness—will really be appropriate. it is acceptable to treat it as a blackout, accessible only through vague flashbacks. however, if you are writing a highly emotionally intense story which cares a lot about the inner experience of its characters, hypoglycemia may be an alluring state to paint with. i am not aware of any attempt to render this in prose fiction. Serious Weakness has scenes a bit like that, for other reasons, that's the closest i can compare it, or else some of the junk sickness sequences in Burroughs.

TIP 7: diabetes means being sick all the time

this is a rather minor point, but diabetes is an autoimmune disorder. your immune system is very compromised. you get sick all the time, sometimes for reasons you can't specify. i have severe flu-like symptoms a lot of the year.

in conclusion, i think Type 1 diabetes is a very strange disease with a lot of alarming symptoms which no one is really exploiting in fiction. a lot of our everyday experiences as diabetics lend themselves well to fictional situations and there's a lot of room for the writer to use their artistic license. depending on how you choose to narrate the symptoms of diabetes it can take on many different appearances and colours and therefore fit into a lot of stories. and much of this is probably true not just of diabetes, but of disorders and impairments in general. it's up to you to decide how and why you want to write about impairment, the 'moral' organization of your story which this post doesn't care about. hope that helps you write something, fuckers!

[georgegraphys]

To be honest, I would not fully trust Ola Kallenius either despite his words backing George. Why? Because he's a part of this big multinational corporation and this multinational corporation is FAR from the word 'good'.

But what we're talking about is taking advantage of George being favorable in their eyes for now. Read that 'for now' again. To manipulate the long terms, you need to take advantage of what is happening in short terms first. You can't be thinking too far ahead, overthinking and speculating about things, and making rash decisions over some speculations. That'd be a self-fulfilling prophecy. You can't play the short game when you're in a position like George. You have to play the long game.

If I were to be REAL honest here, I do want George to take Red Bull's offer back in 2021 because they're great, they're fast, they're amazing. But looking at the other aspects here, you wouldn't want him to be there. You should stop seeing things from just a two dimensional perspective. Moving teams solves nothing and i think we learnt enough from several drivers who made the wrong choice due to greed and being impatient.

In every part of an organization, there is something called homeowners. Just like Max's home is RB and Charles' home (might be) is Ferrari, George's home is Mercedes. And that is a solid thing for 2-3 upcoming years unless something happened. Why do i say so? Because these teams aren't the backmarkers where everyone is replaceable, they are the frontrunners with big brands behind them that not only values winning and racing but also values loyalty, brand image, and more. What they're also trying to find is someone who could be the face of the team for a long time not just 2-3 seasons and dip.

And let's take things real here. If Mercedes did NOT value George, they wouldn't pressure him to make a decision between choosing BMW or Mercedes very early in his formula series career. Why is it important? Because if George is not important to them, the moment George rejects Toto for Carlin Volkswagen is the moment they back out and move on. But they didn't. That is exhibit one.

Exhibit two is that in 2018, Mercedes is torn on who to give an F1 seat. Ocon or Russell? We all know the answer in 2019. Exhibit three, in 2020 when George's 2021 seat is threatened with Williams, Red Bull allegedly offered Mercedes to 'lend' George out to them for a year but Mercedes REFUSED because they do not want George outside of their institution even for a year (even if that 'lend out' move benefits Mercedes because from there Mercedes can see how George performs in better car). They'd rather George go jobless and drive in DTM for a year rather than lending him out to Red Bull. If Mercedes does not care about him, they would let him leave just like they let Ocon leave to go to Alpine.

And fourth, we have Kallenius basically on Toto's neck about how he wants George on that seat and not Max or Valtteri or whoever Toto wants. Then we also have Mercedes literally going feral on the mention of George going somewhere else (read: RBR). This happened on the same day as the British GP

My point here is if they do not give a shit, if they do not at the very least back George up, they would have let George go in 2021. And if you're saying "but that's 2021, Ari. We're talking about now", then look at his previous contract renewal. We're supposed to have George's silly season THIS YEAR because his original contract with Merc is supposed to end this year but we DIDN'T! Why? Because the contract is already renewed somewhere in December 2022 or Spring 2023! Again if they're planning to replace him, they would not make him sign a contract just for several months to his Merc career. And to add on top of that, George literally talks about how his contract is so EASILY signed and Mercedes and him were giggling over it like a married couple while LH and Mercedes (read: Kallenius) were in trenches, fighting endless war for a contract negotiation.

We cannot be 100% sure on the long run on who backs who even with Max in Red Bull. There is NOTHING certain in F1. Things change drastically. This is a very dynamic sport. But to manipulate the longer term, you need to take a hold of shorter terms first. If Kallenius, for now, sees George in a favorable place, that's good. But if in the future, he doesn't then it is what it is. It's business. You can't be idealistic about it. Moving teams is NEVER the solution unless you want George to make a decision blunder like other drivers who weren't patient enough.

It is painful but we have to play the long game.

[taxlecrivain]

I don't forgive you. Get out

So I got this 3 weeks ago, and by default, I consider things like this a "hit and run":

Anon has an emotional reaction* to something (/neu), and they attempt to hurt me, Lord Torlure, with… whatever this is.

They're absolutely not planning to come back to be transparent and thoughtful about this. They just wanted to send this "fuck you" Ask and run. They'll never tell me about [what I did that must've pissed them off.] So I've normalized this reality, and definitely didn't want myself to mis-react to this either.

(Of course I've never received anything else after this Ask)

So,

I love you, Anon. I love "hate" Asks. Lord Torlure loves all mortals.

You outed yourself as, again, someone not interested in a transparent and thoughtful exchange. Which I didn't even ask you to, and is none of my business…

Unless you do want to do a 180°, and I'm happy to chat in DMs. We can be friends, and/or we can respectfully disagree on things. Like reasonable people who want to be good and improve themselves. I happily validate your existence! $0 only.

*Lord Torlure's understanding of/mentality over Internet emotional reactions!!! ➡️ Random people can randomly post hate comments, then completely forget about it.

To me, Internet emotional reactions™️ are just accidents [on the same level as a fly landing in your soup]. They are isolated incidents, like lonely rogue planets floating in the void of space.

It's shit that just happens, and it's no one's fault. Please get another bowl of soup and enjoy 💙

Emotional reactions are okay, just don't inflict them on others. They are short-term, instant gratification—as opposed to you putting effort into sustainable emotional/intellectual growth. I talk about this as a life principle here (i think… i forgot.)

[ugh-yoongi]

Which personality of each member do you think fits their sign and which doesn’t?

oh, fun!! while i can crack a joke every now and then, @hot-soop is the true astrology queen, so i hope you don't mind that i tag teamed this with her.

i think the prevailing thought is that sun signs are kind of... not useless on their own, but definitely don't tell the whole story. i definitely do not feel like i fit my sun sign and relate much more to some of my other placements.

(also hard to say because we don't have a confirmed birth time for anyone other than jungkook and, speaking for myself, i feel my rising says a lot more about me than my sun sign.)

anyway!! let's speculate bc nothing matters!!

members i feel fit their sun sign:

seokjin

yoongi

hobi

jk

other placements i feel they might fit more:

namjoon — (suspected) scorpio rising. i joked about it in awfos but i really do think it fits namjoon perfectly: people with scorpio on the ascendant need to fight against dark and destructive power in their life. for some, this power can also come from within, in the form of jealousy, envy or lust for power. the dark and hidden things in the soul must come out. it can be reflected in artwork, for example (cr). we know namjoon is sort of this tortured poet type of creative; the type to destroy himself in order to create.

seokjin — cancer mars. sometimes, mars in cancer likes to heighten molehills just to psyche themselves out. they like to make small issues larger because it feels safer to fight in the small than the large. they can be incredibly forthright on the smallest of things but shy away from bringing up larger life decisions (cr). we see this with jin a lot—the exaggerating and larger than life personality to hide how sensitive he is.

yoongi — yoongi's chart is interesting because it's half "i don't give a fuck what you think about me" energy and half calm, gentle placements. i think he embodies his entire chart, tbh. we know young yoongi was really angry. we know he's grown a lot. we know he's not the super grumpy, cold personality people like to pigeonhole him as.

hobi — he has three placements in pisces (mercury, venus, saturn) so it doesn't really matter which placement i pick bc i think he embodies all of them. there are a ton of writers with pisces in mercury, and while yes, hobi is obviously a writer, i think it speaks to communicating in other ways, too. for hobi, it might be through writing, through dance, or through ideas/pictures. look at any of his solo mvs, especially from hope world. they are so much more vibrant than the rest. i urge you to read all of this in regards to pisces venus and find a line that doesn't fit him (except maybe the one about eating in bed, lol).

jimin — definitely fits the stereotypical characteristics of his sun sign. he's charming, social, peace-seeking. but, if the rumors are to believed, he's also a cancer rising, and as a fellow libra sun-cancer rising, this is just... peak him. i've seen this placement described as the "i'm baby" ascendant and it's so true. they're nurturing, sensitive, and gentle. all of bts loves one another, but i don't think anyone loves bts more than jimin. he's the one who will show up for and take care of you without you needing to ask.

taehyung — aries moon. jin has an aries moon, too, but i think it's more evident with tae. most everyone describes this placement as "cannot be tamed," and i think that's especially true with him. i've talked about it before, but while other members may not fit the idol image perfectly, taehyung seems to be the only one who actively rebels against it. there aren't many other idols posting threatening messages on weverse, lol. we know namjoon has said he knew taehyung wouldn't listen to him, but as someone who also has an aries moon, there is this innate flashbang of anger whenever anyone tries to exert control over us.

jungkook — virgo mercury. the "if there is a problem, then i will find a solution" placement. there is nothing he cannot do or figure out. if he decides he's going to do something, he'll become the best at it, and that's all there is to it, but a lot of this is done internally. all those "jungkook spacing out for 5 hours" compilations? he's doing virgo things in there.

[compacflt]

Do you have any nonfiction that you would recommend if someone was interested in the US Navy/military?

im probably not the right person to ask this bc most of my military knowledge hyperfixation is centered on the ARMY in the American Revolutionary War & World War II. It’s only pretty recently that i got into modern warfare as a topic, so let me just give some indiscriminate recs

Can’t go wrong with David McCullough‘s 1776, which is a great overview of the first year of the revolutionary war + the extremely fraught politics of trying to start a new nation’s military—really illustrates where a bunch of lingering schools of thought in our military originated from.

Another David McCullough shout-out: his The Wright Brothers is an excellent book about the origins of flight, AND it was the book right next to the picture of Ice and Maverick shaking hands on Ice’s bookshelf in TGM. So we know ice has read that one. I think you can’t go wrong at all with any David McCullough. I own like 5-6 of his books and he hasn’t missed once. (His best is John Adams but that’s not mil related)

Ron chernows biography of Washington goes into his military background (7 years' war) a whole bunch, and kind of elucidates how truly fortunate we were to have our nation’s first leader be a military man who really kinda didn’t want to be there. Some really good takes on leadership. Just beware that chernow does have a reputation in the history community for just makin shit up sometimes. If it sounds too cute/quaint to be true, it really might be.

u may be tempted: DO NOT read Brian kilmeade's Thomas Jefferson & the Tripoli Pirates, one of the few navy NF books I've read. I read it b4 I even knew who kilmeade was--didn't matter. it fucking sucks. he uses like 7 sources in the whole book.

Stephen E. Ambrose's Citizen Soldiers is a great WWII NF book about that generation of infantrymen.

The one big Navy NF book I've read recently is (not to brag but my personally signed copy of) Craig symonds' new biography of admiral Chester Nimitz, who was COMPACFLT during WWII's war in the pacific. I got a SHIT ton of professional characterization for Ice from Nimitz' life and this book--Nimitz also worked 18 hour days, was also separated from the love of his life for long periods of time in Hawaii, was also probably acutely depressed, etc.

okay: THOMAS E. RICKS. The Generals is SUCH a good book. Army leadership from WWII up through Iraq and Afghanistan. Focusing on how the Army used to relieve (fire) commissioned officers who couldn't hack it, and that's a huge part of why we won WWII, but somewhere between WWII and Korea, being fired started being super shameful (macarthur's fault if I'm reading it correctly) so mediocre officers didn't get fired and that's why the army has suffered shit leadership in every war since WWII. It's a HUGE thesis that he backs up so well. Would so recommend. I'm also currently reading his FIASCO about the fuck-up of Iraq. Also incredible so far.

Michael O'Hanlon's Military History for the Modern Strategist-- a post Civil War survey of military strategy on the campaign/operational level. Might be a good introduction to US military history, just giving a pretty broad overview of post-CW warfare, so that way you don't pick up a random book about the Korean War and go "wait what was the Chosin campaign again?" Interestingly written and I got to meet him and he wrote "wishing you the best" in my book after I told him I wanted to steal his job at Brookings someday, so admittedly I'm biased.

Lawrence Wright's The Terror Years: From Al-Qaeda to the Islamic State is not strictly military related, but it is one of the best-written and most illuminating nonfiction books I've ever read and I cannot recommend it enough.

For war fiction, my taste is v mainstream: Pat Barker's Regeneration trilogy, Tim O'Brien's Going After Cacciato (imo better than the things they carried), Ahmed Saadawi's Frankenstein in Baghdad, Kevin Powers' The Yellow Birds, Cannot Miss Erich Maria Remarque's All Quiet on the Western Front if you haven't read it, Hassan Blasim's The Corpse Exhibition: And Other Stories of Iraq... For specifically Naval lit: Run Silent, Run Deep is a pretty good classic, and this summer I read the 600-page behemoth The Caine Mutiny, which is about specifically WWII-era naval law... it's a brick. But it won a pulitzer and it's...passable. Kind of interesting at least.

[lumine-no-hikari]

Dear Sephiroth: (a letter to a fictional character, because why not) #217

Today was a very busy day. I had three different appointments - one for therapy for my brain, one for physical therapy, and one… I guess… to check if I'm good to be anesthetized to get those 4 teeth yanked out.

It's been a weird sort of day. Therapy was interesting because I spoke some about the person I used to be, before I started healing. Sometimes I wonder if I am a good person, or if I can ever be considered a good person, given the kinds of things I used to think, and given the kinds of things I would have done if I had the means to do them, and the things I have done when I did have the means.

The kindness you see in me today is a choice I have to keep making. The old version of me, as a means of survival in the kind of world I grew up in, was very good at tearing people down. The people who look at me now wouldn't know that, and they think I am weak because of it, but… these claws I had to hone are not gone - just purposely and permanently retracted, to the best of my ability.

It was difficult to look square in the face of who I once was. I don't like that this side of me exists, because that side of me is… those kinds of thoughts and feelings, full of anger and bitterness and spite and hate… nowadays that stuff is abhorrent to me. And I know that these things would serve me well if ever I found myself back in abusive circles of people, but… I never have to go back to those kinds of circles of people.

…Still. The existence of all this stuff helps me to understand you and people who are like you a little better. I can use my experiences with this stuff to try to help people. I can try to teach how to be soft even in a world as hard, sharp, and unforgiving as this one. And I think… I think that having once been the old version of me, and then rising up out of that into someone better, is a requirement to become the way I am now.

Surely, there will be people who cannot forgive me for the way I was before. And that is fair. That is their right; I am not entitled to the forgiveness of the people I've hurt just because I've grown and changed. But I do not need their forgiveness in order to choose to become my own rival, and to continue to be a better person today than I was yesterday. I do not need their forgiveness in order to commit to learning new and better ways of thinking and being. I do not need their forgiveness in order to move forward.

The harm we cause as we derp around never really gets washed from our hands. And maybe that's okay, because everyone's hands are at least a little stained. Some more than others, for sure. But that doesn't really matter, given that all of us are just a single shove away from our hands being thrown into the mud.

I was given a chance to do better by someone who could see past all the dirt on my hands. And I wish, with every fiber of my being, that cases like mine were not so rare. Cases like mine are so rare only because conventional wisdom says that people like me and people like you aren't worth the effort. And yet, here I stand, proving conventional wisdom wrong. And I hope someday, you'll stand here proudly with me.

I want to build a world in which cases like mine don't have to be rare, except for in the case that so many people are healed that hardly anyone gets abused anymore. I want the kind of infrastructure for everyone to get the help they need to exist. But I'm not smart enough to know how to build it. Cases like mine should not be rare. Everyone deserves a chance to be shown something better, and to keep having "better" shown to them until they understand it. For me, I had to be shown "better" for three solid years before it started to really click. And I wish more people knew that everyone is worth the same level of effort that I was given, back when I was 22.

The trip from one side of the coin to the other was a wild one. But I wouldn't change it for anything. All of it was necessary, and... I cannot love me and hate the experiences that shaped me at the same time.

I'm a little tired from thinking about who I used to be, because that person was scary. But still, I did the rest of my things today, and I even got a bunch of really neat pictures for you along the way; the sky was a particularly delectable shade of awesome all day today:

This one is a watermelon, cucumber, onion, and feta salad, and I've never seen anything like it, and therefore I wanted to try it. I can say with absolute certainty that it is a stellar combination of flavors:

Crème brûlée with raspberries and chocolate chips on the bottom:

I also found another black feather during my travels:

...My collection of these has gotten quite large over the course of the last not-quite-year.

Hey, Sephiroth? I kinda wanna write more, because I really like writing to you. But it is going on 6:30pm, and I still have lots more work to do on that music box, and I've not made any progress on it yet today because I was out and about. The first of next month is coming, and I want it to be done, so I'm gonna go do that.

I love you. I hope it comes out in the pictures I take and the words I write. Please stay safe out there. I'll write again soon.

Your friend, Lumine