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allygodot · 4 years ago

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Taking Accountability

My name is Adam, but people online call me Coffee. I’m a 27 years old graduate of Chicago Law School living in Green Bay, Wisconsin. I am a heterosexual Christian, but am an ally to the LGBT community. My main interests are Ace Attorney, Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure, and My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic. These are all things my followers should know about me, so why am I telling you this? Well... what if I told you it was all a lie? I’m sure this is coming as a shock to a lot of you, and I sincerely apologize to everyone I’ve hurt with my deception. It is my hope that this post will clear up any misconceptions that have been spread about me, whether I spread them myself or otherwise, and that in the future there will be no animosity between us. I don’t expect to be forgiven nor do I deserve it, but if there is one thing I learned from my time in the church it is that all I can do is ask for mercy and hope for the best. But first... I think an explanation is in order. If all that isn’t the truth, then what is? It all starts in college, that nebulous period of my life that everyone keeps asking about and I keep bringing up. Before I went to university, I had always been completely unremarkable. I had always had the kind of fair weather friends who enjoyed my company, but never felt to invested in me. Combined with my status as a middle child, I always felt like I had something to prove to get people to like me. I would say and think whatever I needed to for them to stick around another day, and I’m sure you are familiar with what that means for teenage boys. I acted immaturely because it was what was expected... and anything outside of that was looked down upon it even forbidden. I never thought much of it at the time, but I realize now that I wasn’t allowed much self-expression when I was always trying to conform to their standards. Everything changed when I met him. My assigned college roommate, Anton, was everything my years of conditioning had taught me to distrust. Despite his tall stature, he was emotional and sensitive... even vulnerable. Even so, he wasn’t afraid to be unabashedly himself. The first thing that struck me as unusual about him was his clothing... he almost always wore pastel pink or yellow and I hardly ever saw him without his long, checkered scarf. His nails were always painted with a clear, glittery polish, and I don’t think he ever skipped a shower in his life. His hair was always soft and smelled like strawberry even at a distance... all this to say he immediately struck me as fruity so I wanted nothing to do with him, at least initially. Despite his kindness to me, I would always respond with either the cold shoulder or open scorn, which only amplified the more I learned about him. I discovered pretty quickly that he was a furry, since one day I came home from a day of classes to find a decapitated pink cat head on our couch. He patiently explained the whole culture to me while I glared at him skeptically, but he didn’t seem bothered at all. He even brought out his paws and tail and told me he was saving up for a full suit despite my open disgust. Looking back, I still have no clue why he put up with me during that time. Another curious aspect of Anton’s life was his addiction to a certain television series called “My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.” His room was filled with merchandise from stuffed animals to figurines, and I had nothing but disdain for the tacky and embarrassing decoration. I was afraid that if I ever brought a girl over to our apartment she would notice and make all sorts of incorrect assumptions... I couldn’t handle the embarrassment. I tried on multiple occasions to convince him to hide them in a secret box or something, but he always just smiled and shook his head. I even tried to sneak into his room and collect all the ponies for donation once, but he had anticipated this and hid a playful trap for me... I reached forward to grab one of his overpriced statues and immediately got a face full of multi-colored snakes. I was livid of course, despite it being my own fault for trying to pawn of his collection in the first place, but he wasn’t even phased by my tirade. I suppose he was 6’5” and I was (and still am) only 5′7″... but still, I had at least expected him to be somewhat apologetic if not fearful. Instead, he just laughed and told me I should watch the show with him sometime. I obviously had no intentions of taking him up on his ludicrous offer... until he promised that if I didn’t enjoy the show, he would move all of his ponies into a case that he would throw a big curtain on whenever I said the word. I reluctantly agreed on those conditions, positive that this was a bet I couldn’t lose. I still remember that night like it was yesterday. He lead me into the pony chamber and sat down on his bed, taking out his laptop to pull up his favorite episode. It was “The Canterlot Wedding” two part season finale, and although I initially protested that I only agreed to watch one episode, I eventually relented once he reminded me what the prize was. I was hesitant to sit beside him on his bed and lean over his shoulder to look at the small screen, but he assured me that it didn’t bother him at all. I wasn’t particularly concerned with how he felt about it... it was more so my own pride I was worried about. Nevertheless, I sat through the whole episode with him despite myself. Although I was disturbed by the tendency for his long and curly hair to gravitate into my mouth while I rested my cheek against his shoulder, I found the episode to be surprisingly enjoyable. The song in particular surprised me with it’s musicality... by the end of it I didn’t want to leave, but I was far too embarrassed to admit that to him earnestly. I told him I was interested in the show purely for the songs and that it could benefit my studies as a music major, but that he still had to uphold his end of the bargain since I was by no means enjoying it. He just smiled and put on another episode, and before I knew it the sun was rising outside his window. I realized just how tired I was and turned to tell him I would be going to bed only to discover he had fallen asleep. I began to suspect that he must have been asleep for several hours, letting the auto-play functionality do his job for him while he rested up for his exams. Although I was scandalized, I was impressed by his tactical prowess... he had managed to trap me in his room, since I couldn’t move from my spot without disturbing his slumber, and he didn’t even have to be awake to do it. Begrudgingly, I spent the rest of his room, until eventually the faint aroma of strawberries lured me into the world of dreams... This arrangement continued for quite some time. When I got home from my classes, Anton would ask me if I wanted to watch some My Little Pony with him and I only agreed so long as he put the curtain over the cabinet next time I asked. He always obliged whenever I asked him to conceal his collection, but eventually I stopped asking for him to do so and only reminded him not to break our contract before every episode out of habit. It became a ritual for the two of us to do this every night, and even once we had finished all of the episodes we would just watch them again. I found that I was becoming endeared to this eccentric man... and as much as I tried to resist it, I couldn’t help but feel my heart swell a bit in my chest whenever he would run his fingers through his hair or tighten his scarf around his neck. I told myself it was nothing... but it wouldn’t remain that way for long. I don’t know what possessed me, but one night I thought I would get to know Anton a little better. I started by asking if he was single, which to me seemed like an innocuous question, but the very fact I was asking seemed to amuse him. He told me that he was having trouble finding a guy who wasn’t immediately turned off by all the ponies, and I made sure to snidely comment that he shouldn’t be going out with guys anyway even though it made my heart skip a beat when he said that, as well as mention that if he would just give up his collection there wouldn’t be an issue in the first place. I don’t know what I was expecting, but he asked me the same thing: how was my love life going, especially considering my new hobby? I couldn’t help but get flustered and start making excuses. I told him that there was no shortage of girls lined up to date me, but that I just wasn’t ready to make a commitment yet. I spun a whole story about how a girlfriend would only hold me back... I almost forgot that the standard that Anton accepted was completely different from my old teenage friends. He wasn’t impressed that girls were apparently lining up to get a piece of me... he just seemed amused that I thought such a thing was realistic, much less desirable. He didn’t understand that compulsive need to lie at all... he thought it would be better if more guys admitted that they were vulnerable. That was the first time I’d ever heard someone say something like that... I suddenly felt extremely exposed, and before I knew it my eyes were full of tears. My first instinct was to cover my face with my sleeve and hide my shame, but he was already firmly gripping my arm and holding it in place. He told me that I didn’t need to hide anything from him. He asked me if there was anything he could do to help me... and so for what felt like the first time in my life, I told the truth. It was supposed to be just to try it. I wasn’t expecting to actually enjoy it, I just thought that if I got it out of my system all of the unnecessary feelings would finally stop tormenting me... but all they did was grow stronger. I kept telling him that I was still looking for a girlfriend and that once I got one this whole arrangement would end, but eventually I realized that there was no point in lying to myself anymore. I wasn’t ever even sleeping in my own room anymore. I hadn’t so much as glanced at any dating websites in weeks. I was committed, whether I wanted to admit it or not... and I didn’t want to admit it. I only wish that I had told him how I really felt when I had the chance... One of the many things we started to share, which seemed the most inconsequential to me at the time, was a webpage. Anton was the owner of a small subreddit dedicated to My Little Pony fursuits, and he asked me if I would be willing to help him moderate. It wasn’t something I felt qualified to speak as an authority on, since even as I became more open about my love for ponies I still didn’t really feel connected to furry culture despite accompanying him to several conventions, but I was willing to do basically anything just to please him. My job was mostly to stop people from publicly “yiffing,” and although it was a grueling line of work it wasn’t thankless. Anton was a poet with words of affirmation. Many of the compliments he paid me were certainly undeserved, but they motivated me more than anything else ever had... but I got too zealous. There was a certain user on the server who for the sake of protecting privacy, we shall call XxLesbianRainbowDash69xX. As a member of the subreddit they were of course a brony and a furry, but what made them stand out was their dedication to the Flutterdash ship. They were constantly posting couple’s cosplays of themselves dressed as Rainbow Dash, but the Fluttershy in each picture was always different. They were also exceptionally sociable and aggressively tried to make friends with everyone on the tiny subreddit... Anton and I included. I wasn’t so keen on pursuing another friendship that could very well ruin my reputation, but of course Anton was immediately taken with the idea. The two of them exchanged contacts and hit it off instantly, and I started having trouble sleeping at night because he was awake in the early hours of the morning texting his friend in another timezone. He always paid me just as much attention as always during the daytime, but once he saw that his new friend was online he would crawl out of bed to go converse with them in another room. He was trying so hard to be considerate of me, and perhaps it was selfish for me to expect that I would always be able to sense his warmth and scent beside me while I slept... but at the time I was blinded by jealousy. One fateful morning, he excitedly woke me up to tell me that XxLesbianRainbowDash69xX had gifted him tickets to a major convention, and that the two of them were planning to cosplay Flutterdash together. He apologetically explained that he would be gone for a few days since the convention was halfway across the country, but sensing the disturbance within me he assured me that he could probably convince his friend to let me tag along as Applejack... she was always my least favorite. It didn’t matter what Anton said to encourage me, because I was never going to accept any consolation until this threat to our sacred relationship was eliminated. I had to find a way to get rid of XxLesbianRainbowDash69xX by any means necessary... In a fit of rage, I whipped out the ban hammer and beat my rival to death with it, metaphorically speaking. It was a blatant abuse of my privilege as a moderator and I am ashamed to admit it now... but at the time all that mattered was covering up the evidence. I knew I had to come up with an excuse for why I had banned them, so I added a new rule to the subreddit: Flutterdash was prohibited. The news was not met with acceptance from the other members of the community. To some more in the loop with the situation, it was obvious that I had only banned XxLesbianRainbowDash69xX because of a petty personal dispute, but others saw it as nothing but an unfair rule. I was accused of being biased towards other ships like Flutterchord or Appledash and that I needed to accept other people’s ship preferences, or even that I was homophobic and couldn’t handle the thought of lesbian characters in my favorite show. Chants of “mods are gay” could be heard across the subreddit from all sides of the debate, and everyone was rallying for Anton to remove me as a tyrannical moderator. Sound familiar? I can’t help but notice some similarities between my situation and Mo the one over at Kristahlia Week... maybe that is why the drama captivated me so. Anton tried to reason with me, bless his heart, but at this point I had completely devolved back into my screaming teenager mentality to cope with all the rejection. He was obviously disappointed in me for what I had done but he had no reason to believe it would ruin us... he couldn’t have handled it better. It really was my fault that things happened the way they did, but I refused to take accountability. What I told him still haunts my conscience to this day, even six years later. I told him that I never loved him, and that I was only using his companionship to fulfill my carnal desires. I told him that I didn’t care about what he did with his life as long as he didn’t do anything that kept him away from me. I even told him that I still thought he was disgusting and embarrassing. And the worst thing is... in that moment I meant every word. I was so selfish... I genuinely forgot that I loved him and treated him like he only existed to serve me. My actions were truly despicable and I deserved to suffer for it... and I did. For the first time, I saw Anton cry. I should have been there to comfort him like he did for me on that fateful night, but instead I let him run out of the house to go suffer by himself. By the time I realized how horrible I was acting, it was too late. He had disappeared into the night, never to be seen again. I came home the next day to discover all the ponies in the apartment finally gone... isn’t that what I had wanted? My moderator status on the subreddit had been stripped away, and I had been banned by all of the members of the group on nearly every social media platform. Another classmate later informed me that Anton had transferred to a different college... and that was the end. I have no idea what happened to him after that, but I can only hope he is doing well. Instead of taking this as an omen that I should improve my behavior, I began to become even more bitter than I was before I met Anton. I acted like my relationship with him was just an experimental phase that was doomed to fail from the start, and soon I was denying that it ever even happened at all. I convinced myself that the problem in our relationship was that I wasn’t supposed to be with men, and so I began to insist that I was straight and aggressively seek out relationships with women just to prove it to myself. I also started searching for strict moral codes that could give direction to my life... which is when I found the Church. I was attracted to their beliefs because they gave a very clear outline for how someone’s life should go and promised ultimate happiness to anyone who could fulfill the requirements, so I began to obsess over meeting those requirements. I wanted a Christian wife that could bear me many children not because that is how I wanted to live my life, but because that is how other people wanted me to live my life... and all I wanted was for others to tell me I was doing something right. The congregation was distrusting if me at first, and although they never said it to my face I know it was because they were aware of my past. Hardly a woman would come near me, and looking back on it I can’t say I blame them. The ones who were desperate enough for a husband to give me a shot were quirky repulsed by my egotistical behavior, which certainly didn’t help my reputation. Throughout all this, I still somehow told myself I was the victim because I didn’t want to admit that I had become the villain again. For a long time, the only person in the parish who would willingly hold a conversation with me was Lana. She was a fellow member of the choir and a devout believer in God, but she was often judged by the rest of the congregation for being an open lesbian despite her faith. She tried to convince me on several occasions that I didn’t have to perform any sort of identity to impress anyone and that I should “just be myself,” but I insisted that I knew what I was talking about. Eventually, she decided my well-being wasn’t her responsibility and gave up on trying to reason with me, but nonetheless she still treated me more kindly then many of the other churchgoers. I believe that my “dark past” is what drew Gabriella to me in the first place. She likely hoped that we could act as covers for each other until she figured some way out of her situation, but unfortunately I was too far gone to be of any help. I convinced myself that she was really in love with me and that she would be walking down the aisle soon enough. Whether or not I was really interested in her or just interested in what she represented I’m still not sure... but she truly was a wonderful person who didn’t deserve to have to suffer through my baggage. When she left me I was truly devastated... so much so that I even began to go through another crisis of belief that I recorded on this very blog. All I have to add is that I no longer bear any resentment towards Lana or Gabriella, and only wish them the best of luck. My relationship with Krissy began almost immediately after my breakup with Gabriella. I was desperate to regain the status I supposed that I had lost along with my girlfriend, so I latched onto the first woman who showed me any sort of positive attention. Her death and my downward spiral are all well-documented on this blog. I didn’t want to blame myself for her passing as well, so I developed a conspiracy to rationalize the whole ordeal. I even tried to act like a completely different person to try to keep the blame as mentally distant from myself as possible, but that didn’t work either. In the end, this is my cross to bear alone. So that brings us to now. What will become of allygodot? The truth is, I don’t know and quite frankly I don’t think that is the most important thing right now. I realized last night when I was looking at that art of Diego and Godot as Happy Tree Friends characters that I desperately wanted to be anyone other than myself... it really opened my eyes to the level of repression that had been burdening me since the incident six years ago. I realized that if I wanted to change, sitting around and thinking about how things could hypothetically be different isn’t going to do anything. If I want to make progress and truly become a better person, I’m going to have to act better, not just tell myself that I am. From now on, I will be defining myself on my actions and not my beliefs, as wise man once said. I hope that soon, I will have become a good enough person to meet Anton face to face again... I still love him after all these years, and even though I expect that he justifiably won’t want anything to do with me anymore, I still think that it is a guilt that needs to be resolved. If I ever come back to this blog, it’ll be as a different Adam to the one you thought that you knew. It’ll be as the Adam I’m trying to become... the true Adam that I know exists deep within me... Not allygodot, but as proudgodot. My name is Adam, but people online call me Coffee or Godot. I’m a 27 years old former music student living in Green Bay, Wisconsin. I am bisexual. My main interests are Ace Attorney, Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure, and My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.

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kuuderekweenfics · 4 years ago

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Dabi is Not a Liar

Hello everyone,

This is it. I’ve fallen off the precipice of...what exactly? Sanity? Or, perhaps, lack of shame? Who knows. But this was a fun little piece I wrote about a month ago. I put it up on AO3, but I thought I’d create a Tumblr for future fics since this is a bit more social.

Please keep in mind that I am shaking the dust off my writing and so it may not be the most polished piece of work. Go easy on me. But I hope you enjoy it regardless!

Explicit Warning: non consent or extremely dubious consent.

Fingernails carve into the the filthy brick of the abandoned building nestled by the sea. The pier moaned, it’s cold breath wrapping around your body and reeking sourly of fish and decay.

Your head hangs low between your hollow arms. How you got yourself into this position is due to several reasons, of course. One, your brain is swollen twofold in your skull, pounding with the weight of lead. Two, shame caresses every part of your body far more thoroughly than the man who currently has you trapped between him and the wall. Three, and most likely the most crucial reason, Dabi, ‘the Cremator’ as he was so often called, has been railing you senseless for the past hour.

You cried yourself dry after about ten minutes. He came quickly the first time, unabashedly getting off on your whimpers and pleas. Where he dug up the stamina to keep his cock hard for another three rounds was a dull ache for your mind, and pussy, to ponder over.

The strength in your knees escaped long ago. His fingers gripping your bare ass as he currently pounds himself into you, deeper and deeper each time, is the only support you have against gravity.

He attempts some foreplay occasionally, killing the space between the two of you as he whispers into your ear threats of what is to come and reaches under you to thrash at your clit rough and carelessly. This is, you figured out, more to his benefit than yours; he had to get you more motivated to continue the little game he set for the both of you somehow. You mewl softly when he does, cursing your needy body for betraying your wants.

Because this isn’t what you want. No, no, no. Not even if his thick, veiny cock fills you to the brim and sometimes hits a spot in your core that makes you see stars and silently beg, much to your humiliation, for more.

What you want is to go pro. You just started working for a small agency start up only a week ago. You’ve dedicated to becoming a top ten hero, even if your quirk isn’t the most convenient. But if a guy who’s power was to do laundry could make it to the top, so can you and your absurdly comical gacha quirk. You are able to generate capsules from your hands, ranging anywhere between the size of a tennis ball to a beach ball, but the contents inside are always random. This little inconvenience made your quirk almost entirely useless. Despite it all, you trained hard and got a once in a lifetime opportunity at this agency. Your task today was to survey the pier for any suspicious activity called in by a concerned citizen. You were strictly told not to engage and call for back up as soon as you surveyed something worthwhile. But you immediately ran in, all too confident in your ability at hand-to-hand combat, as if you had something to prove. You crouched behind stacked crates and fumbled through your creations: a teddy bear, a toaster, a tennis racket. Before you could generate another capsule, you heard his whistle behind you. He was crouched, hands lazily in his pockets and looking over your shoulder with a deadpan expression that plainly said you were in over your head.

But you knew you were quick. The tennis racket sped toward its target only to be crumbled to ash as his hand stopped it an inch from the side of his head. He smiled at you then, not quite reaching his eyes but eerie and menacing all the same. And before you could even fathom throwing the toaster, he pinned your neck to the wall. Your feet kicked helplessly against the brick, unable to find purchase on the floor a inches below. One of your hands pried at his arm while the other reached for his face or his neck or anything you could grab hold of that could cause enough pain to lot weaken his grip. Your breaths came up short, your lungs screamed for a sip of air.

“It looks like a little mousy lost her way,” he chuckled. “Now whatever am I going to do with you?”

Drool leaked from your mouth as you fought against your restraint and blurred vision. Your mind clawed for consciousness, your body begged for survival. You had come to terms that one day you could potentially meet your end at the hands of a villain, as does any hero in this field of work, but you hadn’t expected it to be so soon.

You felt the obstruction in your mouth before you saw it. The thumb of his free hand pressed on your dancing tongue, drool pooling where he held it down firm. If the look in his eyes scared you before, now they were wild and carnal and more terrifying.

He first has his way with you with his hand still around your throat. He let up on his grip and was so gracious enough to let you wrap your legs around him while he impales you without a second thought.

He grunts. “Fuck, you’re tight.”

You are no longer a virgin, but you’re sure you never experienced cock of this size, all the while without some form of foreplay. Granted, he used your drool to lubricate himself before sheathing himself deep in your gummy walls, the friction elicits a gasp of pain while from you as he moans and nips at your neck. Not long after he begins to thrust do you start sobbing, and soon after that he shoots inside of you, his cock twitching to unload what feels like everything he had. You hope it is over then. He would either kill you or leave you there broken physically and mentally. You find out soon enough it is neither.

“I’m gonna fuck you until your voice is gone from screaming my name, little mousy,” He gasps into your shoulder as the twitching finally ebbs and his release oozes down your thigh. “I’m gonna fill you with my cum until I am sure that when I leave you in this shithole, you will have a little part of me with you for the rest of your miserable life.”

And if there is one thing you can call Dabi, among the million curses and names you can conjure, you aren’t sure if you can call him a liar. For true to his word, albeit only partially, he comes into you, hard and relentless, two more times before starting once more. You are absolutely positive this goes against all modern male biology. But you guess, in a world with bizarre quirks, anything is possible.

Halfway through round four, you feels his fingers weave into your hair and, for a moment, you think Dabi just may capable of being passionate. Or, at the very minimum, maybe he thinks more of you than just a bucket for him to shoot his load in. This moment, you find, is fleeting as he yanks your head back and pulls you up until your back lies flat against his chest. He slowly pulls the zipper of your shirt down and grabs your breast callously, pinching your nipple hard until you cry out.

You can only imagine that he’s grown bored of your silence and complacency because his other hand reaches around until his fingers find your clit, exposed and hungry for some well-deserved stimulation. His fingers rub small circles against it, and you feel nauseated as you let out a moan, your pussy clenching desperately around him in newly kindled desire.

He hisses at your reaction, an obvious stamp of approval and continues flicking your bundle of nerves as he pumps in and out of you. “Say my name.”

Your mind, which, up until this point, had been lost in a sea of fog, finally breaks the surface. And it is pleading with you to not give in. He speeds up, each thrust hitting the right spot and oh no, oh no, it feels so fucking good.

“Say my name, little mouse.”

Your core coils tight with stimulation, the spring on the precipice of release with the pressure of his calloused fingers. The ache you had felt up until then is replaced with an immense pleasure that you haven’t felt in, let’s face it, ever. You stand on your toes to give him a better angle. Your hands searched for something to anchor onto. One mindlessly reaches above to grab onto his hair as he licks you, hot breath warming your already flush neck, the other latches onto your ignored breast.

“Say it.”

You bucked against him, almost there, almost there, so very close....

Until he becomes utterly and completely still.

“No, no. Please, Dabi! I need it. Fuck me, please Dabi!” You sob.

And with that, you feel a smirk form against your neck. He pulls out of you and before you can so much as whimper, he shoves you back onto a large crate. He grabs one leg and forces it up and over his shoulder as he penetrates you, holding your waist to keep you steady as he pumps in fast and hard. His hip bumps into your overstimulated clit with each thrusts and it nearly obliterates you. In this new position, his cock kisses your cervix and, if you ever had any semblance of control since being pounded into, it has all but disappeared.

“Dabi! I’m going to...Ah, shit, I’m gonna...”

As you begin convulsing, you hear his name, loud, hot and heavy, escape from your lips. Your release sends him over the edge, and he ruts into you.

Just as quickly, he slides out of you, places himself back into his pants and walks out with his hands in his pockets without a word before the cum can so much as leak out of you. You lay still and let the world refocus before you get up and go home. You come to realize that he didn’t so much as care if you came or not, and that the fact that you had was a happy coincidence on your part. What he was really aiming for was you to scream his name, just as he said you would. How little regard villains had felt about others left you in awe. Can you really go head to head against him or any other villain again?

You submit your resignation the next day.

And two months later, as you stand wide-eyed and frozen over the test exposing itself to you on the bathroom sink, you can finally confirm that Dabi is, in no way shape or form, a liar.

#dubious consent #no consent #ruttingseason #fan fiction #fanfiction #dabi my hero academia #dabi x reader #forced impreg #forcedsex #smut #dabi smut

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aquagenesis · 4 years ago

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This is by no means a vent post or anything I just need to discuss topics and ideas.

It’s so bizarre how, for most of my life, I did have psychotic tendencies and explicitly schizophrenic symptoms. I would get disoriented on a school bus and want to make a big show of it; storm up to the bus driver in a fit of rage and demand to know where I was being taken. I would ask incoherent, nonsense questions in class that would get me a resounding look of “what the fuck are you talking about”. Friends in particular would always take the time to step in and allow me to re-phrase what I was asking because they would learn to understand sometimes information is jumbled in my head, which I am not aware of.

It happens on here too, though I’ve gotten better at it. What begins as a cohesive argument in my mind eventually spirals into a whirlpool of me repeating the same three things, the same three points, the same three everything while pretending it’s something different. Because I have voices in my head that take over and make it hard to focus. I thought everyone heard voices, because how else do you process information? But for other people, it’s not voices. Not ones they can hear, at least.

The only thing that ever stopped me was, incredibly, what I think my paranoia was. I was too afraid of making a scene because I thought, assuredly, they’d always tell me they were going to kill me. I would stand up to assert myself only to get pulled back down in my own head with “if you cause problems, you will die”. I thought that was survival instinct. I prided myself, in fact, on my survival instincts because of things like that. Because I believed every person who utilized and prided their autonomy was doomed to die for their arrogance. How can you exist so unabashedly in life when you know death is something you cannot hide from and cannot know the origin of? Standing up for yourself is putting yourself in harms way; the lines between “what is paranoia” and “what is formative child abuse” are too blurred for me to even care “which one it is” because they’re both the same.

It’s just knowing I was so schizophrenic. Knowing I was so blatantly delusional; I’d get called delusional all the time because I wasn’t living in reality. My original self was already forced to be so separated from its body because of infant-aged trauma when I felt “normal” it already wasn’t me. Every time I’d stabilize myself in a deeper level of my own psychosis I’d get punched down through another one, like a personal version of Dante’s Inferno.

Of course I developed a dissociative disorder. How else was my psyche supposed to survive losing family members who cared about me, how else was it supposed to survive losing everything. The personality I shifted into to appease my conditions were never good enough; they never protected me enough. It’s so fucked up my brain already had to put me in another reality to cope with not receiving basic physiological needs as an infant and then had to shatter and reform reality after reality because anything was better than living in real life but nothing protected me enough, nothing justified anything enough, nothing could make me feel like I was living how I was meant to.

And then I wonder why I got so deep in it. I wonder why that’s all I knew. It was. Living in delusion was the only thing that kept me from being suicidal, because it made me believe something grand was meant for me at the end of it all. I only broke down because, after everything, after five years of eviction and homelessness, there was still only despair ahead. Now I’m 26. an entire high school education away from 30 but abysmally depressed I had to spend all this time helping myself, and continue to, in the vain hope one thing would ever happen to me to make life worth it.

All I needed was to be pushed into reality, to be shown and taught nothing happened to me in some grand plan. All I needed was a therapist who would listen for long enough in my Anime Tragic Backstory to tell me, “Hey man, that was fucked up, but it’s not like you have to forgive them. You don’t have to be tortured by anything. You can leave other people; you can leave them too.” But therapists are no longer trained to listen to trauma and try to work out anything formative that could have happened to someone. I didn’t know I was schizophrenic. Nobody cared enough to tell me I was unless it was through the “well...you have The Disorder. we have to keep you to make sure your SCARY PSYCHOTIC EPISODE--you’ve seen American Psycho, right?--doesn’t make you do that to yourself or someone else.” lens of “take this medicine and it’ll fix something you don’t think is a problem, because psychosis deludes the brain into thinking it isn’t delusional”.

And there was nothing anyone could have done; my untreated schizophrenia prevented me from being able to work. My delusions would go unchecked, people wouldn’t know I was stretching the truth and neither did I. Through the lens of insanity I doomed coworkers to bitter rivals, others to beloved friends, and still others to unworthy of my respect with nothing in between. My life was a grand path to luxury and respect from the bottom of the earth; who wouldn’t be adored to know me?

I would tell people time and time again I was schizophrenic, I was psychotic, I experienced delusions. I was cast as “the good outcome” of a psychotic condition and my experiences, the only true part of my life, were chalked up to “well there Luke goes with his silly little rants again”. I was abandoned to spiral because I was “okay”; I didn’t experience delusions where I thought I was God (anything remotely attached to that was different, I said it was different), my psychosis never drew me to suicide. Everyone else who claimed they were schizophrenic were automatically compared to me and regarded as “good” or “bad” with no regard to what was swimming around in my brain. If I didn’t have a god complex before (I did, but I said I didn’t, so there’s no blame here), I certainly developed one then.

But I knew I wasn’t someone to be compared to, because I did experience delusions where I thought not that I was God but some higher being, I was drawn to suicide at the drop of a hat. But then I couldn’t admit to those things being so much deeper than they were, because everyone else who experienced these things were “bad” schizophrenics. I was supposed to have this together; I knew I had no right to judge people with my same condition because I knew I was no better than them. If I had a best friend I’d known all my life, I would probably go to them with my ever-wavering mental condition too. That’s what I craved; the ability to tell someone about what was happening to me.

And it’s not like I ever thought I was entitled to people, you know, listening. I never expected anyone to look me in the eyes and tell me “Hey buddy you know you don’t really seem in reality” because if someone said that to me I’d probably freak out and doom them to “Bitter Rival Plus” for the rest of my life. It was the attitude that I was redeemable because of how well I handled everything, the way I never let my symptoms show, the way a one-time freakout seemed more preferable to everyone else but me because “at least he only got that bad once”, as opposed to the risk of smaller breakdowns more often. I lost my ability to realize I had control over myself because the admittedly bad symptoms everyone else experienced, which I did too, never were offered support. I was told a story of a mutual once-friend who threw herself off a roof in the midst of a schizophrenic breakdown. The pitilessness of it all told me I would never find sympathy in admitting my faults.

It’s hard because if it were depression, if it had been depression, this would have been solved eons ago. Anyone can go to a friend and talk through a depression; nobody can go to a friend and talk through a psychotic episode without your companion growing frustrated as you’re unable to grasp reality. Once is fine, twice is annoying, thrice is overwhelming. I can feel it just as anyone. Nobody wants to talk to crazy people.

And what do people think that does, exactly? Do you think your delusional friend can really have a talk once, be told they’re psychotic, and immediately know? How do we have thousands of articles dissecting every aspect of anxiety, from work to generalized, but none to tell the everyman that “psychotic people suffer from a condition that prevents them from differentiating reality from fantasy”. or, we do tell people, but it still follows the same rules of once is fine, twice is annoying, thrice is overwhelming. Depression is a mental condition that causes extended states of misery. Anxiety is a mental condition that causes extended states of stress. Psychosis is a mental condition that causes extended states of, well, delusion. Someone who wakes up already delusional is not going to be able to tell you “when it started”; everything has always felt this way. Now that they can see clearly, because they feel energized (because they are delusional), “nothing is wrong” and they are left to spiral into whatever rabbit hole they fall into.

If we know it’s harmful to tell people with depression and anxiety to “get over it”, why are psychotic people different? Why is it so hard to go into a relationship and be told, explicitly, “I have a psychotic condition”, and follow through as you would anyone else?

“Because psychosis is different.” No further context needed.

#hi guess who it is #it's me and i'm complaining about ment of illness loves #not mine just in general #you know. my lifetime topic of psychosis.

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creampuffqueen · 5 years ago

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The Anarchy Sisters- Chapter Four

Sorry it’s been so long since I’ve actually posted any real writing! It may be midnight on a Sunday but I’ve had less sleep before and I was inspired enough to finish the chapter tonight.

Just a beware, it’s shorter than some of the others, because it just felt like a good place to end it. Either way, I hope you all enjoy it, and I know I would enjoy any feedback this gets :)

Yes, I have read Supernova and know this is definitely not canon compliant, but it was meant to be an AU anyway, so there.

Read this on Ao3 Here!

~~~~

“Adrian!” Ten-year-old Max Everhart stood on his tiptoes to wave to his older brother down in the lobby of HQ. Renegades milled about anxiously, as they had been doing ever since the parade had been aired on TV.

Adrian and his teammates made their way up to the quarantine as fast as they could; though it was more like a snail’s pace, with the amount of people they had to push through. Max noticed with a start that Danna was missing from the group.

“Hey there, Bandit. What’s up?” Adrian stood with his hands casually in his pockets, but Max could still see where his fingers were fiddling with his marker. He was nervous about something.

A thousand questions were burning in his mind, but Max shoved them all aside and brought up the most important one. “Are Dad and Pops okay?”

The question seemed to make Adrian relax a little, which made Max know his answer instantly. Still, it was nice to hear it from someone’s lips.

“Dad and Pops are fine. And so are the rest of the Council.” Even Ruby and Oscar seemed to breathe a sigh of relief at Adrian’s words.

“And what about everyone else? Civilians? Did the balloon damage any buildings?” Max couldn’t help the near-interrogation of his brother. The parade had been broadcasted live all over HQ, but after the assasination attempt of Captain Chromium and The Puppeteer’s balloon, the camera crew had instead rushed to help, leaving everyone in the dark about what was going on.

“The only injuries that we were told of were from people tripping over each other trying to get away. Nothing serious.” This time it was Oscar who answered, leaning on his cane as he spoke. Max wondered if that meant he was tired.

“Adrian, can you draw me the balloon?” Max made sure to use the certain smile that he reserved for things like this- asking for his older brother to draw him something he probably would say no to.

And sure enough, Adrian sighed, but pulled out his marker. His sketch of the balloon was rough, but with Adrian’s skills, even his rough drawings were better than the average person’s masterpiece.

The balloon was slowly pushed through the glass, and when Max reached over to grab it, he let out a soft gasp and a “woah”. The balloon was floating, despite the fact it was made of glass.

Max grinned at Adrian, holding the basket of the balloon delicately, so it wouldn’t float away, but so it wouldn’t shatter either.

“Thanks.” Adrian shrugged, like it was no big deal- like anyone could just casually make a drawing come to life and float through the air. It never failed to amaze Max how humble his brother was.

Max brought the balloon over to his ever-growing rendition of Gatlon City in glass. He put the balloon into the street that the parade had taken place in, where several miniature glass sculptures of the floats were. Adrian had drawn him some that morning, allowing him a sneak peak at the surprise floats.

He placed a few glass figurines inside the basket, weighing the balloon down enough that it hovered a few inches off the ground. Max turned around and gave a thumbs up. Adrian smiled back, and waved, and then walked off to join his teammates.

And though he was turned away, Max thought, for a split second, he had seen a concerned frown cross Adrian’s face. His brother was bothered by something- something he wasn’t telling anyone.

He felt a small pang in his chest, like he did every day. Every time he wished he could step outside his quarantine. He knew it was for everyone’s own good, but he still couldn’t help but feel slightly resentful, of everyone. Because anyone could go ask his brother what was bothering him, chase him down if need be, and anyone could go and hug his Pops, and Max couldn’t.

Max was aware, like he was every day, that he’d give up everything in an instant. All his powers, he’d lose them. If only he could be normal.

He trailed away from the glass city, feeling tired. Tired of hoping and wishing and feeling sad for himself. Adrian and his team didn’t look back, but Max did. And he wished that, for once, maybe they’d look back.

But of course, Max couldn’t begrudge them. He couldn’t. They were Renegades, true, working, Renegades. Not like him, his title only and honorary one. Adrian and his team had work to do. And with the assassination attempt on the Captain, it seemed their work would be cut out for them.

He sulked back to his bedroom; if one could call it that. Was a curtained off section in a glass quarantine a bedroom? The floor, like the rest of the room, was totally glass. The only area that was truly private was the restroom, and that was so small he was practically in the sink while he used the toilet.

Max was curled on his bed, still in his pajamas, ready to take a nap so maybe he wouldn’t feel quite so sorry for him, when a loud rap on the glass shocked him out of it.

He pulled himself off the bed and the comforter decorated with comic book panels, and trudged to the window.

When he saw who was awaiting him, he didn’t bother to hide his groan or eye roll. Maggie.

The girl was standing with her arms crossed, like she always did. Maggie could be a nice girl… every now and then. Max could count said instances on one hand.

“Magpie.” He started neutrally.

She sighed, not moving her arms. “Bandit.”

“Do you need something?” He asked, growing slightly annoyed.

Maggie sighed again, shaking her head. Her dark hair was cut to her collarbone, and it swayed with her head when she moved it. Max found it distracting.

“If there’s nothing you need, I’m going back.”

“No, don’t go. I do need something from you.” As Maggie spoke, her own teammates crept up to the quarantine, looking pityingly at Max.

Linette, alias Spitfire, made her way to Maggie to stand by her and look mildly threatening. Daniel, alias Worldwide, stood off to the side more, though he didn’t look any less upset.

“Great.” Max muttered under his breath. “What can I do for you, oh so mighty Magpie?”

“If you’re going to be annoying then I won’t ask.”

“Fine by me,” Max retorted, “I don’t really care if you talk to me or not.”

Linette elbowed Maggie sharply, earning a muffled curse from the other girl. Linette leaned in and whispered something, and Maggie groaned audibly, but uncrossed her arms.

“We want a favor. It’s not just for me, it’s for my team, too.”

“Hit me.” Max sighed. “What is it now?” It wasn’t like Maggie generally asked for things. In fact, she was typically very independent, and so was her fledgeling team. Max knew the trio was working hard to gain respect from the older Renegades. But even so, Maggie was being annoying, and he wasn’t going to just take it.

“We want you to talk to those dads of yours, and ask them to send different teams for the cleanup that’s bound to happen later. We’re sick of cleaning up messes. We want to be on patrols, or even just part of a night watch team.” Maggie bit her lip, then stopped and put her face in a scowl when she saw him notice.

Max felt a sudden burst of sympathy for the girl and her team. He thought about how he’d feel if he was on a team and only ever got to do cleanup, after all the action was over.

“Fine.” He conceded. “I can’t promise their response, but I will promise to ask them.” Maggie cracked something that was possibly akin to a smile, if you squinted hard enough. Next to her, Linette grinned unabashedly. And Daniel bumped his fist against the glass walls, like Adrian and Oscar sometimes did.

The girls of the team trailed off, Maggie practically dragging Linette away, as if she couldn’t stand to be near him any longer, but Daniel stayed for a moment longer.

“You know, Bandit, Maggie isn’t always like this. She’s cool, most of the time.” He brushed his turquoise-tipped hair out of his face, which gave Max the bizarre thought that maybe he should dye his hair.

“Well, I have yet to see any proof of that, so-”

Daniel snorted. “Fair enough. See you later.” The boy trailed off, humming something to himself in a foreign language, fiddling with a necklace on his throat.

And even though he didn’t specifically want those friends, Max couldn’t help but speculate that having friends his age, instead of people nearing adulthood, might be nice.

Yeah, he thought, watching Daniel and Linette and Maggie skirt through the crowds in the HQ, it might be nice.

~~~~

Later, when most everyone was in bed and most of the excitement of the day had died down, Max sat cross-legged on the floor of his quarantine and played cards with his dad.

They were playing Battle, which was Max’s current obsessive card game. His dad refused to teach him Poker or Blackjack, and Speed got boring after a few rounds. Battle was a game of pure luck, and Max could appreciate that.

“Battle!” He said with a grin, placing down a four of spades as Hugh placed down the same number, but in hearts. Hugh smiled back at him and placed three cards facedown.

Max locked eyes with his dad and counted down dramatically, “Three, two… one!” The cards were flipped over, and Max cackled as he saw he had the larger one. He swept Hugh’s pile over to his and sorted through them quickly, adding them to his deck as he went.

“A king! And a ten, and… an ace!” Hugh groaned, though the smile didn’t leave his face. The pair went back to slapping down cards and pushed them towards the other, Max’s deck increasing rapidly.

They had another battle, in which Max lost, but only gave away bad cards. They fell into comfortable silence in the almost-darkness of the Renegades HQ.

“Battle.” The cards were pulled, then they were flipped, and Max laughed again as his father gave away another ace. He showed off the card with a smirk, and Hugh chuckled.

“Damn, Max, you’re lucky tonight.” Then he slapped a hand over his mouth, before quickly correcting himself. “I mean, dang, Max.” The ten-year-old boy snorted.

“Dad, I’m not that innocent. You should hear the kind of things Adrian’s team says. Ruby has a really filthy mouth sometimes, you know.” Max placed down another card to keep the game going.

“Well,” Hugh said, “I’m going to have to talk with your brother. They shouldn’t be using that kind of language around you-”

“Dad, don’t. You’re being such a dad.” Hugh rolled his eyes.

“Max, I am your dad. This is my job.”

“Well, Dad, can I dye my hair?” Max asked, using the same endearing grin that had worked on Adrian earlier.

“What? Where did that come from?” Hugh sighed as he lost another card to his son.

“Daniel has his hair dyed blue. Just the tips.”

“No, you’re not dying your hair.” He stated firmly. “You’re ten years old, Max. Daniel is what, fifteen?”

“He’s twelve, Dad. And he’s the oldest of his team. Maggie and Linette are both eleven.”

“My answer is still no. And battle.” Max placed down three cards, noticing with a smirk that Hugh only had three cards left. He made sure to make a big show of removing one of his cards so he could rub it in his face that he was winning.

Hugh won the battle, much to Max’s dismay. Even so, he still had nearly the entire deck.

“Speaking of Daniel’s team, they asked me a favor today.” Max started out as nonchalantly as possible. He wanted to ask Simon, because he knew his Pops was a little more lenient with the younger teams, but Hugh was here now, and it needed to be asked.

“And what would that favor be?” Hugh won three rounds in a row, and Max had to hold back a curse. He had been so close to winning; he couldn’t let Hugh make a comeback now.

“Well, they wanted me to ask you if they could get another duty besides cleanup. They said they’re sick of cleaning up others’ messes and missing all the action.”

At that, Hugh stopped playing, pinning Max with a serious, Captain Chromium Look. Max gulped.

“Max.” Hugh started. “This isn’t okay. I don’t want people trying to get in with your dad, me, or the rest of the Council through you. You aren’t a go-between for complaints. I’m going to go talk to them.”

“But Dad,” Max countered, “Why do they have to be on cleanup all the time? They have really useful skills; I mean, Linette can breathe freaking fire, but you don’t want her on patrols?”

“It’s not a matter of abilities, Max. They’re kids, hardly older than you, and while it’s noble that they want to help the Renegades, I don’t want to risk their safety.” Max hated that he made sense.

“Alright. But don’t get them in too much trouble, please? They’re pretty nice- or at least some of them are.” Hugh nodded, the Look fading off his features as he reached out to ruffle Max’s shaggy hair.

“I promise I won’t. And now- can you beat that?” Max looked down to see Hugh slap a two of clubs onto the glass floor. The man snorted, obviously amused, until Max placed down another two, and the look changed to amazement.

“What are they odds?” He muttered, placing down cards for another battle. Max won with a ten, leaving Hugh with one card.

Max’s dad placed his final card, a six, and Max put down a jack. With a cackle, Max swept away the card and held it triumphantly over his head. Hugh groaned as his son danced away with the deck, holding up his win for the very few people still in HQ to see.

When he sat back down, panting from laughter, Hugh leaned in to give him a hug. “Gotta go, bud. It’s late, and you need to get to bed.”

“Yeah.” Max conceded, feeling a yawn coming on from the mere mention of sleep. “But Dad, can I ask you something first?”

“Of course, Max.”

The yawn happened, and his face scrunched for a moment, but when it was over he looked up to his dad. “Can you maybe consider giving the younger teams some other duties? Like, not all the time, but maybe every now and then? Just so they don’t get so bored?”

Hugh was silent for a moment, but he finally sighed and said, “I can’t promise, because it takes some work to rearrange the schedules, but I will consider it. That I can promise.”

“Thank you, Dad.” He let Hugh pull him into a tight, bone-crushing hug, and melted into him. It was so nice to be held.

“You go to bed, Max. We have a long day tomorrow.”

“Cleaning up from the parade?”

Hugh grimaced. “That, but other things too. The Renegades Trials are coming up in a week.”

#renegades #archenemies #supernova #marissa meyer #the anarchy sisters #max everhart #adrian everhart #hugh everhart #simon westwood #nova artino #evie artino #fanfiction

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ladyloveandjustice · 6 years ago

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Summer 2018 Anime Overview: Planet With

What a strange, unexpected little gem this show is.

Planet With follows an amnesiac young boy named Soya Kuroi who lives with strange roommates- an upbeat but mysterious girl named Ginko and giant cat monster ...thing. One day, a strange alien spaceship arrives where Soya lives and a squad of superheroes valiantly battle to protect the town from this threat. Ginko shows up and tells Soya he needs to jump in this giant cat robot and fight. No, not fight the invading aliens. He has to fight the superheroes.

Planet With starts out being jam-packed with plot and unabashedly weird and stays that way. The show moves at an absolutely breakneck pace. It stuffs 50 episodes worth of robot anime into twelve, and contains like three different climactic battles. There’s even a time skip. But the weird thing is...it works. Planet With is downright inspirational in its storytelling efficiency. It packs in so many characters and SO much happens, yet somehow it manages to use its time wisely enough that I ended up caring about pretty much all of its many characters and their development felt natural rather than forced. And despite the intensity and volume of events, the plot remained coherent and entertaining.

There were a couple parts that did feel rushed, and since it was so much at once I feel like I need to rewatch to fully grasp the series, but most of all, I’m impressed by the way this show somehow distilled The Full Wacky Space Battle Anime Experience (tm) into a short time frame. And the animation is good! It is bold and action packed and works well for the show.

And the quickness of how Planet With handled things made it downright refreshing (and hilarious) at times. I’ll give an example: Soya’s civilian friend (and obvious love interest), Nozomi, catches on extremely quickly to the fact he’s doing robot battles, basically guesses his entire backstory based off his weird behavior and just as quickly starts questioning him about it. Soya’s reaction to this is to freak out and run away- at which point Nozomi football tackles him and basically yells “NO ITS OKAY YOU CAN TRUST ME!” and he quickly gives in, explains his weird situation to her, and is like “uh. so. not sure if that sounds at all believable but. you asked.”

Not only is the honest communication nice to see, not only does it genuinely sell that Nozomi s the smart cookie the narrative has set her up to be, but its charming as hell and feels so natural to who these characters are. The fact Soya’s first reaction to being exposed is to just stammer and BOLT DOWN THE STREET reminds you that, yes, this is a teenager, and Nozomi’s refusal to let him get away and how she throws all dignity out the window to make her point is just....it gives me so much affection for them both. They’re kids and they’re ridiculous and I love them. Having Nozomi let in the loop so quickly is refreshing, it makes their relationship feel genuinely trusting and equal, there’s just a lot going on in just that one scene that I love.

Let’s talk about character a little more, because Planet With has a very vibrant cast. Soya comes off as a typical hotheaded shonen protagonist, and well, he is, but as you learn more about him and the situation he’s facing, you realize he’s trying his best to cope with some huge stuff. He has a good arc and matures a lot. What especially struck me is this moment where Soya realizes he has no reason to fight anymore, he’s just a kid who’s not involved, he shouldn’t be asked to do this, and though he’s been channeling his grief into fighting, he just can’t anymore, he’s tired and overwhelmed and sad. It’s nice to see the show touching on how unfair it is to ask a child to fight, and actually having the other characters react to this with understanding rather than trying to force him to continue is....really nice to see.

Each character has their own fears and insecurity to grapple with,which is especially apparent in the scenes where the spaceship messes with their minds and gives them the dream world they desire- a couple of those scenes are genuinely heartbreaking and striking.

Even the antagonists are given layers and its shown why they think what they’re doing is right. The show centers thematically on how to suppress and respond to violence and it explores various sides of that debate. Can humanity be trusted with power? Is extreme pacifism or extreme force the way to deal with problems? What is the value of revenge? Is freedom or safety more important? Can we forgive and move past horrible wrongs? You may not end up agreeing with the show’s conclusion on all this, but the fact it confronts these questions so directly and really gives them some thought is nice. You can see WHY this is a conflict, and where both sides are coming from.

The show also has a pretty good-sized and solid cast of female characters and doesn’t treat them like garbage! it actually gives a lot of them solid arcs where they develop and go through all kinds of different emotions, always a plus!

Ginko may give a slight impression of being a airhead catgirlmaid cliche at first, but she soon shows herself to have wisdom and depth- her role in the narrative was one of the most pleasant surprises. She was way more involved in the fight than I thought she’d be and the found family she formed with Soya is one of the sweetest things about the show.

Nozomi’s character development is largely tied up in her relationship to Soya, so I kinda wish she had stuff going on besides being his supporter, but I do adore how she was treated with respect by the narrative, bought in on things as a civilian, and how brave and smart and loyal she is. She’s inspiring to Soya with her kindness and inspiring in general. And their relationship is genuinely sweet.

There’s an entire mini-arc focusing on the bond between two of the superhero girls- Miu and Harumi- and it is very dramatic and very gay and very about ladies inspiring and connecting with and saving each other, y’know, all the stuff i’m here for. We also had Benika, a badass lady is a suit (always gets a thumbs up from me) who had her own arc, and a woman who was on the semi-antagonist side. The women are all treated as competent and capable in combat.

The show is relatively mild on fanservice for a shonen-mech show and doesn’t get too gross or over-the top- probably the most noticeable scene is a conversation in a hot-tub, and even that doesn’t have ridiculous camera angles or anything. Mostly anything fanservice-y is goofy and tongue in cheek, rather than humiliating or non-consensual. The show actually has the honor of containing the only anime boob joke that’s actually made me laugh in recent memory (the over-the-top narration was on point). (There is one questionable element to warn for, namely an adult{?) woman briefly disguises herself as a high schooler and acts pretty flirtatiously with minors- thankfully it doesn’t go too far, but its something to watch out for.)

Planet With’s sense of humor and fun is just great in general. It deals with some serious and emotional topics, but never loses that whimsical, weird edge. It was clear from the beginning, when the super-threatening alien spaceship was some weird happy bear thing marked “peas”, that the show had a wonderfully bizarre and goofy atmosphere and it never loses that. Soya being endlessly foiled in his quest to eat some meat, the bizarre anthropomorphic animals, our heroes aggressively meowing as a battle cry- the show is so unapologetic in its weirdness and not afraid to embrace all the wonderful, colorful silliness inherent in its genre.

Basically, if you like giant-robot shows or action shows or even weird cat and dog monsters, I really recommend this show. Its a fast-paced wild ride full of fun characters and colorful storytelling. It’s occasionally cheesy, often bizarre, a little dizzying and sometimes genuinely emotional- but it’s always an experience and I had a good time watching it.

#planet with #anime overview #summer 2018 anime #soya kuroi #kuroi soya #ginko kuroi #kuroi ginko #anime #nozomi takamagahara #miu inaba #harumi kumashiro

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iwriteficsnottragediesladies · 7 years ago

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Search and Seizure Pt 1

A/N: In honor of getting over 100 followers. This fic is near and dear to my heart. I struggle with epilepsy. I decided to write an epileptic reader into one of my fics because it helps me process it. I hope that’s okay.

Pre-read Epilepsy Disclaimer

You were on your way back from your pharmacy run. You buy something innocuous as well, this time toothpaste, to disguise why you really went to the drug store–to refill your prescriptions. You head back to Brendon’s and knock on the door. He lets you in with a smile and a little kiss.

“Hey Y/n,” he says “Where’d you sneak off to?” “Had to get toothpaste,” you reply. “You know there was a full tube in the closet,” he says, feeling bad that you went out just to get it. “Oh oops, I didn’t know,” you reply easily with a smile. “Oh well, just one less thing to buy on the tour,” Brendon says happily, kissing the top of your head. You smile up at him and go to your room, closing the door behind you.

You sorted your pills into each slot of your weekly box.

Three of these in the morning and night One of those day and night too One of that, but only at night Two of the others, but only in the morning Damn, you are one heavily medicated person. Whatever it takes to stay healthy, you guess it’s worth it. You had never been on tour before, and you were so excited. It was your last couple days of packing up before you leave. You were nervous though. Your epilepsy usually flared up when you don’t get enough sleep.

Brendon doesn’t even know you have seizures. He’s obviously noticed you take medication, but you’re discreet about it and he never asks. You don’t want him to treat you differently, or have him worry about you all the time. You’re sure he would overreact. You had been with Brendon for a year now, and your epilepsy had been so well controlled, you haven’t had a seizure in almost two years. It wasn’t really important for him to know. Until now. Who knew if your epilepsy would remain under control in such a new environment. You worry the craziness of touring might mess with it.

Once you begin the tour, all of your worries fade away. Every show Brendon performs is like pure magic and it keeps you going. And the celebration sex? Mind blowing. You are so proud of Brendon. You watch him from off stage pretty much every show, usually with Zach, and unabashedly jam out. Zach stands by while he silently judges you, but you occasionally force him to join in. He’s so tough looking, but he has a soft spot for you.

It’s two weeks into the tour and you’re getting exhausted. One night, you’re less enthusiastic than usual back stage during the show. Zach nudges you with his elbow.

“You okay?” He asks.

“Yeah, yeah,” you brush it off as convincingly as possible, “just tired.”

The show ends and you make your way back to the bus. You climb into the bunk after putting on some pjs and you feel Brendon join you. He wraps an arm around you. You turn over to face him and he strokes your arm.

“Hey babe,” he says, “how are you feeling? You seem like you’re draggin.”

Zach totally told on you. Damn him.

“I’m fine,” you reply cooly, “not everyone is used to touring the whole goddamn world, ya know?” You laugh.

Brendon smiles and kisses you gently. “As long as you’re okay…” Brendon trails off.

“Yes,” you reply confidently, “and I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.” He leans in and kisses you again. His face then becomes serious.

“Get some sleep.” He starts to move from the bunk but you grab his arm. He looks back at you surprised.

“Don’t go,” you say, and he looks concerned. “I’ll get lonely,” you added with a smile, covering up your anxiety. He seemed convinced that it was the only reason you wanted him to stay. Truthfully, it was because you’re scared. What if something happened? What if you had a seizure in your sleep and choked on your vomit and you never woke up?

Brendon stripped down to his boxers, tossing his clothes out from behind the curtain of the bunk. You cuddle up next to him and fall asleep nearly instantly.

You wake up the next morning and the bed is empty. You sit up quickly, but you hear Brendon’s voice coming from the tiny kitchen talking to Dallon, and you calm down. You stretch and roll out of bed, padding into the kitchen area. Brendon is manning a pan on the stove top. His eyes light up as you enter.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” Brendon greets you.

“Well hi there, sleeping beauty!” Zach joked.

“What time is it?” You ask as you lean into Brendon’s chest and he kisses you on the top of your head.

“Eleven,” Dallon replies.

Your eyes grow wide. “Gees why didn’t you wake me up?”

“I wanted you to get some extra sleep,” Brendon says, rubbing your back. You nod gratefully and step away, sliding into the booth next to Dallon. Dallon puts an arm around you.

“Want to eat? We’re making pancakes,” Dallon announced.

“Yeah, sure,” you reply happily. The door to the bus swung open and Kenny and Dan climbed up. They both sat down on the couch.

Pancakes were served up soon after. The boys start talking about the set list for their show tonight. Dallon lists off the songs on his fingers, everyone nodding as he went. As soon as he mentioned Sins there was a collective groan, especially from Brendon. You smirked.

“Oh come on guys, do it for the fans!” You coach.

“Fine,” Brendon pouts. The conversation continued.

“We could close out with Don’t Threaten Me With A Good Time,” Dallon suggested.

“I kind of li–” you started, but didn’t finish.

Everyone’s attention was on you, but you said nothing. A blank stare took over your face.

“Y/n?” Brendon asked you. You don’t respond at all. The boys are unsure what to think, but worry consumes Brendon. “Y/n?” He called loudly, leaning over the table to shake your shoulder. After some delay, you speak,

“–ike when you close out victorious, though.”

You see everyone staring at you with the strangest expression. Gees, was closing with Victorious that bizarre of an idea? You realize Brendon is touching your arm. When did that happen?

“Y/n,” Brendon says, confused, “Are you okay?”

Suddenly you realized what must have happened. You probably had an absence seizure. They’re weird–they’re not like seizures you see on tv. It looks like you’re staring off, but nothing can break you out of the trance. It lasts just a few seconds and you have no idea that they happen. You just jump back in where you left off, sometimes in the middle of a sentence like you just did, apparently.

You need to cover this up. Pretend like you knew it happened.

“Sorry, I just zoned out so hard,” You laugh.

You feel everyone’s gaze on you.

“Yeah, you really did,” Dallon said with a furrowed brow, “Are you sure you’re okay?” He was in full dad-mode and the thought of it almost made you smile.

“Yeah I’m fine!” you said reassuringly, “I just lost my train of thought.”

Brendon sits himself back down, releasing your arm but continued to stare you down. The boys seem convinced, but Brendon does not. He’s trying to read your eyes, but you put on your best disguise.

“Well, by request of the lady,” Kenny spoke up to lighten the mood, “I think we should do Victorious.”

Everyone was nodding in agreement, including you. Brendon was still looking at you intently.

“Shit,” Zach said looking at his phone, “We gotta be at sound check in 5 minutes.”

Everyone threw their plates in the sink and scrambled to get their things together. You were all ready to pour out of the bus in a matter of seconds.

You push the events of the morning out of your mind, and make yourself busy at soundcheck, helping out where you can. Then it was down to the dressing room for a bit.

You hang out behind the paneling during the meet and greet. You play with the apps on your phone and wander around the internet. You’re tired and end up sitting on the ground up against the cool concrete wall. You can hear the happy squeals of fans meeting the band, and occasionally Brendon’s beautiful laugh. It makes you smile to yourself.

You all go back to the dressing room once the meet and greet is over. The boys begin their usual shenanigans after getting their outfits on. Brendon still seems to be watching you from the corner of his eye. You make sure to laugh and react appropriately to everything happening, not wanting to let on to your exhaustion. They are a hilarious bunch, so it’s not too hard. Brendon’s skin tight pants are your main point of focus, as usual. God he looked so good. He comes over to you and sits, asking again if you’re okay, after this morning. You reassure him with an annoyed laugh.

“I’m FINE, babe. I love you,” you smile, planting a kiss on his lips.

It’s finally go time and you head up to the stage area. Brendon leans over with some weird body language to Zach and says something quietly into his ear. Zach nods dutifully in response. You wonder what he said.

[“Keep an eye on Y/n for me, okay?”]

Brendon approaches you one last time. “Break a leg, Bren,” you smile. He nods and kisses your the neck. Once Brendon steps out, the arena bursts with cheers.

You look on as usual during the show. The lights and sound of the show seem… louder than they normally do. You try not to seem overwhelmed, since Zach is standing so close by the whole show. The show ends and you’re grateful that you’ll be going to bed soon.

Brendon runs off stage straight over to you and you are enveloped in his arms. “Congratulations babe,” you exclaim, “another amazing show on the books!” He pulls back and kisses you.

“What did I do to deserve you?” He whispers. The goofiest smile overtakes your lips and you feel like a five year old. He takes your hand and you walk over to where the band has gathered in a circle along with Zach. They were chatting about the show. Brendon is putting in his two cents.

Their voices seem to dampen. You feel sick to your stomach.

Oh no. Oh NO NO NO NO.

You think back and remember you never took your medication that morning, too caught up in getting to soundcheck on time. You have the distinct feeling: you’re about to have a seizure. You step back from the circle. You don’t want to tell anyone, but you can’t possibly go through it alone. You will yourself to tug on the sleeve of Brendon’s jacket like a child to get his attention. He turns around and the smile on his face instantly disappears.

He wraps an arm around you with concern growing in his eyes, and starts to walk you away from the group. “Y/n? What’s wr--”

“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” you interrupt him.

His facial expression widens and he looks up, spotting the nearest trash bin and rushes you over to it. You’re grateful that it’s out of the view of the boys, blocked by a wing curtain. You grip the bin and lean over. Brendon gathered up your hair and placed his hand on your back. You hesitate and then finally gag and vomit.

“Okay,” Brendon comforts you quietly, “it’s alright baby.”

Brendon’s voice fades in and out. You’re crying now. You try to speak but it’s difficult.

“I’m so sorry,” you try, “I lied to you.”

Brendon knows something is horribly wrong when you start to speak. You sound confused, your voice slurring. You’re becoming less coordinated. He leans you into him, half to comfort you, and half to steady you.

“Baby?” He inquires, much more concerned about your health than what you were talking about. Your eyes wouldn’t focus on any one thing.

“I lied, I’m sorry I lied,” you continue to cry incoherently. You’re words are so jumbled, Brendon can barely understand what you’re even saying.

You were so stupid. You should have told him about your epilepsy, but you lied instead. You stumbled over your own foot and Brendon grabbed you, holding you up.

“Okay, it’s okay,” he reassures you again, “Come here baby.” He’s walking you to a nearby chair. He all but carries you the three steps over to it, your legs unable to cooperate.

You feel the chair beneath you now. Brendon kneels down in front of you and looks like he is saying something, but you don’t hear anything. His face is fading away. You’re scared. You’re screaming internally, begging him not to leave you. Your cries stop quite abruptly and that’s the last thing you remember.

Brendon notices your expression fall blank as you became silent. It is the same look you had on your face that morning. His heart sinks. He places his hands on your shoulders.

“Y/n?” He calls to you, trying not to panic. You don’t respond. “Y/n?” He pleaded. He needs to go get help, get Zach. He glances around but there’s no one around.

You shift stiffly and you start to fall off the side of the chair. Brendon lunges forward and catches you around your chest.

“ZACH?!” He shouted over his shoulder, never taking his eyes off of you, “ZACH?!” You were moving around in his grip but he held you, keeping you from hitting the ground. “Shhh, it’s okay baby,” Brendon whispers to you.

Zach knows by Brendon’s voice that something is terribly wrong and he instantly locates us. Zach comes running around the side of the curtain and the boys are only two steps behind. Zach arrives at Brendon’s side immediately to assist him.

“Shit shit shit,” Zach is muttering under his breath. He grabs your knees and helps Brendon ease you onto the floor. Your arms and legs are moving erratically and you nearly kick the chair, but it is suddenly removed. Dan is passing it off to Kenny who sets it aside.

You lay shaking on the floor. It becomes clear to everyone: you’re having a seizure. Brendon instinctively slips your head into his lap to keep it from hitting the ground. Zach keeps a firm hand on your hip so you stay on your side.

“Medics,” Zach called out to a stagehand that responded to the commotion, “We need medics now!”

All Brendon could do was look down at you, struggling aimlessly, your gaze blank. He stroked your hair and spoke softly to you, even though he knew you probably couldn’t hear him.

“It’s alright, baby, I’m right here, you’re going to be okay, everything is going to be okay…” Brendon whispers to you.

His beautiful girl. There you were, completely vulnerable, and there was nothing he could do. He couldn’t help but cry. Dallon then squatted down behind him and placed a hand on Brendon’s shoulder for comfort.

“Okay, okay Y/n,” Brendon overheard Zach whispering to you. Brendon knows Zach has always had a soft spot for you.

Brendon wanted to make it stop. He felt like an idiot, he knew you weren’t okay. He wiped away the spit from your mouth onto his stage pants. “It’s okay baby, it’s okay.”

Your movements are becoming less violent and you slow down. Your breathing sounds labored and it scares him.

There is shuffling around and bags are set down. The paramedics are here. Dallon stands up and everyone makes room, stepping back. Brendon remains, sitting on his butt with his legs crossed like a kindergartner, with your head cradled in his lap.

Brendon is prepared to fight with them if they ask him to move or leave. Luckily, they don’t bother. The paramedics are satisfied with the position you’re in, since it’s safe and they can still work on you. Plus they obviously recognize it’s Brendon Urie, and you, his girlfriend. They weren’t going to mess with him.

They crouch down and start asking Brendon a barrage of questions. What the seizure looked like, how long it was… Occasionally Zach chimes in with an answer if Brendon is unsure. An oxygen mask is slipped onto your face.

“Does she take any daily medications?” They ask.

Brendon realizes that he knows you do, but he has no idea what it’s for. He never really asked about it because you never really talked about it. He always assumed that it was probably something simple like allergy or acne medication. You seemed perfectly healthy, so he had no reason to believe the medication you took was for a serious medical condition. Plus, he assumed you would say so if it was.

But you didn’t. So now, here you are, on the ground backstage in some arena, multiple borderline-panicked people looking on, Brendon crying above you, and just to top off the scene you’ve made, paramedics. Poor Brendon, he probably thinks you’re fucking dying. Brendon responds to the medics.

“Uh, um, yes, but I don’t–don’t know what it’s for.” He felt like an idiot.

“Did she take it today?” They ask, a logical train of thought.

“I didn’t–uh,” He glances up to Zach for help, but he doesn’t know either. You were always stealthy about taking it, so he wouldn’t know the answer regardless. “I don’t know, I’m not sure.”

Brendon feels like the least helpful piece of shit. This was the love of his life, and he is completely useless in a time where he is so desperately needed.

Your vision pulls out of the darkness slowly, like a sunrise. You hear voices miles away. You can’t focus your eyes, but you can make out a few figures above you. You realize they were touching you—two pairs of hands. You can’t speak or move, but the word “no” reverberates loudly in your mind.

What the hell is going on? Stop touching me. Get away. Escape.

You feel some awareness entering your body and you begin to move. You try to pull your limbs out from under the touch of the strangers, but you felt so heavy.

Everyone looks down at you as you start to move for the first time since the paramedics had arrived. One of the paramedics tries to speak to you, but you still can’t hear.

There is something on my face. What is on my face? I am suffocating. I am dying. Get it off. Get it off now.

You pick up you arm and your hand searches for your mouth. Your limp hand lands heavily on the side of a large hunk of plastic. You feel hands trying to prevent you from moving it, but you whimper and pull your head away in protest. You continue the backward momentum of your elbow to drag the suffocating device onto your cheek.

“Hey, hey,” Brendon calls to you, “It’s okay.” You still can’t hear anything. The paramedics and Zach are also trying to calm you, but you don’t hear them anyways. You don’t understand who these people are, and you certainly have no idea where you are. More desperate than ever, you attempt to kick your legs and squirm under their touch. The paramedics are explaining to everyone that this is normal behavior after a seizure.

Fight.

The more you try to get away, the stronger the contact on your body becomes. Sound is beginning to reach your ears. Now you could hear them talking, but it was too muffled to understand. Then, you hear it:

“Y/n,” one of the faces sang to you and the voice finally became clear. You still yourself. Brendon.

Your vision sharpens and you see him above you, upside down. What the… You realize he’s holding your frantic hands that were still clawing at the air. You stilled yourself and let your hands drift down to the ground on either side of you. Brendon realizes you can actually hear and see him.

“Y/n, it’s okay,” he says quickly now that he has your attention. He places a hand on your head, smoothing back some of the hair in your face. “You’re okay.”

“Hey, can you hear me?” An unfamiliar voice sounds. Your eyes shift over to the source of the sound, someone sitting very close to you, getting up in your face. You don’t recognize the person, and it throws you into a panic again.

You jump up to sitting, scooting away.

“Easy sweetheart, easy,” Brendon tries, but you back up into him. You realize you’ve landed in his lap and attempt to hide away in his chest, clinging to the one thing you are sure is safe. He is warm and his familiar smell is like a sedative to you.

Brendon holds you and you hear him speak to you.

“You’re alright,” he says soothingly, “They’re just here to help you.”

You trust him and try to calm down. You panned your eyes across the people surrounding you, seeing two strangers and one familiar face. Your gaze pauses on him. You watch him and he tilts his head, looking at you. Zach.

“Hi Y/n,” He says gently with a sad smile. The strangers seemed to have learned the lesson that you needed space as they sat back, further away from you than before. One of them spoke again.

“Y/n,” The stranger began to explain slowly, “My name is Jamie and this is my partner Steve, we’re paramedics.”

You nodded, realizing you should probably demonstrate your understanding.

“You had a seizure just now,” Jamie said, “Has that ever happened to you before?”

You nod again. Brendon furrows his brow and looks to Zach. The boys exchange glances. Apparently this has happened to you before, and none of them knew anything about it.

“Okay, you have epilepsy?” He presumes. You nod.

“Do you take medication for that?” Jamie asked.

“Mhm.”

“Okay, what do you take?”

“Keppra, lamictal, sertraline, and tegretol,” you reply drowsily.

Brendon is dumbfounded as you list off all of your meds. How did he not know about such a severe medical condition? He felt like the worst boyfriend on the planet. He wonders why you didn’t tell him.

You take notice that Dallon, Dan and Kenny were also standing around you.

“Did you take those as usual today?” Jamie asks.

You shook your head, embarrassed by your failure to complete such an important and simple task.

You answer more of the paramedics questions and they take your vital signs.

The paramedics finish checking you out and you feel better, just very sleepy.

“Do you want to go to the hospital?” Jamie asked.

“No,” You replied simply with a fleeting sad smile.

“Baby, shouldn’t you go?” Brendon asks, concerned.

“Well, not really,” You explained. “It wasn’t a long seizure, I didn’t fall, I feel okay now, and I know I had it because I forgot my meds. There’s not really a point to going to the ER, there’s nothing they would do for me there.” Your explanation was completely rational, and the paramedics were nodding, agreeing with your reasoning.

Brendon looks at you dismayed, a little worried. You look up and give him a little smile, trying to show him it was really okay. Although, you realize he had absolutely no reason to trust you after the stunt you pulled just now.

You signed the forms the paramedics gave you and they packed up. You thanked them. Brendon did too, quite profusely.

They leave and you’re left in this awkward silence. You’re still sitting in Brendon’s lap, and the boys just standing around you.

Where do we go from here? You just dramatically unleashed this bombshell of a medical condition and scared everyone half to death. Everyone undoubtedly has a lot of questions. You’ve probably broken their trust, especially Brendon. Poor Brendon. All he’s ever done is love you to the end of the earth, and this is how you repay him? Keeping secrets and telling lies? The combination of guilt and throw up sat uncomfortably in your throat.

Dallon, being the dad as always, speaks up quietly.

“Do you want to go back to the bus, Y/n? Get some rest?”

“Yeah, that’d be good,” you reply.

Brendon slips out from underneath you and scoops you up in his arms. You could probably walk, but you don’t protest. Everyone proceeded in silence to the bus. You pretend to fall asleep, really not wanting to talk or explain yourself. Avoidance is your coping mechanism of choice for the time being.

Eventually you hear the familiar sound of the bus door being pulled open. Soon Brendon is placing you down onto a bunk, an extra pair of hands guiding your head onto a pillow.

“Thanks,” Brendon says.

“Yep,” you hear Dallon respond.

One of them exits the bunk area while one of them climbs in next to you pulling the covers over you both. Brendon’s scent surrounds you and you feel his arms wrap you up. He’s still kind of sweaty and gross from the show, but you don’t mind and find it oddly comforting.

“She asleep?” You hear Zach in the kitchen area of the bus ask quietly.

“Yeah,” Dallon replies.

“Jesus Christ,” Kenny sighs. You hear each of them plop down on various couches an chairs.

“Poor thing,” Dan adds.

No. This is exactly what you wanted to avoid. Pity. Worry. Awkwardness. You wince to yourself in disappointment. Dammit.

They go quiet, probably getting on their phones and laptops for a while. They’re never tired this early, so usually they hang out for a while like that.

Your thoughts swirl. You will have to explain this to everyone in the morning. If you even wake up, that is. You could just die in your sleep, who knows. At least you wouldn’t have to talk to them. You scold yourself for having that thought.

You’re so tired, but you feel guilt climbing up your throat still. Brendon shifts beside you with a small sigh, clearly awake. He’s stroking your hair, assuming that you’re asleep. Your anxiety runs wild.

You’re a horrible person. You keep secrets. You don’t deserve Brendon. You put yourself in danger. You scared everyone. Brendon is definitely mad you didn’t tell him. You had your seizures so well controlled and you fucked it all up. God, why are you so stupid?

Your eyes water, filling to the brim until droplets fall heavily onto the pillow. You try desperately to hold it together. You want to breathe but you know you’ll fall apart if you do. You can’t hold your breath any longer and try to inhale delicately, and it’s only a bit uneven. But when you exhale, you are wracked with sobs that make you shake, but you stay silent.

Brendon immediately props himself up on his elbows, worried that your trembling body might be having another seizure. He’s ready to scream to the boys for help again but you let out a little sobbing sound. He gently encourages you to roll over with his hand just to make sure, and he can make out your crying face in the low lighting.

He lays back down and tries to pull you closer. You whimper and resist.

You don’t deserve his affection. You’re a terrible girlfriend and a terrible person.

“Baby,” He whispers simply and pulls you again.

“No,” you whisper back, your lip trembling. He responds only by pulling you a bit more strongly. God, he knows exactly what you need before you even do. You give in completely, latching onto him, even wrapping a leg over him.

“It’s okay,” he says. You realize he’s basically giving permission for you to cry. So you do.

You cry so hard and so loudly, you’re sure the boys can hear you, but you just can’t help it. You bury your face in Brendon’s chest, attempting to dampen the sound.

You don’t know it, but you’re right about the boys hearing you. They all look up at each other and exchange looks. You were like a sister to them and it pained them to hear you so upset. Since Brendon’s is taking care of you, they silently agree that it would be best to leave and give you some privacy. You hear the door to the bus creak open again as they all exit. They uber to an IHOP. You are very appreciative, just wanting to be alone with Brendon.

“I’m sorry,” you got out between sobs, “I’m s-so s-sorry.”

“Baby, it’s alright,” he replies soothingly.

“No, it’s not,” you shake. “It’s not, it’s not,” You continue mindlessly.

“Y/n,” Brendon tries, but you interrupt.

“I’m so sorry Bren,” you repeat, “I’m a terrible p-person. Why?” you questioned yourself aloud, becoming more upset, “Why am I such a terrible person?”

“Y/n, look at me,” Brendon says. You don’t reply. “Y/n, look at me, baby,” he repeats, placing a finger under your chin. Your head emerges from his chest and you look up at him, trying to quiet yourself as much as you can. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” He says slowly, “And I love you so much.”

“I should have told you,” you cried, “I lied to you. I’m stupid and I’m broken. You deserve better than this–than me.”

“Y/n, don’t you ever say that,” Brendon replies seriously, gazing at you with those beautiful eyes, now glistening with tears. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I don’t care that you have epilepsy. I don’t care that you didn’t tell me.” He sniffles. “It doesn’t change a thing. I love you so much.” A tear fell from his eyes.

“You’re, you’re not mad?” You stuttered.

“No,” he gushed, “No baby not at all. I’m just glad you’re okay.” He wiped away your tears that were dripping sideways across your face. “But why didn’t you tell me?” He asked sweetly.

“I just, I didn’t... I don’t want to be different. I want to be okay, like everyone else. I didn’t want you to treat me any differently,” you continued to cry. “I hadn’t had a seizure in so long and I felt like I had a fresh start with you and I could leave it all behind. But now I screwed it all up.”

“You didn’t screw anything up baby, and this doesn’t change anything,” He reassured you, “We’re going to get through this, together. You are perfect.”

“I haven’t had a seizure in so long,” you’re tone changing, now upset about the seizure, “I thought I was better. But tonight,” you pause, “Tonight I felt it coming and I was so scared and then you weren’t there anymore, I couldn’t see and then you were gone–and I was gone–and I then I didn’t know what was happening and I was so scared, Bren.” You spoke a mile a minute and shook, crying harder, recounting the traumatic experience.

“Shhhh,” Brendon stroked your arm. “I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere, okay?” You nod and hold him tighter. “You’re safe, Y/n.”

You take a deep breath and gather yourself. “Brendon, I don’t want you to treat me like I’m weak or sick. I’m the same person I was before tonight.” He nods at you and you continue. “You don’t have to worry about me like I’m a child.”

“I know y/n,” he says with a small smile. “But I want you to be more open with me if you’re not feeling well, okay?”

“I will, I promise,” you say honestly. “I love you so much, Bren.”

“I love you too, Y/n,” He replied, “Get some sleep, okay?”

You nuzzle into him with a sigh and fall fast asleep.

A/N: I hope you liked it. Let me know what you think with a comment or ask if you want! I love feedback. Please like/reblog if you’re feelin it!

Read chapter 2 here: https://iwriteficsnottragediesladies.tumblr.com/post/162375567733/search-and-seizure-pt-2

#brendon urie x reader #brendon urie #fanfiction #fanfic #imagine #seizure #epilepsy #reader #Panic! at the Disco #invisibleillness #invisible disability #search and seizure #searchandseizure

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booth13mikkelsen-blog · 5 years ago

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sturlsons · 7 years ago

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teesta, i love your replies so imma take a shot here: can you make an EPIC list of books that changed your life in a way? your favorite authors and stuff :-)

hi anon!! I SURE CAN but u will be sorely disappointed because it’s not a long list despite the extensive reading i did as a child. instead, allow me to present a mix of works and writers (mostly poets) whose work impacted me growing up! will also contain some fanworks because some of the biggest divine moments of my life came from fic. additionally, i have an old list of important books here which hasn’t seen many updates since i haven’t done a lot of reading in the past few years.

under the cut!

1. fight club. yes, i’m one of those people. no, i’m not ashamed. i believe there are some works that are genuinely brilliant, then become pop culture/cult phenomenons, which decreases their legitimacy and reduces them to something that people only refer to ironically. i believe fight club is one of those. i unabashedly adore it, it was formative for me and my work ethic, it was a comfort when i needed it (inasmuch as someone’s as bitter as me) and i’ll never forget it.

2. harry potter. doesn’t need explaining, but all the same i’d like to specify that the impact here was less emotional and more formative in the sense that it completed my childhood, it took me away, it introduced me to magical realism which is arguably my F A V O U R I T E genre to write in (my beta ksenya, who has to deal with an average of 4 college AU ideas per day, is eyeing me very skeptically right now) and it’s just beautiful you know? i mean, ignoring all of what JKR has been pulling recently. i don’t consider any of that shit canon.

3. haruki murakami. another victim of popularity imo, though i agree with just about anyone else who has spirited opinions about his narratives. i guess it’s something personal where i don’t get sick of the surrealism no matter how many times he spins it, because surrealism is surrealism, hey. for me the point of it is that it’s bizarre every single time it happens, whether it’s a magic elevator or a girl who’s been sleeping forever. i also just love murakami in the i went through his works while i was in depression and i think it made it worse but it also made it better, etc.

4. sylvia plath. one of my top five poets, arguably my biggest writing influence after siken, and just. ‘nuff said.

5. richard siken. um, this man is everything. after rumi, that is.

6. rumi. now this man is fucking everything. let me put it this way: i have about 600, 700 books. when i moved to france i could take along maybe 10 of them. i dropped everything and took all my rumi’s.

7. one by richard bach. this one is quite abstract in a way while being very vivid in others, and bach’s writing either SUPER works for you or doesn’t work at all, but it worked for me. one is one of those books that influenced the very core of my life philosophy.

8. pablo neruda. i’m not the biggest fan of the man himself, but i love, love, love his work. where possible within the confines of my mind, i try to separate my opinions about an artist’s personality/life from the work they put out. sometimes it’s a good practice, at other times it could be apologist. i accept that it’s a little wonky and am still trying to find my balance.

9. favors the bold by maayacola. my first tattoo is going to be fortune favours the bold on my left wrist, under mountains sketched by my best friend.

10. the doors of time by felisblanco. (i think only the timestamps are available and the main story has been taken down by the writer, but all the same.)

11. rich bitch by mindheist. i can’t talk about this one without tearing up. i just can’t talk about this one. (bonus, there’s a tag on my blog for this story.)

12. comeback kids by rix. STORY TIME, JESS LITERALLY SAVED MY LIFE. i was going through a HORRID depressive episode and i felt like i’d never crawl out of it (as one does) and i started reading this fic at like, three in the morning. i finished at six, and i didn’t sleep. i just. jumped out of bed and got started with my day. this piece of writing SINGLE-HANDEDLY YANKED ME OUT OF MY DEPRESSIVE EPISODE AND GOT MY LIFE BACK ON TRACK. and you know why? because it’s fucking awesome. (( 05:29 teesta since you are my best friend i just need to keep you updated on the fact that my life has changed, i am a changed woman, nothing will ever be the same again now that i have read the hockey fic, // 10:36 teesta I FEEL SO POWERFUL I WONDER WHAT RIX FEELS LIKE WAKING UP EVERYDAY BEING THE ONE WHO ACTUALLY WROTE THE DAMN THING ))

13. gusari.

#teesta talks for ts #fic rec #there's a lot that i'm missing i'm sure #but i thought long and hard about this #and these were the ones that came to mind which must mean that they're the ones #that stood the test of time u know?#anons #replies

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spuriousbiped · 7 years ago

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People don’t really understand my enthusiasm for K-pop. In celebration of BTS’ 4th anniversary, I decided to write a little blurb about why they specifically are important to me. It turned into an essay. And, I’ve decided to post it here, because it’s the most personal thing I’ve written probably since the start of my transition. Keeping the starting bit from when I posted it on the Discord server.

OK, everyone: I have a lot of stuff to unpack, so buckle up. This is a lot more about me than BTS directly, I guess, but I need to get this out there. So, here goes:

I turned 26 last month. I didn't expect to turn 15, let alone 18, or 20, and certainly not 26 - so I'm kind of surprised sometimes that I'm still here. But glad, mostly.

It hasn't been easy. On top of horrible depression since I was 12, as well as some anxiety & OCD issues and probably some things that missed detection, I also developed chronic pain for no identifiable reason when I was ~19, which is manageable but has changed my life significantly. I am also transgender (FtM).

To put it mildly, my life is complicated, and has been for years. I never really learned how to plan for the future, because I never saw myself having one. Then, a bit less than 3 years ago, a lot of things fell into place, and I realised I needed to transition in order to live.

This... is not an easy thing to navigate. tl;dr had a lot of baggage and trauma to sort through, horrible dissociation, and a surge in anxiety as I tried to move forward, come out to people, etc. etc.

It was in my fairly early days of transitioning that I met a couple of other guys in a similar boat on the web. One of them was into K-pop and used to post a lot about it on his tumblr. Eventually, I decided to look into it.

This turned out to be one of the best decisions I ever made. (I used to be really self-conscious about saying this, but I ran out of fucks to give a long time ago.)

The place I live in is a city, but not a huge one, and attitudes around here are pretty old-fashioned still. I was also extremely uncomfortable with myself, so meeting new people wasn't something I could fathom in my early transition days. But I essentially had to build my identity from the ground up, and had no frame of reference. I was always X and Y's daughter, Z's little sister, a niece and granddaughter; I was "different from other girls"; every aspect of my life was defined by womanhood and I had no idea how to be a man. Even if nothing about my personality had changed, the whole way the world was defined was through a lens that had always made things a little bit blurry, but was at least familiar. With clarity did NOT come confidence; and with my tendency to dissociate, I had a difficult time pinning down exactly what it meant to even be a person anymore.

Discovering k-pop changed that for me. It opened a door to so many different things. Most importantly, it provided role models for me that I so desperately needed.

BTS didn't come onto my radar until I Need U, and it was a little longer before I was really dedicated to them. But once I woke up to them, I signed up in a big damn hurry. Even before I was on board, something seemed different about them. Once I was paying attention, it became obvious.

They move together like a well-oiled machine. Their voices complement one another perfectly. They actually get along with each other, are obviously good friends, and openly & unabashedly admire one another and none of it feels forced. They are stupidly talented, and I was really struck by the fact that their work is truly their own and they are allowed to put so much of themselves into it (since it's extremely uncommon in the industry). Everything about them has such presence. They are extremely professional, but also so personable that they don't feel untouchable. They share so much of themselves with the whole world, and have allowed people such a close look at their lives, their struggles, everything. And right now, they are so on top of the world, and they're staring the future in the face and refusing to blink or back down.

I learned a lot from the exploration of Korean culture that followed my discovery of k-pop. I learned that the definition of "masculinity" is far from universal, for example. But I learned how to be the man I needed to be in large part because of BTS. They are so completely themselves, and each of them is so many different things - and sometimes these aspects seem to contradict, but they don't. They have so much passion for what they do, and they embrace one another so fully. Through them, I learned that all parts of myself - including the ones people read as "feminine", even if I knew on the surface that was bs - were OK, and all I really had to do was just exist as the same gentle, loving, ridiculous person I always was. People would read these aspects of me differently based on the gender they attributed to me, but that wasn't up to me. The only thing I was responsible for was being a good and genuine person.

There are so many other elements that have factored into my sense of self, but it's safe to say that without BTS, I wouldn't have made anywhere near the kind of progress I have. The last year especially has been huge for me and they are an enormous part of that. When Fire came out I listened to nothing but that song for weeks on end, before finally opening up to at least BTS in general, LOL.

Of course it's still hard. My body still hurts constantly, and my brain is honestly pretty bizarre. As of now, I've been on medical leave since the end of March, and I'm not convinced I'll be able to go back to my job because the physical and mental strain of retail is more than I am capable of - yet I'm not qualified for much more. It saps all my strength and leaves no room for me to pursue hobbies, or much of anything. I have so many things to do in order to get my life on track that if I let myself think about it and what I'm going to do for income, I get very very anxious.

But, I have a future. I may have had to burn out before I took time off, but now that I've been able to rest, I can feel my own passions lighting up again. Instead of drifting, hanging on to the only job I figured I'd be able to keep, and just surviving, I'm actually making plans. I still can't see that far ahead, and I have no idea where I'll go with what I'm going to do, but what I do know is that I have to live for me, for now, and do something I love in the best way that I'm capable of. BTS is 90% of why. I have never seen anyone more in love with what they do than these seven men. They belong together, and they are meant to create, to perform, and to be exactly who they are.

There is no way I would be where I am now without BTS, and I will be forever grateful to them. I used to be defined by what I was missing. Now, I'm slowly getting back into dance, something I haven't done seriously since I was 22. I'm working through the long agonising process of updating an absurd number of things after finally legally changing my name & gender marker, which sucks but I'm getting it done. I'll be applying for a textiles & apparel design program once I have the paperwork I need from my former university. I haven't started yet, but I plan to learn Korean - it'll be the 5th language I've studied, and while I know how hard it is to maintain foreign languages with nobody to speak to, I know how good I am at this, and I have fought to maintain a certain level of competence with German, which I've studied the longest formally and with the most passion (another story for another day), so I know that if I maintain that same kind of drive, I'll be able to learn it just fine. I have no idea what's coming for me, but I'm sick of being afraid to do things because of what might come. I still struggle to plan long-term, but I'm much more flexible about rolling with the punches, making necessary changes even without a clear outcome, and just doing things. Even if the future is a haze, and I don't know where I want to be, at least I know I'll be somewhere, and I want to still have a future. I may not know exactly how I managed to live this long, but there are still so many years to come, probably, and I'm at the least OK with it, if not actively overjoyed.

Thank you, BTS, for being instrumental in my continued will to exist authentically and as unflinchingly as my various ailments allow me to be. I am so, so lucky to be here at the same time as a group of people so incredible. I owe them a great debt.

#personal #long post #gender #bts

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topmixtrends · 7 years ago

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IN HIS FASCINATING linked novellas The Garbage Times and White Ibis, Sam Pink exposes the absurdity hidden just below the surface of everyday life. In The Garbage Times, this takes the form of a deep dive into society’s underbelly to reveal the grime most people turn away from when walking down the street: homeless people defecating, rats scurrying, pigeons eating dirty food, drug addicts having illogical conversations. It is all there, and Pink won’t allow the reader to ignore it.

The Garbage Times is an homage to the randomness of life, the inevitability of shit, scum, and death, and the beauty that glimmers amid the filth. The story’s unnamed narrator is a man who deals with all manner of absurd behavior as he loads garbage, plunges toilets and sinks, and works as a bouncer at a bar. Despite the character’s peculiarities, readers will likely find his barrage of thoughts, explosive emotions, fantasies of violence, and bursts of tenderness easy to relate to. Most of us, Pink implies, are more like this “crazy” garbage man than we would like to admit as we “plunge” our way through life trying to get rid of the shit — pun intended.

The narrator is diligent in his job. Surrounded by rats and pigeons, he takes on each clog with vigor and an absence of fear or disgust, and this endless drive to clean up the messes of others — shit seems to be everywhere — takes on a hilarious cast. Throughout, Pink’s profanity-laced prose feels fitting, as it places the reader deep in the minds of characters choking on the so-called civilized world’s muck.

In counterbalance to the crassness and moments of violence that punctuate The Garbage Times, Pink’s narrator shows a deep, humanizing love and respect for women and animals. For example, when he returns home to his cat Rontel, one of his main companions, he thinks,

Inside my apartment, Rontel was lying on the stove — his eyes half closed, wagging his tail.

He went to meow but didn’t make a sound.

He stretched, knocking a metal burner off the stove.

“Come here, my little shithead,” I said.

I picked him up and kissed his head four times real quick.

In a really deep and gravelly voice, I said, “Rontel, you a handsome baby!”

He was blinking a lot and licking his snoot, staring up at the ceiling.

Sun lit my room.

Pink’s fascination with animals continues in White Ibis, in which there is a sad, profound moment where the narrator sympathizes with a lizard trying to defend itself against the housecat Dotty, who is slowly killing it by batting it around:

This lizard was for real.

It looked up at her, gill things puffed out, like “All right, all right yeah, big tough guy, let’s have it. [wipes nose] You wanna pick on someone? Yeah ok, all right, pick on me, tough guy, go ahead and — ” but Dotty just mangled it some more.

She left it broken and mostly dead, on its back, barely breathing.

Since the lizard is suffering, the narrator’s girlfriend pressures him to kill it, and he does:

I smashed the lizard’s head with the heel of my boot. Its guts came out its side. Fuck. You tried. You tried. I get it. Sometimes you just gotta pick a place and say, “Right here. Here’s where it happens. Right here.” Gills out, boss, gills out. R.I.P.

The power, humor, sadness, and tenderness in Pink’s writing is haunting when he is at his best, as in this observation of a turtle at a laundromat aquarium in The Garbage Times:

Short bookcases with aquariums on them — turtles swimming in shallow water.

I watched this one turtle trying to swim through the aquarium wall as I dumped a garbage bag of my clothing into a washer.

The turtle made the same sideways swimming motion with both arms.

The same tap of the head against the glass.

Same tiny wave of water bouncing off the glass and coming backwards.

Each time.

Fucking shit.

This is the beauty of Pink’s work — he shows the simple devastations of containment, of beings (in this case animals) living without dignity but still striving toward hope, over and over again, as we all do, wanting things to come out all right. This is the heart of his message, the essence of his book: we will never stop trying to keep moving no matter how confined we are. No matter how random life is, we press on toward something intangible in the distance with only the will to live fueling us.

In this quest for life and dignity is an equally powerful desire to succumb to death. Its inevitability curls underneath each page, hides in each scene. Morbid readers will really dig this book. As will lovers of the absurd, though the magic of Pink is that he turns the absurd to a purpose. The novellas are hilarious and unabashedly honest in showing how bizarre life is, how unpredictable people are, and yet how each person craves love, dignity, freedom — the fundamental needs we all share. In its surreality and sadness, The Garbage Times leaves readers with an impression of characters living in the grime of the world, amid constant violence and despair, yet striving to rise above and make sense of it all.

Pink is a master of dialogue. He nails slang and the odd way people often misuse or mispronounce words, particularly folks who have been traumatized in some way or just talk funny. For example, in The Garbage Times, the narrator frequents a bar where he has a strange affection for the female bartender, who has a bizarre accent that he imitates good-naturedly:

“Stahhp! Quit maykin me laugh! Oh hey, watch [Regular] over dair. He’s doing the hair ting.”

[Regular] was a Vietnam vet who came in every day

[…]

he was whipping his long hair around, and hiking his pants over his huge belly, sitting at the corner of the bar with a group of people behind him.

His face was totally red and he was talking to himself.

The look on his face was so evil.

I laughed.

The novellas, as eccentric as they are, are grounded in scenes with a powerful sense of authority. And some of Pink’s lines are pure gold, encapsulating some universal truth or humorous insight, or both: “And all the animals headed back to their corners, to wait for tomorrow. Hiding from the things with real teeth and power.”

At the same time, Pink can get carried away. There are moments of overindulgence and repetition where the narrator will pick up a thought and run with it too long. But Pink’s audacity in taking risks is admirable. His style is purposefully messy — he is having fun writing and playing with how obsessive the brain can be. He thrills in breaking convention.

The conversational tone only adds to the humor of these novellas. Despite its odd formatting, the book becomes very readable once the reader adapts to its strange, galloping style. Pink takes the reader on an adventure, and there is a mysterious momentum at work in the voice-driven narrative, a Murakami-like invisible hand that guides these characters with a purpose to press on and preserve dignity, preserve authenticity, through a seemingly sordid, artificial world.

In White Ibis, the unnamed narrator admires the strange, titular bird that walks to and fro at the end of his driveway in Florida, the way it shoots judgmental glances and avoids direct contact with anyone or anything. It serves as a symbol for the narrator’s desire to be free of domestication, of playing along, but he’s torn because he wants to keep his girlfriend and maintain some sense of normalcy. So, while he struggles to get a job, attends parties, and carries on normal conversations, the pull of the white ibis strutting around and doing its own thing perpetually calls to him. When he sees it, he thinks, “I really wanted the white ibis to like me and to be my friend. And to its credit, it — seemingly — did not. Ok. Well. Hell, I understood.”

In pondering the nature of the ibis and all creatures that fight for survival, he articulates the theme that links the two novellas beautifully:

The peacock and other weird non-bad-ass birds like the white ibis seemed hilarious, given evolution.

I imagined all creatures at the beginning of time, right before it all begins, in private, devising their offenses/defenses and then coming out into an open field and revealing them.

Into the field of existence with means to survive.

Like hey, check this out, got a big horn on my face!

In the hands of a lesser writer, the narrator would rebel against being in a relationship and the story would implode with bickering. Instead, the young couple in White Ibis seems genuinely happy and in sync with one another, and she accepts his social anxiety as his to deal with.

White Ibis ends on a tender note. A Girl Scout troop holds a sleepover at the couple’s home, and while the narrator at first resists he ultimately enjoys the girls and their exuberance. He empathizes with their fears about being ugly as he is pressured into drawing their portraits (he is known as “the artist”), and as a result finds unexpected meaning and beauty in connection with other alienated humans.

Reading Sam Pink is an unpredictable experience. He hits varied tones and moods, and readers never know where he is taking them next. He’s been labeled “experimental,” but these novellas are just good fiction. He sucks readers in and makes them see the world as his narrators do. His stories are unique and true and impossible to put down — what more could anyone want?

Taylor Larsen is the author of the novel Stranger, Father, Beloved (Gallery Books/Simon & Schuster, 2016). She teaches fiction writing for Catapult and the Sackett Street Writers Workshop and is co-editor of the literary website The Negatives.

The post The Things with Real Teeth and Power: Two Novellas from Sam Pink appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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#Los Angeles Review of Books #topmixtrends

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maxfreedmanwrites-blog · 7 years ago

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My Favorite Albums of the First Half of 2017, RANKED

A lot of indie royalty has returned with new music in 2017, but that’s just not what I’ve been here for the past few years and especially not this year. Taking that a step further, a lot of my favorites this year are artists of smaller stature that already had somewhat of a following but then really blew up this year. And another step further, a lot of these artists are ones I’d been iffy on before but strangely wound up loving this year. The music spans the styles you’d expect from me—female vocals, electronic instrumentation or melancholy guitar arrangements, music mostly produced by one person despite having a full band feel, and some hip-hop sprinkled in. And I’m writing about it all super casually, rather than in ~journalist style~ as I do in my published work that you can find in the WRITING tab up above (yeah shameless self-promo!).

Something else I noticed about this year: I listened to a lot of albums that were just plain uninteresting or maybe even forced. Not bad, just super unappealing. Usually, I’m able to try an album three or four times before moving on; this year, I can think of something like ten albums that I had to stop like six or seven tracks in and question why music journalists have chosen to focus so strongly on these albums. Maybe I’m just jaded via my work with brand new, developing artists, but damn the hype machine sometimes focuses on some truly unmoving, ordinary music. You can ask me for examples if you like, but I try not to publicly shit on bands that aren’t Parquet Courts.

Before I go on to my top ten albums of the first half of 2017, here are ten honorable mentions, in artist alphabetical order, with one short phrase on why I like the album and my favorite song from it.

Presented as Artist – Album (Label), and * = I work with this artist

Arca – Arca (XL) | A generation’s experimental production genius gone intimate and sensual, but without losing any of his signature strangeness | “Desafio”

Blanck Mass – World Eater (Sacred Bones) | Industrial dance music for people who like their songs to continue growing in catharsis over lengths that would bore the average listener | “Silent Treatment”

Cloud Nothings – Life Without Sound (Carpark) | A band with two bonafide noise rock classics taking the noise out and hitting cruise control | “Internal World”

FOAM – Coping Mechanisms (self-released) * | A band that should be on Exploding in Sound and has both jokes AND millennial anxiety | “Get On Board”

Hand Habits – Wildly Idle (Humble Before the Void) (Woodsist) | Candle-burning, effervescent guitar music for the introverted poet in all of us | “All The While”

Kelly Lee Owens – Kelly Lee Owens (Smalltown Supersound) | Techno and ambient pop songs for the foggy, sparsely packed dancefloors hiding inside warehouses | “CBM” (note: this song originally came out in 2016 which is why I excluded it from my songs of 2017 list)

Kendrick Lamar – DAMN. (Top Dawg Entertainment) | The poet of our time, musically at his most accessible and lyrically at his most relatable | “FEAR.”

Laser Background – Dark Nuclear Bogs (Mutual Crush/Endless Daze) | Fun, squawky power pop that’ll lower your pretensions and excite you the way a great new friend should | “Hymnals”

The xx – I See You (Young Turks) | The one indie royalty return worth getting behind in full so far this year, amping up the grooves and production to riveting effect | “Dangerous”

Yoke Lore – Goodpain EP (Independent Label Alliance) * | Five songs that pop nerds and M83/Panda Bear fans can find common ground in | “Only You”

BONUS: June releases that I’m still getting to know due to how new they are (I started writing this all in the beginning of June) but would all likely be mentioned somewhere here otherwise: Big Thief – Capacity (Saddle Creek); Lorde – Melodrama (Republic); Palm – Shadow Expert EP (Carpark); Palehound – A Place I’ll Always Go (Polyvinyl); Vince Staples – Big Fish Theory (Def Jam)

And now for the main attraction. But first, a Spotify playlist containing the three essential tracks I’ve chosen for each album: https://open.spotify.com/user/126489514/playlist/2PNmHCr6uTYK47K2q1KqSG

10) Feist - Pleasure (Interscope)

Okay, I’ll admit it: I’m pretty sure I had only casually heard Feist’s songs—and by that, I really just mean “1234”—until like the end of 2015 or so. I’m not really sure what inspired me to listen to all her albums out of nowhere, but The Reminder struck the most of all of them. It’s got a few songs that I’ll take to my grave—hot take, James Blake’s “Limit to Your Love” is inferior to the cover—so even though I’m still not sold on Metals, I was very excited to learn in March that the rumors of a new Feist album had been confirmed. And Pleasure happens to be her best yet, on an album level; there are about five songs on The Reminder that totally dunk on anything here, but as full-album experiences go, Pleasure is, well, an absolute pleasure. By my fourth or fifth listen, I had small segments of “Get Not High, Get Not Low,” “I Wish I Didn’t Miss You,” “A Man Is Not His Song,” and “I’m Not Running Away” stuck in my head. Leslie Feist’s voice can burrow into my brain like a worm into an apple, and since it’s very often the center of attention here—this is certainly her most barren album—I’m sold. An album that’s both minimal and stacked with strong riffs—you hearing those guitars on “Pleasure,” “Century,” and “Any Party”?—sounds like just what I needed. This really feels much shorter than 53 minutes. Bonus points for the hilarious, wicked Mastodon sample that ends “A Man Is Not His Song.”

Essentials: “Any Party,” “Century,” “I’m Not Running Away”

9) Mozart’s Sister - Field of Love (Arbutus)

I had a really good conversation with Mozart’s Sister for FLOOD Magazine back in February that might have influenced how much I like this album. On the surface, this is just your ordinary electropop album; it’s catchy as shit and really well-produced, but what exactly makes it so special? Hearing Caila Thompson-Hannant talk about unabashedly aiming for the most maximalist, overjoyed vibes possible really opened this album up to me. I can imagine the uninitiated hearing “Moment 2 Moment” and passing it off as cloying, but it’s clearly super-exuberant to the point of addiction. Honestly, these songs are just so ecstatic and sturdy that I can’t let them go. Not everyone could make a rally cry out of the phrase “Oooh, sweetheart, sweet, hickory bump!”; I could imagine a lesser artist turning it into more of an infuriating whine. Of course, no good electropop would be without its fair share of darkness; sure, we can have all-out PC Music-style bangers like “Eternally Girl,” but on “Angel,” we also get the ominous wind-up of everything that precedes the adrenaline of the chorus, and “My Heart Is Wild” has a pretty creepy synth riff beyond that whole “I’m totally implying we should Netflix and chill” narrative. I don’t even know if I would’ve given this album any consideration if not for the 2014 Mozart’s Sister album that had a song with the chorus “street boy, hustle, hustle money/street boy, pussy money, pussy monaaaaaay” that landed in my mailbox when I was a music director, so thanks to college radio for keeping it real.

Essentials: “Plastic Memories,” “Moment 2 Moment,” “My Heart Is Wild”

8) Perfume Genius - No Shape (Matador)

Today, in the art of perfectly fucking titled albums: this fucking album. I casually liked Perfume Genius before 2014’s Too Bright, which is when I got into him a bit more (being gay and not liking “Queen” are mutually exclusive), but No Shape has me totally on board. Which is funny, because this is by far his most experimental and, er, shapeless album; Perfume Genius is the only artist I can think of who has gotten drastically more experimental and more acclaimed with every release. Put Your Back N 2 It had a few songs that got me between the blur of a million similar ballads; Too Bright was entirely interesting, but maybe not always thoroughly engaging. No Shape is engrossing as hell at all times—“Every Night,” “Choir,” and “Die 4 You” in sequence marks one of the most bizarre and incomparable passages I can recall in recent years, yet every second is thoroughly enticing. “Wreath” begins enchanting as could be and ends in a singalong swell that has me clicking replay virtually every time; “Sides” is a regal joy that features Weyes Blood—responsible for 2016’s second-best album, haters come at me—on guest vocals, and she sounds like an angel cracking through a beacon of hell. That’s the exciting thing about the album—it’s all demons that Mike Hadreas is processing, and for every evil spirit he exorcises, the listener gets to experience a serenely rewarding moment. I have no clue how to accurately describe this music, and maybe that’s why I keep coming back.

Essentials: “Slip Away,” “Wreath,” “Sides”

7) Sylvan Esso - What Now (Loma Vista)

Everyone loves Sylvan Esso; how could you not? In 2014, their self-titled album went over well with anyone a musician might want to impress: fans, critics, bookers, all the like. Sylvan is one of few acts I can think of that pretty much universally sits well with the indie crowd despite Pitchfork essentially deeming this incredibly talented duo just mediocre (yes, I do think that Pitchfork, no matter what you think of it, can still make or break an artist’s career). Past bangers like “Hey Mami” and “H.S.K.T.” blended intimate production with a dancefloor sense that naturally drew a big audience; What Now is both that and very much not that. This is a far tenderer affair overall, to be sure, but the notably increased production value and crystalline sequencing isn’t responsible for that, strangely. Even last year’s singles—“Radio” and “Kick Jump Twist,” which vastly preceded the album announcement—felt like a big growth despite remaining pretty firmly rooted in the band’s extant world. But songs like “Die Young, “Song,” and “Signal”? These are new, prettier frontiers for Sylvan Esso, and the duo pulls them off with the confidence of an alt-righter denying global warming (everything is political, kids). Somehow existing in both worlds is the miracle of “Just Dancing,” which is one of the better blends of a personal feel and an undeniable, larger-than-life groove that I can think of in recent times. “When we’re dancing you look just like my man” is an amazingly apt sentiment for this duo’s magic: put on their tunes, ball the fuck out, and suddenly everything feels good, sans all the cosmic obnoxiousness of EDM.

Essentials: “Die Young,” “Kick Jump Twist,” “Just Dancing”

6) Run the Jewels - Run the Jewels 3 (self-released)

Look, it counts for 2017. Christmas 2016 is essentially 2017 given that claiming to understand an album perfectly in your first, like, eight days of listening is just bullshit. And RTJ3 is just not immediate; if RTJ2 was a skull-crushing political document of body-thrusting mayhem and immediate bravado, RTJ3 is a comparatively subtle admonishing of the world’s current political state, even though it was completed well before November 9, 2016. “Call Ticketron” is musically thin as Run the Jewels songs go, yet it winds up being one of the album’s best tracks in due time; “Stay Gold” feels almost stupid until that eighth listen when “brain with an ass girl” suddenly clicks as a line praising smart, self-made women rather than anything resembling the misogyny that so pervasively dominates rap. The relative calmness, if it can even be called that, does tire a bit, but since it paves the way for “Thursday in the Danger Room,” I ain’t mad. Did you ever expect a Run the Jewels song to make you cry? Probably not, but if anything, RTJ3 is full of surprises. El and Mike writing about passed family and friends is devastating, and the goddamn Kamasi Washington sax on the chorus is like getting kicked in the stomach after watching the last episode of Six Feet Under. A tearjerker on an RTJ album? This is certainly their most diverse LP.

Essentials: “Hey Kids (Bumaye) (ft. Danny Brown),” “Stay Gold,” “Thursday in the Danger Room (ft. Kamasi Washington)”

5) Jay Som - Everybody Works (Polyvinyl)

I really liked “I Think You’re Alright” when I heard it back when Jay Som announced she was opening the Mitski/Japanese Breakfast tour last year. But I was never all that hot on Turn Into, even though you’d think it’s pretty damn perfect since Melina Duterte (aka Jay Som) released it on Bandcamp, then had it released on Topshelf, and then again on Polyvinyl. Everybody Works actually is pretty damn perfect (or nearly so). Give it like five listens and this beautiful, caringly layered world that seems specifically bound to that space between waking up and actually feeling awake, that 45 minute period after a cat nap where nothing makes sense and your subconscious thoughts wriggle their way to the front of your brain, will open itself up to you.

It’s really not like these songs are doing anything crazy in terms of structure and lyrics; the soft yet vivid production, the strange instruments that pop in every now and again (trumpet, on “The Bus Song” and especially “For Light,” is probably the best example), and the robust, undeniable melodies (plus the intentionally garbage, hilariously dissonant guitar “solo” on “1 Billion Dogs”) are what get me every time. “Remain” is almost a draft of a song, but Melina’s pillowy vocals suffuse the track so much that it feels as heavy and powerful as something much louder and longer. “Take It” sounds like if Real Estate started putting force into their guitars, and every smack of the drum when these guitars land feels like a revelation. And then there’s fucking “Baybee,” which is a great reminder that TOPS were really onto something in 2014 when they reintroduced everyone to wah, phaser, flanger, and all that good stuff. I really like how this whole album feels like Melina’s whispering in your ear to help you come back to the real world, but living in her fantasyland ain’t too bad either.

Essentials: “The Bus Song,” “Baybee,” “Take It”

4) Gabriel Garzón-Montano – Jardín (Stones Throw)

Gabriel Garzón-Montano really likes fruit and insects. I generally don’t care for either of these things (don’t @ me, fruit eaters). Yet even though Jardín is rife with both of these as metaphors for love stories, I can’t pull away from this album. Its best song has a chorus that chants “walk like a tangerine” (a friend suggested this might mean “walk with flavor”), yet I’m not running away. If anything, Garzón-Montano’s brilliantly soulful arrangements and shit-hot vocals keep me coming back to what I’d call the best R&B album since Anderson .Paak became 2016’s MVP with Malibu (which, yes, is also totally a hip-hop album). Dude knows how to write a hook or three, and the line his production walks between D’Angelo’s neo-soul classics and the storied hip-hop instrumentalists that built up Stones Throw, the label that released Jardín, makes for endlessly replayable songs.

This whole affair sounds like if someone who grew up on ‘90s soul music went back in time to an early jazz club and jammed out with the folks there. Tell me the organ (I think it’s very, very synthetic organ) that hums throughout “Sour Mango” isn’t classic jazz. Tell me the bass that slaps under “Crawl” isn’t classic jazz either. And really, tell me the whole smoky sheen and brass section of “Bombo Fabrika” isn’t classic jazz. But what really pushes Gabriel to the top, for me, is how his voice can be pretty damn snarly even at its most soulful. The chorus to “My Balloon” is one of the very best things this album offers, and it’s shockingly nasal for a vocal passage on a soul song, but oh man is it exciting. I would love to take this guy’s balloon to the moon (his own words) and hang with him there for a while.

Essentials: “Fruitflies,” “The Game,” “My Balloon”

3) Fufanu - Sports * (One Little Indian)

Last year, I chose not to include bands I work with on my year-end lists. No more of that! Fufanu is too fucking good to be denied another chance for me to do something beneficial for them. I was going to say I don’t understand why Sports has such a low Metacritic score compared to this Icelandic band’s previous album, but I do, despite not agreeing with it; a lot of people are going to pass Fufanu off as a very ordinary post-punk band (whereas Few More Days to Go, from 2015, is alarming in a way that so much of post-punk is said to lack, though I far prefer Sports). Specifically, a lot of post-punk diehards might pass Fufanu off as such; as someone who also listens to a fuckton of electronic music, I hear a revolution in the ten songs that make up Sports.

Fufanu was originally Captain Fufanu, a techno duo. No, the word fufanu did not gain any meaning when the band name shortened; it’s a made-up word for Fufanu’s made-up world where post-punk and techno come from the same grooves. There’s a big techno heart that drives “Sports,” the title track that’s so good that radio dug it the most of all these songs even though it’s six minutes long and there’s no radio edit. You hear that groove, that synth bursting throughout this thing? That’s techno, baby. It’s in the heart of the stuttering “Gone for More,” the potential pop hit “Just Me,” and the mystifying outro of “Syncing In.” And even when it’s not there, these songs are just gorgeous. When the tremolo guitars swoop in for the final chorus of “Bad Rockets,” it transforms the song from artfully meandering into a nearly out-of-body experience. “Your Fool” is such a gorgeous piece of introspection that it barely needs synths to get its point across, and “White Pebbles” is unsettling as hell without even a synth in earshot.

To give you an idea of just how good this album is, my favorite song has changed about once per month since I first heard this album in October (we began working it in December, and it came out in February). “Sports” to me seemed like the obvious winner for a moment, but then “Just Me” swooped in as the album highlight. “Gone for More” and “Syncing In” had their time in the spotlight too. But I’ve settled on “Liability” as the breadwinner here; it opens the door for any and all Interpol fans to walk right in, but that synth crunching under it suggests something way more forceful than anything Interpol ever came up with (no hate on Interpol, “Slow Hands” and “PDA” are untouchable), and then the guitar break after the second chorus delivers. But the fun’s not over: you ready for another guitar line with 30 seconds left in the song? That’s when the percussive tension breaks too, and even without synths, you’re dancing. So Sports really is a world where electronic music revolutionizes post-punk.

Essentials: “Sports,” “Just Me,” “Liability”

2) (Sandy) Alex G – Rocket (Domino)

A month ago, I was Team (Sandy) Alex G Is Overrated (But Not Bad, I Just Don’t Really Get It). And now here we are, with his newest album sitting this high up on this list. How did we get here?

Let me explain my journey with (Sandy) Alex G. In fall 2014, back when he was just Alex G, I’d heard his name around a lot, but I’d never listened to his music. Then his album DSU landed at the radio station where I was music director (eternal shouts to 90.3 the Core), and I figured I’d review it for adds since I wanted to know what this guy was like. So I put it on during my car ride back from my internship and I. Did. Not. Like. It. At. All. We later got the Trick reissue, and then Alex G signed to Domino and announced Beach Music. I somehow caught him live like five times between the announcement and the release even though I wasn’t a fan, but even then, I was really, really down with his live show. There’s an aggression and confrontational nature to his performances that are definitely not captured on his recordings (or, weren’t—more on that later), which became a frustration of mine as I kept trying out the recordings of someone I once labeled “Elliott Smith, but half-assed.” Sorry Alex. Please forgive me. Although I do still think Beach Music is trying way too hard to be experimental, save “Kicker,” which rules.

So naturally, I had no plans to listen to Rocket, but then someone in my office put it on just to give it a try. I remember going from “what the fuck, is this fucking Alex G?” to “okay, this is really interesting” when “Horse” came on to “oh my GOD wait is this still Alex G?” when “Brick” came on. I immediately downloaded Rocket and put it on as soon as I left work. I definitely liked it. Around my third listen or so, I became addicted to it, and hell, I still am addicted to it. A lot of the press on the album has focused on how country-infused it is for an Alex G record, which might be what got me; although mainstream, major-label, commodified country music is possibly my least favorite thing ever, finely produced, dimly lit country and folk music (i.e., “Jolene” instead of “Not Ready To Make Nice”) is my hotspot, as are the lineage of 2010s women who take cues from it (Angel Olsen, Sharon Van Etten, Lady Lamb, Adrianne Lenker and her band Big Thief, etc.). So yeah, this thing is like if Elliott Smith (enough with this comparison?) embraced banjos, bluesy arrangements, and violins without making it sappy, taking it overboard, or just going full fuckin’ cheeseball with it.

Opener “Poison Root” nails it, really. It’s like a homespun recording of angst, but with an earworm banjo line, and I hear it in my head constantly. I also hear “Proud” in my head constantly because “Poison Root” doesn’t even transition into this song; it just abruptly ends and leaves us with this moving, five-minute piece with male-female vocal harmonies that walk the shrill-affecting line meticulously. “Country” is another one that really sticks, with that soft, bluesy, faded guitar line and those high-pitched, almost nasal vocals. I could write a ton of praise on each of these songs, but I also can’t do that to you, I just can’t, so I’ll just use “Powerful Man” as the best example of how this country-meets-classic-Alex-G thing is so strong—you hearing this really personal tale of not letting a close friend’s (forgivable) mishaps affect the relationship? The funny family story that suddenly becomes one of the most moving sentiments I’ve heard on record this year with “I guess I should have more sympathy/I ain’t never raised a kid/but I bet I’d do a good job if I did”? And the droning sing-speak it’s delivered in? What a song.

Oh, and we haven’t even talked about “Brick,” the greatest Show Me The Body song that never was. This hardcore song hidden in the very middle of a country-ish album, this song that’s still infinitely replayable despite how clunky its lyrics and petulant its lyrics about a failing relationship are, this two minutes of pure gore, violence, and aggression that couldn’t be any better even though it has flaws, the one Alex G song to date that properly captures his live show’s aggression. What a way to divide two amazing halves of a fantastic album.

Oh, and about DSU? I went back and listened, and it’s actually pretty good.

Essentials: “Proud,” “Brick,” “Powerful Man”

1) Priests - Nothing Feels Natural (Sister Polygon)

I’m tempted to play the full-on grandiose statement game and call this the greatest punk album of all time. It isn’t, but only because it can’t be. Calling Nothing Feels Natural a punk album misses the point entirely.

Okay, sure, Priests first caught attention in 2014 with an EP that certainly fits the classic definition of “punk.” The politics of early Priests haven’t faded in the least (although it’s interesting that Nothing Feels Natural was completed before November 9, 2016), but their songwriting has incorporated all sorts of outside elements into what was formerly solely a punk palette. Across nine songs and 34 minutes, you’ll hear bits of surf rock, dream pop, shoegaze, and even orchestral music. And you know what sells it every damn time? The guitars and the vocals.

“Appropriate” is a pretty damn strong declaration of intent, so it’s a great opener; the drums that launch it immediately demand attention, and the guitars that come in after Katie Alice Greer’s initial screed could mark a quieter passage of a metal song. This comes right before “JJ,” which will almost certainly land in my top 10 songs of the decade; it’s surf rock posing as post-punk, the main riff sounding like a Dick Dale invention pushed through a Joy Division filter. “JJ” is driving, hilarious, and unflaggingly catchy all at once, with passages about which cigarette brands are best preceding brief breaths for air, melancholy pianos ensuring the interlude doesn’t pass for anything victorious (it plays that role in the outro instead, where “whoever deserved anything anyway/what a stupid concept” sounds like the sage vision of a deity). “Nicki” throws down some of the album’s most poisoned guitar screams at the moments when they’re most necessary; every new chord after the choruses (especially the third chorus) feels like the gates of hell opening. The guitars that arrive after the first verse of “Lelia 20,” the interlude of “Nothing Feels Natural,” and during the outro of “Pink White House” all feel the same—every note, every chord feels like an ice-cold, super-hot stab directly to the heart.

And this is all without even getting into the lyrics and Katie Alice Greer’s voice. Katie sneers, sings, and whispers over the course of this album, each vocal mode feeling perfect for the moment birthing it. That little quiet section in “Appropriate” where she’s pretty much mumbling and then brings it up to a full snarl? Classic. The little growl before the second verse of “JJ”? Damn. The utter melancholy of “Nothing Feels Natural”? Amazing. And the unusually high-pitched regions of “Suck”? Thrilling. Whether Greer’s singing about consumerism, a shitty ex-lover, men who talk over women, or solitary confinement, she knows exactly the sort of vocals she should provide. I could pore over the lyrics for you, but one of the exciting things about Nothing Feels Natural is that, even at its most political, what Greer’s saying tends to rank second to how she’s delivering her words; “Lelia 20” is probably one of the album’s less political moments, but her vocals throughout are sharp and engaging. Although the social commentary across the album is on point as hell, Greer’s vocals are so transfixing that she could say really anything and it would feel amazing. The exception to this rule is “Nothing Feels Natural,” which is such a devastating analysis of solitary confinement, one that feels like a personal meditation on a close friend or family member’s passing, that its lyrics can’t be ignored. It’s her softest, most delicate vocal performance to date, and it’s really unforgettable.

Special shouts to “No Big Bang,” though. This is the first Priests track to have drummer Daniele Daniele on vocals (because she wrote it). It jumps out from the page a bit even though Nothing Feels Natural is such a fantastic experience throughout; since this is a Daniele song, the drums are especially booming and complex. How the hell is she nearly rapping as she lays down patterns this wild? She finds an amazing match for the frantic delivery and narrative of her lyrics in these wild, head-spinning grooves she’s throwing out. It’s pretty impressive that “No Big Bang” fits so well in the middle of Nothing Feels Natural despite how different it is from the album’s other eight songs, but that’s just the hallmark of a classic album, one that can transform a cynic into a full-on stan.

Essentials: “JJ,” “JJ, “JJ,” Just kidding, it’s actually “JJ,” “Nothing Feels Natural,” and “Pink White House”

#mid-year recap #best of 2017 so far #favorite albums of 2017 so far #best albums of 2017 #best albums of 2017 so far #things i wrote mostly for myself

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toddlazarski · 8 years ago

Text

“Tangents Are The Point”

Q&A With Milwaukee Author Todd Lazarski - by Justin Kern

Great Lakes Review

Q&A with Milwaukee author Todd Lazarski as he romanticizes and sometimes denigrates: Chris Paul; sarcasm’s hidden kindness; self-destruction as research; necessary meanness in food writing; and thoughts of his father, dead at 39

Todd Lazarski, 33, quietly compartmentalizes his obsessions, sort of shadowboxes that he knows have to see sun, even if it’s when they’re getting tossed. Inside-turned-out, Todd found relief in the release of his first novel, “Make the Road by Walking” (June 2016, on Cleveland’s Red Giant Books), a familiar-feeling journal across the Midwest, New Orleans and California. He has realized personal space as a “fat guy” – pretend or otherwise – devouring the world 10 dinners at a time, in Rio de Janeiro, Buffalo and Milwaukee, in pieces for Paste, TimeOut, Shepherd Express and Milwaukee Record. His next exposition will be a second novel, “Spend It All”, a reckoning of idiotic youth with whatever the hell it is that compels us to trudge ahead and try into near adulthood, chicken finger sub in hand (you can read an excerpt here; he’s currently playing matchmaker with a publisher).

I met Todd a few years ago due to the Buffalo Bills, the team of our respective home fields in western New York though we had both been transplanted to Milwaukee. Along with the yeoman’s bliss from running back Fred Jackson, we shared Jim Harrison and Stanley Elkin books, and realized it’d be easier to be friends than to tough it out as isolated fans. This past December, we went on a road trip for readings at the marvelous Mac’s Books in Cleveland and a book release in Buffalo. These acts pulled Todd further from internalized roiling over writing and out into its small but not-always-wretched public aspects. The following unabashedly long-form Q&A is an extrapolation on that tangent – a dialogue of poignancy and personal jabs, edited (honestly!) for flow, from two nights in early March in Milwaukee.

Part One:

Bradley Center, L.A. Clippers vs. Milwaukee Bucks. Todd had free tickets to the game from a friend in his basketball rec league, the one who put the scar over Todd’s right eye with a scrappy elbow a few months back. Todd promised not to milk that friend’s guilt over the scar that occurred in a middle-aged, nearly talented rec league game, though he gladly accepted the tickets to see star Clippers guard Chris Paul. We join Todd’s oeuvres to the very game of basketball, already in progress …

Todd: No other sport has that. Nothing else in my life has that. Basketball is the most beautiful of all physical endeavors. And it’s the most American. But more … it’s the most stylish, the most graceful.

Justin: It’s definitely the most American. Even though, I think a Canadian made it. Doctor Naismith, a basketball doctor, I guess.

Todd: You’ve said the Canadian thing before. … It’s kind of a stupid idea. Here, throw this ball into this basket. A laundry hamper, something people do every day in their house. Here [are] my dirty chonis.

Justin: Chonis? How’s that spelled? What’s AP Style?

Todd: C-H-O-N-I-S, your boxers. AP Style has a capital “C” and capital “H”.

[Unintentional pause where ‘Charge!’ plays exactly once on the stadium P.A.]

Justin: So, I mean …

Todd: You are able to express your individual style in a team context. It makes it the American ideal. It makes it like jazz – I realize that’s a cliché but it’s completely true – in that you’re doing a thing that is a team thing, but even the way you dribble the ball down the court when no one is on you is an expression of yourself. Football players don’t do shit like that.

Justin: Right. And you don’t see their face …

Todd: You don’t see their face. They execute. It’s utilitarian. I’m going to run you over or I’m not going to. In basketball, you can just dribble between your legs. There’s a usefulness to dribbling between your legs, sometimes, but not usually. Sometimes you just want to dribble between your legs. Or put [the ball] in your left hand. You try to establish a rhythm. Which is cool, the ultimate symbol of cool. Individualism, coming out of the inner city, turning into the American dream.

Justin: That you could be yourself and be famous.

Todd: Not even be famous. Be cool because you’re playing basketball. You’re a baller. Also, it’s the only sport you can play by yourself. Completely by yourself. You can’t do that with football –

Justin: What if you’re a kicker? What about [just-about-to-be-released Buffalo Bills kicker] Dan Carpenter? He’s going to be playing by himself, kicking in the backyard a lot soon.

Todd: You do have that argument. [Pauses] Shooting hoops by myself is my favorite thing that I’ve ever done in my life. If I could only do one thing for the rest of my life, it would be that. When I’m doing that, I’m actually playing basketball. I’m doing the thing that [points to the Clippers/Bucks game on the court] they’re doing now. It’s an actual representation of the sport and of myself. You could do that with soccer, I guess. But with basketball, you’re not playing against anyone else. Like with horseshoes, what you talk about with horseshoes. It’s an embodiment of the sport and yourself.

Justin: I remember being in Rollerblades, in a parking lot with a … cheap stick and an orange ball, shooting against the fence of a parking lot … I’m telling myself I’m playing hockey but there’s not a single part of that [which] is like real hockey. … When it comes down to it, LeBron in Game 7 of the Finals last year made the game happen. He was himself and made them win, after he broke his wrist or whatever, and that block … with his own will and personality.

Todd: It couldn’t happen in any other sport. You talk about [Patrick] Kane and the way he moves, you talk about grace or his step ahead of other players. Like he knows where to go and how to create space in a limited –

Justin: Yes, yes. I guess Gretzky did that in a way, in a specific way in the frame of the game, behind the net. But Kane makes the place to go, the space, which seems bizarre, like it shouldn’t be able to happen. They’re all on the same ice, the players. But [with Kane] it happens every night, a few times every night.

Todd: That’s how I feel about Chris Paul. When he was young, he was explosive athletically. Then he had knee shit … he lost lateral quickness. But he’s extremely impressive and cerebral, even more so now, at least to me and people who are basketball nerds. His ability – when Derrick Rose’s knees went, he was shot. It’ll be interesting to see LeBron because when his athleticism goes … Paul still has the ability to go from here to there on the court, without the athleticism of his youth. He’s so smooth and graceful, it’s the height of sports. Grace in physical –

Justin: It sounds like you’re explaining gymnastics.

Todd: It is, in a way. But there’s a cool – to watch him direct, be a quarterback, put the ball through his legs and look cool but also lead a team. Do that and you’re the fucking man. For three-and-a-half quarters, all [Paul] is worried about is making the pass, setting up everyone else. What John Stockton did. Almost to a fault. To get the team in rhythm where the team can fire on all cylinders even if it doesn’t seem like it could.

Justin: Well, you talk about Paul, you talk about Stockton. The ultimate benchmark of sports is – as much as people want to make everything in life a black and white decision – winning or losing. That’s what it comes down to. For real, not like how people make imaginary scenarios where you have to rank bands or artists. In sports you’re supposed to win. You can enjoy it no matter what, but, when I’m kicking your ass in NBA Jam [for Sega Genesis], and you pick Stockton, and you’re losing, it doesn’t matter much if it’s pretty. [Pauses, back to the present momentarily] The Bucks are turning this into a beatdown. Your boy Paul has one foul and five points …

Todd: Yeah, yeah … he needs them to chill out. When he was on New Orleans, he was maybe the greatest guard. But that’s bullshit. The ultimate benchmark isn’t winning. It shouldn’t be.

Justin: As Bills fans, I know we try to rationalize everything like that.

[We’re at the stadium for overly expensive Miller High Lifes – High Lives? – until the Bucks win by double-digits and Chris Paul maybe reinjures his thumb. We leave for a few bars, one where Katy Perry played just louder than the Spurs/Pelicans game, then another …]

Part Two:

Urban is a new-ish bar that replaced an old drywaller’s hangout in Milwaukee’s Bay View neighborhood, where both live, separately, with our wives and cats, like some sophisticated dandies. At the bar, we laughed off the guilt of cheering on the Bills highlight portions of the stupendous “O.J.: Made in America” documentary on a corner TV. As we talked shit to each other, needlessly, we rejoin the conversation already overwhelmingly in progress …

Justin: You said a great thing on our trip [in December] about the value of western New York sarcasm. Where people just bust your balls and that’s how you know they give a shit. It’s one of the few things that really ties Buffalo to the East Coast, to places like Boston and especially, definitely Philadelphia. Here in Milwaukee, people just don’t come at you like that. The first thing you hear from people you’re close to in western New York –

Todd: The people are mean.

Justin: It’s a daisycutter. You’re being warned to not waste your fucking time with people. Which isn’t mean, in a way. Explain that to me, what does that mean to you.

Todd: I don’t know anything other than the way that my uncle talks to me.

Justin: Which is …

Todd: I wouldn’t know how else to talk to people if it wasn’t a ‘Fuck You’ attitude. And if I wouldn’t feel like saying ‘Fuck You’, then I wouldn’t want to talk to them to begin with.

Justin: But you’re not a mean person.

Todd: I hate being mean. I don’t want to be mean to anyone. I try to take people as they come. It doesn’t matter how or who you are.

Justin: But there’s something appreciated …

Todd: My first inkling from my uncle when I step off the plane in Buffalo is sarcasm. “Why are you wearing that?” A constant need to explain yourself. No idea where it’s going to come from. “Why do you have that same face?”

Justin: To me, and I agree … but it taps into a constant sense of self doubt that we both share. Like I’ve already got this internal doubt, nonstop. So the sarcasm works [in the opposite way]. It helps me understand how the outside world functions. I can verbalize my doubt and get somewhere with it outside of my own head.

Todd: Yes, you can get through the day. You’re saying ‘Fuck You’ to yourself more than anyone else. Your little existence is complete bullshit. You couldn’t matter less. There’s no doubt to that. So why would you take yourself so seriously, take the things around you so seriously? This is all for nothing. We don’t amount to anything. And politeness won’t get you anywhere else. [Pauses] You’re going to pretend to be nice, for what?

Justin: You are a nice person.

Todd: Don’t be phony. People I’m not nice to are generally the people I love. I’m never nice to my mother. I’m rarely nice to my mom.

Justin: My closest friends are terrible.

Todd: I don’t even like them. They fucking piss me off! And fuck you, don’t buy me another beer. Just saying ‘Fuck You’, all the time.

Justin: In defiance of the world.

Todd: Why would the world be like this? Why am I like this? This is all useless and so is everything we do. So be nice. [Pauses] Fuck you.

[At some point, we outlined a contract for a bet: will the United States experience a terrorist attack worse (in terms of body count, at least) than 9/11 within our lifetimes? Borne of anxious talk on the state of the world, we backed away from the maladaptive request of a stranger at the bar to sign this contract as our formal witness. We, in turn, backed away from signing it. (He was more assured the attack wouldn’t happen, for what it’s worth.) To my house around the corner for cool-down beers that lasted six hours. During, he explained George Saunders’s views of empathy and Greg Popovich’s importance as a vocal American. Separately, I argued that America had substantial contributions to global cuisine, then came up with only regional barbecues and variations on Mexican food. I beat him at NHL ’94 for Sega Genesis in a rousing nine-game series, highlighted by the speed of Nelson Emerson and the glove of Grant Fuhr. As he left at dawn, he became mildly convinced this had turned into a takedown Q&A. I assured him no one cared that much.]

Part Three

At Vanguard restaurant and bar. After a day to nurse hangovers – his much worse than mine, no doubt connected to the NHL ’94 loses – we reconvened for dinner, drinks and eventually/finally discussions on writing.

Justin: I wanted to start by saying ‘Fuck you.’

Todd: That’s good. Is that an actual quote?

Justin: Yeah, dude! That’s how good I am.

Todd: [Groans, understandably]

Justin: I also wanted to wish you happy Lobsterfest.

Todd: What the fuck are we doing here? That’s Red Lobster? Today only? Let’s go.

Justin: I know. Now … you write with a deepness and a passion for food. You can write about tamales for 8,000 words, or beef on weck, or everything you ate in Brazil. What’s exciting to you right now in food? What are you absorbed with, reading about or writing [about], even if you’ve eaten it 1,000 times?

Todd: I’m excited to try the new menu here. Bigger picture-wise … given everything that’s going on, especially … we should always feel like this – it’s very important to spend your going-out-to-eat money on ethnic restaurants. It seems like a little thing but it is huge. There’s nothing that makes me happier than going to a new, random taqueria, off the beaten path, eating chips and salsa, drinking Jarritos and ordering either an entrée and two tacos or at least four tacos. … The more salsas the better. Having the whole basket [of chips] to myself is exciting, especially if the chips are warm and I haven’t eaten all day, maybe it’s a Saturday. Maybe I went to the grocery store and I’m rewarding myself.

Justin: Constantly rewarding ourselves. I read that in your book [“Make the Road by Walking”] … and we’ve talked about this before, where every single day, I’m finding some excuse to treat myself for even marginal endeavors.

Todd: I use food as a reward, which is super healthy, according to my doctor.

Justin: You’re not a fat guy. You’re a pretend fat guy. Todd: I have okay metabolism and I … try to play basketball. But food is the ultimate reward. I eat lunch late and I eat dinner super-late. [Pauses] Looking forward to something is a key to happiness in life, one of them at least. The work day goes that much better … if I’m going to eat lunch at 3 o’clock, I’ll be super-fucking hungry, then I’ll only have that little of a work day left. Then I come home, and I’m able to do a work-out thing, play guitar, write, something meaningful. With food to look forward to at the end of the night, I can watch TV and turn my brain off for a little while. It feels like I’ve earned it.

Justin: You’ve always been like that? As a kid?

Todd: No, as an adult … I’ve always been into routines.

Justin: Back to the writing side of food, just a bit. It’s not a style I’m drawn to. I like TV personalities who show and share with food. It feels like a more visceral experience on TV. I get that more and can maybe learn. But you are someone who writes about food all the time, and you write well. It’s in this unlucky space – there’s some of this in music writing – where I could see someone writing about food is up against Yelp reviews, hundreds of them, or that little old lady who writes the Olive Garden reviews at the paper in North Dakota. What makes food writing … artistic? Stand out in the damn din?

Todd: Most of it is not artistic whatsoever. It’s what I’d like to try to do. Absolutely I don’t consider myself a food critic. Those are people who know more about food, know how to cook and study history shit more than I ever will. On the flip side of that is Yelp, which is the problem with everything on the Internet. Everyone throws their opinion out there. Yelp is awful because it tells you nothing. It gives you – you look for reviews of a restaurant and there are hundreds of Yelp reviews where the more you read, the less you know.

Justin: The opinion without the, I don’t know, veracity or validation.

Todd: You don’t have any authority and we don’t know who they are, the attitude they brought to the restaurant, if they were hungry or just got into a fight with their wife …

Justin: Do you sometimes do that, do you go to the restaurant and start a fight with someone? Spice up the experience?

Todd: [Sarcastically] Absolutely. Really, going out to eat is the whole experience, an experience in and of itself. I will do my research and I like to learn, but I consider myself a writer, first and foremost, and I consider myself a fat guy at heart who has always appreciated food on a poetic level. I’ve told Paloma [Chavez, a stellar graphic designer and his wife] that I’m someone who appreciates chicken wings on a deeper level than most, what I would consider a poetic level. That’s the opposite of Yelp and it’s counter to a lot of know-it-all foodies. In our small-ass city, how is it that every single restaurant review now is good? It invalidates everything. What’s the point of … just being positive?

Justin: This reminds me of … bigger problems I had with the loss of small and mid-sized newspapers and the First Amendment over the last 10 years. The inability to have critical thinking everywhere … I mean, I lost my job [at a newspaper], so I’m biased … but I guess this would trickle out, without the system for independent writing –

Todd: If you go to a big city like Chicago, and the Chicago Reader, one of if not the best independent weekly newspapers around, the guy, Mike Sula, is so fucking critical and then he gets ecstatic about other places. I plan where I go in Chicago because when he gets excited, I know it’s going to be fucking good. It’s going to be worthwhile.

Justin: It matters.

Todd: I believe him because he doesn’t like shit. Like every human being.

[We go on a vastly unentertaining tangent on his non-existent beer gut and to reference moments from TV shows. Then … sausage and chili fries for me, sausage and a patty melt for him. After food …]

Justin: I want some amygdala, lizard brain responses –

Todd: Amygdala? Is that … in the front? Justin: – in the middle, the part connected to storytelling, and tied to emotional reactions, decision-making. It’s why we’re at where we’re at because people make gut reactions and don’t think rationally about anything. I don’t. Um …

Todd: Okay. I don’t operate that well under quick-fire –

Justin: You can answer slowly but I’ll ask them quickly. If you answer at high speed it’ll sound strange. Use a normal cadence …

Todd: [Laughs] Okay, okay …

Justin: Worst job you’ve ever worked?

Todd: Data entry at a hospital.

Justin: What is the shortest friendship you’ve ever maintained?

Todd: Shortest ever maintained … hmmm … this guy I met at a Tom Petty show. His name was John. He was about my mom’s age and he sat next to me and he disappeared in the middle of the show. Maybe 45 minutes to an hour … we had multiple moments.

Justin: Longest meal?

Todd: Longest? …

Justin: Based on what you can recall. This isn’t Watergate [or] Iran-Contra. You consider a meal more than eating. So …

Todd: [Half-heartedly] Some Thanksgiving around my parent’s table … Fuck, I don’t know.

[Two mutual friends interrupted to berate us. Everyone goes on a tangent about dolphins, wherein the dolphins attempt to give helicopter tours of that volcano lava spout in Hawaii to bypass viewing restrictions. After they leave …]

Justin: I’ll ask again.

Todd: Start at the very beginning. The whole thing. We have to start over. Justin: Let’s see if there are different answers!

Todd: Nah …

Justin: Start and end locales of worst road trip?

Todd: I didn’t answer the meal one. I want to change it.

Justin: You can’t want to change it. I’m asking for a real response. Is there a longer one?

Todd: Yes. Pretty much every time we go to Chicago, me and my buddy Wes do a Louis C.K. “bang-bang”. Eat at a restaurant and go to another restaurant.

Justin: How can you physically do that? Todd: I’m a fat guy.

Justin: It’s off-putting. It’s a Roman gorging.

Todd: What do you mean? Justin: You should go to a vomitorium afterward.

Todd: That’s exactly what it is. You get to have multiple restaurants. You’ll kind of pace yourself … you’ll split a pizza at one restaurant and then split a pizza at another. You’ll have a sandwich and won’t order fries, then you’ll go have tacos.

[Indecipherable disagreement]

Justin: So it takes hours?

Todd: Chicago lunches, where you want –

Justin: Can we call it the ‘Chicago Lunch’?

Todd: Yeah … It sounds gangster-ish, or a guy with a typewriter –

Justin: Chicago has [pause] … a bigness. Big shoulders. Big hot dogs. Okay – start and end locales of the worst trip you’ve ever been on? The start and end, even if it’s within the same city.

Todd: Chicago to Omaha.

Justin: Favorite bus rider archetype?

Todd: My most liked? Favorite? Or the most character? Justin: Your favorite. The one – let me say this – the one when they come on the bus and in your head you’re like, ‘Alright.’ You know they’re going to –

Todd: Bring something to the environment. [Pauses] I don’t like any of those people. I sit there. I say ‘Hi’ to the bus driver.

Justin: You are a type of person on the bus. Don’t deny that. Distinctly. You might be the majority of the type of people on the bus, the person who just sits there and tries to mind their own damned business and looks at their phone too much.

Todd: I try not to look at my phone. Look out the window, look at the world going by. That’s what people used to do.

Justin: Bring a book? Todd: I like people who bring a book because it’s old school and it takes a certain amount of discipline, to hold [onto] and it’s not that comfortable.

Justin: I’m less nervous about dropping the book than I am the phone.

Todd: No one seems worried about dropping their phone. Nobody cares about that, they’ve got it out all the time.

Justin: Favorite bus rider archetype?

Todd: I don’t have a favorite bus rider archetype.

[Dual muttering]

Todd: There’s this guy who’s been on my 15 morning bus in a wheelchair and he thinks he’s being a smart ass, but he’s not funny at all. He’s got comments for everyone getting on or off. Comments to the rider about traffic. It’s just bullshit. It’s not entertaining, it’s not funny and he does it in an unapologetic way.

Justin: This is the vapid version of the ‘Fuck You’. There’s importance … in sarcasm, like we had talked [about] before, to be self-effacing and to laugh. It’s not to be mean.

Todd: You’re laughing at the absurdity of the world. It’s someone you bring into a circle. You don’t really make fun of someone you don’t care about. This person on the bus – he’s so not-funny and un-clever. People roll their eyes.

[We continued on a string about the vileness of Jimmy Fallon – “look at me, aren’t I being cute” – that unfurls near the reason Alejandro Jodorowsky put the second-to-last scene in “The Holy Mountain” in a Mexican restaurant. Fifteen minutes later, we are off for final beers amid the careless music of a public Sunday night.]

Part Four

Burnheart’s bar in Milwaukee, for the finish. Central topics included the status of his forthcoming second novel, “Spend It All”, as well as compulsion; a character named Smoke; and Todd’s father, gone during his youth from a drowned liver.

Justin: Okay, the book. The book?

Todd: The book is done.

Justin: Book is done.

Todd: The book is done. Polished. I finished it in August of ’15 and this second-slash-third draft was done about six months later. So, almost a year.

Justin: In thinking about how you put together the first novel, what were a substantive difference or two in the collection and finishing of this [second] one.

Todd: I didn’t have any idea what I was doing with the first one. I had slightly more idea with the second one.

Justin: I mean … I think I’d be right in saying there was a relief in finishing the first one? That you had this hanging out there and you had to finish it, not just that it was a first novel?

Todd: Totally. The first one was definitely a feeling that I had to absolutely do this for the sake of my own being, my own mental state, my own spiritual fulfilment. There was a feeling as I was getting close to the end where, no matter what, [I] have to stay alive until it’s done. It becomes such an obsession – they both had this, but the first one especially – where I’d think ‘I don’t know if I can take this trip and then the plane goes down but the book’s not done yet’ –

Justin: It was an act of consideration throughout your [daily] life?

Todd: ‘What if this plane goes down?’

Justin: You’d get in a car. That’s kind of short-sighted.

Todd: It’s not logical whatsoever.

Justin: You’d eat so much in Chicago that you choke on your own tongue, but –

Todd: I’ve had a lot of practice. I’m not going to choke on my tongue. … The second book felt more like I had gotten the first one out of the way and now I can make one that’s actually kind of good. [Pauses] You hope you’re moving forward as an artist. You never want to get comfortable or get in a place where your best work is behind you. It’s got to feel better or else you’re not doing it right. Moving forward, it was the thought, I can take what I built in the first one and I can make this one … more outlined and more of an actual novel. Thought through, not as – the first one was completely on the fucking fly. … I didn’t even know how it started and then I didn’t know where it’d go next. It just kept happening. This second one, I had an idea, a beginning and an end, some type of arc. That’s the type of thing novelists think, right?

Justin: [Pauses] There was some part of the first book where I thought it was strong … innocent, almost journal quality, where the main character [points at Todd] didn’t know where they fuck he was going. Todd: I appreciate that.

Justin: I’m not trying to forsake you with the new book. But you have more of an arc – what’s your brand at this point? [laughs at self, ugh] – no, uh … what would you say to introduce someone to what happens in this [second] book?

Todd: Originally, I had the notion of writing a novel that was “Leaving Las Vegas” based on the food of Buffalo. I wanted to write a Buffalo book and a book about the Bills. And every time I go back to Buffalo, eating … the food of your hometown … the home cooking nostalgia people have but now you only have one, maybe two weekends a year to eat like that. And death, being my other major obsession, it just seemed like it fit. In Buffalo, every time, I just eat like a total asshole. It doesn’t make any sense. I’m never hungry when I’m in Buffalo but I’ll definitely have more food. Regardless of appetite, it’s illogical.

Justin: I was astounded when you went to Jim’s SteakOut after dinner [during a December trip]. During a snowstorm.

Todd: Ah, the snowstorm. It was magical.

Justin: The snow warning sign that’s covered in snow so you don’t know where to park.

[Nostalgic pause]

Justin: You sent the chapter link … for “Spend It All”. There’s the swearing at your grandma, there are the tangents, lots of tangents, which I always appreciate. Because directness is bullshit.

Todd: Tangents are the point. Why would you stop explaining shit? Always go on tangents … it seems out of style. Everything is texting, tweets, very direct. ‘Isn’t there an acronym for that?’ … ‘I don’t have time to hit the shift button and capitalize the start of this sentence.’

Justin: Well, you’re not moving to the fucking woods. There’s more communication, those are just shitty forms for some things.

[We go on a lame tangent that misses the even more lame point of email. More than three minutes later …]

Justin: The term ‘Smoke’ in that excerpt, I liked. It’s capitalized and mysterious. Smoke, of course, you smoke, so it could mean endless Marlboros, but few things exemplify ambiguity better. Smoke comes from somewhere but you don’t know where or [from] what, immediately. It obscures. It’s natural. It has a morning equivalent in fog, when the morning doesn’t want you to see reality, which we already have a tenuous grasp on. … Could you talk about that term and more on the importance of ambiguity – writing to write and figuring out the rest later?

Todd: Ummm … Smoke is a character. He smokes a lot.

Justin: Makes sense.

Todd: I had not thought a lot about –

Justin: You use it in that excerpt where it seems like it could be part of other things, a character or something you put in your pocket.

Todd: Quite vague. Smoke and smoking is so tied up, to me, in being stupid, my early-to-mid 20s. Still is, a problem that has to be gotten over. Much like the character named Smoke, it’s got an inability to live on [its] own. You romanticize smoke [Smoke?] because you’re not mature or successful enough to live on your own. So there has to be this other person in your life. … Smoking is contemplative, meditative, and it seems to indicate a time in your life. For me, it was when I was in my early 20s – I knew I was going to quit [at some point] – when there was a time to about the end of my life or serious matters …

Justin: It would seem, if I can interrupt again, counter to the obsession with death.

Todd: It’s a reconciliation between those two things. Death being there, but needing to live for today that much more. Completely clichéd, but that’s what we’re dealing with, if you’re cognizant at all. From the time you’re an adult through your 20s. [Pauses] I don’t know if I’m answering your question.

Justin: You are. I’m asking you to clarify ambiguity, which is a bullshit question to begin with. To me it was important to acknowledge that [ambiguity] exists. That writing exists as a way to flesh out your idea of the world, to … find yourself and if you’re writing, someone else finds out about you.

Todd: The duality of finding yourself and also losing yourself. Self destruction being a huge part of self-actualization, whatever term you want to use when you become yourself in the best possible sense. So much of the late teens/early 20s, is research. Destroying yourself, in a way, and maybe not going all the way, maybe wanting to.

[Onto a dueling rant on the lesser recognized heroism of busting your ass in a kitchen so that you can be a musician. Then, a tangent on whether or not animals other than humans understand their own mortality. Another lap around the reasons Styx and Journey blow. Eventually, back to something resembling an interview …]

Justin: On the compulsion thing … James Baldwin – “Any writer, I suppose, feels that the world into which he was born is nothing less than a conspiracy against the cultivation of his talent – which attitude certainly has a great deal to support it. On the other hand, it is only because the world looks on his talent with such a frightening indifference that the artist is compelled to make his talent important.” I brought this up … what is it that compels you to continue to write and document?

Todd: Jeez … What am I doing with my life?

Justin: And why aren’t you as good as James Baldwin?

Todd: ‘Shouldn’t you be better by now?’

Justin: Okay, to clarify, there is a compulsion … to do something that will be seen and judged by other people, but that is one of the things that you can’t stand or understand. What is it to you, then, that you make something that other people, hopefully, will see and judge and doubt? If you’re a person who appreciates someone who comes back to you and says ‘Fuck You’ and laughs with you, what is it to have a compulsion where you want other people to stare at your craziness?

Todd: There’s a dichotomy of writers wanting to be the person left alone in a library, in a quiet corner, to write down their thoughts, combined with wanting to be the center of attention and recognized for their smartness and greatness.

Justin: You took the steps to want to be published.

Todd: Well, yeah, my buddy Ron, after the [first] book came out, he said ‘You’ve got a lotta balls to hang yourself out there like that.’ It’s not anything I even think about because it’s so hard, but that’s the entire point. You have to take that route. Much of my being reserved and being a quiet observer – definitely not the center of attention – means you can’t think about [the attention] or getting wrapped up in that part. You have to fucking try and try to be honest, honestly try. No matter what and get over it. When my shit gets published, I never look at it again because I can’t bear the sight of it. I hate it. Riddled with insecurity. … It’s a Sisyphus thing because I am compelled to know that I tried. I’m driven by the sense of my mortality and wanting to rebel against it in every way possible. It comes from having an obsession with death, ingrained throughout my entire life. That my father died when I was 6-years old. It’s always been a huge part of me and a greater part of me than I can understand. But it’s in the back, I’ve always known and … accepted it in a way? Or always thought about it.

Justin: I don’t want to stab into an open, removed tooth, but there’s some sins of the father thing here. You’re a bit of a glutton, you’re a bit of a drinker and your dad, it’s understood, was a historic drinker.

Todd: He died when he was 39-years old from complications from alcoholism, more or less. To die that young from drinking you’d have to have a serious drinking problem. There’s also a thing from dying of alcoholism at a super-young age, it’s romanticized, something rock star about it. Which is bullshit, but there’s something cool about it.

Justin: He looked cool in the pictures you had at your wedding.

Todd: So does Jimi Hendrix. When you’re the son of someone like that and you’ve romanticized your father, as most young men or boys do – as much as you hate your dad – he’s what you want to become or not want to become. He’s heroic … I assume. Right?

Justin: I don’t know.

Todd: There have to be ways you’re proud of your dad that you can’t even begin to put into words.

Justin: No, without question … yes. I was someone that was – my parents were crazy young when they had me. I never had a Superman thing with my father and I never had a nonstop obsession with personal death. I have had a thought of the end of the world, everyone dying. I think about that all the time, even before the recent [presidential] election. Destroyed in a bomb, natural disaster, everybody dies. … Back to the dad thing, my parents were young, I was around, watching my sisters when I was 12. [My parents] were around me and drinking, younger than my age now. They’re my parents but they were kids. I’ve been terribly fascinated to ask you more about [your dad].

Todd: I like talking about it … People find out about my dad and they assume out of respect or to protect themselves that I don’t want to talk about it. Nobody brings it up. The last thing they want to do is be the guy who brings up [my] dead father. Even more present in the front of my mind is my best friend died when we were both 25. That was the thing that really drove it home. ‘You have to fucking do this and you have to do it now.’ It’s something that pushes me every day. It snowballed – ‘You’re going to be hit by a bus tomorrow and be dead, motherfucker, what is your last thought going to be?’ At least I had my dream, had that dream fulfilled. Even if it wasn’t good. Those lines [in the books], that’s everything. It’s done. Sisyphus, in the most romantic way possible and it’s all I know how to do.

[Pretty soon, the night concluded with one more beer but not one more after that. Todd described Tom Waits describing a Charles Bukowski poem. It’s Sunday night and it’s time to separate and walk home by yourself even if this time you’re not so alone.]

Justin Kern is a nonprofit marketing manager and freelance writer. He’s had recent words published in Utne Reader, Milwaukee Record, Longshot Island and Belt Publishing’s, “Right Here, Right Now: The Buffalo Anthology”. His favorite bus rider archetype is the knock-off Curtis Sliwa type who is repeatedly apoplectic when he can’t get the bus pass reader to work in the first 65 swipes.

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