#sorry I sound like a wikipedia page

[randomwordzard]

because languages have regular derivational and inflectional strategies to increase productivity via recursion!! that's what languages DO otherwise it's not language!! :D

[stxrsniolo]

ㅤㅤ──── sorry doesn’t fix stupid ❞

ㅤㅤ♱ summary: inspired by this idea by the iconic @muwapsturniolo <3

chris knew he’d fucked up the second he saw y/n’s face that night; it wasn’t just a regular screw-up, like forgetting to text back or eating her leftovers, no, this was the kind of colossal, earth-shattering fuck-up that deserved its own wikipedia page.

her art gallery opening, her first solo exhibit, the one she’d been grinding for since she picked up a paintbrush, was the one night she’d asked him to show up for. not just show up, but be there, front and center, clapping like a proud boyfriend.

he’d promised. pinky-sworn, even, because she’d made him do it over tacos one night, laughing about how serious he looked. and what did he do? he ditched her for a sweaty, pointless pickup game with his loud-ass friends, rolling in three hours late with grass stains on his jeans and a goofy “my bad, babe” that didn’t even land.

y/n didn’t scream. she didn’t throw a drink in his face or call him out in front of her artsy friends sipping overpriced wine. she just stared at him, eyes cold as a freezer burn, and said, “get out.”

no inflection, no second chance, just a flat, final order. he tried to stammer something—an apology, an excuse—but she’d already turned back to some guy in a beret, laughing like chris was a ghost she’d exorcised. he slunk out, tail between his legs, and spent the next two hours pacing his room, replaying the look on her face and cursing himself for being so goddamn dumb.

by day two, she was gone. not just mad-gone, but gone-gone.

she’d packed a duffel bag, left his hoodie on the porch with a sticky note that said “donate this” in her neat, loopy handwriting, and blocked him on everything—phone, instagram, even spotify, which he didn’t know you could do.

he tried texting her from his buddy jake’s phone, but she’d sniffed that out too and sent back a single “lose this number” before blocking that one too.

chris was a mess: hair unwashed, living off stale doritos, staring at the ceiling like it’d tell him how to fix this. it didn’t. but around 2 am, fueled by a fifth red bull and a desperation he hadn’t felt since his dog ran away when he was nine, he decided to write her a letter. not a text, not an email—a real, old-school handwritten apology. he figured the effort would hit her in the chest, crack that icy wall she’d built.

he poured his heart out, ink smudging from his sweaty palms, and slid it under her door at dawn, praying she’d at least skim it.

she didn’t just skim it. she dissected it.

dear y/n,

i know i messed up. like, catastrophically. i don’t even have words for how sorry i am, but i’m gonna try anyway because you deserve that much.

[“catastrophically” is cute. did you borrow it from a thesaurus? also, “gonna” isn’t a word, genius. write “going to” like an adult. and “deserve that much”? vague. try harder.]

i should’ve been there for your gallery thing. it was your night, and i blew it so bad i hate myself for it.

[“gallery thing”? it’s an EXHIBIT, you absolute walnut. my literal blood, sweat, and tears went into it, and you call it a “thing”? “blew it” doesn’t cover it; you torched it, stomped on the ashes, and spit on the grave.]

i got caught up playing ball with the guys, and i lost track of time, and i know that sounds like a lame excuse, but it’s the truth.

[oh, wow, the truth? how noble. doesn’t make it less pathetic. your “guys” are a pack of overgrown toddlers. comma splice after “guys”—should be a period. basic grammar, chris.]

i’m an idiot. a complete moron. i don’t deserve you, not even a little, but i’m begging you to give me another chance because i can’t stand this.

[finally, some self-awareness. “moron” tracks—gold star for honesty. “begging” is a choice, though—kinda sad. also, “not even a little” is redundant. pick a lane.]

page two is where it gets real deep.

i stayed up all night thinking about how much you mean to me. you’re my everything, y/n, and i know i don’t say it enough.

[what are you, a soundcloud rapper? “everything” is lazy—name one specific thing or it’s just noise. and you don’t say it enough because you don’t show it, period.]

i remember the first time we met, at that coffee shop, and you spilled your latte on me and laughed, and i fell for you right then and there.

[run-on sentence, my guy. should be: “we met at that coffee shop. you spilled your latte on me and laughed.” also, i laughed because you squealed like a teakettle, i thought you’d cry.]

i can’t lose you over this. i’ll do anything—therapy, time management classes, hell, i’ll tattoo your name on my forehead if it proves i’m serious.

[“can’t” needs an apostrophe—can not, you caveman. therapy? you need a lobotomy. and a forehead tattoo? don’t tempt me to say yes just to watch you regret it.]

page three is me promising i’ll never let you down again. i swear on my life, on my mom’s life, on every stupid basketball i own.

[“never let you down again” is a bold lie since you’ve flaked 23 times, i’ve got receipts. “swear on my life” is dramatic and legally meaningless. also, your basketballs are trash—swear on something valuable.]

i love you. please, just talk to me. i’m dying here without you.

[comma after “please” is pointless—cut it. “i’m dying” is a you problem, not a me problem. and “talk to me”? i’d rather talk to my houseplant—it shows up when i need it.]

yours (if you’ll still have me),

chris

[“yours” is delusional at this point. parentheses in a signature? weird flex. also, sign it “christopher”—“chris” is too casual for this mess.]

y/n found the letter when she got home from a late-night diner run with her girls, still buzzing from fries and petty gossip about chris’s latest flop. she saw the envelope under her door, his messy handwriting scrawled across the front, and almost kicked it into the hallway trash chute, but curiosity—and maybe a tiny flicker of boredom—won out.

she grabbed a glass of pinot noir, plopped onto her couch, and tore it open. the first line alone made her snort. by page two, she was cackling, red pen in hand, slashing through his words like a professor grading a failing essay. she didn’t feel an ounce of guilt; chris had earned this, and she was too good at being petty to let it slide.

she spent an hour on it, sipping wine and muttering to herself.

“catastrophically? who does he think he is, shakespeare?” she circled every misspelling, every lazy contraction, every desperate plea, her notes dripping with sarcasm and shade. by the time she hit page three, her handwriting was a little loopy from the wine, but her spite was razor-sharp. she folded the letter back up, grabbed a neon pink post-it from her desk, and scribbled a reply that felt like a mic drop:

“hey christopher, your little sob story’s a trainwreck. grammar’s atrocious, logic’s nonexistent, and i’m not your therapist or your mommy. you wanna grovel? fine. rewrite this garbage and fix every single error i marked, make it coherent, and hand-deliver it under my door by tomorrow, 6 p.m. sharp. no typos, no excuses, no sad puppy eyes. if it’s halfway decent, i might unblock your sorry ass. might. clock’s ticking, clown. don’t test me.”

she taped the note to the envelope, strutted to his house three blocks away in her fuzzy slippers—because she wasn’t dressing up for this fool—and left it on his doorstep. she even knocked twice, loud, just to make sure he’d hear it and panic. then she walked off, smirking, already imagining him scrambling to meet her deadline.

chris, meanwhile, was sprawled on his couch, halfway through a bag of cheetos, when he heard the knock. he stumbled to the door, orange dust on his fingers, and saw the envelope. his heart jumped—maybe she’d forgiven him? then he read her note, saw the red ink bleeding through the pages, and groaned so loud his neighbor banged on the wall.

he opened it, skimming her edits, and felt his soul shrivel. “uncultured toaster”? “lobotomy”? she’d even counted his screw-ups—23 times? he didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or burn the letter and move to canada.

but chris was stubborn. and maybe a little masochistic.

he wiped his hands on his shirt, grabbed a fresh pen, and cracked open a notebook. he had 23 hours to rewrite the apology of his life—and he wasn’t about to let her win this round.

not yet.

︶ ͡ ۫ © stxrsniolo & eclipsturns's all rights deserved ! /ᐠ - ˕ -マ

ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ㅤ ⚡︎ ㅤ𝑀𝐘 𝓣𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ..! @courta13 @marrykisskilled @chrislova @sturnshood @inspiredangel @strnilolover @emely9274 @sturns-mermaid @ariieeesworld @pixie-sticks-are-good @luvjaeeee @sturnslutz @mattswifeyy @oopsiedaisydeer @v4lsturn @pair-of-pantaloons @idkwhatthisevenislol @sturn777 @whore4mattsturniolo @madifilipowiczisthebest @fratbrochrisgf @ivysturnss @mattsatellite @sturnsblogs @izzylovesmatt @allisonclairee @m4gz-png @mr-wrinkleton @bluestriips @surprisecurlyfriesbackup @immaqulate @wysmols @chrepsi @mattslolita @ribbonlovergirl @milo-the-dog @madisturni @ariestrxsh @myluck4u-com

[alessiasfreckles]

amnesia - part 6 (ona batlle x reader, alexia putellas x reader, ona batlle x alexia putellas)

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5

a/n: this is a short one, sorry! but the next chapter is coming and will be a lot longer x

-------

“We can’t tell her,” Alexia said after a moment of silence. “She’s only just started getting her memories back, I don’t want to overwhelm her. She’s already had to deal with so much in the past few weeks.”

“Fuck,” Ona repeated. “I should never have come here. I just got her to forgive me, to trust me again, and now this, fuck!”

“It’s okay,” Alexia said, trying to soothe the younger player. “It’ll be okay. We’ll figure it out.”

“How? I promised her, no more lying! She’ll never forgive us.”

“It’s not… lying, necessarily. It’s just not telling her something,” Alexia said, sounding like she was trying to convince herself of that fact just as much as she was trying to convince Ona. “Not telling isn’t the same as lying.”

“Mierda,” the brunette dragged her hands down her face. “This can’t happen again.”

---

You hadn’t heard anything from Alexia or Ona all day, which was a little odd, but you supposed that they were at training and it was to be expected that they couldn’t be on their phones 24/7. Still, you found yourself missing them, both of them. 

Plus, you were bored, and started to feel frustrated about all of the hazy spots in your memory. So, you did what anyone in your position would do and googled yourself. First you read through your wikipedia page, which, to be fair, you’d already done a couple of times since waking up. Nothing really stood out there, except for some lines under ‘Personal life’ that detailed your involvement in the LGBTQ+ community. 

Where else could you find out more about yourself? You deliberated for a minute before going on Twitter and searching your name - you had a hunch that you’d been told not to look yourself up on social media before, that it was something most players tried to avoid. Still, you figured that social media would probably give you some more information, even if it was just about what people thought of you.

Once the search loaded, your laptop was flooded with posts about your accident, people theorising about what had happened, how you were doing. Scrolling back a little, you found posts with pictures of you and Alexia at the café you’d gone to together, with captions talking about the two of you. Some of them speculated what you were doing, if you were dating - you had gathered that your relationship with Ona wasn’t public knowledge, although a lot of people liked to talk about whether or not you were together.

As you kept scrolling, you realised that there was a fairly large amount of people who were convinced that it was Alexia you were dating, not Ona. You looked at photos posted of the two of you, people gushing over the way you were looking at each other, the way Alexia would touch you, her hand on your shoulder, your arm. You saw countless edits of the two of you, snippets of videos where you were deep in conversation or laughing together, Alexia’s smile always directed at you.

For a brief moment you wondered why the two of you weren’t dating, why it was you and Ona, and then felt guilty for even having that thought. You loved Ona, you knew that, you could feel it throughout your body, permeating your bones. Still, the thought remained at the back of your mind, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.

By the time 4pm rolled around and Ona finally rang your doorbell, you were so bored and sick of your own thoughts you could scream. 

“Thank god you’re here,” you said as she came in. “I’m so bored I’m going to rip my hair out.”

“Oh, so you just want me around to keep you entertained?” Ona asked, a mischievous grin on her face. “I see how it is.”

“Yep,” you shrugged. “Gotta keep things interesting somehow, you know?”

Ona swallowed down the guilt rising in her throat as she thought about that morning. She couldn’t let you know anything had happened. It wasn’t going to happen again. It was a one-off, a mistake. “What have you been up to today?” she asked brightly.

Your stomach twisted as you thought about the videos of you and Alexia. “Not much,” you quickly said. “I looked myself up online a bit, but there’s only so many times I can read my own wikipedia page before I start to feel like a narcissist.”

Ona laughed, not questioning your day’s activities any further, and the wave of relief you felt was tinged with shame.

[aesthetictarlos]

🍯 + bucktommy 🥰

Janai 💖 I'm sorry it took me a while to write something about this. Thank you for the ask ✨

Buck loves that Tommy's a bookaholic. He's never been an enthusiastic book reader - he prefers his Wikipedia deep dives - but Tommy has a huge bookshelf filled with books of various genres and there's always a book on his nightstand.

What he likes the most about Tommy's hobby is that his boyfriend looks so hot when he's reading. He's always hot but when he's engrossed in a book he's even hotter, wearing his reading glasses and making those almost imperceptible facial expressions as he's surprised or fascinated by the scene he's reading.

After almost a year together, they're so comfortable around each other that they often do different activities while hanging out together on the couch. They always find a way to be close, whether it is Tommy's fingers through Buck's hair or Buck's feet in Tommy's lap. Tommy's almost as tactile as Buck is so even when he's focused on his book, he gives Buck attention.

Today is different. Tommy's eyes are fixed on the pages, one of his hands holding the book and the other curled around Buck's ankle. It's not moving tho and Buck knows, he knows he's being overdramatic but his boyfriend hasn't cuddled or glanced at him for at least fifteen minutes. So, like the adult he is, he starts poking at his thigh, at his side, wherever he can reach with his foot.

"What's, up, honey?" Tommy asks, holding back a giggle as Buck's foot catches on a ticklish spot on his side.

"You're ignoring me," Buck says, pouting.

"I'm not," Tommy replies, looking at him over the black frame of his glasses. "I'm right here with you, I'm literally touching you," he points out, squeezing Buck's ankles. He sounds amused and endeared.

"Should I fight with that book to have your attention? I can't maim a book, Tommy."

Tommy snorts, shaking his head. "You're such an idiot," he says, then puts his book down and gestures for him to scoot over. He huffs exaggeratedly when Buck plops onto his lap, clinging to him like a koala to an eucalyptus. "Better now, honey?"

"Yeah, I missed you. I love you."

"Me too, you dork."

[bmpmp3]

wait sorry im still on this shit swan lake breakbeat in the space monte cristo anime is such an inspired choice i need to hueylewisandthenews a little about it

1:50 the hit with syncing with the orchestral line is nuts 2:20 has a great synth keyboard chord line 2:50 and im honestly just a sucker for music that goes between electronic and analogue like this so the bits of the raw original ballet piece is great for the textural switch up 4:30 another good synth layer :) 5:40 ish they start layering the raw ballet samples over the drums and such in this like super discordant way thats a really good build up into 6:20 the craziest hook of 1877!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i love ending off the drum line like that into the original orchestral piece right at part of swan lake that makes you go

man im listening to the gankutsuou ost since its been years and i forgot about this track. space alien giant mecha robot battles count of monte cristo. WITH jungle!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[koscheys-skull]

Bullying, Mean, and Honest Truths About Spirituality

Under the cut is an honest and crude description based off of my own bias and opinion of new people joining Spiritual practises, the occult, or seeking magic and mysticism.

So you want to start practising the Occult.

You are drawn to the idea of Mysticism, Magic, the Occult, and “Witchcraft”. Let me say that again, but louder.

You.

Are Drawn.

To the IDEA Of Mysticism, Magic, the Occult and “Witchcraft.

A lot of people like the idea of pets.

Pets are fun! You get a cat or a dog and they hang around and you imagine yourself going for long walks or hikes with a canine companion, or sitting at home and enjoying the company of a furry feline. Maybe it isn’t a dog or a cat or a common household pet. Maybe you want a bird! They are fun, right?

You see people on the internet through videos on whatever platform you’re wasting your hours on. You fantasize about what you would do or have. You spend hours entertaining this fantasy while looking at everyone else’s lives and situations.

You are drawn to the idea of something.

And then you ignore the important detail that these things require work, time, and dedication.

The Occult is just like people and pets.

There’s more people that i know that should not have pets than people that I know are responsible pet owners.

This, for me, is the same with the occult. Only, if you choose to neglect the Occult practise you claim to be drawn to, there isn’t really a penalty like a vet bill or a dead creature that you were supposed to be responsible for, for your negligence.

“Oh, I’ll just pick a “class” like an RPG and I’ll roll with it.”

Will you though? Will you dedicate the time and energy to do research on the subject matter you claim to be interested in? And not only will you give it the time and energy to just begin with the research, but will you also put in the dedication to put it into practice?

Be realistic with yourself. What are you actually going to do? Are you capable of maintaining routines and managing yourself and keeping up with the demands of the occult? Or are you just whimsically interested in it because it sounds “cool” and you had some friends in school that played with some tarot cards so now you think you’re a witch.

Let’s pretend you do actually have the self control and discipline to dedicate yourself to a spiritual path and practise. Let’s pretend you have that kind of integrity (but let’s be honest, you and I both know that’s a load of wash.)

Most likely, you’re coming from an Abrahamic Background, aren’t you? In the least, you’ve spent a lot of your life surrounded by vaguely misshapen ideas of “some sort of binary system where there’s good and bad spirits” or something or another and demons might be a thing? You don’t really know. But you took a class once that talked about Greek and Roman gods or maybe the Norse and Celtic gods, so you know there’s Gods out there! So that’s a START! Let’s go!!!!!!!!

You can just pick a god and run with it, right? Like, who cares? Just pick what makes you go “Yeah that’s neat and cool. I’ll take this out for a spin.” and pretend that you’re somehow deeply connected to this being. You read something or another about this deity or this pantheon at some point or another (or something like that). Just google search and read the Wikipedia page and waste a few more hours on it till you’re a Reddixpert on it! You have everything you need and a few days later you throw down a candle and incense and you’re blown away by feeling a strong connection to this god! HOLY COW! It’s working?! Let’s face it, you’ve not been connected to anything at all in your self obsessed life for a long time. So you think it’s “Special” when you get an answer. It’s not.

Sorry, sugar. You’re not special. You’re not a little special little sugar plum fairy that is adored by the gods. Because, believe it or not, you have to build relationships. But not just that, you’ve just pulled a “White Person” move. Most likely, you didn’t consult with or have any discussions with practitioners of the ethnicity and belief system you are interested in. Nor did you research the culture and how the religious and spiritual beliefs of those people manifest. I would suggest you learned some or a little bit or even all of the language of the people that the religion belonged to, but let’s be honest again with one another, you don’t have that in you for sure. You chose to take a God from a Pantheon and chose to take it entirely out of context. Congratulations! You pulled a White Colonialism Move so good that you took it to a spiritual level!

What? You thought you could just pick whoever from wherever and just rip them out of their culture, place, language, and people and water it down till it suited you? What is this, Wicca?

It might be! If this sounds like your idea of fun, check out Wicca. They’re full of it. You have gods from across all seas (Except for some reason the Pacific? Not sure if it’s a weird Asian racism problem or if they’re just focusing on everything the British Empire stole from) being Shipped together like smutty fanfiction. It’s insane. Anubis and the Morrigan are having babies every year, I guess, and their child, who’s always a Son, is the next Cernunnos who is also Pan but also Hades and also is Thor every third life (or something, I don’t know I’m not Wiccan).

What, you didn’t think that you actually had to respect a culture and the people that a religion belongs to? What are you, a pilfering bandit? There’s a right way and a wrong way to do these things. But what’s important is that you have to be honest.

Yeah that’s a big word. “Honesty”.

How honest are you with yourself? How true are you to what you think you can achieve and accomplish? Are you really going to read all of those books and write notes and document things? Are you really going to make a whole entire lifestyle change that surrounds and accommodates the culture, belief systems, and structures of a culture’s religion and beliefs? Are you? Are you really? If you make the change, are you going to commit to the change? Or, in a few weeks or months are you going to revert right back to the way you’ve always lived your life?

Again. This is the difference between enjoying the idea of something versus actually doing the work. And that is what the occult is. It is work.

Work. Work. Work. Work. Work. It is putting you on the grindstone and making you both rethink, reshape, and re-evaluate your entire being. It is going to make you uncomfortable. It is going to challenge you. It is meant to help you grow and be better. And growth doesn’t happen when you’re being spoon fed off of a lace spoon. Your idea of what things are is going to be challenged.

That’s another word that has a tendency to throw people out of the Occult. Challenge.

If you’re new to the Occult, you’re going to have to learn a critical skill that, in my opinion, very few possess.

Everyone wants to be “right”. It sucks when you’re wrong. How well do you handle it when someone corrects you. Let’s be honest. It’s awkward. It’s embarrassing. Everyone wants to be right. YOUR PRIDE IS SENSITIVE DAMNIT!

You’re a sensitive snowflake and you need to be swaddled in soft cashmere and reassured that you’re perfect because of course you are, sugar-pie.

But we have to touch some grass and live in reality. Yeah, I know the occult feels like you’re indulging a fantasy, but it’s not. Spiritual practises and spiritual beliefs are real things that have real people of many different cultures and languages and walks of life. And these practises are not just little badges and stickers you can throw on a water bottle and make yourself feel like a “Validated Witchy Bitch, Baby! ‘Cause we’re Feminist and COOL.”

(And by the way, you are not “The Daughters of the Witches you Couldn’t Burn”. Get fucked, you uneducated slut.)

You are going to have to approach everything, and yes I mean everything, with the air of caution in your heart and mind that says “Maybe I do not know what I am talking about.”

This is almost impossible for some (haha just kidding it’s pretty much everyone. I’m guilty of failing at this sometimes myself), to approach everything that someone says with an air of “Maybe this person knows more than me.”

When you engage with other people and you give them the space to speak about a subject that they are educated in, always be open. You must be so open that you automatically assume that you know nothing about the subject that someone is going to educate you on. Assume you have no education at all. And then listen. Yeah, I said it. You have to listen.

Listening??? To someone else??? Telling you what’s what???? Are you kidding me? What is this, a Learning Experience?

Yes, Yes it is you poor summer child. It is a learning experience. And if you can’t be bothered to learn and to try and learn then you’re not going to make it.

And if you can’t be bothered to listen, to read, to do work, to give effort, and to re-evaluate yourself constantly, you are not going to make it.

So make the choice.

Commit. Or walk away.

No one is going to think poorly of you for admitting that you’re not cut out for this.

But everyone. Everyone you interact with that is a real practitioner with a real lifestyle that encompasses their spiritual practise (because, surprise! The spiritual and the Mundane are intertwined in a very close and intimate way for practitioners) will be able to sniff you out from a mile away and know that you’re not worth your own salt.

It’s okay to be “casual” in some circumstances. It’s okay to be “subtle” or to follow paths that are more accommodating to your needs. That’s fine. Don’t get me wrong. This is a high energy and very taxing experience. There are paths that are accommodating to your needs and your degree or spoons, your laziness, or your life conditions. (I’m inclusive, dammit. Some people are disabled. Some are just fucking lazy. Some are kids with a fantasy fetish. I don’t know. I don’t care. Figure out which you are and make choices like an adult).

But don’t go picking a path or integrate yourself to a spiritual lifestyle that has high demands or you cannot adhere to. Not only is it disrespectful to the culture, the people, and the beings involved. But it’s not good for yourself, either. You will not benefit from the experience. You won’t make it anywhere and you’ll be left constantly feeling like a failure because you cannot accommodate the demands of a lifestyle and belief system that has expectations that are outside of your parameters to accommodate.

But back to YOU! Because let’s be honest, this is mostly about YOU. Everything is mostly about you and yourself. That’s just how a massive amount of people think. Which isn’t wrong, don’t get me wrong. But you have to be Self Aware. (I know most of you are not self aware. Get over it). When you set yourself up with all these fantastical expectations and then nothing progressive and fantastic happens with your practise, it is mostly because you failed to follow through with your own work. Something happened along the way where you struggled for some reason or another and you didn’t have the discipline and the integrity to keep up with something. And that feeling sucks. You feel “Let Down” by the Occult. But you let yourself down. In some way shape or form, you let yourself down. Because everything is about you, this means you have to be responsible for YOU. Yeah. I said it. You have to be responsible for yourself. No one’s wiping your Spiritual Ass for you. You have to do your own work and wipe your own spiritual butthole, and that also means cleaning up your own spiritual messes and doing the spiritual work and dedicating the time and dedicating the energy and making the changes to your life you need to make and then committing to them. It’s all Change, baby! And if you can’t handle change, then you can’t handle commitment to the occult.

And that’s okay! If you can’t handle some things, then DON’T FUCKING DO THEM?????

Maybe step away from that. And yeah, it’s okay to “try” some things to a degree. But please. For the love of fuck, approach them with the respect, dignity, and understanding that they deserve. Always approach a practise (And 99% of all practises have roots in SOME sort of ethnic culture!) with the respect it deserves. Do your best to adhere to those cultures and their beliefs and be as strict as you can while accommodating those traditions. They’re called “Traditions” for a reason. Treat them like they are sacred because they are. I shouldn’t have to explain to people that “Traditions of Spiritual Cultures are Sacred”, yet this post is being made because, quite clearly, this is a common issue.

I’m not “Gatekeeping” anything by saying this. I’m telling you to explore as much as you can. But when you do so, don’t explore different spiritual practises and traditions like the tourists that make the locals want to commit a homicide. Which is how so many people getting into the occult treat Traditions they are exploring.

You want to be a good and a welcome guest. You can’t just trample whatever you feel like because you’re too self centred with your selfie stick in Greece to be aware that you’re disrupting people trying to live their daily lives. The locals should want you. Try to connect to the people and their language and culture. Don’t just stand in their ways and think their society should accommodate you because you’re visiting.

It is okay if something turns out that it isn’t for you. Be honest about it. Be respectful about it. Thank the people and the culture and those gods for their time for being Gracious Enough to Host you. And then move on. A little respect goes a long, long way.

The Occult and Spiritual practises opens the way for you to re-think everything that you believe and to apply new ideas, beliefs and principles to yourself to help you grow and explore yourself and your connection to people and places with deeper understanding.

Be honest.

Be open.

You have to grow. And if you are interested in the Occult, Spirituality and Mysticism, get ready because there’s going to be so many growing pains.

And if you can’t handle that,

Then why are you here?

[hyperpotamianarch]

Hello. Today, I'd like to make some random anecdotes about Rabbi Avraham Ibn Ezra - poet, commentator, linguist, mathmatician, probably not too bad at chess and cursed to be poor for the entirety of his life.

After a cursory look at his wikipedia page, I must admit I didn't really know much about his life: only that he was born and raised in Spain, went travelling, had terrible luck with everything, wrote his commentaries on the Torah for money (which I think didn't help with the "cursed to be poor" thing), befriended Rabbenu Tam in France, possibly married the daughter of Rabbi Yehudah HaLevi and promptly died... somewhere... oh, and also wrote lots of poetry in the middle.

Historically speaking, he lived at the end of the Golden Age of Judaism in Spain, around the 11th-12th centuries CE. This puts him right after Rashi - which allows him to snark at everything he thinks Rashi was wrong about, but before Rambam - which means he doesn't get to snark at everything Rambam got wrong. His commentary on the Torah leans a little towards the linguistic side, though he has a couple of other things going on as well, like roasting people he disagrees with (Ben Zuta is the only friend a bull has, anyone?) and dancing around verses he thinks were added later to the Torah, like every time it says "to this very day".

He also wrote one of the first math books in Hebrew - Sefer HaMispar, he wrote a poem about chess, one about how whatever he'll work at he won't get enough money. And generally, he wrote poems. Quite a lot.

I suppose at this point I should mention something: Hebrew linguists were, at the middle ages, predominantly Sepharadi. I mean, sure, there could be a non-Jewish Hebrew linguist, but for some reason I don't hear much about those. And there probably were Ashkenazi linguists, but there weren't many of them. Rashi does deal with linguistics - but half the time he does, it's using the books of two famous Sepharadi linguists. The Sepharadim, living in Muslim lands as they were, simply had a better background with learning Hebrew, since they were surrounded by speakers of a closely related language - Arabic. And Ibn Ezra's deep understanding of Hebrew led to him loving linguistic riddles, which I can never figure out - and I was reading an eddition with footnotes! Though maybe I didn't make enough effort or something.

But no, the reason I wanted to talk about Ibn Ezra was the impossible standards for poetry, as set by Sepharadi poets. You see, Jews were always influenced by their surroundings, in multiple facets. and poetry is definitely one of them. So, the influence from Arab poets includes strict rules for rhythm and - and this is what I actually wanted to talk about - rhyming.

The rythm thing is bad enough. Only once in my life have I tried keeping up with that. It was very, very hard. It's probably because I'm not used to this, but no song I write can keep a consistent rhythm and meter, and that's without trying to apply the standard Sepharadic rules. So trying to have such a strict meter... didn't work well for me. I guess I'm the frenchman from

וּמִי הֵבִיא לְצָרְפַתִּי בְּבֵית שִׁיר,

וְעָבַר זָר מְקוֹם קֹדֶשׁ וְרָמָס;

וְלוּ שִׁיר יַעֲקֹב יִמְתַּק ��ְּמוֹ מָן,

אֲנִי שֶׁמֶשׁ, וְחַם שִׁמְשִׁי וְנָמָס.

which was actually written about Rabenu Tam, but I'm a distant relative of his so this might still be applicable. Besides, as far as you know my name is Ya'akov, just like Rabenu Tam! (Sorry for not providing a translation, the gist is "how dare a frenchman trample all over poetry?!")

But rhymes. Oh, the Ibn Ezraic rhyming standards.

According to Ibn Ezra, one must always rhyme with the entire syllable. So no, just the last sound isn't enough. In Ibn Ezra's book, rhyme and dime don't actually rhyme - though I don't think he'd care about English at all. For the Ibn Ezra, shor and ḥamor can't be rhymed with each other; shor can rhyme with Mishor, and ḥamor can rhyme with har hamor, but you can't rhyme any other pair of those with each other. And I can't stay up to this challenge. It's nearly always impossible for me to find proper words to rhyme even without the extra demand for the rhyme to be the entire syllable. With English I don't think I even bothered or ever will. You have too many weird syllables for me. But with Hebrew... I do try with Hebrew, really. But I can't keep this up. And the most frustrating thing? It doesn't appear other Ashkenazi writers had this problem.

Now we get to the interesting part. I have been trying lately a new possible format for my very-anticipated-and-definitely-not-only-I-want-it Jewsade fanfic: introduction, preface and Haskamot to books. I just really enjoy reading prefaces for books, and one of my recent favourite pieces of writing is the conclusion piece of the Vilna edition of the Babylonian Talmud. If you're interested - it can be found in most editions of the Talmud at the very end of Masechet Nidah. The piece describes the trouble they went through to publish this edition of the Talmud and it's very interesting. Another favourite piece of mine is the preface of the Levush, a slightly obscure Halachic book from the time of the Shulchan Aruch. If you've ever seen me talk about the race to Halacha - this is my source for that, because the poor author was upstaged about three to four times by other people doing exactly what he planned on doing. I highly recommend this piece as well, though I don't know how easy it is to find. And the Levush - Rabbi Mordechai Yeffe - is a nice Ashkenazi guy. So he must be more lenient with his rhymes, right?

Well, I guess I didn't establish that part. Yes, the preface to the Levush starts with a poem. It's fun. It's great. It's also up to the Ibn Ezraic standard, while my attempt to write an equivalent is... not.

Huh. This post is oddly rambly. Ah well, maybe someone will like it. Anyway, the preface portion that really takes the cake is actually one from a fairly recent obscure book - like, this one was written barely a century ago. I only found it because one of my favourite singers, Aharon Razel, made a song out of it, but the song doesn't really capture the hilarity of the piece. Do ask me if you want to hear more, this one's great.

Signing off with a "darn you, Ibn Ezra! Why must you set such high standards!"

[bellafemme]

Artists who blatantly copy Lana Del Rey with no originality.

1 - Remy Bond.

Remy blatantly copying Lizzy Grant.

Remy coping Lana in concert too.

Lanaboards destroyed her in their thread.

Some tea on Remy and her upbringing from a follower who reblogged my post!

2 -Saint Avangeline.

Some songs she's done covering Lana: Every Man Gets His Wish, Brooklyn Baby, Young and Beautiful, High By The Beach and Shades of Cool. She's done her own "original" songs but they also sound like Lana. Songs like Lilith is a complete copy of Lana's song Ultraviolence. Her album Gardener of Eden sounds like anything from Ultraviolence or Honeymoon. Saint Evangeline nowadays is doing heavy metal music. She's erased anything Lana related off her Instagram and Youtube playlists, but some of her Lana covers have remained on Youtube.

Places like Reddit have brought up Saint Evangeline's blatantly coping Lana. They brought it up Twice.

3 - Nessa Barrett

American Jesus. Heartbreak in the Hamptons. God's Favorite.

Lana brought her up on stage once, angering Lana's fanbase. At least Lana is aware of her. So did Reddit. Twice.

4 - Ocean Leclaire.

This artist has morphed into Lana over time. She started as a folky Florence Welch but now is doing more 'Lana' in sound and look. An obvious Lana fan too.

Notable Mentions:

Camilla Cabello.

An entire monolugue music video in the style of Lana Del Rey. When Lana saw the video her reaction was "what the hell."

Taylor Swift.

Taylor not only copied the monologue style like Lana, but she hired Lana's ex-boyfriend Reeve Carney to play her boyfriend.

Taylor also had the same chorus vocal melodies as Lana's song "Without You" for her song "Wildest Dreams." The song and music video was very reminiscent to Lana's visuals. Parts of another Taylor video was similar to Lana's music video Summertime Sadness, especially the silhouette scenes. There's was also the brunette wig and glamour look.

Holly Macve.

Lana is actually a fan of Holly's. Lana and Holly sang together for Holly's song Suburban House. Holly is not a exact copy and paste of Lana Del Rey as the other girlies I mentioned, but she's obviously inspired by Lana.

Ethel Cain.

All you need to do is listen to Crush or American Teenager to hear Lana Del Rey's influence. The music videos were shot in a 90's amateurish way like Lana use to create her videos. The tone of the songs and imagery is reminiscent to Born To Die and Ultraviolence.

Fans were able to connect the dots and see that Ethel was greatly inspired by Lana. The press caught on too. Ethel didn't like that and began to edit her Wikipedia page as 'papermassacred' by removing any mention of Lana Del Rey in her Wikipedia page. Ethel went even further saying this about Lana during an interview:

Lana fans were pissed off when Ethel said this and I'm sure it got to Lana too. It's rumored that Lana wrote a diss track called 'All About Ethel' that hasn't been released yet.

Billie Eilish

Billie is only mentioned here for her immense admiration, influence and respect for Lana Del Rey. She is inspired by Lana but she is her own person. She's not putting bows in her hair, wearing a bouffant, dressing like Lana or directly copying Lana's songs or music videos. Lana invited Billie to her Coachella stage to sing Ocean Eyes and Video Games.

Kali Uchis

Kali's new album Sincerely sounds like it was inspired by Born To Die and Honeymoon. She sings a part of her song "Silk Lingerie" like Lana's song Million Dollar Man. This melody is a blatant rip off of Lana's vocal melody.

Addison Rae

Addison's new song Diet Pepsi is straight from Lana's playbook.

Halsey

Halsey's song New Americana has the same melodic chorus as Lana's song National Anthem.

Selena Gomez

Selena's song You Said You Were Sorry is straight from Lana's Ultraviolence playbook. They added the same Rick James scream in the background that Lana uses on her songs Blue Jeans and Born To Die.

[paperstorm]

From Somewhere in a Song, chapter posting tomorrow!

Thanks for the tags @captain-gillian @nisbanisba @carlos-in-glasses @henrygrass @everlastingday @carlossreaders @whatsintheboxmh @annoyingcloudearthquake and @strandnreyes <3

Chuckling, TK slides his tongue into Carlos’s mouth. He kisses like he’s trying to eat Carlos alive, like he wants to suck his soul out, like he regrets every moment they have to spend as two separate entities. He’s a hurricane, big and powerful and sweeping through Carlos’s quiet existence and levelling it to the ground. It permeates Carlos with all sorts of feelings that are probably entirely premature – his romantic heart skipping miles ahead of itself and imagining them in front porch rocking chairs when they’re 85. He doesn’t say any of it aloud, he’s not that stupid, but he thinks it.

There’s something magical in the way that TK touches him, in the way that Carlos feels as they’re tangled in hotel sheets together with their breath mingling and their hands and mouths exploring each other’s bodies.

“What does TK stand for?” he asks, the thought materializing out of nowhere but it striking him as funny that he doesn’t know.

“It’s not a secret. It’s on my Wikipedia page.”

“I’ve never Googled you.”

Making a faux-outraged sound, TK lightly pinches Carlos’s side. “Rude. I Googled you.”

“Sorry.” Carlos grins.

“Tyler Kennedy. But only my mom got to call me that,” he adds, pointing a threatening finger in Carlos’s face.

“Oh.” A tiny storm cloud of melancholy moves over them only for a moment. Almost subconsciously, Carlos’s thumb moves to stroke over the spot on TK’s hip where her name is embroidered on his skin in elegant cursive.

Then TK’s hands wander, touching Carlos’s arms and pecs and stomach and then one sliding down between them to cup him through his shorts. Carlos sighs, TK’s touch gentle and firm at the same time, slowly rubbing him to hardness as they kiss. He loves the feeling of it, growing hard in TK’s hand, his body responding only to this man’s touch.

“I thought you were gonna try to sneak back to your room before anyone notices you didn’t sleep there,” Carlos says with their foreheads touching. He’s not going to complain if TK’s rethought that plan, but they do have to consider that the little secret sex bubble they’ve been living in for a week will burst pretty quickly if any of their friends were to find out.

“Want me to go?” TK asks, slipping his hand past the waistline so he can curl his fingers around Carlos’s erection. He strokes slowly, wrist flicking, and Carlos bites at the inside of his cheek as his knees wobble.

No one has ever played him like a finely tuned instrument, no one has ever made him feel so at home in his body, no one has ever touched him like he’s something precious and worthy of worship. There’s something retroactively healing in it, Carlos would think if he had the time to stop and be introspective about it instead of just sprinting forward at full tilt. Memories sit like slowly expanding spots of mold, of times that Carlos took a chance and spent the night with someone only to leave in the morning second-guessing whether this is really what he was made for, because they didn’t make him feel the way TK does.

Holding them and kissing them and making love to them felt like going through the motions, physically satisfying enough but spiritually vacuous and a far cry from the fireworks he’d been promised by a million love songs. TK makes him feel like he’s lit up by fairy lights, like he’s taller than a mountain, like every action his body craves is because they’re exactly what it was designed to do.

“No,” he answers, nudging TK back towards the bed. Just the opposite, in truth. He wants TK to stay forever.

Tagging @theghostofashton @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @eclectic-sassycoweyes @carlos-in-glasses

@bonheur-cafe @actual-sleeping-beauty @herefortarlos @heartstringsduet @alrightbuckaroo

@goodways @lightningboltreader @emsprovisions @freneticfloetry @liminalmemories21

@reasonandfaithinharmony @ladytessa74 @never-blooms @sanjuwrites @orchidscript

@lemonlyman-dotcom @jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @honeybee-taskforce @hereghostslive

@just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian @tellmegoodbye @ironheartwriter

@butchreyes @anactualcaseofthetruth @ditheringmind @thisbuildinghasfeelings @whatsintheboxmh

@irispurpurea @nisbanisba @corsage @chicgeekgirl89 @nancys-braids

@carlossreaders @denizoid @everlastingday @rangersoup

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[leviathan-supersystem]

hi question are the electoral systems you’ve described in cuba etc structurally or functionally distinct from say parliamentary systems in capitalist countries regarding how higher level positions (eg prime minister/president) are selecting?

also how often are there situations where people at higher levels (eg prime minister/president) are elected out of office? do socialist countries withhold from use force or legal methods to prevent liberal candidates from gaining power like how american news usually describes it? (such as the recent election situation between maduro and guidao in venezuela)

sorry if this sounds like a gotcha i swear its not

there's certainly parallels! in both systems the head of state is chosen via indirect democracy, elected by either the parliament or in the case of the UK the majority political party in the common eledcts their leader, who is prime minister for as long ad they remain in the majority. in fact, on wikipedia vietnam and laos, both marxist-leninist nations, are listed on their "Parliamentary system" page, but not china or cuba, even though their political systems operate very similarly, which goes to show how much whether a country gets considered a "democracy" in the view of the west is more a matter of how threatening they are to the capitalist order rather than the actual facts of how democratic they are.

how often people at the higher levels are voted out depends on the country, depends on the time period. sometimes you see the usual revolving door of heads of state (soviet union after 1953, china from 1976 to 2013, vietnam through it's whole life) sometimes you see heated struggle between different people vying for the position of head of state (mao zedong vs liu shaoqi) and sometimes you see a competent popular head of state stay in their position for quite some time (castro, probably xi going forward).

do socialist countries withhold from use force or legal methods to prevent liberal candidates from gaining power like how american news usually describes it?

if they did, it would be hard to explain why so many communist countries have capitulated to liberalism to one degree or another. tempted to say something something to the effect of "they don't but they should" for shock value and edge points but that's tacky and also not a sentiment i'm willing to unironically stand by.

venezuela isn't marxist-leninist, but to be fair it's brand of democratic socialism often finds itself aligned geopolitically with marxism-leninism. but to be UNfair to venezuela there's credible evidence that venezuela is SIGNIFICANTLY less democratic than marxist-leninist countries, namely there was a poll done of a bunch of countries of whether respondents felt their country was democratic and whether they felt their government acted on behalf of the will of the people, and china and vietnam ranked first and second place (!!!) while venezuela ranked dead last.

part of me wants to use this to take shots at democratic socialism, like "ahaha, so your so-called 'democratic' socialism is actually less democratic than supposedly 'totalitarian' marxism-leninism.... ironic..." but if i tried to do that to any actual democratic socialists that i know irl they'd look at me like i was a fucking idiot and say "obviously when i say i support democratic socialism i mean nordic social democracy not fucking venezuela you idiot. also aren't YOU the one who's actually defended venezuela? repeatedly?????"

so while this is all very funny and ironic there's no actual situation where i could use it as a gotcha.

[eri-pl]

Nostos,

or TIL it is a thing, but it explains many things about the Silm.

So. The Ancient Greeks had a word for a very particular kind of returning home. If you don't want to read the whole Wikipedia page, I'll recap: Nostos is

a hero returning (often from a victorious war)

usually by the sea, a long journey with many troubles

focus also on reclaiming his place at home (Odysseus!!!)

also, managing to return = fame and glory

OK, so. Tolkien. I'm sure he knew well and loved this concept.

Earendil is basically this, but split between two/three people: Turgon -[Idril, but she's female, so no cool deeds for her :( ] - Earendil. His journey to Valinor has the exact kind of trials that a nostos should have from what I understand. He's like… this trope but for the whole Noldor nation. In a way. [They do not return after a victorious war, because we're doing a deconstruction of a trope, not just using it straight. Also the Noldor can't look too cool, because of their bad choices.]

Also, this explains why Tolkien didn't let any of the Feanorians return, or anyone important at all, except Galadriel. Because a man returning from a war through the sea = he is cool and heroic. And kinslayers are not cool, and the flight of the Noldor was generally uncool.

I'm sure this is a beloved trope of Númenorean literature at some point BTW (Also, Pharazôn would have an epic of his glorious return written in advance, before he sailed to attack Valinor, he seems like this kind of guy.)

Elendil is like the antithesis of this, but still positive. He does not return home (but he does, Men were never meant to live so far West, tbh nobody was but let's not complain about that here), he is not victorious after a war (but he is, nor all wars are literal), he does reclaim his place in a way. And the sea is there, but the road is quick and dramatic, not meandering. Of course it is, because they get a lift.

A whole book subtitled "there and back again", and I think it checks all of the boxes except "the sea" (well ok, the hero is not very traditional, but still it is a very proper nostos)

Also also I don't really get the appeal of it, maybe that's why I don't vibe with some parts of the Silm (sorry Tuor, you're boring). I like the sea, sailing can be fun, but I don't get the epic mariner idea. I just don't. I guess it's a personal preference thing.

Oh, the tension between "returning home in well-earned glory" and "returning home with an apology", it is very present in the Silm. (Even if usually the return home is via the Halls of Mandos).

The tension between "I deserve the praise, because the road was so twisted and hard", and "I got lost, I'm glad to be back", and all those tensions. And I feel like with the Noldor as a group, Tolkien wanted both (see: Feanor's cool reply to Manwë's messenger, but also all the disasters that come later).

How does this all tie to the Silmarils? I'm sure that what Feanor expected, what his sons expected initially was "we fight a war, we get our jewels, we do a classical nostos [even if we don't know this term]". But also, for me, the Silmarils themselves tie to the concept of home very strongly, and nostalgia— oh, how ironic it is that nostalgia means "pain for returning home", and their nostos was supposed to be brought upon by reclaiming the Silmarils and they brought them only pain, and no clear homecomings.

Also, this is not related etymologically, but I can't avoid thinking of how "nostos" sounds like it was cognate to "nest" and how baby birds are at some point supposed to leave it and never return.

I'm sure there's more to be found in here, and probably some wise people already said more about it.

[@stellavesperis, this is this post that goes earlier]

[vintage-bentley]

Sorry I have to rant here. I'm not surprised about the direction Doctor Who has taken because the show has heavily implied that all humans are bisexual in the future which is certainly a choice. Plus the head writer, Russell T Davies (who is close friends with DT) once wrote a show about a gay man falling in love with a woman. Seriously. From the show's wikipedia page: [gay male character] states categorically in the script that he is not bisexual, saying: 'I was born gay, I’ll die gay and I’ll have a gay gravestone'. He says that he was attracted to [female character] as a person and not as a gender choice. He says he will 'always look at men' but [female character] is the only woman for him."

This is the same writer who allowed John Barrowman to continually flash his costars on set for years and who recently said "anti-queer thinking is on the rise and is being smuggled in under the disguise of children’s rights and protecting children. I have friends who are trans people, and they are not those enemies that are depicted in internet arguments. They’re literally not. They’re intelligent. They are questing. There’s a climate of terror for them right now." A climate of terror but clearly not for the vulnerable women being locked up with men in prisons and hospitals and changing rooms I guess! He's notoriously bad at writing women, especially lesbians, and to top it all off he wrote the original Queer as Folk where the main relationship is between a 15 YEAR OLD BOY and a 30 year old man, with sexually-explicit scenes between the characters.

He also hired James "Juno" Dawson to write an episode of Doctor Who for the latest season. Just... look him up. Actually, don't. Save yourself the headache.

RTD is basically the epitome of why I don't trust gay men to be good allies to lesbians or to be less misogynistic than straight men.

Again, this guy is very close with David and Georgia Tennant.

Okay rant over.

I’m so sick of “everyone is bisexual” being considered progressive. Gay people spent so long trying to convince everyone that homosexuality is real, innate, and unchanging…and people believed us for maybe 5 minutes until they went from “don’t worry you’ll find the right man/woman one day” to “well don’t say that, everyone is bisexual!”

I had a teacher in high school who considered herself a “2SLGBTQIA+” ally. She had a rainbow maple leaf pin and a pride flag hung up in her classroom. She said to me, “well, if you found the perfect man wouldn’t you consider settling down with him? Everyone’s a little bisexual”. HOW IS THAT DIFFERENT THAN WHAT CONSERVATIVES SAY?!

And to write a whole show about a “gay” man falling in love with a woman…wtf. Why does this need to exist. Who thinks of this shit? Who is it made for? Who enjoys it? It sounds like a conversion therapist’s wet dream.

What a surprise that the Trans Ally allowed a male to be predatory. They’re all just male privilege activists.

“A climate of terror but clearly not for the vulnerable women” that pretty much sums up trans activism. They always ignore women and our concerns. Or they don’t care. Or they’re happy we’re being hurt by all of this. Because they’re a bunch of misogynists at heart. There’s so many talking points I see that have me immediately thinking, okay but what about women? And it just doesn’t cross their minds because boo hoo the special class of men is sad that people don’t believe that extreme body modification and lipstick makes them women :(

And jfc that age gap. Again, who thinks of this shit? Who is this made for? Who enjoys this?

I’m going to trust you and not look that guy up lol

[gf2bellamy]

do you have any advice for making your dialogue/ narration in general flow smoothly and sound more natural? when i write it always ends up way too wordy like im not sure when its enough information😭 & i adore the flow of your writing and conversations between characters so much

i spend a lot of time analyzing the way spencer talks 😭

it probably sounds a little silly but i'm genuinely obsessed with how he phrases his sentences and switches between being super casual and suddenly sounding like wikipedia page. 

he rambles a lot, and half the time he’s throwing in all these fancy(-ish) words, but he also has these really silly moments where he literally sounds like a teenage boy (like that scene where he tells jj that morgan just hit him 😭).

i try to pay really close attention to things like his tone, pacing, and when he switches styles - like when he’s nervous, he talks faster and rambles more; when he’s being more serious or explaining something technical, he’ll slow down.

noticing those patterns helps so much when trying to write dialogue that feels true to his character (or just more natural in general !!).

something that’s really helped me is reading my dialogue out loud after i write it - if it sounds too stiff, too long, or like something no real person would ever say, i know i need to trim it down.

real conversations aren’t perfect. people interrupt themselves, trail off, change their minds mid-sentence - so sometimes, less is actually more 😭

plus, sometimes i even put myself in the situation as if i was the reader and standing in front of spencer ( im sorry that sounds sort of insane ) - like would he be fidgeting? ( spencer tends to fidget a lot with his hands when talking ) would he laugh a little? would he sound unsure?

i hope this helped somehow 😭💘💘

[dearestcynthiaw]

Goodbye Stranger - House M.D x Reader

Chapter Two: Who Are You?

Source A: Photograph, with missing piece, and handwritten message: 'Spring 1928 - Trip to London' no other inscriptions.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Hello again!

Sorry for the long wait, this chapter might be a little dodgy writing wise, but I'm hoping it'll sound ok.

I just wanted to add that themes might get a bit heavier from here, but I'm still unsure. I'll let you know if any trigger warnings come up.

------

Chapter One: World Weary

------

TW: Mentions of blood, death, cigarettes and alcohol. (Sounds like a underground band name)

-----

In truth, House thought about this peculiar encounter for the rest of the day. He never once closed the Wikipedia tab on this mysterious, yet apparent English Rose. He'd found himself opening it frequently and scrolling to the bottom of endless pages to really see how far this woman would go with her 'fantasy'.

Due to this anomaly in his usual work day, he found it challenging to engage with his current case, often sitting in his office and pondering in the silence. His eyes glued to the door she had disappeared through hours earlier. Would she ever come back? She had been such a fascinating specimen, he just wanted to know exactly what was going on in her head. He thought about the endless illnesses that could have caused this odd phenomenon, ones that would cause hysteria or an overactive imagination.

Was she here to fool him into a prescription? Was she living out a long time wish to live the life of someone with great lineage and aristocratic fortune? Did she want to live in the romanticised perception of the past? It was all a colossal enigma that he wanted to unearth and tease out of the woman.

To him, the current case was a bore compared to what had transpired earlier that day. It sounded like a harsh flu, but not one that he’d ever seen. They’d isolated the patient and kept up with questions, which the man was reluctant to answer. With House acting distant, the diagnosis seemed far out of reach. House thought of giving up at one point, letting his team of three figure it out for themselves. That was until they found the man’s ankles were swollen.

At this point, due to House’s lack of interest, the whole procedure was moving at a snail’s pace. The case was getting increasingly worse and House’s team decided the patient would need to be scheduled for an X-Ray of the chest, checking the lungs for fluid and the heart for implications. 

The conclusion was the possibility of heart failure, yet they were still unsure of how it got to this point. 

The end of the day was nigh. Still after plenty of pestering, House rebuffed the idea of at least looking at the patient through the glass. The idea of this patient dying seemed to have no effect on him, maybe deep down it did, but he appeared oblivious or distracted.

It was late when he got back to his car. The rain was heavily pattering on the roof of the multistory car park. It was loud, but that never detached him from his buzzing thoughts.

Dr Wilson, his friend (you’d like to think) and colleague, caught him just before he left, knocking sternly on his driver's side window, which House reluctantly opened. Wilson’s eyebrows were knitted and his mouth was pulled into a straight line 'What's gotten into you? I’m made to believe this is a one-of-a-kind case, not even you can figure it out.’ 

House only huffed at this, rolling up the window. Again there was a torrent of knocks. 

‘What? I’m late to a date with one of the hottest chicks in town.’ 

‘Don’t mess about, this is a life or death House. Why are you not interested?’ Wilson spoke, his voice sprinkled with concern.

In return, House revved his engine ‘No time to talk, probably won’t see you tomorrow, I doubt I'll be able to walk with all the fun I’ll be up to tonight. Bye.’ With that he flew out of his space, leaving Wilson in the dust. 

Rain drops danced on his windows as he bolted down the bustling roads. The street lights and headlights of other cars painted his window screen with an array of vivid colours. The music on his radio hummed in the background along with the rattling of the wheels on the dodgy tarmac. 

He was eventually stopped at a set of traffic lights, watching people trudge through the rain as he sat snugly in his warm car. 

Amongst the hoard of busybodies was a young lady, one with a look of discomfort and panic. She was instantly recognisable, yet her togs were soggy and discoloured with the spatters of rain. Her hair was heavy with water and had lost its neat, waved styling. 

He watched intensely as a singular man approached her, touching her shoulder, causing her to jump back in fright. 

The lights flicked to orange and he was about ready to move on, when she was pushed up against the wall unbeknown to those around her. 

He moved on through the green light. He thought nothing of this interaction, knowing someone else would interfere. 

He was part way down the road when without thinking he flicked on his right indicator, stopping in a lay-by, hopping out in haste with his hand roughly gripping his cane. 

Bracing against the frigid rain, he splashed through puddles approaching the pair.

He was close now, and could see how dangerous this situation was. The man was grabbing at her with his filthy hands, his face was close and his voice low.

House put his cane between the two causing an instant reaction from the unknown male. 

‘Whatcha think you’re doing, cripple?’ The male hollered. 

He attempted to push the stranger away, making sure to keep distance in case he decided to lash out, which his body language suggested.

House’s mind was sharp thinking ‘This woman has a disease that’s contagious through touch. She’s an escapee and has been on the run for the past 2 days. You’ve probably contracted it by being in close proximity.’ 

The man seemed to instantaneously spring backwards ‘How come you’re fine?’ his face scrunched up.

‘Inoculation, dummies don’t have access to it. Now move on, nothing to see here.’ and with that the frowzy man scurried away. The appearance of his walking aid would’ve probably been enough to strike fear in the stranger, but the spontaneous story-telling seemed to bring the alarming interaction to a close.

House moved away as well, pacing back to his car.

She hesitated before shouting after him, forgetting about nearby eavesdroppers ‘Why did you help me? I thought you said I was mad and should be locked away.’ 

‘Doesn’t matter, you coming or you just gonna stand there staring at my back?’ House turned back to look at her, water running down his face.

He finally got a closer look at her when they were back in the comfort of his car. She was soaked to the bone, dripping on the fabric seats. Black could be seen about her red, puffy eyes where her cake mascara had smudged. Her hair was tousled and unkept. She was quite a pitiful sight to behold. 

There was an uncomfortable silence before the engine was started up. House was hesitating. 

Again the music could only be heard faintly in the background, not even a single breath. 

‘I’ve seen a lot. New things, that is.’ She attempted to start a conversation, hoping that after this frightful evening he would see some sense in what she had said previously that day.

He ignored her.

‘I’ve got a car at home.’ She muttered under her breath, she was speaking to herself more than him. She was partly facing away, looking out the window as the streets flew by.

He turned the radio up to drown out her rambling. He would much rather be glued to the thumping music and the overactive thoughts building in his mind. He detested the notion of making awkward conversation with a lady he did not wholly trust.

The music was blaring now, the bass rattling the plastic interior of the car.

As she listened intently, she heard a new plethora of instruments that was very unlike what she was used to. She didn’t know what to concentrate on, she couldn’t tell anything apart. Every instrument seemed to drown each other out.

Her eyes were wide from the boisterous sound but she happily sat tapping her fingers on her lap to the rhythm. She could only pick out one phrase from the lyrics; 

“Who are you?’’.

Who was she? That really was the truth. The song just exaggerated that query. 

House finally let a question sit in the noisy atmosphere ‘You like The Who?’. 

‘Who?’ She turned to him.

‘Very funny.’ The conversation was quick, short and littered with sarcasm.

The song had a bit of a quieter section but jumped straight back into the chaos. It made her jump slightly with the suddenness of it all, consequently causing House to humph with a singular hissing laugh.

Again, there was a gap of silence and a sort of sizzling, filmy sound that rang out from the central system in the car. The bulky set of technology to her left disposed of a silver, holographic disk and she looked at it curiously. 

Panicked, she asked ‘Did I break something?’.

In a quick movement, he flicked open a compartment in front of her knees ‘Pick one, and replace it.’

She tentatively did so, taking the plastic cases from the glove box and splaying them out on her lap, looking at the different images. She seemed to figure it out, it was much like the vinyls she was used to, but in a different format. She gently replaced the circular disk safely into its matching case. Opening another dark coloured case with a man and a blonde woman displayed on the front, she placed the disk where the other had originally come from. As it slid from her fingers into the machine, her eyebrows furrowed in awe.The new song flicked on after a couple seconds of whirring. 

‘Top Gun? Really?’ 

‘I didn’t know what to pick, I’ve never seen any of these before. It's the only one I could see with the musicians on the front.’ 

‘They’re not the musicians, it's a film soundtrack, Marty. Maverick and Charlie? Have you not watched the movie?’ He used that odd nickname ‘Marty’ again amongst his rambling.

She sighed, looking down at her lap at the remaining disk holders. She brought one close to her face as the darkness obstructed the image. ‘You listen to King Oliver? Are you a fan of Jazz?’ she perceived his seated figure at the wheel. She was delighted that this music was still being heard. If she could relate to him with music then it might make the atmosphere more comfortable. 

Irked by her continued persistence on making conversation, House stared back at her. ‘What? Are you going to tell me that you were there when they came out?’  

He was still fighting conversation. 

Feeling knocked back she spoke quietly again ‘I’m only curious, that’s all.’.

Her thoughts consumed her that when House had parked and was now exiting the car, she was too slow to realise. They were before an unfamiliar single-story building, he was bugging her to leave the passenger seat. 

He ushered her towards the front door, both traipsing on damp gravel, water still continuing to cling to their raiments. 

Hesitating, she stood by the entrance ‘Are you coming in or are you just going to stand there and freeze?’. She was already cold, she had barely had time to dry and was finding it hard to conceal her shivers. 

It had been a rough looking public house, she had no longer been pleased when seeing its interior. Truthfully, she was glad to no longer be stuck on the streets but this brought no hope as to what House had in mind for her. She pined for her home, at this point it seemed ever so far out of reach. The panic was devouring her insides as she walked with him to the long stretch of bar. 

She still had her bag of small belongings clasped to her side; a small pocket watch, a delicately painted case of cigarettes, a metal lighter, a compact mirror, a gold tube of lipstick and a small amount of notes and coins. It was a pure set of luck that it hadn’t been snatched out of her clutches whilst she helplessly wandered the streets.

House had already placed an order whilst she lingered a distance back from him. He’d downed a couple doubles and was waiting for his glass to be topped up.

The bartender seemed to look at her in inquiry, she felt pressured to place an order too.

‘Cognac, a little soda, please.’ Giving a small smile as she felt relieved to finally have a drink. 

‘You think we do that here, sweetheart?’ The man seemed amused by her request.

She felt embarrassed, flushing a rosé shade on the cheeks ‘Just brandy then.’ She spoke as she placed a few shillings on the counter. 

‘We don’t take whatever those are.’ 

House surely thought she was a fool at this point, he pressed his glass to his lip and gave a sharp snicker. Every aspect of her life had to be littered with old-timey things. He thought; she was quite committed to leading this lifestyle and neglecting the reality of today’s society. She proceeded to sit beside him after the interaction with the bartender, who went to tend to another customer. Demoralised, she let out a shaky sigh, elbows on the bar and right hand over her eyes. She felt like crying, but was certain that the doctor would degrade her for it. 

‘So what’s your real name then?’ House questioned after a lengthy couple of minutes, again grabbing the attention of the bartender to fill up his glass.

In a huff she pulled out a little red cloth-bound book from her purse and pushed it in front of him. ‘That’s my driving licence, have a look at it yourself.’ He opened it in a blasé manner, finding the same name she’d given when they met, written in neat looped writing. Alongside her name were the start and expiry dates for her driving permit that conveniently matched up with her story. 

‘That’s all I've got in terms of identification. That’s it, that is my name. If you can’t believe me after this then I don’t know what will convince you.’

He continued to study it ‘This is a good forgery, looks authentic.’. 

She didn’t know why she hung around, but she felt that he might be her only chance when it came to getting home. She opened her cigarette case, placing one at her lip, flicking open her lighter and taking a deep exhale. 

‘Better put that out before you get caught.’ He said in a snarky voice with a face to match when she chose to ignore him. 

With that final comment she left her seat marching outside, gasper still between her fingers. House trailed behind her to the overhead roof outside where she continued to take drags. He didn’t want to lose sight of her, not again, he was far from finishing his investigation.

Snapping she snarled ‘What is it? What is it that you want? You’re following me yet you refuse to help me. You don’t even believe me, not even my name! I’m beyond it all, I just- I just - want to get back home, yet you ridicule and tease me to no end! What is it ‘Dr’ House? What do you want me to say? That I’m faking all of this, then fine have it your way, I am. Are you finally satisfied?!. 

There was a second of silent acrimony before she finally stated; ‘I’m going back to the hospital’. She stubbed the cigarette butt beneath her heel, beginning to move.

Suddenly, a pair of headlights blinked at them. They both stood still like a pair of stunned deer in the beam. ‘House!’ came a shout.

House squinted and called back ‘Can’t you see I’m with a babe?’.

She was too stunned to react to his crude joke. 

‘She looks wet, House.’ The voice came closer, it sounded sympathetic.

‘I’m sure she is, from the sight of me.’ 

Gritting her teeth she sneered ‘For goodness sake!’ Crossing her arms for warmth and setting foot back into the intense rain, she began to trudge through the drenched car park. She stood by what she said, she was going to find her way back. 

She walked as far as the side of the car who’s headlights had previously blinded them.

‘She looks distressed, Are you going to stop her? You can’t let her go back in the rain, the hospital is miles from here.’ The man came into view, appearing to her right. She flinched backwards as he tried to rest an assuring hand on her arm. His face was scrunched and his eyes were squinting from battling the downpour. 

‘Just hold on a second, I’ll take you there- House- Jesus Christ, we need to get out of this rain-’ This new man managed to convince her to step back under cover, she still kept her distance from the both of them, arms defensively crossed over her chest.

‘I was trying to find you, and I found you at a bar? You need to take this seriously, your patient went into cardiac arrest, we were trying to get a hold of you but you weren’t answering your phone.’

Looking unbothered, House shot back ‘Is he stable?’ 

‘Yes but-’ 

‘Well it's fine then, let me get on with my night.’ 

You could hear a very heavy sigh from the other man as he pinched the bridge of his nose, ready to speak again.

She finally let her quiet fury go ‘You let this man deal with patients? He couldn’t be the slightest bit interested in a man that is actively dying. He can’t honestly be a doctor, he's such an ass!’ 

‘Hey! That's not very nice to say to your prince charming!’ his eyes flew wide, pulling a mock frown, his words were a little slurred.

‘Well, I’m not wrong, you’re being a complete and utter cad!’

House gasped, looking defensively at the other man shrugging his shoulders ‘I don’t know what she's on about Wilson.’.

That was his name, Wilson. Was that a first or last name? She was yet to know.

‘Can we stop fighting like children? You, House, are going home and you’re going to take the case-file with you. Get in the car.’ Wilson paused to look at the lady, taking in her peculiar outfit. He didn’t know whether it would be dubious to ask her the same, especially with how distraught her manner appeared.

‘Whaaat? Are you calling off my playdate?!’  House whined. ‘I can drive myself, you know.’ He added in a flat tone.

‘The man behind the bar has his keys, I saw him take them earlier.’ She muttered in earshot of the man named ‘Wilson’.

There was a stern ‘In!’ from Wilson before House gave in; ‘Fine fine, Jesus, you really know how to be a stick in my ass!’ 

She remained hesitant as this gentleman, Wilson, opened the back door for her, ushering her in. She really had no other choice at this point, afterall, she had nowhere else to go. 

Wilson turned back to look at her when he had finally seated himself in front of the wheel. ‘What do you need to go back to the hospital for? The clinic closed two hours ago...’.

‘Don’t worry about it, any hotel will do, I’ll go in the morning.’ She spoke softly in defeat.

House let slip ‘Don’t know how you’ll do that with no money.’.

A gasp could be heard ‘House! I-I can’t believe you! Were you planning to spend an evening with her and then just dump her?!’ Wilson shouted in a whisper, which was partly inaudible to the lady in the back. ‘You can’t do that! You’ll have to let her atleast crash on your couch until tomorrow.’ 

‘Why can’t you?’ He mumbled back.

‘Because I’m living out of a hotel at the moment, you know it's not possible.’ His voice went lower ‘You got yourself into this, not me!’

House heaved out a sigh, he was too inebriated to protest.

The drive was prolonged by the squabbling going on up front. She let her ears tune out, concentrating on different landmarks passing by her window. She recognized a few from when she had been roaming earlier that day; The laundromat where a woman stopped her for a chat, commenting on how her voice sounded funny and there was the barbers where she had been catcalled whilst trying to ask about the area.These were only a handful of places that were recognizable. She set about situating them on a map in her mind. She had to know her way around before it was too late, knowing that it would become a survival tool when House inevitably left her on her own.

Her eyes were terribly heavy as she peered out of the rain soaked window, her elbow resting on the seal, her chin propped on her hand. She could see her likeness reflected in the pane, it looked pale and exhausted. Although she felt miserable, It was also surprising how comforting this stranger's car was. She should’ve felt on edge not knowing where she was going, but the warmth and humming chatter seemed to lull her into a peaceful state of mind and eventually a light slumber. 

The door was pulled abruptly open, causing her to tumble sideways. ‘You getting out or what?’. She sleepily trailed behind House up a couple of steps towards a green front door. His keys turnt in the lock, this must’ve been where he lived.

She was greeted by an array of objects, all messily placed around the entirety of the apartment. There were dark bookshelves filled with all sorts of oddities, some of which were recognisable like lozenge bottles, anatomical figurines and the odd syringe that she would see used in her hospitals at home. They were being used like decorational items, which she found quite curious.

Amongst it all was a grand piano, one possibly made from a rich wood, it was the only surface completely clear. 

House limped through the apartment leaving her standing stunned in the entryway, Wilson was behind her, moving to her left to follow the doctor. She’d only seen him in low light, now realising how much more smartly clad he was in comparison to House. He looked and acted more like a man bearing the title of ‘doctor’. He seemed genuinely kind, but after House’s reaction, she didn’t want anyone else caught up in the mess she had gotten herself into. They were still having their previous conversation, she could hear their muffled voices from the other room.

Her heels clicked faintly on the hardwood floor, following the two into what looked like a kitchen. House was propped against a cabinet with a vile of tablets clutched in his hand. He tipped a couple into his palm, tipping his head back to swallow them. He glanced to his side, his steel blue eyes fixing on her figure awkwardly standing just outside the kitchen. 

‘I’m going to get her a towel or something, at least offer her a glass of water instead of staring at her.’ Wilson was prodding House to accommodate his guest. Wilson promptly made his way out of the kitchen space, making sure to keep his distance and disappearing down a corridor, leaving them both alone.

House appeared disapproving as he continued to study her, lips curling inwards in thought. 

She looked down at her shoes and spoke at the floor to avoid eye contact ‘I apologise, I didn't get the chance to thank you…’. She spoke softly and with gentle words only to hear a sniff and a heavy swallow in reply.

‘I wasn't being very kind considering you did help me.’ She added.

Pushing past her, in a way that didn’t cause physical contact he announced ‘I'm going to bed, Wilson will show you where everything is. You’re sleeping on the couch-’

He turned on his heel slightly, looking over his shoulder, which caught her attention; ‘Unless you want to join me for some sweet, passionate sex.’ He teased. He couldn't help himself, she thought, he had to pull some rudimentary rubbish to cover his arse whenever she tried to be polite.

Showing a slight grimace, she watched his back as he staggered away. She shifted her weight behind her on the kitchen’s doorway, head positioned upwards regarding the textured plaster on the ceiling. 

There were a couple subdued footsteps before she noticed Doctor Wilson beside her, holding out a rather plush looking towel. 

With a soft ‘thank you’ and a nod, she wrapped it about her person. 

‘I’ve run you a bath as well. House stopped me in the hallway and asked if I could. The bathroom is just down that hallway.’ Pointing his thumb over his shoulder he noted the direction she should take. ‘If that’s everything, I best be getting back. It's getting late.’

Just before he left she spoke up, clearing her throat quietly, ‘Oh uh, thank you for everything-’ was all she could stutter. 

With a prompt nod and a thoughtful smile he slipped through the front door, shutting it firmly behind him. 

It was deathly silent as she slipped through the passageway to the bathroom. She was still studying her surroundings, taking in all of the little nic-nacs, when she stopped by a shelf just outside the bathroom. Huddled amongst the books was a sweet, well-loved teddy. He was only a tiny thing, just bigger than hand. His fur was thoroughly worn, showing darker spots where the threads were visible. His nose was hand stitched and his eyes glimmered in the low light. She turned him over gently in her hands, finding his maker’s mark. He was a Steiff bear, absolutely identical to her own. Hugging him closely to her chest, she felt a wave of comfort fall over her. A kind of comfort that hurts so terribly. 

She let a silent tear slide down her cheek, thinking desperately of home. Her dear companion was where she left it, settled amongst her bedsheets battling the biting cold of her bedroom. He would never know where she had gone. 

The feeling further gnawed at her heart, her chest burnt with grief. She thought of family, how she’d left them behind, without uttering a goodbye. She thought of her friends and her dogs and finally her fiancé. She let her head tilt slightly back, her flushed lips parted, trying to stop the tears from dripping onto the floor, but they only bled down her neck, stinging as they made their path. Looking back at the bear, she pulled him back from her person, giving him a light kiss on his woolly cheek. Tenderly, she seated him back on the shelf and continued on her path. 

She was finally amongst the cold tile of the bathroom. Quietly locking the door behind her, she began to undress, hooking her garments over the showerail above the tub. They might’ve had a chance of drying there. 

She sat on the stool in the corner to unclip her stockings. There, she caught sight of a scrape on her knee where she had taken a fall earlier that day. The adrenaline had been overpowering the pain, only now realising how the crimson blood had seeped into the rayon. Peeling the fabric off the wound she set about washing away some of the blood in the sink, hoping that she could salvage the tattered hosiery. She left them to dry like the rest of her clothing and undergarments.

She felt it was only right to leave on her few pieces of jewellery, knowing her tired state, she would likely misplace them otherwise.

Placing a foot into the sudsy water, the pleasant water enveloped her numb limbs. She led down fully, letting the warmth rush over her, finally ridding herself of the dreadful frigidity that had lingered upon her skin. Allowing her eyes to close, she let out a contented sigh. This small pause, where her body was finally in a relaxed state, brought on small waves of dread. Much like the bath water sloshing about in the porcelain, the top of her stomach was sweeping like waves, twisting and pulling in agony. 

She hunched over, pulling her knees up to her chest as a form of comfort. Her breath grew heavy, the sense of foreboding setting in. Burying her face into the hard bones of her knees, she struggled against her chest wracking with affliction. The pure anguish of the situation hit her, far worse than it had in the hallway. She desperately clung onto her breath not wanting to make a sound, tears smothering the entirety of her face. Her arms were firmly wrapped about her head, her nails digging into the tops of her arms, clinging onto any part of reality that wasn’t being deadened by her continuous fear.

She suffered a disjointed sob, drawing a further deep breath through her teeth. Her body shook with the deeply embedded desolation. 

She hadn’t noticed the figure stood to her right as she continued to sink further into her melancholy, her form violently trembling with mournful weeps. 

There was a masculine, pitiful exhale that filled the claustrophobic space. 

From the sound, she let one bloodshot eye take a peak above her arms, perceiving a blurry staunch figure who was instantly recognisable.

Embarrassment entangled her as she realised how she might’ve appeared. Her voice sounded broken as she whispered a quick apology, drawing her limbs closer to her torso.

He continued with what he was doing, flipping open the mirrored cabinet above the sink.

All she could do was turn her head in the opposite direction to hide her obvious flushed face and tear stained cheeks. She heard his rusting around but was too humiliated to look.

Hearing his footsteps echoing away and the door closing once again, she turned to take a peek. There was a thin blue and white dressing gown led over the edge of the bath, it hadn’t been there before. She took that as a sign to leave the tepid soak, finishing up in the bath, placing on her chemise and French knickers that were mostly dry. It would have to suffice for the night. She assumed this dressing gown was left for her, delicately placing it upon her person and tying it tight.

She padded down the hallway, taking quick,quiet steps to the living room. Anticipating his presence in the sitting room, she felt she would have to turn back and lock herself in the bathroom for the rest of the night. She couldn’t face him again, she felt completely mortified after he’d seen her in that state.

Perching on the chesterfield, making herself somewhat comfortable, she peered down at the coffee table in front of her, her eyes landed on the patient case file that the other doctor had left. Curiosity overtook her, she took a cautionate glance at the space before flipping open the blue folder to take a peak. She had wondered what the two were discussing earlier. 

Her breath caught after taking in the symptoms. It was the usual symptoms of something like influenza, high temperature, fever, sore throat, difficulty breathing and swollen glands in the neck. It was sounding a lot like what her uncle had caught, but how could they not see it was a kind of flu? Was there something else they were missing? There were updated notes too, scrawled in the typical hard-read writing of a doctor. 

It was affecting his heart. 

‘What have I told you about patient confidentiality?’ 

‘It's just some.. Reading..’ Was all she could stutter, she was quite lost for words after jumping out of her skin at his abrupt emergence.

His eyebrows seemed to quirk in amusement ‘Can you not see the amount of books on the shelves around you?’

‘Yes I know, but, Dr Wilson was urging you to read this and you still wouldn’t. I thought I might have a look to see what you were avoiding. Well, I can see why...’ 

‘It's not the flu.’ House stated bluntly.

She sighed at his forthrightness, she was quite familiar with it now. ‘I was just…Starting to see the similarity it had to a relative’s death..’ She couldn't stand looking him in the eyes after her confession, she felt he might just laugh in her face.

His questions were quick and direct yet her willingness to answer was becoming restrained ‘What did they die from?’.

‘Distemper- no, uh? I can’t remember - I don’t like to think about it.’ Her eyes were visibly glazed, her eyes squinting when racking her brain for the given name of the illness.

He pushed further ‘You can’t remember any symptoms?’

Swallowing gravely, she continued ‘Well, they found a grey coating in their throat after they died. The doctor was too late to see it before. Their um.. Heart was weak from birth, so we barely saw symptoms before they passed. But it-it was like your patient…The um, cough and fever..’ 

His eyes seemed to focus on a point in front of him, his pupils constricting. His mind was whirring, connecting dots. 

‘A Pseudomembrane. So it was bacteria?’  

She looked clueless, wanting to shake her head in apprehensive confusion. He went on to pull a small rectangular silver case from his pocket, snapping it open and tapping a couple buttons on it, eventually holding it to his ear.

‘Corynebacterium diphtheriae. Have you checked inside the patient's nose? I think you'll find we're dealing with bacterial disease instead of a virus.’

There was a pause before he interrupted the murmur coming from the other end  ‘-then dose him up on antibiotics and monitor his heart damage. Yes, I know you’ve found it’s myocarditis, so put him on anti-inflammatories and any other pain killers he’ll whine for. He’ll survive.’ Flipping the silver item, supposedly a phone, closed after rambling to the person on the other end, he examined the lady before him. Other than the slight scrunch about his eyes, his visage appeared completely blank. 

Gasping as if he were to speak, he held his tongue to look upon her, further studying her face. He sat on the other end of the settee, lowering himself down slowly, holding his leg as he did so. Making himself comfortable, he placed his cane upon the table in front of them.

‘Who was this relative then?’ His words seemed to strike a nerve. She seemed to render a sorrowful glint in her eyes. ‘Who was it?’ He pressed.

‘My brother, the oldest.’ 

‘You have a brother?’ It wasn’t like he already knew, after reading up on her all day, he just wanted to hear it from her. He cruelly wanted to see if she had rehearsed the entirety of the historical documents he had found on the web, pitilessly trying to trip her up.

She only nodded, she was hesitant to give away any more information on her personal life, but she still stated that she once had four male siblings.

‘I’m sorry.’ Stating it unremorsefully, he still exhibited an unreadable blank expression.

He didn’t remain seated for long, making his way back to the kitchen in his usual slow walk. He returned, after a bit of rusting in the other room, carrying glasses and a bottle of unidentifiable amber alcohol. Pouring about an inches worth into both glasses, he passed one over to the accompanying female who took a reserved sip, brushing her tongue along her lip to identify the taste.

Reaching into her chestnut coloured handbag, she pulled out her ornate cigarette case, opening it to offer one to House who was sprawled out on the sofa.

‘I don’t smoke.’

Pulling an inquisitive grin she spoke ‘If you don’t, then why have an ashtray?’.

‘Decoration?’ His voice dripped with sarcasm.

She chuckled lightly at his comment. He did indeed take a straight, placing it at his lip as she sparked the metal lighter beneath it.

Doing the same for herself, the room became slightly hazy with the wispy smoke.

He appeared content with the taste ‘What are these then?’

‘Fribourg & Treyer, I have them when I'm in London.’ She gave a frolicsome smile ‘I’m not actually allowed to smoke, my father prohibits it.’

He made a humming sound, prompting her to continue. His interest was getting the better of him.

‘He’s a little old-fashioned, doesn’t believe women should smoke, he believes I’m starting to resemble the scandalous city girls. Not very fair considering my brother’s are happily welcomed to, and in his company. I mean one smokes a pipe, one does snuff for Heaven’s sake!’ Lamenting on the disparity of it all, she still displayed an impish grin.

His lips seemed to curl into a sort of smile as she spoke candidly. 

‘What happened to your knee?’ He kept firing questions, one after the other. 

She glanced down, finding the dressing gown was revealing the skin just above her knees. Readjusting the fabric she formed a response; ‘It's just a scrape, there’s nothing special about it. Anyway, are you ever going to stop interrogating me? I mean, you haven’t given me the chance to ask my own questions yet.’ 

‘Looks like you’ve been running, it’s elongated.’

She paused to flick her head away, looking back at him quickly again in discomfort, sharply stubbing out her cigarette.

‘Yes.. But that doesn’t matter.’

Regardless, he persisted ‘Who were you running from?’ 

‘I was just scared, alright?’ She exclaimed, nervously holding an odd smile. 

It was deathly silent between them. The cars on the street outside echoed noisily throughout the front room. 

‘Go on then, what were you going to ask me? No doubt it's going to be about my leg.’ 

She shook her head ‘That’s not for me to ask. I wanted to know what made you want to become a doctor?’.

‘I was greatly and passionately inspired by Patch Adams.’ He sounded dreamy, but she unperceived the underlying sarcasm.

‘I’ve never heard of them before? Did you know them?’

Bursting with an obnoxious laugh, he looked upon her as she rolled her eyes. There was no point trying to get any information out of him, House always found ways to deflect.

Leaning forward he forced himself to stand, hastily swallowing the rest of his nightcap, he began to stagger towards his bedroom. He gave one last comment before departing for good;

‘I know what you did.’ It was ominous. His back was still facing her.

‘I didn’t think you would have it in you to steal.’

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I hope you are enjoying it so far! This is going to end up being chock-full of metaphors XD

'Who Are You' - The Who 1978

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Tag list:

@indestructeible @suziek415

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~ I really have enjoyed my stay, but I must be moving on ~

[polarisgirisan]

Why does Gen talks in pig Latin Theory

I did info dump on a reblog of a post of @ kaibutsushidousha

and I wanted to show it on the main tag…sooo I'm posting it as a post, here you go!

HI!! I have a theory, but I cannot confirm it as canon.

I have investigated so many things about gen I even bought a book exclusive to Japan only, because it mentions a bit of his past

With the information and another theory's I discover many interesting things

Here is a bit that I translated with an extension of Google (Very likely to have mistranslations, sorry!):

"Gen Asagiri's Biography "When my parents had a fight, I understood what my nephew was saying and made compromises. It stopped the quarrel." "He begins studying magic in order to manipulate people's hearts the way he wants." "His social media account, which shared "psychology for exploring adults," went viral, and he made his debut in the entertainment industry as a mentalist."

Source: Riichiro Inagaki, & Boichi. (Aug 4, 2022). Dr.STONE 公式ファンブック 科学王国事典 (Jump Comics Digital & Shueisha, Eds.). Jump Comics Digital - Shueisha. https://bookwalker.jp/de3d7b532c-2fe5-4a31-af57-7695f7d01857/ (Page:62-63)

And with the question about the pig Latin

I like to look at it as something he learned for living in abuse as a child, I say he lived in abuse because of the previous citations I did.

I can reinforce this theory with another theory that could be canon, which is that Gen has Canities subita

(Before I have to mention I'm not a doctor or professional on anything of psychology, I'm only a person who loves to investigate)

This is an alleged condition

"is an alleged condition of hair turning white overnight due to stress or trauma."

 Trüeb, Ralph M. (2013). Female Alopecia: Guide to Successful Management. Springer Science & Business Media. p. 132. ISBN9783642355035.

"The syndrome has been hypothesized to be a variant of alopecia areata diffusa or autoimmune non-scarring hair loss that selectively affects all pigmented hairs, leaving only the white hair behind. Canities subita is caused by high levels of emotional stress, which, in turn, causes less pigmentation of the hair.[3] These form the basis of most uses of the idea in fictional works. It has been found that some hairs can become colored again when stress is reduced.[5][6]One study[7] with experiments on mice found that stress caused white hair even if the immune system was suppressed (ruling out auto-immune response) and if the glands producing cortisol were removed. The study concluded that over-activation of the sympathetic nervous system was causing stem cells to stop producing pigment cells in hair follicles.[8]"

Canities subita. (n.d.). Wikipedia. Retrieved January 25, 2025, from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Canities_subita#cite_note-1 (Is the part of "Causes"

So with that (and other thing I didn't mention because this is a Tumblr post) I believe Gen lived in abuse for a big part of his life, also this is reinforced with the fact that Gen used to dye his hair fully black, which could be interpreted as him wanting to forget his past.

And now with that, He learned Pig Latin as a way to survive in his childhood, I based this on the next citations.

"An 1866 article describes a "hog latin" that has some similarities to current Pig Latin. The article says, "He adds as many new letters as the boys in their 'hog latin', which is made use of to mystify eavesdroppers. A boy asking a friend to go with him says, 'Wig-ge you-ge go-ge wig-ge me-ge?' The other, replying in the negative says, 'Noge, Ige woge.' ""

Pig Latin. (n.d.). Wikipedia. Retrieved January 25, 2025, from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pig_Latin

Wakeman, George (1886). Sound and Sense (in "The Galaxy: A Magazine of Entertaining Reading, Volume 1"). p. 638. Retrieved 13 December 2015.

"it can also be used to hide conversation. For example, a conversation between two people in the presence of an unwanted "

Pig Latin. (n.d.). Wikipedia. Retrieved January 25, 2025, from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pig_Latin

With that information that I found, I created the theory he used Pig Latin to communicate in secret with people (probably with the “nephew” That is mentioned in his biography…not sure if it could be a mistranslation, sadly I don't know Japanese yet so if anyone knows what it actually said, I would be so thankful!)

In short;

I believe that Gen lived in abuse as a child and learned Pig Latin so he wouldn't get in more problems, and he kept using it mostly when in stress!

But I'm just an internet user who loves this character so much that went very far to use a Japanese VPN to only buy a book he couldn't even understand only because it has a bit of his favorite character backstory and then went on rabbit hole!

So this is like really summaries because I'm planning on adding it on the website I'm making, because I love making essay about things like this on my free time! So yeah, thanks for reading it! If you want to talk to me, feel free! I love talking about the deep of history's mostly cartoons/animes

(Last note: I wrote this really fast so the citations maybe wrong in their format, and it may have some writing mistakes my mother language is not English!)

Sad_little_Potato

The page's of the Dr.STONE Official Fan Book Science Kingdom Encyclopedia (MANGA SPOILERS ON JAPANESE)

62-63

page 62

page 63

Edit: There is no nephew, it was a mistranslation of my translator! So yeah take that into account! Sorry about it, and thanks to @kaibutsushidousha for telling me!! :3 (sorry for tagging you so much ;w; )

[sgiandubh]

Autopsy of a gay lie: the Wikipedia trail

“You can fool some of the people all of the time, and all of the people some of the time, but you can not fool all of the people all of the time.”

― Abraham Lincoln

For starters, sorry for the length and numerous screencaps. It is an investigation, after all and these are sorely needed.

Never underestimate the conjugated power of Internet, a Sunday afternoon and the lightbulb moment that can happen while baking something, because you know, people have also to reward themselves at some point.

I might have fucked up my foolproof Lemon Squares recipe, but I regret nothing. It took me three hours I could have gratefully used to finish that spirits post, but this is too damn good not to share.

Remember Meow Kabob's cross my heart and hope to die pinky swear she found confirmation of Data Lounge's allegations on Wikipedia, out of all places? How she regularly unburies that infamous screenshot listing S under the Wiki "Gay Actors" category? How she told us, filthy and uneducated shipper mob, over and over again, that story about STARZ people scouring the Internet far and wide and scrubbing any gay reference related to S, as soon or shortly after he was cast as JAMMF?

I can confidently prove now Lincoln's perennial truths I quoted above apply to this situation.

I was just pouring my lemon juice, eggs, flour and sugar mix over the hot and nutty shortbread when I stopped in my tracks: 'wait a second, isn't Wikipedia an open source project? BUT OF COURSE IT IS, SILLY COW - yes, I very often talk to myself like that. RUN. NOW. I HAVE TO KNOW.'

Sure enough, like death and taxes, the full edit list of S's Wikipedia page was there for everyone to see:

Even better, since Internet is forever, we have full access to all these edits and can take screenshots.

This is how Sam's Wikipedia odissey started, on November 11th 2007, when he was the complete underdog:

A ' strapping lad with natural dark blonde hair and 6'2'' tall', ideal for the role of Alexander the Great - pious silence and RIP. I grinned, because it sounds well, naïve? It also sounds gay, perhaps? What else does it prove, other than the gay crowd has an acute interest for novelty and a wandering eye?

Nothing. Not even remotely related to S.

Also, note the two classification categories: British TV actor stubs/ British actor stubs. Mark them, they stayed still and alone for a looooong time.

Up until 2009, in fact, when the wikientry was no longer considered a stub and even got several category additions:

Then again, some movin' on up, on that semi-dormant page, in 2013. Totes normal:

By early 2014, even more interest in S commands an expanded webpage and a longer, more detailed, category listing:

Let's quickly peruse 2015...

2016...

The incorrect Irish descent category stayed there for about ten days, until removed by another user. This is how it is done and it is then added to the list:

2017, 2018, 2019, early 2020, no change in the categories, but all hell broke lose content-wise. From Cirdan, the 'estranged brother' acting in a very gay connotated theatre production I have never heard about, in London, September 2016...

...... to a woman named Tiffany Trach who used to dream the impossible dream, in October 2016 (and she was not the only one, far from it)...

...to some halfwit being rightfully slapped for adding brainless Flukenzie Floozy content in March 2017:

By that time, I was getting supremely bored clicking on links and wanted to pack the tent and throw my lemon squares in the trash bin. But, lo and behold, what do I see on January 26th 2020:

With the tag possible vandalism:

Whodunnit?

A very brave person, hiding under a string of random numbers...

... and one single contribution EVER to the Wikipedia juggernaut. This is what I would call a targeted attack:

It stayed like that, unmolested, for five days only, until the user Spiderpig662 decided enough is enough and did something about it...

....categories being then restored to the previous wording:

The last vicious gay reference on Wikipedia dates back to May 28th 2020 (Ha-wa-wee, anyone?), was labeled as 'hate speech' & promptly removed:

Where wuffter is, in British Cockney slang:

Same modus operandi, this time an IP address, pinging in (you simply can't make this shit up, can you?)...

County Durham, FYI.

I then asked myself when exactly did Meow Kabob appear on Tumblr?

Even more exactly, on...

That is, to say the least, a troubling coincidence.

I do not imply anything, I have no wish to attack anyone. All I am saying, is that particular argument, which this user is shouting anytime she is prompted to, had a very short online lifespan. How could an American woman, who appeared in this fandom shortly afterwards, have known about changes operated for five days only, by an unknown user, on the open source webpage of a B-listed British actor?

I have only one question, Your Honor:

WHY?

I rest my case.

[Edit]: To make it maybe more clear, I now know where the person adding that category lives, thanks to Wikipedia's own tracking system:

No surprises here:

Augusta. Georgia. USA.

Now, yes. Now I rest my case.