#still not over this concert in any way. i need this to sustain me for the next forever | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

servin-up-surveys · 3 months ago

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survey #230

When was the last time you consumed alcohol? Good question, idk.

Are you interested in creative writing of any sort? Sure am, I do forum animal RP as a major hobby.

Can you ever see yourself and your ex back together? No, not with any ex.

Did you get ice cream from the ice cream truck when you were little? Do they still have an ice cream truck where you live? Sometimes, yeah. I don't know if we still have them.

What has been the most traumatic experience of your life? Does it still bother you? Losing my first real boyfriend that I made my entire identity and source of happiness and worth. I've healed A LOT and it doesn't bother me much anymore, but I have my moments, especially if I'm listening to a song that brings me back.

Where was the last place you got completely wasted? I've never been drunk.

Have you ever changed the prices of items at a store? Not when it wasn't my job. I might not have ever even gotten to this point on the jobs I had where this was a relevant duty, but I feel like I have before.

Would your parents disown you if you got pregnant? No, I'm a grown-ass adult with parents that thankfully love and support me.

Are you going to any concerts or festivals this summer? I'm sure I'm not.

Any baby names you think you might name your future kids? If Girt and I actually had kids, Miquella or Mikella Lynn and/or Sage Llane.

When was the last time you had sex? I'm going to be the 30 y/o virgin and no I'm not happy about it, but I try to be understanding of my partner's no less than debilitating performance anxiety.

Think back to your most important relationship, was it all your fault it’s over? I honestly think Girt is my most important relationship, and it's not over.

What’s your favorite color? Shades of pink. Mostly lighter ones.

Ever had a black eye? No.

Did your most recent kiss take place in/on a bed? No, his car. He was too tired to come in that night.

Has anyone seen you naked in the last 6 months? No. Even with Girt, I never FULLY take all my clothes off because I'm just too self-conscious. He's basically seen everything at one point or another, I just don't care. I'm more comfortable and less rigid when I'm covered in some places, my lower legs especially.

Last person to cuddle with? Girt.

Do you prefer hot or cold drinks overall? Cold.

Do you know how to tie a tie? No.

Are you a fan of hot chocolate? Do you like it plain or do you prefer to add things like whipped cream or marshmallows? Yes, completely plain. I don't like the texture of whipped cream and once the marshmallows start to dissolve, I don't like that texture, either.

What caused your last injury? I stubbed my fucking toe super hard. I shattered the toenail.

What’s the smallest thing you’ve ended a relationship over? Nothing "small." There were all valid reasons.

Would you rather order a starter (appetizer) or a dessert? Or would you be able to manage a full three courses? Usually, appetizer. I can RARELY manage a full three courses, I'm gonna be suffering.

How do you get most of your news, if you pay attention to it at all? Ha, Facebook, honestly.

Have you or a member of your family been diagnosed with COVID yet? I as well as multiple other family members have gotten COVID at one point or another.

Are you a vegetarian? If so, what persuaded you to stop eating meat? If not, is it something you’d ever consider? No. I had a phase where I tried, but it is simply not sustainable for me. I am too picky with my autism. I would be malnourished if I really tried to dedicate my life this way.

Do you prefer rice or pasta? Pasta, but I enjoy both.

Did you do laundry yet today? If not, do you need to do any before you go to bed? I admittedly don't do my own laundry; my mom likes to do our laundry together to save resources. I am responsible for putting my clothes away, though, once she separates them into baskets.

Have you ever had a friend that you found extremely annoying but put up with anyway? I wouldn't consider that person my friend, soooo...

Who was the last person you sat beside at a restaurant? My mom.

Peaches or plums? Peaches, I guess. I like both. I eat peaches far more.

Do you read books or magazines more? Books.

Would you ever dye your hair blonde? No, only for the purpose of adding color to it.

Who was the last person you took a picture with? Uh... I think Girt?

Do you like Redbull? I've never tried it.

What’s the last kind of Vitamin Water you had? I don't drink it.

Do you like to kill people on the Sims? I was never into the human Sims, I only played two animal versions.

Have you used Limewire before? Of course I have.

Are you or were you in a band? No.

Is the taste of alcohol appealing to you? Not at all. That's why when I drink alcohol, it has to be very light and fruity stuff.

Was your first crush on a male or female? A guy.

Do you think you look better with long hair or short hair? Short.

Have you ever had to apply for disability? Yes, but I didn't get it.

How many of your grandparents are alive currently? None.

What are three emojis you use a lot? Crying, laughing, and the sparkly heart.

Do you follow any sort of special diet, and if so, what? No.

Have you ever had an eating disorder? No. I have binge-eating tendencies, but I don't think it's with enough regularity to be considered a disorder.

Do you have any bruises on you? No.

Are you ticklish? Very.

Did you reject or accept your last friend request? Reject, it was some rando.

Did you have a good childhood? Mostly, yes. There were negatives, especially with my dad and the dangerous neighborhood I grew up in, but in general I had a good childhood.

What pets did you have when you were growing up? God, a lot. Cats, dogs, a lizard, ball pythons, mice, rats, hamsters, gerbils, fish, guinea pigs, my sister had a rabbit, and I might be forgetting some.

Would you ever date someone who had issues with substance abuse? No, I am not getting involved in that.

[TW: CHILD LOSS] Do you know anyone who has had a miscarriage? I know a number of people. This is sadly not uncommon at all.

What’s your last ex's opinion of you? She'd probably be happy to see me dead, and I don't think that's an exaggeration. Shame on me for not keeping someone's confessed Nazism a secret.

Are there any major drama queens in your family? Yep.

Do you like Stephen King novels? I've never read any.

What is one adventurous thing you’d be willing to do? (ex: skydive) Cave exploration, but not in narrow cave systems. I don't fuck with that. I'd only be willing to explore wide caves and not go TOO terribly deep.

How many email accounts do you have? Two that I actually use.

Does the place you work have music playing? What sort? I don't have a job.

What’s your favourite type of donut? Either just glazed or chocolate frosted.

Has someone ever tried to start an argument with you over Facebook? What happened? Oh for sure. Sometimes I'll just ignore people, but more often than not, I'll argue my point. This happened recently and the woman realized she was wrong and just changed her focus entirely and replied in this really funny "oops I fucked up" sorta way. She literally wanted to argue that images you find on Google are never modified or AI, they're cold hard facts. I couldn't fucking believe it.

When you’re at home, do you spend most of your time in your room? No, I'm in the spare room. I lived in bed in my bedroom too long and it was terrible for me.

Do you have a hard time admitting you’re wrong? Not really, no. I suppose this could depend on the topic, but in general, I'm definitely willing to admit when I realize I'm wrong.

When were you the saddest in your life? After the breakup with Jason.

Who in your family has been married the longest? (and how long?) idk

Do you take your shoes off when you come inside? Yes.

What was the first social media site you ever used? MySpace.

Have you ever been catcalled? Not to my recollection.

Have you ever cut your own hair? Nah.

Are you a fan of video games? Yes. I'm not as obsessed as I was when I was younger, but I still enjoy them.

What’s your favorite color combination? Black and gold.

Has anyone besides your family seen you naked? If so, who? Jason, *basically* Girt, I talked about this recently. Oh, I remember as a young child taking a bath with my best friend.

Do you know how to use Photoshop? Yeah. I'm not a graphic design expert or anything, but I know a good deal, especially when it comes to photography-related functions.

Do you have the right time set on your microwave? Yes.

Have you ever been arrested? For what? No.

Where did you go today? Lunch with Tobey for Mom's birthday. Shortly we'll be going to dinner with my sisters.

Where is your favorite person? Maybe at work now? He has to do night shift for a while and I hate it.

What mode of transport did you take to high school? My mom drove me. Occasionally I would ride home with Jason on the bus to his house.

Have you ever made an item of clothing? No.

Who was the last person who cooked something for you? A cook at the restaurant.

Who was the last person who touched your hair? Besides me, Girt probably.

What was the last vegetable you ate? Green beans.

When was the last time you had a sleepover? Girt hasn't slept here in months, we don't do that a lot. He sleeps fine, I usually don't. I need a bigger bed.

#survey #surveys

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diary-of-a-recovering-party-girl · 1 year ago

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finally hybernating [18.10.2023]

Slept almost 12 hours, my body seems to still have a loooot of summer to catch up on. I thought I'd meet with G today, but she didn't text me back. I also thought I might go to Parcour classes again or I might print out these political posters but I didn't do any of it either. I stayed home all day, sewing. I didn't really feel like going outside, talking to people, doing anything outside of my warm 4 walls.

This was what I planned my winter to be about. Rest and recovery. Sewing at home, doing my homework, cooking vegetables while the sun sets earlier each day. I feel like I need that after this summer and in general. Also, I don't feel like talking to most people. I'm annoyed at G for not texting me back and also I'm annoyed at CL for not texting me back and M is in Belgium and I feel weird about meeting the group because of political events.

And because of that, I kind of don't feel like doing anything. Everything I do seems like a weird simulation, like a useless work therapy, doing things for the sake of doing things, keeping my routine to preserve the facade that everything is okay, everything is normal, my work and my studies are important, like there aren't horrible acts of terrorism happening, everything is fine. I feel useless living my little life here in Berlin, while over there, people are dying.

Again, I can't point to why this event affects me so much specifically. People are dying every day, unfortunately and I still can't do something about any of it here and I don't even try to. Now it's different. I wonder if a political event can make you legitimately depressed.

Sewing and cooking isn't where all my energy went, also. I até again so much thst my stomach hurt in the night til the next morning. While sewing, I kept playing more or less random videos on YouTube, later I tried to distract myself with Instagram videos. I'm trying to drown my feeling in food and entertainment, hoping that the sugar and the video headlines and funny jokes will scream loud enough to cover the videos that keep replaying in my head.

P has finally texted me back but I didn't look at the messages in days, because a) I want to give him my "happy self" and b) again, I don't feel like doing anything, especially talking to people, even if it's people I have a crush on.

Keeping my busy illusion is the only thing that feel a bit right right now when everything else in the world feels so wrong. "I am okay", I tell myself. "I did my homework and I even did some art, I am doing the minimum to keep going, I am keeping me and my life alive".Also, I managed to stay away from politics almost all day. This is also a way to survive mentally.

However, I feel scared. Legitimately scared of a terrorist attack happening here. I have never felt honestly scared of that, not here and not in my hometown, not even 2016- 2017, when a newspaper didn't get printed if it didn't have the word "terror" in the headline. I simply didn't think about, kept going to events and concerts and festivals. Now, I hear the police sirens I hear every day and wonder how far they are from me. I am mentally preparing myself for the next attack, here, in Germany, in Berlin.

The only time I left my house was in the evening to go for a run. I couldn't run all the 10kms I planned and I don't feel well- prepared for the half marathon on the weekend but I never felt prepared for any run I ever did.

On the way back, I did catch a headline of a news paper displayed at a kiosk stand. Not about Gaza, something else, something about sustainability. I don't think I ever felt that relieved to read the word "Klima- Kleber".

#d5 #diary #political events #anxiety #gaza #israel #political stress #overearing #Internet addiction

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unfinishedessays · 2 years ago

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Record high temperature set three years ago topped by a degree and a half. Wildfires in the arctic circle. Catastrophic storms the planet over. Climate change is here; we lost.

For years the climate scientists have been setting a 1.5°C global temperature increase as the hard limit. The ‘stay under this to avoid global catastrophy’ limit. The ‘avoid this like the lives of your children and grandchildren depend on it’ limit. We’re currently at 1.0°C and steadily climbing, and somehow we still give time and thought to those saying it’s not real. The ones making the important choices and contributions still waffle and debate and make token gestures.

According to the experts the conservative estimate, the good news estimate, has us over 1.5 degrees within the decade and ending up between 2.4 and 3 degrees if we take major steps now. These major steps not being global revolution and world changing but ten-year plans to reduce emissions by 50% or switch to electric cars or make the other slow grinding changes we’ve been fighting for for 50 years. You know those 10 and 20 year plans they make and agreements they sign and empty political promises we get which at best end up 10 years behind schedule with a significantly reduced goal and the constant fight from those making money off those making money off the death of our planet.

So maybe all those things will happen and we’ll land happily in a planet a full degree above the hard limit the climate scientists gave us. Or maybe conservative good news estimates are great to make us think there’s hope but fool me once, twice, twenty times shame on me. We’re fucked. These goals and targets won’t get hit. They never have before.

We can look at what it looks like in the worst case scenario, but we don’t even need to. That 2.5°C good news target is bleak. It’s wildfires, tornados, hurricanes, droughts, rising sea levels, food shortages, heat-related deaths, building collapses, disease, mass migration, civil unrest, wars. That’s what the experts say. If you don’t believe in climate change, I’m sorry you’ve been brainwashed by the massive propaganda effort and I’m impressed you made it this far. Keep going, I believe in you. If you do believe in climate change, this is really fucking depressing but also what you need to hear. Burying your head in the sand and ignoring the sad reality doesn’t make it less real. But depression doesn’t generate clicks so the news always shies away from it. We’re fucked. Acknowledge it.

All the news articles end the same way. How can you help? Buy an electric car, eat less meat, take less flights. Because one or a million or a billion each making a tiny change can outdo the massive industrial complexes poisoning our atmosphere. Call your representative, use your vote effectively. Because that’s worked great for the last 50 years of determined stagnation, but maybe now we’ll get through to them.

The question that’s always asked then ‘answered’ is how can you help slow it down? How can you fight back? But that’s the wrong question to be asking because we’ve already found out the answer, basically, is ‘you can’t; it’s happening’.

So now what. What’s the next question? I propose three:

What form of government/society can exist sustainably in concert with the environment, climate, and biome?

How can the current government/society mitigate the various aspects of the coming disaster?

How can an individual ensure the survival of themselves and their loved ones?

These are clearly complex questions and any reasonable answers will be even more so. Nevertheless, here are the criminally shortened versions of my best answers.

First, the ideal of endless growth must end. It is fundamentally unsustainable for reasons which should be immediately obvious. Second, the culture should be refocused from fundamental human supremacy to one of fundamental human integration. We’re part of the ecosystem whether we like it or not, and we should build our society with that understanding in mind. How us humans should structure our government is not a question I’m fit to answer, but stay tuned for further writings on building a multi-species culture.

First, do all those ‘fighting climate change’ things we keep arguing about: invest in renewables, encourage biking and public transit, etc., etc.. Second, be prepared to help: invest in disaster management, invest in infrastructure both physical (dams, trains, water pipes) and social (welfare, food assistance, homeless shelters). Third, build better habits: encourage small scale agriculture like community gardens and backyard chickens, build and plan for small walkable communities,

First, consider where you live. Is your area prone to earthquakes, wildfire, hurricanes, floods, etc.? Can you move? If you can, consider it. If not, be realistic about what’s coming and be prepared. Second, start doing things yourself: learn to grow/hunt/find your food, learn to repair your tools/machines/engines, if you want electricity get a solar panel or windmill and know how to repair it.

Those are the short versions. I will approach the long versions now, in reverse order.

How can an individual ensure the survival of themselves and their loved ones?

Obviously you can’t ensure it, but just as obviously you can improve your chances. First off, everyone whose first answer is ‘build a bunker’ or ‘hoard guns’ is wrong. These might help in a war, they will not help now. Let’s start by looking at the list of what to expect from above.

Wildfires, tornados, hurricanes, droughts, rising sea levels, food shortages, heat-related death, building collapses, disease, mass migration, civil unrest, wars

These fall into 3 categories:

direct environmental effects, such as wildfires, droughts, rising sea levels

first order effects, caused by direct environmental effects, such as food shortages, heat-related deaths, building collapses

higher order effects, such as mass migration, civil unrest, wars

#essays #unfinishedessays #writing #nonfiction

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iwadori · 4 years ago

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Hiiii!!!! can you do like when you guys are supposed to meet up and they waited for about an hour or so and kept texting you you but you haven't replied so they thought you ditched them and got mad at you and stuff then they decided to go home and while on their way home not too far from their school they found you unconscious body with a large wound on you back and your head bleeding?.

can you pleaseease do tsukishima, yamaguchi, ushijima, bokuto (I'm sorry if that's a lot)

Haikyu Boys when you get hurt Pt 2 (Ushijima,Bokuto

Part One Part Two Part Three

Word count: 2.6K

Genre: angst, fluff

masterlist

Ushijima

You were having the worst week this week, from battling a cold and your boss making you do all sorts of extra jobs (that were definitely not under your job description.) As easter was swiftly approaching you and Ushijima had your annual plans of going to the local kids community center and helping them with an easter egg hunt. But you don’t think you can manage it this year.

Ushijima gets home from practice with 4 bags just filled with easter eggs ranging from all different sizes, “woah there Toshi, you’ve got enough there too feed all of england” you laugh

“I don’t think these eggs will be able to sustain England Y/N” he says seriously making you laugh even harder. As you were laughing, you felt another migraine come along making your cringe in pain. “Toshi, I don’t think I can do the easter egg hunt this year?”

He sits down next to you alarmed that something is wrong, “why what happened Y/N” he asks

“I’ve been feeling terrible all week, and I even have a migraine right now” you say to him thinking he would understand.

“That’s it?” he questions thinking what you said was a joke “I think you can handle a migraine, remember we’re doing this for the kids”

His words were making you feel slightly guilty since maybe you were being over dramatic. “Y/N if it’s really ‘that bad’, i’ll make you some tea so you can feel better,” he says going into the kitchen to start on your tea. You murmur a quiet “thank you” and you end up falling asleep, hoping that by the time you wake up your head stops pounding.

As you wake up, you realise you slept all the way through the night and over to the next day as when you look at your clock it says 12:32 pm. You look at your nightstand and saw that Ushijima wrote you a note saying:

Y/N I've left out early to set out the easter egg hunt, I’ve made you breakfast so eat up and get prepared for the event which starts at 4pm. Please don’t forget.

Sincerely – Ushijima Wakatoshi.

You chuckle at the fondness of the note, before realising your pain. Your brain felt like it was having a live concert inside that definitely was not going to end soon but you still got up prepared for the day. You didn’t want to let Ushijima or the kids down.

When you go to the kitchen , you see the cute breakfast that Ushijima made you consisting of all of your favourite foods and with another simple note of him saying ‘ I love you. ‘ Ushijima has always been a lovely boyfriend, treating you like the queen you are always making sure that you were okay. Of course, his bluntness and his lack of social cues was something to get used to but when you did get accustomed to it, it only made you fall in love with him more.

You got ready, feeling even more sick as the piping hot shower that you usual have, did not help as when you were showering you felt heavily faint. However, you persevered since you did not want to let Ushijima down.

You finally were prepared to leave the house, with the community center being on 15 minutes walk away you were leaving out at 3:50pm since you were planning to take your car anyways. When you leave your home, you realise that you forgot your car keys so you dash up the stairs (a bit too quickly) to go and find them. Scrambling through your draws, your head is pounding harder and harder and the more it pounds the quicker your moving making you even more faint. You eventually find your keys and you’re ready to zoom to the community center but your body gave out and you pass out tumbling down the stairs landing at your front door.

Ushijima was waiting outside of the community center waiting for you to arrive it was 4:05pm and he was wondering where you were (knowing that your place was only a 10 minute drive away) he sent you a few texts asking where you were but when you don’t respond Ushijima becomes slightly annoyed, plastering a fake smile on his face and entering the community center, starting the easter egg hunt.

The easter egg hunt came to a close at 8pm and Ushijima assumed that you would’ve showed up some time in the middle of the event, but you obviously didn’t show. After making sure that all the kids left safely Ushijima decided to call and text you more and when you continuously don’t respond and your calls go to voicemail he says ‘Y/N, im really disappointed with you right now. How could you do this to me? You said you would show up, the kids were really upset, how could you be so selfish?’

He walks to your house knocking on the door, but when you don’t immediately answer he knew something must be up now, since you haven’t responded to any of his texts and calls and didn’t show up he figured there was something deeper then you just ditching the event.

He used his key to open the door, surprised when the door hit something. He tried again hitting the ‘object’ that was laying at the door again. He carefully pushes the door to make enough room for him to fit through the gap. When he entered, he was startled at the sight of you, there you lay completely knocked out with a blood stain next to your head. He knelt down next to you and touched your cheek you were extremely cold, he had to get you to a hospital stat. He called an ambulance, panicked. Worrying about how long you’ve been out for since it would have to be atleast more than 4 hours he assumed.

You woke up in a foreign room, with your head slightly stinging. You place your hand on the back of your head and wince, then you remember you need to be at the easter egg hunt so you bolt up ready to move.

“I don’t think that’s wise for you to do that Y/N” Ushijima says to you

“Toshi, what happened?” you ask still in pain

“It seems you fell down the stairs and hit your head” after he said that all your memories come flooding back, and you remember rushing to the community centre, looking for your keys, and then falling down the stairs and everything going black.

“I’m sorry Ushi for missing the easter egg hunt, I really tried to get there,” you say with an apologetic look on your face

“It’s fine Y/N of course you wouldn’t of been able to get there after falling down the stairs” he says “Also, this is proof of why you shouldn’t run down the stairs”

You eventually get discharged with the doctor telling you all you need to do is rest and stay off your feet. Ushijima took the doctor's orders very seriously, becoming your loyal servant and waiting on you hand and foot, tending to your every need. He did also make you were eating healthy and taking all your medicine so you could have the best recovery possible.

Also, after realising that this could’ve all been avoided if Ushijima didn’t guilt trip you in the first place for having a migraine, he made sure to never ignore or dismiss when you say you are ill or have anything wrong with you even if it’s a migraine, a lost limb or a simple paper cut.

Bokuto

The Olympics were coming up and Bokuto couldn’t be any more excited than he already was. Everything he’s talked about for the past month he manages to find a way to relate to the Olympics, and as annoying as it got sometimes you were just as excited for it as much as Bokuto was.

Bokuto was heavily busy with extra practices so you were bored and lonely, since your boyfriend was at practice all the time so you chose to take up a new hobby. You decided to paint, although you weren’t an award-winning painter you still found joy in it. Being Bokuto’s girlfriend you had some slight unwanted attention on you: the usual fans of Bokuto that just followed you to have an extra aspect of him in their life's, or his fangirls that adored him.

You didn’t mind the fangirls for the most part since majority of them were pretty tamed and did fawn over your relationship. However, there was the minority of fans that did make it known to you that they DID NOT like you at all. When you started posting your paintings, it seems their hate for you amplified since they always found the need to leave an astray of mean comments on your post. But that didn’t mainly bother you since you thought that they only had that energy behind the screen.

The days went by getting closer to the Olympics, with Bokuto always asking you every day “Y/N you are coming to my games, right?” to which you always replied “Of course Kou, I’m coming” which always made him smile.

When the Olympics came, you’ve went to all the games cheering Bokuto and the team on as they were winning round after round. Whilst this was going on, the group of girls that were sending you horrible messages and making mean posts about you weren’t stopping. At first, you didn’t care for them but it seems their posts only gotten worse making comments about your artwork, your face, your body type ect.

You didn’t want to tell Bokuto as you felt that it would ruin his Olympic momentum and you thought you could handle it all on your own.

It was nearing to the final game of the Olympics, and Bokuto was ecstatic he made sure that you promised you’d be there claiming that you was his ‘good luck’ charm.’ You were excited to go too, the feeling of watching Bokuto play was exhilarating seeing him fully in his element was great for you to see.

On the last game day, Boktuo was already at the stadium since him and the team had to be there earlier to practice and you planned to meet him there just before the game started at 4:30. You went to a florist before the match getting Bokuto the biggest boquet that you could buy.

On your way to the stadium you here somebody whistle from behind you, you turn around and see a group of girls waiting behind you smirking. “Hi?” you say more like a question then a statement “do you want something from me?”

Some of them laugh, but the one standing at the front who you mentally lable the ‘main one’ steps closer to you and says “We want you to stay away from Bokuto” you realise that these were the girls sending you hate online for these past weeks.

Before you can even blink, the girls jump you, hitting, kicking and clawing at you. You are in pain, screaming and crying for them to stop and leave you alone. You lay there, letting them beat you up thinking that you’ll probably end up dead out of this. All you can think about is Bokuto, you didn’t get to wish him good luck, or give him your flowers (that you spent a fortune on) or even tell him that you loved him one last time.

You think the girls eventually stopped but you couldn’t tell because your body was throbbing and you hurt all over. You tried to get up still wanting to go to the match but you collapse going out cold.

Bokuto was scanning the crowd over and over for you, hoping to spot you there. But he couldn’t, he was wondering where you were getting sadder and sadder by the second since he really believed you were his good luck charm and he probably wouldn’t be able to win without at least seeing your face once.

They didn’t win. Bokuto knew he wasn’t playing at his best, since all his mind was on was thinking about where you were. You’ve never missed one of his games, so he was incredibly worried. After he accepted his second-place medal, he rushed out the stadium to go to your house but he was stopped by some fangirls ‘I guess signing autographs is the least I can do’ he thinks, the fans were being a bit odd today but he didn’t have time to focus on that as his mind was racing thinking about you and your whereabouts.

One of his fans did give him an alarmingly big boquet of roses which he appreciated ‘these must of cost a fortune’ he thinks. Although it was a probably a long shot, he decided to ask the fan if he saw someone who looked like *whatever you look like* to maybe see if someone else saw you. Which the fan replied “yeah I saw them with some guy at this restaurant whilst we were going to see you!” they exclaimed.

‘A guy’ he thought ‘that most likely wasn’t you.’ Seeing Bokuto’s confusion, the fan followed up with “I'm pretty sure it was her I mean we all know who Bokuto Koutaro’s girlfriend was.” Bokuto didn’t reply just walking away making sure to thank them for the flowers.

He was rushing towards your house on foot (since all the taxi’s and ubers were fully booked because of the Olympics) whilst running he stumbles across your passed out body all black and bruised with scratch marks and bleeding all over you. “what happened” he whispered, knowing you obviously weren’t going to respond.

He picked up your near-dead body, and cradled you in his arms taking you back to the stadium (since he knew that getting an ambulance to come here or running to the hospital would basically be impossible.) When he got back to the stadium, he did get odd looks from strangers but he didn’t care, his only agenda was making sure you were okay.

You woke up, and saw Bokuto pacing the room repeatedly you tried to get his attention by saying his name but your throat was damaged. He eventually notices you and runs to your side, stroking your face softly and giving you a gentle hug making sure not to hurt you.

“Who did this Y/N?” he asks with worry in his eyes

You ignore his question and look at the silver medal wrapped around his neck making you sad “I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the match, I tried I really did try” you said with your voice sounding even worse after you said every word.

“Don’t be silly, I’m just glad that you’re okay babe, I was really worried about you.” he said

The Medic came in and said that you had multiple broken ribs, but beside that you were fine you just needed to rest your throat and let your bruises heal. You eventually told Bokuto that it was some of his fans, he was upset that you hid this from him for so long but he was just glad that he got to you as soon as he did. He managed to play at the next Olympics and you were there fully present, with your even bigger boquet of flowers watching win gold.

Authors Note: I tried to make it as close to your request as possible, but I hope you enjoy as I really do think this is my favourite work so far.... :3 Comments and feedback appreciated.

#haikyuu x reader comfort #haikyu scenarios #haikyu #haikyu angst #haikyu fluff #haikyu headcanons #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu-fluff #haikyu x reader #ushijima imagine #ushijima oneshot #ushijima angst #ushijima x reader #bokuto x reader #bokuto angst #koutarou x reader #bokuto scenarios #signedwithane😌

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early20sfailingplenty · 3 years ago

Note

Hello! I recently started a job where there is a lot of manual labor involved, I'm often coming home covered in cuts and bruises I hadn't noticed getting. Do you think you could write a little something for Bo grumpily fussing over the cuts and scrapes even though they don't bother me much? -mort(Lester anon from before)

Aaaa congrats on the new job! I recently started a job where I'm constantly moving things, pushing things, reaching over etc and I'm always waking up sore in muscle groups I haven't used for well over a year, so I get it! I hope you enjoy this, Mort, and please know I LOVE your Lester thoughts!!!!💗🙏

TW; mentions of blood & injuries, canonical darkness & violence, swearing.

----

You don't really notice when you get cut or bruised at work; you're always so focused on what you're doing that anything you bump into, any time you get caught on something sharp, trip over or walk into is dismissed. You don't even remember registering the pain at the moment of injury and when you get home and find them, you just shrug them off as an occupational hazard.

It takes three shifts at your new job for Bo to realise that you keep coming home injured. Is he slow on the uptake? A little, but once he notices, Bo quickly becomes attentive and he knows you've sustained injuries even before you do. It's why he keeps a small first aid kit right next to the front door; as soon as your keys get thrown into the wooden bowl on the sideboard, Bo is there impatiently while you take off your coat and other outer layers.

"Hurry th'fuck up, darlin'," He shakes his head, already getting out the anti-septic wipes and plasters in preparation. He always expects the worst, even if you only have a few small bruises.

"Relax, Bo," You eye roll fondly, not all that bothered by any injuries, "They'll still be there in five minutes. There's no rush."

Bo's eyes narrow and he scoffs, looking away from you. You see him make a concerted effort to calm down and you realise that under his impatience is worry for you and for your safety. Time is of the essence with open wounds, it's true, and Bo knows that better than most. He's been injured so many times you've lost count of how often you've sobbed over his still form while Vincent has shakily but expertly patched his twin up.

"Jus' keep still, would ya'?" You're all ready for Bo's inspection and his eyes greedily rake over your body in a way which is clinical yet... appreciative. Your sleeves are rolled up and arms turned this way and that, Bo's dark brows furrowed. Your face is gripped between his large rough hands and examined at all angles. Your legs are checked in the same way as your arms, and with a quick look to see that you're both alone do you pull up your shirt so Bo can check you for bruises or cuts front and back, too.

He's grumpy as all hell about it, muttering and cursing with every new injury he finds. Bo dutifully but roughly swipes the cuts clean, dumps the used wipe on a tea towel and then puts a plaster on it, his calloused thumb rubbing it over your skin as if his touch can heal you from the outside in.

If only you could tell him that he soothed your rawest wounds, those on your heart, from the inside out just by being himself... but even if you could, for nothing was stopping you, you knew that Bo would never believe you.

If you wince, Bo does too. "Shush, s'okay," says he with a tender, lingering kiss to your forehead. "I got'cha, darlin'. Bo's gonna' fix you up and make ya' all better, yeah?"

"Bo, I'm fi - "

The look he gives you tells you not to push him and you realise that he's doing this for you as well as for himself, not entirely selfless is he in anything he does for you. He needs to know you're safe and well so he can get some damn sleep at night.

"Gonna gimme' a heart attack one'a these fuckin' days, Y/N." When he's done, it's time for your lecture, and he pulls you into his body without hesitation, his arms tightly around you and his lips at your ear, "Only one'a you so be more careful, huh? I ain't always gonna' be patchin' ya' up jus' because y'got hurt." The last sentence is spoken in a rush compared to the reverence with which he addressed you, and so you know he's a liar.

Don't call him out on it - the tips of his ears are already pink enough.

#bo sinclair #bo sinclair x reader #bo sinclair imagine #bo sinclair blurb #house of wax #house of wax x reader #slasher fic #slasher community #slasher x reader

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waitineedaname · 3 years ago

Note

Can’t remember the number but the prompt about hearing a song meant for their crush from their roommate’s room???

7. I have work in the morning and I can’t sleep while you’re making music next door, composing love songs for your secret crush.

Gordon was not a stranger to insomnia. Even before all the bullshit that had been thrown at him in Black Mesa, he’d had his fair share of sleepless nights. Anxiety and ADHD would do that to you. Of course, that had gotten significantly worse after he lived through his worst nightmares. It was easier to deal with these days, though. Time had passed since the Resonance Cascade, and he had spent a long time putting his life back together. Learning coping mechanisms, getting a much lower stress job as a physics professor, reconciling with Benrey, the whole nine yards. The night terrors and insomnia came far less frequently than they had when he was fresh out of the birthday bash at the end of the world. That didn’t mean they stopped coming all together, though.

It was one in the morning, if the glowing numbers on his alarm clock were to be trusted, and he had yet to fall asleep. His mind was racing, and not even in the typical anxiety way; he just couldn’t get it to shut up. It didn’t help that he had a class to teach in the morning. He was begging his brain to let him rest, but instead it decided to fixate on anything thought that passed by, like midterms coming up or the TV shows he loved as a child or all the noise coming from Benrey’s room.

Gordon ran his hands down his face and groaned. Yeah, Benrey deciding to compose music in the middle of the night definitely wasn’t helping his sleep. What the hell was that guy even doing? Fuck it, Gordon decided. He wasn’t getting any sleep anyway. Might as well ask Benrey about their music.

He shuffled down the hall, mumbling curses when he stubbed his toes on the furniture barely visible in the dim moonlight. He paused outside Benrey’s room and listened a moment. Some of the sounds were the tell-tale tones of Sweet Voice, sometimes low and resonant, sometimes sweeping to high flute-like notes. Behind the Sweet Voice beeps was the sound of a piano, played with inexperienced hands but still harmonizing surprisingly well. Occasionally, one of the piano notes would come out sour, a key clearly being missed, and the Sweet Voice would be cut off with a non-melodic noise of annoyance before being picked up again.

Gordon had planned to knock on Benrey’s door, but he couldn’t help but stand there a while longer. The song Benrey was putting together was… really pretty, actually. He didn’t know a damn thing about music, but something about Benrey’s song struck a chord inside his chest.

He suddenly realized how weird it was that he was just standing there outside their door, and he shuffled awkwardly before knocking. The music immediately came to a screeching halt, and the silence that fell over the apartment was momentarily deafening. Then there was the sound of Benrey getting up, and then the door opened a few inches, allowing Benrey to peer out.

“Whuh?” They said, squinting up at him. “Thought you went to bed, man.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Gordon glanced over the top of Benrey’s head and saw a few Sweet Voice orbs still illuminating their otherwise dark room. The bubbles painted the room in a warm orange and pink glow, like an extremely localized sunset. “What’re you doing?”

“Nothing,” Benrey said immediately, then thought better of it. “Just making music. Dumb, uh, dumb idiot doesn’t even know music? Only listens to Linking Perk? Pork Links? Not very kosher of you, dude.”

“Shut up,” Gordon said, despite laughing. “Can I listen?”

Benrey visibly hesitated, almost to the point that Gordon considered retracting his request and shuffling back to bed, but they eventually nodded and stepped away from the door so Gordon could follow them into their room.

Gordon had been in Benrey’s room a few times before, usually to grab something they’d forgotten and couldn’t get themself or something, but usually he didn’t intrude. It was their space, and everybody needed their own space. Benrey inviting him into their room in the middle of the night felt like an expression of trust that still baffled Gordon every time he thought about it too much; how had they come this far? Benrey sat down on the small piano bench in front of the keyboard Gordon had bought them when he realized they needed some kind of constructive hobby, and after a beat of consideration, Gordon settled down at the other end of the bench.

“Don’t be a dick, okay?” Benrey warned him. “This is a once in a lifetime concert. I don’t perform for just anybody.”

“Alright, alright, I get it.” Gordon put his hands up in surrender. “I’ll keep my comments to a minimum.”

Benrey huffed but apparently deemed that response acceptable. They cleared their throat, put their hands on the keys, and began singing. Gordon was immediately entranced. It started as a low orange note, sustained with a major chord on the piano. Slowly, it was accented with notes of pink and shimmering blue. It sped up, becoming playful, then took on a treacherous minor key peppered with discordant notes, before resolving into a major key that exuded warmth and comfort. All throughout the performance, Gordon was transfixed by the Sweet Voice filling the room, enshrouding him and Benrey in light. The more he watched and listened, the more he thought he might recognize the Sweet Voice colors. There, the orange tone Benrey occasionally sang directly into Gordon’s face by way of greeting, followed by an orange-blue gradient Benrey sang when they were excited to go on an outing with Gordon. The playful pink Gordon learned to associate with Benrey’s laughter, the soft yellow they used when Gordon was too stressed to sleep. The bruised purple color Gordon remembered from bad nights, thankfully distant memories now, and then the gentle lavender of the comfortable mornings that replaced them. Then laced throughout it all, the pink to blue gradient that always embarrassed Benrey and reminded Gordon of the bi flag, hidden under other layers of music as if Gordon wouldn’t notice.

Gordon wasn’t sure how long the song went on, but eventually, it faded into silence as the last few bubbles of light escaped Benrey’s mouth and their fingers stilled on the keys. Gordon didn’t dare say a word, awestruck into silence. Benrey, however, fidgeted and felt the need to speak. “It’s not done,” They said, as if defensive. “It’s still… I gotta make it perfect, you know?”

“I think it’s perfect,” Gordon said, and he meant it. Benrey immediately looked embarrassed and turned their head away to sing that pink to blue string of Sweet Voice. “What is it about?”

“It’s, uh…” Benrey trailed off, rubbing some dust off one of the lower keys. “It’s about… I dunno, life? Living here. With you. And being your friend. And, uh. Yeah. Mostly about you.”

“...Me?” Gordon asked, shocked. Benrey continued to avoid his gaze. “Holy shit. I don’t think anyone’s made a song for me before.”

“Mm. Well, feel grateful. Asshole,” Benrey’s heart wasn’t in the insult for once, clearly deflecting. Gordon smiled and scooted closer on the piano bench, leaning against them affectionately.

“It was beautiful. Thank you, Ben.” Gordon pressed a kiss to their cheek, then stood. “I think I’m gonna go to bed for real now. Good night.”

Benrey had their lips closed tightly, holding back Sweet Voice, and nodded instead of responding verbally. When Gordon closed the door behind him, he could still hear and see the pink to blue Sweet Voice from under the door. He wandered back to bed, soothed and happy, and fell asleep to the sounds of Benrey’s composition drifting down the hall once more.

#hlvrai #frenrey #benrey #gordon feetman #my writing #okay to reblog #THIS ONE IS REAL SOFT <3 #sorry this took me a bit to get to #I'm visiting my mom for her birthday this week #hope you enjoy the fic :]#I love playing with sweet voice stuff. nonverbal language hell yeah

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mostlysignssomeportents · 4 years ago

Text

Paygo, false consciousness and the IRS

John Steinbeck diagnosed an important American pathology in 1966 when he called the US a nation of “temporarily embarrassed capitalists” — people who see themselves as the wealthy-in-waiting and therefore fight policies that reduce the power that comes from wealth.

It’s a restatement of Engels’ idea of “false consciousness,” and it’s the result of a deliberate strategy on the part of wealthy people — many of whom believe that they were literally genetically destined to be wealthy — to convince the rest of us that “anyone can succeed.”

Part of the false consciousness program is the money story that goes like this: the US government takes away “taxpayers’ money” from “makers” to fund “programs,” the bulk of which go to the “lazy takers,” who experience the “moral hazard” of subsidized unemployment.

But of course, that’s not how money works. Money originates with the federal government (and its fiscal agents, the banks). In order for the public to have money to pay off its tax liabilities, the government must first spend that money into existence.

The IRS doesn’t take our tax dollars, pile them up, and give them to Congress to spend on programs. When the IRS taxes our money, they annihilate it, removing it from circulation. When Congress spends, new money comes into existence.

The US government can’t run out of money any more than Apple can run out of Itunes gift cards. It can spend too much money — so much that prices go up because too many dollars are chasing too few goods — but it can’t run out of money.

Fed spending is constrained by resources (what’s for sale in dollars) not money (how many dollars there are). If the ratio of dollars to resources gets out of whack, there’s a risk of inflation.

There are many ways to fix this ratio. For example, the government usually issues T-bills (savings bonds) whenever it spends more than it taxes. When you buy a T-bill, you take dollars that might circulate around the economy, chasing goods and labor, and you sequester them.

A T-bill is just a dollar you’re not allowed to spend. In exchange for surrendering the right to spend your dollars for 1, 5, 10 or more years, the government offers you interest, trickling out that money over a long period.

That way the government can buy things today without bidding against your dollars.

But that’s not the only way to fight inflation while spending new money into existence. The other major way is taxation: simply removing money from the economy and annihilating it.

Taxation fights inflation. When the government runs a deficit, that means that it created more money this year via spending than it destroyed via taxes. The “government deficit” is the “public surplus” — the money left in the economy for all of us to spend on stuff.

Likewise, when the government runs a “surplus” that means it taxes more money out of existence than it spends into existence. In a year where the government runs a surplus, it means that the power of the private sector — you and me — to buy stuff has decreased overall.

This is fine if there was too much money to begin with — if inflation was kicking off — but if there’s not enough money in circulation (e.g. if there’s a recession), it just makes things worse…but not for everyone.

When the economy is starved of money, banks go to work creating new money through loans. These loans pay interest (to rich people like bank shareholders and people who securitize and buy debt).

That’s the one-two punch of spending cuts during a downturn:

I. The real economy is starved of the capital it needs to pay workers and make things for workers to buy;

II. The financial economy grows as desperate real-economy firms borrow from banks to keep the lights on.

Despite all their talk of “spending taxpayers’ money,” the wealthy understand how money works. That’s why they were totally indifferent to the running $1t/year deficits created by the Trump tax-cuts (and likewise about the Obama finance bailouts).

Giving money to rich people causes asset-bubbles (driving up the prices of houses), but not inflation (a sustained rise in the price of all goods). That’s because rich people can’t buy enough stuff (fridges, cars, oranges) to drive up prices.

https://pluralistic.net/2021/04/08/howard-dino/#payfors

After you’ve bought three houses and three SubZero fridges and filled them with the beef of three Kobe cows and three cases of Moet, there’s still a LOT left over (even if you’re Jeff Bezos and buy a superyacht with its own, smaller superyacht).

Those leftovers go to socially useless things, like buying houses to turn into rent-generating slums (Wall Street is fast becoming America’s biggest landlord, and single family homes are sold for cash to investment funds instead of families).

And they go to influence campaigns designed to make regular people defend massive cuts to the IRS and opposition to public spending on infrastructure, education, health, and other necessities.

This isn’t just about Republicans. For years, the Democratic leadership has supported “balanced budgets” (spending so little that no new money is left in the economy after all taxes are paid).

The “paygo” rule (which requires all new spending to be matched with cuts or tax-hikes) is religion for the likes of Pelosi and Schumer. That’s why the Democratic caucus is mired in stupid arguments about “how we will pay for the stimulus.”

As bad as the paygo rule is, though, Republicans have made it worse, by demonizing and starving the IRS. Paygo means that the US government operates under the artificial constraint of only spending if it can make cuts or raise taxes.

Raises taxes is really unpopular, for obvious reasons.

Now, raising taxes on the 1% — who have a lot of excess money that’s fueling political corruption and asset bubbles — is one way around this.

Theoretically, taxing the 1% should have a 99% approval rating.

But canny Republicans have figured out how exorcise temporarily embarrassed capitalists about the “unfairness” of taxing their bosses, in part by just flat-out lying about who new taxes would implicate.

But there’s yet another way to satisfy paygo’s artificial constraint, without changing the a single word in the tax-code: simply fund the IRS so that it can collect the trillions that the ultra-wealthy illegally avoid in tax-payments every year.

But this strategy is also a bust. The GOP campaign to destroy the IRS has been too successful.

It’s a longrunning campaign, but it achieved liftoff in 2013 when the Tea Party baselessly accused the IRS of discriminating against conservative groups seeking nonprofit status.

The work-the-ref strategy paid off, providing political cover for deep cuts to the IRS and putting IRS staffers on notice so they green lit every dark money group that applied for nonprofit status, no matter how obviously corrupt they were.

https://www.washingtonpost.com/investigations/fallout-from-allegations-of-tea-party-targeting-hamper-irs-oversight-of-nonprofits/2017/12/17/6403c1c0-c59e-11e7-a441-3a768c8586f1_story.html

After the cuts, the IRS grew easier to discredit. Understaffed and under siege, the agency’s behavior grew erratic, then indefensible. There were runaway automated processes that sent out erroneous property-seizure notices that no one could rescind:

https://theintercept.com/2019/01/14/irs-shutdown-federal-government-shut-down-irs-asset-seizures/

Then there was the aftermath of the Equifax breach, where the IRS first told Americans that it didn’t matter because they’d already been doxed by other bad companies:

https://thehill.com/policy/cybersecurity/355862-irs-significant-number-of-equifax-victims-already-had-info-accessed-by

Then came news that the IRS couldn’t cancel Equifax’s no-bid, $7.5m anti-fraud contract because it didn’t have the resources to do its own fraud prevention (Equifax eventually lost the contract because it served malware from its anti-fraud site).

https://www.cbsnews.com/news/equifax-irs-data-breach-malware-discovered/

The rich waged a successful all-out war on the IRS. Take the Global High Wealth unit. For every hour an auditor from GHW worked, they brought in $4500 in taxes the super-rich had dodged. Even by the topsy-turvy logic of “government as a business,” this was good business.

After a concerted harassment and political influence campaign, the GHW abandoned the super-rich and switched to the merely wealthy, bringing in less money and pissing off a lot more people.

The other shoe dropped in 2019, when the IRS admitted it had switched to preferentially auditing poor people because it was too politically and legally fraught to audit rich people, even the most flagrant cheaters.

https://www.propublica.org/article/irs-sorry-but-its-just-easier-and-cheaper-to-audit-the-poor

That was the first year that America’s 400 highest earners paid a lower tax rate than the average American worker:

https://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2019/10/06/opinion/income-tax-rate-wealthy.html

The IRS’s transformation into a facilitator of illegal wealth retention by the super-rich and petty harassment of the rest of Americans made them very easy to hate.

To that, add the concerted corporate campaigns to use the IRS to rip off workers.

For example, for 20 years, Intuit lobbied the IRS not to make tax-filing automatic, painless and free, ensuring that Americans would continue to pay billions to send data to the IRS that it already had:

https://www.propublica.org/article/inside-turbotax-20-year-fight-to-stop-americans-from-filing-their-taxes-for-free

Reading the IRS’s internal emails from this battle reveals an agency in retreat, where demoralized and ineffectual government employees simply rolled over for one of the greatest ripoffs in American history:

https://www.propublica.org/article/the-irs-tried-to-hide-emails-that-show-tax-industry-influence-over-free-file-program

Intuit wanted to rip us off with taxes. Microsoft, by contrast, just wanted to break the law. Working with KPMG, the convicted monopolist created a “transfer” scheme of breathtaking illegality, using its tax-savings to bankroll its war on the IRS:

https://www.propublica.org/article/the-irs-decided-to-get-tough-against-microsoft-microsoft-got-tougher

Which brings us to today, where Democrats are held hostage to the “payfor” rule and trying to figure out how to mobilize the trillions Biden has pledged for infrastructure, health, and care.

Republicans — pushing the big lie of “taxpayer money” — are dogwhistling hard. Senator John Thune, responding to Biden’s proposal for $80b for the IRS, says any tax enforcement efforts “must strike an appropriate balance between taxpayer responsibilities and taxpayer rights.”

Meanwhile Senator Chuck Grassley takes the nonsensical position that funding the IRS won’t help it do its job (“simply throwing money at a problem doesn’t necessarily yield a solution”).

https://thehill.com/policy/finance/553704-lawmakers-bicker-over-how-to-go-after-tax-cheats

Then there’s Rep Kevin Brady, warning that a fully funded IRS would “unleash tens of thousands of new IRS agents on families, farms and businesses.”

But the Democrats own the paygo rule, not the Republicans, and their leadership have added their own special touch to make funding the IRS impossible.

https://prospect.org/politics/infrastructure-at-a-crossroads-biden-public-investment/

According to the rules Congress gives to the Congressional Budget Office (which calculates the cost of government programs), the CBO isn’t allowed to factor in the projected additional revenue from funding the IRS, only the cost of doing so (!).

Which means that they must factor in the salaries that IRS Global High Wealth auditors will draw — but they are forbidden from counting the $4500/hour they generate when they puncture the tissue-thin financial lies of the super-rich.

The payfor and “taxpayer money” are lies.

It’s a shuck sold to the rubes, not economics. Because it’s a shuck, it doesn’t have to make any sense — and it doesn’t. We shouldn’t run government like a business, but if we must, let’s at least count revenues as well as costs.

Image: Mike Licht/notionscapital.com https://www.flickr.com/photos/notionscapital/48857033957/

CC BY: https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/

#pluralistic

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akaashisupremacy · 4 years ago

Text

Job Wanted: Boyfriend

Summary: Makki is callous w/ his words. After a big fight, he knows he needs to make changes. Can he make things work before it’s too late?

Notes: Right on time for Hanamki’s birthday!! In the fic it’s his actual bday too lol!! Inspired by hcs about Hanamaki’s toxic traits that lives in my mind rent free!

January Fic List || Masterlist || Read it on Ao3

Hanamaki x reader

genre: ANGST, lovers to exes to ??, pining, tw: toxic-ish relationship (wc: 1.9 k)

“It’s not my job to be your boyfriend.” Takahiro Hanamaki mutters with his arms crossed, “Stop trying to police what I have to say!”

Your eyes widen in disbelief. You knew it was over between you two then and there.

You met Makki while working in a soba restaurant. He was charismatic, smart and efficient. Whenever you two were on the same shift, he tried to make the work fun. You both started hanging out after work—indie films in the university theatre, library study sessions, walks home after work. Makki even traded shifts just to see you more often.

All you were asking from him was to be more sensitive. Enough was enough. Sure he liked you and you liked him, but compatibility was a separate thing altogether. He knew you were touchy about comments on your art, your looks and your confidence, but he just didn’t know when to shut up.

“You’re wearing that sweater really?”

“This piece looks okay, like subpar on a good day.”

If he doesn’t want to have to be careful with his words, then you don’t want to have to be around him. You swiftly grab your things and walk out the door. When it finally sinks into him two seconds later, he stumbles onto the door apologizing. You refuse to hear any of it.

“I didn’t mean it-- ”

But fun hang outs and serious dating are two different things, and the end of your relationship proved just that.

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

Makki tries to apologize to you when he sees you, but nothing seems to work. Eventually he gives in and allows you both to drift apart—he stops catching you in the library and trading shifts, which was fine by you.

After a few months, Makki finds himself staring at his phone one fateful afternoon. He’s still debating whether to make the call or not. In the end, he shrugs his shoulders. There’s really nothing to lose.

When you see his name, you pick up because of your curiosity more than anything.

“To what do I owe this occasion?” you snort. You hear him repress a chuckle.

“Damn, I haven’t said anything yet and you’re hostile already.” he laughs. You threaten to put the phone down.

“Hey, on my last birthday you said that may all your wishes come true, right? Well, my next birthday is coming up and my wish is to spend the day with you.”

“I’m in Kyoto right now. You’re in Tokyo.” you point out. You are both on semestral break. Has he already forgotten that you spend your breaks with your grandmother in Kyoto?

“I’ll take the day off and I’ll come down to see you.” he holds his breath as he waits to hear your answer, “We haven’t hung out in a while.” he adds casually.

“Can’t you just spend it with someone else?” you sigh somewhat resigned, “The not hanging out part is on you. Don’t put that on me.”

You could hear him thoughtfully inhale on the phone before he replies, “No, I want to spend it with you. Besides, I’ve always wanted to see Kyoto.”

“I’m ending the call now.” you roll your eyes, unnerved by the whole conversation. The audacity of this man!

“I promise I won’t do anything or say anything dumb!” you hear him yell over the phone as you get ready to end the conversation.

“Sure.” You click the end call button.

———————————————————————

On his birthday, you do go out with him. You find yourself waiting at the Kyoto Central Station, wading through the crowds to find his light brown head searching intently for you. He smiles when he sees you. You feel a mixture of sadness and nerves. You’d never thought he’d be so callous with you when he first smiled at you like this.

If anything, today is little more than a break from work. You’re also determined to be so quiet to the point of cold to make the experience so awkward he’ll never want to come to you again.

“I really want to change.” is the first thing he says to you over doughnuts and coffee.

Makki can easily tell that you are still not back to your old self. Despite the strong smell of brewed coffee that pervades the Kyoto Central Station, you sit quietly on your seat distractedly eating a sandwich.

You almost pretend to not hear him. Instead you turn to him with a blank expression in your face and look away.

“I’m serious. I know I have a problem. You’re not the first person to leave me for the things I’ve said.” he adds.

“I’m sure the next person you date will appreciate that.” you mumble diplomatically.

“Don’t give up on me.” you hear his voice pleading, his eyes sincere and not their usual sleepy nonchalance.

You put down the donut and cross your arms, “I don’t owe you a second chance. You know that, right?”

“I’m really sorry—“

“Makki, I hate so many things about myself. I don’t need you to taunt or repeat them to me. You’re an above average friend at best, but you’re a terrible person to date. I can’t even call you my boyfriend because you you said it wasn’t your ‘job.’” you sigh deeply with your hand on your forehead, “Can you see why I’m not enthusiastic about you?”

Announcements left and right and the ceaseless shuffling of the busy station fill the voids of your conversation.

“So why spend the day with me?” he pauses, eyes wide with curiosity looking straight into yours.

“To prove a point to you. Even when you’ve made the effort to come down here, you’re finding it difficult to watch what you say. Do you find that sustainable?” you tilt your head inquiringly.

He nods, less confident than usual “I want it to be sustainable.” There was some uncertainty in his eyes.

“I can already see it, Makki. Two weeks of this and you’ll be ready to blow your top because you’ll be tired from having to be on edge all the time.”

“I’ve got to start somewhere, right? It’s a change of mindset I’m realizing, but it’s not impossible. I’ve been trying to be more careful and it’s been easier. I’m just a little tense because I’m around you today.” he says quietly, “I’m really trying. I promise.”

“Feels nice to be the one that’s not tense,” you let slip a smirk.

———————————————————————————————

At the end of the day, you’re back at the train station with Makki beside you. You’ve taken him to see the Golden Pavilion and its surrounding touristy streets. You stop by a bookstore and a shop for sweets. You buy a book, he buys mochi. Despite your coldness, Makki was intent on catching up with you. He wants to know what you’ve been up to, what movies you’ve been catching, what your grandmother’s inn is like. It’s difficult not to warm up to him.

“Can I kiss you goodbye?” he abruptly asks before heading to his platform. You’ve made your way back down to the center of the train station where all the schedule is displayed.

The first time Makki held your hand was in a train station in Tokyo. You were on your way back from a concert when he slipped his hand into yours in the busy platforms. You don’t pull away, instead you hold on tight. You remember pressing your head against his chest on the ride home, his chin resting on the top of your head. Neither of you said much. The companionship was more than enough. That moment seems so long ago.

“No.” you swiftly reply.

“Not even a forehead kiss?”

You firmly shook your head. You half expect him to insist and push, to say something about you being a prude and playing hard to get, but instead he just nods.

“Can I hold your hands? I want to hold you before I go.” Makki doesn’t murmur nor is he reticient. He speaks in his regular tone, extending his hands to meet your midway.

You hesitate at first then grudgingly agree. You reach out to hold him, your fingers lingering on each other’s barely interlaced.

“Let me know when you’re coming back to Tokyo. I can meet you at the train station and help you with your luggage.” he waves before turning his back. You watch him get lost in the crowd of the station.

After Makki leaves, you head back to the inn to help with the dinner service which is more crowded than usual. Your Obasan is grateful that you made it back.

Towards the end of dinner service, your phone rings incessantly. You curse and head outside of the kitchen to quickly answer the call. Of course, it’s from Hanamaki.

“You could’ve just texted.”

“I miss you already. I just wanted to hear your voice.” he says. His usual flirtatious tone is absent.

“Now that you’ve heard it, can you put it down? I need to go. Obasan needs my help.” you whisper hurriedly, “Now is a terrible time to call.”

“If you want to stop talking, you don’t need to drag your grandma into this.”

“I’m serious, she needs help washing the dishes. You can call later when we’re done with tonight’s service.” you chastise him, “We’re a little short staffed in the kitchen. You should know what it’s like.”

You rush back in to help wash the dishes as your Obasan brings more dirty trays of dishes. Momentarily you put Makki out of your mind. But when the inn becomes quiet again, you pull out your phone and stare at it.

Do you make the call again? After ten minutes of indecision, you give in and make the call.

Makki sounds slightly surprised on the other end of the line, “Done with dinner service?” He probably expected you to not follow through.

“Yeah, done for today.”

He clears his throat, “I slipped something into the book you bought. Did you see it yet?”

You put the phone down to reach for your bag. A thin white envelope is sandwiched between the first page and the cover. You open it up. He hears you unfolding the letter.

“Care to explain?” you ask with an eyebrow raised as you read through the lines. Hanamaki Takahiro sent you a resume…?

“It’s my application—“

“We don’t need another dishwasher here. Besides, you live too far away.” you cut him off.

“To date you.” he finishes. You’re too stunned to reply. You feel your heart skip a beat as you fumble at your phone.

“Don’t pass your judgement just yet.” he adds, “I know I have a lot to prove. I want it to be my job to love you and make you happy. Just know that.”

“...I’m not sure I want to give you a second chance.” you whisper, your voice inevitably cracking. You clutch the envelope a little too tightly, accidentally crumpling it.

Makki pauses before answering, “That’s up to you, but I-I’ll be here in case you do. Anyways, thanks for spending the day with me. I missed you a lot and I’d like to come back someday…if you can let me come over.”

You listen to him breathe in the other end of the line. You imagine him twiddling with a pen with one hand and his phone on the other.

“Goodnight, Makki.” you nod. You missed him too and you want him to come back. You don’t say yes or no, nor will you make promises. For now you let things hang in the balance.

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

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casuallyimagining · 4 years ago

Text

You and Me

Min Yoongi x Reader

Summary: Yoongi has something he needs to ask you before the Grammys. Genre: slight angst, kind of fluffy at the end? Word Count: 1,865 Rating: T (there’s some swearing) Notes: Part of the Long Term Couples series. Read more here.

As he was leaving to go out to lunch with Namjoon and Jin, Yoongi told you that he had news he wanted to tell you when he got home. Which, of course, is possibly the worst thing to leave a person with.

What could he want to talk to you about?

You had a feeling you knew. Physical therapy had been progressing well for Yoongi, and while he still had a lot of healing to do, he was to the point where he could do almost all normal, daily tasks without help. He still had to wear his sling when he went out, and he was still in quite a bit of pain, but it was to the point where he would probably start back to work soon. And, of course, he would probably be moving back to the dorms again, and you would return to your lives pre-November.

Which meant you would go from seeing him literally all the time to only seeing him a few times a week--a return to taking him meals in your spare time, to sitting in the studio watching him work, to short dates to go grab coffee or a milkshake on his rare breaks. Thankfully, you had written the code for the Genius Lab down in your notes app, because after almost two and a half months of not using it, you weren’t confident that you remembered it.

Honestly, you weren’t sure if you could go back to sustaining yourself on text messages, and video calls, and brief, 15-minute meetings. Adjusting to him being there constantly--underfoot when you least expected him to be, but always there to lend an ear or a hand or just generally be there for you--had taken some time. Your routines had melded together so quickly, that having him wandering around your apartment at two in the afternoon was no more uncommon than you not being able to find a series to watch on Netflix. You knew it was coming eventually, but you weren’t sure you could stand the separation.

You would, though, for his sake. You would walk through fire for him.

And it would only be for a short time, right? He had promised you on Christmas. As soon as he was able, he was going to start moving out of the dorms and into his own apartment. He wanted you to join him, wanted you to move in with him. But you weren’t sure when that would be. He had never given you a timetable for when he expected to start moving. Which was fine, you supposed. He could take his time.

But the whole thing made you anxious, even though you knew it shouldn’t. What if he got too busy once he got back to normal life and forgot? What if he decided he wanted to stay at the dorms indefinitely? Worse, what if he changed his mind and he decided he did want to move, just not with you?

Your mind raced as you sat in your office at your piano, trying to lose yourself in the music. You wanted to believe that you had nothing to worry about, that even though things would change, you would continue to be a priority in Yoongi’s life, that you wouldn’t be taking a huge step backwards in your relationship. Somehow, you managed to distract yourself enough that you barely noticed you were playing “Spring Day” until you were almost done with the song.

You continued to play through some of the other songs you had memorized. Most of them, you noticed, were BTS--a strange side-effect of who you spent your time with and your students, the most prominent of which was, of course, Jimin.

As you played the final chord of “Black Swan,” the sound of gentle clapping made you jump, causing you to hit your knee on the bottom of your piano.

“Fuck,” you hissed, rubbing where the corner of the wood caught your leg. Now that you weren’t so surprised, you could see Yoongi standing in the doorway of your shared office, a look of concern barely masking his earlier amusement.

“I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you heard me come in,” he said softly. “I put some leftovers in the fridge, and Namjoon made us stop for hotteok on the way back, so that’s in there, too. Are you okay?” He crouched down beside you, his hand falling to your knee.

“Unsurprisingly, that is not the first time I’ve done that,” you said with a laugh. “I’m honestly kind of shocked there’s not some sort of dent in the wood.”

Yoongi offered you an amused smile. “Well I’m glad there’s no damage. To you or the piano.” He leaned in to kiss you as he stood, the action quick and easy--like he had done it a thousand times before--but contained no less love. “You’ve been holding out on me.” You could hear the mirth in his voice as he moved one of his paintings to pull the office chair closer to the piano.

You waved off his comment, shutting the lid on the keys of the piano. “I don’t take credit for the things Park Jimin forces me to memorize.”

“Maybe you should start.” He shrugged, and the two of you fell silent. After a moment, he wiped his hands on his thighs and looked at you, though dropped his gaze to his lap the second you made eye contact. “So, I was talking with Si-Hyuk-hyung, and he had some… news he wanted me to pass on.” You raised an eyebrow in curiosity. Was this what he was talking about before he left?

“News?” you question, trying to play it off like you hadn’t spent the past few hours in a downward spiral of anxiety. “About…?”

“He and I were talking about us.” Yoongi gestured to himself and then to you. “He asked me if we wanted to go public any time soon.”

Your eyes went wide. “I… what? Why?”

“He apparently talked to Jin, Namjoon, and Jungkook about it, too.” He shrugged. “Si-Hyuk-hyung didn’t say why, but we think it’s because of the Grammys.” When you continued to look confused, he elaborated. “I mean, that’s kind of the thing, right? If you win an award, you turn and hug the person you love and then you go to receive it?”

“Oh, so you’re expecting to win?” you teased, trying to pretend like your cheeks weren’t a little flushed.

“Well, I think…” he stammered. “I think we should be prepared. Just in case.”

“So what did you tell PD-nim?”

“I told him I would talk to you about it.” You hummed. “He said he’d leave it up to us, but he’d like at least three days’ notice so they can prepare a statement.”

You stayed silent, unsure of what to say. Of course you had thought about it, about what going public would do to your relationship. You had considered the potential hate from the fans you would receive, and the fact that your private life, no matter how hard you tried, would never be fully private after. You knew about the strain it could put on your relationship with Yoongi, about how the saesangs and the paparazzi drove a wedge between many idols--particularly male idols--and their significant others.

But at the same time, you wanted to be able to go out with Yoongi without having to constantly look over your shoulder, without having to worry about someone from Dispatch seeing, or a well-meaning fan posting on social media. You wanted to be able to go with Yoongi to events, to publicly support him at concerts.

You sighed and reached for his hand. “What do you think?”

“It’s what you want, jagi. My life won’t really change much,” he said, squeezing your hand.

“Yoongi, please.” You didn’t like how exasperated your voice sounded, but you could feel your anxiety starting to spike again. “I need to know what you’re thinking.”

“Honestly?” You nodded. “I don’t know. It actually kind of terrifies me.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “I’ve seen idols’ careers die when dating scandals come out. But at the same time, I want us to have a normal life.” You snorted. “You know what I mean.”

“It’s very sudden,” you said softly, gripping his hand with both of yours. “The Grammys are in a few weeks. We’d have to do something in the next few days.”

“I’ll tell him we’d like to wait, then.”

You hummed, tracing his hand with your index finger. “We’d be able to do it how we want?”

“That’s what Si-Hyuk-hyung said. I imagine there’s a limit, but I don’t think he’d lie about that.”

“How much of an advanced warning did he say he wanted?”

“Three days.”

Would it really be that bad? You weren’t a stranger to hate comments and wildly unfounded criticism, although not quite to the scale it might get to. Yoongi rarely looked at social media, unless he was posting a selca to Twitter. And what? You might have to private your Instagram? Delete your Twitter? Honestly, it might do you some good to get away from social media. You trusted Yoongi to not drop you the second things got tough, and there were six other members of BTS there to help lessen any damage his career might take. As long as the two of you could weather it together, you were confident that you could come out on the other side relatively unscathed.

“Fuck it.”

“What?” Yoongi’s eyes were wide.

“Fuck it. Let’s do it.” You squeezed his hand, a small smile starting to form.

Yoongi’s eyes locked on yours. He was smiling, but you could see him hesitate. “Are you sure?”

You nodded. “Ask PD-nim if we can do something right before they send out their release. I think it’ll go over better coming from you.”

“You’re already planning this?” It wasn’t a question. He laughed, a sweet, gummy smile spreading across his face. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do this. I’ll text Si-Hyuk-hyung and let him know.”

You watched him slide his phone out of his pocket and unlock it. “Hey Yoon?” He hummed, continuing to type for a moment before looking up at you. “We’re gonna be okay no matter what, right? Still us?”

Yoongi pulled you to him as he stood up, his arms immediately wrapping around your back to hold you close. “Don’t be silly. Of course we will be.” You felt him sigh as he tucked his chin onto your shoulder. “I can’t promise that things won’t change, but we’ll be okay.”

You hugged him, your arms around his shoulders, careful not to press too tightly on his bad one. This certainly hadn’t been where you were expecting the conversation to go when he walked out the door that morning, but you hoped he was right. Telling the fans was an important step to take--and an inevitable one, if you wanted your relationship to last. “You and me?” You pulled away slightly to look him in the eyes.

He smiled and pressed a soft kiss to your lips before resting his forehead against yours. “‘Till the end.”

Read more of the series here

#yoongi x reader #min yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi #suga #min yoongi #bts suga x reader #bts suga #bts yoongi #bts yoongi x reader #thebtswritersclub

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messiisgodibeliveinhim · 4 years ago

Text

Taeyong

I just wanted to rant about everything that happened. So here I am.

So initially I didn't want to watch the concert because of the obvious lack of Taeyong. But i did watch it (ill*gally) on Twitter Live Stream, to see who would cover for Taeyong and how.

Okay, first of all, is it just me or was there an actual lack of preparation and production for the concert??? Like, compare it to SuperM's Beyond Live. The VCRs, the camera direction, the stage, the AR effects... Everything looked so good and exciting. But for this one, they didn't even try. The production was lacking severely and the AR effects were barely used. Everything looked rushed as if they didnt actually plan it set by set. The VCRs were just all the footages from other videos clamped together. There was nothing new or cool about this Beyond Live, even with the increased price. Overall, it looked cheap. I think, the only saving grace of this online concert were the boys themselves.

Secondly, the boys who covered for Taeyong did a good job. Obviously, no one can come close to even performing and delivering like Taeyong but the boys did fine, considering that they had to practice his parts for only 2-3 weeks. And it's a daunting task to fill such huge shoes. The pressure that the boys felt, especially the newbies Shotaro and Sungchan, to try to fill that gap, must have been immense.

But of course, NShittyzens took this as an opportunity to sh*t on Taeyong, saying stupid things like 'XYZ ate Taeyong up', 'ABC made Taeyong's song his own', 'MNO killed Taeyong's part and I think he should've been part of the original line-up instead of Taeyong', 'I hope my bias gets to shine now', 'My faves really took this "opportunity" and showed the world' etc.... Like??? Are you really that dense or just spewing bs like this cuz y'all want attention??? The same thing happened when Taeyong missed the KBS mid-year festival and the other boys covered for him for Kick It.

If y'all truly believe that you're bias only shines when Taeyong is absent, then it shows how insecure you are about you're faves talents and abilities. If you truly think Taeyong's injury is an "opportunity" for your fave, then there is clearly something wrong with you. If you think you're fave ate Taeyong up in any manner, then it shows that you just hate Taeyong. If you think Taeyong is replaceable, then you're doing piss poor job of convincing yourself. Taeyong doesn't need NCT, but NCT needs Taeyong.

He is not just the leader, but also the main dancer, main rapper, sub vocalist, the center of the group and the face of the group. He has also contributed to the group with over 30 songs and has choreographed for some of NCT songs. He is NCT's idea bank, with the numerous times he has come up with something new and interesting for their concepts or choreography (For Example: The Jungle Gym for Neo City tour, the epic finger move and Mark stepping on Taeyong for the Kick It choreography, the chandelier scene in MAW, etc) . Many professionals have constantly praised Taeyong for his creativity and excellent inputs.

Taeyong was there from the very beginning of NCT and has carried the group on his back for 4 years now. And he has always remained kind and humble, even with all the misdirected hate that he faced for years. He always puts himself down and praises all the members, no matter what. He has juggled between groups, 5 comebacks and numerous concerts, this year alone. His schedule list looks like the Bank Statement of one whole year. The way the man has worked for the past 2 years is insane. And upon that, the burden of being the leader of a group with 23 members??? Can y'all even imagine the amount of weight on Taeyong's shoulders???

And yes, the injuries he has constantly sustained for over 4 years now. We have seen various footages of him having neck braces, holding his waist and limping. He has also talked about the continuous back pain or how he was sick for 3 days after shooting a MV. SM had known exactly the extent of his injuries and still overworked him to the bone. Now his waist disc injury has relapsed and we still dont have a statement on his health or time of recovery on ANY of the SM Official Accounts. Not one word. We had to find out through a platform that's barely used and most non-twitteratti NCTzens didn't know about this whole ordeal until after the concert began.

What boils my blood is that SM knew about the relapsed injury way before, gave the boys enough time to practice Taeyong's part, but announced the concert by advertising Taeyong all over it, last Monday. And they literally only made the announcement after the concert ticket cancelation period was over. F*cking money whores! F*ck SM!!!!

The worst part of it all are the NShittyzens. Most of you didn't care about the fact that SM not only neglected the leader's health but also scammed Taeyong's fans. When TyongFs began to get refunds for the concert, some of you accused them and started dictating what they should do with their own money, pulling sh*t like- 'Taeyong as a leader, wants his group to do well. Now he would be sad knowing that fans dont care about the group cuz y'all are getting your refunds'. Really? Cuz most y'all who said this watched the concert illegally, makes it even more funny to me. And its none of you're business, how anyone else spends their money. And if you think Taeyong cares about SM losing money, then you're just stupid. If it's anyone in the whole group who'd say 'F*ck Capitalism!', it's Taeyong. So STFU!

Also, when TyongFs started demanding an official statement from SM about Taeyong, some of y'all went- "You're just a fan. Y'all dont have any right to cross the boundaries of Idol-Fan relationship and ask for personal stuff. Other artist fans didn't get any official statement, so why should you?'. We didnt ask for his f*cking medical records. We just want a statement from SM's official accounts about his health and his time of recovery. That's it. SM has refused to acknowledge the injuries of other artists before, doesn't mean that this pattern has to continue. And as fans, we are entitled to know about the artist, cuz WE CARE...! Cuz a waist disc injury relapsing aint a small thing. The amount of pain that Taeyong is probably enduring right now.... We dont even know the extent of it. We dont know how long he needs to recover or even how long SM will give him to rest. We don't know anything and we are scared. So just wanting a statement about it, isnt 'crossing the boundaries' as you put it. So again, STFU!

Y'all don't care about Taeyong, fine. The least you can do is respect him and not discredit his hardwork. After everything he has done and continues to do for NCT, y'all keep going with the 'Taeyong is the villain' narrative. He isn't stealing your faves lines or screentime. He isn't pushing them back to 'shine more'. He isnt the bad person you think he is. Y'all rejoicing now that he is injured, happy that your faves got to take up Taeyong's part or just hateful saying your fave was better than Taeyong.... It just ain't it.

No other group leader gets the kinda hate Taeyong does, even though he does 5 times the work for the group than any other leader. Yes, Taeyong has multiple positions the group, all deserved. Yes, he is a very charismatic and an amazing performer on the stage, that lures new fans in. Not his fault that he grabs everyone's attention. Yes, he is very talented in so many aspects. But that doesn't mean you get tobblame you're faves mistreatment on him, cuz he himself is being mistreated by SM. So don't come at me with you're 'SM's golden boy' bs! I will taze your ass and watch supernanny as you crawl under the carpet!

Maybe you're right about how you're faves dont get to shine enough when they're on the same stage as Taeyong, cuz his charisma and aura is very magnetic, you can't help but watch him and him only. I thought only TyongFs have this kinda tunnel vision but apparently, all of you have it as well....

Here's the thing. You don't like it when Taeyong gets praised all the time, whether its his dance or rap or anything at all. Cuz you don't like Taeyong. So why are you even focused on him and TyongFs. If I don't like anything, i simply ignore it. So instead of focusing on Taeyong, focus on hyping up your fave (again, by not dragging Taeyong, not even subtly). It ain't hard, trust me.

At least have the human decency to not rejoice over the fact that he is injured. The sh*t i see online everyday, some of y'all have totally lost it.

And lastly, no one can eat up Taeyong. No one can do his part better than him. Hell, no one can even come close to doing what he does. So get that delusion outta your heads. Its embarrassing.

#Taeyong #Lee Taeyong #Bubu #NCT #NCT 127 #NCT 2020 #Beyond Live #RESONANCE #Kick It #Respect Taeyong #Get Well Soon Yongie #We Miss You🌹#Take As Long You Want #We'll Wait #Thank You Taeyong #F*CK SM #F*CK NshittyZens #F*CK Taeyong Antis

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razorsadness · 3 years ago

Text

this is only the beginning

So. I’m 40, as of the last day of 2021. And it feels okay. I was having all kinds of sad feelings leading up to it, but then it happened, and it was fine. I had a great birthday (we stayed at my parents’ place in Door County just like we did in 2020). And things were pretty good for the first week and a half of 2022.

Opportunities and ideas poured in, over the first week and a half of the year, including:

—I get to write a review of a novel I just read, and interview the author of said novel (who, by the way, is one of my all-time favorite writers) for the website of another of my favorite writers; and, alongside the interview/review, one of my short memoir/fiction hybrid pieces is going to be published (because it was inspired by said novel). —The novel I’ve been working on on-and-off for, uh, eight years has finally clicked into place. It’s sorta On The Road, except if it was written by Kathy Acker, but there’s a lot more to it than that. (That blackout poetry I’ve been posting on my main blog is also part of the novel.) —I found out that this thing I submitted a few poems to nearly two years ago is finally moving forward, and that they chose one of my poems to be part of it—it being, one of my poems (along with work from a few other poets) is being set to music, by a legit composer, and the works will then be performed at UW-Parkside by the Racine Concert Band. Holy shit, right?! —I got asked to record another spoken word album for Hello America this year; that will probably be coming out in the fall. —A micro-press I dig said they’d like to publish a short chapbook by me, sometime in the summer or fall. —A poetry project I’ve been working on for a few years (my Rimbaud translations/responses) coalesced with some other, newer stuff I’ve been writing, and excerpts from that will probably end up being my chapbook for said micro-press. —I’m working on Bone & Ink Press stuff. I’m finally moving forward with the new wave anthology, and that’s exciting. —I’m doing a revised and expanded edition of WWTAWWTAP, with new artwork, too, and this one will actually be available in print form as well as digital. —I’ve decided to restart my Patreon. I need the income, but more than that, I think I now know how to do it in a way that’s sustainable for me but still worth it for my patrons. —Since TLSOE is no longer in print, and we’re coming up on the two-year anniversary of its publication date, I’ve been thinking of other stuff to do with the material. Over the past few years, I’ve gotten into making short films based on my poetry, so I’ve decided I’m going to make a short film (though a bit longer than my previous shorts; this one may be 30 minutes-ish) based on excerpts from TLSOE.

I’m kinda broke right now, but not too bad. I recently got some royalties from my album and the last chunk of the payment from my tenure as writer-in-residence, which was enough to pay off some debt I had and still have a little bit left over. Plus, being broke now means something different than it did in my younger days. Broke now is like: I can’t afford any luxuries at the moment, but I can still pay my bills. Back in the day, broke meant “I’m living on ramen noodles and malt liquor and constantly on the verge of eviction.”

I’ve canceled all my/my family’s streaming subscriptions. I started with Spotify, but I’ve also since canceled Netflix, et. al. I’m trying to finish watching the newest season of Queer Eye before my Netflix subscription actually expires, but other than that I won’t miss it too much. It actually feels kinda freeing to untie myself from all those things. For one, half the time those services didn’t have what we wanted to watch (or listen to) anyway. For two, I’d rather save some of the money that would have gone to those things and actually buy albums and films. And in the meantime, I’ll just check more CDs and DVDs out from the library.

I’ve basically quit smoking. I’m not going to say I’m 100% quit, because every time I say that, I end up relapsing, but I’m doing really really really well. I’ve got nicotine gum and CBD oil for when the physical cravings hit, tea tree oil and cinnamon toothpicks for when I need something in my mouth/to do with my hands, and when it’s about just needing that moment to myself (which it often is), I’m taking those moments to meditate, do a few yogic stretches, listen to a song, read or write a poem, something like that.

In bummer news: I’m currently waiting on CoViD test results. I started getting a sniffle on Tuesday evening; thought it was just my chronic allergy-sinus stuff. Wednesday, it was still there, and more constant. Thursday, when I woke up and it was still there plus I felt a bit fatigued/headachey, I decided to go get tested. Odds are I don’t have it—I’m triple vaxxed. I rarely go anywhere (and when I do I double-mask). The only people in my bubble are my partner, our kiddos, and my parents; five out of the six of us are now fully vaxxed and/or vaxxed + boosted (the only one not is C. because he’s too young to be eligible yet). My parents also rarely go anywhere (and when they do, they’re double-masked). The kiddos are homeschooling, P. no longer works as a bartender. Also, the symptoms of whatever I do have are extremely mild, and are pretty much gone as of today, and no one else in my house/bubble has any symptoms—and they all would have been exposed 5-6 days ago, now. What I think happened is that I was worn down from lack of sleep and stress and overdoing it, so my allergy-sinus stuff turned into a sinus infection (that’s happened before). But I still figured it was best to get tested, and my family and I are quarantined until I get my results.

If I do, god forbid, have it, I’m gonna be pissed. I have spent the past two years being so so so careful, to the point of giving up a lot of what is most important to me. Hell, I stopped seeing my friends before the country at large even went into the initial shutdown! Also, if I do have it, based on timeline/places I’ve gone, it means I caught it at either the library or the post office. Which would be both funny and stupid. Funny because, well, the library and post office are probably where I’ve spent the most hours of my life (outside of where I lived and/or worked) from the age of 12 on. Annoying because, man, if I knew I’d potentially get CoViD anyway, I’d have gone to a punk show or something fun!

Anyway. Fingers crossed I don’t have it. They said I should get my results in 1-3 days, so hopefully I find out tomorrow.

I’m on a semi-hiatus from Facebook. I check in a few times a week, but I’ve deleted the app from both my phone and tablet so I don’t start doom scrolling. See, some of my friends are getting way too doom-and-gloom. They’re all “collapse of society” this, “global climate collapse” that, sharing every horrific news article that comes along. And I just can’t immerse myself in that energy at this juncture. I’m not burying my head in the sand, or remaining neutral in situations of injustice, I’m not becoming some kind of CoViD denier or climate change denier or anything like that. But, as I’ve said before, I’m naturally prone to anxiety, depression, and existential dread. It is a daily fight for me to not completely succumb to them. I’ve started to learn, over the past few years, some ways to deal with those tendencies. There’s art and music, of course, and physical activity. There’s also the question I ask myself before I read any news article: “Can I do something, even something small, to deal with this problem in a constructive way right now?” If the answer is ‘no,’ I simply don’t read it until I’m in a headspace in which I can handle it, which is sometimes never. And there’s temporarily distancing myself from friends and acquaintances when they get too gloom-and-doom, or too bitter. I don’t expect people to be relentlessly positive all the time, but I also can’t subject myself to excessive negativity all the time. And I don’t know. A lot of my friends who are falling into that constant negativity and doom don’t have kids. And I feel like…having kids, I don’t have the luxury to let myself fall into total despair. No matter what’s happening, I’ve still gotta keep my kids safe and healthy, and it’s a lot harder to do that if I’m too depressed to get out of bed.

So I do what I can: I participate in letter-writing campaigns and phone banks for various causes, I help plan and cook community meals, I modify and mend my old clothes, I repurpose other old things for art projects, I plan what I will grow in my garden this year (and I teach myself more about sustainable gardening). I remind myself of that Tumblr post that was floating around a while back, about not thinking too much about the end of the world because there are dishes to wash and people to love. I remind myself of Brother Curtis Almquist saying: If you are anxious just now, you are almost already hopeful. And of Rebecca Solnit saying: To hope is to gamble. It’s to bet on the future, on your desires, on the possibility that an open heart and uncertainty is better than gloom and safety. And I remind myself of Richard Brautigan’s poem “Calendula:”

My friends worry and they tell me about it. They talk of the world ending of darkness and disaster. I always listen gently and then say: No, it’s not going to end. This is only the beginning, as this book is only a beginning.

#pls no reblobs //#dear livejournal #life #good things #bad things #aging #birthdays #new year #plans #said i got new dreams #smoking #covid mention #anxiety #hope #quotations #richard brautigan #this is only the beginning #to resist despair in this world is what it is to be free

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agapi-kalyptei · 3 years ago

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flow2.0 day 2

For the first time in myu life, I've decided to treat myself to the 1mg xanax I got for "free" - free just like the three bottles of juice I took from the fridge on the day of the surgery, yesterday

At this point I'd also would have paid them a bunch more if they somehow could have made the recovery painless, which it currently isn't. Ironically, the supposed painkiller drops are the ones that burn and itch, and the antiseptic ones don't. I mean... I shouldn't be complaining, it's a miracle that I am even in this incredibly privileged luxury position of even being able to afford a surgery, to have eyes good enough to sustain it, and a job stable enough to just f off for two weeks on a sicke leave.

I can sense making typos and yes I am writing this with eyes closed. Even on minimum brightness, any screen is painful to look at for just a second, and at the same time, the TalkBack accessibility assist app for Android is such a pain in the ass to use, because I hate people talking to me. Wait, no. I love people talking to me. I hate computers talking to me in human voice.

To top it off, our frequently faulty fire alarm went off again. IDK why I said frequently faulty, I don't think it's ever rang a single time when there was an actual fire, because there never was an actual fire that I could detect. Having had a xamax isn't really making the fire alarm pleasant, although to be frank I am glad that it doesn't work that way.

The three of my main anxiety-fighting escapisms I engage in are music, movies (youtube mostly), videogames and reading. Music is a sort of a werird one, I'm realizing now, because it's very difficult to just listen to music with adhd, and not do anything else. I am currently too blind to clean up - literally vast majority of my day today was spent with my ees closed. A bunch of messages unread and unreplied to. An unknown number of emails. Runny nose. It feels like I've had one-day contact lenses on for three days straight without a moisturizing rops in sight - except it's been only 30-ish hours and I've been putting on drops every 10-15 minutes today.

I do appreciate that the nurse called - even if she obviously, couldn't say much just to keep on going through it and call if needed. I am very dubious of how I would actually make a phone call in my current state

But anyway, what I was sayiung is, one thing that I've realized terrifies me more than just being half blind and not being able to play videogames - and of course now I'm skipping over social life and other more important things than petty entertainment - is that I --- like, my introspection capabilities are stunted

I am list without paper and writing. How can you even do a quick CBT exercise if you can't jot anything down? or, if you can, cannot read it back? Not to be the kind of obnoxious white guy who discoveres adversity for the first time in his life, but I honestly am glad for sight, even with the -4.5 glasses that I did have. That I still do have and are now completely useless, as every time I wash my face I'm tempted to put them on only to realize that not seeing is my Current State Of Being.

I really do not want to know how many typos I am making here.

Or to be ffrank, I do not even know if I'm still typing or I misclicked somewhere and typing into some other app uselessly. Wouldn't have been the first time I lost a wall of (useless) text to an accidental F5 or something.

I admit I am somewhat disappointed that I've not somehow achieved perfect bliss with just one xanax pill. Hmmmmmm it's almost as people needed more for comfort than just drugs. Johjly sis of uiou asl ,e

Second half of erso concert i starting in a minute, and I keep wondering why I cannot stand the voice of the klassikaraadio employee. Her voice isn't bad? Like... idk. I think it's unnecessary attept to talk through everything that I cannot stand about radio in general.The sound of an orchestra tuning is one of my favorite things in life nd I hate when it's taken away from me maybe?

moisturizer time

peace out people who can see better than i do

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years ago

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But You Can Never Leave [Chapter 14: Fever]

A/N: I’ve written a lot of chapters for Tumblr, but this one was by far the hardest. Thank you for reading. 💜

Chapter summary: Queen enjoys an American tradition, Y/N struggles to be optimistic, John offers distractions, Roger makes questionable decisions (what else is new).

This series is a work of fiction, and is (very) loosely inspired by real people and events. Absolutely no offense is meant to actual Queen or their families.

Song inspiration: Hotel California by The Eagles.

Chapter warnings: Language, accidental intense flirting, inconvenient erections, drugs, overdoses, near-death experiences, medical emergencies, hospital stuff, pregnancy, babies, miscarriage, drama, sexual references, do I even need to say angst...? Y’all already know.

Chapter list (and all my writing) available HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @loveandbeloved29 @maggieroseevans @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhye @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @deacyblues @youngpastafanmug @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @bramblesforbreakfast @sevenseasofcats @tensecondvacation @queen-crue @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @brianssixpence @simonedk @herewegoagainniall @stardust-killer-queen @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @writerxinthedark @culturefiendtrashqueen

Please yell at me if I forget to tag you!

It’s November 12th, 1977, and you’re six weeks pregnant.

“I can’t believe I’m going to be a grandmother!” Your mom is positively giddy, beaming ceaselessly, patting the back of Roger’s hand at least once every three minutes. I was right about this delightful English boy and my future gorgeous, doe-eyed grandchildren, that look says. Your parents either never saw any headlines, or—a possibility that seems increasingly conceivable—didn’t believe them.

“I know it’s early to announce,” you add nervously. “But we figured...you know, since we’re here now...and who knows when we’ll be back in Boston...”

“Oh, I’m so happy you told me!” your mother peals like a wind chime. “Here, have some more sweet potatoes, and some salmon too, they’re so good for the baby...have you thought about names yet?”

“Roger Junior,” Roger jokes.

“Freddie Junior,” Freddie offers with a flamboyant flourish of his hand; his fingernails are jet black with glinting flecks of silver.

“A few,” you tell your mother, rolling your eyes at Freddie. “But there’s still plenty of time to figure that out.” In truth, this whole having a baby thing still feels rather nebulous and untrustworthy, like it’s a dream you might wake up from, like it’s a desert mirage that will evaporate as soon as you stumble too close, parched and ravenous and aching for it. Roger slips his arm around your waist, and you don’t exactly dislike that; but it feels a little like a mirage too.

“We’re so happy,” he says, with a gentle wistfulness that is striking on him. Roger is happy, as happy as you’ve ever seen him. He drinks only in moderation. He does his physical therapy. He’s taken up meditation. He fucking meditates. He wants to get clean for the baby, for you, for this second chance at a future together. And you don’t entirely trust this—because everyone lies and everyone disappoints and everyone carries around mortal shadows in the marrow of their bones—but you are beginning to let it make you happy too.

“You’re next, Fred,” Brian says. “You’re the only one left. Come on, it’s your turn. Cough up an infant.”

Freddie cackles. “All my children have whiskers and tails and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Your mother shoves a glass baking pan of sweet potato casserole, topped with a layer of gluey burned marshmallows, towards you. “Eat!” she commands.

You warily spoon yourself some, grimacing; you’re more or less constantly nauseous. Then you stare down at the heap of lumpy orange root vegetables that—to you, at least—contains a choking quantity of cinnamon. The sweet potato casserole stares menacingly back. John leans over and scoops himself a bite off your plate.

“Mmmmm!” he exclaims, to your mother’s delight. Then, more quietly to you: “Not to worry. I’ll help.”

“Everything is delicious, as always,” Brian tells your parents, ever well-mannered. “It’s always such a delight when work brings us to Boston. This was so kind of you!”

Your mom and dad wanted to treat Queen to the band’s first-ever American Thanksgiving dinner, even if actual Thanksgiving was still two weeks away; the table features a monstrous turkey with brown crispy skin, stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce, green beans almondine, ham, Atlantic salmon, buttered rolls, pumpkin pie, and of course the loathsome sweet potato casserole. You endeavor to taste at least one bite of everything, sipping sparkling apple cider cautiously, biting back waves of nausea that surface at random like breaching whales. The tablecloth is speckled with autumn leaves and inappropriately jolly cartoon turkeys. Your parents are glowing, proud, thrilled...although they’re visibly channeling effort into not being offended by the fact that Brian won’t try the turkey.

“It’s our pleasure, of course,” your father deflects as he puffs on a cigar. He’s mixed a drink for all of the non-pregnant attendees: Apple Cranberry Moscow Mules for everyone except John, who requested his usual Manhattan. “And you’ve timed it perfectly. There’s no better time to be in New England than the fall.”

“Oh, the foliage is just stunning, and the skies are so clear, you can see all the constellations!” Brian cranes his neck and points out the dining room window. “Look, there’s the winged horse Pegasus, and Cassiopeia, and Perseus...”

“The scenery is gorgeous! Creatively rousing!” Roger agrees.

“Oh, planning a Boston-inspired sequel, are we?” John quips. “I’m In Love With My Lobster Boat?”

“I’m In Love With My Revolutionary War Memorabilia?” Freddie suggests.

“Get a grip on my extremely unreliable and difficult to load musket...” John sings.

Freddie points his fork at him and grins. “Yours wouldn’t be so difficult, Deaky dear.”

“How long did those old muskets take to load?” Bri asks.

“About two minutes,” your father pipes cheerfully.

Freddie snorts. “Sounds about right.”

John bears the laughter with a good-natured, smug sort of smirk. I’m not bothered because I know I’ve got nothing to worry about, that look says. You wiggle your eyebrows at him. He winks back.

Roger groans as he stretches his hands up towards the ceiling. “Am I really expected to play after all this?! Jesus christ. I’ve gained a stone in the past hour. Alright, one more slice of pie, then we have to get going...”

Queen has reserved your parents front-row seats at the show, as well as a limo to shuttle them there and back. While your mother fusses over whether you’ve eaten enough and what appropriate rock concert attire is—“leather and feather boas and riding crops, darling” Freddie informs her—your father circles the table snapping photographs, first with your Canon and then with his own Polaroid. You and Roger pose together, lean into each other, plant giggling kisses on each other’s cheeks. And you marvel at how a photo is a snapshot, a split second, nothing less and nothing more; that it’s instantly and mechanically captured, impersonal even, cheap to print and easy to burn. As your mother begins gathering up plates and glasses, you stand to help her.

“No no no,” Roger says, wiping the crumbs from his chin with an orange napkin. “Not allowed, Boston babe. Sit down, I’ll do it, I’ll help clean up.”

“I want to,” you insist. “I feel better when I’m moving around.” Less likely to vomit into anyone’s sweet potato casserole.

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” You smile down at him fleetingly, ruffle his short bleached hair, then disappear into the kitchen.

Your mother is scrubbing plates in the bubble-filled sink, her hands turning pink under the hot water, humming Rhiannon in a bright merry voice. She’s wearing a sparkling crimson dress that reminds you of blood. Your stomach lists like a sailboat.

“I’ll wash if you want to dry,” you offer.

“I raised such a kind girl. My beautiful daughter, a future mama. Mrs. Roger Meddows Taylor.” She twirls a lock of your hair affectionately, then steps aside so you can reach into the sink. “That John Deacon is a bit strange, isn’t he?”

You resist the reflex to bristle, to snap at her; it’s not her intention to be cruel. It never is. “No, not really. He’s wonderful, he’s a genius. He’s my best friend, actually.”

“Oh alright, dear. I’m sure he’s lovely enough. He’s just so terribly quiet. He fades away next to the others. And certainly next to Roger.” She sighs, infatuated, dazzled.

You hear Roger’s voice echo in your skull: Watch out, baby. I get everything I want eventually.

Maybe he was right about that.

You’re trying to be happy, really you are; you’re trying to fall in love with this future Roger has planned for you. But you can’t shake the gnawing sensation that—somewhere along the way—your life stopped being written by you. You’re anxious all the time; you bite your lips until they bleed and wring your ringless hands and rarely sleep. You feel restless and ineffectual and nervy, like there’s some inescapable horror crouched behind every door you open, every page you turn. You feel the opposite of free.

Your mother notes casually, drying a china plate patterned with pink roses and edged with gold: “It must get difficult sometimes, having to share him with the world.”

You gaze into the nest of pearlescent bubbles that pop around your wrists like interrupted dreams, like broken promises. “You have no idea.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s December 21st, 1977, and you’re twelve weeks pregnant.

Blood trickles down your palm, the underside of your wrist, your velveteen-soft forearm. You hold the wad of gauze against the Scottish roadie’s pouring nose. What’s this one’s name? Nick? Nate? Niall? You’ve lost track. Whoever he is, he sustained an accidental elbow to the face as the crew was unloading the band’s luggage from the tour bus and is now slumped on the marble floor of the New Orleans Ritz-Carlton, splattered with drops of blood like the freckles sprayed across his pale cheeks. Giant red bows and Christmas trees trimmed with twinkling white lights rim the lobby.

“Alright, let’s take a look.” You lift the gauze away; the bleeding has slowed considerably. You gingerly probe the bridge of his nose as the roadie moans in pain.

“You trying to kill me, lady?” he jests.

You wrap an ice pack in fresh gauze and press it against his swollen face. “It’s not broken. Keep the ice on it, apply pressure, come get me if the bleeding doesn’t stop in ten minutes. Okay? You might have black eyes but you’re gonna be fine. You’ll look extra badass for the babes at the club.”

“Okay.” The roadie smiles gratefully. “Thanks, Florence Nightingale.”

You smirk up at Roger. “Did you have to teach them that?”

“You’ve cultivated quite the reputation, love.” He grins, takes a drag off his cigarette, glances around the lobby through his opaque prescription sunglasses. And you’re struck by how pertinent he looks here, in grand rooms with chandeliers and towering ceilings, in famed cities littered across the globe. He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs to the world. He doesn’t belong to just me, and he never will.

You reach for your duffel bag, but Roger yanks it away and slings it over his own shoulder.

“Will you please stop trying to lift heavy things?!” he pleads.

“I’m pregnant, I don’t have brittle bone disease.”

“Brittle bone disease!” Freddie cries, horrified. “Is that an actual ailment?!”

John snickers. “Yes, and it’s sexually transmitted, so watch where you stick your bone.”

“Oh, ha ha ha, you are hilarious!” Freddie says, rolling his large dark eyes. “Worry about your own performance, Mr. Misfire. Bri, you’ll join us for a drink tonight, won’t you?”

“Well...” Brian hesitates, and you suspect you know why. He��s been looking forward to this stop for months, Queen’s last in the States during the News Of The World tour; after two days in New Orleans the band will fly back to London, spend the holidays there, resume the tour with shows throughout Europe beginning in April. In just a few rotations of the Earth, Brian will be back at home with Chrissie and the twins. But tonight he has plans to see the girl he calls Peaches.

“You undependable poodle,” Freddie scolds. Then, saccharinely, batting his eyelashes: “But you’ll surely come along, won’t you Nurse Nightingale?”

“Fred...I hate to disappoint, but...”

“This is unacceptable!” he exclaims. “I am distraught! Not even an orgy with spicy Cajun men will lift my spirits!”

“I doubt that,” you reply, smiling. “I’m exhausted, Freddie. This making a kid business isn’t easy.”

“Oh, but you’re not too exhausted to cart around luggage like a fucking alpaca!” Roger massages your shoulders, enfolds the slight bump of your belly with his hands, lands a series of featherlight kisses down your neck. He’s still clean, he’s still effervescent, he’s continuously devoted in a way that is unusual for him, tender and sensitive, simultaneously ecstatic for the future and nostalgic for the past. “Want me to stay?”

“For fuck’s sake!” Freddie laments.

“That’s alright. John said I can help him wrap Christmas presents for Veronica and the kids. I’m learning how to be all maternal and domestic, isn’t that exciting?”

“I’d say you’re fairly effortlessly maternal,” Roger says, rather proudly. “Want me to bring you back anything?”

“No, I’m okay. I’ll send a roadie for chili cheese fries or something.”

“You can send them for lobster and filet mignon. Whatever you want.” He reaches into the pocket of his fitted black jeans and pulls out a small ring box.

“Roger...?”

He opens it, grinning, and taps an antique gold ring with a ruby stone into his calloused palm. “I found this at a shop in Miami. You remember the first time we were ever there? March of 1975. Hotel room with a view that looked out onto the beach, taking photos on the balcony with the ocean crashing behind you, feeding the seagulls chips until the bitches started attacking us.”

“I never forget.” And that’s true; there have been times you wish you could, but you don’t.

Roger takes your left hand and slips the ring onto your wedding finger. Then he lifts your knuckles to his lips, bites them gently, leaves faint burning indents in the flesh.

“I love it,” you breathe, turning your hand back and forth, watching the lights from the Christmas trees glimmer off the ruby. It feels real in a way that sharing a future with Roger hasn’t for a long time.

“Now don’t get all emotional over it. It doesn’t mean anything, you know.” Roger winks and lands a parting kiss on your forehead. Then he passes your duffel bag to a roadie, who vanishes with it into an elevator. “Deaks, you’ll take care of my girl?”

“I always do,” John replies.

“Have fun,” you tell Roger, beaming up at him. “But not too much fun.” This could work. This could really work.

Freddie crosses himself like one of Veronica’s Catholic great aunts. “Depravity? Us? Never in a million years, darling.” Then he hooks an arm around Roger and leads him towards the glass hotel doors. They’re engulfed by a crowd of Queen’s roadies, laughing and shoving each other playfully: Ratty Hince, Paul Prenter, Chris Taylor (dubbed Crystal by the band), Brian Spencer, John Harris, others whose names you haven’t committed to memory yet.

“You ready, Emily Post?” John asks, heading towards the nearest elevator, and you follow him.

In his hotel room is a messy stack of gifts accumulated over the past month and a half from tour stops all over the United States: tiny model Liberty Bells from Philadelphia, Yankees baseball caps from New York City, a slot machine that spits out gumballs from Las Vegas, red socks embroidered with the logo of—what else?—the Boston Red Sox, NASA astronaut action figures from Houston, teddy bears wearing Cubs t-shirts from Chicago, plushies from the Miami aquarium: a hammerhead shark for Laszlo, a dolphin for Anna, and an octopus for the newest Deacon due in mid-February. You and John sit on the floor together in a flurry of tubes of Christmas-themed wrapping paper, stick-on bows, name labels, greeting cards, and pens. John flips through the tv channels until he finds It’s A Wonderful Life. You send a roadie to get dinner from a New Orleans-based fast food chain called Popeyes, and you take leisurely breaks between gift wrapping to chomp on crispy chicken wings and biscuits and mini apple pies and to guzzle down towering cups of Southern-style sweet tea.

“Octopuses are gender-neutral, right?” John asks, floundering as he tries to wrap all eight tentacles individually.

“Totally.” You’ve been brainstorming how best to package the slot machine for fifteen minutes. You take another contemplative bite of a flaky biscuit. “These kids are gonna be super confused when it comes time to pick a favorite team for the World Series.”

“Well obviously they’ll have to be Boston fans or I’ll disown them.”

You sigh contently. “This is just too adorable. I want to wake up early on Christmas morning and open presents with some hyperactive children. Please adopt me into your family.”

“Done. You’re in.”

You laugh. “I don’t think Slavic Jesus thinks highly of polygamy.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, who said anything about a second wife? You can be the live-in nanny but also the filthy secret mistress. Take it or leave it. Final offer.”

“Alright, Mr. Misfire. But you’ll have to fuck me for at least slightly longer than two minutes.”

Oh god, I should not have said that.

John stares at you. You stare back. And something flies between you, something like a pop of static electricity or a firing neuron, something hot and lightning-quick. There’s blood flushing his cheeks, but it’s not quite embarrassment; you know because the same heat is swirling in yours.

Stop, you order yourself.

But it’s too late, now you’re thinking about it, what it would be like: what he would feel like, taste like. Not like wildfire, reckless and consuming, disaster nipping at its heels. Something different, something constant and dependable and soulful, something that feels like home anywhere in the world.

It wasn’t about me. It wasn’t about me. You’re My Best Friend wasn’t about me.

John grabs a sheet of crinkling wrapping paper patterned with chortling Santa Claus faces and drags it over his lap to conceal the sizable bulge growing there in his white pants. You pretend—unconvincingly, you’re sure—not to notice.

Finally, he chuckles uneasily. “However you want it.”

“I’m so sorry. That was wildly inappropriate. I’m hormonal and stupid.”

“I kind of like you hormonal and stupid.”

“Well don’t get used to it, this is a temporary condition.”

“You really can come over,” John says. “On Christmas morning. You and Roger can come over if you want to. The kids love you both. And honestly neither of them are old enough to remember this year anyway, so no pressure if you fuck up Christmas by being accidentally slutty or whatever.”

The smile ripples through the muscles of your face, uncoiling all the tension there. He really does make everything better. “Okay. But you have to promise to behave too.”

He shrugs coyly, lights a cigarette, watches you as he exhales smoke. “You’ve always said I have game.”

There are voices out in the hallway, uproarious laughter, the pounding of irregular footsteps, thumps against the walls. You can hear Freddie giggling: “Rog, darling, come on, get it together...!”

John furrows his brow at you. He doesn’t say anything, but you know that look. What John means is: Is he okay?

“I’m sure he’s fine,” you reply. He’s been fine all tour.

And then, more desperately: He HAS to be fine. Not just for me anymore.

“Rog?!” Freddie shrieks, and now the voices are louder, more numerous. There’s one massive thud. Someone screams for help.

You and John scramble to your feet. You snatch your kit off the dresser and bolt out into the hallway. Roger is sprawled on the floor in the center of a reeling crowd, unconscious, gasping for air, his skin a starved bluish. Freddie and Crystal are hovering over him, shouting and horrified.

“Oh my god,” John says.

“Call an ambulance,” you tell him, and John sprints back into his hotel room.

You shove Freddie and Crystal aside and kneel beside Roger, jostle him awake, pry open his eyes and shine your flashlight into them. His pupils are pinpricks. His breathing is shallow and uneven. You close your fingers around his right wrist; his skin is drenched with sweat. Roger’s pulse is erratic, fading.

“Roger, can you hear me?”

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. Then he blacks out again.

“What did he take?” you pitch at Freddie.

Freddie and Crystal exchange a glance, hesitating.

“If you don’t tell me what it was he’s going to die, what did he take?!”

“He wasn’t in the same room as us,” Freddie says, his voice quaking. “We don’t know—”

“So you left him alone,” you seethe. “Of course you fucking did.”

Roger’s hand shoots up and seizes your shirt, twisting the fabric in his gnarled fingers. “Speedball,” he rasps. His vivid blue eyes—like bruises, like veins, like cold rain—are huge and bloodshot and frantic. He’s begging for his life. He’s begging you to save him. “The guy said it was a speedball.”

You know exactly what a speedball is; it’s your job to know things like that, to know all the chemical combinations that errant rock stars love destroying themselves with. “A speedball has heroin in it, Roger!”

“I can’t breathe,” he sighs dispassionately, as if it doesn’t bother him at all. His eyes are glassy now, unseeing.

“Don’t you fucking die on me!” You rake through your kit for the vial of Naloxone that you thought you’d never need. That’s not for bands like Queen, you remember thinking when the record company insisted you carry it. That’s for people like The Rolling Stones or Black Sabbath or maybe even Fleetwood Mac on a bad day, but not Queen. Not my boys. Not my Roger.

Oh, but has he ever really been mine?

You pull a syringe out of your kit, throw off the cap, and hold the vial of Naloxone upside down. You stab the needle through the rubber stopper and measure out 1cc—an entire syringe’s worth—of the drug that can reverse opioid overdoes. CAN, not will. It doesn’t always work.

Freddie is sobbing as Crystal drapes an arm over his shoulder and turns him away. So they don’t have to watch. So they don’t have to see him die.

You don’t have the luxury of not watching.

John is back. “What can I do?” he asks.

“Shake him. Keep him awake. Hit him if you have to.”

John kneels, cups Roger’s face in his hands, smacks his cheek each time Roger begins to nod off. Roger gazes up at him numbly, breathing in haphazard wheezes. “Stay with me, Rog. That’s it. Stay with me, you’re gonna be fine...”

You pinch a tiny roll of fat in Roger’s upper arm and jab the needle in. You push down the plunger and 1cc of Naloxone vanishes from the syringe barrel as it surges into Roger’s disordered bloodstream. You toss the syringe away and rub his arm as crimson blood beads from the injection wound.

“Come on, Roger,” you beg him. “Come on, Roger, please...”

You fill another syringe and inject it an inch below the first puncture mark. Roger’s eyes—those eyes that you’ve been trying to claw your way out of since you first saw them across a hospital room in the June of 1974—flutter closed. His sweated rib cage stills.

“Roger?!” John roars, shaking him. “Roger, Rog, wake up!”

“Roger!” you scream.

He sucks down a sudden breath—deep, clear, life-giving—and his intense blue eyes fly open.

“Oh thank god!” you cry, clutching your chest. “John, help me, help me get him up...”

Together with Fred and Crystal you drag Roger to his feet, force him to walk, parade him up and down the hallway until the paramedics arrive and ferry him away—still dazed and ghastly pale, still grasping for you and muttering things you don’t understand—and then your adrenaline rush evaporates and you crumble to the floor, one shaking hand covering your face, the other on the small swell of your belly.

I’m so sorry, little guy, little lady. You deserve better than us.

“I have to go after him,” you tell John when he reaches for you, trying to lift you off the floor. “I have to make sure he’s okay, the Naloxone, it could wear off before the heroin does, and it...it...it can stop an opioid overdose but speedballs have coke in them too and he could still have effects from that...”

“Okay, no problem, we can go, come on, we’ll get a cab and we’ll be right behind them.”

And you remember what Roger once told you as the planet rolled into 1975, under streetlights casting islands of luminance in an ocean of cold darkness: But I can promise you that your life will never feel like a cage. And isn’t that what this was all about for you anyway?

But Roger was wrong.

My life does feel like a cage. It feels exactly like a cage.

You sputter weakly: “He’s not, he isn’t, he can’t...”

“What?” John presses. “Slow down. Breathe. Tell me.”

“He’s never going to change, John,” you whisper. The weight of the ruby ring is heavy on your trembling left hand. “He’s never going to change.”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 15th, 1978, and you’re nineteen weeks pregnant.

The kitchen phone rings, and you answer. The date for your twenty-week ultrasound is circled on the calendar in red ink. “Hello?”

“Do you need to get out of the house?” John asks. “Because I really need to get out of the house.”

You do, incidentally. Yesterday was Valentine’s Day, and Roger did everything right: a bouquet of pink roses and carnations waiting on the kitchen table when you woke up, a new Ferrari parked in the driveway, a candlelit dinner at Mon Plaisir. It was a little too right, actually, like Roger was trying to coax you into serenity, like he was proving how illogical it would be to consider ever being unhappy with him, like he was making up for something; and that’s how things feel a lot of the time, now that you think of it. Roger is fine, mostly. He’s home, usually. He’s clean until he isn’t, and then afterwards he’s so dazzlingly radiant and kind that you can’t stand the thought of not being there to help if he needs you, can’t remember your frustration or your anger half as much as your fear of losing him. And it’s incredible how good you’ve gotten at pushing the memory of that News Of The World headline out of your mind, like it was something from a soap opera or a cheap romance novel, like it was just a slice of scandalous fiction that happened to somebody else. That’s the way the body works too, isn’t it? Wounds close over, livers regenerate, old cells slough away and reveal fresh tissue beneath with no recollection of the pain that comes tangled up with all the other eventualities of existence. Times like Valentine’s Day are a revival, a resurrection: brand new cells, a healed fracture, a shot of Naloxone to restore the blood to equilibrium. But today is not Valentine’s Day, and Roger isn’t home. You aren’t entirely sure where he is, and you don’t know if you’d want to be. “Yeah, I’ll pick you up. I can show you my wicked new ride.”

“I’m intrigued. You’ll have to let me drive it one day.”

“What, directly into a cop car?”

“You’re awful and I hate you,” John says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “See you at 8? There’s a new disco in Soho I’m dying to check out.”

“Sure thing, I just have to make myself glamorous first. It’s quite a process now that I have all the elegance and svelteness of a large marine mammal. But I’ll rise to the occasion. I’ll be the most attractive whale you’ve ever seen.”

He chuckles. “I don’t doubt that at all.”

You roll up to John’s Putney house in your maroon Ferrari, the convertible top down despite the biting cold, a bomber jacket—just a tad too tight to zip up over your bump—concealing your short black dress. Pregnancy has finally started to look good on you, aforementioned marine-mammal-ness notwithstanding: your hair is thick and gleaming, your skin clear, your face fuller and emitting a mysterious, ethereal sort of glow. You check your hair and makeup in the rear view mirror as John jogs out of his front door. He stops dead in the driveway.

“Wow.”

You pat the passenger’s seat. “Hop in, felon.”

“He bought you a freaking Ferrari?!”

“Am I not worth it?” you joke, flipping your hair.

John slides into the car. “How do I become married to Roger Taylor? Tell me your secrets.”

“Well, to receive a Ferrari, you’ll probably have to get pregnant with his firstborn child too.”

“Ahhh. A minor obstacle.”

You laugh as you spin out of the driveway and cruise towards downtown London. Then you peer over at John, really taking him in, reading him like heart rates or units of measurement inked to the barrel of a syringe. His elbow is propped up on the window sill, his chin nestled in the heel of his hand, his blue-grey eyes unfocused as they gaze out into the night sky and streetlights that flicker by like the episodic flashes of a firefly. “Are you okay, John?” you ask seriously.

“Yeah,” he replies, a prospect that seems implausible.

“I’m glad you called.” You both know what that means: Roger isn’t home, I don’t know where he is, I don’t know when he’s coming back or what condition he’ll be in when he does.

John smirks wryly. “You have a shit husband. I am a shit husband. We should stick together, people like you and me.”

The disco is a small place called Lo Asilo with neon blue lights rimming the entrance way like vines laced through a trellis. John orders a Manhattan for himself, goes back and forth with the bartender for a while about the virgin drink options, ends up passing you a non-alcoholic raspberry mojito.

“I love it,” you pronounce after a tentative sip. This kid loves fruit. And sugar. And you feel a abrupt groundswell of affection for that sometimes inconvenient, frequently anxiety-inducing little person who temporarily shares your blood and bones: who they are, who they one day will be. These moments are coming more and more often, as your future solidifies in some ways and becomes more imprecise in others.

“You’re almost halfway done,” John says, pointing at your belly like he can read your mind.

You sigh. “Do we have to talk about me?”

“We definitely can’t talk about me.” He studies you for a moment, makes mental notes like someone browsing through archaeological artifacts in a museum. Then he realizes: “You don’t want to have to stay home.”

You nod, downing your sort-of-mojito. No offense, kid, but I could really use some mind-numbing inebriation right now.

“Because you don’t trust him...?”

“It’s not quite that,” you reply. “I can’t stand the thought of not being there if something happened to him. If something happened to any of you. If I wasn’t there to at least try to help and someone ended up...you know...” Goddammit, I’m so much more sensitive these days. You force it out. “If someone ended up dying, I wouldn’t be able to live with that.”

“No one’s going to die, love,” he says gently.

“People die all the time. Especially rock stars. Hendrix, Joplin, Morrison, Murcia, McIntosh, Bolin. I could go on. There will be more names a year from now. Maybe some we recognize.”

“What do you want me to do? You want me to haul him off to rehab? You want me to handcuff him to his hotel bed every night we’re on tour? I’ll do it if you think that would help. I’ll do whatever you want. Obviously I don’t want to lose him either. But I’ve never known Roger to be someone you could force into anything.”

“No, he’s definitely not,” you agree softly, in surrender.

The opening notes of Fleetwood Mac’s Go Your Own Way rumble from the stereo. John knocks back the end of his Manhattan and sets the glass on the bar.

“Alright, congratulations, you get your wish.” He grins, holding out his hand. “We don’t have to talk about you anymore.”

“I’m warning you, I am zero percent graceful in my current state.”

“I’ll manage somehow.”

“Loving you

Isn't the right thing to do

How can I ever change things

That I feel?”

John leads, pushing through the crowd to a spot near the center of the kaleidoscopic dance floor. Then he knots his fingers through yours, sways with the music, dances comically sluggishly as you struggle to keep up, twirls you randomly until you’re giggling against him, blushing and not thinking about Roger or the tour or your impending career change at all; and you suspect John isn’t thinking about Veronica either. You belt out the lyrics at the top of your lungs, flouncing around like an extremely ungainly Stevie Nicks, and after a moment John joins you, pumping his fist in the air:

“You can go your own way

Go your own way

You can call it

Another lonely day...”

And it feels good. It feels more than good. It feels almost like being free.

Lindsay Buckingham’s guitar solo splits through the fog-filled room, and your smile begins to fade, recedes like the frothing ocean waves at low tide. And you think, more clearly and more inauspiciously than you ever have in your life: Something’s wrong.

The body knows when it nears catastrophe. There’s a primal dread that sparks up in the blood and nerves and endocrine system, seeps from your pores like smoke, cloaks you in that bleak, biological premonition. Dogs can smell it, can be trained to alert people before that nascent calamity manifests into a cardiac arrest or diabetic coma or asthma attack or stroke; and humans can feel it when that inevitable devastation creeps close enough, when it sharpens its fangs and scrapes them down the jugular. You’ve never truly been able to understand that before. But you recognize it now.

There’s cold sweat springing up on your skin like goosebumps. There’s a stormy rush of blood pounding in your ears. You can’t remember the name of the club, the city, the type of car Roger bought you for Valentine’s Day, the stone gleaming in your ring. The air that you wrench into your lungs is thin and fleeting, without the relief of oxygen. There’s an indescribably heavy iron twist of fear buried in your guts.

John freezes in the middle of the dance floor. “What?” he asks, alarmed.

There’s pain; sudden, sharp, low. Your eyes follow it. There’s blood snaking down your bare thighs. There’s indigo darkness crumbling around the edges of your vision as you sink to the floor. Your knees bruise against cold tile.

Someone is screaming for help; you aren’t sure who. But you reach for them, because they sound so irrevocably strong, because they sound like home. Your fingertips collide with John’s leather jacket.

“Make it stop,” you choke out through bared teeth, as claws of glass and barbed wire tear at where your future once lived. The agony is unnatural, razored, almost surgical.

“I can’t. Here, we’re gonna get you help, hold on, hold on to me—”

“I don’t want to be here anymore,” you sob into John’s neck. His skin is stubbled and dusted with nicotine and flare-hot. He’s trying to drag you to your feet, shouting over his shoulder for someone to call an ambulance. “I don’t want this anymore, I don’t want any of it. I don’t want to see the world. I want to go home.”

“Don’t say that, everything’s going to be okay, they’re coming, listen to me, listen to me, I’m going to get you help—”

“It’s too late,” you whisper. And every light in the world blinks out.

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s February 16th, 1978, and you’re not pregnant at all.

You’re a registered nurse, and so you understand perfectly the terms that the doctors use when they explain to you why it happened, after they do the ultrasound to make sure the miscarriage was complete; when they tell you why it was doomed from the start. Stage 4 endometriosis. Placental abruption. Difficult to conceive, nearly impossible to carry to term. An open and shut case. That’s the genetic lottery, and some people roll straight sevens, blood-red sevens rimmed with fool’s gold.

What you have a harder time understanding is how this could have happened to you. How is it possible to have all of that organic poison building inside of you, all that latent ruin, and yet not know it? To have never had any symptoms besides slightly-more-annoying-than-average periods? To have a nursery set up in one of the five extraneous bedrooms—the one with the blue-grey wallpaper, to be exact—with a crib your child will never use, never peer out of with their tiny fists curled around the wooden bars, never cry out to you in the middle of the night from? To have a list of names scribbled on a notepad stuck to the refrigerator—Roger favors deeply Anglophile possibilities like Arthur and Jasper and Alice, while you tend towards names with a Southern European flair like Aurelia, Callista, Felix, Augustus, although you both quite like the idea of incorporating some variation of John—that you suddenly have no use for? To have to inform your husband, your parents, your friends that there is no baby, that there most likely never will be, and that it’s entirely your fault: So terribly sorry, due to a genetic glitch my womb is rendered inhospitable, we’ll have to leave that ultimate trophy of womanhood off the shelf indefinitely I’m afraid.

You’re in and out through the night. The dreams are murky and fragmented and ominous, jolting you awake four times an hour. John never leaves, except to periodically phone the Surrey house from the nurse’s station. And there’s pain now, of course, even through the haze of the morphine drip—your uterus cramping down to collapse the void, your head splitting from the shock and hormonal bedlam—but it’s almost like that pain belongs to someone else, someone you might have heard of but don’t know especially well. The pain doesn’t surprise you. What surprises you is the totality of the darkness that rolls over you like a quilt, like a second skin.

Shouldn’t I feel at least some infinitesimal amount of relief, of liberation? Shouldn’t I feel free?

“I don’t feel free,” you murmur, your voice hoarse and very quiet.

“What?” John leans into you, takes your hand in his, lays his palm on your forehead and smooths back your hair. Harsh morning sunlight streams in through the window. “What did you say?”

“I don’t feel free at all. I just feel empty.”

His greyish eyes are slick and anguished. “I am so fucking sorry,” he says, his voice breaking.

You whisper: “He’s never going to be able to love me now.”

“Shhhhh, don’t,” John pleads. “He’s always loved you. As much as he can, and in the way that he can.”

“You’ve been here all night.”

“Of course.” And he hasn’t managed to tell Roger. Which means Roger hasn’t come home yet.

You shake your head groggily. “No, you have your own family. You have to go home.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he says tersely.

“John, you have to go home. You have to call at least. Veronica could have gone into labor or something.”

“No, seriously, it’s fine, she pops out one a year no problem. I’m staying.”

A scalding tear slinks down your cheek. “You’re lucky to have her.”

“They must have you on a lot of drugs.”

You laugh, then begin to cry.

“Hey, don’t do that, please don’t do that, shhhh...”

John climbs into the hospital bed and you fold into him, burrow into his warmth that smells like cigarettes and dusky cologne and Manhattans, sob against his chest as he locks his arms around you and pulls you in until there’s no space, no air, no line between you at all.

“You have to be okay,” he murmurs, his lips to your forehead. “I need you to be okay for me. Because when I was messed up I didn’t get better for me, I didn’t do it for me, I got better for you. So now you need to get better too, okay?”

“Okay,” you promise, not meaning it at all.

And he makes you promise again and again until you drift back to sleep with his steady heartbeat drumming against your palm, just loud enough to keep the dreams away.

~~~~~~~~~~

John finally reaches Roger at 9:47 a.m. Roger arrives at the hospital twenty minutes later, his hair a chaotic tangle, his eyes shielded by prescription sunglasses, still wearing the sapphire blue suit he left the house in the night before, his tie undone and several buttons missing from his shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” Roger begins. “I was at this party and met some guys who wanted to collaborate on my solo album, and it turned into a whole...oh, fuck, it doesn’t matter. Is she—?”

John grabs him, pushes him against the hallway wall, yanks off Roger’s sunglasses and pries open his eyes. Roger flinches, but doesn’t struggle.

“What—?”

“I’m making sure you’re not high.” John observes normal pupils and shoves Roger away, disgusted. “Get in there. She needs you.”

“You’ve done a lot for us,” Roger says.

“It’s mutual.”

“Thank you.” There are tears in Roger’s crystalline blue eyes. “Thank you so much, John.”

John nods towards the hospital room. “Just go.”

She wakes up when she hears the door open, and she knows it’s Roger instantly. Of course she does. Everyone knows the way a room changes when Roger walks into it, the way he lights up people and places like wildfire, the way he gets humans addicted to his innate magnetism the same way some are hooked on coke or alcohol or heroin. John isn’t that kind of man, and he knows it. He will never be that kind of man.

“I’m so sorry,” she tells Roger.

Roger shakes his head, cradling her face in his hands. “Baby, I’m not mad. I don’t blame you. I’m not mad at you.”

John watches as she explains everything, as Roger embraces her, as he says all the right things, all those beautiful and hopeful and effortlessly spellbinding things, as she begins—slowly, yes, but unmistakably—to light up again like rising sunlight glinting off quicksilver waves.

And only then does John leave.

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