#this is absurd and maybe only i will find it funny but my inner five year old is satisfied so i think we all know who's a winner here
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update: i finished the second doctor's run and all the three stooges shorts in the same week because the timing was just that impeccable. i AM still thinking about this and have more coherent (but also even more incoherent) thoughts now
in the "three stooges wind up in a doctor who scenario" flip-flop:
i believe even more strongly that it would be best that it's ww2-era stooges and they wind up in a dalek storyline, if only in deference to the stooges being the first to have their explicitly anti-nazi film sneak past censors to theaters. you've got so many parallels between that era and classic who: saving the day from genocidal fascists who want you dead... way way wayyyy too much yellowface oh my god...
setup isn't really necessary but if we must then it starts as a nice ordinary productive day for the stooges being terrible at being nice ordinary productive members of society. and then a mad scientist with a guy in a shittyass gorilla suit in a cage mad sciences them away to the doctor who universe
dr. howard, dr. fine, dr. howard are our wonderful and terrible heroes. who is THE doctor, though? depends on who you ask…
instead of dressing up and mocking fascists, the stooges have to climb into a dalek body to dress up and mock them, and it very much just becomes this:
the daleks are absolutely the straight men in this scenario and baffled by the lack of logic in everything's that happening. if they had hair they would be pulling it. hell, maybe one dalek has a bad toupee and pulls it just for the sight gag. idk
a dalek starts giving a monologue about how superior and amazing they are and the stooges tell it to shut up, poke it in the eyepiece, and shoves it down the stairs. the episode then ends with the stooges making their own monologue about how great and amazing america is. it is unclear how self-aware this is meant to be
this may or may not become a retelling of "the evil of the daleks," except they wind up with the stooges for their human factor tests and everything goes absolutely haywire because the three stooges are the WORST humans you could pick for this. maybe they were in league with the mad scientist with the shittyass gorilla suit man
needless to say, the human factor, once extracted, results in the daleks acting... honestly probably just as goofy as they act in the OG episode (choo-choo!)
that said a dalek DOES hold a pie with its toilet plunger arm and it DOES get thrown in someone's face in climactic pie fight. why would you think this would not happen. is this because of the stooges' human factor? or has this dalek simply succumbed to the madness? no clue. civil war definitely still happens though
curly regenerates into shemp regenerates into joe. or, bonus points: shemp regenerates into curly regenerates back into shemp regenerates into fake shemp and then regenerates into joe
meanwhile, in the "doctor and co. wind up in a three stooges scenario" flop-flip:
i'm torn between having this be a retelling of a doctor who episode that just happens to be in a three stooges logic universe, or just plop them in one of the stooges' 1950s sci-fi shorts. or being its own thing but that requires too much brainpower for what is ultimately a very long shitpost
"enemy of the world" would be great for the first route, the moe/hitler comparison is right there. but "outer space jitters" would be a fun one for the second route. landing on a planet where the inhabitants are planning to use cavemen zombies to conquer earth feels very much like it should be a doctor who episode already
jamie and zoe are the companions. jamie because OF COURSE and zoe because her mathematical brain cannot comprehend what's happening and she must use the events of the episode to learn about the rule of funny and how it trumps all known scientific law
but also if victoria WERE there, could she please beat the snot out of some guy while ranting about how horrible he is for picking on a poor, helpless, defenseless woman? it feels like something that needs to happen
the episode opens with the doctor and co checking things out on the viewscreen, and they are shocked that there is a literal caption on the image: "planet moronika: where the men are men and the women are glad of it." this is their first clue they have wound up in some weird universe
the second clue is them being struck by urges to poke each other in the eyes and knock each other's heads together and all-around smack each other around and this for some reason NOT resulting in constant incapacitation and merely temporary annoyance is
third clue that finally allows them to put the pieces together is them enduring some slasher movie level violence that SHOULD have killed them, but teehee haha, they have slapstick comedians' superpowers of walking off things like houses falling on them
(also this is a lost episode and these moments of violence are the only extant parts because they were removed by censors in other countries <333)
men whistling at zoe (in her flashy sequin suit) and any other female characters is really weird and confusing for the tardis crew because, i mean. this is old school doctor who. nobody's allowed to do anything more scandalous than chastely hug each other with all their clothes (and multiple extra layers) firmly on
meanwhile, totally unrelatedly, the following exchange definitely happens:
jamie and the doctor: [kiss ""accidentally""] jamie: "ack! i've been poisoned!" [smack] the doctor: 🙄
also the trio definitely do the "heads stacked while poking around a corner" gag that they already do in a couple real doctor who episodes, but i unfortunately can't remember which ones specifically for imaging purposes so enjoy this three stooges publicity photo to demonstrate:
zoe and the doctor get a mad scientist moment. unfortunately, they put too much yeast in the mad science. it does not end well
jamie encounters the scottish stereotypes of the stooge shorts "the hot scots" and "scotched in scotland." hijinks ensue
footage is blatantly reused from previously episodes--and not just brief clips but whole scenes, even gags from previous installments in this very serial. the characters realize they are in some horrible timeloop. for reasons. oh no!!!
someone is fake shemped and it is REALLY obvious. like if frazer hines being replaced for one episode was not integrated into the story and just happened completely out of nowhere with zero explanation. the doctor is the only one that can't tell when he's talking to a fake shemp due due to faceblindness
the doctor, zoe, and jamie spend the night in a triple bunk bed with no ladder. there are of course hijinks and it does of course end in the doctor being squashed beneath three mattresses and a bajillion planks of wood
the doctor and co crawl back to the tardis at the end of the episode just completely filthy, covered in dust and food and ink and eggs and also clutching a single extremely delicious-looking pie they saved from the slaughter. they try to escape to go somewhere where they can eat the pie in peace, but oh no! the stoogiverse won't let them go! but why? zoe realizes: the rule of funny must be satisfied. with great reluctance, she shoves the pie in the doctor or jamie's faces. the tardis finally leaves. the end
so i'm watching old three stooges shorts during the intervals in my doctor who watch where i have to track down/listen to audio reconstructions of lost episodes. it's been taking a while because audio dramas do not agree with my brain At All, but at last i'm up to the second doctor now!
and i don't know about anyone else, but when i was a little kid i remember thinking that the second doctor and moe howard were the same guy. they're not, obviously, but even as an adult whenever i see either of them it trips me up for a second. and needless to say i have been getting tripped up a LOT lately as i wade my way through season 4 doctor who recons.
it's definitely the hair above all else. maybe also the faces and mannerisms.
anyway... totally unrelated but i now really need one of the following:
the three stooges--comprised of dr. howard, dr. fine, and dr. howard, naturally--wind up in a doctor who scenario and must save whatever nosy situation they have found themselves in. considering their wartime shorts and adventures in moronika, i think it would be delightful to see them go up against the daleks and save the day as schmaltzily and cartoonishly as possible while everyone else plays it straight and is so confused by these demented nyuk-nyukers.
the second doctor and his companions wind up in a space/time that operates on three stooges logic. shenanigans ensue. i'm unfortunately not far enough into the second doctor to have ideas for the shenanigans, but if anyone else does feel free to share! rules are only that there must be outlandish slapstick violence to make the bbc quiver in its boots.
#screaming into the void#doctor who#the three stooges#this is absurd and maybe only i will find it funny but my inner five year old is satisfied so i think we all know who's a winner here#also new tag time:#goofy nonsense for me and me alone
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☆ Bitter Revelations ☆
Chapter 3: Hard Truths (Read it on Ao3 here)
………
The journey from Thrawn’s office to their newly assigned living quarters had been a silent one. Threepwood had splintered off at some point, muttering something about wanting to stop by the commissary. He hadn’t offered for Cody to join, and Cody hadn’t asked.
That was over two hours ago. Not that Cody minded. The silence was -
Who is Rex?
- unceremoniously interrupted by a series of beeps from across the room.
Cody sighed. “You’re supposed to be rebooting,” he replied pointedly.
Eve chirped mischievously. Cody didn’t bother to look up from the holophoto in his hand; he knew that Eve was probably already trying to creep away from her charging station. As sneaky as the little seeker droid thought she was, Cody could map her path across the room without so much as a glance.
Feigning indifference, Cody listened as Eve slid from the desk against the opposite wall and plopped onto the ground. Her tiny, durasteel legs padded across the floor as she quickly scampered behind the footlocker at the end of his bunk. He only had to count to three before she made a sudden break for the nearest leg of his bunk. He smiled, despite his sour mood, and Eve scampered up the rail like a kowakian monkey-lizard before landing with a soft thunk beside him.
Cody huffed. Eve released a handful of triumphant whistles and rewarded herself by pouncing onto his shoulder. In all reality, Cody had no one to blame but himself; he was the one that had decided using a BD unit as her foundation was a good idea.
They were called Buddy Droids for a reason.
Eve nuzzled his neck and fluttered around to get a better look at the photo in his lap. Who is that? she inquired with a slow, gentle blink of her eye.
“That one is Fives,” Cody said, holding the frame up with one hand and pointing with the other. “And that’s Echo.”
Eve trilled, one of her front most appendages reaching out to eagerly tap against another figure within the photo. Who is that? she repeated.
Cody sighed. “That’s me.”
His regret was swift and immediate as Eve began to laugh. The droid chirped and warbled as she bounced from one shoulder to the other; the white rim of her eye constricted to a tiny dot within the center of her orbital socket.
“Very funny.” Cody rolled his eyes, but there was no bitterness behind it. He had never enjoyed being laughed at, but for some reason found it endearing when Eve did so.
Perhaps the Cody of ten years ago would have thought such a profound friendship with a droid to be absurd, but the Cody of the present day was grateful for whatever companionship he could find- even if it came in the form of a bite-sized droid with too much loyalty and too little self-preservation.
It wasn’t like he had many options. Clones were incredibly social by nature, having been engineered from birth to depend on their brothers through the formation of close knit bonds. But he hadn’t seen another clone besides Threepwood in years, and none of the natural born troopers wanted anything to do with an old relic like him.
More often than not, Cody wondered why Threepwood even bothered to put up with him.
The gears inside Eve’s legs whirled as she tapped at his cheek once, twice, three times before Cody finally blinked. His brain fought to play catch up, having grown sluggish from his darker inner musings, as Eve pointed at the final figure within the photo.
Who is that?
“Rex,” Cody said softly. “That’s Rex.”
Who is Rex?
There it was again. That question Cody had no clue how to answer. Never mind to a droid; he had no idea how to explain it to himself. Did he answer with what Rex once was? A brother, a friend, someone Cody would have laid down his life for without a second thought?
Or did he answer with what Rex was now? How did he explain to Eve that Rex had been the subject of nightmares that had plagued him ever since the 332nd Company had been declared KIA? Was it even possible to explain that Rex had haunted him for over a decade, a shadow that lingered in the back of his mind and only emerged when Cody felt he had finally conquered his grief?
There was another answer he could give the droid, one that he still couldn’t wrap his head around; Rex was a traitor.
Cody gripped the edges of the holophoto so tight that the frame began to creak. Eve beeped in alarm. It was only when she began to pry at his hands that he came back to himself, the room spinning and his jaw aching from how firmly he had clenched it.
“Sorry,” Cody gasped, tossing the photo away as if it had burned him. It clattered against the floor and skidded beneath his desk. Cody scrambled further back on the mattress until his back met the wall. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to - ”
Okay? Cody okay? Eve will call Threepwood -
“No,” Cody barked. Eve locked up, the sudden stillness beside him making him flinch. Cody exhaled, counting backwards from ten in his head and extending his hands as he opened and closed his fists. “No,” he tried again, softer this time. He cleared his throat. “That’s all right Eve, I’m fine.”
Promise?
He nodded, still running through whatever vague breathing exercise he could remember from his training on Kamino. “Promise.”
Cody closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the wall. He counted all the way up to one-hundred, and then did it three more times before he felt his heart start to slow. He felt defective, having to rely so heavily on a technique that was taught to cadets after their first live-fire simulation inevitably went wrong. He hadn’t needed it back in the war, not even when he found himself pinned beneath a gunship on Anaxes.
Anaxes. Rex. His chest constricted. Cody drew a shuddery breath and, reluctantly, began to count again.
………
Cody hadn’t realized he had fallen asleep until the door hissing open made him jump. Threepwood paused, a ration bar in each hand, and titled his helmet to the side.
“Are you, uh - ”
“I’m fine.” Cody waved the other trooper off and rubbed at his stiff neck.
“Well, if you say so.” Threepwood shrugged.
Eve, sensing an opportunity, scurried away from where she had curled up beside Cody and charged at Threep. He yelped, swatting at the droid as she clambered up his armored legs.
“What the hell is this - ”
Before he could do more than just protest, Eve snatched one of the ration bars from Threep’s hand and retreated back to Cody. Like a loyal Massiff fetching a hover ball, Eve dutifully dropped the stolen bar on his lap. He smirked, and Threepwood glared.
“That droid,” Threep began, leaning against the frame of their bunk and brandishing his remaining ration bar like a blade, “That droid isn’t right.”
Cody refused to dignify such an accusation with a response. He had built EV-3 himself, and he knew she was perfect. Instead, he unwrapped the ration bar Eve had claimed for him and began to pick at it.
Threepwood groaned, and tossed his empty wrapper at Cody. “You’re impossible.”
Threep stormed off to the attached refresher. Eve beeped lowly, rounding on the wrapper as if it were a piece of prey. Clutching the offending item in her frontmost appendages, the droid quickly deposited it on the top bunk for Threepwood to later collect.
Cody patted the top of her head when she returned. “Attagirl, we’ll show him yet.” He scoffed, leaning forward to launch his own wrapper onto Threep’s bed. “Not right,” he muttered, settling back against the wall. Eve climbed onto his lap and he patted her head again. “Only thing not right is him. ‘S why they stuck him with me back on the garrison. Someone had to keep an eye on him.”
“Stars above,” Threepwood cursed from the ‘fresher. He popped his head out, having dressed down to the dark body glove beneath his armor. “Will you please stop talking to the damn droid?”
“I either talk to the droid or I have to talk to you,” Cody shot back.
Threepwood narrowed his eyes. “Are you saying you’d rather chat with the droid than with me?”
“Absolutely.”
The look of disbelief and utter disappointment on Threep’s face almost made him laugh.
“That’s cold, Commander. Stone cold.” Threepwood’s face retreated back within the refresher, but his voice echoed back out. “I don’t remember you always being so ornery, sir. Maybe my memory has gone a bit wonky, but I could have sworn you were pleasant once upon a time.”
Threep’s use of Commander and sir, despite them being off duty, and the impish tone of his voice told Cody that his remark was meant in jest. This was the part Cody was supposed to grumble back something about how Threepwood had always been annoying, and Cody had never been pleasant.
But that wasn’t true.
Cody stilled, his retort stuck in his throat. Threepwood was right. He hadn’t always been so difficult to be around. And it hadn’t always been so unpleasant inside his own head. Back then, when the only other soldiers were clones like him, Cody hadn’t been known as a bitter, fractious Commander that would snap at the smallest of slights.
“Hey,” Threep was back beside him, nudging his shoulder. Cody wasn’t sure when he had got there. “I was just kidding, you know that … right?”
“Right, yeah,” Cody said softly. He rubbed at the back of his neck again, uncomfortable under Threepwood’s concerned gaze.
“I was kidding about the droid too,” Threepwood said earnestly.
“I know that, Threep.” His voice may have been sharper than he had intended, as Threepwood held up his hands in surrender.
“All right, okay, just - ” Threepwood sighed and pressed off the bunk onto his feet. “Just making sure..” He trailed off, suddenly distracted by something.
Cody dropped his hands from where they had been irritably rubbing at his face. He watched cautiously as Threepwood crossed the room and kneeled to pick something off the ground. It only took a moment for Cody to recognize it, and he groaned, falling back on his bunk.
He wasn’t in the mood for this conversation.
“Where did - ”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Cody said. He held out his hand over the side of the bunk. “Just give it here.” When nothing appeared in his hand, and Threepwood failed to move, Cody snapped his head to the side and growled. “Threepwood.”
The other trooper looked entranced as he took in the holophoto that Cody knew by heart. Cody leaned up on his elbows and emphasized his open hand with an impatient shake.
“Threepwood,” he barked. “Give it to me.”
“I’ve never seen this before,” Threep murmured. It seemed to take an immense amount of effort for him to tear his eyes away. “Why haven’t you, I mean...are you supposed to still have this?”
“Are you going to report me, trooper?” Cody challenged.
Threepwood’s eyes went steely. He tossed the holophoto none too gently, and it bounced off Cody’s chest. “No, I’m not going to report you. Sure as hell like to, maybe then you could get your ass reconditioned and come back how you used to be.”
Cody wasn’t sure who threw the first punch. One moment he was launching himself from his bunk, and the next he and Threepwood were trading blows and knocking against the floor like a pair of feral cadets. He tasted blood in his mouth and something wet on his face, while the bridge of Threep’s nose looked like it had been shifted to the side.
It was Eve frantically shocking the hell out of them with one of her scomp links that finally drove them apart. Cody heaved and wiped at his face. His palm came back bloody. Eve danced about his feet, whimpering, and he immediately opened his arms for her to leap into.
Eve did no such thing. She cowered away from him, and then turned tail to retreat beneath the bunk. It felt like someone had shot a blaster at his heart.
What the hell is wrong with you?” Threepwood spat from the opposite side of the room. His arm was wrapped around his ribs, his shoulder pressed against the wall for support. “First you nearly have an aneurysm on Seelos, then you act like you’re about to take that blasted helmet and run in Thrawn’s office - ”
“Don’t - ” Cody hissed, but Threepwood ripped himself from the wall and marched forward.
“Shut up, shut up, I’m not finished!” Threepwood doubled over and wheezed. Instinctively, Cody reached out to steady him, but Threepwood slapped his hand away with a snarl. “And then, oh but this is the best part, then the Grand Admiral starts teasing some stupid plan about capturing Rex. And I’m thinking ‘oh this isn’t good, Rex is a traitor and all, but the Admiral wants us to bring him in so he can put him on display like a piece of art’. But you - !”
Threepwood lashed out, shoving Cody back against the wall. “You fell for it! Head over heels, there you went! Thrawn had you like a Hutt has slime and you didn’t even notice!”
“Notice what?” Cody shouted back.
“That after we bring the captain back, Thrawn is gonna string our sorry asses up and mount us on that wall right next to Rex!”
Cody bristled. His blood suddenly ran cold. “What exactly are you suggesting, trooper?”
Threepwood threw his hands up and groaned. “That we get the hell out of here, before we end up as some wall decoration.”
“That’s treason,” Cody whispered. He lurched forward, gripping onto Threepwood’s shoulders. “Listen to me, you can’t say things like that,” Cody pleaded, shaking Threepwood for emphasis. “It’s not our place to question the Grand Admiral’s intentions, and if someone heard you talk like that - ”
Cody paused as his throat began to close up. His eyes watered. He brought one shaky hand from Threepwood’s shoulder to rest against his cheek. “They’ll take you away, Threep. They won’t just recondition you, they’ll decommission you. And I - ” Cody shuddered and shook his head. “I’ve lost so many brothers already, Threep, I can’t lose you too.”
He bowed his head in shame, hiding the bitter tears that burned across his face, and waited for Threepwood to tear into him. But instead of another blow, or a revamp of Threep’s earlier ravings, Cody found himself crushed against the other trooper’s chest. He froze, petrified Threepwood was about to slam him into the ground, but his brother only continued to embrace him. Eventually, Cody’s brain caught up.
This was a hug. Threepwood was hugging him.
The realization only made him openly weep. He hadn’t hugged someone since he and Gree had said goodbye on Coruscant. Gree had died after that, and if hugging Threepwood meant he would die too -
“You’re not gonna lose me, Cody. I promise.” Threepwood was just as much of a mess as Cody was, and they made a sorry pair as they clung to each other, battered and bruised. Threep patted his head, and Cody winced. “Sorry.”
“‘S fine,” Cody mumbled, feeling dead on his feet. “Since when do you hit so hard?” Threepwood actually threw back his head and laughed. Cody could only manage a lopsided grin.
“I dunno, I think you might just be getting old.”
“Shut up,” Cody groaned. “I’m only two years older than you.”
“Yeah, but you sure as hell have a lot more grey than me.”
Reflexively, Cody carded a hand through his hair. It was true, but it didn’t mean he liked it. “Shut up,” he said again, but nodded in the direction of the ‘fresher. “Go get cleaned up, yeah?”
Threepwood nodded and limped ahead. The moment the hydraulic door hissed closed, Eve waddled out from her hiding spot. Cody kneeled, and something twisted in his chest when the droid hurried to him but paused just outside of his reach.
“I’m sorry for scaring you,” he said gently. “Guess we got carried away. Brothers fight sometimes, ya know?”
Eve pointed an accusatory pincer at his face. Okay?
“Yeah, I’m okay. Just a little bruised.”
Threepwood beat you up?
Cody scoffed. “No, Threepwood did not beat me up, thank you very much.”
There was a small hum as Eve’s internal processor mulled it over. Finally, she chirped, and shuffled closer. Eve saw. Threepwood beat you up.
“Okay, fine. He beat me up. He got me real good, see?” Cody put forth his best grimace and clutched his side. “Ouch - that really hurts.” When Eve still wasn’t convinced, he let himself teeter over to the side with a mock yelp.
His bluff paid off, and Eve flew forward. She crowded around his head, beeping unhappily as she poked and prodded at his face. The droid continued to scold him as she fetched a series of bacta patches from his locker. She made the perfect reluctant medic, and her fretting reminded him of-
Cody closed his eyes. Dwelling on his brothers wouldn’t do him any good. His brothers were all but gone. And, he thought darkly, even if they were around, they probably wouldn’t want anything to do with him.
Distantly, he hoped at least Rex would be happy to see him.
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Congratulations, ALLI! You’ve been accepted for the role of SEVEN OF SWORDS with the faceclaim of CILLIAN MURPHY. Canis is certainly a fucking concept, whom I adore to no end. He’s got a tenacious and willful sort of attitude about him, the kind of incredulous charm and wit that lends itself to an air of villainy and danger, and I think that he fits into the Seven of Swords like one fits into a well-made boot or glove. In spite of remaining leashed like a dog, he’s got no small amount of fire in him, and I’m eager to see what (or who!) he sinks his teeth into during gameplay. You’ve brought me a real gift, dropped it on my doorstep, and I am grateful.
Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.
— APPLICATION
OOC
NAME: alli PRONOUNS: she / her AGE: twenty - one TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: cst / i am currently on summer break and have the ability to be really active , but sometimes things do come up ! i definitely have plenty of time to be on the dash with several posts within activity limit and when my muse is high ( i’ll be honest i’m a hoe for high fantasy ) my activity is also super up ! ANYTHING ELSE?: what’s the mead sis…….. the wenches are squabbling …….
IN CHARACTER
SKELETON: seven of swords NAME: efferus aubenet / “canis” & “the dog” efferus - of latin meaning , “wild , savage , cruel , barbarous” . a name canis has long since abandoned , preferring even the subtle jab of “the dog” given to him by opponents of his crew and the highborn that look down on him . he finds it just about as cutting as a bread knife . no one except those closest to him ( ie . the pack ) even know this name exists . canis - latin for “ dog ” , though also the scientific genus for all canines , including wolves and coyotes . meant to symbolize canis as the leader of his pack of wild dogs , and a sign of respect , a nickname earned on the streets and not given to him in tyrholm . the dog - a nickname received while working under king septimus , by those that see the second fangs as dirty , unruly , savages . also by revolters who see canis as a dog blindly following the orders of a tyrannical king. in any case , he still prefers this to efferus . sometimes he even barks in response . FACECLAIM: cillian murphy , michiel huisman ( he / him pronouns , cis male ) AGE: thirty - nine , born on the twenty - seventh day of the twelfth month
DETAILS: i always find myself drawn to underdog characters , muses that have overcome more than most others could even imagine to find themselves in their present position . i believe there is so much depth to backgrounds like canis’s . no family so he created his own , nothing to his name so he created his own legacy . a moral compass that tries it’s best to always point north . that fails , because the muse is so painfully human . the irony of a sellsword who wants more for himself ? incredible . when i was skimming the skeletons , it was his that startled practically writing itself , this street urchin turned warrior figure , so i spent a lot of time picking apart the biography until i was left with canis . i did a bit of research on the seventh of swords tarot card , but let me tell you .. i was so pleasantly surprised and intrigued when i did . on one hand , when upright , seven of swords means scheming , resourcefulness , cunning , and lies , all traits that have gotten canis to where he is today , however negative , the legacy he’s forged for himself and all deeply tied to his work . however , when reversed , the seven of swords can mean confession , conscience , regret , and maliciousness , which i think lend beautifully to this character’s private struggles . there is a very heavy mix of negative and positive attributes leant towards seven of sword’s core character , someone who wants to do right by themselves at great cost . when interpreting the tarot as canis , i was drawn to the maliciousness and the regret ( in sometimes equal measure ) of the reversed card . i believe there is so much more to this character than just his web of scheming and lies , that canis’s true self comes from somewhere within , and i’m really excited to explore his inner conflicts. this man has so many issues that he’s buried and i think the possibility of him becoming a part of the revolution? impeccable. my muse for this skeleton ? through the roof .
BACKGROUND
I . O’ ROMULUS AND REMUS , CASTOR AND POLLUX , WHAT IS ONE WITHOUT THE OTHER ? a twin , you were told , though it feels like something you should never be permitted to forget. you’ve never felt him there , not like a phantom limb or a guiding whisper. just a story , when you’re feeling ungrateful for your lot in this realm , that there is only one where there once was two. born in the dead of winter -- the one that bit at the napes of even the most fur cloaked nobility of markholm , that anyone unlucky enough to live through it can still recall as “ceaseless” -- and childbirth takes your mother as it goes. two children , born sickly , cold. so you are dubbed efferus , a savage beast who can claw his way into life , barely holding onto breath , already having taken a life. it takes a village to raise motherless boys. sometimes it takes more than that. your brother doesn’t make it past the winter , but you keep growing , getting stronger by the day , and finally spring flowers bloom forth from hard soil. the goat farmer next door tells your father you are a resilient one , that the undying smiled upon him. another miracle , that your life could be a blessing and not a curse. as long as you knew him , your father kept steadfast in deep religion , devout , praying over the crops. the cattle. the harvest. even your birth , a story he recants so mystically it’s hard to imagine you were there. “we all bled fer you ,” he always starts , like it’s your fault , “my son , my son. let all else be damned fer ‘im.” two lives for the price of one , he reminds you , and you’re just a boy , but you still find it all absurd. there’s never been a rhyme or reason to suffering. “you make a deal with the undying and you get what you paid fer.” sometimes it seems a compliment. others .. you aren’t so sure. your father hath no mercy for the weak or spineless , though he wasn’t an inherently evil man either , at least not in the figments you can conjure of him. you plow the fields , with hands so rough with calluses you can’t feel the hilt of the axe you use to cut the firewood. you milk the cows , so gentle with great beasts you start to forget your name. you’re skin and bone and beating heart , not much to look at , but just the blessing your father asked for all the same. a good boy , in that you were capable and healthy and strong. a bad seed , in that you cared for little and didn’t always do as you were told. it’s your tenth winter when frostbitten tendrils take first your farm , and then your father. you make a deal with the undying and you get what you paid for , you remember , and it almost makes you laugh. perhaps it’s not so funny that you mourn very little the life you lost. perhaps still it is a testament to your strength , a boy of only ten who shoulders already a lifetime of death and decay. who makes it look a load easy to bear. who are you , efferus aubenet? and who will you become?
II . A MIRRORED MIDAS , IF EVERYTHING HE HAD TOUCHED TURNED TO DEATH AND ROT . a street urchin with no farm , no family , and most prominently no coin. winters slip away like sand through an hourglass , and it’s all you can do to keep track of the time that folds beneath you. one year , and you’re frail and quiet and know only to keep to yourself. three years and you’ve developed a taste for fighting , scrappy as you are. it’s just a game , in the beginning , one the other coinless children keep telling you you’re too good at , “it’s no fun fighting a hungry dog.” five years and you’re taller , more meat to your bones. you’re better at sneaking things out of the market , extra to feed your friends. you learned the hard way what happens if you don’t bring back enough , if you turn a blind eye to people who call out your name. you hear it when you dream , half awake in chilled darkness. “i’m so hungry, efferus. i’m so hungry.” you start going by canis. it makes it easier to sleep. six , seven years and you’re so good at fighting that your pockets start to feel heavy. cobbled streets whisper canis when you cross. bruised fists and a bloody conscience , not all soldiers make it out of battle alive. it dawns on you , slowly but with all the force of a crack of lightning , why the others like to call you dog. maybe it’s because you were born from death , or because you know loss so well it colors your eyelids when you blink , but it seems all you’re good for. you discover a rage within you , one which you’re sure ( you hope , foolish as it is ) any man is capable of , if pushed too far. but it’s directionless , vile in the way it sits inside your chambered heart. there is nothing more universal than pain. nothing more isolating than anger. a boy with a taste for blood. so blind to the way you snap , like branch under boot , when you push too hard. what place is there for you in an unforgiving world , wracked with hardship? at whose table do you dine? you knew love once , it felt like sharing bread and blankets and tales of woe. like years on the streets relying only on wit and steadfast determination to survive. like knowing a person fully , inside and out , as you’d always known yourself. that too would be taken from you , like everything else. for the price of just a single coin , you watched your love take their last breath , watched the thief make off with their blood money , felt truly and terribly powerless. worse than losing your father to deep winter chill you lost your first love to a blade. and in the end , it meant nothing. the sons of argos could not undo what you’d done , what had been done to you , but maybe you could give back tenfold. it starts small , at a table in your favorite tavern , as all great plots tended to do. an invitation to join a company you’d heard about only in whispers. you saw espace , penance where others saw a home , but that would always be enough for you. it was intended to be permanent , a family you couldn’t lose , under a friend who would lay down their life for the men , women , and children under their protection. a life of adventure to call your own and you didn’t need to suffer anymore. you had but one skill , it seemed , beyond tending to the herd and trimming too tall crops , and your father once taught you that skill fed fortune ( though the money , you’d find , would come later ) . you don’t think the sons is quite what your dearly departed had in mind , and this makes your smile widen. you’ve always found humor in odd places. what follows is a career far short of extravagant , fighting crime like a bunch of vigilanties , tied to a city state that knows little of its own streets. you hunger for travel , to sink your teeth into shores unseen , land untended. to make a real name for yourself and anyone who followed suit. “mind your place , mutt,” you hear more than once , and you want to swat the others away like flies buzzing in swelling ears. but there’s something sharp , too , like a cut that just won’t heal. your voice is too loud amongst the rest , your name -- the name you paid for in blood -- nothing next to strength’s. the captain you were meant to worship turned to dust in your heavy fist , the family you forged alongside them never yours to call your own. you tell yourself they betrayed you , like everything else in this life they gave you nothing to hold onto save for the back of their coattails , but in truth you were never meant to stay. minding your place felt a lot like digging six feet down to lay rest. it’s like waking from a dream , one you push down when it returns to you in the night , leaving the sons for good. four winters you slept under their tents , ate at their table , and still you feel nothing when you pack what’s yours ( and maybe some of what isn’t , but who would dare come looking for it? ) and go. no one follows , no one even pleads your case , and when you see them playing knights on the docks the fire in you swells. it’s all rot now.
III . WHERE WOULD ICARUS BE NOW , IF SOMEONE WISE HAD CLIPPED CURSED WINGS? iriebury is the stank of unwashed flesh , the heat of southern sun , something to conquer. the citizens are mean and the crime meaner. it makes tyrholm look a lot like playing pretend , the sons seem like a group of toy soldiers. to survive in iriebury you need your bark , you need your bite. naturally , you thrive. it takes just one winter , one warm southern winter , before you have something to call a crew of your very own. the second fangs , a handful of beaten down , nearly finished off mutts that think you look like a future. you’ll find one day , when you’ve turned to face the wrong end of a sword , these dogs’ loyalty knows no bounds. and maybe you do have a family after all. they don’t look like warriors born for battle , but they’re sharp on every edge and speak of you like you hung the moon. like a prophecy spun from the undying herself. the queen of iriebury’s no different , when you flash her a smile and run a sword through her guard. this is your destiny. with work and full bellies , the second fangs grow , picking up more men and women the rest of markholm cast aside , giving them all purpose. leadership becomes you , you’re kind in places other captains breathe fire. your men adore you , and maybe this is why it’s easy to lose yourself a bit. you’ve always been looking for him , that voice inside of you that has guided every confident step , and you really start to believe you’ve found him at the end of a blade. what you do isn’t pretty like life in a castle , it isn’t gentle like the farm or humble like a temple , but it suits you. you find company at the bottom of a bottle , family inside the taverns and brothels , atop dirty cobblestone. it all feels a lot like honor , like duty. you’re known for your loyalty and cunning among burdened skill. work lends to virtue or some mirrored image of the sort. the second fangs take the jobs you approve , not the ones the queen hands you , nails stained with blood , and who knew a mercenary crew with such an eye for morality? bastards that comb the streets but speak with love fresh on their lips. you’re a heathen with heart , of that not even the fiercest opponents can dispute. maybe there is a place in this world for nameless , coinless men with a hunger for something more. you give back to your beloved pack what they give to you ; everything , everything and then some. a life that means more than scraping the bottom of the barrel. you can’t carry on like this forever and survive , and it’s only a matter of time before real gold starts knocking. a steady job , you’re promised. a lifetime of stability , peace. you know more of the king of tyrholm than you let on , and maybe you are naive to trust the word of a woman who did not raise herself , but when you look at your company’s worn faces and tired smiles , weathered from southern strife , it’s never been easier to bend a knee. some odd winters , some odd springs , lived with modest lavesty. septimus is an arse of a man that whispers corroded bidding into your graceless ear. no one but the second fangs knows how much you shake , when the job is done and you’re safe at home. how much weight you shoulder , for yourself , for your men , for the lives you’ve taken. the lives you will take. your crew was never meant to become a rebellion. the glory feels lost , you’re a knight without chivalry , a wolf without teeth. you hear dog more than your own name and you bite back bile when you look in a mirror , but still , you think , you would do it all over again. the second fangs are a happy crew , well fed and housed and nothing like the orphans you sheltered so many moons ago. when it starts to feel like you have your own sons of argos you shelf the thought. your pack looks at you , strong and fit and still just a bit withered , and laugh and cheer. “yer getting old, canis,” they jest , when you stumble into bed. “hunch - backed from all that gold in yer pockets.” you’ve always been wiser than most of them , something raw in your heart that keeps it beating steadfast. better you than them , you know. most men would crack at what you’d seen. what you know. there’s good to be found , once you learn how to look , like the devotion of judgement , a beauty in worship that reminds you of all your father’s useless praying. peaceful in all it’s absurdity. there’s friendship in odd places , with the empress you serve. you find it hard to trust in tyrholm , unaccustomed to the politics of a ruling class , the society that never once smiled down on a farm boy and his widowed father. you want to be wise and cunning , still sometimes you feel inadequate next to those raised in education , but the queen saw your potential before anyone else in the whole retched kingdom , and that has to mean something. there’s the fool , a real dog you sometimes think , who mirrors your old captain so much it makes your skin crawl. they aren’t so bad , but it’s hard for you to look up at someone who serves at the hand of the king. you wonder if others think the same of you. fools , the whole lot of them. you know what the queen expects of you , your word is your livelihood , but these things take time. for now , you’re comfortable ; your cup is full. there’s always been something about wars to come that feels like home , ragged and battle scarred thing that you are. and besides , it’s easier to put out a fire that burns inside your ribs than one that swallows an entire kingdom , of this you are certain.
PLOT IDEAS
STRENGTH: oh boy oh man. canis can’t hold his tongue with distaste even if he tried , and he definitely doesn’t try with them. his anger often gets the better of him and i believe he would try to confront strength every chance he gets. he sees this skeleton as nothing more than the king’s right hand ( literally so exciting to me that strength is also a revolter and i’m sure neither of them know they’re destined to work on the same side again?? ) and i think he reflects a lot of his own inadequacies onto this skeleton , a lot of his failure. with such a tension relationship i’d like to see fights break out .. maybe even between their own respective men that they’d have to quell. far down the line even settling their differences and working together as the military leaders of a revolution because who is better suited for the job than them? but it would take a big blow to canis’s pride to share such a job , to ever work alongside this skeleton instead of against them like he always has. so all around? here for it all. NINE OF WANDS: canis looks at them and sees passion he once was sure he felt , the sharp thing in his gut that once spurred him to forge his own path in a world that never once showed him kindness. his scars are internal , but they wear their scar like a badge of honor , at least that’s how canis sees it. he’d love to not have to kill the king himself , even if he would never admit it. it means a safer life for his men , it means being done with tyrholm and a life of ease and travel , everything he’s always wanted and never seemed to be able to grasp. i wonder if them growing closer through sparring and their ability to provide him the best weapons he’s ever seen could change his opinion on wanting them to kill the king in a fit of rage?? i could see canis wanted to strategize with them , in the end , once he’s done poking the bear. love this gift of a connection a lot !!!! THE EMPRESS: definite ass kissing going on here. canis is more than grateful he was hired by her and not the king , though i do think he might resent them a little for the work the king makes his company do. he prefers to take jobs from them , when ordered , though i feel their relationship at this point goes beyond just work like it does with septimus. he trusts them and it does help him to sleep at night thinking he could be serving their hand and not septimus’s. also entirely possibly they call him the dog but with them it doesn’t feel like malice. he would never dare disrespect the queen , especially one he sees goodness in , sees his entire future in. would be really interesting if canis even is a little too friendly with them , giving them a hard time where maybe no one else would dare to do , an annoying prick in her side that she NEEDS to get what she wants. THE HERMIT: i think he has a lot of respect for the hermit. in ways that his pride keeps him from seeing his similarities with strength , he sees so much of who he once was in them. young , making their own way , maybe even some of the same rage , though canis has no place to put his own. i feel like if the respect was mutual they could have a friendly relationship , canis even pushing advice onto them they might not want or need. if a revolution came he would back them. somewhere , he probably even sees them as something of a good king. canis doesn’t trust them fully , but he could drink with them , knows the second fangs would treat them kindly as well. THE HIGH PRIESTESS: canis is scared of little , but he’s scared shitless of them. he avoids them at all costs , looks the other way when they’re brought to the same space. he doesn’t talk kindly of necromancers , though maybe there is some envy there he needs to address. he’s sure this doesn’t go unnoticed , not with all their years of wisdom. i think it could be really interesting though if one of his closest friends is killed on a job and they bring them back as he watches , sees this power first hand , feels even a debt is owed though none of the fear is gone. a lot of possibilities , i could see the second fangs might be dying a lot more often pretty soon ... JUSTICE: the world calls canis the dog because they see him as filth , as something mangey that feeds from table scraps of the king , but canis sees that justice is the real dog. and he pities him for it. there’s little glory in the work of a bodyguard , and maybe canis wonders how justice would fair in his own company. never the less , i think they could butt heads just as easily as they could share a pint. maybe they’ve even fought in some of the same battles , know each other from war torn lives and have a bond because of this. lots of potential for both malice and comradery , no matter what line of the revolution they tread. THE LOVERS: canis sees himself and more in them. he doesn’t pity easily , has an ability to find the strength in even the smallest mouse , but he pities the lovers. in some ways , i think he wants what they have , longs for something as fulfilling as love , and doesn’t want to see this squashed. every day he gets closer to telling them of the war to come. i really wonder how long he can go without letting anything slip , especially if they look at him with gentleness or show him great kindness. he feels they need to prepare , like he is , for a future of destruction. THE MOON: okay okay .. i have two different paths that i think might be interesting with this skeleton depending on what gets plotted out. BUT .. i could imagine canis stumbles into their office after being badly injured on the job , probably requesting some random herb because it HURTS and he’s WEAK and he needs it to be DONE WITH. one path would lead to the moon healing canis , and once he discovers this ability he probably begs and bribes ( heavily. the man is too wealthy for his own good now , and what else is he going to buy? new boots? his work just fine. ) them to start visiting the second fangs around the city to heal them in secret. he’ll do anything for their ensured safety. the other path works quite the same , only with no healing , just plants , and he’d be very dependent on this muse either way because of the miracles they’re able to work with his men. really really excited for the possibilities of plots with this skeleton. THE TOWER: a backstory plot for these muses is calling my name?? like maybe the tower and canis had a deal where the second fangs would assist them and their men on voyages and pillages for a cut of the treasure when all was said and done , back when the second fangs were fresher and poorer and in desperate need of work. and maybe one of the two betrayed the other on one of these trips , with greed for treasure or something of the like? things could be tense between them now , at each other’s throats. OR there could have never been a betrayal and they’re actually quite good friends who know a little too much about each other’s pasts , and canis offers the tower company amongst the pack knowing he’s lived through canis’s own worst nightmare. the terrifying ordeal of being known. canis could definitely trust them more than he should. this one has me really excited i won’t lie.
CHARACTER DEATH: canis would quite literally volunteer for this so that’s a big yes from me.
WRITING SAMPLE
THE SELF PARA: the tent is warm and the burn of the lamplight casts shadows across familiar faces. the second fangs. his pack, he always calls them, like they’re puppies and not vicious mercenaries. canis is most comfortable here, at ease, his usually pin straight posture relaxed despite the job he knows lays ahead of them. it’s not one he’s entirely comfortable with, an uprising in a poor village. always messy, always felt a bit like putting down a weakened calf at the farm. so they drink, to forget the day that lies ahead, the uncountable days behind. the faces. faces. faces, that echo like screams. he can’t recall who speaks first, but it was likely canis himself, always a little too bold when his body buzzed with liquid courage. “that’s not what i’m asking,” one of his men corrects with a nudge of canis’s shoulder, always aggressive with each other, a pack of wolves nipping at each other’s heels. “the death’s on your hands. but it’s meant to be a good one. worth while.” and the captain’s own eyes twinkle uncharacteristically, perhaps because his inner conscious knows what his mouth does not. that the answer lies waiting at the tip of his tongue, a snarling beast of a target. “and how much coin are we gonna get fer it?” ajax jests, but canis can see the gold flashing in front of his face, even from across the table. canis barks out a laugh, and they all bang their goblets on the table. “aye,” in unison. they know each other inside and out, they speak a language strange and foreign. a family with many moons in their pockets. how many knights can say that? “no coin,” canis finally adds. “no glory. no private dance at the brothel,” eying ren, and there’s another chorus of easy laughter, more aye’s. “one of the nobles,” lawren grunts, and at first there’s just ringing silence. a paranoia that winds it’s way through the small group. they trust each other with their lives but this .. it’s like blasphemy. it’s revolution uncurling within them, more than just a job, it’s a force awakening. lawren speaks again, gentler, louder. “undying knows they’re all pricks.” and it’s easy again, more aye’s, cups overflowing with wine and ale. but in between the laughter, he feels the wrench in his gut, the rage that threatens to flare. an allegiance of blood and blind faith -- it reminds him so much of religion that he squirms. maybe his answer lies in a job, with wicked tendrils wrapped around his neck like a leash. the dog. how wrong would it be to bite the hand that feeds you? “i’d cut off my ring fingers and swear to celibacy to be rid of the fuck all king already,” canis growls, his knuckles white where he grips tight on his cup. and it’s quiet again. when he speaks they listen, they all listen, even the highborn in the castle, like he’s a wave crashing on shore. commanding attention. demanding it. “you’re spending too much time with the clerics,” ren groans, with a face like a fox, her hair hanging limply in her face. he can’t tell if she’s smiling or frowning, but they’re nodding in agreement. all of them. “what good’s that sack of shit king, anyway?” lawren chimes in, and then it’s deafening chatter. all canis can do is listen, absorb the pain of his men, the frustration, see himself reflected in their woes. say what any outsider will about his crew, maybe they are all mutts. one mind, one body, one restless spirit. tired of being used, of being chained to a cause that tries to fill deep chasms in bleeding hearts with gold. what is the price of true freedom? “maybe the end is closer than you think, canis,” a small voice that rises above the others. a girl, mary, raised in the pack, only nearing her seventeenth summer. and she’s a legacy of everything canis has created, the family he wove with bruised and boney fingers. “we haven’t lost a battle, yet.” and she’s right, of course she’s right, whip smart and flea bitten. if there is to be a revolution, aid of the pack would be an immense advantage. it isn’t arrogance with which his men speak. it’s truth. he has to chew on the suggestion, sharp glass in his mouth with every bite, impossible to digest, but maybe with the backing of his crew .. canis has trouble seeing the future beyond a sack of coins and a full bottle of ale. he knows little of politics, even after all his withered years serving as something of a king himself. it’s overwhelming, and he thinks his whole arm shakes when he raises his goblet. “nasty fuckers,” but his teeth shine in the lamplight, like fangs. like canines. “trying to get your own captain killed.” but when they clink glasses, it feels like a deal has been made, like he owes this death to more than just the queen, like the undying herself is watching.
EXTRAS
VOICE : canis has an eclectic sort of accent , a combination of all of the people he met while living on the street , his father , the lands he’s traveled and settled into with his companies . he constantly sticks out as an outsider , no matter where he is . he doesn’t mind this sense of otherness because whenever canis goes , his family is never far . canis’s mockblog can be found HERE his pinterest can be found HERE ( blood tw )
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All Out 2020 Predictions
Just gonna run down the card here, because I keep forgetting what’s on this show, and it is stacked.
Side note: Looking this up on Wikipedia made me sad, because the article points out that the show was originally planned for a whole other venue before the pandemic started. I had gotten so used to every AEW show being held in Jacksonville, that I had forgotten the good old days, when they could run every show in Chicago.
Casino Battle Royale, winner gets a shot at the AEW title
I thought they gave up on this stip when they did the Casino Ladder Match at Double-or-Nothing. Here’s a dumb thought: Ditch the casino nonsense. The last two casino battle royals were kind of dumb, because they sent out five guys at a time, and then the 21st guy got to come out last by himself. The problem I had was that I had no idea who half the participants were, and sending them out in fives made it that much harder to keep track.
Anyway, this time around it’s easier to just list them by faction. We have
Eddie Kingston’s group (Eddie, Butcher, Blade, Pentagon Jr., and Rey Fenix)
Team Taz (Absolute Ricky Starks and DA MACHEEN Brian Cage, who is also the FTW World’s Heavyweight Champion of the World, Excalibur)
Gunn Club (Billy Gunn and Austin Gunn)
The Inner Circle (Jake Hager, Santana and Ortiz)
Best Friends (Chuck Taylor and Trent)
Lance Archer
Darby Allin
Wait that’s only 16 guys. You know, it’s been a long time since I learned the rules to Blackjack, but I think that’s about where you want to stand pat. If you take another card, you’re much more likely to go over 21. Anyway, I hope Warhorse ends up in this match somehow. I guess I’ll pick Eddie Kingson to win, since he’s got the most guys helping him.
No, wait, fuck all of that shit. Lance Archer wins everything. Call this Casino Battle Royale a George R. R. Martin novel, because Everybody Fucking Dies.
The Dark Order (Brodie Lee, Evil Uno, Stu Grayson, Colt Cabana) vs. Scorpio Sky, Matt Cardona, Dustin Rhodes, & QT Marshall.
This is like the Dark Order vs. the Dark Order Revenge Squad, trying to make Brodie pay for beating the shit out of Cody. I saw a video package for this on Dynamite yesterday, and it was fucking stupid, because they wanted me to believe that the good guy team are “four badasses”, even though one of them is QT Marshall for crying out loud. They do this horseshit all the time, where a group of babyfaces try to gang up on the Dark Order, but it never works because the faces never bring enough guys. There’s like eight or nine dudes in the Dark Order, so unless your team has ten or eleven, you’re gonna get your asses kicked. Brodie killed Cody like he was nothing, so why am I supposed to believe Dustin has a chance in hell?
The last time Scorpio Sky was on one of these anti-DO posse teams, it was with Colt Cabana and his partners in SCU. Well, Colt ended up switching sides, and apparently Chris Daniels and Kazarian aren’t even booked, so that tells me what I need to know. Dark Order wins.
Britt Baker vs. Swole in a Tooth and Nail Match.
I don’t know if “Tooth and Nail” is an actual stipulation, or if they’re just calling it that for promotional purposes. I wish they’d spell out the rules to these things instead of just calling out the names of matches like catchphrases. Swole would look pretty dumb if she loses this, so I’m picking her to win.
Matt Hardy vs. Sammy Guevara in a “Broken Rules” Match.
Wikipedia says this is a Last Man Standing match, so maybe they should have just called it that? I mean, less than a month ago Matt claimed that he was ditching all his characters for the duration of the pandemic, and now he’s right back to chanting “Delete!” like nothing changed. I heard a lot about Matt’s cinematic universe run in Impact, but so far I’m not overly impressed with his run in AEW. He just makes a bunch of callbacks to stuff he did in WWE, Impact, and ROH like I’m supposed to know or give a shit about that time he was a douchebag. If Matt loses, he’s supposed to leave AEW, but I’m pretty sure this is a trick, and he’ll just come back as “Leviticus” and pretend to be a robot from outer space. I don’t think I care who wins.
Jurassic Express vs. The Young Bucks.
Why are these guys fighting? I feel like they already did on TV? I’m gonna pull for JE to win this one. I think the Bucks might be my favorite act in AEW, but I mostly enjoy seeing them get the shit beat out of them. Yeah, kill the Young Bucks.
Chris Jericho vs. Orange Cassidy in a Mimosa Mayhem Match.
You can win Mimosa Mayhem by pinfall, submission, or dumping your opponent into a big tank of mimosa. I guess this is a way for OC to win their feud without actually pinning Jericho twice? Alternately, the loser can get pinned, only to dump the winner in the tank to get a moral victory. I’ll go with Orange to win.
AEW Tag Team Championship: Kenny Omega/Hangman vs. FTR
Now that they finally kicked Hangman out of the Elite, and FTR has finally stopped pretending not to be heels, and now that Kenny Omega finally seems to give a shit about his tag team, I think this program could finally lead to something cool. I sort of want FTR to win, just to move the Hangman/Omega angle onto the next stage. If the tag titles are the only thing keeping that team together than we need to see what happens without them.
Also, I want FTR to defend the titles against Santana and Ortiz. Yeah, no offense to Omega and Hangman, but fuck this Elite Drama Bullshit, gimme FTR vs. PnP.
AEW Women’s Championship: Hikaru Shida vs. Thunder Rosa.
Fuck yeah, this is the real main event right here. Thunder Rosa kicks ass, and now she can show her stuff without the nonsensical soap opera booking found in the NWA women’s division. The last time I saw Thunder Rosa in NWA, Melina had inexplicably declared that she had a title match against Rosa, but when the match actually happened, Melina just rolled out of the ring and took a countout. Seeing Eddie Kingston, Ricky Starks, and Thunder Rosa has opened my eyes to a lot of problems in NWA.
Anyway, here’s the AEW storyline for Thunder Rosa: Shida wanted competition, and Thunder Rosa showed up to kick her ass and take her belt. I suspect Shida’s going to win, because Rosa’s NWA title isn’t on the line, but I’m rooting for Thunder Rosa to become the double champ.
AEW Men’s Championship: Jon Moxley vs. MJF.
I want Moxley to win, although I’m not 100% sure this isn’t MJF’s time. It feels too soon, but I didn’t think Moxley would win the title from Jericho back in February either. Also, if Moxley loses the title, it might make it easier for AEW and NJPW to open the Forbidden Door long enough for him to defend the IWGP U.S. title against KENTA. Is that worth putting the world title on MJF? Probably not, but it’s fun to think about.
I don’t understand this feud at all, because MJF has been “campaigning” for a world title shot, even though he’s the #1 contender and he’s undefeated, so I’m pretty sure he could just request the match and he’s all set. MJF has also successfully lobbied to have Moxley’s finisher banned from their match, but what if Mox uses it anyway? They’d just disqualify him and he’d retain the title, right? Or maybe the ref would just stand there and let him do it anyway, because that seems to be how AEW referees do things.
I really don’t get why MJF wanted the Paradigm Shift banned. He got hit with one like two weeks ago, and he acted like it half-crippled him, but then he revealed it didn’t hurt him that badly, so why does he care if he takes another one? MJF also seems to have this thing going on where he pretends to be this high-road-taking “pure wrestler”, who can out-finesse Moxley’s brawling style, but we’ve seen MJF just go apeshit and use hardcore tactics himself.
This is kind of an aside, but I find it funny when Jim Cornette acts surprised when people accuse him of playing a character on his podcasts. He’ll be like “No, no, you don’t understand, I really hate Vince Russo and Kenny Omega and I want them both dead for not respecting kayfabe!” The thing is, wrestlers like MJF and FTR are out here repeating a lot of Cornette’s talking points on TV, specifically to get heel heat. They praise themselves for being workhorses who stick to the fundamentals, but they’re hypocrites who use gamesmanship and trickery to get ahead. So people hear Cornette blowing a gasket about Joey Janela and they just assume he’s being some sort of cartoonish supervillain character to sell his merch, because the alternative is too absurd to contemplate. It’d be like MJF assuring people that he really does bloody people up with his diamond ring in real life, just like he does on TV.
Anyway, I’ll stick with Moxley, but if MJF wins, I’ll be more intrigued than disappointed...
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Angel From Hell
Chapter 7
Read on AO3
Kurt stands up and quickly puts his clothes in order. There is no time to clean up, though he is uncomfortably aware of the fabric of his shirt soaking up sweat and other bodily fluids. He rubs it across his belly once and hopes for no stains.
He curses himself for not wearing his uniform. But of course he hasn't; it would have been more than absurd putting it on this morning with defection in his mind. But it will look more than strange if someone comes in.
He looks back at Blaine. He has sat up and smoothed his hair, looking worried. Kurt puts a finger against his lips and at Blaine's nod, opens a little slide in the door that allows him to look into the corridor. It's actually there to look inside form the hallway, of course, but for some reason, it can be opened from the inside as well. Of course, none of the prisoners ever know about it.
Not that there is much to see. As always, the building seems empty, or almost so, and in the narrow stripe of hallway Kurt can see, there is nobody. The voices have gone, too, and for a moment Kurt asks himself if he has gone insane. Considering the decisions he has made today and what else has happened, that's a very real possibility.
Again, he looks at Blaine. He almost smiles. Blaine has been....unexpected. He'd thought he had his whole life planned, had carefully calculated the consequences of every decision, but he hadn't expected Blaine. Hadn't expected to fall in love.
He doesn't know what his life will look like now. The prospect scares him, but is also exciting. For the first time in many years, he is looking towards tomorrow with anticipation, rather than resignation. Whatever happens. it will almost certainly be better than day after day of doing things he hates to care for the only person he loves, but who can hardly stand to look at him.
Well. It will be better if they manage to survive. And if he hasn't lost his resilience and capability to bear hunger and deprivation.
Don't think about it now, he tells himself. Focus on the problem at hand, which is that either you've gone mad or that there are people outside who could mean very real and more imminent trouble for you and Blaine.
Despite his own words, he is very much tempted to just go back to bed with Blaine, for a nap and then a second, more leisurely round of sex.
But they're not free to do that. The cells can't be locked from the inside, and their own thoughts wouldn't let them enjoy a second round, leisurely or not.
He looks through the peephole once again, again seeing nothing. But—he is sure now—there are the voices again, sounding confused and a little frightened and, Kurt thinks, as if the owners of the voices can't quite agree on whether or not to whisper. He gestures at Blaine to come to the door and then very, very slowly, slides it open.
----------------------------------
There's a burlap sack on Burt's head and he can still see they're not in the right place. Or rather, he can hear it, in the frantic not-quite-whisper of the Warblers around him. His hands are tied on his back, and the burlap sack makes his whole face itch. He is too uncomfortable for them to be discussing this as if they weren't in the middle of hostile territory, so to speak.
He clears his throat. It feels strange, the familiar feeling of the coal dust in his windpipe lesser somehow. He knows it can't be, that a few days of breathing clean air won't suddenly heal him, but it feels like it. He doesn't like it.
He doesn't like any of this, in fact. Not the wide platforms connected with pretentious bridges and ornate staircases. Not the white buildings that are unmarred by dirt and dust. Not the sunlight.
Nor the fact that he is here to betray his son.
But he can't change it. And maybe, Kurt needs a little betraying.
He clears his throat again, and Wes, David and Jane stop their debate for a moment.
“What's the matter, guys?” Burt asks, trying not to sound quite as unhappy as he feels.
“Well-” Davis starts, but Jane interrupts him. “We're lost. Cooper told us where to expect Blaine, and that's where we are, but there is nothing that is marked as a jail. We're in a long corridor with a lot of identical doors, and we can neither find a jail, nor Kurt's office or something like that.”
Burt doesn't know anything that could help them. He feels a little ashamed that he doesn't know where his son works—if you can call intimidating, controlling and oppressing people a job.
But Kurt has never talked much about what he does all day, or where he does it. And Burt rarely asked. He should have; the rebellion can use every bit of information. But he has protected himself as much as he is capable of, and he never really wanted to know.
It seems to be the usual procedure, anyway—nobody talks about the inner workings of the government. Even those who are part of it seem to know few of their colleagues, and real names are known only by direct superiors. No official jail, so captives can more effectively seem to disappear even if they are kept alive for some time. Unmarked doors are no surprise.
What remains is the question what they are to do now. They can't really afford a confrontation; they are only three Warblers, and while Burt will, ironically, do everything he can to help his captors, he is only an old man. They are armed, but have no illusions as to the quality of their weapons compared to those of soldiers or government officials. Their plan is to find Kurt and persuade him to exchange Blaine for Burt, and too late, Burt—and maybe the others - realize that it is not much of a plan at all. Burt fears that the Warblers, who are famous for their cunning and planning and poise, might have lost their cool in the face of losing one of their own.
Belatedly, he realizes that the others have gone quiet; they have not only stopped talking, but seem to hardly dare to breathe, and he feels a hand on his shoulder pulling him back until his back meets a wall.
------------------------------------------------
The Warblers are outside. Blaine can hardly believe his eyes; up to now he hasn't really believed they'd come for him. He hasn't expected it and would never have demanded it—but he can't deny he's happy they're here. Even if it seems somewhat ironic they've gone through all the trouble to save him when he's just being freed. He walks up to them, intending to hug all of them, even Jane whom he doesn't really know because she only joined shortly before he left for the mission that ultimately got him here.
He is stopped short by the fourth person that is with them, the one who has a bag over his head but whose clothes and bearing make him unmistakably Burt Hummel.
He opens his mouth, but Kurt rushes past him, confronting the Warblers even though they are armed and he is not.
“What have you done with my dad?” he asks, though he sounds less like he's asking a question and more like he's demanding an explanation and, moreover, for whatever is going on to stop at once.
Burt gestures with his bound hands, and at once, the Warblers take the bag from off his head and free his hands. It helps to ease Blaine's mind and also part of his confusion. Burt is a very good friend of the Warblers; he has helped them more than once and seems to regard them as his children. They wouldn't take him prisoner, ever. And if they free him at nothing more of a gesture, things are probably not as they seem.
When the bag is off his head, Burt starts to speak, but then he has to stop and cough and just breathe for a little. Blaine remembers how much of a shock the clean, filtered air of One has been, after Five and the stuffiness of the bag. He has now grown accustomed to it and is a little scared of his own reaction when he's back down in Hell. The last time, he'd had to suffer through weeks of feeling short of breath before his lungs had resigned to the air there.
The first thing Burt says when he is able to speak, however, is neither an accusation, an explanation, or a greeting of his son.
“We should get out of this hallway. I don't expect anyone of us would be glad to be seen here. Is there somewhere we can go?”
It seems inexplicably funny to Blaine that Kurt just takes a step back and presses a hidden button, and a moment later, they're all back in Blaine's cell.
It's a lot more crowded now, of course. The Warblers sit on the bed and Burt in the chair. Blaine sits on the floor, leaning against the wall, and Kurt drifts around, changing between hovering protectively over Burt and putting a possessive hand on Blaine's shoulder.
At long last, he stands next to Burt, his arms crossed over his chest. “Will someone please explain what is going on?” he demands, sounding impatient.
Blaine can see Wes bristling, and sighs. This could take a while.
“How about you start explaining?” Wes says, equally crossing his arms. Blaine is a little surprised that he hasn't stood up. Blaine knows that if he does nothing, they will waste time they don't have in a superiority contest.
“Kurt was about to get me out,” he says, making all heads turn to him. “He's defecting. He's on our side now.”
Blaine can't help but feel a little proud, even though he knows that he played only a small part, if any, in Kurt's decision. But the reaction is not what he envisioned.
Nobody says anything for quite some time. Then Burt says, gruffly, “Kurt?”
Kurt turns and looks at his dad. He starts talking as if he is only speaking to him, but of course, everyone else can hear.
“I've been unhappy with my decisions for a long time now. Or, I should say, I've never been happy with them. But after I had started on this path, it always seemed to late. Like, if I stopped now, everything I had done before would have been for nothing.” He stops, rubs his hands over his face. Blaine can see his hands are shaking.
“You know that everything I did was for you. And I know you never wanted me to, and I know you don't like the things I did. I—I can't bring myself to regret them, because you are alive because of them. But somehow—I still lost you. Or almost. And that makes everything else irrelevant. If I have done all these things, and still end up losing you -”
His voice sounds like he is holding back tears. Perversely, Blaine wishes he would stop holding them back. Maybe a crying Kurt would convince the others—for no one looks convinced now. The Warblers sit still, frowning, silent. Blaine knows Wes will want to have words with him. Even Burt, though he has tears of his own in his eyes, still looks doubtful.
Blaine wonders if he should add something. A simple, “Kurt and I are in love”, might help—but then again, it might not. Kurt's little speech just now has been emotional, but barely coherent. The Warblers, most of the time, can't afford to deal with emotions, so adding something that is, in the end, just another one, might hurt more than helping.
And this isn't something he wants to share. Without a word, without even a look, Kurt and he have agreed to keep this to themselves for a while longer. It's too new, too vulnerable, too...monumental. Something like that changes everything, it already has, and they need a little time to process it. Amongst all the other things they have to deal with.
“You don't have to trust me,” Kurt says. “You can keep a close look on me, if you want. I understand that. I...would ask you to take enough of a chance with me that you don't kill me. But we really, really have to go now.”
Another long silence, in which Kurt looks like he is about to burst. Blaine rises from the floor and stands at his side.
Finally, the Warblers rise as well.
“Okay,” Jane says. “What's the plan?”
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ante merediem | Johnny
ante merediem
Genre: friends-to-lovers!au, college!au | fluff
Member: Johnny / Reader
Word Count: 1,600+
Warnings: n/a
The more you looked at the three-year old photograph of yourself on your laptop, the more she looked like a stranger to you. It went behind your comprehension, the smiling girl on the screen was you. There was no doubt about that. The memory of the day when the memento got taken was still vivid in the back of your mind.
There was a gathering for the freshmen on your year, all majors were invited. High on being a newcomer, you got this unexplainable urge to attend any social activities that the campus offered. The excitement was so palpable back then, you actually thought it would last forever. (Funny, because in reality your socalled excitement did not even last for any more than three months). You got to the event with the friends whom you met just one day before. They were practically strangers with mutual condition as yours. It wasn't like you were provided with any other options anyway, you were basically a mere local immigrant who knew nobody in the new city.
One of the things you remembered the most from the function happened to be the disappointment of how disastrous it turned out to be. You should have known better though, of course your expectation would be so farfetched from actuality. Who even thought it would be a great idea to plan an outdoor event in the wet monsoon? The air was damp, there were mud all over the field yet the sun was unforgivingly bright. The event was delayed for almost an hour leaving the students drenched in cold sweat. To top it all off the MCs who were supposed to lighten up the show were just as awkward as everyone. Truly an absolute failure.
The picture which you took with your new friends remained as the only keepsake from that day. You stood up from the comfort of your bed to walk to the mirror. The reflection was someone you knew, a short-haired young woman with perpetual dark circles under her eyes. This, this person is familiar. It was baffling how the girl on the picture seemed like a total stranger to you. Was it the hair? The girl had longer hair, wavy black hair cascaded pass the juncture of her shoulder. Her eyes, they looked so hopeful. The gleam in her orbs were visible, captured in the moment. But it was her smile that surprised you the most. It looked so genuine, she--you looked like you were basked in unadulterated happiness. So absurd. It did not make any sense to you now, just how could you manage to find any bit in your heart to pull up a perfect fake smile like that. At least you thought it was fake, it should have been right?
As you sauntered back to your bed, you saw a flicker of light going on and off on through your peripheral vision. It seemed to come from your phone, the vibrating sound indicating a not-yet answered call. You shuffled to the desk in a hurry, impatient to know who was the person on the other side of the line. It's 2 A.M. for God's sake, who on their right minds would contact you?
Oh, your heart skipped a little when you read the caller ID. It has been five days since the "realization", as your friends gladly put it, and you found it hard to act normal in front of him. In your defense, slipping out of your own obliviousness was an overwhelming experience. Realizing that you had been in totally-not platonic-love with your best friend for God knew how long gave off a sense of foreign anxiety.
For a second, you were hesitant to press the green button. A wave of nervousness was opening up the subdued floodgates of emotions within you. Curiosity won over though. As per usual, you could never control yourself when it came to him. He was your best friend after all, random 'morning call' was a normalcy between you two. Why should it be different now?
'Hello?', you answered in a steady voice. Your inner self cheering quietly at this small win. You would never let him notice just how affected you were by his unexpected call.
'Hi', a shuffling sound could be heard from his side, it sounded like he just dropped something. Knowing him and his clumsiness, the assumption was likely to be true. He continued when it sounded calmer 'Sorry, I accidentally dropped my glasses, did I wake you up?'
Ha, I was right after all. Deciding to walk the sassy route, you replied, 'No, you didn't. I'm still awake which is exactly why I can pick up the phone, you see'
His chortle reverberated through the line, 'Nope, I can't see it. This is a voice call not a video one, you hear?'
'Wow. Real funny, Johnny. Really. I can barely hold my laughter', you could not hold back your smile this time.
'When was I ever not funny? I am the funniest man in your life!'
'Oh shut up, John', you groaned. Not long after the exchange of silly banters, you both were smoothly falling into mindless ramble. Conversing with Johnny was easy. You both had quick wit and an ability to jump from one topic to another in the speed of light, there was almost no moment of silence to fill the gap.
'By the way, did you remember the gathering on our freshmen year?'
'Hmm? The one on the basketball field? It was on our first week of college, wasn't it?', he answered correctly.
'Yeah, that exact one! I'm impressed, you've got good memory.'
He snorted, 'Duh, of course I do. What about it, anyway?'
You were going to describe that certain day but he beat you to it,
'I even remembered that it was the day where we first met. I bet you forgot that fact already, right?'
Thrown off guard, you were. Now that you think about it, Johnny was the one who took your photograph from that day.
Shit.
How could you be so dense? That day turned out to be not shitty at the end. You remembered a tall guy in denim shirt, confidently (and randomly) throwing a witty remark in your conversation—or more like a soliloquy consisting of whines and nags about the event—'I agree this is a shitshow. Why are we even here anyway.' Not gonna lie, you were judging him hard at that time.
'Oh God. How could I forget you? You were the weird stranger who jumped on another stranger convos.', you opened the forgotten laptop on your bed to see the picture again.
He squawked indignantly 'Hey! You were the shameless girl with no sense of public decency. Your hateful commentary was not very graceful either.'
You did not really pay any heed to his words because once again you were curious about the picture. 'I only had literally one remembrance from that horrible gathering and it was a picture which was taken by you.'
'Which one? Send it to me, I wanna see it' he demanded.
'I'll send you okay, chill.' You logged in to your messenger to send it to him. 'The weird thing from the photo is that I looked unrealistically happy '
He laughed 'That's morbid, what the fuck. What's wrong with being happy—Wait I just got the picture.'
There was a five second silence before he continued 'Well, you did look genuinely happy in it.'
'I know right? This is so weird because we all know just how shitty that gathering was.'
He hummed in response 'Perhaps..'
His words lingered and honestly your lack of sleep did not have time for this unnecessary pause. 'Perhaps what, John?'
'Well, perhaps you smiled like that because of me'
It would have been funny, you could have laughed at his words. Hell, you could entertain him by saying how he had been right. Of course, Johnny-honey. You brightened up my day!
However you just could not bring yourself to joke along. Somehow you sensed that something.. something was off. He was uncharacteristically serious. It even seemed that he was hesitant to say it, as if he was scared of your reaction yet at the same time, he sincerely anticipated it.
The time gap has been way too long now, none of you dared to say anything. It felt like tip-toeing around a ticking bomb, you both were one second away before the eventual awkwardness.
You took a glimpse at the clock on the wall, it was currently way past 3 A.M. Maybe your sleep deprivation pushed you to making a rash decision or there was a glitch in your system.
‘I think so, too.’ you finally breathed out the long overdue answer.
It was eerily silent, your reply sounded like a hush of wind. You were not even sure he listened to it at all. You hoped he did, though.
‘…You do?’, there was a hint of shock in his voice.. but it did not have an unpleasant tone in it. In contrary, he sounded thoroughly pleased by your answer ‘You really, truly do?’
You were pretty sure by now that he was clearly overjoyed, he sounded like a hyper puppy. Weird comparison, you brain that was wired for linguistic fluency has apparently went fried.
‘Yeah’ you tried so hard to stop your smile. Biting your lips, hiding your excitement—and failing.
He suddenly cracked up, it was the infamous boisterous laugh of his, contagious. You ended up laughing with him as well. It was all silly, the situation was all kinds of ridiculous. What were you both even laughing about, your own stupidity?
The laughter died out not long after, you wept off a tear from your eye. A consequence you had to face due to uncontrollable guffaws.
‘I’m glad, then.’ He said, ‘Going to that damned gathering was one of the best decisions I made, honestly.’
‘Why? ‘Cos you got to meet me?’ you teased him.
He chuckled, ‘Yeah’
‘Okay, then.’
‘Just okay?’
‘More than okay.’
#johnny#johnny suh#nct johnny#nct#nct 127#johnny fanfic#johnny scenarios#johnny imagines#johnny fluff#nct fanfic#nct fluff#nct scenarios#nct imagines#nct fanfiction
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Celestial Heart: prt 72
The walk to school did me no favors to clear my head of my embarrassment. I stood at my locker and dreaded having to go to class. Deep inside I felt like shoving my head in my locker and staying there for the day. “No, you can do this Tori, it wasn’t as embarrassing as you think it is, you’re just being dramatic,” I spoke aloud. I took a deep breath and headed down the hall towards 1st-period speech.
When I got there, I was surprised to find there was no Ethan given the fact that he would usually be here before me. I walked back into the hallway and wondered where he could be or if he was even at school.
Down the hall, my legs brought into the auditorium. I slowly opened the door and was surprised to find Ethan at the keyboard. He pecked at four keys slowly but methodically producing a melody that was simple and clean. It was interesting to see at the least.
“I didn’t know you could play the piano.” I suddenly blurted. He jumped and his hand immediately sprang away from the keyboard.
“Oh, Good morning Tori, I see you found me .” he looked up and smiled at me. “And to answer your question, I don’t…well I haven’t since I was seven.”
“Good morning to you too and you sounded like you knew what you were doing to me just so you know.” I greeted him softly and somewhat cautiously. “What brings you in here this morning?” he asked. My thoughts of embarrassment came back to reside in the front of my mind, “I was just looking for you, is all” I said, making my way over to the keyboard.
“I was wondering why you weren’t in the classroom, seeing as you’re usually there before me.” Ethan turned towards me and crossed his arms at his chest in a very comfortable position, “I was just looking around the school since I had some free time and I found the keyboard here. I guess I lost track of time.” “I see.” I simply nodded as my gaze dropped to the floor. The room grew quiet and after a minute or two I decided to address what was really on my mind.
“Hey, Ethan, you remember those things we talked about last night…” I spoke slowly and cautious glancing between him and the floor as though I was checking for his reaction. He gave me none, “Yes” “That was a bit strange wasn’t it?” I forced out a small nervous laugh. “it was strange, just a little,” he answered softly, turning away from me. I felt a small sting in my heart as I looked back down towards the ground, “I’m sorry for being weird and laying all of that on you…I don’t know what made me do that. You didn’t ask for all of that and…”
Ethan abruptly stood from the piano bench and walked across the room away from me. For a second, he turned a glanced back at me. “Tori, does that really bother that you told me those things?” I crossed my arms at my chest and fidgeted a little, “Well yes, it’s a bit embarrassing.” “Why?” “Because…I feel bad for burdening you with my inner thoughts and feelings…”
As my words trailed off, Ethan went silent. I couldn’t tell what he was thinking; I felt anxious. “You know I don’t see friends sharing secrets about themselves as bothersome. You certainly haven’t bothered me,”
“But if that’s the way you see it, I’ll do the same.” I could hear the smirk in his voice even before he turned around, “If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll tell you 5 secrets about me.” He quickly turned back around and began walking further away from me. I was slightly confused but somewhat at ease as I followed behind him. Each time I went to step in front of him, he turned. He finally stopped but kept his back to me so I did the same.
I heard him take a breath and click his tongue once before speaking, “Ok, I’ll start with something a little embarrassing, so don’t laugh ok?” his tone of voice sounded a bit serious, so I was sort of nervous to hear it. I didn’t know how I should react, how deep it would be, so I just stood still. “I couldn’t ride a bike until I was 13.” As soon as I realized the non-severity of what he’d just told me a small laugh fell from my mouth. Ethan quickly whipped his head around to scold me, “Hey, I told you not to laugh.” I cleared my throat, “Sorry, I was just thinking it would be a little more serious than that.”
He turned back around and straightened his back against mine, “I told you it was a little embarrassing not serious.” “How’d you make it to 13 without being able to ride a bike anyway?” I asked gently as not to sound rude while I was prodding. “I was a rather slow learner and my parents were often busy so I put it off for years, one day my best friend decided it was time and he ended forcing me to try and ride a bike almost every day for two weeks. I think what really makes it embarrassing is that I was taught by him and we were the same age.” In his voice, you could hear a smile which made me think maybe he was more fond of the memory than embarrassed. It made me smile too, “He actually sounds like he’s a good best friend.” “I think he is too.”
“I always appreciated him; he was one of the few people that would talk to me at my old school, along with Marigold.” “Marigold, you’re ex-girlfriend?” “Yes, the three of us were friends, honestly they were my only close friends. You see a lot of people weren’t very fond of me at my old school; I really never understood why; maybe I got on the wrong side of the wrong people and everyone else followed along.”
“Funny, that kind of sounds like me now.” I barely spoke loud enough for him to hear me. My stomach felt tight as I kept my focus on the wall across the room. “Yeah, perhaps that’s why I felt it was ok to be around you. I didn’t want you to be alone like my friends did for me,” he said sweetly but it was also filled with honesty. “I see…”
“You remember me mentioning Marigold before, right?” once again, Ethan changed the subject deciding not to linger it too long. “Yes,” I answered simply. “It’s probably obvious that she was the one to break up with me, considering that I’m to one with those lingering feelings,” His voice had gotten hard and he paused for a moment. I decided not to interrupt him, “you know, it’s not the fact that I still have feelings for her that makes this really hurt; I mean it is that but…I-I don’t know why she broke up with. The only thing I have is a wonder and dark thoughts for my answer. I thought maybe she found someone better than me and if she has, it’s probably better that way. Better than me is pretty easy to find.” The boy that stood behind me stopped talking and I felt the warmth from him disappear. I turned around and realized he’d went to sit on the bleachers.
I went and sat with him and tried to comfort him, “You know, Ethan, you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, maybe she just doesn’t understand what she has,” Ethan gave me a little smile, “I wish that were the case but I think really do think she understands she could find better. I am after all my family’s disappointment child.” My brows immediately furrowed at his words, “What does that mean; how could you be the-” “In my hometown, my family is well known and highly respected. Everyone in my family, including my Mom, Dad, and elder sister are all geniuses in their own right. Everyone but me of course. I always tried really hard because of everyone’s expectations of me but compared to my sister, I’m pretty much an idiot. My parents never express it, but I’m certain they feel like I’m a letdown.” Ethan dropped his head and just gazed at the floor, while I stared at him with disbelief.
I reached out and grabbed his hand as though I really wanted him to feel what I was about to say, “Ethan, I think you’re kind and understanding and patient and a great friend. I mean you’ve gone this far just to make me feel better about telling you all that stuff with Jamison and the Candies. You don’t need an absurd amount of intelligence to be great; you’re already great. I don’t want you to feel that way anymore.” I squeezed his hand a bit harder and he took a breath finally looking up at me. “Thanks, Tori,” he whispered. Ethan squeezed my hand back and looked into my eyes, “but you know, I told you all this stuff for a reason, too right? Telling each other things, that’s what friends do, and I want you to understand that it’s ok to open up to me. I don’t want you to be afraid anymore.” I slumped back as I took in his words realizing that what we were doing to each other. I finally let out a sigh and smiled “Ok, I’ll try if you try.” “Deal,” Ethan smiled and stood up from the bleachers, “We should get to class before the bell rings.”
I too stood from the bleacher and gathered myself together to start the day after this emotional session we had. in that time, I realized that Ethan had only told me four things about himself instead of five. It really didn’t matter, I suppose but as I caught up with him, I blurted, “Hey, that was only four things.” He turned to me with a wide smile and said, “I’m really glad I met you. That makes five. Now we should hurry to class.”
#sims 4#sims 4 story#sims 4 teens#sims 4 teen mom#ts4 teen#ts4 school#ts4 story#Celestial Heart#Tori Eaton#Ethan Clark
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Favorite Books of 2018
I read a lot of books in 2018. Here are my favorites (not counting books I re-read), in basically no order. (But actually kind of an order.)
22. Going Rogue, Drew Hayes
Going Rogue is the third book in Drew Hayes’s Spells, Swords, and Stealth series. The series is told in two parts: it follows a group of people playing a Dungeons & Dragons-style role-playing game and a group of non-playable characters in the world of said game. The thrust of the story is on the group of NPCs, which unfolds as a typical fantasy adventure. It’s got a straightforward quest narrative, an adventuring party (turned found family), and impossible odds. As the stories progress, the players begin to sense that the game has its own agency and the characters begin to sense that there may be someone controlling their world. But mostly it’s a fun, self-aware take on a typical fantasy adventure that toys with fantasy tropes.
21. Americanah, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
I steeled myself for dense literary fiction when I cracked open Americanah, the story of Ifemelu, a Nigerian girl who moves to America and wrestles with race and identity. But that was all for naught because Americanah was one of the easiest reads of the year. The writing is breezy, and the story is funny and brisk. It dissects race and culture in America both by showing (Ifemelu’s struggles to define herself in a new country) and telling (Ifemelu’s hilarious blog posts). Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie seems to have perfected the art of delivering dense observations in delightful, consumer-friendly prose. Old white dude authors should probably take note.
20. What If It’s Us, Becky Albertalli & Adam Silvera
If I’m going to read a romance, I want it to be light, fluffy, gay, and conflict-free. And that’s exactly what What If It’s Us delivers. The book begins with a meet cute: while mailing a box of his ex-boyfriend’s stuff, Ben bumps into Arthur at the post office. Arthur and Ben are both appropriately awkward and endearing, bumbling and pawing their way through a relationship as only teenagers can. Every character is essentially kind and caring. There are no villains or bullies, no one gets ostracized or beaten, no one dies. The tension mostly stems from the fact that Arthur is only in the city for the summer, which only barely counts as a conflict. And while the universe of the story may be unrealistically polished, their relationship is refreshingly imperfect. Adam Silvera and Becky Albertalli are telling a story of young love, not necessarily true love.
19. The Collapsing Empire / The Consuming Fire, John Scalzi
John Scalzi built an astoundingly engrossing world in The Collapsing Empire. The human race has colonized far flung planets with the help of the Flow system, naturally occurring pathways between various planets across the universe that allows otherwise impossible interstellar travel. The Collapsing Empire follows the sharp, sarcastic Cardenia Wu, the newly crowned empress, and sweet, in-over-his-head Marce Claremont, a Flow physicist in far-flung End who has discovered something off with the Flow. It’s got a roiling pace, packed with space battles, political jockeying, and a whole host of delightful characters. It’s one of those audiobooks (narrated by Wil Wheaton) that was so compulsively listenable that I ended up taking long, meandering walks just to hear what happened next.
18. The Shell Collector, Anthony Doerr
Anthony Doerr’s writing is incredible. His sentences all feel divined from the ether. And the short story is the perfect vehicle for that writing, lasting just long enough to build an atmospheric world. Most of the stories are tinged with a little magical realism, used mostly to underscore the unique, grounded humanity of his characters. The collection dives into the histories of people who are in various degrees removed from society and intertwined with nature. But the ultimate thesis, refreshingly, is not about the corruption of society, but rather the inherent value of people.
17. Giovanni’s Room, James Baldwin
I don’t know that I have anything new or interesting to say about James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room. A story about desire, and maybe love, between David and Giovanni, every word of that book is filled with intense, crushing emotion desperately crashing onto the pages. It’s about love and sexuality, told in an intimate-verging-on-claustrophobic manner. It’s powerful and interminably depressing and beautiful and devastating. But it’s not devastating because it’s gay, it’s just both devastating and gay.
16. Goodbye, Vitamin, Rachel Khong
Goodbye, Vitamin opens with the main character, Ruth, going through a breakup and dealing with early signs of her father’s Alzheimer’s disease. And somehow, Goodbye, Vitamin is also fun, funny, and heart-warming. The book is sunny and endearing, even as Ruth herself struggles with caring for her father and finding her own identity. Most things described as quirky may be better described as annoying, but there truly is no better word for this book’s sensibility than quirky. The specificity of the descriptions and the cleverness of the wordplay make for a delightful, sometimes deeply poignant, read.
15. Less, Andrew Sean Greer
In many ways, Less shares beats with the incredibly overdone, deeply uninteresting novel about a middle-aged white guy who goes through a midlife crisis and suffers the pain of his own brilliance. Indeed, Less follows Arthur Less as he hits fifty, gets invited to his ex’s wedding, and then travels around the world to avoid confronting any of his problems. But Less is decidedly different: it’s gay. Which means it’s funnier, sharper, and drastically more self-aware. Arthur Less - and Andrew Sean Greer - recognizes the absurdity of his disproportionate reaction to relatively minor problems. He has no delusions of grandeur. He’s not on a journey to unlock his inner genius, just a journey to maybe buy a new jacket and have a fling or two. It’s delightful and funny and warm even as it pretends not to be.
14. More Happy Than Not, Adam Silvera
The devastation of More Happy Than Not cuts in sharp pains and deep gashes. The tragic turns - and in a book about a teenage kid who considers a science fiction equivalent of gay conversion therapy there are many - come as punches to the face, not as lingering aches. And yet, the book doesn’t feel punishing to read. Adam Silvera derives no pleasure from Aaron’s, the aforementioned teen, suffering and carefully builds the foundation of Aaron’s character on his triumphs and joys. Aaron’s life is vibrant and bristling with possibility, streaked, but not consumed, by pain. More Happy Than Not is meticulously plotted and paced, with a few moments of genuine surprise. As always, Adam Silvera writes about tragedy in an entirely uncynical way, with a deep well of generosity for his characters.
13. Witchmark, C.L. Polk
In many ways, Witchmark feels like the book I spent this entire year trying to find. Witchmark takes place in a pseudo-historical early 20th century England-style setting, in the throes of some capital-W War. Most of the book is styled as a mystery: Miles, a former army doctor, and Tristan, a mysterious outsider, track down clues and chase leads to find a murderer. And, of course, maybe they fall in love along the way. And, oh yeah, Miles is a witch. Oh and also, maybe there’s some royal family drama happening as well. And maybe also some government conspiracies. And also maybe a much larger mystery that involves all of the above. There’s magic and romance and mystery and intrigue and action, and every part of it is completely satisfying. Especially if you’re the type of person who would like to read a scene in which said army doctor needs help undressing because he broke his wrist, and luckily there’s (literally magically) handsome mystery man there to help him!!! (Listen, I never said this was particularly profound literature.) But like, five stars.
12. Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore / Sourdough, Robin Sloan
If you want a cozy, feel-good novel that has just the slightest dash of magic, then pick up a Robin Sloan book. Both Mr. Penumbra’s 24-Hour Bookstore and Sourdough read as relaxing balms to help soothe aches brought on by the disaster fire of reality. In both books, a young twenty-something attempting to figure out their life discovers a niche world (book collecting and bread baking) and gets swept up in a fantastical mystery. They’re breezy, warm, and brimming with genuine affection and curiosity for the subjects at their centers. Sloan’s writing is incredibly sensory; you can taste the bread and smell the books. They have that Great British Bake Off quality to them: impossibly compelling despite low stakes and uniform pleasantness.
11. Little Fires Everywhere, Celeste Ng
Celeste Ng’s second novel is a careful study of privilege of all sorts, and an especially incisive look into whiteness. Little Fires Everywhere takes place in Shaker Heights, Ohio, a progressive slice of white suburbia. At the book’s center are the Richardsons, a well-off white family who are the types of people that may tell you that they don’t see race--in part because everyone they see is also white. Things get shaken up when Mia Warren and her daughter Pearl arrive in town, marked as strange by their relative lack of wealth, and marked as even stranger by their lack of shame about it. Each sentence is beautifully written, and each paragraph immaculately constructed. But honestly, the book is best summed up as: this is some white people nonsense.
10. The Lymond Chronicles (#1-6), Dorothy Dunnett
The Lymond Chronicles books are both the most high brow and most low brow books I read this year. They are densely written and plotted, with an inexhaustible supply of names for characters and teeming with minute details that almost all portend some future event or revelation. But they’re also chock-full of soap opera-style twists and tropes, aimed to quench your id’s every desire. All this makes for books that demand a lot, but then pay off with hilarious jokes, action sequences that convey more physicality and movement than most movies, and ridiculous third act reveals that are so incredibly satisfying. And like, on a selfish level, it’s also real satisfying to read about people falling in love with and then aggressively berating Francis Crawford for three thousand pages. (He deserves it.)
9. My Life as a Goddess, Guy Branum
I read, or rather listen to, tons of memoirs - by comedians, actors, politicians, and writers. And Guy Branum’s My Life as a Goddess is easily my favorite of the year. Branum incisively writes about growing up as a gay kid in truly the-middle-of-nowhere California, touching on issues of masculinity, sexuality, class, body image, and education. Unsurprisingly, My Life as a Goddess is hilarious, chock-full of jokes and witty observations. More surprisingly, My Life as a Goddess is also deeply emotional, especially as Branum writes about his relationship as his father. Even more surprisingly, My Life as a Goddess is weirdly informative about a very specific slice of Canadian history. I cannot recommend the audiobook of this enough, as Guy Branum’s narration is smart, funny, and winning.
8. All the Light We Cannot See, Anthony Doerr
Does anyone really want to read a Pulitzer Prize winning literary fiction novel written by some white dude about World War II half from the point of view of a goddamn Nazi? No. No one wants to read that. Except, maybe I do. Because that’s exactly what All the Light We Cannot See is, and man is it a true revelation. The sheer humanity that Doerr imparts in his story creates a profoundly moving story, about goodness and cruelty and the indiscriminate destruction of war. The events of the story are uniformly bleak, as expected in a World War II novel, and yet the book’s tone feels decidedly hopeful, hungry to extract optimism from human persistence. It’s a stunningly written book that lays bare the complexities of people and the horrors of war.
7. Bad Blood, John Carreyrou
Bad Blood was truly the most unbelievable story I read this year. Wizards? Aliens? Time travel? All relatively believable compared to the intense, densely plotted, thrilling tale that unravels in Bad Blood, made all the more incredible by its truth. Bad Blood tells the story of Theranos, a Silicon Valley startup that claimed to be revolutionizing blood testing, and its founder Elizabeth Holmes, once described on magazine covers as “the next Steve Jobs.” John Carreyrou, the author, was the journalist who first broke the story of Theranos’s rampant fraud, and he stitches together a coherent, mesmerizing narrative from first-hand accounts of Theranos employees. Elizabeth Holmes is a fascinating antagonist, an ambitious, callous, maybe sociopath. The story is exciting and frustrating and will make you have even less faith in rich, powerful white people. But because this is non-fiction, the entire time you know that Elizabeth Holmes is eventually going to end up being charged with numerous federal crimes. A truly satisfying ending.
6. Hyperbole and a Half, Allie Brosh
Allie Brosh didn’t invent the internet, but she at least has as much claim to modern internet culture as any other individual. Hyperbole and a Half is a collection of her best blog posts, with some additional, equally hilarious, stories thrown in. I hadn’t revisited her blog in years, and so it was striking just how little her style has aged. In a time where internet memes have life spans measured in hours, Hyperbole and a Half feels fresh nearly a decade later. The influence of her style and perspective on the internet is far-reaching. From the hilarious (her distinctively drawn self-rendering triumphantly declaring “CLEAN ALL THE THINGS” while holding a broom) to the insightful (her two-part essay on the amorphous gray muck of depression), her stories all feel as though they could be the origin story for any piece of internet ephemera. Hyperbole and a Half is at times farcical, at times poignant, and always raucously funny.
5. Shades of Magic (#1-3), V.E. Schwab
The Shades of Magic series (A Darker Shade of Magic, A Gathering of Shadows, and A Conjuring of Light) is the perfect fantasy adventure: the characters are imminently rootable, the world is seeped in magic, and the plot is intoxicating. The books are set in London, or Londons, rather. There are four parallel Londons, which have embraced, rejected, or surrendered to magic to varying degrees. Our protagonist, Kell, is one of the few with the ability to travel between the different Londons. And, well, hijinks ensue. Dark, sprawling, brutal, violent, life-consuming hijinks.
The Shades of Magic series is unburdened by its worldbuilding; V.E. Schwab could probably teach a semester’s worth of history lessons on her world, but does not feel the need show that off in the books themselves. They’re books to be devoured, not dissected. But it’s the characters that make the series so engrossing. Everyone is an archetype-a street-worn thief, a charming prince-but so well-drawn and understood that every character moment sparkles. And the central relationship of the book, between Kell and his brother Rhy, felt as though it was perhaps extracted directly from my brain. Kell is stoic, burdened by responsibility but determined to protect. Rhy, the aforementioned charming prince, injects Kell’s life with mischief and levity, and they’re so fundamentally dedicated to each other that it hurts. If a bunch of well-meaning idiots trying to save the world with magic is your thing, A Darker Shade of Magic may be the series for you.
4. Everything I Never Told You, Celeste Ng
If you thought a quiet, contained rumination on race, gender, nationality, and culture couldn’t also be a compelling, tense page-turner, let me introduce you to Everything I Never Told You. Everything I Never Told You is nothing short of literary alchemy. It begins with the death of Lydia, the model daughter of the Lee family--and, really, the model daughter of 1970s America. The book unravels the mystery of Lydia’s death, told through the vignettes from the lives of the Lee family members.
Celeste Ng is a master at using a paragraph to describe years of a character’s history and decades of American society all at once. Her characters are specific and sharply drawn, rooted deeply in their time and environment. Lydia, with a Chinese father and a white mother, is mixed race (a term not added to the U.S. Census until 2000)--“one of only two Orientals” at her school. The other, her brother Nathan, has learned to live in Lydia’s shadow in their parents’ mind’s eye. Marilyn, Lydia’s mother, had her own ambitions sidelined by family. With a deft, heartfelt touch, Everything I Never Told You viscerally conveys their regrets for the words left unsaid and lives left unlived.
3. History Is All You Left Me, Adam Silvera
As this list makes clear, I loved a lot of Adam Silvera this year, and History Is All You Left Me stands out as my favorite. In dual timelines, History Is All You Left Me tells the story of Griffin after and up to the accident in which his ex-boyfriend Theo dies unexpectedly. And so, yes, the book is soaked in grief and loss. And, yes, it’s devastating and aching. But it’s also incredibly kind and empathetic. The characters are teenagers and make the choices of teenagers. Their actions are messy and rash and stupid, and Silvera leans into that, landing more than one self-inflicted heart-wrenching blow. But Silvera is also unfailingly patient with teenagers and understands their resilience; he lets his characters make mistakes and has faith that they will survive. And so the book is heavy, but optimistic. A refreshing reprieve from the gratuitous suffering and bleakness that tortures so much LGBT-themed fiction. History Is All You Left Me is the most affecting book I read all year, and it still lingers in my bones. But the impression it has left is of life, not loss.
2. An American Sickness, Elisabeth Rosenthal
I bristle when someone describes a book as “important.” It always seems patronizing and self-serving, and my natural contrarian kicks in. I get it, you want to tell everyone how well-read or socially conscious you are because you read an “important” book. So it is with eyes wide open, and more than a twinge of self-loathing, that I say An American Sickness is an important book. It feels like essential reading, certainly for anyone trying to affect American healthcare policy, and at the very least useful for anyone who ever has to deal with the American healthcare system. It will make you angry and frustrated, but hopefully it will also arm you with information.
An American Sickness is broken up into two distinct parts: the first half lays out the issues with the current healthcare system, including how it came to be, and the second half presents solutions. Dr. Elisabeth Rosenthal writes accessibly about potentially dry, dense subject matter. The book’s purpose is not to exhaustively detail the history of healthcare, but to better equip the average person to navigate the system. Dr. Rosenthal provides anecdotes to anchor the matter in tangible issues and gives just enough context to sketch the motivations of the various actors - doctors, hospitals, insurers, pharma companies, etc. She presents solutions from two perspectives: (1) changing healthcare policy as a whole, and (2) navigating the system as an individual. In a methodical, step-by-step manner, the book explains concrete things a regular person can look out for, questions they can ask, and actions they can take to avoid--or challenge--exorbitant medical bills. There’s literally an appendix with fill-in-the-blank form letters to use to request billing information and challenge bills. You don’t have to read this book, but I want you to.
1. Chemistry, Weike Wang
Sometimes a book is so intimately catered to you it’s as if the author waded through your subconscious, fished out the tangled threads of your thoughts, and then wove them into a tapestry that displayed every single one of your hopes, dreams, and aspirations. For me, that book is Chemistry. Chemistry follows an unnamed Asian American protagonist who is discontented with her current situation: her long-term boyfriend, her Chemistry PhD program, and her relationship with her parents. And the novel unfolds as she comes to terms with that discontentment.
The economy of Weike Wang’s writing is spellbinding. She uses words so efficiently and so cleverly to craft sentences that seem fundamental. On seemingly every page, there was a new observation that felt so obviously true that I was surprised I had never read those exact words before. The book is filled with jokes, driven by the protagonist’s wry sarcasm and gentle disdain for things and people generally. The whole thing is somehow both simple and complex, an easily digestible read with a deceptively complex flavor. There are no splashy revelations or sudden tragedies, only hard-earned emotional truths and the realities of getting by. Chemistry nails the general spirit of just attempting to function as a normal human person in 2018.
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Continuation of the religious faith.
Some have forgotten about the "spiral" nature of the development of any phenomena, about the duration of the process of increasing OBJECTIVE prerequisites for real LEAPS in the atheistic public consciousness. “They did not know, but they forgot” that both in the pre-Christian religions and in the "Bible" - in a mythical form, the highest achievements of historical science of that time are represented. The real facts of history and some names were turned by interested persons into mystical alogisms and put at the service of the CONSCIOUS introduction of ANOTHER religion. Anyone who has studied the history of Christianity, the "Old Testament", etc. ” Qumran finds", he can not help but notice that the numerous gospels of the "New Testament “began to be compiled long before the” birth of Christ" by people with a wide range of knowledge in matters of real history and mythology of the world. The "Notes of the Dead Sea" received the approval of interested persons and it remained only to find among the secretaries of the regional committees of the CPSU..., sorry, I misspoke, among the sons of Jewish carpenters, one who would agree and could play the role of a democrat..., sorry, I misspoke again, a prophet, a forerunner of the ideas already contained in the” Dead Sea scrolls " - the idea of equality of all people... in paradise. And such a son was found. I think that even Yeltsin, when he climbed on the tank, believed for five minutes that he was a democrat. Many still believe that Christ rose from the dead, and Yeltsin flew in a bag from the bridge into the river, and then rose from the mud, etc.
The history of religion gives reason to believe that among the professional ministers of any cults there are no individuals who truly believe in God. There is a lot of evidence that the church leadership has the scientific knowledge necessary for the successful management of the flock, finances and the entire world community. And if we look for the reason why Christianity still manages to maintain its influence on billions of people, it is solely due to the most SCIENTIFIC approach of the ministers of worship to the organization and strengthening of religious consciousness, the management of modern political systems.
That is, some people understand science, as always, as something unambiguous. And the fact that toxic and narcotic substances were synthesized and supplied to monopolistic oligarchs by SCIENCE, that SCIENCE supplied ballistic missile weapons to Hitler, that American globalism received nuclear and gene weapons from the hands of SCIENCE, these facts are not enough for some to understand that the dialectic of interaction between religion and science is much more complex than the scheme according to which religion arises by itself, out of ignorance, and science only
In fact, both the long history of feudalism and the current revanche of capitalism are based precisely on the fact that there are not only objective laws of revolution, but also objective laws of counter-revolution, learned by corrupt scientists. One of these laws is mythologization, i.e., the alogization of the consciousness of the exploited masses. And if you ask scientists whether, from the point of view of Marxism, there are means, the use of which allows you to prolong the existence of capitalism, science will answer in the affirmative and put in the first place not military means, but for example, drugs and, of course, religion.
The funny thing is that TODAY, BEFORE OUR EYES, the history books are changing dramatically. The same PROFESSORS who, as associate professors, vulgarized the era of Stalin during the Khrushchev era are working on their mythologization for a reasonable fee. A person who not only does not understand the dialectic, but also lacks the skills of conscientious analysis of modern facts that strike the eye can have before his eyes the modern impudent experience of inculcating religiosity in history textbooks and does not learn the lessons, does not understand the real dialectic of the CONTRADICTORY role of science and especially the BEARERS of scientific “mantles” in the formation and strengthening of the religious form of ignorance.
Today, the best paid minds of Western science are psychologists and mathematicians, chemists and physicists... they are working on the “construction” of new religious movements, or at least “scientific "theories on the model and likeness of the "theory of relativity", capable of performing the role of an antilog “virus”in the human mind.
I wonder what my opponents would say if they read the following lines in my article about the role of religious consciousness, i.e., abstract subjectivity, in changing the ways of production. The ancient world, I believe , which still knew nothing about the right of the subject, and whose entire worldview was essentially abstract, universal, substantial, could not, therefore, exist without slavery. The Christian-German worldview contrasted the ancient world as the main principle of abstract subjectivity and therefore-arbitrariness, withdrawal into the inner world, spiritualism; but this subjectivity, precisely because it was abstract, one-sided, had to immediately turn into its opposite, and instead of the freedom of the subject, give rise to the slavery of the subject. The abstract inner world was transformed into an abstract external form, into the humiliation and alienation of man, and the first consequence of the new principle was the restoration of slavery in another, less repulsive, but therefore more hypocritical and inhumane form, in the form of serfdom. The destruction of the feudal system, the political reformation, that is, the abolition of the feudal system. The APPARENT recognition of reason, and therefore the real consummation of unreason, has APPARENTLY destroyed serfdom, but in reality has only made it more inhumane, more universal.
Some people will say that they do not understand this and that it should be stated more simply, as in a dictionary. Some would also say that this is a vivid example of idealism. But I am saved only by the fact that these words belong to the materialist Engels, from whom I am trying to learn diamatic thinking. To the most inquisitive readers who will reach this point, I will, of course, inform them in person in which work of Engels I found these arguments, “and to you, bald...", I will not say this. Joke.
After reading Engels 'quote, which gives an extremely concise version of the description of the unity of the subjective and objective in the historical process, we will consider a brief parody of the” materialistic" approach to history in the presentation of the Podolsk criminal-theoretical group.
Once again about the relationship of science, religion and history
, or a vivid example... dullness.
Let us consider another example of how concrete historical absurdity follows from abstract-theoretical alogism. Let's give once again a familiar phrase and see what follows from it”:
“...religious obscurantism, - podolchans write, - triumphs when science stops in development or degrades.
A striking example is the Middle Ages. At this time, the development of productive forces led to the triumph of subsistence farming. If in ancient times Gaul imported wine from Italy, and Italy consumed Egyptian bread, then medieval France and Italy produced these and many other products themselves. The result was the feudal fragmentation of the advanced countries of the time and a sharp reduction in trade. Under these conditions, the degradation of science began, since the fragmented feudal possessions, unlike the large slave-owning and capitalist states, did not need the achievements of science and did not have the opportunity to pay for serious scientific work. Hence the triumph of religion, which really was a serious brake on the development of science and which was forced to gradually retreat with the development of trade and capitalist production, the formation of national states and the development of science as a consequence."
Podolchane claim-when " science stops in development”, then religion triumphs. It seems to be logical. But why does science suddenly "stop"? You'll never guess. It turns out, according to the “logic” of Podolchans, the reason for the stop and degradation of science is... “the development of the productive forces”, and the consequence of this... "the triumph of natural economy... the feudal fragmentation of the advanced countries of that time and a sharp reduction in trade”" Here is such "materialism".
According to Podolsky's "logic”, it turns out that at the time when Italy exported wine to Gaul, science developed because, firstly, wine merchants apparently paid for" serious scientific work”, and secondly, because... "the truth is in the wine”, and the export of wines, of course, in strict accordance with Podolsky" logic, is equal to the export of truths that simultaneously broke the slaveholding polytheism in the name of triumph... feudal monotheism. But what will not science do, which is well paid, and even through wine is introduced to the truth. But if you break away from feudalism and go down to market Russia, there is a small discrepancy. Russians began to drink more wine, including Italian wine, they began to trade more than to engage in production, and science is noticeably failing. Maybe it's the prevalence of natural moonshine. No one claimed that the truth was in the moonshine. But does the academic science of Erefia also stifle moonshine, in which instead of the truth there are only degrees?
From the Podolsky "logic" follows a rather blasphemous conclusion that the unprecedented and invaluable contribution that Marx, Engels, Lenini, Stalin, Frunze, Makarenko made to the development of social sciences, to the denunciation of obscurantism, they made... for good "money" and thanks to the developed wine trade.
Here is what a " fun " story turns out for Podolchans. The development of productive forces led to the triumph of subsistence farming, and the economic system is called, nevertheless, feudalism, which means the presence of large dynastic landholdings. And where could feudal fragmentation come from, if not as a result of the collapse of the Frankish Empire? And how many centuries was the empire of the Franks formed on the territory significantly exceeding the former Western Roman Empire? And how and to what extent were the fiefdoms to grow in the Frankish empire, so that their owners gradually became independent states and for many centuries defended their sovereignty by FORCE? Over these “little things” podolchane do not think.
The methodological error of Podolchans is that they cut historical time segments in accordance with the theory of relativity, i.e., as the observer pleases. If they are nearsighted, they will generalize on the historical material of a five-minute length, and if they are farsighted, they will sketch a year or two. If they want to, they will limit themselves to the history of Podolsk, and it will be profitable to add Italy, Gaul and Egypt.
They do not know that Marx discovered for them a formative approach to understanding the history of mankind, which allows them not to get lost in the” three pines " of historical incidents, but to distinguish the typical, essential, without separating the basis from the superstructure, and the superstructure from the basis, and progress from the class struggle, so that they can consider the formation not in separate pieces, focusing only on “facts” that are convenient for manipulation, but to comprehend the formation IN ITS INTEGRITY and THE STRUGGLE of OPPOSITES.
You can study a human embryo all day, but with it you will not understand anything in the history of mankind.
The people of Podolsk hid from themselves that the collapse of the Roman Empire did not happen in the same way as in the case of Egypt, Assyria, Urartu, etc. There, the decline and demise of a particular country was not accompanied by the demise of slavery itself. The collapse of the Roman Empire is the last act in the history of classical slavery. The Roman Empire collapsed under the influence of internal and external nascent FEUDALISM, which arose, first of all, in those regions where, during all the previous centuries of slavery, the tribal system and the natural way of farming prevailed, but where the productive forces were already practically not inferior to the productive forces of the Roman Empire, and the quality and quantity of products produced was sufficient to organize mass campaigns of superior forces of "barbarians" on Rome.
Having assimilated the latest achievements of slaveholding-Christian Rome in the development of productive forces, achievements in the basis and superstructure, the” barbaric " suburbs of Rome, BYPASSING SLAVERY, entered the stage of feudalism, ensuring the priority of large-scale feudal land ownership over the islands of natural economy, erecting THROUGHOUT Europe a mass of large cities, some of which were not inferior to Rome, with an unprecedented development of crafts, which led in the relatively near future to the emergence of capitalism.
The dialectic consists in the fact that the CONSCIOUS spread of Christianity played a decisive subjective role not only in the collapse of the Roman Empire, but, above all, in the formation of feudalism. The saints perfectly understood how to use the growth of productive forces to their advantage, and, unlike the feudal lords, the Vatican, during the feudal feuds, for many centuries had a WORLDWIDE influence and untold, at that time, treasures.
If we compare the totality of the achievements of slavery as a formation in the fields of science, technology, art, architecture, politics, diplomacy, international relations, and military affairs with the achievements of feudalism as a formation, taking into account that the history of feudalism (by time) in the” shorter " history of slavery, the superiority of feudalism over slavery will become obvious, and this can be explained from a scientific point of view only by one thing - the superiority of the feudal productive forces over the slave-owning ones. Moreover, if we compare the scale of the feudal imperialism of the Mughals, Genghisids, Portugal, Spain, England, France, and Russia, the comparison will not be in favor of the scale of the imperialism of slave-owning Egypt or Rome.
So, dear readers, if we approach history dialectically, and not curpuscularly and not relativistically, i.e., consider the phenomenon in the inseparable unity of all the elements of its content from the first qualitative leap in development to the “last", and not tear out individual pieces from history and speculate on particulars, the development of productive forces cannot lead to a” rollback " of history. It is another matter that in the eyes of the bourgeoisie, who cannot see beyond their own noses, any deviation from the bourgeois criteria of well-being, and even more so the need to work productively personally, means regression. From the Marxist point of view, the development of the productive forces of society, if we understand what it is, is synonymous with real progress in all areas.
"The dead don't bite.”
To simplify the process of ideological defeat of their opponent, Podolchans, like Morozov, sew me an obviously "firing squad article", as the Trotskyists did in relation to their opponents in the 30s. Podolchane know that the dead do not polemicize, and therefore write: "Just racism smacks of the statement:" The modern life of the tribes of the jungles of Africa, the deserts of Australia, the jungle of Brazil, etc. proves that they are practically unknown to creative thinking."And then, as in the anecdote, in which an ensign who got" trapped” explains to a young soldier that crocodiles, of course, fly “ " but nyzenko-nyzenko”. "Of course," the Podolchans write, " they [primitive people, V. P.] do not know dialectical materialism - their knowledge is too small. However, by surviving in their habitats with the tools they possess, these tribes demonstrate the ability to solve non-standard problems, thus showing creative thinking." What is their unconventionality and creativity in the conditions of the struggle for survival, podolchane do not report. Apparently, they are afraid that there will not be enough paper for a full description.
Meanwhile, the term “survival " means just such a way of life of these tribes in the twenty-first century, which does not even allow them to take a breath, and all the time of life is spent by these people only to prepare themselves for the next round of struggle for the very fact of existence, as most of the population of the former USSR, located beyond the Urals, in Asia, the Baltic States, the Caucasus and Ukraine, has to do. The microminiature of creative thinking in the Neolithic era is confirmed by the fact that some tribes of Australia, Asia, America, and Africa have NOT CHANGED their set of tools OVER the PAST TENS of THOUSANDS OF YEARS, and in the third millennium AD they walk with the same stone axes and spears that their ancestors walked with in the third millennium BC. What kind of real creative thinking can we talk about?
For the sake of truth, it should be said that not only asceticism, but also material excesses do not contribute to the development of the thinking of people of the early Neolithic. The availability of food in some climatic zones of the Earth makes it unnecessary to think creatively, and tribes living in naturally fertile conditions devote most of their time... sleep and digestion of food. The absence of dialectical materialism in their minds with a full stomach excluded the creative work of thought. For the narrowness of their worldview, for laziness of mind, for ignorance of the political map of the world, many peoples of Africa had to pay for several hundred years of slave trade and exorbitant exhausting labor on galleys and American plantations.
But the guilty conscience of Podolchans pushed them to direct deception of readers. They try to hide that following the words: "The modern life of the tribes of the jungles of Africa, the deserts of Australia, the selva of Brazil, etc., proves that they are practically ignorant of creative thinking."But, as practice has shown, in the twentieth century there is no knowledge that a young man could not master, as a child taken from a primitive tribe and placed in a modern educational institution. the brain of any physiologically healthy native is quite suitable for the assimilation of modern knowledge, but it is as if preserved by the social conditions of the tribe, deprived of the information necessary for the emergence of creative, innovative thinking." Where is the hint of racism here? Even the enemy of the people, the Trotskyist Yagoda, who sent many true communists to be shot at the false denunciation of the Trotskyists, would read this phrase and say with chagrin: "The informers have overdone it. You can't “kill " racism here.
Against the background of obvious denunciation, Podolsky shyness looks funny. Quoting me, they write “ " It's just inconvenient to read such lines: "For tens of thousands of years, humanity has not improved the means of production, since the product produced satisfied their current interests.”. And "explain how to understand the history of primitive tribes:" Humanity has continuously improved the means of production. In the tens of thousands of years preceding the formation of a class society, humanity separated itself from the animal world, and then moved from hunting, fishing and gathering to agriculture and cattle breeding, In the course of which man overcame the fear of fire and learned to use it; learned to make weapons for hunting and build a home; from wild plants, he bred cultural and tamed many types of animals; discovered the production of metal from stone. All this required a great effort of the mind. And the person was driven by interest. First, he wanted to protect himself from dangerous animals, and then create a stable food base. We can only talk about slow development."
Indeed, only some tens of thousands of years with an axe of the same “style”. Ie again podolchan crocodiles fly, only "nyzenko-nyzenko". “But this was due to the fact, "my refuters repeat after me," that the struggle for existence did not leave primitive society free time to study nature and isolate researchers from their environment, freed from productive labor. That is why class societies developed faster than primitive societies." Who's arguing with that?
The reader remembers that in the paragraph above, the Podolchans claimed that the” struggle for survival "of primitive tribes is full of non-standard creative thinking, and a few lines below, they also write that" the struggle for existence does not leave“, it turns out, the primitive man” free time " for the development of research, i.e. creative qualities in the individual. That's what I wanted to prove in my work, what Podolchans argue with and... immediately agree with. Only the given twists of the “logic” of Podolchans are called not dialectical, but UNPRINCIPLED and UNSCRUPULOUS.
But that's not all. Marxism, as is well known, proceeds from the fact that "productive labor” is an indispensable condition for the transformation of an ape into a man, and Podolchans claim that" class societies developed faster than primitive ones " because they had people “free from productive labor”. Apparently podolchane mean the high development of feudal lords, priests, officials, hired soldiers, ladies of the demimonde, etc.
Podolchane did not learn the teachings of the classics of Marxism about productive labor. But this topic is too broad and it is impossible to " cram” it into this brochure without removing the dialectical content from it. Here it is sufficient to say that the labor of the slave, productive for the slave owner, for the slave himself means only a deduction from the time of his life and an irrevocable loss of calories, that the labor of the proletarian, productive for the capitalist, for the proletarian himself also means only a deduction from the time of his life and an irrevocable loss of calories. To say that it is possible to be a researcher and to be free from productive labor is to sign a complete misunderstanding of the teachings of Marxism on the question of mental and physical labor. Podolsk residents forgot that both mental and physical labor can be productive, that mental labor plays a CRUCIAL role in increasing the productivity of physical labor. Podolsk residents do not know that “FORCED” and “UNPRODUCTIVE” work has a depressing effect on the creative personality, and “productive” work is a source of satisfaction of the needs of a healthy person, a condition for the formation of new needs and prerequisites for their satisfaction.
Considering the development of primitive society, Podolsk residents, as always, forgot to take into account the law of the abrupt development of the formation. Meanwhile, having made a creative leap in the process of isolation from the animal world (walking upright, using man-made tools, speech, musical instruments, rock paintings, weaving), primitive tribes objectively plunged into routine FOR THOUSANDS of YEARS. The improvement of tools and the accumulation of knowledge about the capabilities of man was so slow that for THOUSANDS of YEARS the captive man was preferred to literally EAT, rather than grow cereals with his help, make skins, cut stones, etc. Having created new tools and found a more rational way to use the captive people, their owners got free time for creative, productive work for THEMSELVES, i.e. they began to invent more and more grandiose slave-owning structures for the slaves. as soon as people accidentally learned, as the Podolchans write, “to extract metal from stone”, there was a leap in the development of tools, and the primitive eating of free labor stopped. There was another tragic leap in the development of the productive forces of society.
Podolchans do not know that each formation includes in its composition one or several LEAPS in development, interspersed with EPOCHS of routine, i.e., relatively slow, and sometimes incredibly slow accumulation of quantitative material for the next qualitative leap, and, moreover, far from unambiguous, namely dialectical. However, in the end, the component "curve” of these jumps is an ascending "sinusoid", abundantly watered with the blood of people who refuse to study dialectics in a real way.
Interest and science.
"One cannot agree," the Podolchans write , " that interest interferes with conscientious scientific thinking. On the contrary, the class interest of the proletariat did not interfere with Marx's conscientious scientific thinking. The interests of the advanced classes are a necessary condition for the development of production. And the acceleration of production leads to the development of science. The discovery of the heliocentric system was a consequence of the Great Geographical Discoveries and the need for orientation in the ocean. And the Great Geographical Discoveries were the result of commercial interests.
The development of machine production during the formation of capitalism led to the discovery of the laws of mechanics. The English bourgeois revolution was accompanied by the appearance of Newton. And the Great French Revolution caused the appearance of a galaxy of brilliant scientists (Carnot, Laplace, etc.). Industrialization, carried out in the interests of the working class of the Soviet Union, led to an unprecedented rise in Soviet science.
In the end, the actions of the most disinterested people, such as Spartacus, Giordano Bruno, Marat, the Decembrists and the classics of Marxism-Leninism, were driven by interests. The interests of the oppressed or advanced classes.
Another thing is that the interests of the reactionary classes and the declassified elements hinder the development not only of science, but also of all areas of society.”
That is, the crocodiles are flying again.
As always, the Podolites began “for health”, and in the end they recognized that” the interests of the reactionary classes " are big retarders. If the people of Podolsk were conscientious and, consequently, dialectical, they would pay attention to the fact that the same phenomenon, denoted by the same word, “interest”, is both progressive and reactionary. The interest of the bourgeoisie under both feudalism and capitalism is the same - profit. However, it turns out that under feudalism, the interest in profit is progressive, but the same interest in profit under capitalism, and even more so under the dictatorship of the working class, is reactionary. Consequently, the opponents, although “with a creak”, but recognize half of my rightness, recognizing the interest under certain conditions, the ability to inhibit the development of “all areas of society". It's getting warmer. It can be considered proven that interest is not only progressive, but also reactionary.
In addition, the Podolites do not even try to explain why, if the socialist and communist INTERESTS are so good, it is necessary to fight long and hard for the union of the working-class movement with communist SCIENCE. It would seem that be guided by the interest of the proletariat, especially since it is always with the proletariat, and do not torment yourself for 20 years by writing “Capital”, discovering objective laws, conducting propaganda and agitation at the risk of freedom and life. But podolchane are not used to pester themselves with questions.
What is “interest”? "Interest” is a Latin word, the content of which in other languages, like the content of most words, was formed historically. In dictionaries, starting with "Brockhaus and Efron” and up to the last "Soviet Encyclopedic Dictionary", there are several variants of the interpretation of the word “interest“, but all of them evaluate the phenomenon of” interest“, as Podolchans, inconsistently positively, without trying to reveal the essence of the phenomenon itself, designated by the word” interest", its relationship with other behavioral motives.
In the literature, the word “interest” is used to refer to one of the forms of motivation for human activity. The brief definition given by Karl Marx to the concept of “interest” states that " interest by its nature is blind, knows no measure, one-sided, in a word-a lawless natural instinct." The private interest gets especially from Marx. "It goes without saying," writes Marx , " that private interest knows neither the fatherland, nor the province, nor the general spirit, nor even local patriotism. Contrary to the claim of those fantasy writers who want to see the representation of private interests as an ideal romance... such representation, on the contrary, destroys all natural and spiritual distinctions, placing instead on a pedestal an immoral, unintelligent and soulless abstraction of a certain material object and a certain consciousness slavishly subordinated to it." Let us note that private interest is the slavish submission of consciousness to the immoral, soulless abstraction of a material object, i.e., first of all, to money.
In my opinion, Marx's words can only be understood in such a way that the essence of interest as a form of motivation consists in an absolutely uncritical attitude of the subject (voluntary and involuntary) to the degree of comprehension of the material and spiritual reasons that motivate him to activity. The closest thing to the meaning of the concept of “interest” is adjacent to the concept adopted in the Russian language to denote illogical motives: "caprice”," I do what first came to mind” , etc.
But my opponents are used to press the opponent not with logic, but with the number of signatures, the number of quotations, so they will not be convinced by a single quote from Marx. Well, we will also quote Engels (if only my opponents had the patience to read it):
"interest is essentially a subjective, selfish, private interest, and as such represents the highest point of the Germanic-Christian principle of subjectivity and separation. The construction of interest as the connecting principle of humanity necessarily entails - as long as the interest remains directly subjective, simply egoistic-a general fragmentation, the concentration of individuals on themselves, isolation, the transformation of humanity into a cluster of mutually repulsive atoms; and this separation is again the final conclusion from the Christian principle of subjectivity, the consummation of the Christian world order. Further, as long as the main form of alienation, private property, continues to exist, the interest must necessarily be a private interest and its domination must manifest itself as the domination of property. The abolition of feudal slavery made "chistogan the only link between people". Property - the natural, soulless principle, opposed to the human, spiritual principle-is thereby enthroned, and ultimately, to complete this alienation, money-the alienated, empty abstraction of property-is made the ruler of the world. Man has ceased to be the slave of man and has become the slave of the thing; the perversion of human relations is complete; the slavery of the modern mercantile world-perfected, complete, universal venality-is more inhumane and comprehensive than the serfdom of the feudal time; prostitution is more immoral and more brutal than jus primae noctis [the right of the wedding night, VP]... The disintegration of humanity into a mass of isolated, mutually repulsive atoms is in itself the destruction of all corporate, national, and special interests in general, and the last necessary step towards the free self-unification of humanity”.
It is not difficult to notice how unfavorably the classics speak of the "ESSENCE of interest" in general and of private interest in particular. But my opponents will not fail to point out that Engels in the above quotation only once, at the beginning, raises the question of the ESSENCE of interest, and throughout this huge quotation speaks of “private interest”. But I do not set out to convince my opponents. I want the reader to reflect on the ESSENCE and AMBIGUITY of the interest.
But each person has his own private interest, and since humanity is divided and at the same time co-operated along class lines, each class, accordingly, has its own private class interest, and the interests of the opposite classes are antagonistic. But all interests ARE UNITED by one thing, namely, that interest by its nature is a minimally meaningful motive for activity, as Marx said "blind natural instinct” or, as Engels said “" interest... represents the highest point... the principle of subjectivity and separation”"
In other words, the interest does not cease to be a "blind natural instinct" even if it is a proletarian interest, for example, to ask the owner to raise the salary, or to drink beer at work, or to quietly break the owner's car. The result of the reign of interest in the proletarian milieu is well shown in the Manifesto. “This organization of the proletarians into a class, and thus into a political party, IS BEING DESTROYED EVERY MINUTE by THE COMPETITION BETWEEN THE WORKERS THEMSELVES."
In order to better understand the nature of interest, it is enough to ask the question: WHAT KIND OF EDUCATION, DIPLOMA, CONVICTION DO YOU NEED TO HAVE IN ORDER TO HAVE INTEREST?
It is clear that any person can have an interest - a child, a bandit, or an alcoholic. Only a specialist, a high professional, is guided in his field not by interest, but by accurate SCIENTIFIC knowledge. The lower the individual's qualifications, the less likely it is that his actions are based on a clear scientific calculation, and not a private interest.
That is why Marx had to create (tautalogy, because communism is already scientific, but it is said for the sake of understanding) scientific communism, because class interest alone is not able to ensure the victory of the proletariat over the bourgeoisie. The proletarian class itself, due to the circumstances that Podolchans write about as unfavorable (lack of free time), is not able to develop anything but an interest, rather blind, in the form of a desire to escape from the hell of wage slavery, with almost complete lack of understanding how this can be done.
Therefore, if the proletariat is left alone with its class interests, its struggle for the realization of proletarian interests will be waged... forever and without the slightest chance of winning. Because of this circumstance, in my works I proceed from the existence of a higher and lower form of motivation for the activities of individuals and entire classes. Among the LOWEST, most PRIMITIVE forms of motivation is INTEREST, among the HIGHEST, most DEVELOPED forms of motivation for activity is a scientifically based and confirmed by PUBLIC practice idea or, in other words, the SCIENTIFIC LEVEL OF PUBLIC CONSCIOUSNESS, embodied in MARXISM-LENINISM, which has not yet been assimilated by the masses.
I think that even the people of Podolsk will agree with me if I say that, judging by their writings, they highly appreciate the role of interest in the development of science. In their opinion, the brilliant creators, including Marx and Stalin, were motivated by interest. However, since I know for sure that neither Marx, nor Stalin, nor, especially, Spartacus, Newton, Carnot, Laplace, Marat, could personally tell the Podolchans anything about the motives of their activities, I do NOT BELIEVE the Podolchans ' word. But I was convinced that the people of Podolsk themselves are guided in their activities, first of all, by interest, and not by science.
Of course, podolchane can refer to the fact that in the works of the classics there are many cases of appeal to the class interest of the proletariat. But what else is there to appeal to, when Marxism has not yet been assimilated by the proletariat, and the struggle on the basis of interest still brings the proletariat closer to the struggle on the basis of science, i.e., to victory. Today, too, we STILL have to rely on the class interest of the proletariat, since the leading analysts of the working department of the MK RKRP and even the entire Podolsky theoretical group could not rise above their interests.
Opponents prefer to laugh first.
For me, the content of Podolchan's answer is a clear confirmation that people whose consciousness is infected with the most primitive form of motivation, i.e., interest, are extremely aggressive about the need to replace interest with scientific knowledge.
Podolchane write: "It is ridiculous to say that you can become a dialectician only after having previously studied all areas of science. Of course, expanding your horizons allows you to better understand dialectics. There is no doubt that. to create a dialectical method, one needs the encyclopedic knowledge that Hegel, Marx, Engels, and Lenin possessed."Again, the green crocodiles fly "nyzenko-nyzenko". Podolchane first laugh, and then... above yourself. After a good laugh, they admitted that creating a dialectic requires encyclopedic knowledge. It's warm again. But don't be happy.
"However," the Podolchans write further, " the discovery and development of dialectical materialism would be worth nothing if only specialists in all fields of science, culture, and production could master this method.” Podolchane, as soon as they imagine that " in science there is no pillar road and only the one who is not afraid of fatigue, climbs its rocky slopes...", as soon as they read that " you can become a communist only when you enrich your memory with the knowledge of all the riches that humanity has developed...” , so their mood immediately falls, and they begin to fight for the right to call themselves dialecticians before they acquire encyclopedic knowledge, although this is exactly what should not be done, because in any encyclopedia, along with wealth, there are piles of anti-scientific trash, arranged by paid professors in alphabetical order, not causal order. In short, every worldly experienced person, or child, who has read the fable "The Fox and the Grapes” will understand why the people of Podolsk are so rebelling against the need to master" the knowledge of all the riches that humanity has developed." Apparently not in the teeth.
"On the contrary," the Podolchans continue, " dialectical logic allows you to master any area of existence (science, technology, the laws of social development). Dialectical and historical materialism make it possible to analyze the current situation and use it to restore socialism. Therefore, it is necessary not to reinvent the wheel, but to master Marxism, studying the works of the titans, and learn to apply the knowledge gained”"
It's just a matter of business. It turns out that you will master the works of the titans, and then you will easily master “the knowledge of all the riches that humanity has developed”. Podolchans think that it will be much easier for them to master the works of the titans, especially dialectics, than “to master the knowledge of all the riches that humanity has developed".
They did not understand that the Communists had taken upon themselves the burden of acting for the practical reconstruction of the life of all mankind on the basis of ALL OBJECTIVE PREREQUISITES. Without understanding this, the Podolchans suggest that the communists be the vanguard in the transformation of all humanity without knowing EVERYTHING that is necessary for such a transformation, from love to space exploration. Podolsk residents, as noted earlier, did not understand at the time of writing their answer that the struggle for general education is the most important component of the struggle for dialectical education, that mathematics is a special case of dialectics, that after studying mathematics in good faith, especially higher mathematics, you have ALREADY PARTIALLY joined dialectics. And for a good connoisseur of higher mathematics, there are no special problems in understanding physics and chemistry, as special cases of materialism. Studying " Capital” According to Marx, you actually comprehend historical materialism by the example of one of the modes of production. Etc.
Podolchane did not notice that some "prodigies" teenagers graduate from the most prestigious technical institutes and universities. But the whole world practice does not have a SINGLE case where a person at the age of, for example, 25 years is recognized as an expert in philosophy. Not understanding this, podolchane first offer to learn the dialectic, confident that only then they will all the private secrets of the universe will begin to click like seeds.
Therefore, I suggest that young people move from simple to complex, from general education to dialectics, and Podolchans suggest moving from " very simple”, i.e. from dialectics to very complex, for example, to arithmetic or politics.
Podolchans are not aware that the classics of Marxism-Leninism did not leave behind a finished work called "Dialectical and Historical Materialism". We didn't have time. Therefore, if you strictly follow the instructions of the Podolchans and their friends in the infamous group, then all the time will be spent on an unsuccessful search for the work of the classics called "Dialectical and historical Materialism". The task facing the communist movement is to create a work with this name. And podolchane "so comrades", led by small interests, just suggest not to do this, but to study only the " works of the titans”, forgetting that all the publishing efforts of the CPSU, in the field of organizing the study of the works of the classics, turned out to be tragically insufficient.
Practice has proved that it is absolutely not enough to produce one hundred volumes of the works of the classics and organize their formal study. You can only talk about mastering dialectics if you go further than your predecessors, and not only in theory, but also in practice. Nothing else is given.
The state of the modern world communist movement, its disunity and multiparty nature in practice proves that the active "leftists", who haphazardly read the works of the classics on the basis of individual logic, are going... in different parties and movements. And if we do not properly organize the work on the development of Marxism and convince the youth of today that only the RKRP understands the need to develop the methodology of the classics and therefore CONSCIOUSLY moves forward to Victory, then our party will slowly die out, as is the case with the Communist Party. Consequently, without the most intense creative and conscientious work of the members of the RCRP on the fundamental and applied problems of developing the methodology in inseparable unity with the organizational work in the RCRP and beyond, what happened to the organization of the RCRP in Podolsk will happen. It will also "shrink". (And the RKRP - "shrunk" in the end, it was devoured by opportunism and outright Trotskyists).
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Nobodies Nobody Knows, chp. 7
Summary: She is the lamp in Hero’s tower, the scissors in Delilah’s hand, the blood in Guinevere’s bed. She is a million and one metaphors and all of them are his undoing. (Some of the scenes from Second City but from Jughead’s perspective. More a character exercise than a story.)
A/N: Apparently I never posted Second City chapter 10 on tumblr only on Ao3?? So I’ll post that one sometime tonight.
ao3–>http://archiveofourown.org/works/11434950/chapters/26416497
All previous chapters of Second City and Nobodies Nobody Knows under the tag #second-city and on the Who Sings Heartache to Sleep series page on Ao3
When Jellybean yells at him and hangs up their call, he dials his father instead. He expects some sympathy. FP has basically been okay with Jughead co-parenting Jellybean, at least to the extent she’d let him. His dad is a very hands-off kind of authority figure, which is probably for the best. But here, though—Jughead thought his insistence his kids amount to something more than he did would extend to JB going to college.
Instead, he gets an earful about elitism and the shrinking middle class and the earning potential of a technical education. Not that FP uses so many words, but Jughead knows the point he’s trying to make.
He finds out FP has been taking some classes at the same community college JB plans to attend. He wouldn’t admit it, but he’s a little bit proud of them both.
He’s holding his head in one hand, properly chastised, when someone knocks and opens the door.
Betty. He feels the frown melt off his face as he waves her inside. She comes in and leans against the door to push it closed.
“I know, Dad. I know. No, she’s just—”
“She’s eighteen now, Jug. You gotta let her make her own mistakes.” FP’s voice is gruff is in ear.
“Look, can you just talk to her? Maybe she’ll listen to you.”
“We have talked about it. I don’t have any reason not to agree with her logic.”
“I know that, but you can at least explain my reasons.”
“If you want me to parrot everything I just heard you shout at her from the other room, I’m not getting involved. I might be willing to mention that you have a few points worth considering. Considering, mind you.”
“Fine. Can we come back to this conversation later?”
“If you want. Maybe give your sister a day or two to let off some steam. You do it too. I’m too old to referee your arguments.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“Hey—I love you, son.”
“Love you too.” He ends the call and holds his phone in his lap.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” There’s a little red bubble above the messages app. He taps it with his thumb. “Oh, you texted.”
“Yeah, nothing important. How’s FP?”
“Fine.”
Betty makes her “I know you’re sidestepping” face at him. “He is. JB on the other hand…” He lets the sentence trail off. He doesn’t want to involve her in his family drama.
“Wanna talk about it?” But then she comes to sit next to him on the bed, and, suddenly, he does want to talk about it.
“She got into Syracuse but she’s insisting she’s going to stay home and go to community college. Wants to study sound engineering or something.”
“I mean if that’s what she wants to do. You don’t want her spending four years unhappy and coming out of it in debt.”
Jughead barely holds in his scoff. With their father’s income and their background, there’s no way JB would have to pay full-price, and he was fully prepared to make up the difference. He is a pro at navigating the US Department of Education’s financial aid racket.
“But that’s not it. She thinks we don’t know it’s cause she doesn’t want to leave FP. And she’s the one who always insists he’s okay. Tells me I worry too much.”
“How does FP feel about it?”
“He says she’s an adult and can make her own decisions. She’s sure as hell not an adult if she’s gonna screw all her decisions up.” He clenches a fist in the bedspread to his right.
“But you know you can’t decide for her.” Then Betty places a hand on the arm that’s still tensed and for a split second Jughead’s mind goes blank. He tries to remember if this is the first time she’s willingly touched him this decade, beyond a couple of obligatory handshakes and the vice grip she latched onto his abdomen when he drove her home the first night.
“So why the blow up now? Didn’t she have to decide on a school a few months ago?”
“Well, yeah. But I may have thought she was gonna come to her senses and sent in a deposit for her.”
“Oh, Jug.” The look Betty gives him makes him squirm a little. Internally. Hopefully internally. Look. He’s not proud of what he did. But he still thinks it was the right choice. And he wants JB to have options. He can eat a few hundred dollars if he needs to. He’s just still hoping it won’t come to that.
They talk for a few more minutes, Betty’s presence beside him banishing the shadows without his even thinking about it. Then he smiles at her and says, “Hey, let’s go rejoin the party. They’re probably wondering where you are.”
“Yeah, okay.” When they stand to leave, his hand drifts to the space between her shoulder blades as of its own accord. As if it belonged there.
In his inner monologue, he’s been berating himself for hugging her that night. He’d grown used to the constant undercurrent of pathetic longing that accompanied his every day life. He’s been through the five stages of grief, and still this is what he is left with. So he carries it with him. But Betty’s sudden reappearances in his life, and the increasing frequency of those appearances, is making it harder and harder to maintain his equilibrium. He can live with longing. He can live with regret. It is much, much harder to live with want. A want that grumbles in his stomach and shoots through his fingertips every time she gets near him.
He feels even more pathetic for wanting someone who has so clearly moved on.
When they head downstairs, he piles an outrageous amount of food onto a paper plate too flimsy to hold it all up—better grab a second one to reinforce it—and he tries to distract himself. But now, with the memory of her hand on his arm, it’s as if he’s been given permission. The web of gossamer separating them has fallen away. He can’t stop touching her. Just gentle brushes against her lower back, hopefully gentle enough that she’ll think they’re an accident.
And he can’t stop himself from following her when she heads inside to help Mary with yet another in an endless array of party tasks. Never mind she’s not the host. Betty, every iteration of her from four years old on up, loves to help. He used to wonder if it was a conscious thing, an attempt to live up to her parents’ expectations, to compensate for never quite succeeding. But it’s not. It’s just her.
So he walks up behind her where she’s humming and slicing watermelon in the kitchen. But apparently he’s become much stealthier than he used to be, because he scares her and she jolts and slashes her thumb with a fucking huge knife. Crisis mode kicks on and he drags her to the sink and sticks her hand under the faucet.
“Jesus, Betty, I’m sorry. I just wanted to check on you —”
“It’s okay Jug, it’s just a cut. It’ll be fine.”
As if it weren’t already apparent, he still has a thing for her hands, how they hold all the disparate pieces of her. As he suds up his own and begins to wash her cut as softly as he can, his mind records the details. Her wrist, so small in his grip. Tapered fingers and trim nails in contrast his own brown, square digits. Her tiny bird bones where they quiver beneath her skin. The rough little ridges in the heart of her palm. He uses one of his hands to hold hers in place, his thumb hooking over the narrow forearm bone. His other cups her fingers, curling them in his palm, and he passes his own thumb over hers. Just before he finishes, he slips his fingers between hers, entwining them as he rubs their hands together and washes them clean, together, for good measure.
He waits until all the soap suds have disappeared, then says, “Here, come on. I’ll wrap it up.”
Back in the bathroom where he discovered the gift basket, and the lotion, that had tumbled his thoughts into their current mess, he strives to impose order through activity. He sets out: Gauze pad. Medical tape. Neosporin. Hand.
Hand which is still a little wet. He glances around and his eyes land on the hand towel next to the sink. Not a good choice. As much as Mary’s house always looks like something out of a magazine—to the point that he’s sometimes afraid his gawky limbs are going to break something—he does not know how many other people have used this bathroom today, and he does not trust their germs on Betty’s skin.
So he bends his head down and blows on her cut. The sound she makes freezes every atom in his body and sends his blood pressure rocketing skyward.
Order. Discipline. Medical care. He gets through applying the bandage with some form of competency.
She seems to be breathing a little erratically. Maybe she was lying about it being okay.
Then, he notices, he’s moved into the moon of her thighs. He’s still holding her hand, the skin of her wrist velvet-soft beneath his fingers. He never makes a conscious decision to kiss her. But her gaze slides between his eyes and his lips and he’s a goner.
When she kisses him back, he nearly has a myocardial infarction right there on the bathroom floor. When she sweeps her tongue into his mouth, he realizes he did and now he’s dead and this is heaven.
But if it’s heaven, he will not be rushed. He has eternity to relearn the contours of Betty’s mouth, the taste of her skin.
When he moves to her neck, she lets out a small noise that acts as an AED on his nervous system. He’s not dead. He can’t be doing this. It’s wrong. And he tries to tell her so.
“We’re not doing anything. We’re making out in a bathroom.”
Jughead laughs before he can stop himself. It’s funny for a lot of reasons he doesn’t have the blood flow to pinpoint right now, but Betty’s absurd clinging to the barebones facts of the situation only just barely makes the list.
Then Betty wraps her arm around his neck and commandeers his mouth, and he’s in no position to put up further protest for a while. The words escape him. She escapes him. Her details overwhelm him and he lets them drag him under.
Eventually, his frontolimbic network convinces him to try again.
“Betty, stop. There are things I need to—”
“Later.”
He makes a concerted effort to stop her. To tell her. He does. But, really, nothing he has to say about himself is worse than anything she already knows. If she wants to do this, even with everything between them, maybe he can be a little bit selfish.
With that unsatisfying thought, his brain goes offline. She’s worn him down with her noises and her tongue and the feel of her finally, finally, beneath his hands.
By the time she threatens to bite him, he’s about ready to crawl out of his skin and into hers. He tilts her head back and sucks his way down her neck. He times it so he circles his hips against her as he nibbles on her collarbones.
Then a knock sounds on the bathroom door. Fuck his life.
When they make it back to the party, they don’t talk about what just happened. But the evening passes pleasantly, peacefully enough. He still touches her and she doesn’t startle. But he doesn’t want to make any assumptions, doesn’t want to scare her away. So, like they said. Friends. It’s more than he ever hoped for. It isn’t enough.
#bughead fanfiction#riverdale fanfiction#bughead#betty x jughead#betty cooper#jughead jones#riverdale#mine#second city
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Day #5 - A Song that needs to be played LOUD!
There are a few spesific genres, to which you simply cannot do full justice without blasting the songs at full volume, such as techno, trance, drum & bass, and most metal genres. I highly doubt that there is any additional value to be unveiled in, say, cocktail jazz, lounge and ambient wall-paper music, by turning the volume knob up a notch. Certain uptempo rock anthems also are best experienced with the volume cranked up to 11, in the best Spinal Tap fashion. I'm not sure, where I should start with today's music challenge, though... the multitude of options present quite a challenge, once again. Maybe I could set the record straight, for once and for all, by picking one epitome of loud-assedness for each genre. Most of my personal trance favourites date back to the golden era around the turn of the millennia. It was, quite frankly, relatively peculiar time in my life, to say the least, what with the dubious number of music projects, McJobs, doomed attempts to study for a profession that inherently was not suited for my creative spritit etc... It was a frigging, never-ending rollercoaster ride, so it was only appropriate, that the soundtrack for my adolescent dumb-fuckery consisted mainly of the epic trance classics of the era. A common characteristic of trance music is the mid-song climax, followed by the mellow breakdown, with the industry standard being something in the lines of: 1. toss the pedestrian 4/4 beat aside for a moment 2. conjure an atmospheric synth sequence that's vamping as the backdrop for the melodic hook! The melodic motif is usually an ascending synth line, sugar-coated with the paradidmatic flanger-effect, in order to resonate the stereotypical sensations of an ecstasy rush. Executed properly, such a trance breakdown can give you the chills even without the aid of any illegal, mind-altering drugs. A perfect example would be Dj Tiesto's superb remix of the song Silence by the Canadian new-agey electronic music duo Delerium, featuring the amazing mezzo-soprano of Canadian singer Sarah McLachlan. Genres that are heavy on the sub-bass obviously benefit a great deal from being blasted at full volume. Although, I haven't yet fully come to terms with modern EDM-subgenres, such as trap and dubstep. In general, these new genres tend to provoke a thought inside my mind, that modern street-drugs are getting overly hideous. Some tracks I've found extremely hilarious, though I'm not really sure, if it was the artist's initial intention. That's why I've even added these tracks to my carefully compiled Spotify playlists. I'm talking about tracks such as Black Beatles by Rae Sremmurd & Gucci Mane, Panda by Desiigner, 679 by Fetty Wap, and Bad and Boujee by Migos & Lil Uzi Vert. Nevertheless, I highly doubt that I will be returning to these particular tracks, say, in ten or twenty years time – unless I wish to organize an impromptu, unpleasant surprise to my age peer group in the nursing home. Dubstep, in turn, sounds to me like someone, going through a convulsive type of an epileptic seizure, is improvising with electronic instruments. Maybe it's because I've deemed the whole genre as a synonym for Skrillex. On the other hand, I really love Burial's album Untrue. It's really dark and emotive stuff, with a grain of old school 90's vibes. I have no clue, why Burial is often labeled as a dubstep artist. If there is such a subgenre of dubstep, that is fundamentally layered with gloomy and dystopian soundscapes, in the spirit of Burial-esque sound aesthetics, I just might have to check it out. In a positive way, Burial's music reminds me of the golden era of drum&bass, that started somewhere in the mid-90's. I think it was in 1995, when I heard Goldie's epic Inner City Life. It was one of those musical moments of illumination, a.k.a. ”Stop the press! What the fuck is THIS?!?”. I instantly bought the epochal and timeless (sic!) drum&bass classic album Timeless by Goldie, and immersed myself in its' other-worldly soundscapes for weeks on end. There was one particularly street-smart record store in Helsinki: Spinefarm. It was one of the very few stores, where I could find class A jungle vinyl. I hauled shitloads of 12”-maxis and EP's home from that Aladdin's cave, most of which I have lost somewhere since then. Intelligent jungle, as the more atmospheric drum&bass was called back then, was that particular type of high-speed breakbeat stuff, that I was most drawn into. Well, in all honesty, I'm a bit of a slut, when it comes to atmospheric synth textures, layered on a syncopated jazz-groove, even at high-speed. Furthermore, if the ear-candy of this particular type is driven by a laid-back dub-bassline, and ornamented with a few casually strewn modal jazz chord progressions, fingered on a vintage Rhodes-piano, I will be inclined to succumb to the ”shut up, and take my money”-approach. The Looking Good/Good Looking-label, that was led by the British drum&bass producer LTJ Bukem, was one of those go-to labels for me, with kick-ass releases, such as Bukem's own scene classics: Demon's Theme, Music and Horizons. British jungle artists didn't exactly rush to perform in Finland, during the genre's prime time in the mid-90's, but I managed to witness dj Krust and Aqua Sky. The Finnish electronic jazz pioneer band Rinneradio also had a brief love affair with the drum&bass aesthetics, on their Rok album, that was released in 1996. I guess it must've been around that time, when I saw the band perform at Vanha Yo-Talo, in Helsinki. It was a superb gig! I was also a frequent face at the one-and-only drum&bass club, that had a residency at one gay bar in Helsinki, hosted by Dj Alimo. The vast majority of the drum&bass cognoscenti, that congregated at the venue every Thursday, consisted of boring heterosexuals, so the bar's old regulars soon disappeared. Soon, in the next couple of years, the drive and excitement of this new genre also kind of disappeared. I haven't really bothered to keep up with the drum&bass scene after 2005. However, I do listen to those goldien oldies, released during the artistically coherent time interval of 1995-2001. For some stupid reason, quite many of the classics are missing from Spotify, like the magnificent Colours album by Adam F, or the ultra-rare Pseudo Jazz-EP by Justice – no, not the French electro-duo, but the drum&bass alias of the British producer-musician Tony Bowes. Both releases represent the polished and ”intelligent” Bukem-styled approach. On a funny side note: I remember, how these atmospheric tracks were usually blasting in the main hall/dancefloor in a typical 1996 drum&bass rave – and only five years later, the very same tracks were aired as the background music in the chill-out room of a hip trance party. O tempora, o mores! Well, anyways... The seismic sub-bass of a stereotypical drum&bass anthem just won't sound the same, when it's not bellowing through the club-PA loud as fuck...and the same universal truth applies to techno. Whereas, in the case of metal, it depends heavily on the very type of metal, whether the increased volume enhances the listening experience in a positive way, or not. Simple staccato rhythms and powerchords usually work wonders...or, what the hell do I know; I compiled a list of songs that sound kick-ass when played really loud. At first glance, however, I couldn't pinpoint any common factor contributing to this peculiar phenomenon. What can I say? If it works, then why not let it. I think today's challenge is pretty much wrapped, so...until next time, tomorrow, that is. Adios! Wolfmother: Joker and the Thief Ihsahn: Undercurrent Underworld: Born Slippy (Nuxx) Slipknot: Duality Skindred: Set It Off The Comet Is Coming: Summon the Fire Fluke: Absurd Dead Letter Circus: The Mile Infected Mushroom: None of This Is Real Leila K: Electric Lab-4: Candyman Shinedown: Devour BT: Giving Up The Ghost Thränenkind: Monument
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You ever just randomly get in the mood to partake in self-destructive behavior? Wait, shit. Let me rephrase that. Make it sound less deranged. You ever sunk into a vicious sorrow, like, the worst, most agonizing, screaming sorrow you’ve ever felt in your entire life, spend a week being consumed by this horrible unrelenting pain, and then develop the urge to do things that are deleterious to your well-being in order to cope? Holy fuck that sounds even worse. Ah, son of a bitch— don’t go thinking I’m insane now, alright? ‘Cause I’m not. Severely insane, anyway. I’ve always had a couple screws loose, but that’s okay, and hardly the point, anyways. The point is quite simple at its core. Allow me break it down for you. Ever since I was young, I have been terribly, dangerously, and inexorably fond of self-destruction. That’s not a secret. Never has been. You don’t develop a drug addiction because you like the feeling of safety, you know what I’m sayin’? It stems from a profound inner sense of chaos, a desire to escape; whether it be from your emotions, your life circumstances, or the world at large, that is so strong, and so fucking undefeatable, it becomes larger than you are. Even the strong-willed can be absolutely wrecked by addiction. No one is exempt. Addiction doesn’t give a fuck who you are, where you’re from, what your aspirations are. It just wants to break you, and then build you back up again, and have you walking around half-alive for years and years so it can feed on the last of your life force. It doesn’t want you too strong, but not too weak, either. The ideal is for you to be slowly decomposing over the course of half your life or sometimes more so that it can drag out the torturous process for as long as possible. If you’re lucky, you’ll hit bottom, a massive part of you will die, and you’ll be reborn. What you choose to do with your second chance at life is entirely up to you, and that’s the tricky part. I’ve seen many people carelessly waste their chances, as if they thought God was just doling them out for free. I’m rueful to say that I have wasted my own chances before. A gross disregard for the life I was so blessed to still have. But maybe I should go easy on myself. Why should I take such care of my life— when I did not even want to live it? That’s a question for the ages, ain’t it? Psychologists would love to pick that shit apart. Well, anyway, what I am incredibly happy to say is this: I was one of the lucky ones, and after countless failed attempts, I was able to kill that monster once and for all, and in its death I found a brand new life for myself. It’s not an easy life, but nothing is ever easy with me. All that matters is it’s my life, I fucking made it for myself, and I am so damn grateful and elated to be living it. What I am hesitant, and slightly anxious to say is this: in my heart resides the same fondness for self-destruction that got me into so much trouble as a teenager. I’d like to say I’m not surprised— and if I did, it would be at least half-true. I have always had an unadulterated, skin-crawling need to be free. And I’ve always gladly done whatever I thought was necessary to achieve that freedom, even if it was illegal, stupid, morally bankrupt, or just absurd. That’s the thing with me. I can’t fucking stop, ever. If used for different purposes, it may even be called admirable: that furious, unyielding drive. I like to think I can still channel that energy, in my career specifically, but these days I’m honestly not sure. But there is a difference. Back in the day, I would start shit just for fun. I was seeking something, for sure— something that I still don’t feel like I’ve found. Beyond the classic premise of a teenager’s quest for self-discovery, there was no greater goal, or purpose for my antics. I did it because I could, and because after a while I began to fall in love with destruction. Raising hell was my religion. In an otherwise Godless world— that was always the altar at which I worshipped. Now, I find myself self-imploding because of so, so many violent, turbulent emotions to which I cannot put a name. It’s just like, my fucking mind, man...it’s a hell zone. That animal urge to unleash all inhibitions and just say fuck it is only ever activated by deeply unpleasant feelings. It’s almost like I’m...acting out. I‘ll be overcome by a wave of melancholy, or hit by sudden, thrashing anxiety, and I’ll get so overwhelmed that I feel like I need to do something to let it out. Something drastic. Something impulsive. Something absolutely fucking insane. Something like what I’m doing right now. Driving in my car, vibrating with excitement in my seat, to pick up J, who’s waiting for me in that damn park so we can go to a fucking club. A club! I literally just passed three years of sobriety, fuck, what is this? Am I trying to relapse? Well, no— I’m not an alcoholic, what the fuck? You know, I mean, can I handle my alcohol? No. But like, if I start drinking, can I stop? Uh...yeah! I’m only a drug addict, it’s fine! Holy fuck that was the most disturbing sentence I ever said. Well, whatever, I don’t think anyone’s gonna whip out any fuckin’ shards in the middle of a nightclub. Coke, that’s a given. But like, I can avoid it probably, also I barely like it! So who cares?! Imagine someone offers me a bump— I’m not gonna whore myself out for it. Not gonna hold out my hands and beg oh yes, please, PLEASE give me some coke! You know what I’m gonna say? WHAT THEY TEACH YOU TO IN SCHOOLS, BABY! N-O! NO...no thank you, not a big fan of the booger sugar, I’m a member of the elite, I only like amphetamines. OOPSIE I forgot to use past tense. Used to like amphetamines. There we go. Oh mother of fuck, what am I doing? God— I hardly remember getting in my car. See, this is what I mean! When the pain gets real bad, I start to act fucking chaotic! And lord knows the pain has been abject as of late. To this day I don’t know how I even survived Sunday night. In that dark, sinister park, and in J’s brutally honest words, I was met with a feeling of despair I can only describe as deadly. I don’t know how I didn’t do something to myself. I’m sure I wanted to. After a certain point I think I just blacked out. System overloaded or something. I got home, by some fucking miracle— I know because I woke up in my bed around 3 am because I had been crying in my sleep, which is just fucking neat. After that, I don’t know. I really wish I could remember. Perhaps some things are too horrific to remember. The days that followed were even worse. I spent my time floating in and out of sadness, then to bitter, uncontrollable anger, back into sadness again, then for the grand finale there’d be a thick feeling of complete numbness, and that would be what followed me throughout the day. Sometimes I’d see her in my dreams, and still miss, love, and need her desperately— other times I’d feel disgusted by the vile creature she has become and want to forget we ever shared a moment so sacred. It was mostly the first one though, and that’s what made it so hard. You should’ve seen me, flipping through old photos of her like a fucking weirdo and clutching them to my heart, like if I held them close enough, she would hear how loud it beats for her. I was lovesick for the very first time since I was twenty one years old and discovering that bad boys, if given the chance, will treat you bad every damn time. I was never under any illusions that this was healthy, but I knew something was seriously fucked when I abruptly stood up and almost passed out, and later realized it was because I hadn’t eaten in two days. Thank God for fast food and its obscene amounts of fat otherwise I might still be a touch too skinny. Before I knew it, the week had passed me by, and this brings us to tonight. Tonight. It’s kind of a funny story how my spirits got so lifted. I was in the shower, which is a story in itself. I don’t know how I forced myself to take a shower in that state— I can’t even get out of bed most days. I get out of that bitch, right? I bury myself in my towel like a blanket ‘cause it was colder than my father’s stare in there. I wipe the steam from the mirror. And my breath was stolen away. I actually looked good. Fuck, I looked amazing. My eyes were bloodshot from crying, yeah, but my eyelashes looked darker, longer, little tiny beads of water dripping off them, and my complexion looked so fresh and healthy, and my lips had somehow turned a perfect shade of pink like I just blew a cherry popsicle or something. Was I sort of...pretty when I cried? Is it just like Lana Del Rey said? Oh my god, I thought. It was. I watched as my eyes brightened and my face was lit up by a smile at the realization. I broke into this demented cackle, and stayed there five minutes longer than I should have, gripping the edge of the sink and laughing gleefully. By the time I got back up to my apartment I was still in disbelief. Did I look that good all the time? Had I always been sexy? I couldn’t stop looking at myself. It was like I had been given a whole new face, a whole new body. I tried to just sit and quietly watch TV but it felt too wrong. It’s a Friday night. I live in the heart of the city. I’m not emotionally attached to anyone anymore. I have exceptional looks all of the sudden. I have more pent-up sexual frustration than I know what to do with. It just seemed too...perfect... And so, I decided, with a slightly manic sense of determination, that I was going to go get laid. Got a little dressed up because, yes, it’s true, my closet does consist of more than just hoodies. Fluffed up my hair a bit, stared into the mirror some more, then I hit up J. Man did he sound jittery when he answered the phone. Never in my life did I think that J would ever ask me, under any circumstances, for any reason, “What...what’s up?” I was too enchanted by my own reflection to analyze it at the time. “LISTEN, are you busy?” I demanded, trying out different poses in the mirror. He wasn’t. This pleased me immensely. “I wanna go fucking clubbing, J. You wanna go clubbing?! Let’s go clubbing! I ONLY WANT TO GO IF YOU COME WITH.” A heavy sigh from the other line. “I don’t know, man...” Panic instantly arose and began to frazzle my mind. Oh, god, it all seemed so clear now. He was gearing up to leave me. That was all there was to it. I had been too clingy, too emotional, too inconsiderate before; I had expected too much of him, and for that he was pulling away from me. That sigh held the leaden weight of our previous interaction and it was palpable, even over the phone. It was obvious I had to do something. “Come on, J...there’s money in it for you.” Needless to say, he was suddenly very eager to agree when I told him to wait for me in the park and that I’d pick him up in one hour. All the while I’m fucking hauling ass to collect his ounce of coke that I promised him, splitting it up into several different amounts and agonizing over how best to organize it. I figured it out eventually— because I fucking worked my brain half to death. The attention to detail was painstaking but it had to be done. And now, here I am, riding around the city, glorious night air blowing in through the open window, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of Uptown Funk, feeling that same wild, intoxicating rush as if it never went away. Perhaps I’m going a little crazy, perhaps I’ve never been saner. But I haven’t felt this good about myself, or anything, in a long time. Honestly, I don’t know that I’ve felt very confident since I entered my twenties. Something about all the self-introspection makes it hard to view myself in a positive light. But I’ve done enough of that, enough self-introspection for ten lifetimes. If there was ever a time where I deserved to go fucking ape shit, and have fun, and act like a normal twenty-something year old...it would be now. Spring break, bitch. May as well bask in my freedom while I still have it. Lush, gorgeous greenery juxtaposed with tall, steely, glittering buildings and the sudden feeling of quietude that being surrounded by nature brings: that’s how I know I’ve made it to the park. Almost out of respect for the calm, solitary setting, I instinctively go to turn down my music, drowning out the sounds of saxophones and terrifically catchy guitar riffs and Bruno Mars’ bright, joyous voice in favor of comfortable, worshipful silence. I wouldn’t mind driving around this place for a while, but I don’t have to look very long to find him. He’s standing on the sidewalk, looking as close to peaceful as he can probably get, cigarette in hand; never without his crutch, his trademark accessory. A shadowy figure in the near-dark, an apparition, an enigma, as always. I find myself breaking into a smile as I pull up and then subsequently stop the car, sliding out of my seat and nudging the door closed with my hip. I can see him very well now that I’ve gotten closer and— oh! What the fuck— okay, J! Giving me a little shirt-half-unbuttoned moment! He’s...okay, wow, he’s kind of serving. He’s really serving. He’s dressed in this sleek little black shirt that matches his hair just divinely and dark jeans and he looks so good I can’t help but raise my eyebrows and widen my eyes in surprise. “JAMES DEAN! How’s it going?!” I exclaim in lieu of a proper greeting. “What’s this little number? Did you get all dressed up just for ME?!” I let out a laugh, “Goddamn, man! Who the fuck told you to show out like that?! You are giving me so much life right now, J. I swear to God—you look so fucking good! What the hell?!”
#/livingladolcevita#4/17/15#the bros#BABY WE ARE GOING S0 MOTHERFUCKING FAR UP#WE ARE GOING UP STREAKS#I should tag this as The Return of Stephen's Self Esteem#welcome back! it's only been three fucking years
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