#want to be a man sometimes. like id totally go around as a drag queen and wearing more flamboyant clothes if i was amab

[danfanciesphil]

Bodyguard au rn miss 💋💋

hey anyone that wanted me to write the bodyguard au inspired by this picture of phil, here’s what i got for u xoxo

On Thursdays, their busiest nights, the club offers two for one drinks for anyone who gets there before twelve, meaning the line outside the door often snakes all the way down to the pier. It’s gotten warmer over the last month, so Phil no longer has to feel as guilty about the hoards of people shivering in their skimpy outfits for hours in the freezing seaside air, but it’s still not fun being the guy who has to make them all wait. Strict club rules though - no more than fifteen people to be let in at once, staggered in five minute intervals.

A few people are trying to engage Phil in chatter, but he remains stoic and silent, arms folded just below the stitching on his tight black t-shirt that reads ‘Try It Mate’. The people at the front of the queue, a girl in tattered tights and a birthday sash flanked by two equally bimbo-ish friends, are finding this t-shirt hilarious, and keep yelling this at him, as if they actually think he can’t hear them standing two feet away. He’s had a lot of practice at ignoring drunken screeching though, so he just stares at the roiling sea in the distance, fast-forwarding his brain a few hours, to when he can relax in his bed, eat leftover pizza and play some video game he could complete blindfolded.

Billy, the other bouncer working tonight, taps Phil discreetly on the arm - the signal that enough time has passed to let some more people in. With a quiet sigh, Phil turns and unhooks the rope separating him from the drunk girls, and inclines his head to let them through. As they stumble inside the door, flashing their passports and driver’s licences, Billy makes a disapproving face. Phil knows that some bouncers would label the girls as ‘TDTD’ (too drunk to dance), and not let them inside, but Phil can’t be bothered to go through that whole charade with them. They look the sort that would kick off, and hold up the queue even more. They’re straight, probably, out on a girls night for the sash-girl’s birthday, and fancy trying out a gay club just to be daring. It pisses Phil off, and if he were more like Billy, weathered by years of the job and willing to take no nonsense, he might be more inclined to refuse them entry.

But it’s too late now, they’re already inside, likely ordering prosecco at a bar that serves mostly jagerbombs and cheap imitation cosmos, then clambering up on the podiums with the professional dancers and drag queens to show off for their Instagram feed. Billy nudges him in the side, and Phil realises he’s still watching the entrance where the girls disappeared, and not focusing on the queue. He turns quickly to the next person - tall, skinny, dressed in a crop top that looks like it’s made for a doll, a thin, satin, pink and white bomber jacket, and a pair of denim shorts so tiny that they barely begin to cover the person’s ass. The highlight of the ensemble is the lilac wig that cascades in loose curls down to waist-level, complete with a thick fringe that hangs down over whoever’s eyes are hiding behind it.

Phil takes one look at this joker and has half a mind to turn them away without even speaking to them, but a skinny arm reaches up to offer an ID, so Phil sighs and takes it even though every one of his spidey-senses is tingling. It’s a green driver’s permit, not even a full license; the date printed would make the owner twenty-one. Phil gives the lanky figure in front of him another brief once-over - no way are they a day over eighteen, and that’s pushing it. His eyes flick to the name: Daniel James Howell. There’s a photo too of course, of an attractive, far more masculine-presenting, clean-cut young adult with a slight side-fringe. The lilac-haired beauty in front of Phil does not, in his opinion, match this general look. Still, he supposes it’s his job to make sure.

“What’s your name?” Phil asks, starting off easy so he doesn’t humiliate the kid.

“I guess you could call me Dan, most of the time,” lilac-hair says in an unexpectedly sure, confident voice; Phil can’t be sure whether the tremor he can hear is in from cold or from their nerves about being caught.  

“Don’t sound very sure about that.”

They get a lot of this kind of thing. Young, nervous gay guys - it’s mostly guys - sneaking out to come for their first gay club experience, usually dressed up in their mum or sister’s clothes, disguised but still scared shitless that someone will clock them and they’ll be forced prematurely out of the closet. This kid is likely still in school, desperate to find a place he can be himself - unfortunately, the law is the law, and he’ll just have to come back when he’s old enough to have a real ID.

“Think I don’t know my own name?” the kid asks. “Listen, from nine to five, my name’s Dan Howell. But I’m not going by Dan tonight, get me?”

The irritation in this person’s voice makes Phil pause. Normally, a bad attitude like this would be enough of a deterrent that they’d risk getting turned away, but if anything, on lilac-hair the attitude is just confusing. What does he have to be irritated about? He’s got no gaggle of friends with him, nor does he appear to be in a hurry. Phil’s just trying to do his job - if this person is underage, they must’ve known this might happen.

He studies the ID again, noting that for a fake it’s very convincing. He turns to flash the small green card at Billy, who frowns at it, then shrugs in a ‘looks real to me’ way. Phil’s gaze drifts back to lilac-hair and asks, “what’s your star sign?”

A tiny smile spreads over thin, glossed pink lips. “Is that the best you can come up with?”

Absurdly, Phil feels himself grow warm with embarrassment. It makes no sense - he’s been flirted with hundreds of times working here and it’s never so much as rattled him before. He shrugs it off, trying to appear unamused. “I’m not flirting with you, I’m trying to see if you’re fucking about with me. Might wanna play along, sunshine.”

The pink lips part to let out a sigh of frustration. “I’m a gemini. Wanna know my bra size too?”

The dates on the ID work; Phil long ago learned the correct dates for the star signs for this exact reason. He ignores the snarky follow up question, which is good of him. “Can you lift your wig, please?”

Lilac-hair hesitates, then flicks the long locks falling by their ears back over each shoulder, revealing a lot of pale skin and sharp, jutting collarbones. Phil averts his eyes quickly - if this person is underage, he can’t be staring inappropriately. Not that he should be doing that with any customers that are legal either.

“Not like that,” Phil says, brusquely, “I can’t see your eyes.”

Lilac-hair lifts their head, chin jutting out, and behind the unbrushed lilac strands, Phil can almost make out two dark, almond-shaped eyes staring back at him. Phil can’t help an amused smile forcing its way out, born from the kid’s stubborn defiance. This person is not about to let Phil off easily, if they are lying about their age.

So, mostly to speed things along, Phil reaches out a hand - very much without thinking - and pushes the purple fringe back. The kid’s eyes are round and startled, which is fair enough, as Phil hadn’t even known he was going to make such a bold move until he’d already done it. This is far from protocol, probably, touching the customers unless they’re being belligerent and require forcible removal. But he’s too far in now, holding the handful of acrylic hair out of this person’s face. And yep, it’s at once completely obvious that he is, in fact, the same person as the man in the ID photo - no question about it.

The ID is, apparently, real. Lilac hair is twenty-one years of age, and Phil’s just got to accept it. Not a kid at all. He releases the fringe, and lilac-hair blinks as it falls back into their eyes.

“Satisfied?” Lilac hair huffs, straightening the fringe with their fingers.

“In you go,” is all Phil replies, a little gruffly because he knows he’d been wrong to prematurely assume this person was trying to break the law from appearance alone. He hates that his own prejudice can sometimes leak through when assessing people in this job, though he tries his hardest to be totally impartial. He hands ‘Dan’ their ID back and lets them through the rope. Lilac-hair takes their time about going through, pulling the wig back around his shoulders, then swaying their hips as they swan by. Despite knowing he shouldn’t, Phil’s eyes fall to the curve of  lilac’s ass, peeking through the hotpants as they head to the door. Phil never wears wigs, but he sees a lot of people in them working here, and long ago learned the difference between a cheap ‘party city’ wig, and an expensive one. The one lilac is wearing is definitely on the cheaper end of the scale, but it’s gorgeous in its tackiness, like the person inside it knows that the pastel colour is exactly their shade. The plastic hair falls in a great tumble down a tapered back, bouncing just above the waistband of those tiny shorts. The sight is unforgettable, Phil can already feel it burning into his retinas, to be replayed in the dark, when he’s alone.

Billy clears his throat then, breaking Phil out of his trance. He rips his eyes away, sheepishly, turning to Billy. “Not a good idea to put your hands on ‘em,” Billy reminds him in his low, rough voice. “Some of ‘em get shirty about it.”

Phil nods, glad of the darkness hiding his flush, and turns to the next set of people in the queue.

*

At around half one, Phil signals to Billy that he needs to take a piss. The queue is long gone by now, and they’ve moved into the second half of their shift, which is watching the smoking area for people trying to do drugs, and kicking people to the kerb if they get too drunk. There haven’t been too many of either instances this evening, so Phil feels pretty safe about leaving Billy alone for five minutes. He heads inside, scooting behind the bar to get across to the toilets so that he doesn’t have to barge through the crowds on the dancefloor. The bartenders all nod at him as he passes, some exchanging harried looks with him because it’s rammed in here, and they all spent the first few hours of the night making two of every drinks order.

In the unisex bathroom, Phil pees quickly then washes his hands; he notices a few people scarpering from cubicles at the sight of him, but doesn’t bother try and catch them. They’re either doing drugs or having sex, and either one is moronic to do in a bathroom stall if you ask him. He does do a quick scout of the cubicles before he leaves, knocking on doors and saying stern things in the hopes of scaring them into sense for a bit.

It’ll only work for a while - once they know he’s out of sight they’ll be back at it again, but there’s not much he can do about it. They check likely suspects for pills and powders on the way in, and confiscate a fair amount, but Phil’s not dumb and knows there’s a hundred ways they could be hiding it.

It’s as he gets to the bar again that Phil notices the swirling lights washing over a familiar waterfall of lilac, in front of the bar waiting to be served. There’s a guy next to lilac hair, obnoxiously crowding them in a way that Phil is all too familiar with. The guy has a wifebeater on with the word ‘woof’ scrawled across the chest. He’s also wearing a snapback indoors. Both of these are major red flags for Phil, who has seen and kicked out a lot of classic douchebags in his time.

He pauses, waiting to see the scene unfold. The bartenders are swamped with orders from the hoard of people crammed up against the bar - lilac has been pushed right to the edge with woof-man. Unless he’s willing to give up his place in the makeshift queue, he won’t be able to escape unwanted advances. Phil waits, certain that woof is seconds away from making his pig-headed move. He doesn’t have to wait long.

Woof-man leans in and whispers something into the folds of the lilac wig. Whatever is said makes lilac recoil in disgust. To stop him moving away, woof-man reaches out and grabs lilac-hair by the outer hip, his meaty hand cupping the whole of his right ass-cheek, then tugs him in sharply. Already Phil is moving towards them at the sight of this, and that’s when woof-man squeezes his fistful of flesh, apparently quite hard, because in the next second, lilac is calmly reaching between two people to grab a leftover beer on the bar, and promptly upending it over woof’s head. The guy roars, half-drowned by the loud music, but audible enough that the near vicinity of people turn to see. Woof pulls off his snapback and shakes it out, furious; lilac flinches as the droplets of beer spray at him, but doesn’t try to run away. Phil reaches them then, alarm pumping through him to the beat of a Tove Lo song, and promptly inserts himself between the two, his back to lilac, one hand on woof’s chest.

“Oi, that’s enough,” Phil barks in his usual ‘bouncer voice’.

“It’s him not me!” Woof insists, as Phil knew he would. “That little fucker chucked a beer on me!”

“Out of nowhere, was it?” Phil’s already done with this dickhead. “I saw you grab ‘em, so don’t even try it. Far as I’m concerned, you deserve the beer bath.”

Woof’s face flushes red in fury. “Oh, get lost, you wanker. Look at ‘im. Boys don’t dress like that to be treated like Royalty, mate. He fuckin’ wants it.”

A white hot, blinding rage pierces Phil right through the chest. Something primal awakens in him, picturing lilac’s sweet, pretty features as he lifted the fringe from their eyes. “Right,” Phil growls through clenched teeth, “out.”

“What?!” Woof is practically frothing at the mouth. “You can’t do that!”

“I bloody well can mate,” Phil says; he’s hoping that woof will listen to him, as he’s seconds away from throwing a punch, “I’m the bouncer. Out. We don’t want your sort in here.”

The guy scoffs, squaring up, but he’s wobbly, obviously tipsy, and Phil just has to take one sombre, utterly unfazed step towards him, shoulders drawn up to elevate their height difference, and the guy sinks backwards. Phil loves watching the recalculating whirr of their slowly ticking, moronic brains.

“Whatever,” the guy spits, sending a dirty look over Phil’s shoulder, “this place is shite anyway.”

Thankfully, he turns, stalking away, and Phil watches long enough to make sure he heads for the door. Once he’s out of sight, Phil turns, somewhat unsurely, back to lilac, who is staring at Phil, the fringe parted into two curtains that split in curves across a smooth forehead. It’s nice to see those eyes again; they shouldn’t be hidden, Phil thinks..

“Thanks,” lilac says. “But I could’ve handled it.”

“No trouble,” Phil replies, chuckling at lilac’s continued defiance, “‘s what I’m here for. You ok?”

Lilac nods contemplatively, those brown eyes flicking over Phil’s face, head tilted. He’s wearing makeup, Phil notices. Something sparkly wiped across his eyelids and cheeks. Pink lipgloss. Maybe mascara too. Phil feels a curl of something he hasn’t felt for a long time, twisting and writhing like a worm in his gut. He squashes it down, embarrassed by his attraction to such an obvious display of faux-feminine allure. Such a cliche, lusting after the pretty boys, or not-boys perhaps, considering what ‘Dan’ had said outside.

“Bet you get that problem a lot,” Phil says, not thinking. He only realises how much like a come-on it sounds when it’s too late.

Lilac’s eyebrow quirks, and the corner of his mouth twitches up in a surprised smile. “You sure you’re not flirting with me?”

The blush whips into Phil’s cheeks so fast it nearly unstables him. He’s suddenly very aware of the intense effect this person seems to be having on him, just due to their proximity. Sure, beneath the overpowering performance of that wig lies an extraordinarily pretty human, but Phil daily encounters lots of beautiful people in this job. Gay club patrons tend to go ham on the glitz and glamour.

It’s just something about lilac, in their skimpy clothes that look like they were stitched out of a teenage girl’s bedroom curtains, and the cheap synthetic that somehow transforms the outfit into something bewitching. The makeup is done imperfectly, the sparkly blue varnish on their nails is  half bitten off. But there’s no denying the effect lilac has, and seems to know they have, judging by the flirtatious smile being aimed his way.

“Of course not,” Phil says anyway, bristling. He averts his eyes; lilac’s stare is lasering right through him. “I work here.”

“Me too,” lilac replies, one bony shoulder shrugging up. Fingers come up to tuck a strand of wig behind an ear, revealing a glinting diamond stud, big and gaudy, in one lobe. “As of about ten minutes ago.”

Phil’s half sure he’s misheard, perhaps due to dizzying effect this person seems to be having on him, as if lilac’s fingers are plucking at every thread stitching him together, unravelling him bit by bit.

“What?”

“They’ve taken me on. Probationary only for now, but I’ll convince them soon enough,” lilac says, then finally catches the eye of Melissa, their head bartender. Lilac mouths ‘sambucca’ at her, then holds up two fingers; she nods, glancing at Phil as if to say ‘did you really let this child in through the front door?’.  “I do drag,” lilac says, teeth and tongue teasing out the word. “Or a kind of drag, I guess.”

“Oh,” Phil says, dumbed. He’s not sure what a ‘kind of’ drag could mean, but there’s no doubt that it’s an intriguing thought. “Right.”

Under normal circumstances, Phil would find it more than suspicious that anyone in a cheap wig and very basic outfit, someone barely manage to squeeze past the bouncers in here tonight due to their youthful appearance, could have somehow secured a highly coveted spot amongst some of the best drag acts in Brighton. This club is known for its regular, popular drag performances, happening on Fridays and Saturdays. Phil hadn’t even known the manager was looking for new talent - usually they hold auditions and have a long selection process, so the idea that someone would be able to walk in off the street and find work is almost unfathomable.

But these circumstances aren’t normal. Lilac is not just another drag act, Phil can sense it. If they’re able to hypnotise Phil, snatch him up body and soul with just a flutter of lashes and a few coy smiles, it’s almost terrifying to think what lilac could do to a whole room of people.

“I’m very good,” lilac says then around a knowing smile, so confident that Phil just nods in total acceptance.

Melissa pushes two shot glasses across the bar towards them, then shouts that it’ll be six pounds. Lilac starts digging into some non-existent pocket in those shorts; to stop himself staring, Phil cups a hand around his mouth and shouts to Melissa, “put it on my tab.”

Lilac’s eyes flick up to him through a haze of pastel. “Thanks,” is the response, before they pick up the shots and down both of them one after the other. Phil blinks, chastened. Of course he wasn’t certain that this jewel of a person was attempting to by him a drink, especially as they know Phil is working, but even so… it had sort of looked that way for a minute. Lilac flicks their lashes about, bored, then lands a chocolate gaze back on Phil. “Guess I’ll see you around, then.”

Lilac pushes off the bar, already headed into the midst of the throng. The sight of the lilac covered back retreating is almost unbearable. Phil’s arm shoots out before he can stop it, catching lilac’s arm. Lilac snatches it away quickly, probably way too used to being grabbed at, and Phil feels slimy, holds his hands up in a show of surrender. Lilac has turned on the spot, is staring at him expectantly, warily.

There’s no in point in asking Phil why he’d felt the urge to halt this person’s exit, because he has no idea. He just needed one last, proper, good look at those beautiful, beguiling features before he had to bid farewell for an indefinite amount of time.

“Well?” lilac asks, though because of the music, Phil can only tell what they’d said by how those pink lips shaped the word.

“What’s your name?” Phil asks, for lack of anything better. Anything to prolong the inevitable parting of ways. “Your drag name,” Phil clarifies, hoping it’s the right question.

It seems to make lilac smile, if only slightly. They shift their weight onto one foot, hip jutting out to the side. A gauze of blue passes diagonally over their face, highlighting the gleam in their eyes.

“O-livia Truth,” he says slowly, enunciating each syllable. “I start on Friday. Blow me a kiss from the crowd.” Then, with a spin on a pink stiletto, they’re gone.

[whirlybirbs]

                          PREVIOUSLY ON #BITTERCOFFEE | THE MASTERLIST

summary: #bittercoffee. in which the reader is ghosted after the date with bucky and tony stark is to blame. but, an internship opportunity at the tower has her ready to bite back. rating: mild swearing and a brainiac reader. fight me. word count: 1.6k a/n: my bittercoffee!reader is about to fuck shit up. sorry for the lack of buck-o in this one. he’s coming up next part. enjoy!

Bucky doesn’t come in for coffee the next morning.

And when you text him, wondering sweetly if maybe he had “avenging to do”, your text is met with silence. Nothing. You don’t text him again until late that night when you’ve hiked back from the shop in the rain. You ride the subway in silence. You have your earbuds in. No music. Your body rocks with the train. Your fingers move quick across your phone screen.

I hope everything’s okay?

You make it to your apartment, sad and somber and angry. You’re soaked to the bone and weighed down. The growing anxiety that Bucky had decided you weren’t worth his time, or maybe he didn’t like you enough was eating away at you, and though it feels childish, you cry. It’s muffled into the sleeve of your NYU sweatshirt.

Marissa comes in, having heard the quieted sobs, and offers you some microwaved pizza. You decline, to sick on sadness to think about eating.

“Sometimes boys just don’t work out,” she said, “No matter how much we like them.”

You look like hell, and the next morning? Still nothing. No texts, no Bucky. The coffee shop is slow and empty thanks to the rain. You feel the same way. You try not to let Matt into the inner turmoil, but he knows something’s not right.

You push the feelings down and away and pretend you’re fine.

You do for the whole week.

And then you begin to think you’re never going to see Bucky Barnes again.

Until, one night, on your walk back from campus, you notice you’re being followed. It’s a taxi - or at least you’d thought - until it follows you to the subway stop and a man in a suit steps out. He’s bigger, no older than his mid-forties, looking less than pleased with the rain. He sits in the same subway cart as you, gets off at the same stop. He walks past your apartment, though, and from your dining room window you watch him climb into another car. A black Lincoln.

The license plate reads ‘HAPPY’.

The back window has a Stark Industries decal on it.

You begin to notice more of strange little things like this - the same man comes in and gets coffee one morning. You pretend you have no idea who he is, but your heart rate is pounding and you’re half-convinced he’s going to gun you down at register one.

He doesn't though. He sits, he watches, he sips his coffee. You think maybe this is some kind of intimidation play.

You stand your ground though; you even bus his table, smiling and asking him how his day is.

When he’s leaving, you snap a picture of him, pretending to snapchat, and you save it.

Sniped.

You reverse image search him when you get home that night and land a positive ID. You’re hunched over coffee and the notes surrounding your midterm thesis paper around integrated militarized biotech. The blue light of your laptop illuminates the room, and you cheer, mouth full of popcorn, when you nail his name down.

You think maybe Bucky would be proud of you. You’re a good sidekick. But, well, that ship has sailed. Your heart hurts a little bit thinking about him.

The guy from the shop is Harold Hogan. Personal bodyguard and trainer to the one and only Tony Stark.

You begin to note more Stark property along your walk to work. The building across from you has been bought out. Apparently some housing project Stark is working on. You learn to look at the license plates. The Avengers Tower decal for parking is minuscule but apparent if you know where to look. It includes security clearance.

You’re clearly being watched.

And then your wifi starts to act up, too. Through some more backwards engineering, you delve into the internal system codes of the apartment router and find that a external proxy has been set up. Your cookies, data, history and any and all saved files are being copied and routed to an apartment in Queens. You get the IP address. You track it to a May Parker.

No doubt a relation to Peter Parker.

No doubt you were being watched thanks to that Stark Internship.

You call Bucky that night, curse him out on his voicemail - it’s long winded and angry and maybe you had a little bit too much wine - and tell him to tell Stark to fuck off. You don’t hear anything back, but you’re sure someone got the message -- if anything, Stark probably tapped into your cell long ago.

Things are starting to stack up against Iron Man.

You’re starting to think maybe there’s a reason why you haven’t seen Bucky Barnes. That reason has got to be Tony Stark.

You’re not sure why, but you can’t let it go. You know deep down it’s because you like Bucky far too much for it to just slip your mind. You didn’t date often -- and Bucky was pretty. Handsome and funny and shy and… Sad. You find yourself worrying about him, wondering if he’s walking around Brooklyn late at night, trying to find himself. You hope he’s okay. You regret telling him he ‘fucking sucks’ on his voicemail the other night.

So, you start to formulate a plan. You think about sauntering right into the Tower downtown, strolling up the reception and asking for Tony Stark -- but no doubt the man was busy, and there was no guarantee security wouldn’t drag you out kicking and screaming when they explained he wasn’t there and no, you couldn’t speak to him.

Email was a no-go. He’d probably just ignore it. Phone, too.

You could knock on Peter Parker’s door and interrogate the high schooler for information on why you’re being watched. But, you knew why you were being watched -- it was because you knew too much about Bucky Barnes.

Then, when you think you’re shit bum out of luck, an opportunity falls into your lap. Trips and lands. You catch it by the throat.

Your last class of this particular Thursday is a lab; normally running about four hours, it leaves you hungry and tired and wanting nothing more than to bolt home and kick start your homework. Though working on your actual conceptualized thesis is fun, time seems to drag on.

But, today, you were talking internships.

“You know,” your professor’s name is Sarah -- she insists you call her Sarah -- and she’s sweet. The class is dominated by men mostly, so she excitedly chatters with you when she can. You like it. Sarah leans against your lab bench after the small lecture. You’re soldering some wires together on the mechanisms functions panel, “I have a certain internship in mind for you.”

“Oh?” you say, a smile tugging at your face, “Please, enlighten me.”

Sarah laughs. “I got an email earlier this week… NYU typically isn’t one of the Universities gets these type of offers, but… Stark Industries is looking to hire.”

You feel the color drain from your face. “Stark Industries, huh?”

“They’re looking for medical students, actually,” she murmurs, “But, I want you to apply. You’re biomedical and you’re great, so if anything, they’ll be even more interested.”

“Have you… put my name down on anything yet?”

Please say no, please say no.

“No,” she says and you nearly cheer, “But, the interviews are next Monday -- are you interested? I can always email them back --”

“No!”

Sarah nearly jumps back.

“I mean -- yes, I’m interested,” you reassure her, gloved hand touching the sleeve of her lab coat, “I’m just thinking maybe don’t let them know who I am or my major or...? They might discriminate because of the medical thing…”

Totally not because of other reasons.

“Right!” Sarah hums, “You’re so right. And the best part? You’ll be surprising Tony Stark.”

You nearly laugh in her face. “Are you saying…”

“He’s doing the interviews -- some special involvement campaign, I guess. He wants to get to know our grads, get to know who he’s hiring. After the whole H.Y.D.R.A. infiltration thing, it makes sense. A lot of grads have turned it down, but I can dig up some recommendations for you. You can bring them with you --”

“Please do,” you grin, hands clasped in a tight ball, “You’re the best.”

Sarah grins, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she claps you on the shoulders. “I’m so excited!”

Me too, Sarah. Me too.

It’s 8:30 am, Monday morning.

Marissa is looking at you like you have three heads.

You’re tugging on your patent leather heels, sweeping your hair into a professional looking bun. The romper you have on is black with a dipping neckline -- your blazer is bright red. You feel like you could kill a man with a single look. It’s a confidence boost. You need all the help you’re going to get.

“So... you’re meeting with Tony Stark. For the internship.”

“Well,” you mumble, bobby pin between your teeth as you fix your bun, “Not really.”

Marissa blinks down at your resume. In fine print, along the top, under your name, it reads:

‘Please, ask me about my slideshow!’

“You… You have a slideshow.”

You swivel your laptop across the kitchen counter. The screen glows alive with the slideshow in question.

Marissa’s jaw drops. She reads from the title slide.

“Why I’d Like Tony Stark to Fuck Off?”

You shoot her an award winning smile, sweeping your resume and faux cover letter into a protective cover. It slips neatly into your handbag and you yank the memory drive from your laptop as well.

“Is this some activism stuff?” she mumbles, “Anti-Avengers propaganda?”

You pause.

“Sure.”

And with that, you’re out the door. Behind you, Marissa shouts.

“Let me know if I have to bail you out of jail!”

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[420710ge-blog]

my first entry

all of these entries will be more or less stream of consciousness

Im watching queer eye. SO I felt like writing a blog and starting a blog bc im emotional and severely depressed. ( if the fab 5 could re vamp me and my life omg)

I'm trying to grasp this concept that i am 28 years old

and i STILL have no idea who the fuck I am or what the fuck am i gonna do.

what i do know is I am a single. I am straight-ish haha (no one is straight these days eff lables and gender norms) I live in a basement. The neighborhood I live in isnt the best in my opinion for me. I know I enjoy cities and hustle and bustle and noise. this area is not where i want to spend a long period of time in. I have my drivers license but dont have a car. I'm on a fixed income. I am very very poor. I've been struggling with money my whole life. My mother was struggling with money and work my whole childhood ive come to learn. i feel like my mom maybe didn't give me all the right tools i needed to make it in this world.

I'm not a good cook, but i enjoy cooking and wish I was good. I eat very unhealthy. I dont know how to shop for groceries or clothes. i eat fast food,microwaves meals and snacks, cheese and crackers, cereal, deli sandwhiches, pb & j, fruit snacks, ice tea, juice and water. (thats basically it unless i go out to eat which is bad bc i have no money for it.)

i cannot grasp the concept of money i dont know how to budget or balance a check book or keep track of spending. i need to put money a side and save and i just cant seem to do it. The money is always being used. i feel like im always in debt or owing money that i never get in front of this wave to start earning actual income every dollar i make is always spoken for and the $1 to 80 dollars that i actually get left over is for cleaning supplies hair products medication condoms tampons pads basically things i need. and im honest in saying i do spend money on food and great craft beer bc its my way of treating myself for actually making a payment or actually getting out of bed, for going hungry for a few days or for having a good mental health day.

My hobbies include filling out job applications, fighting with doctors and secretaries, bill collectors debt collect companies and creditors, watching youtube videos, vloggers and youtubers on my phone and my freinds old old laptop the basement has pretty difficult internet connection and it is freezing cold but other than that its nice it works its a place to sleep and shelter, other hobbies are watching movies and tv, and lastly SLEEP. i sleep 10-14 hours most days or i go 2 days without sleep. i am always over sleeping or i just cant turn my brain and stress and anxiety off just to shut my eyes and sleep. I almost never talk with friends or see other people or go out and hang with friends. the only times i do go out is if someone offers to pay for me or otherwise i cant.

i am addicted to social media. i cant go for more than 15 seconds without checking instrgram or snap chat or youtube or facebook. i can easily spend 11 hours going back and forth between those 4 sites. it is very bad for my mental health and its stunted my success bc i cant help but compare myself. and its vicious negative cycle that i cant seem to break.

i have to walk or use uber or lyft or public transit to get around which gets very expensive over time. walking and being out waiting for the bus or train is very triggering for my mental health. People who are fortunate to have the luxury to own or lease a car please realize the people who cannot afford a car or cannot drive for whatever reason are not second class citizens. People and humans are very nasty and rude and more terrible than youd imagine. having to walk everywhere and be in with the public as much as i have turns you into a cynical abrasive aggresive hateful and rageful person. for example a few weeks ago a car turned on the street that i was walking on and the walk sign was lit and he had a yellow switching to a red, her turned quickly to beat the light that he didnt see me or the walk sign and was inches away from me so i ran after his car and punched the shit out of the passenger window. i spazed out like that bc i had a week of walking in the freezing cold (and living in a super cold place) being rained on and splashed by the puddles being ran thru by cars, teenagers on busses making fun of me throwing things at me, people in cars yelling shit at me and the others standing at a bus bc we dont have a car and we have to wait in the cold assuming that we were all bums or homeless.

I am not happy or passionate about things i use to be obsessed with. I grew up loving comedy. stand up sketch improv.

i use to perform. i would go see it all the time it meant the world to me it is what i wanted t0 do with my life.

but now I dont and i think its was stupid. and a waste of time. same with college it was a waste of time and money to get a degree in something i have no passion about anymore. and a degree in something in which there are no jobs for you.it was terrible decision i made. one of the billions of terrible decisions i ahve made in my life

I have zero self confidence and i barely care what my appearance looks like anymore. i glance in mirrors but never really look at myself. I dont look people in the eyes anymore. I think so hard about what i am saying for i say that it comes out more often that not weird or incorrect bc i am so worried about what others are thinking about me so then that leads to me getting made fun of for how i talk or how i say things. I am always the butt of my friends jokes im always being poked fun at or pranked or messed with.

I dress like 15 year old skate kid. i have nothing that is appropriate for like an office or an audition  or job interview or business meeting or family event or a formal event or cocktail party. i dont know how to dress for my age or for my gender. 

I am super lazy and messy but i have been working on it.

i use cannabis recreationally not everyday but definitely multiple times a week. when i can afford it. it helps clear my head and use the same way a person uses a nice glass of wine at the end of a long day. i dont think its wrong or inhibiting me as a person. sometimes it even helps with motivation and helps get me out of a depressive funk.

I am severely depressed and have an anxiety disorder.

I over think about everything. i make plans and lists for every scenario that i am going to encounter on a daily basis its almost obsessive. my train of thought before entering a conversation with anyone is “do not say anything weird dont look at them for to long, dont fidget, omg what are they thining about when they are looking at me, am i ugly and i coming off as weird or immature or nervous.” 

I lost alot of very important people in my life bc of death or from people and friends and family just cutting me off and people to live the rest of their lives without me. it makes me judge and hate everyone.

I am constantly worried that i am gonna become homeless live on the streets and become a junkie. I actually think about this so so so much. i actually shocked from what i have been thru that i havent become a junkie yet.

I dont want what most white women in their late twenties want and crave. i dont relate or most girls in my age range. its hard for me to find things in common with my peers.

I dont want to buy or own a house. renting forever is fine by me

I do want to buy and own a car preferably a truck but a small suv could work too.

I dont want a family. I dont want children my own or adoptive. I dont want to live in the suburbs or in a neighborhood with tons or old people and families.

i dont want marriage i think its problematic and dumb thing to subject yourself to.

i enjoy soccer and skateboarding and true crime movies and tv shows and horror movies and tv shows.i like some funny things but its selective. i love the sims.

i want to try out living in other states in the us and maybe even try living in the uk.

if i was rich i would want 2 small apartments in central city locations on both coasts of the us one on one and one on the other. and ill use my money to travel. i am craving to travel so badly its all i have been thinking about lately. but again no funds

i want to meet someone who just totally sweeps me off my feet. somone who knows how to be a real man and real boyfriend im tired iof these boys i need a guy who calls me out on my bs, gives constructive criticism, incredibly supportive and KIND. i want our respectfulness to be at an 100%. i want to feel worshipped and adored. i want them to be succesful and be able to bring me up and boost me forward. great listener. not sleepy or annoyed very easily. insane dark weird goofy sense of humor. id love them to be outgoing and be able to command a room and be comfortable around people new and old. great sex and adventures. currently im giving my ex a chance and its prolly a terrible idea.

i want a makeover i want to learn how to dress myself correctly and figure what my style is, make money and keep money, how to cook, how to skateboard, how to surf, how to take care of my skin and my hair. I want to learn how to work out where i wont make my current ailments and injuries and medical issues flare up and put me out of business for few days. id like to have toned arms back shoulders and legs and to not be winded dont everyday tasks.

if i had to make a dream cocktail. and the final result would be the new me i would throw in the blender: confidence of a drag queen, the wit and sharp tongue of joan rivers, the comedic timing of sean hayes, riley reids sex skills, the intelligence and maturity of michelle obama, pinks hair and singing skills, kat dennings body and dgaf attitude. that would be the perfect me in my eyes.

I want to make everyone proud of me. and I want to be proud of myself. 

idk what this was but its on the internet

-GE