#whale mitt

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

i just realized i never posted my little Sea Glass Jar! i had promised i would last stream. i forgor <3

[fishofthewoods]

if i think about the parallels between king lear and whalefall for 1 more second i am going to end up on the news. in minecraft

[treason-and-plot]

I have nothing of importance to say and no requests to ask, I just wanted to tell you that I saw a picture of Warren the whale whisperer catching some rays aboard his luxury cruiser and the water looked magnificent! Beautiful! :D

Thank you Sweet Nonners! Please accept another picture of Warren sunbathing aboard his cruiser, the tranquil waters of one of Isla Paradiso's many secluded bays providing a serene backdrop. Warren would also like to take this opportunity to remind you that everything you say is important! And that you should always exfoliate before a tanning session using a mitt or loofah, paying particular attention to dry areas like elbows and knees!

[zooophagous]

That yellow mouse is really striking! Never seen that color before. Are there any rare colors you are on the hunt for?

My white whale isn't a white whale, it's a red mouse.

I would pay more than they were worth to get my mitts on a breeding group of showline red mice. Red in mice is technically the same gene as yellow but selected for higher rufus pigment (like how a cream colored lab and a fox red lab are both actually yellow labs)

For some odd reason the color is much more popular in Europe than the USA and our lines of fancy mice are nowhere near as deep red as theirs, though some breeders have gotten pretty good at selecting for it.

Red mice also improve the color in black tan mice, which are the first color I starter with and still one of my favorites. Tan looks good on anything.

[gluttonygirls]

Why was the box empty?

Peering over the side of the person sized box, craning her head as she looked inside, there was nothing in it. It was a huge box, six feet wide and six feet across, it looked as if it had stored something huge. The anonymous gift had come off the back of a truck, heavy enough that the delivery people had been straining under it's weight, but now...

Stepping back as she set a hand on her enormous hip, the woman sighed.

...Why was the sigh so... high pitched?

Looking down at her free hand for a moment, she blinked as she looked it over. It was a huge, fat padded mitt, dainty fingers swaddled in lard.

"HUH?!?"

Looking down at herself, second chin squishing against her chest, the whale of a woman blinked. Why was she so surprised? This was how she'd always been.

Standing there in her silky red panties and bra, santa's white fuzz making it festive. Not that it was easy to see. Curling away from her silky locks of hair as they fell down to frame her chubby face, the bra was straining to the limit as her huge chest pulled against it. Cups in a custom size were sitting atop her belly, wobbling as she let out shocked and panicked breaths.

And what a belly it was. Resting against her shins, the doughy mountain of a middle was jiggling like jello, bouncing as she took huge handfuls of it to confirm that it was real. Squeezing it, shaking it, bouncing it all around, it was undeniably all very real.

All that jiggling was hurting her balance, though. She could feel it, the sheer heft of her ass, even if she couldn't turn her head far enough to see it all. Peeking over her shoulder, she could just see hints of red underwear pulled taut across an ass as big as her couch. Each cheek weighing as much as a young man might once have, not even including the thighs as thick as mattresses and blubbery calves that rolled over her ankles and tubby feet.

Huffing as she looked across herself, she glanced up.

There was something in the back of the box that she'd missed. Able to frame her figure perfectly and show off just how big, how heavy, how enormous she was, was a mirror. Six feet tall, six feet wide, just like she now was. Or that she always had been, inside.

"Th-This is me...?"

Her voice trembles, unused to how melodic and sweet it was. A tone as honey coated as the food she loved to eat. Holding her hand to her chest in shock, she felt something bubble up in her.

"H...hahaha... This... this is me~"

Giggling as she turned this way and that, breath stolen by how beautiful she was, the girl grinned.

Yes, this was how she'd always been and how she'd always be from now on. Whoever opened the present was just a mask. This version of her, the real her, was here to stay.

Not that anyone is moving her fat ass anywhere anytime soon.

[toad-in-a-trenchcoat]

True and yes

Ghost Anatomy- Pt 1?

What do you call ghost appendages.

Like Inky said “we don’t got hands” what do you call them then? Paws? Flippers? Fins? (Probably if they’re an aqua ghost)

also I think it’s fair to say while some ghosts have skirts, I also say some have tails (cyclops, fire, ice)

[gluttonemporium]

Kokichu spending his time at the beach just eating the sea life and begging Shuichi to help him rub some sunscreen on his belly since he's too fat to reach!

Having a whale of a time swallowing anything he can get his mitts on! Speaking of which, is that a whale over there-?

Shuichi is fine with the sunscreen part, but he's wondering how Kokichi keeps finding all these animals so close to the beach...

[piece-of-the-pie-if]

getting real basic but what’s each RO’s favourite animal?

such a cute question! I'll go favourite animal in general and also, as a treat, favourite animal as a pet!

Dylan──Aurelia Jellyfish/Black Sable Mitt Ferret

Shay──Red Panda/Sugar Glider

Kinsley──Koala/Holland Lop Bunny Rabbit

J──Whale Shark/Samoyed Dog or Alaskan Malamute Dog

Theo──Hedgehog/Calico Cat&Tabby Cat

[walkonpooh]

Whalefall - Daniel Kraus Review

Jay Gardiner had a rocky relation ship with his father Mitt. Mitt is a locally renowned diver who has always wanted Jay to follow in his footsteps. Jay wanted to set his own path in life and the two diverged, Jay leaving home to couch surf until he reached college age. Then Mitt is diagnosed with cancer and commits suicide. Jay's reunites with his Mother and two sisters, but feels that his relationship with his father was unresolved. Because the suicide happened at sea, there wasn't ever a body to bury and Jay decides to go to the location where his father died to attempt to find his bones and bring them back to his family, hoping the act will resolve their relationship and give him and his family closure. During the dive, Jay is attacked by a giant squid, which is fleeing a sperm whale. Suddenly, both Jay and the squid are swallowed by the sperm whale. Stuck in the sperm whale's stomach and his oxygen running out, Jay has to try to remember everything his father taught him about the sea in order to survive. So yeah I had been anticipating this one for the last month or so and I really liked this one. It's a horror version of Andy Weir's The Martian and while I didn't find Jay as likeable as Mark Watney in that book, I liked him enough to root for his survival in a harrowing situation. I loved Kraus using the PSI of the oxygen tank as chapters and a countdown for Jay's survival, really added to the tension of the situation. The descriptions of being in the sperm whale's stomach really reminded me of a certain scene from Jordan Peele's Nope that I loved. So yeah, highly recommend this one and I plan on checking out more from Kraus!

4/5

[lothricknightgirl]

Abyss

A WIP prologue of a fic I'm hoping to post someday. I'm putting it here so I can get some early feedback for revisions, and also because I like watching numbers tick up.

Yes, before you ask, it is a shipgirl fic for Kantai Collection. Yes, it's also a Dishonored crossover.

:>

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The sun rose over Dunwall’s bay. 

Atop the high white walls of the aristocratic quarter, two did sit and converse.

“Do they not unnerve you?”

A scoff.

Bellowed low did the mournful calls of a wounded whale echo across the water, sunlight glinting off the blood-sullied ships calling their fair port home.

A sigh.

“Of course.”

They turned their eyes away from the bay, and the victorious hunting horns sounded.

Crimson splattered against decks as the cheers of many working men went up into the air, the scent of salt and the stench of iron pervading through the air. 

The whaling trawlers stood still on the water, towering over the smaller boats in the docks, waves slowly lapping up against the sides of their looming steel hulls, as ichor from their crew’s latest prey dripped, dripped, dripped down onto their decks, flowing down the sides like a macabre curtain. 

Gore pooled into the bay, and it was whaling season in Dunwall again.

Deckhands whistled as crates and blubber were hauled ashore, bosun’s ear-bleeders and wounded animal calls drifting across the port, interjoining into a discordant chorus of ship’s horns and voices high over low as the bustle of the returning hunt began.

“Voids, just lookit the size of ‘er! We’re eatin’ good tonight lads!”

Eyes roved out over the water, stormy grey and gazing off into places elsewhere.

“Can barely believe it myself I say, she’s nearly bigger’n me bloody house! What a beauty of a beast.”

Smoke drifted into the air from a pipe, attached to a pair of cracked lips hidden behind a scruffy ill-maintained beard.

“Daniels, keep yer mitts off the crates! If I find even a piece o’ that blubber missin’, I’ll take my cut outta yer hide, you good-fer-nothin’ yellow liver!”

Calloused and bloody hands gripped the railing at the bow of a ship, the limbs they were attached to hidden by a black wind-weathered overcoat, whale-leather exterior shining under the heavy gaze of the sun. 

“You keep yer hands away from that Bessie or I’ll have words with you at the end of my gun, you salt-ridden dogs! Away, away with ye, to yer posts!”

Captain Gregor Hobson of the Red Lady’s Hymn sighed, raking a hand backwards through his hair, whale-oil pale with a meager speckling of grey here and there. 

“Oi, Claggard! Ease up on ‘em, no reason to get so worked up this early when we’ve just brought in a haul like this.”

His voice was tired and exasperated, smokey and slow like a cask of fine liquor, or a trail of burning gunpowder leading to an ammunition storage, depending on his mood that day.

The first mate stood pinned in place, before quickly nodding and scarpering off without a word, not without one final glare at the smug deckhands.

“And fer the rest of you, if I find even so much as a hand's width of that blubber missing, I’ll feed you to it. Get back to work, the lot o’ you!” He turned, and the crew took to their stations with all the speed of a man being chased into hell without so much as a backglance.

“Blimey, he’s terrifyin’.”

“Aye. He was a sarge, fer the navy. Tyvia, I think. Sunk near a dozen ships himself and ate a man’s heart out on the deck during the wars, from what I heard tell of.”

“Malarkey, the both of you. He’s an old sea-dog, nothin’ more, nothin’ less. Just keep yer hands away from the whales if you want to keep ‘em. He’s ruddy well good with that sword, and I don’t fancy losin’ any more fingers than I already have.”

Hobson scoffed, turning his pipe over the port with a good thunk against the rail for good measure, reflective mood soured as a heavy frown worked its way onto his sea-wizened face. 

“Excuse me.”

He cast an eye over his shoulder.

Another sigh, barely suppressed as the frown dropped from his face like a slick trout.

A thin man stood behind him, face pointier than a shark’s with twice the teeth to match, eyes narrowed down to dagger points and holding a watch in his hands, impatiently checking the time and tapping his foot.

A shining brass badge pinned to his vest shone in the rays

“Mornin’, Harbormaster. What can I do you for this fine day?” He greeted, turning and leaning back against the railing nonchalantly, tipping his hat up. 

The Master looked down his nose from his head’s perch upon his far too spindly body with a sneer.

“Yes, yes, good morning and all that, we hardly have time for pleasantries. State your name and import, I have important places to be and this isn’t one of them.”

His voice was a mixture between coarse grating sand between his ears and a poor imitation of a noble’s nasal dulcet tones.

Hobson only narrowly kept from rolling his eyes at the behavior. Slap a new accent on, think you’re taller’n everybody else and suddenly you’re the talk of the Tower. 

Still, as much as it grated, the Harbormaster was a rung above him in this twisted labyrinth of a society, so he played along for appearances sake. 

“Of course, of course, wouldn’t want to keep you, I’m sure you’ve got some very important things to be doin’. Just follow me and we can be done with it right quick,” he assured, tone falser than his bosun’s teeth, smiling wide like a whale waiting for its next prey to wander into its maw.

The Master’s head inclined, chest puffing out, though he straightened himself out before it could become too obvious, glancing about none too obviously.

Hobson pretended he didn’t see it, whistling a jaunt as he guided the man away and down to the hold, past the whale strung up in the crane above them. 

Hook, line and sinker with these types, every time, like leadin’ a rat to bread.

An hour later found the man off of his ship, wandering away with his hands stuffed into his pockets, probably to bugger whatever poor sod he set his eyes on next that was within his reach.

The Red Lady’s Hymn sailed for no company, and no sponsor. 

To a man like the Harbormaster, it would’ve been easy prey for an ego boost, bossing about independent sailors on their own ships from the safety of his position, conversely to the myriad of trawlers moored in the bay marked as Royal Hunters, the biggest group of sailing shills this side of the continent. 

Hobson watched until the slimy eel disappeared into the throng of sailors before turning back out across the bay, blowing out a long exhausted heave, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands to rid them of the salt’s sting. 

The Hymn hummed under his hands, engines whining with electrical power under the strain of the immense creature above the deck, groaning as blood sluggishly dripped from harpoon wounds along its flank. 

“I know girl, I know. Just one more good haul and you can rest,” he whispered, waiting for the humming to settle before striding off towards the bridge, barking orders to the crew as the church bells further inlands began to toll.

Below the deck, buried deep within the guts of the hulking steel beast of a ship, was the Hymn’s twin hearts, glowing as the whale-oil within churned and sparked with arcane energy, rusted screws rattling in their places as the engineers did their best to sooth the beleaguered machines. 

The Red Lady’s Hymn was ancient, by modern day whaling trawler standards. 

It wouldn’t be out of the question for Anton Sokolov to have walked the Hymn’s deck himself when it was just WT-032, the last of the Driscol class ships, marking the beginning of a new line as the trawlers were further refined.

Three crews had manned the decks of the Hymn in her time, and all but one of them had met grisly fates at sea at the hands of beasts unnamed and unknown. 

And yet, every time, the Hymn had sailed back into Dunwall to do her duty as always, towed in by tugs, or, in the incident that earned her the moniker of Red Lady’s Hymn, by the tides themselves. 

It had been a foggy morning then, all those years ago, bitter winter come to lay its weary bones into the bay as ice crept around the shores, and WT-032 had been missing at sea for three weeks. 

The Watch had all but given up on it by the beginning of the second week, and the only ones still looking for it in any capacity were sailors wary of happening upon its wreck. 

Then, in the waning days of the Month of High Cold, a ship had sailed into port, sluggishly maneuvering into dock until her hull had ran aground the shore with an awful shrieking noise, almost touching the nearest house with her prow until she rasped to a stop, barely a finger’s width away from shattering its window. 

The Harbormaster then, a crabby old man with little to say beyond poison to spit at younger folk, had come running out of his hovel with his face twisted into an angry rictus and shouted for the captain of the vessel to step onto shore, then abruptly fell silent. 

The hull loomed over him, red ichor drip, drip, dripping out of her scuppers and onto his face, filling his nostrils with the heavy cloying scent of iron as it dribbled down his chin. 

The carcass of a whale still hung above the abandoned vessel, bereft of all life as it slowly shifted in the wind, sending creaks rattling down the cranes holding it aloft. 

Blood congealed into the cold oak of the deck, spattered about in great pools and littered with splinters, some planks sticking out like jagged teeth, and others split in two, like the steps of a mighty giant had sundered them apart. 

No matter where the Watch had searched, after the calls had gone up, no crew were to be found, corpses or otherwise.

It was like they had been plucked from the decks by the hands of the void itself, leaving it to drift away on the winds, pulled along by the tides like a lost child by the hand of a mother.

That day, in the cold of Dunwall’s winter, the dock-goers had gathered and listened as the vessel’s engines sang, like a ghostly siren’s chorus, solemn and pained as it strained to keep itself going on what little fuel it had left.

The sailors would drift home that morning, minds elsewhere and attention paid to places far away as the song echoed across the waves, the blood drip, drip, dripping off of her deck and into the bay, seemingly never drying no matter how long it stained the decks, or so they say.

WT-032 earned the moniker Red Lady’s Hymn that day, for the color of her crimson shawl and the notes of her sorrowful song. 

As much of an curse as she was a blessing, she was truly a terrible and wonderful thing to see over the horizon, hull bloodied with whale-gore more often than not, her song whispering across the waves as the silhouette of a mighty beast caught in her crane wavered against the setting of the sun beneath the sea, like wet paint running down a canvas. 

As the moon came up over Gristol and colored the ocean in a ghostly pale blue, the Red Lady’s Hymn set out for her next hunt, skies cloudless overhead and waves calm beneath her hull.

Captain Gregor kept a watchful eye over the sea, hands steady on the wheel as a quiet tune carried over the deck in chorus with the humming of the Hymn’s heart. 

He turned slightly, away from the windows, just enough for the glow of the moon to leave the corner of his vision, grasping for the lighter in his pocket and deftly lighting the pipe perched precariously on the wooden surface beside him, lifting it to his mouth and turning back to face the deck.

He stilled.

It was quiet. 

He leaned slightly over, casting his gaze about for his crew and finding nothing but air. 

His heart slowed as his eyes narrowed, setting the pipe down. 

He thumbed open the lock on the furthest right window, before calling out in a clear voice, “Boys, how’re the seas lookin’?”

The only answer was the waves, gently lapping against the Hymn’s hull, song eerily silent. 

Unnerved, he called again, voice unsure, to no avail. 

His eyes narrowed further, and his hands itched for his sword.

Turning on the spot, slowing the ship and leaving the wheelhouse, he opened the bulkhead and stepped out into the cool night air, breezeless and still.

Closing the heavy cast door behind him, he strided down the steps, whale-leather boots click, clack, clicking against the deck.

Two paces.

No sign of anybody.

His heart beat faster, like a war drum thudding in his ears. 

Four paces. 

“Boys?” He yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. 

No answer.

Six paces.

His back was nearly against the aft’s railing now, the Hymn’s heart still quiet beneath his feet, his voice echoing across the waves. 

Eight paces. 

The Hymn sang. 

One, low, haunting note, like the death-call of a whale in her last throes, reverberating in his chest as it froze like ice, heart dropping like lead into his gut as it crescendoed, louder, louder, the engine’s whining almost reaching an unearthly wail, before- 

Death, yawning wide open, like a cavernous maw, a black and cold abyss.

A hat hit the deck without a sound, a scream evaporating into the air, never making it out of his mouth as more than a rattling gasp. 

When the dawn rose over Dunwall’s bay once more, and the hunt once again returned victorious to the bay only to find its waves silent and songless, the Red Lady’s Hymn was not there to greet it.

______________________________________________________________

Abyss

noun.

A deep or seemingly bottomless cavern.

“A rope led down into the abyss.”

______________________________________________________________

[finishinglinepress]

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Jo Ann’s career in public education culminated as a high school district Superintendent. In that capacity, her writing relied on the orderly left side of her brain. She now finds herself drawn to the reading and writing of poetry – a creative journey that continues to be challenging, revealing, and liberating.

PRAISE FOR Curveballs by Jo Ann Smith

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In Curveballs Jo Ann Smith’s background as an educator offers her readers insights into different ways of seeing. What one might see as a normal aspect of life, Jo Ann sees as a special occasion for musing on what we are led to see with her. She is always, it seems, reaching for Polaris, for the True North of her life. “Can you feel what I feel / if I cannot touch your face / in these infected times,” she asks. And she moves easily to art, examining a Picasso vase with unfamiliar insights. And then to the realm of the Orca whale, making connections for herself and us as we track a trail of stars. Jo Ann Smith probes beneath surfaces, revealing everyday situations, relationships, or aspects of nature which move us to the universal, letting us see ourselves in her poems. In the love poem, “She Brings Rhythm to My Blues,” we see how we can create harmony within our differences. We suggest that you take your time reading these poems, as repeated readings continue to open new vistas.

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–Margaret Rooney, poet

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[fishofthewoods]

and like just to be clear i dont mean that it accurately represents jay and mitt but i think jay Thinks it does pre-whale. and he is such an unreliable narrator. and that's what makes it fun

wait why is dear wormwood by the oh hellos kind of whalefall coded. Like the Sleep scene as an animatic set to dear wormwood.... that would kind of fuck nasty.

[tadbitsickchickwithadick]

since I can't pick one I'll just say multiple animals: whaleshark, crow, cat

Whale sharks are sooo cool. So, they are the biggest fish in the seas as far as we know. And they appear to have adapted in the same way as whales for a really long time, filter feeding for plankton.

We knew that they gulped down the algae and sea grasses, but newer research shows that not only do they consume krill, and other such organisms, they also digest the plant matter that they swallow too! This means they are now beating the Kodiak bears for the largest omnivores in the world :o!!!!

Crows are fun because they're so smart. They play, they communicate, and they use tools regularly. Some of them make friends with wolves!!

In fact, they are really particular about which tools they use to retrieve food. Many of them make their own little hooks out of sticks and the like, but the adolescent and young adult crows will typically make one, well crafted hook and protect it and keep it with them. But the older adults will tend to quickly make just-good-enough hooks and then toss them when they're done. The youngster prizes perfection, while the wise know that the food is what's truly important.

Cats are pretty hard actually, because everybody is so into them already. Especially on this hellsite, but that does not deter me! The most effective hunter in the feline family tree is the black-footed cat. And oh my gods, they're absolutely adorbs(^-^)!!

These little murder mitts are from southern Africa, residing in semi-arid climates, and because of that they don't get very big (1-2 kg). But they are voracious little predators, actively hunting for 70% of the time they spend traveling. And not only that they have a 60% success rate when hunting in general. One of the highest in the animal kingdom.

Pics for the cats in the source<3

Sources:

The big fish

The tool birbs

The murder kibties

[bigfan1811]

i love it when oven mitts look like sperm whales

[merry-go-round-jailhouse]

I met him at a shitty part-time gig in college. Setting up/breaking down those beige plastic tables and chairs. It was at an event for the non-profit he represented ("Oorah"?). Normally, when you're grunt staff at one of these events, you just get in and out. It's not that the people there are rude, but there's no reason for much communication beyond small pleasantries and sundry requests and directions. Not him, though. Not him.

His eyes were green. If nothing else, I will always remember the piercing emerald of his eyes. He approached me. Rolling a stack of chairs. Names exchanged, eye contact. Charged air. Electricity.

He was clearly older than me by several years, but, even though I was in college, it wasn't as if I was some young ingénue incapable of holding my own. I wasn't some dumb kid. "I'm not stupid," was at least what my heart whispered in the dark. Still whispers. And it wasn't like he came on strong, like older men are wont to do, belching out coffee breath in between awkward advances and scanning your body with their tired eyes. He put his number in my phone, we parted, I set out the beige tables and draped them in cream fabric. After the event was done and my body aching to crash into bed to get up for the 7:30 AM lecture the next day, I caught his emerald eyes, crinkled kindly, from across the room. The world faded, if for a moment. That night my feet did not feel like lead weights as I trudged to the bus stop. It felt like I was walking on pure air.

He had this thing--and it was a foot "thing", but not a foot fetish. He always helped with rent and groceries, would slide me a $50 bill for "fun" when he was booked out for a weekend. But I was still a broke student, and the scribbles of assignment reminders and part-time gig reminders tended to look like a Pollock painting in my planner, so so the nights we could spend together were special. And in the morning, after a night of bliss, in between hurried cups of coffee or looking for his misplaced keys (I assume he has still never broken out of this habit), he would tiptoe back into my bedroom. And he would lift the blanket and bend his substantial torso over and plant a kiss on my big toe. Just a peck, then he rubbed it in between his fingers, as a jeweler appreciates a fine gem stone, then the blanket would descend again.

Speaking of his fingers, I won't act as if I didn't have my own "thing". You would think somebody who had never worked backbreaking labor a day in his life would have soft hands--you know, absent of any callouses, frail and sad little things. Not his hands. I don't know if he had been an athlete or a lifter in his college days, but his hands were as big as baseball mitts, sinewy and firm. Sitting on the couch together, I used to grab his hands at random. He would roll his eyes, but relented. I would work my hands to fit in the nook of his broad palms and marvel at the girth of his fingers. We kept things low-key in public, but during the times when he acquiesced to my whining and we strolled hand-in-hand, I felt as if I were once more wearing the pair of gloves that my grandmother knitted for me when I was a child. The ones that I frayed the hell out of and that earned my snickers from my classmates when I stubbornly kept them glued to my hands even in spring, even in early summer. And never once did I think it was stupid. I knew perfectly well what I was doing, I would retort. What was a defense mechanism transformed into a mantra that calcified around my heart.

He taught me a little Chinese. If we were grabbing dinner, I would scribble out the kanji I could recall from Japanese language school on a napkin, and he would teach my about its Chinese pronunciation meaning, etymology, radicals. He could go on for hours and it would feel like minutes. Sichuan cooking techniques, French history, how IMF policies influence textile production patterns in developing nations, beluga whales. And I would hang on every word. Older men tend to believe that they are erudite and full of knowledge. What their fantasies belie is that they simply know how to drop words and phrases like "unconventional narrative structure" or "index fund" into conversation, like how a bird drops its shit on your car. Not him. Again, I won't pretend as if sex and physical intimacy isn't a core of any good relation (and good sex at that, not some five-minute dry hump that ends with him turned over and me reaching for my phone to find some shit that will let me get some satisfaction), but when you find somebody who can give you that and then carry on a conversation... sink your claws in and hold on. It's a world full of truck drivers.

I graduated in autumn because of some bullshit with the bureaucracy of my university that I can't even recall now. His profile had only grown. I don't think I need to remind you of his gift for public speaking. Plus, you know as well as I do how the internet and social media work: one day, by dumb luck, you go viral and blow up overnight. Suddenly, you're everywhere, everybody knows your face. For most people the burst dies back down into a little flame and eventually peters out, but when your whole job is being the face of a non-profit, you've got to grab and hold onto and opportunity for recognition and branding that you can get. I got job offers in a few cities nearby, all an hour or two drive away from our apartment. I say "our" apartment. It was my studio. My name was on the lease. But his razor was in my medicine cabinet and his extra pair of loafers were stashed in my closet and the imprint of his body formed a niche in my mattress on the left-hand side (measuring from a stain of red wine that never faded from the "head" of the thing) that never quite sprang back.

I had a piece of paper that said I was allowed to perform chemical engineering now. Jesus, what a joke. Of course it's about who you know. It was back to holding back my gags as older men blew their coffee breath into my face (perhaps preferable to the notes of Chardonnay or Malbec spewed from the gullets of older women). Putting on a smile for my peers and then turning on my heel and stabbing them in the back, only to open my email to find another one that began along the lines of, "Thank you for expressing an interest in joining the team at [insert company staffed by HR fuck-face #3,245]. However, we have not decided to move forward with your application at this time..."

He was doing well. Better than well. I could sense his genuine pride every time his face crinkled into a smile and the wrinkles around his eyes flexed while he regaled me with another story of a conference or an appearance, bigger and better than the last. Around this time, staring into the mirror during another lonely night, my vanity betrayed me and my heart sank as my eyes picked out the fresh wrinkles on my own face. I think he noticed them, too.

I don't remember the last time he did his morning toe ritual. I was enveloped in too much bliss to be cognizant of the world during those moments. I do remember the last time we held hands. Dinner at an Italian place, digestive stroll along the gentrified riverfront. Autumn. November. Dead leaves and the grayness of the non-time in the uncountable weeks before Thanksgiving. Without words. His hand pulling back from mine. Vanishing into the air. It was freezing.

I still see him now. It's inevitable. He's not as big as he was when we were together, but memes tend to survive like cockroaches. Like I said, social media fame is fleeting. After I've opened the second bottle of bottom-shelf crap for the night, I tell myself this. So I can feel superior to whoever he's with now. You might have him now, but I was there when his star was brightest. He's not top-shelf anymore. That was mine. Mine alone. Enjoy the leftovers.

I'm in a city in the next state over now. When I was clearing out my studio, packing my life into boxes, I caught the movers as they were heaving the mattress out of the bedroom and down into the stairwell. I stopped and thought for a moment. As the U-Haul tore away from the curb, I averted my eyes from the overflowing dumpster. The mattress stuck out at an odd angle, left-hand side poking over the edge.

it was a five dollar bill. he spoke a strange combination of chinese and english, and then he disappeared into the ether