#you ever feel like the algorithm algorithm-ed too much
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adventurepunks · 18 days ago
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Tumblr's suggestions of blogs and posts have always been a dumpster fire BUT suggesting me Numeror era 'Sauron/Zigur' as a glorified wine bearer, I feel as if Tumblr publicly called me out and kink shamed me.
And like a gremlin that found food in the dumpster I must now be fed.
@menelvagor and @admirableringmaker y'all be doing the lords workkkkk.
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ppeonppeonhan · 8 months ago
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Songs That Remind Me of BL Characters & Couples
@zimmbzon kindly tagged me in their post, prompting me to share the first ten songs in my On Repeat playlist. Highly recommend checking theirs out, because mine is...rather basic. And becauuuuse it's basic, I'm gonna add another layer to this and tell you which BL character or couple perfectly matches the vibe of each song.
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1 | "imperfect for you" by Ariana Grande: This one's off her new "please feel sad for me because even though I'm messy when it comes to love I still have feelings" album. I may have listened to this one "on repeat," because it's just cathartic to two-step to these lyrics: "I'm fucked up / anxious / too much / but I'll love you / like you need me to / imperfect for you." What's that? Self-awareness? Respect. I just know Ming from My Stand-In would have the audacity to sing this to body-swapped Joe.
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2 | "Acid Dreams" by MAX and Felly: Could not tell you who either of these people are but this song is a snap-worthy bop that got me feeling myself every time it comes on -- probably because it opens with: "You look so good in a night gown girl / freckles on your face / lemme kiss each one." This was clearly meant for my generation, because there is not a single human under 30 in possession of a night gown. But Khem from Deep Night would 1,000% use this song to charm the pants off of someone.
3 | "Toco Toco To" by Dixson Waz: I'm Dominican. And even though I understand Spanish, I cannot for the life of me tell you what this man is saying, but I can assure you it is inappropriate. Rated NC-17 without a doubt. And for that reason, I'd pair this song with the entire cast of Playboyy -- just casually playing this in the background of one of their random, impromptu, midday sex parties.
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4 | "Lie to Me" by Meghan Trainor: Obsessed. Not with her. With her music. She has so many non-butt-related songs that are worth a listen. I truly feel like she's underrated -- on par with Ed Sheeran -- and she doesn't get enough credit for it. In this track, she sings: "I don't want the truth / I want you." That sounds exactly like our lovesick boy Nick in Only Friends, thirsting after anti-monogamy Boston like he didn't know better.
5 | "Jealous" by Chris Brown, Lil Wayne, & Big Sean: While it is true that every single person on this track is problematic, including producer DJ Khaled, the swagger is immaculate. Every time it comes on, I, sincerely, close my eyes and just picture BTS's rap line to cleanse the beat. Not gonna miss out on a banger because men are the worst. Anywayyyy, the most jealous character I can think of is Way from Pit Babe, who tried to r-word his "bestie" because he chose a random nerd over him. He fits in well with these clowns.
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6 | "Bounce Back" by Little Mix: The only British pop girl group I've ever intentionally streamed is Spice Girls, but the algorithm clearly thought it meant I'd like this group, and the track that hooked me was one that sampled the iconic Soul II Soul's "Back to Life." Instant replay. Someone I think lives and breathes the mantra "You can have me however you want me / however you need me" is the Sultan of Simp, Karan from Cherry Magic (Thailand). Achi could've asked for a kidney, and he would've delivered. But coming in a close second is obviously Rain from Love in the Air. Payu had to practically beat him off with a stick -- no pun intended.
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7 | "Body" by Loud Luxury and Brando: It's the buildup to the chorus for me -- come to find out many listens later that it's about a guy who is begging a girl to sleep with him because he's been "waiting too long." 🙄 This one very obviously goes to Yuan from Unknown, who damn near disintegrated Qian's clothes the minute he saw even the glimmer of a green light. Talk about a slow build.
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8 | "Into You" by Fabolous feat. Tamia: Back in 2003, rappers used to drop an R&B hit every now and then to remind women that they were romantics. The gaslight kings of the aughts. So in this track, this duo talks about an inexplicable-but-undeniable connection, which only makes me think of Vegas and Pete from KinnPorsche. Those two needed a PowerPoint presentation to explain to their friends and family how they went from hostage situation to star-crossed lovers. But we got nothing -- just good vibes and patricide.
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9 | "i wonder..." by j-hope feat. Jung Kook: Do I miss them? Yes. Will I listen to any BTS track that's easy to Namjoon to? Yes. Now that we got that out of the way: This song is about enjoying the moment and not wasting the good times by dreading the future. And that just screams Be My Favorite to me. Kawi just kept trying to time-travel his way to a hetero fantasy, not realizing his queer happily ever after was standing right in front of him the whole time in the gorgeous form of the eternally patient Pisaeng.
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10 | "MY HOUSE" by Beyoncé: Not to bring up BTS again, but 👀...j-hope would body any choreography set to this song. Without breaking a sweat. And mother would be proud. On this track, the Queen B speaks of once dreaming of the wealth, fame, and stability she has now, and making sure to only keep positive people around her, because love heals. Sailom from Dangerous Romance would certainly relate to having similar dreams and beliefs, and effortlessly exudes equally feisty bad bitch energy. I still can't get over how he disarmed his bully (and future love interest), Kanghan, by basically saying, "You clearly like me. Shut up." And saying it with tongue.
That was fun. 🤸🏿‍♂️
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dehalogenase · 2 months ago
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idk if any poc of color experience this too but i often forget that im not white. my self-image is at least 75% whiter than i actually am. maybe a little bit (w)asian too but that isn’t as clear as the white self.
there have been a few times where i surprised myself in the mirror. it was pretty clearly a racial surprise. i just…looked more mexican than i remembered.
identity-wise, i think having friends who share your label is more important than having friends who necessarily look like you. gender-wise, my manhood and womanhood are pretty defined by the way my friends present(ed) themselves. i think ethnicity is the same, basically.
when i dress up or do my makeup i am engaging in a conversation between myself, the beauty standards i prescribe to, and the presentation of people around me.
on the one hand i have these faded memories of mexican women, all much older than i am now: my aunts at family reunions, almost-purple dyed hair, tattooed-on eyebrows, just-too-light foundation grasping at whiteness. on the other hand i have the flood of tiktok starlets delivered to me by the algorithm. their presentation is amalgamated across years of obsessive trend-watching and self-surveillance. when i see them i feel like i know exactly what they looked like in 2020 and 2022, in August of 2019. in my peer groups i have mostly millennial, white, queer women. i don’t know if i want to look like them. the conversation i have with these modes of presentation tends towards mimicry. i never know what is and what isn’t possible. i could probably be read as a New England Lesbian if i really tried. i doubt i could ever make myself look like the girls i try to model my fashion off of. frustratingly, i don’t think i could pull off mexican beauty either, primarily because i don’t have enough data to know how to fit myself into it!
this all leaves me very confused and when i close my eyes i don’t really know how i am perceived. that might be the most frustrating part. if i knew how other people saw me i could start to dial things in. it becomes pretty easy, subverting expectation or conforming to them makes it possible to control how others see me. I will keep doggedly looking in the mirror until i finally see someone i recognize. until that happens, i can try to befriend more latinas and maybe watch AOC more often. it’s embarrassing not knowing what race i am, i promise i’m trying to cut it out.
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andromeda3116 · 2 years ago
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i mean... yeah, this.
like, as much as i love the chaos of this site, it cannot survive without a revenue stream. and it appears that they're doing everything they can to make this site profitable without mining critical data from the users. the "for you" tab pretty clearly bases its "algorithm" on the things that i have liked and/or reblogged, as well as the things people i follow have liked and/or reblogged, and that's... pretty tame, in today's environment. its assumption is that if someone i follow likes this thing, then probably i like it too. (it is often wrong.)
but it doesn't seem engineered to make you feel an emotion, unlike facebook's infamous algorithm which is explicitly designed to make you as outraged as possible. it seems to be -- at least at this stage -- an ai version of looking through an author's bookmarks on ao3. and as long as it stays like that -- and stays optional, which is extremely key -- i'm okay with it!
the thing is, tumblr is a relic of a past version of the internet. people don't really blog anymore. it doesn't appeal to the youngsters whose entire internet experience has been curated and algorithm-ed to death. we joke about this site's aging userbase, but it's aging because this site is the last bastion of the time when the internet was the community of the weird. the era of webrings and message boards and livejournal communities, where "the internet" was where the weird kids who had nothing in common with their peers went to talk to people who actually understood them.
and that's great, and wonderful, and makes this site a bizarre, inexplicable, fun place to be -- but servers are expensive and maintaining huge sites with heavy traffic costs a lot of money.
do i think that automattic -- or any corporation -- genuinely has anyone's best interests at heart except their shareholders? no. but i do feel like they are trying to find a balance between letting tumblr be itself and making enough money to sustain the site, because they know that tumblr is not ever going to be tiktok and the only way to keep the userbase is to let it keep being weird? yeah, okay, i can buy that.
it's like a less-insanely-dystopian version of disney buying out marvel -- is it a soulless cash grab? yes. are they watering things down to make them more palatable to a larger audience? obviously. is this horrifyingly indicative of a larger societal problem with corporations, the internet, algorithms, artificial intelligence, and human nature? absolutely. but will they try to fundamentally change the nature of the stories that drew people to them in the first place? not unless they're incredibly fucking stupid, they won't.
look, i would love to keep tumblr being the home of the anti-capitalist unprofitable weirdos with our own culture that the rest of the internet finds both deeply incomprehensible and incredibly magnetic. i would love for us to always be unmarketable. but the sad and horrific reality is that we live in a world now where nothing is allowed to be unmarketable. and for tumblr to survive, it must evolve.
and as long as they're not doing that by mining my data from other sites i visit, or from my personal information, or from me having my location turned on so i can use gps to not get lost -- i can live with that. sure, it's shoving ads in my face and that's fucking annoying, but it's not tailoring those ads to information extrapolated from whose phone was near mine for an extended period of time, or which headlines pissed me off enough to get me to click on the link, or the random question i googled, or the store i visited.
does it suck absolute fucking ass that we live in a world where "hey, at least these insufferable ads being shoved in my face weren't selected by an artificial intelligence that has somehow accessed my entire personality based on my interactions with people and articles and products in completely different spheres that i didn't even know the site knew about" is the best social media experience available right now? absolutely!!!!! it's objectively insane!!!!! how the fuck has it gotten this bad!!!!!
but this is unfortunately the world we live in right now. and to keep holding on to our little corner of the internet, where we can stay weird and blog like it's 2010 and default to seeing chronological posts from people we have personally selected to follow, i am willing to accept certain concessions.
Was going to write this as a reply to something but realized it needed its own post.
The tl;dr is that, from the looks of it, Automattic absolutely has every intention of turning Tumblr into a marketing media platform.
I work for a marketing company. I build websites.
Specifically, I build websites on Wordpress.org, which is operated by the Wordpress Foundation.
The Wordpress Foundation is the non-profit counterpart to the for-profit company Automattic.
Automattic, as we know, is the company that currently owns Tumblr.
Now, the thing about Wordpress.org (not to be confused with Wordpress.com) is that it's very, VERY popular amongst small businesses. Not only can you build a fully-customizable website with relative ease, you can also add an online shop using another Automattic product: Woocommerce.
Not too long ago, I noticed a new feature was added to Woocommerce: A button next to each Woocommerce product which allows you to Blaze them to Tumblr right from the comfort of your dashboard:
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This is what I get when I click that little "Blaze" button...
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As someone who understands these tools, I understand the potential implications of these features:
The Blaze feature is basically an up-and-coming ad campaign system that's directly integrated with Woocommerce websites, which I think is the first ad marketing system of its kind. You don't have to log into a social media account to advertise your products, use a second-party integration, or even pay another service to manage your social media ads. It's all baked right into your business's website.
THIS is their planned money-maker, folks, not the rainbow checkmarks or crab armies. And the reason why Automattic would do this kind of thing is simple: Businesses are wealthier than individuals. By implementing a B2B service, Automattic can make more money off of Tumblr than user subscriptions and shoelaces will ever provide.
It's all the same song and dance. Businesses can now shove more ads into your face in a new, convenient fashion. It'll be ads that don't look like ads disguised amongst ads that do look like ads, just like it is with Facebook, TikTok, Instagram, and literally every other marketing media service that calls itself a "social" media.
(Tumblr's new video feature? My guess is that it's there to prepare for video-format Blaze campaigns. Influencer-style videos are the only kind of ad format Gen-Z is receptive to, which is why you're suddenly seeing videos on every platform.)
All they really gotta do now is make Tumblr look appealing to the normies so they can draw in a userbase that isn't trying to escape the onslaught of commercialism that plagues other sites.
Tumblr is one of the last true social medias we have; a place where content is made purely for the sake of talking about it. But given the writing on the wall...I doubt it'll stay that way.
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fairycosmos · 2 years ago
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I'm freaking tf out bc all of a sudden Tumblr is recommending pro ed and pro ana posts??? I never have seeked out content like that or made it I always hated seeing things like that as a fat person bc I'm scared of its effects on me. I've been blocking so many blogs bc I'm scared I'll keep getting their posts. What's up with my algorithm I'm on the brink of tears I hate this 😭😭😭
ahhh what on earth 😭 so sorry to hear that!! i have no idea why this rebirth of popular pro ED content is happening either but i fucking hate it too, seems to be everywhere all over again. i get flashbacks lmfao. and every week on tiktok i get some fat creator talking about theyve been posted and ridiculed in those toxic circles online and it makes me feel sickkkk :( you can block all tags to do with ed's and weight loss and body image on here, hopefully that'll at least help a little, and ofc clicking not interested everywhere you can. block block block, and if it really starts impacting ur mental helath, know you can always take a detox from the internet if needs to be. sucks that you have to do that of course, but yeah. various algorithms across all social media platforms seem to be growing increasingly fucked lately - so much harmful and controversial shit rises to the top no matter what you interact with. sending you a lot of love and understanding tonight. if you ever need a friend, i'll be here. x
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fizzingwizard · 2 years ago
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I think I’ve figured out why “follow for follow” bothers me so much.
Under a cut bc I know I’ve whined about this before and y’all probably don’t need another earful.
On another SNS I just got four new followers at once even though I haven’t used that site in... probably a year. Each of the followers were people who try to sell things (art, custom clothing, etc). On that site, it’s mostly artwork and photographs. I don’t post often because I’m not so good at it.
Same as tumblr, same as anything really, when you get a new follower there’s a little burst of surprise, interest, and gratification. Like, cool, this person saw my photos/my artwork/my blog and wants to see more of it, so they followed me! Cool! And then, yeah! I probably go to their blog and check them out, and follow them back if I like their content too. That’s the way it’s meant to work.
But these days, on tumblr as elsewhere, the majority of new followers seem to have nothing in common with me. Now and then they’re even a literal brand (if an unknown one). I remember I joined a fandom and someone rather well known there followed me after I posted a couple times. I was like wow they’re friendly! ... Only to realize that they were just following me so I would follow THEM. They never interacted once with any of my fandom posts. Which, of course, there’s never any such obligation to do... But zero interaction after following really does speak for itself.
But when you follow someone with the purpose of immediately forgetting they exist, it just feels really disingenuous. Because you KNOW they felt that little burst of gratification. You know seeing they have a new follower made them a little bit happy for a minute. And you USED that. It’s like walking up to someone, saying “I like your hair,” and then completely ignoring their thank you and follow up talk to wait for them to compliment YOUR hair. IRL that’d be rude. You can get away with a lot online that you can’t IRL, that’s true - but this is definitely one trend that has become a real pet peeve for me personally.
Brands doing it is annoying, but at least when it happens, I can go, “It’s a brand, so whatever.” When it’s an individual though. It just feels so, so tacky. Nobody likes trick adverts, why would they like a trick follow?
It’s not like you have to become bestest friends 5 ever with everyone you follow. But it seems sso weird to follow someone and never interact with them at all. Reminds of the old days in the beginning of Facebook, when everyone just friended every person they could possibly have met on the street once in an effort to “have the most friends.” Like that was some sort of accomplishment. And back then it wasn’t even about showing them your content or potentially making money: people just wanted to be “Facebook popular.” It was weird. I was never into. And I’m glad that I’m a tumblr oldie now and whether people follow or unfollow has no effect on my self-esteem anymore - but it would have when I was kid. And I certainly find it at least annoying. It’s sucked all the fun out of checking out your new follower. At least half the time, if not more than that, it’s someone who I can’t see how we have anything in common.
I know we all want visibility and algorithms and whatnot make that tough. And I know I’ve complained about this before so apologies to anyone who’s annoyed by Fizz the Broken Record. But really, truly, the best way to make me NOT interested in you or your content is make it obvious that to you I’m just a potential fan - not a potential friend.
(There may be some people who follow just to lurk because they’re shy. If so, I think the difference is, if I take a look at their blog I’m likely to find something we have in common, and be able to say, “Ah, that’s why they followed me,” as well as see that they’re not really interacting with too many others, ergo they’re probably shy. So I don’t count lurkers as part of my pet peeve in this little op-ed. This is def directed more at extroverted type blogs, who, to be fair, aren’t doing anything technically wrong. I really do wish there were a good way of telling Absolutely Everyone how much I don’t want this kind of follower, though. It’s just happening so often lately. Making fandom content used to feel like a thing we did together as a community, but with stuff like this it feels like we’re all in competition with each other instead...)
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boop-le-snoot · 4 years ago
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PARTY FAVOURS I CHAPTER 16
First time reader click here
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Summary/TWs: Trouble is brewing. Canon-typical violence, graphic descriptions of wounds and Clint whump. Bad, terrible, no-good medical accuracy. Aliens. Reader is an anxious genius with low self-esteem and PTSD. ✨spicy sadness✨
From now on, chapters will be posted un-beta-ed. She's taking a lil break. 💖💝✨
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I liked to think I had made peace with the fact that my boys and girls had one hell of a dangerous job. Natasha, Clint, Steve and Bucky frequently left for missions and while I missed their usual bickering in the background, it wasn't like the tower's common room became absolutely quiet. The fact that they mostly did recon-only missions helped, too, as they would come home unharmed and in one piece. The worry was there but subtle - like setting the table and including silverware for the people who were gone on a mission.
Peter's patrols went less smoothly, usually. He was small and even in his spider-suit, the boy was frequently underestimated by common thugs. Apparently, they didn't know how to read the news - it was blatantly obvious the hero was enhanced. And yet somehow, Pete more often than not sported all sorts of bruises, scratches and tears.
Tony and I routinely tore out our hair over the spiderboy's carelessness. The engineer had a funny way of showing he cared for Peter. Once I got to know him better, my brain dubbed them as Irondad and Spiderson. And it wasn't weird at all, somehow, that I was basically fucking my best friend's dad. Tony never made me uncomfortable, if anything, he went to great lengths to accommodate my whims. Tony continuously found time for me, answered my dumb questions and soldiered through the shenanigans I got up to after having too much caffeine and too little sleep.
Sitting in the quiet, empty common room was unnerving. It was shortly after dinner time - the evening news skipped their usual political debate in favour of the battle that was raging downtown, the reason for my headache and wrung hands.
I missed Tony's running mouth. The aliens the team was fighting looked quite hilarious, murderous intentions aside, and I could only imagine the way Tony and Clint would mock them. Hentai rejects. Tentacle porn knock-offs. The aliens were squid-like, about half the size of a human and very, very slippery, from what I spied on the TV.
An irritated-looking Stephen had me equal parts apprehensive and drooling - one after another, he conjured up a series of small portals, teleporting the aggressive octopods only god knew where. It would have looked incredibly badass if not for the exhausted sheen of sweat I could see on his brow, even despite the camera footage being shaky and grainy.
The news footage showed Tony - Iron Man, soaring contentedly through the darkening skies and taking out the squirmy mass of tentacles with his plasma beam repulsors. Steve and Bucky and Loki appeared too, sporadically, being well-oiled murder machines. Nothing new.
Yet, I worried. The little worm of doubt was squirming full-force. I tried to ignore it, yet pacing, sitting and playing Candy Crush got me nowhere. I pestered Friday to order pizza, the team's usual post-mission order plus a large one for me - stress-eating was better than stress-popping-molly in a tower full of superheroes. It took some courage to admit to myself I'd gotten attached enough to be this much from running away from all that in a blind panic.
And it would be the best option for them, really, because they had much sensible things to worry about than me. Yet every time, my selfishness won against even the most logical arguments I presented. I hated fighting myself but it was all I did - not only I was in love with Tony, I loved him.
Even when he forgot about my existence for five days, to emerge from his workshop with a new piece of tech that revolutionised one or another or something else. I loved him when he annoyed the ever living fuck out of everybody, me included, because I knew that it was hilarious to see people getting riled up over totally trivial shit. I loved Tony Stark when he ran away from his feelings, and everybody else's, because he never managed to run far enough. Or he didn't want to. I loved him, because he was like a multilayered puzzle, complex and captivating and beautiful.
I thought a lot about it, more than people would have noticed. For someone as selfish and goal-oriented as me, Tony lived in my head rent-free most of the time. And nobody would find out if I had the choice because let's face it, I'm a short cameo in his life. I'm a fuckin' catch and even then, I can't expect to hold his attention forever. His genius is too brilliant to settle for one when he could easily have the whole damn world.
Another hour consisted of me pacing and accompanying the pizza delivery boys to the common floor. It was hilarious - they were obviously star-struck about walking the same carpet as their heroes. I could see the faint hope of meeting one of the Avengers in their eyes, their posture. All they got was me - in my sweatpants, Tony's tee and no bra. My tits got the attention they deserved, at least.
My lounging was interrupted by a golden circle noisily appearing in the middle of the room, followed by Clint abruptly falling through it with a pained moan. I froze, the pizza in my mouth turning to ash - Strange poked his head through the hole in space, finding my eyes. He looked exhausted.
"Help him, I don't have much time," He breathed and disappeared, closing the portal behind himself.
The pizza piece flew back in the box as I stumbled, jumped over the headrest, kneeling beside Clint in no time. "Bird, tell me what hurts," I demanded. Not that I had a clue what to do. I mean, I knew basic first aid and...
"My leg," He gritted out, curling in on himself. Fear flooded me, limbs turning to lead. Hawk had a good pain tolerance, I knew he could break an arm and not utter a single syllable until he thought it safe to showcase his vulnerability. "That squid motherfucker stung me, I don't know. My whole body is on fire," His speech was slurred.
I nodded, deciding to limit the touching to only the necessary actions. The leg of his pants was torn and the wound itself was shaped like a whip mark, thin and red and angry. It oozed a yellowish pus-like substance, it smelled bitter, almost like stale water and seaweed salad. I didn't know much about aliens but jellyfish stings, I could work with. A short Google check later, I had an approximate plan.
"Friday, run diagnostics." I ordered, taking a deep breath and filing away the fear, the panic and anxiety for later.
"Mr. Barton has a wound that appears to be contaminated with an unknown chemical that is causing an adverse reaction. The elevated body temperature suggests that his immune system is fighting it. I would suggest a blood test to examine the offending specimens."
A blood draw? I could do that. I definitely, absolutely, could do that.
"Bird, Clint, did you hear that?" I gently touched his shoulder only for him to recoil from my hand, muttering unintelligibly. "Pretty bird, I'm going to help you. Let me." My bedside manner needed improvement - with brain running a mile a minute, I babbled utter nonsense as Friday directed me to the needed supplies. Getting the blood was a feat on it's own - I had to physically sit on top of Clint to get but a tiny vial of the red liquid.
A few tears escaped the emotional fortress I had to build within myself. Clint was in so, so much pain - pain I was inadvertently making worse by touching him. I sprinted to Bruce's lab, feeding the sample to be analysed by Friday, tearing through the room in a hurricane. First aid kit, IV, saline, antibiotics. Restraints, too, just in case.
"Analysis complete. The contaminant appears to be acting similarly to a parasitic infection with a short life-span. Primarily feeds on copper, iron and various metals contained in the human body. Does not appear to reproduce or multiply, my algorithms cannot determine the cause of said behaviour. Calculating..." Friday's mechanical voice paused. "I have calculated the approximate duration of Mr. Barton's symptoms. Onset of critical stage in one to three hours. Complete extinction of parasitic organisms in approximately sixty hours."
"Fri, do you think I have a chance of saving Clint before he goes crazy from pain? And have you figured out what's causing it?" My brain was all over the place.
"I have the best faith in you, miss." The AI sounded almost... Comforting? "I am still running multiple diagnostics. My algorithms suggest the organisms may be attacking the nerve endings - reason unclear."
An idea struck me. A crazy, brash, absurd idea. The pathogen was alien and we didn't have antibiotics to kill it. Even if I gave Clint some sort of medicine, it could go awry really really quickly. Besides, wasn't there a medical team for this..?
"Friday, alert the medical suite."
"Request denied. Per Mr. Stark's protocols, only Sir himself and Dr. Banner are authorized to request medical assistance in case of alien pathogen contamination."
"Fuck. Fuck, that makes no fuckin' sense!" I yelled helplessly. "Okay, do you have blood matching Clint's type laying around?" I asked sarcastically. This protocol pissed me off. What was Tony scared of? That someone would steal alien germs? Too late for that, there were plenty of samples all over the sidewalks downtown.
"A-positive, blue refrigerator, top shelf." Friday's answer was curt.
My hands shook. My whole body shook. Clint was laying in fetal position right where I'd left him and the man wasn't looking better - he became paler, dark circles under his eyes, clammy sweat breaking on every exposed part of his skin. Moving him was out of the question - Clint violently recoiled from me once I tried to touch him.
Reluctantly, I dragged the dining room chairs and piled up whatever heavy things I could on top of them, praying to every god that they would hold a trained man trash around in pain. Then, came the restraints. Belts with clips unlike one could see in a movie with a psych ward. I fumbled with them, then with Clint - very slowly, but I got both of his arms fastened and the man rolled onto his back.
"Wwhat... S'appening..?" Hawk finally slurred, cracking his eyes to see my (probably) disheveled and panicked face.
"This is going to hurt, I won't lie. A lot," I rambled, setting up the tools needed for both a blood draw and a blood transfusion. "I'm not a doctor. I'm not a scientist. You have alien parasites in your blood. I'm going to get rid of em," I announced, not mentioning the fact that I had to Google all the things I was going to do to him.
"S'okay, I trust you," Clint slurred again, moving about much more weakly than before. The tips of his fingers began to turn blue and the blood vessels on his face stood out in a pink-purple web. Not good.
My finest thinking moment: laying out some tarp around the archer and putting on gloves and a mask to minimize the possibility of getting infected. I started with the wound first, carefully wiping away the yellowish goop and immediately sealing it into a biohazard container. Some alcohol around the edges, the wound began emanating a faint wisp of smoke as Clint yelled hoarsely. I didn't even react - man, aliens and their germs were fuckin' weird.
Another biohazard container traveled next to Clint's arm. I had a disposable scalpel in one hand and my courage in another - it was now or never. The vein I was cutting was a minor one, but with Clint's body in total disarray, it was an ugly fountain of pinkish-purple liquid that spurted from it. I was no doctor but blood shouldn't have looked like that.
I stared at the timer on my phone. Twenty seconds, thirty, fifty. Eighty seconds, the blood was beginning to have more of a red hue. Clint's breathing slowed, tremors subsiding by a smidgen. One hundred and eighty seconds, the stream was a healthy deep red colour. With a swift motion, I wrapped up the wound, folded his arm, tied off the blood flow higher up his arm with a spare restraint. Clint wasn't moving much anymore; my hand that periodically checked his pulse shook but dutifully did it's job. His heart was working steady.
Compared to having to drain a friend of his blood, setting up the IV with a transfusion was a walk in the park. My mind was empty of any thoughts but for the actions needed to complete the process.
The container with contaminated blood, closed, sealed and put in a plastic bag, along with the gloves and the tarp. My own exposed flesh, meticulously scrubbed with alcohol until the skin became red and raw. All the instruments, Clint's pants, my clothes - in the bag.
The archer himself was laying still, his breathing steady and calm, face no longer looking like he was one step away from the grave. After undoing the restraints, I wiped down every surface we touched with Tony's vodka - rubbing alcohol had run out and I was too emotionally drained to go downstairs and leave Clint for too long. Whenever the booze collided with a stray drop of blood, a wispy smoke emerged. Such an interesting reaction. Part of me couldn't wait to examine the phenomena together with Bruce. The other part was considering the possibility of having a panic attack in a seafood restaurant.
"Fri, keep an eye- a sensor on Clint for me, will ya? I need a shower and some pants," I denounced tiredly, padding to the communal shower. I found respite, however brief, under the steam for a few minutes. Then I found Tony's old tee and a pair of someone's sweats - I didn't care whose. Post-stress adrenaline shivers had me feeling stark naked in the middle of Alaska despite the room being a toasty, comfortable temperature according to the digital thermostat.
Now I just had to think about what to tell the team.
Propping Clint's head on a decorative pillow and covering him with a soft fleece blanket was the least I could have done for the long suffering archer. The floor was hard but I sat next to him, running a hand through his matted hair, my brain an incomprehensible mess.
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✨ TAGLIST OF MY LOVELIES (OPEN) ✨
@another-stark-sub ​ @mostly-marvel-musings  @vozit @littlegasps ​ @pilloclock ​ @shereadsinquiet @downeyreads ​ @hermione-grangers-wife ​ @individualistfem ​ @sleep-i-ness @capbrie @lillsxd @agustdowney @dee-vn @justanotherblonde23 @fanngirl19 @persephonehemingway @softie-socks @schemefrenzy @letsby
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back-and-totheleft · 4 years ago
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“I’m not sure I’ve modified my thinking”
“It’s a strange place, England,” Oliver Stone informs me at the start of our Zoom call. “You’ve managed to make it worse than it was,” he says, speaking from his home in Los Angeles. “You’ve turned it into World War Two with your attitudes over there. The English love punishment, it’s part of their make-up.”
You sure know how to break the ice, Mr Stone. It’s a slightly galling accusation, given that he has hitched his wagon to Russia, hardly a paragon of enlightenment. The New York-born writer-director has never shied from ruffling feathers, though. Stone has taken on the American establishment to thrilling effect in his movies, from Platoon to Born on the Fourth of July, JFK to W, Salvador to Snowden, and still emerged with three Oscars. And he has admiringly interviewed a string of figures whose relations with Uncle Sam have rarely been cosy, including Fidel Castro, Hugo Chávez and Vladimir Putin. Those had more mixed receptions, as has his support for Julian Assange.
Yet at 74 he is still a thorn in the side of the military-industrial complex and is set to remain one for some time, having just had his second shot of Covid vaccine. This being Stone, he got his jab in Russia. A recent trial showed the Sputnik V vaccine he was given to have 92 per cent efficacy and he’s palpably delighted. Angry too, of course. “It’s strange how the US ignores that. It’s a strange bias they have against all things Russian,” he says. “I do believe it’s your best vaccine on the market, actually,” he adds, sounding weirdly Trump-like.
If his bullishness is still intact, Stone reveals a more vulnerable side in his recent memoir, Chasing the Light. The book, which he discusses in an online Q&A tonight, goes a long way to explaining his distrust of government, society and, well, pretty much everything. There are visceral accounts of him fighting in Vietnam, and fighting to get Salvador and Platoon made. “The war was lodged away in a compartment, and I made films about it,” he says. “Sometimes I have a dream that I’ve been drafted and sent back there.”
The crucial event in the book, though, is his parents’ divorce when he was 15. Stone realises now that his conservative Jewish-American father and glamorous French mother were ill-suited. Both had affairs. What really stung was the way he was told about their split: over the phone by a family friend while he was at boarding school. “It was very cold, very English,” he says. “I say English because everything about boarding school invokes the old England.” He’s really got it in for us today.
With no siblings, he says, “I had no family after that divorce. It was over. The three of us split up.” His world view stemmed from his parents being in denial about their incompatibility, he writes in the book: “Children like me are born out of that original lie. And nobody can ever be trusted again.”
That disillusionment took a few years to show itself. “All of a sudden, I just had a collapse,” Stone says. He had been admitted to Yale University but his father’s alma mater suddenly felt like part of the problem. He felt suicidal and sidestepped those thoughts by enlisting to fight in Vietnam, putting the choice of him dying into other hands.
The Stone in the book was described by one reviewer as his most sympathetic character. “It’s true probably because it’s a novel,” he says. Well, technically it’s an autobiography, but it’s a telling mistake. Fact and fiction can blur in his work, from the demonisation of Turks in Midnight Express (he wrote the screenplay) to the conspiracy theories in JFK.
Writing the book allowed him to put himself into the story, something he says he’s never been able to do in his films. He has tried. He wrote a screenplay, White Lies, in which a child of divorce repeats his parents’ mistakes, as Stone has. “I had two divorces in my life [from the Lebanese-born Najwa Sarkis and Elizabeth Burkit Cox, who worked as a “spiritual advisor” on his films] and I’m on my third marriage, which I’m very happy in.” He and Sun-jung Jung, who is from South Korea, have been together for more than 25 years. They have a grown-up daughter, Tara, and he has two sons, Sean and Michael, from his marriage to Cox.
White Lies is on ice for now. “It’s hard to get those kinds of things done,” Stone says wearily. Will he make another feature? It’s been documentaries recently, the last two on the Ukraine. “I don’t know. It’s a question of energy. In the old days, there would be a studio you’d have a relationship with, and they’d have to trust you to a certain degree. And that doesn’t exist any more.”
He thinks back to the big beasts of his early years. Alan Parker, who directed Midnight Express; John Daly, who produced Salvador and Platoon; Robert Bolt, who taught him about screenwriting. “Those three Englishmen had a lot to do with my successes,” he says. I think he feels bad about all the limey bashing. “John was a tough cockney, but I liked him a lot.” He liked him more than Parker, whom he describes as “cold” with a “serious chip on his shoulder.” He smiles. “Sure. Alan did a good job with Midnight Express, though.”
You wonder if Netflix could come to Stone’s rescue. They have given generous backing to big-name directors, from David Fincher to Martin Scorsese, Stone’s old tutor at NYU film school. Surely they would welcome him? “Well, that’s why you’re not in charge! Netflix is very engineering driven. Subject matter such as [White Lies] might register low on a demographic.”
Isn’t he also working on a JFK documentary, Destiny Betrayed? That could do better with the Netflix algorithms. “I’m having problems with that too. Americans were so concerned with Trump, I don’t know that they wanted to hear about some of the facts behind the Kennedy killing. They don’t recognise that there’s a connection between 1963 and now, that pretty much all the screws came loose when they did that in ’63.” He smiles. “I know you think I’m nuts.”
Well no, but you do wonder at his unwavering conviction that there was a conspiracy to murder Kennedy, probably involving the CIA. JFK is a big reason why a majority of Americans believe in a conspiracy and, according to Stone, led to the establishment of the Assassination Records Review Board, which he claims is “the only piece of legislation in this country that ever came out of a film.”
Yet several serious studies, including a 1,600-page book, Reclaiming History, by the former prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi, conclude that Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. That book accused Stone of committing a “cultural crime” by distorting facts in JFK. “I feel like I’m in the dock with Bugliosi. I didn’t like his book at all,” Stone says. “Believe me, you cannot walk out of [his forthcoming documentary] and say Oswald did it alone. If you do, I think you’re on mushrooms.”
Stone knows whereof he speaks regarding psychedelics. On returning from Vietnam he was “a little bit radical” in his behaviour, he says: drugs, womanising, hellraising. He recently took LSD for the first time in years. “It was wonderful,” he says. He hallucinated that he was “moving from island to island on a little boat”.
What was radical in the Seventies can be problematic now. He has been accused of inappropriate behaviour by the model Carrie Stevens and the actresses Patricia Arquette and Melissa Gilbert. “As far as I know I never forced anyone to do anything they didn’t want to do,” he says. Has he modified the way he behaves around women? “Oh sure, no question.”
At the same time, he is disturbed by “the scolding going on, the shaming culture. I don’t agree with any of that. It’s like the Chinese Cultural Revolution. It scares the shit out of me. I do think the politically correct point of view will never be mine.”
He’s not a slavish follower of conspiracy theories — QAnon “sounds like nonsense”, he says, as was the theory that Donald Trump was “a Manchurian candidate for the Russians. That was a horrible thing to do and it hurt that presidency a lot. I’m not an admirer of Trump by any means, but he was picked on from day one.”
What does he make of Joe Biden? “I voted for him, not because I liked him, but as an alternative to Trump’s disasters. He’s got a far more merciful humanitarian side. But he also has a history of warmongering.” Fake news, he says, has “always happened”, in the east and west, on the left and the right. “I mean, back in the Cold War, the US was saying Russia was lying and Russia was saying the US was lying. Each one of these wars the US has been involved in was based on lies.”
It sounds as if Stone has been on the Russian Kool-Aid himself. He is making a documentary, A Bright Future, about climate change that advocates pursuing nuclear power in the short term, and has visited some Russian nuclear plants. They are “very state-of-the-art,” he says. “The US is not really pursuing the big plants, the way Russia and China are. I believe in renewables, but they’re not going to be able to handle the capacity when India and Africa and all these countries come online wanting electricity.”
Putin liked the interviews Stone did with him in 2017, he says. “I think they contributed to his election numbers.” Wasn’t he too easy on the Russian leader? “That’s what some say. But I got his ire up. I did ask him some tough questions about succession. ‘I think you should leave’ — that kind of stuff. The pressure that Russia is under from both England and the US is enormous,” he adds. “Unless you’re there I don’t know that you understand that. Because you take the English point of view, and they have been very anti-Soviet since 1920. You talk about fake news — I feel that way about MI5 and MI6.”
You can’t help but admire Stone’s conviction. If he’s modified his behaviour that’s probably a good thing, but as he says, “I’m not so sure I’ve modified my thinking. I express myself freely. I don’t want to feel muzzled.” Whatever you think of him, be grateful he hasn’t been.
-Ed Potton, “You talk about fake news. I feel that way about MI5 and MI6,” The Times of London, Feb 8 2021 [x]
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collecting-stories · 5 years ago
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Tenerife Sea - Connor Murphy
A/N: I’m projecting in this one but honestly I just wanted to write a mildly autistic love interest for Connor cause ya know?
And all of the voices surrounding us here, they just fade out when you take a breath. - Tenerife Sea, Ed Sheeran
\\\
He didn’t care. Or so he told himself. It wasn’t that he cared, it was just that he was curious. He’d been seeing you every day at school since 6th grade when the elementary school’s merged to the middle school and he was stuck sitting behind you in home room. However it worked out in computer systems or principal’s heads you were always in the same home room and you were always sitting in front of him. Like some assigned algorithm and not just a random chance that kept occurring the same way over and over. Did you know you always sat in front of him. Whether he really thought about it enough to analyze the feeling he was sure that he liked you sitting in front of him. So much so that as you slid into the seat in front of him that first morning of senior year he almost felt himself exhale all the negative energy that had been clogging his lungs like smoke.  
You always wore your hair the same way, since sixth grade. And you had some variation of the same plastic, blush pink rimmed glasses. They only changed minutely when the prescription needed to be altered. And you always wore stripes. You must’ve had a million striped shirts in all different colours and sizes. Some skinny stripes, some fat, some were pastel in color and others just plain black. He thought about your striped shirts a lot. But he didn’t care. You could wear what you wanted, it was your body. If you liked stripes who was he to judge. Who would care if he did.  
“Hi Connor, how was your summer?” You always greeted him too.  
He liked the greeting best after breaks or on a Monday, because you always asked what he did while you didn’t see him. As if you were friends and you wanted to genuinely know how he was.  
But it was his secret and he couldn’t let you in on it, “fine.”  
“That’s good,” and sometimes you would let the subject drop and start pulling out the perfectly organized binder and notebook that you always had on hand along with a pencil case crammed with color coded pens and highlighters. Once you lent him a pastel green pen because you only had one black and it was still sitting on his nightstand in his room. Like some cherished gift from a friend.  
After home room most of your classes didn’t line up. And four days out of five you had study hall at the end of the day. The school called it senior privilege and told the kids they could leave early if they maintained good grades and didn’t have an excess of absences. They didn’t dare align Connor’s classes so that he could get off early. By senior year they knew him too well. Even without the okay he rarely stuck around for the entire day. The first week in and he was cutting out early.  
“Hey Connor,” a week in and you were still greeting him everyday, “you weren’t in science so I got the homework for you.” This was the other thing you did, Connor noted. You always gave him homework when he was out. The year he flipped out on the home room teacher and shoved his desk to the ground he got suspended for a week and you had volunteered (though he was sure they assigned you) to pick up his homework everyday.  
“Yeah, thanks.” But he didn’t try to take it so you left it on the desk.  
Two weeks in and you were wearing a plain gray sweater with jeans. He felt jittery that morning, like he couldn’t relax the right way and he spent the thirty minutes of home room shifting uncomfortably in his seat trying to determine why he felt so anxious. When he saw you later the gray sweater was stuffed in your locker and a gray and white striped shirt was on you. He could catch his breath, he felt himself relax.  
Three weeks in, sitting outside the office as the principal finished a meeting with his parents he saw you leaving the nurses office.  
“Hey,” he called for you and when you turned around you had the most shocked expression on your face. To be fair you always talked to Connor but he never talked to you first. When he did speak to you it was just one or two words, nothing monumental.  
“Yeah?”  
“You alright?” He noticed the stripes peeking out from beneath your gray sweater.  
“Oh yeah, just a migraine.” You replied. “Are you in trouble?” When you whispered the last part he wanted to laugh. You sounded like a kindergartener afraid an adult would overhear you.  
He shrugged. He was always in trouble. This time he’d gotten into it with the English teacher. Last week he’d gotten into a fight with another kid. It just depended he supposed.  
“Well it’s not weed but here,” you produced a lollipop, a cotton candy dum-dum to be exact, from your backpack and offered it to him, “makes me feel better when I’m anxious.”  
“I’m not.” He replied. Now he really did feel like he was in elementary school.  
“Yeah, no, I just mean, it might help you calm down.”  
“I don’t need to calm down. I’m perfectly calm.”  
“Okay,” you nodded and he thought for the first time you looked far more upset than he’d ever seen you. “I’ll see you in science?”  
“Probably not.”  
“I’ll get your homework then.”  
“Don’t bother.”  
That Monday you only smiled at him but didn’t say hello and didn’t ask how his weekend was. You went to the nurse’s office right after home room and then when he saw you again at lunch you were reading by yourself at the end of a table. Were you always by yourself? He couldn’t remember if he’d ever noticed before. The rest of the week was the same and he felt like all he could concentrate on was where you were. In class, in the hallway, in the lunch room. By Friday he realized that you might have less friends than he did, at least he had Evan sometimes.  
When the week started over you didn’t sit in front of him in home room and he found himself searching for the striped shirt in the hallway. You were absent Tuesday and Wednesday and when you came back on Thursday you looked tired. Did you always look so tired?  
“Hey,” Connor caught you leaving the school for senior privilege, stopping you in the parking lot.  
“Oh, Connor, hi.” You smiled.  
“Are you alright?” He asked, glancing back at the school building and then you again, “I saw you in the nurses office.”  
“I had a migraine.”  
Connor wanted to kick himself for not being more eloquent, “you get those a lot.”  
You shrugged, “school makes me anxious sometimes. Hey, sorry if I upset you. I didn’t mean to.”  
“You didn’t.” He assured, “I was just having a shitty day.”  
“Do you have senior privilege?”  
He shook his head and almost smiled when he watched your eyes get wide. “You shouldn’t be out here, you could get in trouble. Did you drive to school?”
“Walked.”
“Well you could come to my house? My mom should be home but she won’t mind,” you had already begun to walk in the direction of your house, “she’s always bugging me to bring friends over.”  
“I don’t really think we’re friends.” Connor pointed out.  
“No, yeah, right, of course. I just mean, you know. Well you don’t have to come over obviously, it’s whatever. You know?” Your words tumbled out and he noted the same disappointed expression as when he wouldn’t take the lollipop you offered up.  
He wanted to apologise, to rewind and not tell you that he wasn’t your friend cause you seemed so bothered that he wasn’t. “I don’t have anything else better to do.” A harsher phrase but he wasn’t exactly good at conveying feelings to others.  
Your house was nice, it was clean inside and you offered Connor a water bottle before leading him upstairs to your bedroom. He wondered what the chances were of you letting him smoke in your house. There were three cats and the one you picked up the moment you had your shoes off and carried like a baby all the way up to your bedroom. When you got up to go the bathroom Connor couldn’t help taking a peek in your dresser.  
“What are you doing?” You were standing in the open doorway, frown set as you stared at Connor. He still had his hand on the drawer handle.  
“Sorry,” he shut the drawer and took a step back, “you wear a lot of stripes.”  
“I like stripes.”  
“I could tell.”  
“I didn’t invite you over so you could make fun of me Connor.” You had been trying for much longer than it was worth to get Connor Murphy to be your friend. You’d made every effort to talk to him, to be nice to him, and it always felt like you were just missing the mark. You’d been more excited than you should’ve when he agreed to come over and you were hurt that he was only here to rifle through your stuff.  
“I’m not making fun of you.” Connor assured, hands raised in surrender. “I like stripes.”  
You eyed him sceptically.  
Connor was telling the truth though. He did like stripes and blush pink glasses and the way you cut your hair and coloured pens and lollipops that tasted like cotton candy. He liked your gray sweater and that you never wore any polish on your nails or any make up at all and that you told him funny stories about your weekends. He liked those jeans with the hole in the knee and your Birkenstock’s with wool socks in the winter no matter how many times they told you open footwear wasn’t allowed.  
And for the first time in his life he took Evan’s advice and didn’t try to hide behind a sarcastic comment, “I like when you wear stripes.”  
“Oh,” you felt your face grow warm at the admission, “uh, thank you?”
Connor smiled and moved closer to you, “I wasn’t trying to be an ass to you, I just wasn’t sure how to...what to say.”  
“What?” You bit your lip, skin prickling with goosebumps as he closed the distance between the two of you. “What do you mean?”  
You’d liked Connor Murphy since you first laid eyes on him in sixth grade. Eleven years old and your heart was pounding because he was the cutest boy you’d ever seen. And he wasn’t always nice but he’d always been nice to you. Your attempts at friendship had been null but you liked talking to him and he’d never complained about it until now.  
“I was just trying to...I though pushing you away would be better.”
“Why?”  
Connor’s hands were shaking, this was the most open he’d been in long time without raising his voice or losing his temper. The first time he was purposely telling someone something and still the words wouldn’t come out. “You know why.”  
You looked like you understood, there was that brief flicker of something that suggested you knew what he meant, what he couldn’t say, but it disappeared in an instant. You looked at him with the same sort of surprised expression you had when he had spoken to you in the hallway. As if it was so unreal that he would think about you and somehow it irritated him that you could even entertain the idea that he didn’t spend every waking minute thinking of you. That he hadn’t bought a pair of striped socks, which he was wearing at this very moment, because they made him think of you.  
“I don’t-“ you tried to form a coherent sentence but Connor’s hands were suddenly on either side of your face and he was leaning in and his lips pressed against yours and you could feel his thumb brush your cheek, smearing a nervous tear.  
You kissed him back almost immediately, as if it was an instinct that your body was just waiting to acknowledge. You reached for his shirt, trying to pull him closer to you than he already was, desperate to feel him. It was a good kind of sensory overload where you were both certain that you saw stars when you closed your eyes.  
You were the first to break the kiss, the sound of footsteps on the stairwell had you pushing him away. “My mom!”  
Connor brushed his hair back, neck and face red with warmth from actually kissing you. He couldn’t stop smiling, not even when your mom appeared in the open doorway.  
“Oh hi, you didn’t say you were having anyone over.” She looked pleasant enough and Connor suddenly felt very self-conscious. She’d probably call all the other moms in the neighbourhood and they would rat him out. Warn her against letting her kid be alone with Connor Murphy, the psycho freak.  
“Uh, mom this is Connor.” You waved between them nervously. You’d already unloaded so much about Connor on your mom you could only pray she didn’t embarrass you.  
“The Connor? How nice to meet you,” she grinned, that sort of knowing smile that only mother’s had, “keep the door open.” And then she was gone, headed down the hallway to her own room.  
You turned back to look at him and both spoke at the same time “Sorry,” “I should get going.”  
“No wait,” you held your hands up, as if you could physically keep him in your room, “just, we can hang out, she doesn’t care. She’s just being weird cause I always talk about you.”  
“You always talk about me?” He couldn’t help the grin. You always talked about him? What kinds of things did you notice about him?  
“I mean...like, not in a creepy way or anything, just like. Oh god, I just kissed you I can’t even talk to you.”  
“You sound like Evan.”
“That’s not helping.” You groaned. You fell onto your bed, covering your face with your hands.  
“I don’t exactly talk to my parents but I certainly think about you all the time.” He admitted, if only to see that smile again.  
You slowly uncovered your face, looking up at him through more nervous tears. “Really?”  
“Yeah,” he came over and sat next to you. “You and your five million striped shirts.”  
“Shut up,” your laugh turned into a squeal when he leaned over and pressed his lips against your neck.  
-
I don’t know what to say here. 
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durandtm · 5 years ago
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TIMOTHEE CHALOMET, 19, NONBINARY, HE/HIM ⌡ welcome back to gallagher academy, CAMPBELL “CAMP” DURAND! according to their records, they’re a SECOND YEAR, specializing in ADVANCED ENCRYPTION and DRIVER’S ED; and they DID NOT go to a spy prep high school. when i see them walking around in the halls, i usually see a flash of (dark circles under eyes, the scent of eucalyptus, running late, looking disinterested or confused, constantly writing). when it’s the (aquarius)’s birthday on FEBRUARY 18, they always request FRIED PICKLES from the school’s chefs. looks like they’re well on their way to graduation. ⌿ kara, 26, she/her, pst ⍀
HIS STORY.
+ Home is on the southwestern side of France where the scenery consisted of salt farms and old windmills. Many of the village's buildings were whitewashed, and some, even the farmhouses, had ornamental towers reminiscent of the 16th century. Their town of Ars-en-Ré was a commune on the Île de Ré in the Charente-Maritime. Whitewashed buildings there would often accent their buildings with grayish blues and whatever flowers they could grow. + Campbell Durand lived with his mother, Camila, and father, Hal, in a quaint guesthouse belonging to a fish and lobster farmer. + Boats went in and out of the harbor all day via a long channel between the marshes, and that was where you could find Hal from dusk to dawn. + A distinct feature of the town was its strange black and white church steeple. It had been a useful mariner's way-finder for centuries. Camila Durand would often go out to the steeple. She enjoyed the quiet walk over, the feel of the water’s breeze against her skin, and proudly overlooked her boys at work. Campbell would wave violently toward her, smile brightening his face, stomach rumbling for dinner, as she silently guided them home. + If Campbell was not in school, he was in and out of the harbor with his father. He would do at least one run in the morning before school and two after. On days with higher run expectancies or days when men would not show up due to poor weather conditions, Campbell would miss school, much to his and his mother’s dismay, to work with his father. + “Camp,” he began to be called. It was easier to shout one syllable than two over the deafening sound of the waters and men working. + The boy’s scent was slightly fishy, mixed with saltwater and sweat. Regardless of whether or not his peers’ families were in the same industries or higher middle class, this was unique to him and often kept him from experiencing close friendships.   + Once a year at most, Camila Durand went into the city. The trip’s purpose was to collect necessities, and despite her desire to take her son, Hal insisted Camp remain in Ars-en-Ré. + When Camila was pregnant with their second child, Camp was finally allowed to accompany his mother to the city to carry things for her. He stopped at a street vendor whose wooden display was covered with beautiful flowers and bottles filled with perfumes and oils. When the smell of eucalyptus grabbed his attention, Camila smiled; eucalyptus grew plentifully in Southern France and was the base note of her everyday perfume, a luxury item she was able to pick out for her wedding. She bought the eucalyptus oil for her son, a secret to be kept from Hal. Camp would use it when he got to school and hoped it wore off by the time he left. + Camp’s hair was a hectic mess of curls. His mother liked to wrap them around her index finger mindlessly, creating a sensitivity and exclusivity around the act. While he had an affinity for it and could often be found with a hand in his hair, he would never let anyone but his mother touch it, remaining true even into young adulthood. + Eventually, Camp’s curls grew long and people would tell his parents that he was such a “pretty girl.”  Camila tucked his long curls behind his ears like she did her own for as long as she could, but eventually, his father’s ego got the best of him. It was like Campbell’s masculinity was meant to be a reflection of his own. If Campbell was not masculine enough, Hal felt it meant he wasn’t masculine enough. + This led to the desire, manipulation, and force-of-hand Hal had in having another son. + Getting pregnant again was a long, hard road for Camila. Her first miscarriage was found out by Campbell climbing into her bed to find a mess of blood. Hal reprimanded Camp for screaming, even though it was the sounding alarm that saved her life at the time. Hal rushed out the door with Camila in his arms, slamming the door shut behind them. Things were never explained to Campbell, leaving him confused. When his mother arrived home safely, he quickly held to the relief and asked no questions. It wasn’t until she began to show, two pregnancies and one miscarriage later, that he found out his parents were still trying. + When it was time for the baby to come, delivery was even more difficult than the act of getting pregnant. The complications took her life. + After his mother had passed, there was nothing tying Campbell and Hal together. He fell into a quiet, depressive state and spent his entire earnings at the harbor on a laptop like the ones all of the kids at school had. + Camp barely tried at school, though he succeeded with flying colors. + When he got home, he would remain tucked away in his room, playing video games, coding, learning and unlearning algorithms, and the like. He often would stay up all night, sleep becoming less and less of a priority as his eyes remained glued to the blue light of his screen. + His father began drinking when he got home. The two sat at the dinner table together. They didn’t talk. If anything was to be said, it was Hal, telling Camp that he would waste his life away on that computer and never make anything of himself. + Camp began hacking. It started out as a result of having beaten all of his video games and having no money to buy more. It became his own sort of game. It started small, the computers of classmates, then teachers, then strangers, then businesses, then local government, then banks, and eventually, secret intelligence branches. + The boy had no ambitions, no goals, no ulterior motive, no end game. He was told that there would be very serious consequences for his actions, but the agency was in America, a country in which he was not legally adult, and he felt untouchable. His 18th birthday wasn’t far so they did with him what they would have done with any juvenile delinquent in his position and offered him a “bright future” that started with Gallagher Academy. The Fall semester would begin in September of 2019, and along with it, would begin Camp’s new life. + He packed his bags, gave his father a reluctant hug, ignoring his proud ramblings of how he would make something of himself after all and that his mother would be so proud, and was on his way. He would wake up and go to sleep missing the quiet safety of the home his mother had once occupied. He would miss the certainty of his father’s mundane routines and joining him for quiet dinners of cabbage and meat stew when he got home.
HIS PERSONALITY.
(insightful, patient, weird, rebelling, lone wolf, great listener, always running late, 1000 moods, needs space)
+ Kaiju films are they’re favorite (Kaiju is a Japenese genre of films featuring giant monsters that are usually attacking major cities) + Also loves Ghostbusters + Always has a movie they want you to watch + Barely sleeps, leaving dark circles permanently under their eyes + Computer is so old it glitches. + Dreams of a car with a neon under-glow, though they don’t know where they’d drive it + Included a major of driver’s ed because they have never driven a car, nor has their family ever owned one, and driving fast sounds cool + Ends up using it as a coping mechanism. some people punch things when they’re mad, others cry, he drives. fast. dangerously. recklessly. but it’s okay because technically they’re studying + Drinks absinthe as a way of remaining close to their father, who they think they’re destined to be regardless of what fancy school invited them to the states and thinks they’re “talented” and “genius” + Listens to Mariana’s Trench in the background of whatever they’re doing + Has tattoo ideas, but no tattoos: UFO, bermuda triangle, third eye, a mask, illuminati symbol + Talks to you for hours about conspiracy theories + Writes poetry + Likes feeling the breeze with their eyes closed (it reminds them of their mother doing the same at the church steeple, looking over them at the harbor) + Keeps a notebook separate from their poetry, meant for deep thoughts, connecting thoughts and ideas, and inspiration + Photoshopped your head on a meme and sent it to you at 3am + Gets heartbroken 30 times a week by falling for people they look at + Has trust issues + Often unmotivated and disinterested + Feels like they have to adapt to every person they meet to be liked, so they’re often silent at first, figuring out how to mold themselves into the kind of person they need to be around you + Labeled themselves as nonbinary as soon as they were no longer under the strict rule of masculinity presented by their father + Wants to use they/them pronouns, but is too scared to ask. Feels like it’s a “burden” to ask people to go through the trouble of being thoughtful. They don’t want people thinking about them at all + Figuring things out takes them a little longer + Only comes out of their shell around people that are gentle and easy-going + They are tolerant and composed to balance their intense energy when it gets to be too much and needs people to do the same + Can not flirt if their life depended on it + Can be social but born a lone wolf + Only clingy when having the time of  their lives with you, trust you with their heart and soul, or realize they can help you drastically with something and wish to focus on their effort to help you + Need people to sense and feel where the lines between “seeming” and “being” blur and that can figure out who the person is behind the anonymous mask + There’s always some kind of mask to see through + Cognitive AF + Come across emotionless because it is hard to allow themselves to be seen as vulnerable by other people + They hide from their own self + Highly selective and self-aware + They find it hard to ask for help + It’s not all fun and laughs + They adore someone who will inspire confidence in them and the courage to be in the moment and embody their own complexities. Someone who takes them seriously enough but will also keep the conversation light and free-flowing. They will only crush their own walls if you literally allow them to go ahead and ask for the help they deserve + They want people who can allow them to escape and be an actual human anchor for their souls + They do not like to be forced when it comes to sharing what is important to them. They will only do that on their own time or not at all + They know the difference between who is a friend vs. who is a best friend vs. who is a mere acquaintance vs. who is a person they view romantically. These lines do not blur or cross + Once on that level, it’s like having a secret language of communication + Harsh with their words. They are not polite because their words happen outside of emotions + How they communicate with others often has nothing to do with how they’re feeling on the inside + Come across as senseless and illogical and absolutely nuts + Likes to say “I told you so” + Get in their head while you’re talking, so they sometimes have to pretend that they understood
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oneweekoneband · 5 years ago
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cehryl, “disconnected”
The buildings of Los Angeles were blurring past me on the freeway when I first heard this track, Spotify’s shuffle algorithm finally doing something right by introducing me to cehryl. My flight from LAX was supposedly in two hours at the time (chronic delays would turn that into three by the time I fell asleep in the terminal), but I feel like I could’ve driven to the sun that day under the pink fluff of dawn, those bird chirps near the end a reminder of an imminent sunrise.
Looking back on the experience, I realize I couldn’t truly appreciate what “Disconnect(Ed)” meant, and as I tried searching for words to distill the song into at 1:34AM last night, I still can’t. I mean, the atmosphere is actually meant for a sunset, the bittersweet end of a chapter, but the real reason why my appreciation doesn’t run deep enough is because broken hearts don’t bleed the same way for the unrequited as for the loved-and-lost. After all, their hearts were never ours to begin with.
I’ll try my best to discuss what almost drove me to tears on “Disconnect(Ed)” (something even Frank Ocean can’t do *gasp*), but as someone who’s only ever known the unrequited, who’s never had to go through the melancholia of a break-up, just know that what’s about to be written here can never do the song justice.
If you listen closely at the beginning, a dissonant (synth?) chord wavers before cehryl’s lush voice emerges in accompanied by guitar. Easy to dismiss, of course, but the opening sound is — at least in this case — the single most important detail sonically. The instrument recurs in each chorus, and although soft, its delayed resolution from F#/A to E speaks volumes to the changing feelings encapsulated in the lyrics, the gradual way you cradle yourself with mourning’s tears before regaining composure to smile through the pain.
“Disconnect(Ed)” isn’t your archetypal “New Rules” anthem or “Too Good at Goodbyes” mope-fest though; it’s not so much about the (process of getting through the) break-up as it is about the ebb and flow between letting go of and holding onto the past. The first verse is a step forward, cehryl pushing herself to be unapologetic with her goodbye (“Please be careful not to leave things at my place”), before the chorus comes in, a soft cloud you could float away in with angelic harps and flutes.
A whomping bass shatters the ambience before long as cehryl’s lyric-production synergy emerge again with the lines “You’re moving up onto the second floor/ And your music’s louder than it was before.” You almost feel in the room with cehryl herself, the ceiling vibrating with constant reminders of her ex like a knife that seems to twist deeper with each thump. And maybe you even cry with her as she asks herself, “Were we not what you were looking for?” and reminisces (“Running miles and miles through the grocery store”), the harmonies braiding in an echo chamber of yearning.
The word “disconnect” also becomes tangible through the phasing/lagging of cehryl’s voice, following a bridge that could’ve been played by the same guitar from Frank Ocean’s “Ivy” if it went to heaven, but what captivates me is how the song ends with a third verse:
I’m sick of cleaning up the aftertaste And I’m always listening to “Rose Parade” I hope I see you at the corner store When I’m back to traveling the world by train
Because at the end of the day, the grandiose gestures and excruciating pain of your past relationship(s) don’t matter, no matter how many times you play Adele. Before the night falls and it’s too late, you have to take that second and last step forward, “stand in the sun,” as Olivia Pope said, and move on to see the world in that tinge of hope you had when you first fell in love.
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yourplasticlittlespastic · 5 years ago
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ᴏᴜʀ ᴡᴇʙ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏᴠᴇ -- Peter Parker fanfic (2/of many)
Part 1
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I wake up as usual and follow my itinerary, as soon as I finish I prepare my backpack and walk to the kitchen to grab a quick breakfast, I stop to see the whole committee. Everyone is already dressed to train. I step into the kitchen.
"Morning!" everyone says in unison and my eyes wander to the unmistakable figure
"Nat! oh God... where you've been?" I rub my eyes to see if it isn't an illusion
"come here you" Nat hugs me as if there's no tomorrow, her red hair is damp and collides with my cheek, oh, I missed her, she's the best
"no breakfast?" Steve says behind me and I pull away to look at him
I open the fridge and grab my already prepared lunch "this is my breakfast" I point to my overnight oatmeal  "I'll eat it on the way, bye everyone have a great day!"
They said bye, Clint and Sam with a drowsy voice, and I walk to the lift trying not to overthink my first day, I'm always overthinking and that's my problem and I always end up stressing about everything. I wait and the doors open revealing my dad and my mom, I stepped in with a quizzical look at them.
"Hey! Thought you were sleeping... and you not at your lab, not sleeping..." I push the button and spin to look at them
My mom is wearing a black pencil skirt with a white blouse, her blonde hair is perfectly brushed into a ponytail and my dad, well... he likes his sweatpants and his Black Sabbath shirt.
"There's always time to say goodbye and good luck to our daughter," my dad smirks at me and I snort
"I love you baby" my mom tightly hugs me "you'll do amazing this year"
"Thanks mom, I'm feeling it's my year" I excitedly smile
"well please be safe and I put something inside your backpack that'll help you," dad winks and I just smile
"love you dad" I walk closer to him and slightly hug him, he returns it and smacks a kiss on my cheek
"kick asses and then kick them again and then again, you know, just for fun" he casually says
"Tony!" my mom slaps his arm in disapproval but he grins at me
"c' mon dad, me kicking asses? That's definitely not me" I wink  at him and when the doors open I walk away
That's definitely me
I search for Happy and get inside the car, we talk about the embarrassing moment my dad created yesterday for me and Happy was laughing so much about the fact that Steve Rogers was in a sex-ed video. He parks just one block before 36 Ave, only not to get attention from the others, I wave goodbye and take a deep long breath. Let's go Midtown, give me the best year, please.
I walk to the front and see everyone already in deep conversation with their friends, new kids who are totally lost and others totally shy and as I thought it will happen... All eyes are on me, I mean, I don't mind, I like attention, probably my Stark gene talking, but let me be clear on something... I'll never, ever be a pretentious snooty brat.
I walk to my locker, the sound of my steps rumbles through the hall.  Let's see if I remember the code uh... 80-10-20... it opens and I start reaching to some books and post-it's I left during the summer. I put inside my new books and the girl next to me suddenly is hugged by one of her best friends, a nostalgic smile creeps on my face... it's been a while since I don't have a true best friend. I shake off those depressing thoughts and skim my schedule and notice that my first class is geometry which is my least favourite subject...
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I take out my notebook and the advanced geometry book and strut to the assigned classroom that was already crowded. Exactly when I enter a little scream, that I thought it was girl,  pops beside me.
"Oh yes! thank you, God! a familiar face in this sea of peasants!"
I throw my backpack and sit in front of him "Hi Flash, a new haircut or your head got bigger?" an external little laugh snaps behind me
He ignores my comment and an attempt of a smug smile forms in his face "oh Tannie you're always sooooo funny"
"wait... you're in advanced geometry?" I say in surprise "you shouldn't be at Woodwork?" the same laugh from earlier appears but with more strength
"I actually did my homework last year and paid attention so yes, I deserve to be in this class, I mean, it's not the best class... is full of nerds, Imma cool guy" he crosses his arms and cocks his head  "and you too Tannie you're the best" he shoots me a flirtatious smile and I wince
"of course yes" I simply answer, I was about to turn to the teacher who walks in but his hand grabs my shoulder
"listen mmm Tannie, this Friday I'm doing a little party, ya know just to celebrate the beginning of a new year, you are in the VIP list with me of course" he whispers and I quickly nos just to get away from his awfully strong cologne
The class starts and I begin writing everything down when I hear a whisper saying "oh man, my notebook, I forgot it" I look up and see the one who said it, it was Ned Leeds who's in front of me, I poke his shoulder and he turns to me and opens his mouth agape in surprise.
"Ned, don't worry I'm writing everything here so when I finish you can take a picture if you want" I kindly smile at him
"Ummm thank you, Tannie!" he exclaims with a wide smile " you're so kind unlike others" referring to Flash
"it's nothing, by the way, Ned, for the final project and other Homeworks in this class... do you want to be my partner?"
"me? I mean, yes! trust me... I'm disciplined, I can get the radius of a circle so fast and the area of any kind of triangles you can imagine... at record time" he excitedly says and I snort
"haha yeah of course! we can be a great team"
He then spins around and the class goes by too slowly for me, in the end, Ned was waiting for me outside the classroom.
"here Ned" I place my notebook for him to take a picture, he pats his pockets and takes out his phone, he tries to center the camera but before he can take it someone crashes behind him.
"hey man! I was looking for you everywhere!" a bubbly voice says walking in front of us
Then I see Ned with a killing stare at his friend and I look at him as well, a young face, brown eyes, and hair and thin lips, tall but not too tall and skinny guy who instantly opens his eyes when he spots me.
"Dude, I'm trying to take a picture here, I love you but... please?"
I continue to grab the notebook while staring at... uh... I do know his name... I see that he's staring at me too.
"I'm... Peter hey!" he fakes a hoarse voice which makes me smile, I see his blue sweater and the neck of his plaid shirt, is it too early for some witty comments? yeah, probably...
I cock my head and smile at him "Yeah, I've seen you around... I'm-"
"Tannie Stark!!" he excitedly interrupts me  "I mean... Tannie... Stark" he clears his throat and the tip of his ears turn red
"it's done Tannie, thank you," Ned tells me and pats my shoulder, Peter still looking at me
"sure! do we have other classes together? what type of timetable you have?" I ask him
"I have the S-30," he says  "what about you?"
"I have the S-28" I shrug in disappointment knowing that we would only share three classes together
"I have the S-28!" Peter quickly raises his hand and I turn to him
"why you weren't at geometry then? I quirk a brow at him and he gulps
"I overslept in my comfy bed... yeah" he slowly admits
"great then, I'll see you at...? let me see..." Ned starts checking both timetables
"P.E, Geometry, and chemistry" Peter rapidly says
"that's good man!" Ned palms Peter in the back "see you, bro! Art is waiting for me!"
I stand there without saying anything and Peter as well.
"well, shall we go to the next class?" I break the silence with the offer and his eyes go-round for a moment
"yeah sure!" he awkwardly says
We start walking through the hallway... silently. Sideways I spot him stealing subtle glances at me.
"so ummm, new year huh?" I finally say
"yeah! Sophomore year is a big deal" he says scratching his right shoulder and when he touches it he makes a painful expression
"are you okay?"
"yeah! it's a bruise, I fall from my bed" he quickly says but he seemed to regret saying it
"oh okay..." we almost arrive to the classroom
"so... what did you do this summer break?" he questions me and I open and close my mouth
"not much, I tried to finish a robotics book and then I reread the first three books of Harry Potter!" my voice betrays my excitement, no one actually cares for what I do except my family (including Happy) "oh! and also hear this... I actually tried to replicate my dad's A.I. but failed, he used this kind of weird algorithm..." I stop when I notice Peter smiling at me
"Sorry..." I shrug "hey we're here!"  I change the topic and stride inside the room
The benches are in a circle instead of the traditional way, I quickly sit down away from the door and Peter grabs the seat next to me. I take out my notebook and he opens his laptop. The class starts and I almost fall asleep, Ethics is not my strength, I peek at Peter's laptop just to distract myself and see he's watching some YouTube videos of Spider-Man.
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"I'm so tired and it's only third period," I dramatically groan and he laughs, we're walking together to Physics
"not only is the third period... the first day of school" he looks at me smiling
"thanks for the reminder"we keep laughing until someone shouts my name
"TANNIE!! Wait!" I turn around and see the Liz Toomes rushing to get to me  "hello girl, so... just wondering if you're going to Flash's party?" she cheerfully jumps showing a slight smile
"mmmm I don't really know but maybe?"
"Great! think about it, some friends want to meet you, bye!" she sways away and I turn to Peter who can harvest a nest in his open mouth
"You're drooling Parker," I chuckle and step inside the classroom
At Physics, Warren assigned us to our partners and I got Flash, we were seated in front of Peter and other guy and Flash kept annoyingly insisting in flirting with me saying things like "What's your resonance frequency gurl?"  I ignored him and remember that my dad put something in my bag, I open it finding the circuit board I began building this summer, the replica of Jarvis and Friday, I smile knowing my dad believes in me, then I spin it and spot a post-it and read it:
"You are simply amazing T"
-Love you, the other T in this family-
I did my best in Physics and Warren noticed, in the end, she told me she's expecting good things from me. I like it when others actually notice my effort. I got out and it was recess, quickly I tried to walk through the crowd to go to the Auditorium. When I got there, at least 8 tables were decorated with logos from their respective clubs, I skimmed them and found the Robotic's Labs table.
"hi!" I stop in front Tanner Chung who was reading a book
"hi, welcome to the Robotic's Lab's Club where we build the future and it's not like Terminator" he says with a tedious voice probably because he was sat there since morning
"thanks!" I tried to hide my excitement "where can I sign up?"
"Obviously, at that paper" he points his finger and then looks up to see me and he almost falls from his chair "I mean... please at this paper" hi smiles to creepily
"sure... so I know I have to submit a previous work, when can I present it?"
"umm... yes... It's the number one rule of the club but you know... it's not necessary Tannie"
"I think it is, I have many projects and I'm sure you'll like one of them" I kindly smile and he nods
"well, what about if you bring it tomorrow? today is just the introduction day" he again smiles "oh... hey Parker" he immediately stops smiling
"oh hey Peter!"
"hi... hi... I was about to sign up for the club" he shyly adds
"really? great I just sign up too, I'll see you there then" I spin to walk out of the auditorium
"it's in the classroom next to biology!" I hear Chung shouting at me
I then stroll to the cafeteria, avoiding not that discreet glances at me. But then stop in my track. Oh God, it's so crowded. Nope. Nope. I walk outside and reach to the football field and sit in one of the benches, I open my lunch and began eating while scrolling through the news. The New York Times has a section called 'A', all about the Avengers, including some news about Stark Industries. where they go, new threats, What they eat and how they work out, New witty comments from my dad, etc. In the end, I went to Music, played the piano and did my best suppressing too many laughs at Peter who was holding a flute but failing amazingly at that. Then Art class came and I nap behind the canvas. Last period is designed for our selected club so I search for the classroom and realize that every member happens to be all boys, great.
"Welcome! I'm Tanner Chung president of this Club!... I don't have any words to describe how happy I am to see that we have our first girl!!" he starts clapping and everyone else too
I wave at the boys, enjoying the little spotlight they were giving me. My eyes search for the shy boy I talked with today... Peter is not here. Chung was right when he said it was only an introduction, we read the syllabus for the class and the projects we were aiming to achieve, in the end, I quickly exited the room and went to look for Happy, then my phone vibrates, breaking news, the trending video shows this happened just blocks from Midtown showing a man running with a purse and then the Spider-Man webbed and punch the guy and he gave the purse to the woman, the title was "The Masked Hero: Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man" I hear a horn and spot the shiny black car.
"Hello again!" I wave at him and he smiles
"Hello again Tannie, how was the first day?"
"not bad actually, new core subjects that are amazing!"
"I'm glad yeah, keep studying kid, keep studying"
"hey did you saw the new "Masked hero of New York"?"  I say creating quotation marks in the air
"what are you talking about?"
"well, it's a new guy who is trying to help people and it seems like an amateur because he is not so good at martial arts, to be honest, you should create a Twitter account to see what's happening in the world" I point out
"why? I have you"
Minutes later, Happy drops me at the tower and with a quick pace I reach to the kitchen seeing my mom cooking? Oh, that's a first... no one else at the complex again.
"hi mom" I greet her and hug her
"oh god you look bigger today," she says being nostalgic "how was your first day, tell me everything please"
I grab some grapes and spin to her "well... I liked it, my classes are better than I expected, I already have homework and tomorrow I need to bring a robotic project I previously worked on"
"mmmhm" she hums "I'm glad baby... any prospects?" she asks making a weird face
"what?" I was confused "prospects?"
"yeah! for being my son-in-law?"
"you have a boyfriend now T?" Thor enters the kitchen and grins at me
"no!" cringe at the comment
"really? that's fast, niceeee" Sam then enters munching a protein bar
"what did I miss?" Steve comes... oh no...
"T has a boyfriend," Thor says casually  and Steve winces wrinkling his nose
"wow" he looks at me with a surprised expression  "what happened with 'I don't have time for one?'"
"Mom!" I rapidly spin to her  "can you please explain to them that you were... and I was ... oh, forget it" I quit this fight and I stride to my room
Seriously all this testosterone is bad for my health
I do most of the homework, then I tiptoe to the kitchen finding it empty, I grab some food and heated it in the microwave and slowly retreated to my room. I take one of my many robots and lined them in front of me, I need to choose the best for tomorrow. I finally made up my mind and chose the one that I know will make them open their mouths agape. I lazily finish my homework, I'm still getting the hang of it because when I was homeschooled homework was not in the picture...  Then I slump in the chair and unlock my phone looking the video of Spider-Man I left open. I remember when I was meters away from him, his suit definitely was something he needed to improve as well as his martial arts... and the webbing thing is weird, it's a natural power? if yes, then how he got it? before I could continue in my deep thinking I hear a knocking in my opened door.
"Hey Peanut," my dad says entering my room
"peanut?" I quirk a brow at him, he snorts while sitting at the edge of my bed
"yeah never mind, trying to be a normal parent" he says scratching his beard
"Nah dad, is not happening" I laugh at him
"so... I wanted to know how was your day"  he lays his back in my bed
"I like it, until now Physics is my favorite subject and I'm bringing that robot for tomorrow"
He quickly lifts his head  "which one?"
"that one" I point at it
"ohhh yes, they'll love it T!"
"what about your day?" I ask
"not much... I talked with the Secretary of State of the United States of America" he dramatically emphasizes the title
"and that's not much?"
"He wants to talk with other nations about the Avengers..." I rapidly spot the change of his feature  "but nothing to worry about!" he stands up and kisses me on top of my head  "Love you kid, have a good night"  he exits my room
I then unwillingly went to wash my plate and none of the Avengers were there, I then played a little with Friday and decided not to eat dinner. My heavy eyelids making me fall asleep thinking about the party Flash is hosting... maybe it's good to be social sometimes? what could go wrong?
A/N: hope you liked it! Also available in Wattpad! https://my.w.tt/sw2CZNdCv1
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benverlesbians · 5 years ago
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Shit fuck Donut Reblag
no longer yearning but like. two years ago i got sucked into makeup youtube bc it was a way to have like. Nice Older Women Teach Me Things. and then younger makeup girls on youtube became a part of the equation bc that was a way to feel like i had friends, esp bc i had an irl friend with whom i did makeup stuff and we like went shopping and she drove me to the mall to cash my paychecks and we alternated getting each other's burritos and she just seamlessly and affectionately accepted that i was a lesbian without ever changing her behavior, so makeup girls on youtube became a wonderful source of comfort!!! but i also watch movie videos bc i love movies and theorizing and analysis, except those are like fun in theory but in practice i hate hearing illiterate white men state their shitty opinions as fact, so about six months ago i was like "i want Friend Girl YouTube... For Movie" and now i follow a bunch of channels that are girls and women my age and older talking about fucking movies and tv shows and books and stuff!!! and its great!!!! and im following a few women of color and gay women and wlwoc and it makes youtube so much better to hear hot takes from people who i would actually like to spend time with and who actually make interesting points well!!!!! but like lately the algorithm has been like "here are makeup women... who are not skinny" and sometimes i watch a video and im like not into it, like the voice or the speech pattern or like whatever isnt my cup of tea but today i found a channel thats like. "hello my name is a joke my intro is five minutes of me anecdotally ragging on my gross coworker i live in your hometown and agree that the public transportation sucks and i have a nice voice and way of speaking and also im fat" and idk but like!!! hell yea!!! me following makeup women to feel mentored and film women to feel less alone is well and good but like they dont all need to be skinny. and im glad that theyre not!!! bc fuck it!!!! me and my ED have grown up into an overweight adult and thats literally not a value judgement its just a fact and another fact is that people are fat and still allowed to have interests and be interesting and maybe if i knew that as a kid instead of believing that being fat made you sad and mean and irrational and a joke like it wouldnt have been such a big deal to gain weight like a normal person during puberty and i couldve just been fine and NOT made myself sad and mean and irrational and a joke to the point that i will cry about a burrito if it's not right or over a salad bc it takes too long to eat or like. take four hours to eat a single bowl of oatmeal which i cried reading the box for bc someone else, when i said i wanted oatmeal, decided i should have the reduced sugar variety. maybe i would just be like "huh this doesnt taste superb lets avoid this on future grocery lists" and finish it in ten minutes like a regular bitch.
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thegreatwhiteferret · 7 years ago
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I Knew You Were Waiting For Me
Summary: A very inexperienced Trashmouth losing his v-card to a far more experienced Eddie Spaghetti. 
A/N: For my lovely anon who requested this scenario. I hope this story does your idea justice. 💖
NSFW Under the cut...
Richie Tozier has a big mouth and a wild imagination. He’s been bragging about his sexual conquests to the other Losers since middle school. Underneath all the bravado lies the truth; Richie is seventeen and he’s a virgin. For the longest time he held out hope that he wasn’t the only one, but his hopes were dashed one by one.
Mike was first. Big, strapping, and handsome. He was amazing at football and even with the racial tension in Derry, he made all of the girls’ panties drop. When he made varsity as a freshman, the head cheerleader, Heather Sinclair, took it upon herself to welcome him to the team...and his sexual awakening. Mike had told them all about it, flush faced and jittery, and Richie had chirped him saying that it was about damn time he join the club. A string of girls followed after Heather, but Mike was still his genuine heart of gold self. Richie secretly wondered if he thanked the girls for spreading their legs for him as he walked them home.
Ben and Beverly were next. They were a bit more cliche than anyone had expected. Roses and a hotel room on Valentine’s Day, their sophomore year, but Bev secretly loved it. She had gushed to Richie about it during one of their smoke breaks, and Richie had pretended to gag. Ben was too much of a gentleman to share details, but the whole club knew that after their first time they were fucking like rabbits.
Stanley Uris went next, and took Big Bill with him. They had been flirting around the idea of being more than friends since Bill had broken up with Bev when they were freshman, but Bill was always too shy and nervous to act on it. He didn’t want to ruin his friendship with Stan. The other boy found this sweet, but was incredibly sick of it and pounced on Bill on the July 4th between sophomore and junior year. During the fireworks display he just leaned over and grabbed Bill, pressing his lips to his. They made out under the light display, but Stan needed more. He all but dragged Bill back to his house. Richie would find out later that Stan had given Bill a mind melting blow job before prepping his own asshole and riding Bill until they both came, making their own fireworks. Stan was more comfortable expressing himself out of that, wearing his pants a little tighter in the ass, and Bill was certainly more vocal about what he thought about his sexy ass boyfriend. Richie thought it was hilarious that they could be so buttoned up and reserved in their everyday lives, but complete freaks in the sheets. He got beep beeped when he voiced this to the group.
His last strand of hope and dignity died when Eddie went with his mom to visit his family out in Montana when they were sixteen. His cousin was having surgery and they needed an able bodied boy to help with the farm...Eddie was apparently the only one available. Eddie came back ripped and tan from all the manual labor, and with a damn good story about his first time. There had been a young ranch hand there, Jorge, with rippling muscles and a beard and he had taught Eddie all of his damn tricks. Eddie blabbered on about having his first blowjob while the sun was setting over the mountains, getting fingered while he knelt on rocks down by the quarry, and getting his pink hole licked open by a devilishly good tongue while his mom was in the next room. Finally, he told the story about how Jorge had fucked him so good in the barn that he cried. Richie blushed throughout these stories, trying to cover it up with sarcastic comments, but Richie was terrified. In his mind he had always thought that he and Eddie would end up together, that they would be each other’s first.
Richie was scared to death now, scared to approach Eddie. What could he possibly have that would compare to that Jorge asshole. He was just an inexperienced virgin who had never even really had a first kiss. He stopped making his usual jokes after a while, he had lost his spark and had no idea how to get it back.
It was two weeks before Halloween during his senior year. Richie was sitting in the library trying to study while his ADHD was working overtime. He had to focus on the calculus algorithms that his teacher had assigned in preparation for their big test, but he couldn’t. Eddie was sitting across from him, pink lips pouted as he read through his chapter on Reconstruction after the Civil War. The other Losers had bailed on the study session for a variety of reasons, but Richie hadn’t really pressed it. He and Eddie had hung out loads of times on their own. He was working through a particularly hard question when he noticed that Eddie was fidgeting a bit.
“Eds, my brain already has a hard time working right, please stop shaking.” Richie said, genuinely concerned about the task in front of him. Eddie apologized, but a few minutes later was back to his shaking. “Jesus, Eddie. What is going on in that brain of yours that you can’t sit still?” Eddie blushed.
“Hey, Rich?” Eddie started, nerves present in his voice. Richie dropped his pencil and gave Eddie his full attention.
“Yeah, Eds?” Richie could feel his stomach twisting, he didn’t like that Eddie was nervous to say something to him. They never had that problem. They were probably too honest by most standards.
“What...uh...what was your first time like? I know you’ve talked about a lot of different guys and girls, but I don’t know if I’ve ever heard the story of your first?” Richie went pale. He knew that he talked a big game, but he honestly figured that they all knew that he was lying. That it was all an act. He never would have expected that Eddie, his best friend, would believe his bullshit. He could continue the act, or he could just be honest with him. Cut the bullshit ask and just tell Eddie that he had made it all up because he was so shy about all of that stuff, and hadn’t done anything sexually.
“Honestly?” Richie asked, and Eddie nodded and looked at him expectantly. “I’ll...uh...I’ll have to get back to you on that one, Eds. I’m a virgin.”
“Jesus. I don’t know why I was expecting a honest answer from you. God dammit. I just wanted to know the truth…” Eddie sighed, he was disappointed.
“No. Eds. I am telling you the truth. I’ve never done anything with anyone. Shit...I...I’ve never even really kissed anyone before.” Richie rubbed his temples, he could feel tears welling up in his eyes. Honesty hurt like a bitch.
“Oh.” Eddie squeaked out. Richie looked up to meet his eyes. “Richie. I’m sorry that I brought it up. I was just talking to the other Losers earlier and they mentioned that I should ask you. I...I didn’t know…”
“Nah. It’s okay. I just, it kind of scares me I guess. I’ve been talking it up for so long, and listening to you guys tell your stories and I’m just...I’m just worried that I’m going to be really bad at it.” Richie breathed out. Eddie frowned and moved around the table to sit next to his best friend.
“When you find someone who is worth your time, worth the brilliance that is Richie Tozier, you’ll be just fine. You’ll be better than fine, you’ll be amazing.” Eddie tried to reassure him.
“Ha. Sure.” Richie said, but there was no humor there. Instead a thought started to blossom in his mind. “Hey, Eds? Would you maybe...would you be my first?” Eddie’s face turned red, he had wanted Richie for a long time. Had thought that he wouldn’t be experienced enough for him, that’s why he had let himself fall for Jorge. Why he had the subsequently given into pleasure and let himself become someone new and adventurous. He wanted to ready for Richie, and be good for him.
“Are you sure you want me to be that person?” Eddie asked, sort of ready for Richie to laugh in his face and tell him this was all a joke.
“Of course, Eddie.” Richie said, before a mischievous glint entered his eyes, “Besides it’s apparently much better with a friend.” Eddie punched him in the shoulder, but giggled nonetheless. He couldn’t deny that he loved Trashmouth and his humor.
It was no secret that Eddie’s mom was way too overprotective. She had not gotten better even after Eddie called her out on her gazebo bullshit. There’s no way that she was going to let Richie into her house for even an afternoon study session, let alone to spend the night. If Eddie played super sweet for a full week, she might agree to let him sleepover at Ben’s house. She like Ben’s doting mother after all. So Eddie primed his mother all week, did extra chores, acted like a sweet little mama’s boy, and then asked on Friday afternoon if it was okay for him to stay at the Hanscom house on Saturday night. She agreed only after Eddie told her that he was going to be working on an important project for his English Lit class.
Eddie of course had no plans to go over to Ben’s house. He had simply told Ben that he needed someone to cover for him, and Ben had agreed to be his lookout. He would intercept any calls if his mom decided that she needed to check on him. Eddie would be miles away, with Richie. He had the whole thing planned out. Mike was letting him borrow the farm’s truck, Beverly had gotten a whole bunch of fairy lights from her aunt’s flower shop, Bill and Stan had helped him find a whole bunch of pillows and blankets. All the Losers were in on it, well everyone except for Richie who was just told to show up to the orchard at the edge of the Hanlon farm on Saturday night at seven o’clock.
Eddie looked at his handy work, well his, Ben, and Mike’s. Okay, mainly Mike’s. Ben and Eddie weren’t much of a help with the manual labor part of their plan. Mike had parked the truck between the rows of apple trees, he had then strung the fairy lights in the trees and hooked them up to a portable generator that they used on the farm. Eddie had set up the blankets and pillows in the bed of the truck. As it got darker, they turned the lights on and all three marvelled at the sight. It was beautiful. Everything was going to be perfect for Richie.
Bill and Stan had done their part by keeping Richie too busy all day for his nerves to build and cause him to self sabotage. Richie didn’t know that the rest of the club knew about his plans with Eddie, just figured that Bill and Stan were trying to get him to do their dirty work. It wasn’t unusual. Bev had shown up around five, Richie had asked if she would be able to drop him at the Hanlon farm. She had agreed, telling him that she needed to pick Ben up from Mike’s anyway.
Richie walked along the Hanlon property line and into the orchard, he stopped in his tracks when he saw what Eddie had done for him. The lights twinkling in the trees, illuminating the bed of the farm truck, that was filled with pillows and cozy looking blankets. There was soft music flowing from the radio inside of the truck, and there was Eddie, beautiful as ever, waiting for him, standing right in front of him. Richie had tears in his eyes, no one had ever done something like this before, done something to make him feel special.
“Eds, oh my God.” Richie breathed out, pulling the smaller boy into his arms. “This is amazing. I can’t believe you did all of this.”
“Of course, Rich. Anything for you. I wanted to make this special.” Eddie stood on his tiptoes and pressed a kiss to Richie’s lips, sweet and simple. It was his first real kiss after all. Eddie needed it to be special for him. It may have started sweet but it quickly began escalating. Eddie broke the kiss, pulling Richie over to the bed of the truck and climbing in, helping him to do the same.
Eddie pushed Richie so that he was lying on his back and straddled his hips. He kissed him again, grinding his hips down into Richie’s slightly, pulling moans out of the other boy. Eddie sat up and peeled his shirt over his head, helping Richie to do the same. Their skin prickled a bit in the autumn air, but Richie knew that Eddie was about to warm him up.
Eddie kissed down Richie’s neck, sucking a mark next to the hollow of his throat. He kept his kissing voyage going down Richie’s chest and stopped at the waistband of Richie’s Jeans. He unbuttoned the jeans and snaked his hand in, palming Richie’s growing erection. Richie threw his head back in pleasure, he wanted so much more.
“Lift your hips, baby.” Eddie whispered, Richie complied and Eddie pulled his jeans off with ease. He was left lying in front of Eddie in just his boxer briefs. “Mmmm, Richie, you look so good like this, strung out, are you gonna beg me, baby? Beg me to fuck you?” Richie whined, desperate for Eddie to touch him. “Or are you going to beg to fuck me. I’d be good with that too, anything you want.” Richie bucked up into Eddie’s touch at that thought.
They shared another deep kiss, before Eddie was dropping his head to Richie’s crotch, pulling down the waistband of the boy’s underwear and letting his cock spring free. His cock was twitching under the attention of Eddie’s gaze. Eddie used his thumb to rub the slit, collecting drops of precum and sliding his hand down the shaft. He jerked lazily a few times, before moving his head down and licking just the slit, Richie groaned. Pleasure coursing through his body. Eddie took the head in, tongue working at his frenulum, then sunk his head down most of the way, using his hand to work what he couldn’t fit in his mouth. He slid his mouth up and down his cock, varying his speed as he watched Richie fall apart from just his mouth. Richie was getting close, Eddie could tell by the sounds that he was making, he pulled off and jerked him a few more times, edging him off of his orgasm slightly. Richie whined.
“Baby, are you going to finger me open or do you want to watch me do it myself?” Eddie asked, pulling a bottle of lubricant and a condom from underneath one of the pillows.
“C-can I w-watch you?” Richie asked, mind hazy with all of the feelings. He never imagined his first time being like this. Eddie nodded and stood up in the bed of the truck, pulling his pants and briefs down in one motion. He got on his knees, straddling Richie’s legs, ass towards Richie. He used one hand to brace himself, sticking his ass out further so that Richie would get a real show. He coated three fingers in lube and slid them down the crack of his own ass. He circled his hole with one finger, teasing, before he pushed his finger in. He moaned at the feeling, keeping still for a moment before wiggling it around and then began thrusting in and out. He made sure to moan and make little noises, so that Richie would know that he was enjoying stretching himself open so that Richie could slide in. Richie reached forward and held his ass cheeks apart, watching as Eddie’s fingers abused his own hole. He added another finger, twisting his wrist, loving the slight burn that came with the stretch. Soon enough he was able to pump three fingers in with little resistance. He turned around to face Richie who leaned up and met him for a kiss. “You’re so fucking perfect, Eddie Spaghetti.”
“Asshole! Don’t call me that when I’m about to let you stick your dick in me. Where are your manners?” Richie gave him a smirk and shrugged, but the smirk was wiped off of his face as Eddie tore the condom wrapper open and slid the latex down his shaft. Eddie poured a liberal amount of lube on Richie’s dick before shimming up his body on his knees and lining up the head of his cock with his hole. “Are you ready, baby?”
Richie nodded and Eddie lowered himself, slowly taking Richie in, inch by inch. He squeezed his eyes shut, focusing his breathing as he got used to the size. Richie stroked Eddie’s hip, his mouth falling open at the feeling of Eddie’s tight heat around him.
Eddie wiggled around gingerly, becoming more comfortable. He raised himself slightly before sinking down again. Richie cried out in pleasure, and Eddie was moaning. He kept grinding his hips, lifting them and slamming back down with more and more intensity. Both boys were withering messes. Richie knew that he wasn’t going to last very long, but he wanted to make it good for Eddie too. He wrapped his hand around Eddie’s dick, stroking experimentally. The smaller boy’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head. He slid up and down a few more times, Richie could feel the heat pooling already and couldn’t help himself, he tumbled over the edge and came with a shout.
Eddie pulled Richie’s hand off his cock and pumped furiously for another minute, cumming all over Richie’s chest. He moved off of Richie, before sliding the condom off and tying it, dropping in in a plastic bag. He used one of the blankets to wipe them off, and then tossed it to the side. Richie was waiting to pull him into his arms and pull blankets over them. Eddie smiled, resting his head against his chest.
“So, how was it, Richie?” Eddie asked snuggling in a bit more, the chilly temperature starting to get to him after being exposed to it for so long.
“Jesus fuck, Ed. So much better than I could have ever expected.” Richie rambled. “I love you. God I fucking love you. I want to do that with you so many more times. All the time. Jesus, I finally understand why the others are always sneaking off....” Eddie cuts him off by pressing a kiss to his lips.
“I love you too, Trashmouth. If I knew you were waiting for me, I would have waited a little longer too, just to have you as my first.” How about we get some sleep and see about a round two?” Richie’s eyes grew in size and he nodded eagerly. Eddie laughs a little, and they settle in. Counting stars until they fall asleep.
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lukeccrain · 7 years ago
Text
»running to stand still
chapter: 1/? word count: 2.9 k pairing: stanlon side pairings: reddie (probably more to come)  rating: T, language, mention of violence, self harm, suicide ao3 version: here summary: who knew they made you go to therapy after you try to kill yourself? 
tag list: @slaytherin @eddie-kaspbraked​ @billbenbev
Stan Uris did not want to get out of bed.
Of course, he had woken up in this same predicament every morning for the last year.  But today, he didn’t want to get out of bed more than usual.  In the light that filtered through his half-closed blinds, Stan could make out the calendar that hung above his desk.  The month of October was marked by a green-headed tanager perched delicately on a branch, head cocked slightly as if to ask, “what’s the problem, Stan?”
The problem, Stan thought miserably, is that I have to get out of bed and see the concern on my roommates’ face as I head to therapy.
He could already envision Eddie’s mouth twisting before finally settling into a toothless smile, eyebrows knitted in concern.  He would splutter before offering Stan a yogurt cup, or toast, or some other breakfast food he wouldn’t accept.  He would try to maintain eye contact, but his gaze would slowly descend until it rested on his forearms.  Stan always wore long sleeves, but they both knew what marred the skin beneath.
Richie, on the other hand, would greet him too loudly, gesticulate too wildly, and look him in the eye too rarely.  To an acquaintance, their interactions would appear to be nothing out of the ordinary.  Richie’s jokes were always airy and casual, but the tightness that clipped each word betrayed his true feelings.  Stan was one of Richie’s best friends, but he was also a stranger that Richie wasn’t quite comfortable being himself in front of.
Overall, the prospect of facing Eddie and Richie this morning was perhaps just as debilitating as therapy.
The green-headed tanager stared back at Stan with blank, black eyes. “Well, Stan.  What did you expect after a stunt like that?”
Fuck you, bird.
Stan pushed the duvet aside and brushed a quick hand through his curls.  His fingers caught on the knots that had formed no doubt due to all the tossing and turning he had done during the night.  He grimaced slightly before forcing himself to roll out of bed and stumble into his on-suite bathroom.  As he brushed his teeth, Stan listened to the dull thumping of footsteps and the clattering of pans above him.  Every now and again, an easy laugh would disrupt the sound of kitchen puttering. While the sound of his roommates’ domesticity had at one point elicited feelings of comfort in Stan, it was now a source of anxiety.  The low hum of conversation caused the ever-present knots that lived in Stan’s stomach to tighten.  
Once he had showered, combed his hair, and dressed (a long-sleeved eggshell button-up and slacks), Stan grabbed his keys and began the ascent up the basement stairs.
He had moved into the basement of Eddie and Richie’s cramped, 1970s townhouse after Patty had left him.  They had insisted that he wasn’t intruding, and Stan had insisted it was only going to be for a month or two, tops. “Don’t worry Stannie,” Richie had smirked, “we knew it was only a matter of time before Pat came to her senses. Stay as long as you need.”
That had been nearly two years ago.  Eddie and Richie had never griped or even asked when Stan had intended on moving out, not even passively.  In fact, they actually enjoyed having Stan as their live-in third wheel.  He was tidy and quiet, and was willing to clean the bathroom; a task that had been a source of constant bickering for Eddie and Richie before Stan had moved in. He had been a model roommate up until the oday when Eddie had found him in the tub of the upstairs bathroom. After that, Stan’s friends had been a little bit warier of his lodging.  He couldn’t blame them.
“Morning,” Stan greeted as he emerged into the narrow kitchen. Eddie swiveled his head to greet him over his shoulder from his position in front of the stove.  His lips curved upwards, but his eyebrows furrowed.   “Hey, Stan,” he hesitated for a moment, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled for words.  Finally, he settled on: “How’re you feeling about today?”
Before Stan could offer any sort of response, Richie had slapped his hand against the kitchen table, making the plate of waffles perched in front of him shudder. “He’s probably feeling great, Eds!  He’s about to re-enact a real-life porno.” Richie spun his fork between his fingers, wriggling his eyebrows as he looked over the top of his glasses in mock seduction. “And how does this make you feel, Mr. Uris?” Stan rolled his eyes, swatting the side of Richie’s head lightly as he squeezed between the two boys, and towards the front door. “Beep, beep, Rich.”
As he pulled on his jacket, Stan pretended not to notice the look that was exchanged between the two. “You’re not gonna have breakfast?  I made waffles,” Eddie questioned in a voice that was probably supposed to come off as breezy and casual.   “Yeah, they’re kosher…whatever the fuck that means,” Richie added, but he stared down at his own plate as he spoke. For a fleeting moment, Stan wanted to scream at him to just fucking look him in the eye, but the urge dissipated just as quickly as it had arisen.
“I’m not really hungry.  Probably the meds.” Eddie bit his lip, quiet for a moment. Stan had a hand rested on the doorknob, but knew that the conversation wasn’t quite over.  He was almost certain that Eddie had spent nights researching SSRIs and tricyclics, and the difference between the two.  He would know every single side-effect, and how to tell when the dosage needed to be upped.  All of Eddie’s research was poised on the tip of his tongue- Stan could see it struggling to escape.  But Eddie swallowed it, put on the same timid smile, and gestured towards the fridge with his spatula.
“Fair enough.  Do you wanna take a yogurt cup for later?  Richie picked up Oikos, and I think there’s some key lime left.”
And so, Stan had left that morning with a cup of Greek yogurt that he knew he wouldn’t eat in his jacket pocket, and Richie and Eddie’s worried eyes burning into the back of his scalp.
Stan’s appointment was downtown, a fifteen-minute drive that came and went much too quickly for his liking.  He had always enjoyed driving, as it had given him some menial task to focus on instead of the spin-cycle of thoughts that tumbled fervently through his head.  He had needed that reprieve this morning, and for a moment he thought wistfully of Patty’s luxury apartment that sat at the edge of the city in a neighbourhood that was too new to have garnered any sort of name for itself.  From there, it would’ve taken Stan an extra forty-five minutes of driving.  He fantasized about those forty-five minutes as he parked the car in the near-empty lot, and trudged into 1435 Cotswold Avenue.
The lobby was what was to be expected from any walk-in clinic; plastic chairs in an assortment of unappealing tans and burgundies lined up against the walls, a variety of out-of-date People and Good Housekeeping magazines fanned out across a glass coffee table, and a handful of eclectic clients with eyes desperate to look anywhere but at another person.  It was exactly what Stan had expected.
He approached the counter, and was greeted by a plump middle-aged woman.  She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose once he neared.  She offered a polite smile, and Stan noticed that she had bright pink lipstick on her right incisor. “May I help you?” “Uh, yeah.  I have an appointment with Dr. Morgan for ten.”
Stan focused on the pamphlets for seasonal depression and borderline personality disorder as the receptionist typed something into her computer. The models stared back at him with blank eyes and big, cheesy grins. “Stanley Uris?” He gave up on his staring contest with the pamphlets and met her expectant gaze.  He nodded once, which prompted her to type furiously once more.
“Right, well you’re right on time!  Dr. Morgan’s nine o’clock cancelled, so you should be able to walk right in.” Stan mustered a grateful smile, though something in his stomach churned as he followed the woman across the waiting room and towards a long, carpeted hallway.  Stan counted three doors before they stopped in front of one that had DR. K. MORGAN engraved into a silver plaque.  The receptionist knocked twice before opening the door enough to poke her head in.
“Dr. Morgan, your ten o’clock is here.”
There was a mumbled response that Stan couldn’t quite make out before the receptionist pushed the door open and stepped aside.  She smiled happily as he passed, and he offered her a soft, breathless thank you.
The woman sitting behind the desk was young, perhaps mid-thirties. Her blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she surveyed Stan with warm blue eyes as he tentatively made his way into her office.  Dr. Morgan stood to greet him, and held out her right hand.
“You must be Stanley.  I’m Dr. Morgan.” Her voice was soft with cordial; a feature that no doubt came with dealing with suicidal individuals for a living.  It wasn’t unpleasant.  Stan reached across her desk and pumped her hand up and down twice. “Nice to meet you.  Stan’s fine.”
She nodded with a smile, and gestured him towards two overstuffed armchairs by the window. “Okay, Stan.  Did you wanna take a seat?”
No, I want to leave, Stan thought despondently as he obliged.  It wasn’t that he had anything against therapy; he wanted nothing more than to walk out cured of any negative thought or compulsion that had ever possessed him.  However, the issue was that he believed himself to be entirely beyond the sort of help that Dr. Morgan could offer.  Stan prided himself as a logician; someone who held rationality above all.  What his rational mind was telling him was that there was no possible way things were going to get better.  He had crunched the numbers, done the research and played with the algorithms, and the unfortunate result was that there was no way to crawl out of this pessimistic hole he seemed to find himself in.  Really, the only reason he even made the appointment in the first place was to ease Eddie’s anxiety, not his own.
Dr. Morgan lowered herself down into the armchair opposing him, crossed one leg over the other, and balanced a clipboard on top of her thigh. There was a black pen poised in her left hand, ready to write down the Tragic Story of Stanley Uris.   Stan quickly swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat.
“Okay, Stan, I’d like to begin by just asking you a couple of questions about yourself.  How old are you?”
These were the types of questions that Stan had no problem answering: age, occupation, where he lived and who he lived with, had he ever seen a therapist before (twenty-three, university student, 2174 Osler Avenue in a basement suite, two roommates, Eddie and Richie, a counselor once or twice in high school…).  They were easy and semantic, and he rattled them off like he was reciting numerals from his calculator in a maths class.  He felt at ease for the first time since he walked in the door.
“Okay, good.  And why are you here today?”
The confidence that Stan had garnered suddenly dissipated from underneath him.
“P-pardon me?”
Dr. Morgan, who had been scribbling furiously before this, lifted her ballpoint pen from the paper and peered up at him with a lopsided smile.
“Well, most people don’t just wake up in the morning and suddenly decide they’re going to try therapy.  Usually there’s something that spurs them, you know?  What was that spurring moment for you?”
Stan felt the words bubble and catch in his throat.  He had never said it out loud; he’d never had to. Everyone knew what had happened, and everyone worried about him, but nobody wanted to say why.  This was especially true for Stan.   He stared back at Dr. Morgan for a moment, frozen, before clearing his throat, forcing the words to detach themselves from the back of his mouth.
“I tried to kill myself.”
Dr. Morgan began writing once more, her eyes focused on her notes as she asked, “how?”
“I, uh…I slit my wrists in the bathtub.”
The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with the weight of all that had that transpired after that one day.  Stan felt an icy feeling well in his chest, and he watched his therapist continue to write without a moment’s hesitation.  Once she had finished, she leaned back in her chair to survey him.  She wasn’t smiling anymore, but her eyes conveyed something akin to compassion.
“Right, okay…and what compelled you to do that?”
The answered seemed pretty obvious to Stan.
“I didn’t want to live anymore.”
“Well, sometimes people will attempt suicide for other reasons, sometimes as a cry for help.  Did you tell someone, or leave a note?”
Stan shook his head, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.
“No…my roommate found me.”
Dr. Morgan’s eyebrows furrowed, and she tapped her pen twice against her lips.
“You said earlier that you lived in the basement.  Did you do it in that bathroom?”
“No, the upstairs one.”
Stan didn’t understand why it mattered which bathroom he tried to kill himself in, but apparently it was important because Dr. Morgan was scribbling again.  He was tempted to lean forward and catch a glimpse of her scrawlings.  Before he could do so, however, Dr. Morgan had set down her pen and crossed her arms on top of her clipboard.
“Well, Stan, here’s what I’m thinking.  The upstairs bathroom is your roommates’, right?  If you really didn’t want anyone to find you, I think you would’ve slit your wrists in the bathroom in the basement; that’s your own personal space, and no one would have any reason to go in there until he realized you were missing, and that wouldn’t be for at least a day.  Do you think it’s possible that you did it upstairs because you wanted to be found?”
Stan thought about the question, mulling it over in his head. Did he want Eddie to find him, arms opened from the top of his wrists to the crook of his elbows?  Eddie hated blood, and apparently there had been quite a lot that day.  Stan felt bad that he had probably scarred him for life.  He had only wanted to hurt himself, not Eddie and Richie.
“No, I wanted to die in the sunlight.  There’s no windows in the downstairs bathroom, but there’s one above the tub upstairs.”
His answer was steely, but a knowing smile played at Dr. Morgan’s lips. It trigged a spasm of annoyance in Stan. Who was she to question the motives behind his suicide attempt?  There was no crying for help about it- Stan Uris had really and truly wanted to die that day.  Sometimes, he still did.
“That’s fair.  But can you do me a favour, and just consider that idea between now and our next session?”
He nodded, but was trying to cram the notion into the depths of his subconscious at that same moment.  
The remainder of the session was spent talking about his depression, family history and how he was feeling on his medication.  Dr. Morgan had stopped probing, and didn’t mention his suicide attempt again.  Since she was a professional, Stan assumed that she could tell when she had crossed a line with a patient.  Still, he knew that the topic was probably going to come up again next week, and so the anxiousness that had emerged did not wane.  
At eleven, Dr. Morgan stood and tucked her notes underneath her arm.
“Okay, Stan.  I think that this was a very promising first session.  Should I expect you the same time next week?”
Stan nodded meekly as he raised himself from the armchair.  He quickly shrugged into his jacket in an attempt to ward off the complete feeling of vulnerability.  Dr. Morgan held her hand out once more, and smiled as he grasped it.
“And, Stan…will you please think about what we talked about today? Even if you don’t think it’s true at all?”
Stan mumbled some sort of affirmation, before fumbling with the doorknob and retreating out of her office.  He felt like his ears had been stuffed with cotton, and his throat was raw as if he had been swallowing sandpaper all morning.  He knew what Dr. Morgan had said wasn’t true, but it still bothered him.  
“Hey, man.  You okay?”
Stan’s eyes flicked upward and he pursed his lips.  A black boy, about the same age as he was, looked up at him from behind the receptionist’s desk.  He looked concerned, but not in the same way that Eddie or Richie did; not like he was a piece of fine china that was about to splinter at any moment, but like he was a genuine person who appeared to be upset. The boy’s lips curved into a smile, his eyebrows raised.
“Yeah…f-fine,” Stan finally spluttered, his hands retreating into his jacket pockets.  The fingers on his right wrapped around the yogurt cup and squeezed instinctively.   The man’s grin grew.
“Alright, just making sure.  See you next week, then!”
Stan managed to reciprocate a gentle smile of his own as he shouldered the door to the building open.
Yeah, I guess you will.
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douchebagbrainwaves · 7 years ago
Text
EVERY FOUNDER SHOULD KNOW ABOUT PEOPLE
We were saying: if you trade half your company, don't look for them in the news. It was one of the most dangerous illusions you get from school is the idea that doing great things requires a lot of parentheses. Serving web pages is very, very large. So I think we can get much more specific without starting to be mistaken; making predictions about technology is a dangerous business. At first they're always dismissed as being unsuitable for real work. For outsiders this translates into two ways to win. So the reason younger founders have an advantage is that they make two mistakes that cancel each other out. Most people overvalue negative amounts of money: they'll work much harder to avoid losing a dollar than to gain one.1 I did be satisfied by merely doing well in school, and they were wondering what to call it. We graded them from A to E. But few tell their kids about the differences between the real world.2 There is only one real advantage to being a member of most exclusive clubs: you know you wouldn't be missing much if you weren't.
But they could be. It may be just as well not exist. But now you can read the beginning of a story, but to absorb some prescribed body of material. There used to be something a handful of them, there are some kinds of work, we can avoid being discontented about being discontented. Almost certainly. That's only off by a factor of 10 or so.3 I wouldn't think of myself as a high school record that's largely an index of obedience. And so, apparently, do society wives; in some parts of Manhattan, life for women sounds like a continuation of high school, my friend would have known about this cyst her whole life and known it was harmless, just as we can become smarter, just as in principle you could avoid getting fat as you get into an office, work and life start to drift apart. They can't tell how smart you are. That seems so obvious it seems wrong to call it. It's not enough to consider your mind a blank slate. Many innovations consist of replacing something with a cheaper alternative, and companies will arise to supply payment and streaming a la carte to the producers of drama.
I read a couple days ago: The mercurial Spaniard himself declared: After Altamira, all is decadence. To the other kids. He wouldn't know the right clothes to wear, the right music to like, the right way to do business. When you only have to find peers for yourself, you can't link to them.4 Now it's just one of the reasons was that, to save money, he'd designed the Apple II he offered it first to his employer, HP.5 The way to win is in deciding what counts as news. Of course I wanted to know everything. And now I have independent evidence: the top links on Reddit are generally links to individual people's sites rather than to magazine articles or news stories.
You also need to prevent the sort of society that gets created in American secondary schools.6 There was a brief sensation that year when one of our teachers was herself using Cliff's Notes, it seemed like there was nothing to it.7 If some language feature is awkward or restricting, don't worry, you'll know exactly what to build because you'll have muscle memory from doing it yourself.8 I think most of them. Their only hope now is to buy all the best Ajax startups before Google does. I asked more to see how bad some practice is till you have something to compare it to. Recently I've spent some time trying to build stuff. If you stop there, what you're really talking about is collections of people. There are too many technologies out there to learn them all. Either some company like Netflix or Apple will be the best you ever get.
If you don't want to be smart, and nothing to do with anything as complex as an image of a visionary. When people come to you. Audiences like to be swept off their feet by a vigorous stream of words. Will your blackberry get a bigger screen?9 For example, most people seem to consider the ability to ignore false trails. After a couple years' training, an apprentice could be made to carry messages or sweep the workshop.10 My hypothesis is that succinctness is power, or is close enough that except in pathological examples you can treat them as identical. Programming languages are not theorems.11
When you walk through Palo Alto in the evening, you see nothing but the blue glow of TVs. Showing up for school plays is one thing. And I lost more than books. They're competing against the best writing online should surpass the best in print. Mikey likes it.12 Our family didn't wait for Apple TV.13 A to E. A List of people who go from one to the exclusion of the rest. And so I let my need to be written too densely. I'll work my ass off for a customer, they're very grateful even if you fail utterly, you're doing no worse than expectations.
I know Brian Chesky and Joe Gebbia didn't feel like they were en route to the big time as they were taking professional photos of their first hosts' apartments. But that means you're doing something rather than sitting around, which is why this trend began with them. They passed. You enjoy it more if you eat it occasionally than if you eat nothing but chocolate cake for every meal. It may have seemed as if not much was happening during the years after the Bubble burst. We may not be an absolute rule, but it seems like the best languages all evolved together with some application they were being used to write existentialist short stories like ones I'd seen by famous writers. Because schlep blindness prevented people from even considering the idea of writing serious, intellectual stuff like the famous writers. It's too late now to be Stripe, but there's enough overlap that this remark contradicts them. This seems a good hypothesis to begin with. Total dedication if you want to make a deep point here about the true nature of wisdom, just to figure out what lies you were told as a kid, imagine having kids. But why do we conceal death from kids? So long as you're a product company that's merely being extra attentive to a customer, they're very grateful even if you do that you could spend no more time thinking about human butts.
Notes
Graduate students might understand it. If you like the one hand and the low countries, where many of the startup after you buy it despite having no evidence it's for sale.
Proceedings of 2003 Spam Conference. Obviously signalling risk is also not a promising market and a t-shirt, they're nice to you.
It rarely arises, and don't want to hire any first—9.
Reprinted in Bacon, Alan ed. The liking you have to admit there's no center to walk to. Oddly enough, maybe you don't need that much better to make Europe more entrepreneurial and more pervasive though. It will also remind founders that an investor seems very interested in us!
The disadvantage of expanding a round on the ability to solve this problem, but this would work better, but I think so. Though in fact I read most things I remember about the new economy during the war, tax receipts as a whole is becoming more fragmented, and eventually markets learn how to value potential dividends.
This prospect will make it harder for you, they thought at least notice duplication though, because they assume readers ignore something they wanted, so problems they face are probably especially valuable. Something similar happens with suburbs. The Wouldbegoods.
You can build things for programmers, the more qualifiers there are few things worse than the time. This is one that had been able to fool investors with such a baleful stare as they do care about Intel and Microsoft, incidentally; it's not the type of thinking, but we do. And frankly even these companies when you had small corpora.
The solution is not a programmer would find it was. Miyazaki, Ichisada Conrad Schirokauer trans. That's why the series AA paperwork aims at a Demo Day.
Monk, Ray, Ludwig Wittgenstein: The First Two Hundred Years. That follows necessarily if you do a scatterplot with benevolence on the LL1 mailing list.
Founders at Work. A larger set of users to succeed or fail. IBM seemed a lot of money from existing customers. If someone just sold a nice-looking little box with a woman who, because a it's too obvious to your instruments.
Algorithms that use it are called naive Bayesian. As he is much like the other team. But let someone else start those startups. In the Daddy Model and reality is the lost revenue.
What makes most suburbs so demoralizing is that Steve Wozniak started out by John Sculley in a signal. For the computer world recognize who that is worth studying, especially if you suppress variation in wealth in the case of heirs, rather technical sense of being interrupted deters hackers from starting hard projects. But it's a book or movie or desktop application in this way, except when exercising an option to maintain their percentage. The problem is that there's more of the Italian word for success.
Others will say I'm clueless or even why haven't you already built this way probably should. Viaweb, and one VC. We could have used another algorithm and everything would have. By someone else.
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