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the-desolated-quill · 7 years

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Let’s Kill Hitler - Doctor Who blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. If you haven’t seen this episode yet, you may want to before reading this review)

Oh Christ, do I have to talk about this piece of shit?

I’ve made it no secret how much I despise Steven Moffat’s writing. His convoluted series arcs, his painfully obvious plot twists, his smarmy ‘too kool for skool’ dialogue that’s often dripping in pretentious bullshit, his one dimensional ‘quirky’ characters and his casual sexism. Even the few good stories he’s written have at least some of these problems. Let’s Kill Hitler is definitely one of the worst stories he’s ever written. Every problem I listed, Let’s Kill Hitler contains in excess. I HATE this episode with a passion. I usually watch these episodes twice before writing a review in order to properly analyse every detail. and that can be excruciating when it comes to other bad episodes. With Let’s Kill Hitler, it felt like my own personal torture. Halfway through my second viewing, I was about ready to jump through the TV screen and start throttling the characters to death.

After some bullshit involving crop circles and establishing that, after all this time looking for Melody Pond, the Doctor has achieved fuck all, we’re introduced to Mels.

Yes. Mels.

Well gee. Could she be Melody Pond? Nah! That would be ridiculous! Mels has a darker skin tone than Melody. It’s not as if she’s a Time Lord that could regenerate or anything... OH WAIT!

Oh God. Where do I start with Mels? What a smug, grating, unlikeable piece of work this is (also she’s the first woman of colour to appear in Leadworth and she’s a criminal. Lovely). I was about to say I can’t see how Amy could possibly stand to be around someone like Mels, let alone name her child after her, but then I remembered this is Amy we’re talking about here. She’s just as big of a bitch as Mels is. Just look at the way she treats Rory as they grew up. At this point I’m convinced Rory isn’t so much in love with Amy as he is feeling the effects of Stockholm Syndrome. So no. I have no problem buying Amy and Mels would be friends. They’re both utter bitches. I’m sure they got on like a house on fire.

You know, considering what close friends Mels and Amy supposedly were and how incredibly influential she apparently was in Amy’s life, it’s strange that this is the first time we’ve ever heard of her, which suggests that Moffat just pulled Mels out of the darkest depths of his arse in order to facilitate his shit plot. And as shit plots go, this is very shit. Worthlessly, pathetically, incontinently shit. Moffat has written some bad stories before, but this one simply takes the cake. NOTHING makes any sense whatsoever.

The Doctor and co crash-land in Berlin 1938 where they encounter the Teselecta. A robot controlled by miniaturised people who travel in time punishing historical criminals. Like with the Headless Monks in A Good Man Goes To War, the Teselecta isn’t an inherently bad idea. It could be potentially interesting. The problem is it barely gets a look in due to Moffat’s bullshit series arc. The story is really about Mels/River. The Teselecta, Hitler and Berlin are really little more than just a backdrop. This could have been set on a space station or in a Nandos and it would have been the same.

So Mels regenerates into River Song, at which point she’s labelled by the people in the Teselecta as ‘the woman who kills the Doctor’ and ‘the worst war criminal in history.’ Yes. River, who killed one man, is a worse criminal than Hitler, who facilitated the deaths of millions of people. Fuck you Moffat.

Okay there’s a lot to unpack here. I apologise if this review is coming across as a bit sloppy and all over the shop, but there’s just so many problems with Let’s Kill Hitler that its hard to know where to start.

Let’s start with the whole Time Lord thing. River can regenerate because she was conceived in the TARDIS. Well that’s bollocks. It’s like The Big Bang all over again. If a TARDIS can destroy the space/time continuum if it were to explode and can infect foetuses, why on Earth would the Time Lords have ever let one off the assembly line? The most popular excuse Moffat fans like to use is that the TARDIS is faulty. Um... yeah, because of its chameleon circuit. Not because it’s a radioactive deathtrap.

Also why would the Silence need to create a Time Lord to kill the Doctor? Think back to The Impossible Astronaut. The Doctor died from two gunshots. The first to start the regeneration process and the second to finish him off. You don’t need a Time Lord for that. Any old fucker with a gun would do.

Which brings me to the Silence’s motivations. So they take Amy’s kid and brainwash her into becoming an assassin (not a psychopath Moffat. Would it kill you to use Wikipedia?) by telling her all the crimes and evils in the universe the Doctor didn’t solve, thus proving what a bad man he really is.

I’m sorry, but even the village idiot could spot the flaws in that logic. The Doctor isn’t a God. He can’t be everywhere at once. And if he reversed every bad thing that ever happened in history, the space/time continuum would probably have more holes in it than a colander. Also, why is the Doctor the only sole person responsible for this? What about the fucking Teselecta? What about the Time Agency? What about your DIY TARDISes? The Doctor doesn’t hold a monopoly on time travel. If you want to fix history, why not do it yourself?

And then we get another bullshit mystery in the form of the Question. The first question ever to be asked. Hidden in plain sight...

......

NAH! Come on! Even by Moffat’s standards, that’s just too stupid.

Before I dive deeper into this cesspool of convoluted nonsense surrounding River Song, I suppose I should point out I’ve got nothing against Alex Kingston. I think she’s a great actor and has done some good stuff over the years. It’s not her fault that she’s been lumbered with such a shit character.

River is at her most annoying here. The smarmy, post regeneration dialogue is utterly cringeworthy and there’s just a sprinkling of casual misogyny thrown in for good measure, such as Mels saying she’s concentrating on a dress size just when she’s about to regenerate and River exclaiming she needs to weigh herself. And that’s not the worst of it. Everything River says has a flirtatious or sexual undertone to it, to the point where it becomes nauseating, there’s yet another scene where the Doctor has to ask Rory’s permission to hug Amy as though she’s an object rather than a person, the Captain of the Teselecta at one point makes a comment about the size of a female colleague’s arse, and then there’s this unforgivable line from the Doctor when Amy asks about River’s flip-flopping goals and motivations:

“She's been brainwashed, it makes sense to her. Plus, she is a woman.”

Moffat, seriously, go and fuck yourself! This isn’t remotely charming or funny. It’s just sexist as shit.

Matt Smith gets lumbered with shit too sadly. The Doctor gets poisoned by River’s lipstick (again, why do the Silence need a Time Lord for that? This makes no sodding sense), at which point he spends the majority of the episode flailing about on the floor like a prat. Not only is this horrible to watch due to Matt Smith’s god awful panto acting, there’s also no tension because we know he doesn’t die here. The death at the lake is a fixed point in time. He HAS to die there. So all this poison stuff just feels like a massive waste of time. In fact not even the fixed point in time stuff makes sense. If the Doctor’s death is a fixed point, why are the Silence bothering to kill him now with poison lipstick? And how do you create a fixed point in the first place? Who determines what’s fixed and what isn’t? I’ve always found the concept of a fixed point in time to have a slight whiff of bullshit about it, but this is just a whole compost heap of bullshit.

And how does the Doctor get out of this one? River gives up her remaining regenerations to bring him back to life. Because apparently she’s fallen in love with him.

Yeah! This isn’t a slow, gradual thing. She just suddenly changes her mind. She’s just sporadically in love with him now. Moffat doesn’t do anything to properly justify this change of heart, unless he's suggesting that the Doctor still caring for his companions on his deathbed was enough to make River’s heart flutter, which it isn’t. Maybe Mels had a crush on the Doctor growing up, but that’s bullshit too. Imagine if Mels was brainwashed to kill Hitler. All her life she’s been fed all the reasons why Hitler is evil and deserves to die. Would it be likely that she would fall in love with Hitler? Of course not! It’s the same principle with the Doctor. if she’s been brainwashed to kill him, it’s unlikely she would have any positive feelings for him whatsoever. So I’m not buying any of this.

But the biggest problem of all is the lack of characterisation and empathy. River Song isn’t a character. She’s a plot device. We never fully explore how she feels about the Doctor and she’s never written consistently. Her thoughts and motivations change depending on what the plot requires. River needs to save the Doctor now, so she just does. And in Moffat’s rush to connect all the dots in his bullshit series arc, he forgets quite possibly the most important characters in this story:

YEAH! Amy and Rory! You know? RIVER SONG’S PARENTS!

Over the course of this two parter, Amy and Rory discover a secret pregnancy, have the baby, lose the baby, realise the baby is both River Song and their best friend Mels due to convoluted time travel stuff, learn that their daughter is the one that kills the Doctor and they ultimately lose out on parenting their own child. That’s some pretty heavy stuff. Pity none of this is ever explored. In fact the one time this is touched upon, Moffat actually plays it up for laughs. What the fuck is wrong with you, you incompetent prick?

And then, just to rub salt into the wound, there’s this really weird line where Mels says it all worked out in the end because Amy and Rory got to raise her during the course of their childhoods, which is just prime Moffat idiocy right there. There’s this huge emotional tragedy taking place here, but Moffat appears to be the only one who hasn’t noticed. His attention is in all the wrong places, focusing on the mechanics of his convoluted arc rather than exploring what the characters are thinking and feeling. I suppose you could argue that exploring these kinds of themes might be too heavy for a family show, but if that’s the case, why is Moffat introducing the topic in the first place?

Like I said at the beginning, I’ve never liked Steven Moffat’s writing very much, but Let’s Kill Hitler was the point where I went from not liking Moffat to hating Moffat. This is easily one of the worst episodes he’s ever written and indeed one of the worst episodes in all of Doctor Who. Whereas A Good Man Goes To War was annoyingly stupid, Let’s Kill Hitler was insultingly stupid. It’s ill conceived, poorly written, utterly misogynistic and completely tone deaf. Fuck this episode and fuck you Moffat.

#let's kill hitler #steven moffat #doctor who #eleventh doctor #matt smith #amy pond #karen gillan #rory williams #arthur darvill #river song #alex kingston #bbc #review #spoilers

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welshjule · 5 years

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You got me begging you for mercy

To my Friends, Family and all Readers,

Welcome to my first blog. Every week I will be posting a story ‘loosely based’ on my life in Australia since 1982. My aim is to provide a little escapism in a sometimes-hard world and to hopefully make you laugh. The content will be mature themed as I am in no way attempting to be a role-model!

Happy reading my Darlings

Let me know what you think.

Ju xx

Perth, Australia.

January 1995

It was a Sunday night and I had just put my daughter Alice to bed. The house was red hot, the windows were wide open and there wasn’t a breeze; it was like living inside a sweaty sock. Summer in Perth can be brutal and it is a dry, burning heat that scorches the hair on your arms and rips the skin off your feet if you try and walk barefoot outside. The temperature had hit forty degrees that day and I only had two stand-up fans, so a load of our family and friends had been swimming at the local pool.

We got home and Alice, who was about five years old, spent about two hours in a cold bath – in her bathers, underwater, face-down and pretending to be dead! My job was to run in and rescue her every so often but I kept forgetting. I gave the nickname ‘Insane Alice’ to my daughter when she was very young because she was my wild, brave, curious nutcase, who always had something to say and most of it was somewhat demented. Over the years, we dropped the Insane bit and it was just Alice, but to tell the truth, she’s still a bit touched.

My Father called her ’his Alice’ for thirty years.

So, my exhausted daughter was now asleep with a wet towel on top of her and a fan blowing hot air around her room.

Walking into the kitchen, I stuck my head under the cold tap until my hair and face were soaking wet. Grabbing an ice-cold beer from the fridge, I wandered out to the garden and laid back on an old lounger. Tracey Chapman was singing about a fast car as I lit a fag and skulled my beer.

The house was like a furnace and there was no reprieve outside. From November to March, you went to bed sweating and you got up the same way. We lived in a low-income area and nobody had air-conditioning; you just had to deal with the heat.

At that time, single mothers didn’t get to choose the houses with alarm systems and swimming pools. We could only afford tired, old rentals with dripping taps and broken flyscreens and to make matters worse, I was cleaning two ‘beach-front’ mansions a day while Alice was at school.

#These were palaces, with huge swimming pools, wine cellars and balconies overlooking the blue ocean and I earned a pittance. I had to shut my mouth like Ruby from ‘Upstairs, Downstairs’ when the ‘lady of the house’ complained about smears on the bathroom mirror or dust on the roof because I needed the money.

Looking around now, my poor garden looked so sad; that unrelenting ball of fire had burnt the beautiful flowers I had planted and singed the lawn so badly that it was now just dry, straw.

I was feeling a bit weird and conflicted because everyone around me seemed to think that I should be trying to find a man to ‘look after me and be a father to Alice.’ Don’t get me wrong, it was said with kindness, but I was bored of the whole thing.

Thirty years ago, there was a real stigma attached to being a single mother. If your marriage failed but the dad was still on the scene with the kids, that was ok. If there was no father in sight, it played with people’s heads.

I chose to leave Alice’s father when she was a baby and bring up my daughter alone and I loved it.

I didn’t have a man and I didn’t really want one.

But some people just weren’t comfortable with it. Was I a lesbian? Did I hate men? Was I flirting with their man? They wanted to set me up with their husband’s mate from Bunnings and it was all, ‘We’ve got to find you a nice fella’ and ‘you can’t be too fussy.’ What a cheek! I was thirty years old with no visible hump on my back. Who were they thinking of wheeling in? Alf F##king Stewart?’’

There was a lot of pressure

And It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried.

I’d been to Bachelor and Spinster Balls, joined ‘Parents Without Partners’ (very creepy) and even went to ’Japanese conversation ‘night classes because everyone told me ‘There are loads of divorced men learning languages now Ju. There will be blokes everywhere.’ The only man I ever spoke to was wearing a grey cardigan and had just retired from the civil service.

God knows I tried

And I was about to try again

In 1995, there was no tinder or instant messaging because there were no mobile phones or computers (well not in our house anyway). People had to leave their residence and go hunting in pubs and clubs on a Saturday night for their own Brad Pitt or Pamela Anderson and it was utterly soul destroying.

But I had the Wanneroo Times and I was on a mission.

This local community newspaper had started printing adverts in their classifieds for single people wanting to meet a partner. It was basically, ‘man seeking woman’ or ‘woman seeking man’. Then, everybody told massive lies about themselves; ‘very attractive, happy go lucky, no baggage, loves a good red wine and walking on the beach at sunset.’ It was ridiculous but that didn’t stop me filling in the form.

My advert said,

If you are a sports fanatic and watch it on tv all weekend – read on

If you are bitter about your wife taking everything from you in the divorce, we’ve already met - read on

If you like pina coladas and getting caught in the rain, warm winter fires, bubble baths and collecting driftwood. Stop reading Sir, for you are a dead set serial killer.

I didn’t say much about me, just,

’blonde, thirty, likes to write.’

And I posted it off.

It took a week to receive any responses.

I’d been watching ‘Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves’ and wondering how I could get in touch with Kevin Costner to tell him I was waiting for him here; in the hottest, most isolated corner of the world!

But I was feeling quite hopeful and ready for some romance in my life. I spent most of the week singing ‘You know it’s true, everything I do, I do it for you.’

On a Monday morning, the postman dropped an official looking, brown envelope into my post box and I had seven letters!!

Buzzing with excitement, I made a cup of coffee, lit a fag and opened the first one.

He had a wife but they didn’t sleep together. He desperately needed passion in his life, maybe two afternoons a week! Yeh right, dream on!

Three more were married and just wanted a bit on the side.

My fifth would-be suitor boasted of a body tattooed from his neck to his toes and a willingness to provide colour photos. I just couldn’t stomach it!

And the sixth little gem was a smooth-talking illiterate who claimed to be a ‘mad rooter’ but added that, ’If I was a ‘Fat Sheila,’ then not to bother eh!’

I could feel a black depression impending; Was I supposed to settle for this group of no-hopers?

But there was one letter remaining and that was written by a man named Fred.

Fred was English and had been in Perth for a couple of years. He worked in some office and liked Guinness. That was good enough for me!

We spoke on the phone a couple of times and met for a quick coffee. He was a nice bloke and didn’t seem to be deranged. He asked me to go to the movies to see ’Braveheart’ and I said ‘’lovely.’’

So, its Friday night and I am sorted. Alice is staying at my parents’ house and I have a date!

The Commitments are slaying Mustang Sally and I am drinking a vodka and tonic. My hair is a work of art! It has been washed, blow- dried, straightened, back-combed and gelled, plus I’ve used half a can of hairspray, so this hairdo is not shifting.

On goes the make-up, a pair of jeans that are much too small and a black shirt. Sounds simple doesn’t it?

But it is still 32 degrees at 6.30pm and the sweat is dripping down my back. I am sitting on an ice pack with my feet in a bowl of cold water and the pedestal fan is coughing, stale air at me like an old family dog. The jeans are slowly roasting my legs, the underneath of my hair is soaking wet and the makeup is dripping off my face.

But I don’t care, because I’m looking good, the house smells of ’Red Door’ perfume and I’ve had a few puffs of a lovely old joint I found on top of the kitchen cupboard.

I am ready for action!

Fred turned up at about seven and he looked very smart with jeans and a blue shirt. He was quite a portly fellow, very suntanned and with a completely bald head. I don’t know if he’d ever had any hair and I didn’t really care.

I was flying!

We were a bit early for the movies so we went for a drink first. The pub was practically empty but the night was young, so I told Fred that it was my shout. He asked the ‘gothic and heavily pierced’ barmaid, if she could make him a flat, white coffee and she looked at him with complete disgust. I ordered a double vodka and we sat down for a chat. I really wanted to find Fred attractive but he wasn’t giving me much.

He had a very strong Yorkshire accent and was into cycling and re-cycling. He started telling me about sustainable compost heaps and I just glazed over.

But, as I sat looking at him, the room started spinning and Fred began to morph into Dierdre Barlow from Coronation Street and a brown, boiled egg.

That old puff was strong!

’’I’m that choofed you chose me lass,’’ he said ‘’and I’m having a grand time, but I’m not one for the drink.’’

’Jesus Christ! When am I going to cop a break?’ I thought, ‘I’m a thirty-year-old woman wearing skin tight jeans and high heels. My legs are shaved, my elbows moisturised and I HAVE THE HOUSE TO MYSELF!! Who gives a shit about recycling?

I didn’t want to talk about Fred’s ‘loovely bunch of lasses at work’ or ’the benefits of riding a bicycle.’

My life consisted of chicken nuggets, nit shampoo and a daughter who was obsessed with a demonic dessert called Strawberry Shortcake. This nauseating strawberry cake had three best friends called Apple Dumpling, Raspberry Tart and Cherry Cuddler. They sounded like a bunch of sex workers and their pimp was a freak called ‘The Prickly and Peculiar Pieman from Porcupine Creek. Alice had it on an old video and played it constantly. She had been speaking in an American accent for about three weeks and I was over it!

I wanted to act like a teenager. To get absolutely wasted, fall-down drunk and extremely immature. I wished Fred would suggest a drinking game so that we could get really loud and find everything hysterical. I needed him to make me laugh because that is sexy. I wanted to completely skip the bloody movie altogether!

Nah, take that back.

Fred was, in fact, an egg that spoke with a Yorkshire accent and he was boring me to death.

So, we walked to the cinema and bought our own tickets, (very civilised), then I was straight into the Candy Bar. Buying a very expensive choc- top ice-cream and some popcorn, I asked Fred what he was having and he said,

’’Nah, I’ll not have owt, I’m watching me weight.’’

That really irritated me because I’d been considering a box of Maltesers too and now I couldn’t have them because I would look like a pig.

We found two seats in the middle row. The place was packed out because it was the first night the film was showing.

‘’So, Fred, what’s this Braveheart about then? It’s not going to be all blood and gore is it?’’ I asked.

“I don’t know Julie, I haven’t seen it,’’ he said, but it translated to, ’’Ah doon’t know jooleh, I’ve not seen film.’’

Now, don’t forget, I was deep in the grip of Sherwood Forrest and I thought Braveheart would be similar; some battles, dodgy accents, a love story, some fantastic one-liners ‘a la’ Alan Rickman.

I thought wrong.

The beginning of the film showed the beauty of Scotland with some hauntingly lovely music and a softly-spoken narrator. By the time I had eaten my choc-top, there were bodies of men, women and children hanging from beams, heads chopped off and the stabbing and slashing of everyone in sight; including the poor horses.

I was in a hell of a state!

Alice always compares me to the late, great, British comedian Larry Grayson when I am out of my comfort zone and am shocked or horrified. I get flustered and loud, highly camp and completely over the top.

I have to have things explained to me very clearly.

This film was way beyond my comfort zone.

My hands were over my eyes and all you could hear from me was ‘’Oh my God, when are they going to stop killing?” ‘’Oh, that’s gross!’’ ‘’I can’t look!’’ ‘’Why is there so much blood?’’ ‘’What’s happening Fred?”

And then an English soldier ties Braveheart’s beautiful bride to a tree.

I’m thinking, ‘’hurry up Wallace and save your woman.’’

Everyone is waiting for Mel to rescue her but he’s missing in action.

And the English Bast##d slits her throat!

Now, we still had about three more hours of this film to endure and the main character’s wife was dead. I just couldn’t believe it. She was exquisite, almost heavenly.

What was going on?

Í nudged Fred, ‘’What’s happening Fred? Is it a flashback or a dream? Is she coming back?’’

I was beside myself.

Fred was getting a little snippy at my endless questions and bad language because I couldn’t stop saying ‘’Oh F#ck’’ every time a limb was chopped off and it was constant carnage. It simply never stopped.

There was a teenage boy and his girlfriend sitting next to me and I tearfully asked the boy what he thought was going on. Did he think the lovely Marrun was coming back? Was it a flashback? He just looked horrified and two minutes later they both left.

So, now I’m crying and it’s serious. I’m absolutely gutted about useless Wallace not getting there in time and I don’t really feel like watching anymore.

Worse though, I haven’t got a tissue!

I am sobbing and my nose is running and I am doing that unattractive, hiccupy thing.

Fred’s forgotten his handkerchief and I’m hyperventilating and trying to quell my hysteria. But it’s just so sad and all you can hear in the whisper quiet audience are my racking sobs and sniffs. In the end, I had to use a KitKat wrapper and the sleeve of my top to wipe my nose. (yeh, I know, disgusting).

So now I’ve got to sit through another 150 minutes of butchery and treachery, heads in the mail, people being thrown out of windows and the mass raping of young maidens. It was relentless and I was suffering very loudly.

Fred was peeved, “Nah then, Jooleh, joost try to be a tad quieter pet. I can’t ‘ear film.’’

I was frazzled and I hadn’t even got to the torture of William Wallace.

What a joy that was!

About thirty minutes of Mel being hung, drawn and quartered very slowly with some lethal weapons (sorry, I had to).

First, he spits out the anaesthetic drug the princess slips him and then he refuses to shout ‘mercy’ to end his own torture. It was all too much and I kept shouting ‘mercy’ at the screen and crying loudly, but Mel just kept hanging on in there.

William Wallace was no pussy!

Eventually though, all the organs have been removed from his body and he has to die.

In his last few seconds alive he sees his wife, Murron, walking through the crowds, waiting for him and she is so beautiful, it’s heart breaking. Braveheart shouts ‘Freedom’ and I’m completely finished.

Before anyone could move, I was out of my seat. ’’I’ll see you in the foyer Fred,” I sobbed and ran to the toilets before the lights came on.

My body was shaking, my legs were like jelly and I was sweating. I felt like I had given birth to ten-pound triplets in an African hut, alone and without pain relief!

Then I saw my face in the mirror and stopped dead.

The old mascara I had found in the kitchen drawer was not waterproof and I had these black spider lines all down my cheeks. My eyes were smudged with dark grey eyeshadow, my nose was bright red and my face was blotchy and oily, with no trace of a base!

For some reason, my hair had also suffered and it looked like a yellow bird’s nest that had been sat on.

I hadn’t brought a handbag out with me, just a small purse, so the only things I had to rescue this complete disaster was a ten dollar note, a factor 30 lip balm and a furry tic-tac.

Everybody was coming into the lady’s toilets now and they were all looking at me. One girl came over and pretended to care but I saw straight through her. I’d heard some of her friends laughing at me during the torture scene.

I didn’t have a spare head so there wasn’t much I could do. I just washed my face, blew my nose and went out to meet Fred. I refused to look him straight in the eye though because I was hideous.

As we drove back to my place, the car was silent and I knew that Fred was sulking.

He eventually said ‘’Appen, A’Il see film again wit’ lasses from work. I missed most of it!’’

I thought, ‘’Oh do one, you Bloody tart, you are definitely not coming in for coffee.’’

We hit my driveway and I jumped out of the car like an Olympian.

Fred said something that sounded like ‘’See thee soon then Lass’’ and I said ‘’lovely.’’

Slamming the front door, I felt shell-shocked.

I jumped under a cold shower, washed off all the makeup and gunk from my hair and tied an old sarong around myself. Making a cup of tea and some toast with Nutella, I grabbed the remote and sat on the sofa.

Two minutes later, it was just me and Kevin.

I didn’t think I would ever hear from Fred again, but he rang a few nights later while I was watching ‘Home and Away‘ with Alice.

‘’Ow do Jooleh love, can ya guess where I am?’’ he asked jovially.

I froze. Oh my God.

“You’re not outside are you Fred? ’I asked,

‘’Nah’’, he chuckled, ‘’I’m lyin’ in’t cold tub, sipping hot brew and eating an apple pie. Blooody Bliss!’’

I hung up the phone and we never went out again.

Dating makes me realise why I’m not married!

If you liked this story, there’s a lot more to read because Alice and I have been writing tales ‘loosely based’ on our lives for many years, with the hope of finally finishing a book called ’A Mother like mine.’ Every Saturday, I will be publishing a blog so that you can read it over the weekend. Sometimes, Alice will write one too.

We will talk about love, losses and dating disasters, womanhood, teenage years and being a Welsh, single parent family in a rough-arse suburb of Perth in the nineties; from our two, completely different perspectives. I will even tell you how my true love literally walked through my front door and I almost took Alice to live in Texas! Our stories will be mostly funny but there will also be our recollection of some hard times. Nobody escapes them and sometimes it helps to read about other people’s battles.

Future titles include;

‘The Good, The Bad and the Aussies’

‘A Gang of Gary’s’

‘Doyawannarootorwhat’

‘Sorry about my little fella?’

‘Six months pregnant or a Tattoo?’

#wales #australia #perth #singlemum #dating #braveheart #melgibson #heat #strawberryshortcake

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monstriiss · 1 year

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not only does drath have no nipples but she also has no belly button :)

#she was never born she manifested. just a primordial soup baby 😌#also she... she hasn't got she don't she s h don't she doesnt have an assh—#*DRAGGED FROM THE PREMISES*#no hitting it from the back im sorry 😔#i really wish that this was purely shit posting because it's not it's all true💀#;; ooc.#;; compost heap || shitposting.

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untamedtempest-archived · 7 years

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Sends the babes for the pairing thing yas

Send me a pairing and I’ll answer:

How differently do they think of each other now compared to when they first met? I instantly had two answers for this.

Both: Wow, this person just might be as amazing as they appear. / Wow, they totally are.

Both: Naked. / Naked, only now they’re not guessing about what’s under the armor and spandex.

What do their friends/family think of their relationship?

Both sides had concerns at the start but only a handful voiced them, and before things even turned romantic it was obvious they made each other happy so mostly everyone got behind them by the time things got serious.

How do their personalities/skills complement or contrast with each other?

They’re similar in a lot of ways which helps in gauging what the other needs at key moments. She’s calming reassurance when the universe seems determined to goad the God into a raging tempest. He’s sage wisdom when Ororo is being her own worst enemy. Both infamously stubborn neither considers it a negative trait but will readily call out the other if they suspect their judgment is clouded or making a situation worse than it needs to be. In a goodnatured loving way, for the most part. I could go on but this is already getting long.

What is their favorite aspect of each other? Not sure I fully understand the question, but here we go.

THIS POST!

Going both ways, they’ve both been betrayed, lost and endured so much other bs yet keep on beating and loving. I can easily see both claiming the other’s incredibly resilient squishy heart as their fav and mentioning admiring it, only for different reasons.

For Ororo it’s the compassion and openness she’s seen in Thor’s 24krt ticker. The god is more in touch with humanity than most on this planet. Heck, even knowing things would sooo not be easy and he’d only have Ororo for a relatively short time Thor still allowed himself to fall in love with her. For her, a heart can’t get any braver and it’s definitely had an influence on Ro’s willingness to show her vulnerability. On top of all that watching him pour so much of that golden goodness into nearly everything he does and everyone will forever amaze her.

While Ororo’s heart never stops hoping or trying. Every day, despite all the hate and setbacks it pushes her to actively seeks big and small ways to influence positive change. Though she has the means to force just about a kind of change the weather witch is the mood for she’s never given in to that temptation, damn thing refuses to believe there’s not a better way or that it’s impossible for people to change. Constantly giving, inspiring, it makes him want to believe the same and makes her someone he can believe in. A very rare thing for a god. I’m guessing, cause let’s be real no one knows Thor better than you

Do either of them have pet peeves about each other?

The coffee grinds in the sink, I mean please Thor there’s a compost heap for a reason. Please, sir stop fouling up the air with your stale bean grinds. And adorable as your shoe habit can be Ro no one enjoys coming home after a long day and tripping over heels just because you couldn’t decide on a pair till the last possible moment.

How would they reconcile with each other after a fight?

Occasionally with a colorful display or a coded message that stretches across the sky but nothing beats some physical affectionate. Not sex just holding each other and all the nuzzling, adoring kisses, heavy letting the tension out sighs between expressing regret over hurting the other. Even if their anger isn’t completely gone at the start just a little bit of contact can be calming and make it easier to come to some sort of an understanding. It’s reassuring and a good sign they haven’t closed themselves off. Ok, and sometimes it leads into a heavy downpour or two, or they might get really mad yet ended up doing some aggressive shit that leads to reconciliation after but ya know temperamental weather gods that’s to be expected.

What would be their ideal vacation getaway together?

They’d honestly consider any time and place they have a block of free time and each other a vacation, but their ideal would probably be some place totally foreign to both. If such a place exists. They’ve both seen and done so much before they ever met and yeah they’re going to share those experiences with each other but to be there for that first time would just- I can’t! -rolls-

Think of a new way (AU, different situation, etc.) they could have met for the first time.

I’ve been thinking about an Indiana Jones, Romancing the Stone, type thing since you posted that clip so how about a middle of an ancient temple, everything falling down around them, unknowingly going after the same piece and locking eyes from across the altar meet cute? Less cute when Ro later steals the mcguffin from Thor because she wants his help in finding the bigger mcguffin she’s after. XD But Thor sporting the hat and whip -swoon-

#asgardianhammer #(edited this shit down and still a word vomit of ship love #take a few days to read that's cool #or don't at all lol #tbh i needs help #st: you can't dodge our lightning (thunderstorm)#long post

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thelioninmybed · 8 years

Note

Do you and June think Yreth and Tuluspen have ever interacted with Dagnis? i like the idea of them being momentarily united in their shared distaste for her. Or maybe they'd all get along great???? Who knows! Not me!

Although Dagnis, Tuluspen and Yreth do all exist in the same horrible shared universe (Tuluspen and Dagnis even appear together in the next chapter of You Are Coming Down With Me!), I don’t think we’d actually considered how the three of them get on.

Now we have.

June: I feel like yreth would really appreciate dagnis

Lion: from a safe distance

June: She proves her right about EVERYTHING

Lion: YUP

June: She doesn’t want to be in an enclosed space with her but bigod is she good for someone looking for evidence of feanorion garbness

Lion: Right, the fact they’ve not put her down is PRETTY TELLING

June: fuck ok i’m having an idea

what if dagnis picks up on how much tuluspen hates her and decides to be oblivious about it

Lion: ooooooh

Friendly even!

June: and decides to follow her around like a devoted

weaselthing

Lion: YES

June: ‘we have so much in common’ she growls happily

Lion: god, Dagnis is the actual worst? I love her SO MUCH

June: ‘my master and yours, our lives are so common, hoo yiss’

tuluspen has never felt more defensive of maedhros

Lion: ahahahaaha

(and she is never NOT feeling defensive of Maedhros) (all those tumblr posts about how great he is and how he never did anything wrong ever are all her)

June: (100%)

dagnis leaves her little gifts

the poos were wooing!

Lion: awwwwwww lil’ bits of tasty squirrel for her new bestie

June: owl pellets

terrible poetry

if you’ve never heard ‘you soak my loins like a bitch wolf in heat’ warbled outside your bedroom window

you are missing out

Lion: oh my god I’m swooning

June: tuluspen is beside herself

maedhros shrugs, if he could have done anything about dagnis she would have been dead in the compost heap 150 years ago

Lion: Maedhros this is a hostile working environment you are cultivating

'seduce her back. I don’t know.’

June: 'they’ll be leaving soon’ he says, with a note of hope but not much conviction

listen, if tuluspen could seduce anyone, things would be very different

Lion: Is Tuluspen the least seductive character in all the legendariums? Probably

Dagnis definitely wouldn’t pretend to be Fingon so she wouldn’t be able to get off anyway

June: that log that gollum paddles around? might be slightly less winsome and flirtatious than tuluspen

Lion: But only once the mould started growing on it

June: right, before that it would outcharm her

Lion: Tuluspen’s girlfriend is only with her out of spite 😞

June: i don’t think dagnis and tuluspen ever get physical (i really hope not) but if they did, dagnis would definitely give her the worst orgasms of her life

shameful, terrible, nightmarish orgasms

Lion: They definitely don’t but Tuluspen probably has a horrible sex dream about her

And can handle her even less afterwards

June: okay but about tuluspen’s girlfriend i feel like yreth would be BEYOND amused

tuluspen has never talked this much to yreth, it is all complaining

(shit, yes, imagine tuluspen not being able to make eye contact with dagnis and dagnis knowing IMMEDIATELY)

Lion: Tuluspen talking to her about things that aren’t their duties or part of unhealthy roleplay!

(Dagnis was howling outside her window for exactly that reason)(it was very sensual howling, she knew the effect it would have) (Maedhros also had a nightmare about Dagnis that night but it was, tbh, still better than his usual nightmares)

June: dagnis lurks up to yreth at some point and is like 'for $100 and your horse i’ll let you white knight at me for your girlfriend’

yreth is conflicted, on the one hand she doesn’t actually feel the need to HELP tuluspen, on the other this would be GREAT role play fodder

Lion: oh no Yreth don’t do it, this is a devil’s bargain

June: on the third hand, dagnis is probably going to eat her horse and she likes her horse

Lion: Right, that’s a v. good point. Obv. the solution is to pay someone else to pretend to be Dagnis (not in horses) and then white knight them

June: who has the free time and performance sense to properly -

Lion: OH NO

'this shall be my greatest challenge as an artist yet’ Maglor says, already rubbing fox dung into his hair

June: maglor 'over involved in everyone else’s life’ feanorion

Lion: (this explains SO MUCH about crooked aim) (he’s HAD PRACTICE)

June: SHIT

-shakes fists above head- MAGLOR

Lion: okay so Maglor - does he bleach his hair or get a wig? On the one hand elves love their hair

on the other, he’s a true artist and his dedication to the craft is unparalleled

June: But verisimilitude, right. He’s gonna bleach his hair and then be stuck with it. Celegorm tells him he’s never looked better

Lion: ❤ Obv. Celegorm is quick to inform him that he wears it better and also Maglor’s roots are showing but whatevs, art is suffering

Maglor, in Dagnis-guise, serenades Tuluspen again that night. The plan is for Yreth to show up and shoo him off in full view of her swooning hatesexbuddy

Unfortunately Maglor cannot bring himself to accurately replicate Dagnis’ actual musical/poetic ability

June: maglor you fuck

Lion: And writes something of unsurpassed beauty that all weep to hear

June: you had one job

Lion: Tuluspen is confused mostly and wants to know why Maglor, dressed as Celegorm, was singing

does…Maglor have a crush on her? Does Celegorm? Is that why he was dressed as him to woo her?

June: oh no, he’s gotten bad intel on which brother she liked

Lion: Celegorm is furious that Maglor is seducing Maedhros’ steward on his behalf, he doesn’t need anyone to do his seducing on his behalf. He’ll go seduce her his own self right now

June: tuluspen is so upset

Lion: I suppose that’s the part where Yreth gets into a fight with Celegorm? Poor Tuluspen did not ask for any of this

June: yreth is so pissed, this is what you get for hiring a feanorion to do ANYTHING. more confirmation bias

Lion: ahahahah. At least 'stealing mah girl’ is an ironclad excuse for punching the most punchable of Feanorians…like the murders weren’t

June: somewhere mid trying to kick celegorm in the shins with a sword celegorm informs her that the most effective way to get rid of dagnis is with a squirt bottle of soapy water

Lion: ahahahaaha Curufin invented squirt bottles specifically for this purpose

June: 'i can make them acid resistant too,’ he says hopefully

Lion: Oh Curufin. If bits of her were burnt and melty she’d just smell worse

June: and she would just get grosser looking, she is not killable. she is the most durable elf

Lion: She’s the physical manifestation of their sins, come to haunt them, one of them suggests while feeling esp. maudlin about the dead three day old badger in his bed

lmao Dagnis survives the sinking of Beleriand and follows Maglor around for all eternity

June: a manifestation? dagnis is a little annoyed to think that anyone could consider a vala ordering her to do anything

Lion: Right, Dagnis follows no will but her own

June: did they miss the part where she made not one but two valar so uncomfortable that they tried to fire her from being an elf?

Lion: The Feanoians are very self centered

June: 'it’s not an elf’ says vana. 'some kind of fisher cat’

'how dare you’ says orome 'some of my best friends are fisher cats’

they settle on bog goblin

#Anonymous #Tuluspen #is so grossed out #Ýreth #is so smug #Dagnis #is a force to be reckoned with #June tells me she is WRITING THIS FIC #and I have never been more excited about anything #Junion

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mrwilliamcharley · 6 years

Text

The Curse Of The Barista

There’s no way it would happen for a fourth time.

It would be hilarious. Insane, but hilarious.

Nah, it’s totally his year.

“In fourth place… froooom Caballero Coffee in Los Angeles, California, Ralph Snider!”

Ralph forced a smile that pushed his eyelids into a squint, hiding disappointment and bewilderment. He followed it with a shrug and an even more forced chuckle before collecting his trophy and struggling to pay attention for the rest of the awards ceremony. Attention shifted for the most part to the top three but scattered coffee professionals in the freezing convention center stared at Ralph in amazement. For the fourth year in a row, he had rather frustratingly placed fourth in the United States Barista Championship. Four for four… for fourth.

Having given up on his initial dream of teaching philosophy at the collegiate level, today Ralph was a known quantity in the specialty coffee industry. Indeed, his presentations at the often inaccessible barista competitions struck a balance between professorial and comforting. He was a storyteller. He was driven by the desire to tell the story of coffee to anyone who would listen, whether through engaging competition routines or some well-favorited Instagram posts of his bi-annual origin trips.

When he wasn’t serving espressos, cappuccinos, and signature beverages to judges, Ralph shone as the dedicated head trainer for Caballero Coffee in the trendy Los Feliz neighborhood of LA. Just a year out of his program at UCLA, he’d had some misgivings about starting his coffee career in a neighborhood he thought was a little suspect, but seven years in, he felt that Caballero had really lifted the neighborhood up and inspired even more quality food and beverage spots to establish themselves. There were now two equally good pho spots for lunch.

Caballero was a respected coffee roaster, though some vocal Twitter users frequently dragged the operation for its predominantly white male staff, which contrasted its myriad Latin American design influences. Ralph was open to ongoing dialogue about what the industry could do better but was greatly encouraged by the company’s recent hire of a woman of color, who he had no doubt would eventually graduate from cashier to barista.

As Ralph prepared for his seventh coffee competition season, he felt certain that he was contributing positively to his community but craved the ultimate recognition for his hard work more than he let on to his peers. Surely he wouldn’t be stuck in this perpetual cycle of fourth place for the rest of his career?

“Being up on that stage with five people who inspire me to strive for excellence is the great honor of my life,” he had told Bean Teen Magazine in an interview after his most recent fourth ranking. “But of course, I’d like to, sort of, y’know… take it to the next level.”

While working a rare bar shift at the roastery to cover for a sick barista, Ralph was so distracted by his determination to find the one element that would tip the scale in his favor in competition, that he failed to notice a paper cup that sat sideways on top of the espresso machine for a full minute.

“Anita,” Ralph said with a smile. “You know, it’s supposed to be cups up for milk beverages and cups down for americanos, right? I mean, I think it’s fun to put your mark on the place by putting a cup sideways, but it’s a little clunky for service if I don’t know what you mean by it.”

Without moving her head, Anita shifted her eyes to the espresso machine and then quickly back to the Chemex she was attending to. “Didn’t put that up there. We haven’t had a customer in the last five minutes.”

Ralph shrugged, grabbed the cup, and threw it into the compost heap, but then saw that the cup had writing on it. He took the cup back out and brushed off some ground coffee and bits of zucchini muffin to read a message neatly written in black marker:

“Fourth place again this year… OR DEAD LAST?!?!”

Ralph was confused, if not a little unnerved by this hostile message. He was quite certain that the specialty coffee community deeply respected him. Who would taunt him like this when he had worked so hard and been so congenial with coffee professionals the world over? Was some jealous barista trying to get the best of him and shame him into giving up on competition? What had been a strong desire to prove himself quickly turned into an angry determination to prove the anonymous cup-writer wrong. He crushed the cup in his hand, thinking to himself, “First place this year, asshole,” as he threw it back into the compost.

After closing the shop for the evening, Ralph’s rage for the cruel cup message made him angry at just about everything. Anita had left early to attend a night class, leaving him all alone to attend to closing duties he hadn’t performed since his last bar shift a year and a half prior. As much as he thought it was the admirable thing to do to put himself in the floor worker’s shoes every once in a while, he thought Anita might have showed a little more dedication and initiative, especially if she wanted to work her way up in coffee. On top of that, a customer had spilled simple syrup on the floor by the condiment bar hours before without saying anything and the sticky mess was taking forever to clean up.

He worked in silence after the Fleet Foxes album he had barely been listening to ended. As he walked to retrieve the mop and finish cleaning, he heard a crisp whisper echo from the slightly ajar door that led to the roastery.

Fourth…fourth…fourth…fourth…

Surely this was his seething mind tricking him when he was ready to leave his frustrations behind for the evening…

Fourth…fourth…fourth…fourth…

Ralph was nervous at first but quickly resolved that he would teach this spineless asshole a lesson. Writings on a cup? Creepy whispering? Not today. Ralph stomped back to the roastery and flung the door open, ready to give his tormentor an earful, but was immediately struck by how dark it was in the roastery. The tall windows had somehow mostly been blacked out, save for a dim light from outside that shone on a patch of floor, where loose green and roasted coffee spelled out the message,

DEAD. LAST.

As Ralph finally started worrying about his safety, bright lights flooded the roastery and he turned in all directions looking for the menace. It took only a few seconds to discover a man with a weaselly face and barely any neck glaring at him while perched atop a large stack of green coffee bags. Ralph instantly recognized him as a truly annoying figure from his past. The man had spent all of his spare time hanging around Los Angeles coffee shops for hours telling any barista he could trap behind the counter about all of the coffees he had tasted that week and complaining that very few coffee professionals actually knew how to pull a great shot of espresso. But that was years ago. The guy had totally vanished. He hadn’t seen this man in… four years.

“It’s finally starting to make sense, isn’t it,” the man hissed.

“But,” Ralph started in disbelief, “how did you…”

“Make sure you’d come in fourth place every time?”

Ralph felt ill but curious as to how this man could’ve pulled off such a consistent sabotage.

“Look away for a few seconds,” the man started, “and you’ll be surprised at how easily your competition coffee could be switched out after your prep time. Not to something terrible. Wouldn’t want you to be suspicious of always coming in last. Just close enough that you would flub on a few flavor calls and always wonder if you just weren’t good enough to take it all the way.”

“But… why?” Ralph asked softly, stunned that someone could despise him so much.

“You’re too self-absorbed to even remember HUMILIATING ME??” the man wailed. “I tell you about the most amazing coffee I’ve had in my life and you very LOUDLY and CLEARLY tell me and everyone else in the cafe that it’s not “gay-shuh”, it’s “gehhhhhhhhhhshuhhhhhhhh”. I couldn’t be seen in another coffee shop after that! You’ve gotten what you deserved for long enough. If you won’t do the honorable thing, and end your mediocre career, I’m going to have to end it for you.”

Good god, had this strange man really spent years lurking in convention centers, committed to ensuring that Ralph was merely a very good competitive barista? And why was he clutching a spouted portafilter like that?

“Look, I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to make you feel bad, ummm…” Ralph struggled to remember his name.

“Thurston! As I told you countless times, MY NAME IS THURSTON.”

Thurston lunged at Ralph with the portafilter over his head and before Ralph could fully grasp what Thurston intended to do with the bludgeoning instrument, he jumped out of the way just in time for Thurston to lose his balance and jam his hand inside a retail coffee bag sealer. Ralph looked away but shuddered hearing Thurston howl as the hot sealer closed on his thin hand, burning his skin and crushing his fragile fingers. But after the initial howl, Thurston immediately returned to glaring at Ralph and wouldn’t take his eyes off of him even as he was arrested and being taken in for booking.

Almost being murdered by a vengeful customer might have made other coffee professionals take a moment to rethink commitment to competition, but Ralph quickly became more determined than ever. It all made so much more sense now. He was better than he had imagined the entire time. He actually made coffee just as well if not better than those who had placed ahead of him for years. He truly was meant to be the person to tell the world the story of coffee. Standing with the others in the final six that year, he knew that with Thurston out of the way, this was his time.

“In sixth place…”

This is my year. Those judges were all smiles the whole time.

“…from Court Place Coffee in Austin, Texas, John Seles!”

I know those tech scores were perfect.

“In fifth place…”

That natty Gesha I just served them was literal bomb-ass shit.

“…from Elderflower Espresso in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Rita Washington!”

But wait… did those capps really taste like Nilla Wafers?

“In fourth place…”

Eric J. Grimm (@ericjgrimm) writes about pop culture and coffee for Sprudge Media Network, and lives in Manhattan. Read more Eric J. Grimm on Sprudge.

The post The Curse Of The Barista appeared first on Sprudge.

from Sprudge https://ift.tt/2JnyQiY

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epchapman89 · 6 years

Text

The Curse Of The Barista

There’s no way it would happen for a fourth time.

It would be hilarious. Insane, but hilarious.

Nah, it’s totally his year.

“In fourth place… froooom Caballero Coffee in Los Angeles, California, Ralph Snider!”

“Fourth place again this year… OR DEAD LAST?!?!”

Fourth…fourth…fourth…fourth…

Surely this was his seething mind tricking him when he was ready to leave his frustrations behind for the evening…

Fourth…fourth…fourth…fourth…

DEAD. LAST.

“It’s finally starting to make sense, isn’t it,” the man hissed.

“But,” Ralph started in disbelief, “how did you…”

“Make sure you’d come in fourth place every time?”

Ralph felt ill but curious as to how this man could’ve pulled off such a consistent sabotage.

“But… why?” Ralph asked softly, stunned that someone could despise him so much.

“Look, I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to make you feel bad, ummm…” Ralph struggled to remember his name.

“Thurston! As I told you countless times, MY NAME IS THURSTON.”

“In sixth place…”

This is my year. Those judges were all smiles the whole time.

“…from Court Place Coffee in Austin, Texas, John Seles!”

I know those tech scores were perfect.

“In fifth place…”

That natty Gesha I just served them was literal bomb-ass shit.

“…from Elderflower Espresso in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Rita Washington!”

But wait… did those capps really taste like Nilla Wafers?

“In fourth place…”

Eric J. Grimm (@ericjgrimm) writes about pop culture and coffee for Sprudge Media Network, and lives in Manhattan. Read more Eric J. Grimm on Sprudge.

The post The Curse Of The Barista appeared first on Sprudge.

seen 1st on http://sprudge.com

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stoneheartedblog-blog · 7 years

Text

Day Thirteen

So, I’m an idiot. No surprise there. I keep missing opportunities to prove that I can be better and find myself withholding instead. FFS.

One of my closer friends at work approached me as I wrote yesterday's post and asked if I was okay. I guess my mood is written on my face. I told her that my wife and I were not getting along and were on the brink of disaster. She asked what was up and I couldn't really give her the full scoop. We don't _quite_ have that kind of friendship. I told her that while everyone thinks I'm a nice guy, I haven't been a good man or a good husband. She scoffed at that and I told her it was true and that I've been letting my marriage just happen and not investing in it. I told her I was treating my wife badly emotionally. My friend told she was having issues with her husband and how he's been sidetracked by family drama. She feels that she's left to shoulder the yoke of her marriage. I told her my wife would certainly commiserate.

I walked to my appointment with the psychologist and it was good to have a few minutes to clear my head. It was an introductory session so most of the time was spent in an info-dump. She asked who I was and what I did and what the family dynamic was. I told her about my job, kids, grandkids. I told her about my sorta-estrangement with my parents and the nature of how things went growing up. I told her about the sexual abuse when I was a kid and the emotional manipulation I received from my parents, namely my mother. She said this was part of my makeup and would key to my behaviors, but that we’d focus on the here and now, on what processes I’m running to produce my bad behaviour. I told her I had few friends and no close ones. Then I told her about the events of the last week. It was hard to keep it together. Even with the walk, I walked into her office a mess. She did call me out a bit for saying I was trying hard on one hand and saying I wasn’t trying on the other. Few other insights were to be had in the first session and she said to give it 3 or 4. We’d have to spend the first couple figuring out the problem with my behavior and come up with an approach. It seemed very systematic to me and I gel with that. The next appointment is Tuesday and I suspect it’ll be constructive.

When I was walking up the path to my house, I noticed four leaf litter bags filled to the brim on my front lawn. It pissed me off a bit because it was my responsibility for yard upkeep. I put the irritation I had that morning with the deacon's bench and the leaves into the same basket. I figured she was being a bit spiteful. Yes, I was blaming her. When I got into the house I asked her about the leaves and she said tomorrow (today) was compost day and they had to get picked up before any snowy weather. She said she only had four bags and only half the yard cleaned. This is Idiot Moment #1. I said thank you, she should have let me do it and that I'd pick up the rest and left it at that. Of course, I should have taken that as an opportunity to have an authentic conversation. I didn't. I was withholding. Again.

I told her about my appointment with the psychologist and the stuff we talked about. She didn't say much about it at the time, but later she said that it made her scared. One, that she was scared that I'd fix myself and drop her. Two, that the psychologist would lay blame at her feet. I know she's not the villain here and I won't let it go that way. I'm quite confidant the psychologist wouldn't do go there.

Of course, there's history here. Her mom levied a lot of emotional abuse her way and she got the short end of the stick all her life. Her first marriage was full of guilt and shame. Even after we were together, she'd been in counselling before for her daughters and the report heaped blame on her needlessly. "You gotta wonder about mom," eats away at her all the time. That our oldest daughter was rude and abrasive to her on the phone today and handing up, didn't help.

Her daughter was barking at her, I was blaming her and she feared that the psychologist would do the same. Today was not a good day.

I couldn't convince her to have supper so I made a quick bite and went to the gym. It was weigh-in day and I'd lost 15 pounds in October and several inches. She'd been saying I've been losing, but I kept dismissing it. She was right of course and no doubt, the increased testosterone dosage is having an impact. I have the gym tonight for deadlifts.

I got home and took a much needed back, but when I got out she was hostile. The leave. Idiot Moment #2. I didn't come home with any more leaf-litter bags and clearly had no intention of doing anything about it. She called me on it and I let my anger rise again. I was more pissed off at myself than anything else, but I kept throwing shit in her direction.

The yard and the leaves were my responsibility. She'd laid out the reasons it had to be done. She'd told me the job was unfinished because we didn't have enough bags. If I truly owned the outcome of a clean yard, then I should have put two-and-two together to make an actual plan to clean it up. Even having an adult conversation about it (see Idiot Moment #1) would have been better.

Annoyed, I dashed to the store, picked up the bags and raked them up by porchlight. The activity was good and it allowed me to calm down and think a bit.

It was too late. I'd fucked the evening and I couldn't get my head out of my ass.

I ended up going to bed because I had an appointment with the urologist before work. Need to get something with less skin irritation for testosterone. The itch and blistering of patches are killing me.

She didn't sleep on the couch last night. At least she hit a real bed.

It's noon now and I'm back at work just finishing this post.

Most important for today and beyond, I have to check myself on my anger and blaming. I can't withhold from her today. I need to listen to what she's really saying and be present and accountable.

Each day is getting worse and worse and I need to stop this madness.

#Chrono

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lesbianrewrites · 8 years

Text

The Martian Chapter 2

*disclaimer* This is a project done for fun, and none of these characters/works belong to me. I do not claim to own any of the material on this page.

This is a Lesbian edit of The Martian by Andy Weir.

Chapters will be posted every day at 2pm EST.

Google doc version can be found here. The chapter can also be found under the cut. Enjoy!

LOG ENTRY: SOL 7

CHAPTER II

Ok, I’ve had a good night’s sleep, and things don’t seem as hopeless as they did yesterday.

Today I took stock of supplies, and did a quick EVA to check up on the external equipment. Here’s my situation:

The surface mission was supposed to be 31 days. For redundancy, the supply probes had enough food to last the whole crew 56 days. That way if one or two probes had problems, we'd still have enough food to complete the mission.

We were six days in when all hell broke loose, so that leaves enough food to feed six people for 50 days. I’m just one girl, so it’ll last me 300 days. And that’s if I don’t ration it. So I’ve got a fair bit of time.

The Hab stood up to the storm without any problems. Outside, things aren’t so rosy. I can’t find the satellite dish; it probably got blown kilometers away.

The MAV is gone, of course. My crewmates took it up to Hermes. Though the bottom half (the landing stage) is still there. No reason to take that back up when weight is the enemy. It includes the landing gear, the fuel plant, and anything else NASA figured it wouldn’t need for the trip back up to orbit.

The MDV is on its side and there’s a breach in the hull. Looks like the storm ripped the cowling off the reserve chute (which we didn’t have to use on landing). Once the chute was exposed it dragged the MDV all over the place, smashing it against every rock in the area. Not that the MDV would be much use to me. Its thrusters can’t even lift its own weight. But it might have been valuable for parts. Might still be.

Both rovers are half-buried in sand, but they’re in good shape otherwise. Their pressure seals are in-tact. Makes sense. Operating procedure if a storm hits is to stop motion and wait for the storm to pass. They’re made to stand up to punishment. I’ll be able to dig them out with a day or so of work.

I’ve lost communication with the weather stations, placed a kilometer away from the Hab in 4 directions. They might be in perfect working order for all I know. The Hab’s communications are so weak right now it probably can’t even reach a kilometer.

The solar cell array was covered it in sand, rendering it useless (hint: solar cells need sunlight to make electricity). But once I swept them off, they returned to full efficiency. Whatever I end up doing, I’ll have plenty of power for it. 200 square meters of solar cells, with hydrogen fuel cells to store plenty of reserve. All I need to do is sweep them off every few days.

Things indoors are great, thanks to the Hab’s sturdy design.

I ran a full diagnostic on the Oxygenator. Twice. It’s perfect. If anything goes wrong with it, there is a short-term spare I can use. But it’s solely for emergency use while repairing the main one. The spare doesn’t actually pull CO2 apart and recapture the oxygen. It just absorbs the CO2 the same way the spacesuits do. It’s intended to last 5 days before it saturates the filters, which means 30 days for me (just one person breathing, instead of six). So there’s some insurance there.

The Water Reclaimer is working fine, too. The bad news is there’s no backup. If it stops working, I’ll be drinking reserve water while I rig up a primitive distillery to boil piss. Also, I’ll lose half a liter of water per day to breathing until the humidity in the Hab reaches its maximum and water starts condensing on every surface. Then I’ll be licking the walls. Yay. Anyway, for now, no problems with the Water Reclaimer.

So yeah. Food, water, shelter all taken care of. I’m going to start rationing food right now. Meals are pretty minimal already, but I think I can eat a 3/4 portion per meal and still be all right. That should turn my 300 days of food in to 400. Foraging around the medical area, I found the main bottle of vitamins. There’s enough multivitamins there to last years. So I won’t have any nutritional problems (though I’ll still starve to death when I’m out of food, no matter how many vitamins I take).

The medical area has morphine for emergencies. And there’s enough there for a lethal dose. I’m not going to slowly starve to death, I’ll tell you that. If I get to that point, I’ll take an easier way out.

Everyone on the mission had two specialties. I’m a botanist and mechanical engineer. Basically, I was the mission’s fix-it man who played with plants. The mechanical engineering might save my life if something breaks.

I’ve been thinking about how to survive this. It’s not completely hopeless. There’ll be humans back on Mars in about four years when Ares 4 arrives (assuming they didn’t cancel the program in the wake of my “death”).

Ares 4 will be landing at the Schiaparelli Crater, which is about 3,200km away from my location here in the Acidalia Planitia. No way for me to get there on my own. But if I could communicate, I might be able to get a rescue. Not sure how they’d manage that with the resources on hand, but NASA has a lot of smart people.

So that’s my mission now. Find a way to communicate with Earth. If I can’t manage that, find a way to communicate with Hermes when it returns in 4 years with the Ares 4 crew.

Of course, I don’t have any plan for surviving 4 years on 1 year of food. But one thing at a time here. For now, I’m well fed and have a purpose: “Fix the damn radio”.

LOG ENTRY: SOL 10

Well, I’ve done three EVAs and haven’t found any hint of the communication dish

I dug out one of the rovers and had a good drive around, but after days of wandering I think it’s time to give up. The storm probably blew the dish far away and then erased any drag-marks or scuffs that might have led to a trail. Probably buried it, too.

I spent most of today out at what’s left of the communication array. It’s really a sorry sight. I may as well yell toward Earth for all the good that damned thing will do me.

I could throw together a rudimentary dish out of metal I find around the base, but this isn’t some walkie-talkie I’m working with here. Communicating from Mars to Earth is a pretty big deal, and requires extremely specialized equipment. I won’t be able to whip something up with tinfoil and gum.

I need to ration my EVAs as well as food. The CO2 filters are not cleanable. Once they’re saturated, they’re done. The mission accounted for a 4-hour EVA per crewmember per day. Fortunately, CO2 filters are light and small so NASA had the luxury of sending more than we needed. All told, I have about 1500 hours worth of CO2 filters. After that, any EVAs I do will have to be managed with bloodletting the air.

1500 hours may sound like a lot, but I’m faced with spending at least 4 years here if I’m going to have any hope of rescue, with a minimum of several hours per week dedicated to sweeping off the solar array. Anyway. No needless EVAs.

In other news, I’m starting to come up with an idea for food. My botany background may come in useful after all.

Why bring a botanist to Mars? After all, it’s famous for not having anything growing here. Well, the idea was to figure out how well things grow in Martian gravity, and see what, if anything, we can do with Martian soil. The short answer is: quite a lot… almost. Martian soil has the basic building blocks needed for plant growth, but there’s a lot of stuff going on in Earth soil that Mars soil doesn’t have, even when it’s placed in an Earth-atmosphere and given plenty of water. Bacterial activity, certain nutrients provided by animal life, etc. None of that is happening on Mars. One of my tasks for the mission was to see how plants grow here, in various combinations of Earth or Mars soil and atmosphere.

That’s why I have a small amount of Earth soil and a bunch of plant seeds with me.

I can’t get too excited, however. It’s about the amount of soil you’d put in a window planter-box, and the only seeds I have are a few species of grass and ferns. They’re the most rugged and easily grown plants on earth, so NASA picked them as the test subjects.

So I have two problems: not enough dirt, and nothing edible to plant in it.

But I’m a botanist, damn it. I should be able to find a way to make this happen. If I don’t, I’ll be a really hungry botanist in about a year.

LOG ENTRY: SOL 11

I wonder how the Cubs are doing.

LOG ENTRY: SOL 14

I got my undergrad degree at the University of Chicago. Half the people who studied botany were hippies who thought they could return to some natural world system. Somehow feeding 7 billion people through pure gathering. They spent most of their time working out better ways to grow pot. I didn’t like them. I’ve always been in it for the science, not for any New World Order bullshit.

When they made compost heaps and tried to conserve every little ounce of living matter, I laughed at them. “Look at the silly hippies!” I would scoff. “Look at their pathetic attempts to simulate a complex global ecosystem in their back yard.”

Of course now I’m doing exactly that. I’m saving every scrap of biomatter I can find. Every time I finish a meal, the leftovers go to the compost bucket. As for other biological material…

The Hab has sophisticated toilets. Shit is usually vaccum-dried, then accumulated in sealed bags to be discarded on the surface.

Not any more!

In fact, I even did an EVA to recover the previous bags of shit from before the crew left. Being completely desiccated, this particular shit didn’t have bacteria in it anymore, but it still had complex proteins and would serve as useful manure. Adding it to water and active bacteria would quickly get it inundated, replacing any population killed by the Toilet Of Doom.

I found a big container and filled it with a bit of water, then added the dried shit. Since then, I’ve added my own shit to it as well. The worse it smells, the more successful things are going. That’s the bacteria at work!

Once I get some Martian soil in here, I can mix in the shit and spread it out. Then I can sprinkle the Earth soil on top. You might not think that would be an important step, but it is. There are dozens of species of bacteria living in Earth soil, and they're critical to plant growth. They'll spread out and breed like... well, like a bacterial infection..

Within a week, the Martian soil will be ready for plants to germinate in. But I won’t plant yet. I’ll spread it out over a doubled area. It’ll “infect” the new Martian soil. After another week, I’ll double it again. And so on. Of course, all the while, I’ll be adding all new manure to the effort.

My asshole is doing as much to keep me alive as my brain.

This isn’t a new concept I just came up with. People have speculated on how to make crop soil out of Martian dirt for decades. I’ll just be putting it to the test for the first time.

I searched through the food supplies and found all sorts of things that I can plant. Peas, for instance. Plenty of beans, too. I also found several potatoes. If *any* of them can still germinate after their ordeal, that’ll be great. With a nearly infinite supply of vitamins, all I need are calories of any kind to survive.

The total floor-space of the Hab is about 92 square meters. I plan to dedicate all of it to this endeavor. I don’t mind walking on dirt. It’ll be a lot of work, but I’m going to need to cover the entire floor to a depth of 10 cm. That means I’ll have to transport 9.2 cubic meters of Martian soil in to the Hab. I can get maybe 1/10th of a cubic meter in through the airlock at a time, and it’ll be backbreaking work to collect it. But in the end, if everything goes to plan, I’ll have 92 square meters of croppable soil.

Hell yeah I’m a botanist! Fear my botany powers!

LOG ENTRY: SOL 14

Ugh! This is backbreaking work!

I spent 12 hours today on EVAs to bring dirt in to the Hab. I only managed to cover a small corner of the base, maybe 5 square meters. At this rate it’ll take me weeks to get all the soil in. But hey, time is one thing I’ve got.

The first few EVAs were pretty inefficient; me filling small containers and bringing them in through the airlock. Then I got wise and just put one big container in the airlock itself and filled that with small containers till it was full. That sped things up a lot because the airlock takes about 10 minutes to get through.

I ache all over. And the shovels I have are made for taking samples, not heavy digging. My back is killing me. I foraged in the medical supplies and found some Vicodin. I took it about 10 minutes ago. Should be kicking in soon.

Anyway, it’s nice to see progress. Time to start getting the bacteria to work on these minerals. After lunch. No 3/4 ration today. I’ve earned a full meal

LOG ENTRY: SOL 16

One complication I hadn’t though of: Water.

Turns out being on the surface of Mars for a few million years eliminates all the water in the soil. My master’s degree in botany makes me pretty sure plants need wet dirt to grow in. Not to mention the bacteria that has to live in it first.

Fortunately, I have water. But not as much as I want. To be viable, soil needs 40 liters of water per cubic meter. My overall plan calls for 9.2 cubic meters of soil. So I’ll eventually need 368 liters of water to feed it.

The Hab has an excellent Water Reclaimer. Best technology available on Earth. So NASA figured “why send a lot of water up there? Just send enough for an emergency.” Humans need 3 liters of water per day to be comfortable. They gave us 50 liters each. There are 300 liters total in the Hab.

Looks like I won’t be able to cover the whole surface of the Hab with fertile soil. I’m willing to dedicate all but an emergency 50 liters to the cause. That means I can feed 62.5 square meters at a depth of 10cm. About 2/3 of the Hab’s floor. It’ll have to do. Anyway, I’ve only got a paltry 5 square meters covered at the moment.

After that, things got disgusting. I spent three hours spreading shit on Martian sand. I didn’t have to do it with my hands, at least.

I spread the sand out in a corner of the Hab, about 10cm thick. I wadded up a few blankets and uniforms from my departed crewmates to serve as one edge of a planter box (with the curved walls of the Hab being the rest of the perimeter). Then I sacrificed 20 liters of precious water to the dirt gods.

5 square meters was about right for the amount of manure I had handy. I dumped my big container o’ shit on to the soil and nearly puked from the smell.

That smell’s going to stick around for a while, too. It’s not like I can open a window. Still, you get used to it. I mixed this soil and shit together with a shovel, and spread it out evenly again. Then I sprinkled the Earth soil on top. Get to work, bacteria. I’m counting on you.

In other news, today is Thanksgiving. My family will be gathering in Chicago for the usual feast at my parent's house. My guess is it won't be much fun, what with me having died 11 days ago. Hell, they probably just got done gathering for my funeral.

I wonder if they'll ever find out what really happened.

Wow. Things really came along.

I got all the sand in and ready to go. 2/3 of the base is now dirt. And today I executed my first dirt-doubling. It's been a week, and the former Martian soil was rich and lovely. Two more doublings and I will have covered the whole field.

All that work was great for my morale. It gave me something to do. But after things settled down a bit, and I had dinner while listening to Johanssen’s Beatles music collection, I got depressed again.

Doing the math, this won’t keep me from starving.

My best bet for making calories is potatoes. They grow prolifically and have a reasonable caloric content (770 calories per kg). I’m pretty sure the ones I have will germinate. Problem is I can’t grow enough of them. In 62 square meters, I could grow maybe 150kg of potatoes in 400 days (the time I have before running out of food). That’s a grand total of 115,500 calories, a sustainable average of 288 calories per day. With my height and weight, if I’m willing to starve a little, I need 1500 calories per day.

Not even close.

So I can’t just live off the land for ever. But I can extend my life. The potatoes will last me 76 days.

Potatoes grow continually, so in those 76 days, I can grow another 22,000 calories of potatoes, which will tide me over for another 15 days. After that, it’s kind of pointless to continue the trend. All told it buys me about 90 days.

So now I’ll start starving to death on Sol 490 instead of Sol 400. It’s progress, but any hope of survival rests on me surviving until Sol 1412, when Ares 4 will land.

There’s about a thousand days of food I don’t have. And I don’t have a plan for how to get it.

LOG ENTRY: SOL 22

Shit.

#the martian #the martian andy weir #lesbian rewrites #lesbiansafe #lgbt

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