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mxnark · 5 years

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the best version of yourself

december 31, 2019

mina isn’t the type to feel ashamed of herself. everyone around her new that she was confident and outspoken. whatever she thought of inside her head, there would be a 59% chance she’d say it with a 41% chance she’d keep it to herself just because she had some manners. of course, she had some class by making a bunch of rant posts on her spam rather than on her main instagram or main twitter. some of her thoughts on real life would go on her stan twitter, but she’s tried her best to keep that mainly kpop and movies. but, to be honest, she wouldn’t have made a spam had it not been for her mutuals and her friends in real life.

this time, however, she felt emotions that she was afraid to tell anyone else.

she usually watched the gayos on her own, since she was the only one in the house who had an interest in them because her favorite idols were on that show. however, the one she always kept an eye on was mbc’s gayo daejejun because of the amazing stages that the idols would perform. not to mention, it was the gayo with the countdown to the new year. however, this time, she debated if she even wanted to watch it considering that this was the same exact one that she made a video audition for, only to not get in.

when she saw the post on mbc’s page, she was disappointed, but not surprised. it was bold of her to assume she would ever get the chance compared to the other dancers. when she watched the other entries, she was already beginning to feel insecure. but seeing the announcement only supported her negative feelings. however, one name catches her eye and it’s the main reason why she watches the music show tonight.

chungha isn’t the only reason why she’s watching this, but she’s the one mina looks forward to seeing the most. it’s weird how almost two years ago, mina became a fan from watching her on the fourth season of the mgas. now, she was watching her as not only a fan, but a friend. it’s only a glow up she can talk about on her spam, but she’s able to use her excitement for her tweets while streaming.

she makes sure to tweet about her favorite idols and their performances before the awaited dance performance comes. when it begins, she quickly takes out her phone as she patiently waits for her friend to be shown on her screen. she manages to record the 30 seconds of chungha’s dance on her instagram story while whisper-screaming throughout all of it. “ahh!!! kim chungha is so cool!!!! she’s the coolest unnie ever!!!” and a bunch of “wow!”’s and “so cool!”’s. for the group performance, she kept all her excitement on her twitter with a few pictures saved for her spam later on.

it’s odd. before watching this, she thought she was going to feel an overwhelming amount of jealousy just by seeing chungha for a second. but after the performance ended, she couldn’t help but feel inspired. perhaps it was because of the fact that this wasn’t the first time she’s seen chungha on national television, but mina didn’t feel too upset like she thought she would. what a relief.

she posts the pictures on her spamsta (spam + finsta) once the countdown for the new year is finished and captions it with her thoughts. after she posted it, she locked her phone, turned off her tv, and went upstairs to go to bed, excited for what was to come in the future.

notokmina: do you see her??/ that’s the coolest bitch in the world !!!! ever !!!!!

watching her tonight gave me so much motivation tbh. i remember i used to be so… starstruck by her when i first saw her on mga4 and now i know her in real life and we’re friends !!!! i’m so glad she got to audition for this and perform onstage in front of a bunch of idols. she’s so cool!!!!

i’m gonna work hard with future covers so that i can hopefully be dancing on that same stage!!!!!!!!! it’d be cooler if it was w her!!!! but yeah. hopefully if i work hard enough, i can be on the stage like her (and my cousin and brother if theyre reading this who knows)

she leaves a comment under her post.

notokmina: unnie, if ur reading this, hi!!! very proud of u uwu

…

january 2nd, 2020

having been on stan twitter since she moved back to korea, she’s gotten to explore the many sides of the website. though she’s primarily a kpop fan account, she also keeps tabs on film twitter. it’s to the point where she even has mutuals who are apart of that community and she frequently talks to them about her favorite movies (recently, it’s been about it 2 because she loves her best boys richie and eddie). so of course, when she asked for movie recommendations on her account, she hoped that said mutuals would see it and give their insight.

though there were many suggestions, she chose lady bird by the end of it. she knew about the movie years ago, but she never really got around to watching it until now. she’s read mixed reviews, so she was never really able to form a solid opinion on this movie. she told herself not to expect much, since this was a coming-of-age film. but, by the end of it, she found herself in tears. she goes on twitter and writes up a tweet as a response to the movie.

michi @noplayboy_mp3: film oomfs is it weird to say that i kin w lady bird lol michi @noplayboy_mp3: no but the film is so good i dont want to drop any spoilers but lady bird is like… so relatable? esp bc im kind of in her situation now. michi @noplayboy_mp3: icb greta gerwig said “michi has rights”... perhaps i will watch little women when i get the chance

before she’s about to make a tweet about watching midsommar next, she hears her phone vibrate. putting her laptop to the side, she picks up her phone and sees an email from snu.

dear mina,

the admissions committee at seoul national university has re-reviewed all aspects of your application in its holistic review process, and you have an updated admissions decision. you may now view your updated admissions decision in your portal.

she gasps.

as she clicks on the link to her portal and logs in, she was immediately welcomed by the site with a big “CONGRATULATIONS!” and if that wasn’t already obvious enough for her, she looks around to find the little “status: accepted” on her page. she sighs in relief and puts her phone to the side as she lies on her bed. she’s not necessarily excited that she got into a school. even now, she was still questioning if she wanted to go to school to begin with. all she knew was that at this point, she was going somewhere. whether or not this is what she really wanted to do, she at least has an idea of where she’s starting.

maybe now her mom would stop badgering her. maybe now she can show her that she could do things without her.

…

“i got accepted into snu today.”

it’s used to start discussion, even though she didn’t really want to talk about it with her. it had to come out somehow because even if she was nervous with how she was going to reply, at least her mom would be aware of it.

her father was the first to say something about it and mina wants to verbally thank him for speaking before her mom does. “honey, congratulations! i knew you would be able to get into that school.”

“thank you,” mina says with a small smile before she looks over at her mom to see what she will respond with because it was obvious she had something to say about it.

“why did it take so long for a response?” she asks. “you applied for early decision, didn’t you?”

it takes a lot for mina to not say something snarky in response. she’s not going to do that now. not so soon. “well, competition’s pretty tough. a lot of kids are applying for snu. especially in my class.” she wasn’t exactly lying, but it was a better response than “i was waitlisted for a month.” and even if she responded with that, at least she got into the school. wasn’t that enough?

her mom lets out a small “hm” before eating more of their dinner. “well, good job on getting into that school. with how long the response took, i was starting to worry.”

mina frowns. “i got into other schools, you know.”

“but did you want to get into any of those other schools?” when mina’s silent for a response, her mother only continues. “you said that you were aiming for snu and it took long enough in order to get a response.”

“can’t you just be happy over the fact that i actually got into the school?” mina asks, feeling her voice rise. “i thought you would be proud of me. is it that much of a surprise that i got in?”

“all of your friends got accepted into their schools quicker.” mina feels her grip tighten on the chopsticks in her hands. “all i’m saying is you should’ve at least tried harder or at least recognize that you should’ve done better.”

mina finds it hard to calm down after hearing that. it’s not like she didn’t expect a response like that, but to actually hear it from her makes her laugh bitterly. it’s sad to say she’s not surprised because this was what their relationship is at this point. even if she told herself that she just wanted to get into school in order to get her mom off her back, her words only make it seem like she was mocking her even if she reached at least the minimum. it made mina wish her mother lowered her expectations or at least make her own higher.

she eats her food in a hurry, hoping to get out of this dinner as soon as possible. of course, her mother has an issue with it as she glared at her from across the table. “slow down. you look like an animal eating like that.”

mina ignores her and she manages to empty her bowl, still trying to bite and swallow the leftover food in her mouth. she quickly stands up from her chair, puts her bowl and utensils in the sink, and runs upstairs, swallowing the last bit of her food down. she closes her door behind her even if she knows her mother was going to go up to her room anyways. when she hears the door open, she rolls her eyes before she turns to her mom.

“can you knock?” the impatient tone was one she’s used frequently enough. whether or not she was proud of it, she kept that information to herself.

her mother’s not afraid of it, though. in fact, if anything, she’s probably a professional at dealing with it. “you’re one to talk about manners,” she scolds. “what is with you?! at least try to stay for the entire dinner and not make it seem like you don’t like my company.”

“why would i do that?” mina scoffs. “you’d yell at me for faking it, anyway.”

her mom sighs. “why are you so selfish? why do you keep on doing this? do you understand how uncomfortable your father feels whenever we fight? how uncomfortable i feel?!”

“i’m sorry for being upset over you not being a good mom,” she responds, crossing her arms as if to do the bare minimum of making fun of the woman in front of her who would do the same in their past arguments. “i got into a good school and all you can say is ‘i’m surprised they didn’t reject you straight up’? no ‘congratulations’ or ‘i’m happy you got into the school you wanted to get into’? shouldn’t you at least be glad over the fact that i’m going-”

“how am i going to explain to the family that it took a few months for my daughter to tell me she got into snu after a few months since she applied?” her mom interrupts her, angering mina even more. “it didn’t take long for jaebeom to get his letter of acceptance. it didn’t take daniel long for him to know if he got in. do you know what they’ll say when i tell them you got accepted after countless times of me saying ‘oh i don’t know yet’, ‘she hasn’t received anything yet’? they’ll think i’m raising-”

“what? an idiot?” mina laughs. “yeah. i’m sure everyone in the family’s already aware of the fact that i’m never going to be a lawyer living in america. at least i got into a school.”

her mother then points at mina and she has to hold the urge to not swat the hand away from her face. “look at you! you’re already making yourself sound bad by acting like it’s a miracle they accepted you in the first place!” she criticizes. “you’re supposed to go to school. you’re supposed to get a degree in order to get a good job somewhere. after all your father and i’ve done for you and your brothers, why are you the only one who treats this like it’s not a big deal?!”

“i am treating this like it’s a big deal!” mina asserts. “do you know how many nights i spent studying for tests that i knew i was going to fail? all the times i had to stay after school in order to make sure it wouldn’t affect my chances?! i worked so hard in the last few months to be accepted and i’m the only one in this room proud of myself for it! it’s like you’re actively trying to find reasons to be disappointed in me, even when i do something good!”

“maybe you should be trying to not constantly disappoint me, then.” her mother turns her back to her daughter and makes way for the door, but mina mutters something else that makes her stop in her steps.

“the one time i do something that i thought could impress you and you’re still disappointed in me.”

her mother doesn’t respond. all she does is stand for a moment before she leaves, not even bothering to close the door behind her.

#wc: 2451 LMAO #(( might be less if u dont count the tweets #(( i never proofread so if u see any mistakes pls excuse them LMAO #tagging people bc they're mentioned #rkchungha #danielxrk #tldr: mina gets into snu but she also has mommy issues!#i also didnt have to include her watching the gayos but last solo talked about how mbc gave her an answer and snu didn't so??#also bc mina's a chungha stan before she is chungha's friend #( * solo )

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babyawacs · 4 years

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Pay. Support. Donnate. pa ypal.me/ChristianKiss //// itis nonhostile morning whosnew /// nonhostgile testthe mes betweeen pun nomore sexjoy tears then trainride whereitriedtourinatesoemewhere thenns ome atomic pun thensome halflife2 or alyx engine theme alllinall nonhostile puns andactio nable like elevator and zombi huntingyou /// replacedphone 354 maybe cockroachdrug he roine detox it and repair the personwith drugtherapy find leftfotaiemd pathogen maxybe maybe gasing copycat ifnonhostile donotharm nonhsotile isnot theproblem usually / /// nonhostile gasing with teary side effect? 2am maybe elephant ? video is interesting robot walks through some constructionsite of chernobyl new covered cleanedup site withsome scientists ///// bbecause itis i nt e l i n t e l itis which trick works rightnow so we b r i e f the fools they use thegermans host fools? wedontjust let em know which o t h e r fools they used or that thegame is waht allthese and these and them overlooked is thegame but w h a t is played a n d w h o e l s e knew allalong what find xraymurderer maybe abov e aboveadjacent or adjacentbuildings /// isthere any file where bullshit is stored notlike: he changes his tshirt and pullover once a day afterwakeup and makeshis bed twice aday butmorelike makes his budget calculations under aminute with alllllllll his expe nses ahead without checkingback types his creditcardnumbers inlogins and his iban etc and logs in abysmal things without failtypes etc youget theidea bullshit uses keypa d without looking atit his computer andor phone is penetrateable with effort: and compa res to: not bullshit like his logo itis b l u e and and and the desktop is clutttered but morelike he cant solv e supersudokus anymore after them them and them were onthe case onthe walls and deedtyped reported suffocatiosn and poisons he solved those sudokus in 50minutes and level1 in 1h our15+-15 verifed and confirmed and a hugepile ofthem over more than 7years and now he tries sevendays and fails twice after them and them and them did this. and this. an d this. typed as this. he is not a retard from it but its not as before or isit m ore like: and the granny grampy retard doodoo this mishap is a proof of how nothing happe ned but then that guy mishap this so we must germangerman german german german ness his r ights away and its the confirmation how german we were before to germancure his granny g rampy doodoo ness no childsexorgies as germancure there were thousands but thatdoesnt c outn he was ondrug unless we interpret sth as boner then its frivolous sex and we can german sth about it //// bbbbbbbbbbbb ombout assmolester 2049 jailem enforceprevention /// where did the clowns compare the level ofthe case in threeemonths comparable onlinecourse lesseducated and in a mo nth fourweeks class nov2018 febr-may2019 t hats everyday 8hours a f t e r sufffo cations dmamages poisons but before inten sified murder killtricks 2020 germans shuffle stigmas then atomic calculus basics of nuc learphysics mit course and abit basic python new heartaimed 1 946 is repalcedphone from pathogen gasing allday is I am Chri stian KISS BabyAWACS – Raw Independent Sophistication #THINKTANK + #INTEL #HELLHOLE #BLOG https://www.BabyAWACS.com/ [email protected] PHONE / FAX +493212 611 34 64 Helpful? P ay. Support. Donnate. paypal.me/ChristianKiss

compared how life is and shouldbe these monsters shuffled sexual assault with harms w ith exploitation with fraudtricks with intel murder tricks then need alibis and see howthey can make the survivor oftheir shit as guilty aspossible throw objects shuffl e standard stigmas shuffle harms noone belongs near letalone on intimacy medifile holoc aust mengele worthy they overtaped allalong charging it how batshitnuts isit thistim e with that guy oneofthe simplest dirty tricks itis guilty liable causing government with control accomplcies shuffle pr oxies and harms play plausible deniability even now rightnow heart on edge ajoke this is inthis healthsins group agegroup fi nd backleg heartkill on suffocations on pathogen on d e h y d r a t i o n g u t s lock guts subdue murder trick murder tri ck there were no issues its found as subdued countless times itsone ofthe things they gotaway with //// dehydration gu ts subdue harms heart implant signal 2035 find so buttonpusher these knwo how and why th e ylock guts /// xray radar 20pm on is 2015 2028 /// #lawyers paved ways with apologies? use those that wereonthe case w ith that result on delaytactics in loe meanwhaile //// someone nonhostile controlle d sleeptime tests zombi with elevator in bhalflife engien alyx or halflife2 engine reward nonhostile and less horror memes its really wanting to sleep on intelcoma /// xraym urderer aims heart is // breached barricades to? inchamber or grocerystores? notjust cinema. sowhat. another email . //// the germans shuffle sexual assault. with minors. before+during+after daytimecharging. under risk as they nutit quellit to repeat. then reinterpret if a volleyball tweet boner counts as: /// twenty?years time. on sth like sexuality germans efforted virgin fool hooowmanytimes withall their might: theyknew da ycivillian asthey shuffled at the same timeothers efforted pervert hooker sexslave as themmmm shuffled charging both daytime asthe causing hosting governmetn +timecontrol acc omplice was tweaked to: mingled on private intimacy like whenyou have aboner and ifit fits totheir current molest trick replacedphone duringmail is //// @deutschland @bi ld @bild_de @phoenix_de oohbhittte fuer euchhat doch irgend eine prostituierte eine ae h…schmmmmmink-idee oder einen v i s i o n aeren aeh e i n d r u c k und als oberzuhae lter gehoert alles somit euch allein sonst: hochverrat and aeh d e u t s ch l a n d oder zurueckgeblieben hoffnungslos ver aeh jungfert hauptsache am sack /// and and and and and compared to hitler what would have hitler eversaid?… and…and…eva?braun?????….. mqy??? ve!??.. // yooooouknowme im doctor l a h v e whatwomenwant is m y aeh ..aeh… .. professsssssion and @all @world germans. shuffle. standard. stigma s. throw objects. at?who? @deutschland .@law @law @laws @lawyer @harvard_law @ap @reuter s @bbc_whys @france24 @haaretzcom @snowden @lawyercom die #deutschen kranken an einem sys tem das die aerzte als kontrollinstrument benutzt,von anfang an so baut und als privilegie rten verteilungsmechanismus eine der beguenstigten ehemals ddr privilegiert genannten e in ast des kontrollsystems wehe dem der da reingeraet /// #50percent of intels woul dagree, the other50percent would too but they a r e the rapers so.. //// sero toleran ce with sexual assault scums imply simpl y its sexuality frivolous gains frivolous h a b i t s as lifestyle sexual assault as s exuality for frivolous gains repeated during daytime charging whats happening ris king anything to what happens is the fraudsystem empowers some that are immune from int elcomas and those euphemistically nicemilden their sexual assault on civillians as u s i n g them so what theydontmind and that makes regularly e xcesses deed repeats becomes habit becomes prerogative beco mes excess becomes monstrosity becomes ge rman nothinghappensness then alldie thenthe germanfix: letmore because nothinghappened then reinterpretation if nothinghappensness isnot trickable I am Christian KISS BabyAWACS – Raw Independent Sophistication #T HINKTANK + #INTEL #HELLHOLE #BLOG https://www.BabyAWACS.com/ [email protected] PHONE / FAX +493212 611 34 64 Helpful? Pay. Support. 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Pay. Support. Donnate. pa ypal.me/ChristianKiss //// itis nonhostile morning whosnew /// nonhostgile testthe mes betweeen pun nomore sexjoy tears then trainride whereitriedtourinatesoemewhere thenns ome atomic pun thensome halflife2 or alyx engine theme alllinall nonhostile puns andactio nable like elevator and zombi huntingyou /// replacedphone 354 maybe cockroachdrug he roine detox it and repair the personwith drugtherapy find leftfotaiemd pathogen maxybe maybe gasing copycat ifnonhostile donotharm nonhsotile isnot theproblem usually / /// nonhostile gasing with teary side effect? 2am maybe elephant ? video is interesting robot walks through some constructionsite of chernobyl new covered cleanedup site withsome scientists ///// bbecause itis i nt e l i n t e l itis which trick works rightnow so we b r i e f the fools they use thegermans host fools? wedontjust let em know which o t h e r fools they used or that thegame is waht allthese and these and them overlooked is thegame but w h a t is played a n d w h o e l s e knew allalong what find xraymurderer maybe abov e aboveadjacent or adjacentbuildings /// isthere any file where bullshit is stored notlike: he changes his tshirt and pullover once a day afterwakeup and makeshis bed twice aday butmorelike makes his budget calculations under aminute with alllllllll his expe nses ahead without checkingback types his creditcardnumbers inlogins and his iban etc and logs in abysmal things without failtypes etc youget theidea bullshit uses keypa d without looking atit his computer andor phone is penetrateable with effort: and compa res to: not bullshit like his logo itis b l u e and and and the desktop is clutttered but morelike he cant solv e supersudokus anymore after them them and them were onthe case onthe walls and deedtyped reported suffocatiosn and poisons he solved those sudokus in 50minutes and level1 in 1h our15+-15 verifed and confirmed and a hugepile ofthem over more than 7years and now he tries sevendays and fails twice after them and them and them did this. and this. an d this. typed as this. he is not a retard from it but its not as before or isit m ore like: and the granny grampy retard doodoo this mishap is a proof of how nothing happe ned but then that guy mishap this so we must germangerman german german german ness his r ights away and its the confirmation how german we were before to germancure his granny g rampy doodoo ness no childsexorgies as germancure there were thousands but thatdoesnt c outn he was ondrug unless we interpret sth as boner then its frivolous sex and we can german sth about it //// bbbbbbbbbbbb ombout assmolester 2049 jailem enforceprevention /// where did the clowns compare the level ofthe case in threeemonths comparable onlinecourse lesseducated and in a mo nth fourweeks class nov2018 febr-may2019 t hats everyday 8hours a f t e r sufffo cations dmamages poisons but before inten sified murder killtricks 2020 germans shuffle stigmas then atomic calculus basics of nuc learphysics mit course and abit basic python new heartaimed 1 946 is repalcedphone from pathogen gasing allday is I am Chri stian KISS BabyAWACS – Raw Independent Sophistication #THINKTANK + #INTEL #HELLHOLE #BLOG https://www.BabyAWACS.com/ [email protected] PHONE / FAX +493212 611 34 64 Helpful? P ay. Support. Donnate. paypal.me/ChristianKiss

@all @world

compared how life is and shouldbe

these monsters shuffled sexual assault with harms with exploitation with fraudtricks with intel murder tricks

then need

alibis and see howthey can make the survivor oftheir shit as guilty aspossible

throw objects

shuffle standard stigmas shuffle harms

noone belongs near letalone on intimacy

medifile holocaust mengele worthy they overtaped allalong char…

View On WordPress

#50percent #BLOG #deutschen #HELLHOLE #intel #lawyers #THINKTANK

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artificialqueens · 7 years

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for all the honest world to feel (trixya) (5/8) - dare

Brian stared down at his screen, trying to understand what he was seeing – the mild frown on Katya’s face, and the other queen, hands raised, standing just out of frame beyond the gap in the bus bunk curtain.

(AN: so this is… long and sad. finally-throwing-in-an-angst-tag-at-the-bottom levels of sad. warnings for unsafe alcohol use and overdrinking; as usual, “she/her” for adore and “he/him” for trixie (brian) and katya. also, this might read a little weird, but i made the executive decision not to name the weho queen who’s been giving trixie shit because (contrary to, uh, all other signs, i guess) i don’t actually want to speculate on who’s a douche and who isn’t in the ru girl community. so that’s also a thing.

(OH, and, there’s more lyrics in this one, please don’t judge me, it’s very hard to try to measure up to trixie’s irl songwriting chops lmao)

this week on honest world: shit’s sad. shit’s real sad.)

| ch. 1 | ch. 2 | ch. 3 | ch. 4 |

FROM: SHEA - 9:57 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

[Attachment: IMG_3782.MOV]

Girl.

If you dont wife her up I will.

FROM: KIM - 10:03 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

holy shit

i don’t think i’ve ever seen her mad. like for real

FROM: SHEA - 10:04 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

This was some WWF shit girl. That bitch will be feeling it for a while.

FROM: KIM - 10:05 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

katya’s from boston. she’s 90% salt, 5% feelings, 5% inner saboteur and 100% ready to fight

FROM: SHEA - 10:05 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

Thats a lot of math, Kimberley

FROM: KIM - 10:05 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

are you being racist? don’t be racist shea. omg.

someone had to count trixie’s tips for her when she was passed out drunk in my bed

FROM: SHEA - 10:07 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

*Steal trixie’s tips from her.

FROM: SHEA - 10:15 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

Trisha baby if you’re out there we love you girl okay? call us any time xxxx

“You know,” Katya was saying, perfectly conversational, “I found it kind of cute at first? Like a puppy trying to fight itself in the mirror – or one that can’t, you know. Stop pissing itself. You know what I mean? Funny but sad. But I don’t think I find it funny anymore.”

The other queen laughed nervously. “Come on, Katya –”

“I’m not laughing. Why are you laughing?” said Katya, raising his eyebrows. “I’m not laughing.”

The laughter stuttered into silence. Over the mic, Brian heard Shea expel a slow, cautious breath.

Katya tilted his head, and the expression on his face darkened like a spring storm. “I want to make it really clear to you how far you’ve managed to over-reach yourself, that you’ve actually crossed my limits. ‘Cause I don’t care how you run things in your club, how you treat your friends, whatever – that’s none of my business, since I don’t work in your club and I’m not your friend. Oh, in case you hadn’t noticed – I’m not your friend. FYI. Because you’ve been acting like I am, and I think it’s time for that to stop.”

The raised hands dropped out of sight. “Jesus. Why don’t you tell me how you really feel.”

And that – Brian winced despite himself. That was a mistake.

Katya grinned, showing too many teeth. “Can I? I’d like that, thanks.” He tapped his fingers rapidly against the side of his thigh. “I feel like you’ve gotten a little too comfortable as top dog in your scene, and when Trixie showed up and didn’t line up to eat you out like everyone else does, your ego plummeted out of your ass. And what we’ve been seeing for the past half a year – can I repeat that? It’s been half a year, which is beyond pathetic – what we’ve been seeing is some kind of hemorrhoidal psychosis, as you take obsessive potshots at someone who couldn’t give less of a fuck about you. It’s not just pathetic – it’s harassment. You’re showing your whole ass right now but guess what, girl? We’ve seen it.”

“You said yourself you’re not in my scene, so don’t talk like you know shit,” the queen snapped back. Her voice tightened like a screw being ground into drywall. “The bitch could have tried to be friendly, for fuck’s sake –”

“You aren’t being very smart right now,” Katya interrupted, with all the force of a tire iron punching through a sheet of glass. “This might be a good time to consider your word choice, if there ever was one. That would be the smart thing here.” Teeth again, manic. “You want friendly? I can do friendly. We have another week on tour – you want me to do friendly. Because the alternative is that I freeze you out, publicly and professionally, and I make your life and your career outside of that fucked up, incestuous bubble of a scene you’ve pissed all over very difficult. Am I – am I being clear? I want to be very clear. You’ve messed up enough shit in my life, and I want this over with.”

There was a pause and a shift in the shadows beyond the curtain – nodding.

“Good. So here’s how this is going to go.” A wooden sound, rap, Katya’s knuckles against the bunk frame. Brian could make out the rise and fall of Katya’s chest, shallow and too fast, in the gap between the curtains. “You don’t post about Trixie. You don’t talk about her. If, God forbid, the opportunity arises, you don’t talk to her. That last one is for you – I’m a lover, not a fighter, but it is my strong suspicion that if you pull this to her face one more time, she will beat the ever-loving shit out of you. Just a – a pro-tip, let’s call it. An insight.”

There was a weak laugh. “She can try it. Jesus, Katya, come the fuck on –”

Slam – an open-handed palm against the wood. “Do you think I’m fucking around here? I’m not. Don’t fucking push me on this.”

Brian had heard Katya angry a handful of times in his life. He’d never heard him like this. This wasn’t Katya out of control; this was Katya very near the end of his rope, and aware of every inch he had left, making them count.

The sick feeling in Brian’s stomach crept higher. He pressed his knuckles against his mouth.

“You stop coming for Trixie,” Katya was saying. “No more posts on facebook, no more whispers at shows. No more shit-talking to promoters – yeah, I asked around, I heard about that. Not that it did you much good. It has to hurt, I think – does it? Knowing that Trixie’s booking is worth more than your word? That’s gotta sting. But I’m not sure how much of a hold your word even has anymore, you bitter fucking cunt.”

Shea, behind the camera, drew in a shocked breath at the pure vitriol in Katya’s voice.

There was a stillness to the air for a long moment, like the silence after a hurricane has swept the earth bare and ragged. Then the other queen laughed again; louder this time, acidic, but with a definite note of finality – of defeat.

“If everyone could see you now,” she said.

Katya barked a laugh of his own. “Girl, they wouldn’t care. I’m America’s fucking sweetheart.” He stepped back and waved a hand in the space visible between the curtains; it was shaking finely, Brian could see it. “Get the fuck out of here. I’m not dealing with you today. Call back tomorrow – I’ll be friendly again.”

The curtains fluttered as hurried footsteps passed by and receded out of the room, the door to the common lounge sliding open and then shut.

Katya’s shadow shifted. Back and forth, like he was caught up on a decision; then he said, quiet, muffled: “fuck.” Footsteps rang in the opposite direction – towards, Brian assumed, his own bunk, as there was the fumbling sound of feet on rungs and then the rattle of metal rings as the curtains were pulled shut.

The camera reversed. Shea stared up at it, her eyes filling most of the screen, hilariously wide and scandalized. Then the video went black – and flicked back to that first still, frozen, the anger on Katya’s face deepening the hollows of his cheeks, his eyes throwing sparks through the screen.

Brian stared down at the rictus of his face, then pressed the phone down screen-first beside him into his mattress. The hard lines of its body bit into the insides of his fingers.

Fuck. What the fuck.

He could stop the video, but he couldn’t make his brain put away the tired lines that had cut into Katya’s face, or the ragged edge of his voice, or how the sound of his palm hitting solid wood had rung through Shea’s bunk, bouncing thickly off the walls.

The room was too small. Brian dragged himself up and went out into the living room, phone in his fist tucked into his pocket, but out there it was too big, and his skin felt all wrong, and he wanted to call Katya but he couldn’t make himself do it.

Katya hadn’t called or texted since the night of the pageant, when Brian had waited and waited all night but the internet – and that fan in the bar who’d clocked him – had stayed miraculously silent. Katya hadn’t called, or texted, or tweeted, or even updated his fucking instagram.

God.

Brian’s phone buzzed suddenly in his pocket and he almost threw it at the balcony doors in his haste to get it out. He fumbled it awake – and then he saw the name on the screen, and his shoulders slumped again.

FROM: ADORE - 10:28 AM - Sunday August 24th, 2017

I forgot to ask but can u water my plants??? this is the longest ive gone without killing any of them :(

LA sucks.

it’s like *jaws theme* all the time. and i forgot my sunglasses

He swiped his phone unlocked and read through the texts, mouth twitching feebly towards an almost-smile. It buzzed in his palm again and a picture appeared – Adore, nose scrunched, squinting into the sky.

Brian typed back, i promise, you can definitely afford another pair of sunglasses. and yes, your plants are safe in my hands.

The answer came quickly, every letter infused with the kind of wry snark that Adore was so good at: dont make promises my lawyers can’t keep

Brian huffed a quiet laugh. The sound was swallowed up in the space of the apartment, a small rock dropped in a large lake, not even reaching far enough to touch the walls.

Adore had come out the morning after that night to find him on the couch, his guitar abandoned on the coffee table, staring out into the thin morning light. It wasn’t even 7 AM. He’d gotten four or so hours of restless sleep before giving up on it; the room was lit such a soft grey that he might as well have wrapped in a dream anyway. He’d been staring out at the clouds and the inkstain crows flecked along the telephone wires for so long that they’d blurred, like an impressionistic painting – barely real.

Adore had gone and sat beside him. Then she’d leaned over, carefully, and rested her head on his shoulder. He’d shuddered – one long wave through his whole body. She was warm. When she breathed her chest expanded against his arm, slow and steady like waves coming into the shore. He’d only been able to bear it for a few minutes before he’d had to get up, fingers twitching at his side; he’d given her an apologetic smile, and she’d watched him walk back to his room with her chin on her wrist, her forearm braced against the back of the couch.

He’d checked twitter one more time, and then fallen into deep, exhausting sleep.

“That’ll be thirty-two dollars and forty cents, please,” said the bored young woman behind the till, eyeing his – genuinely embarrassing – collection of groceries: ramen noodles, tomato sauce from a jar, the kind of shitty white wine he’d drunk in senior year of college, and stuff to make a salad, out of the idealistic hope that he might actually make a salad.

“I’ll just put that on my credit card,” Brian said. He watched her surreptitiously as she entered the amount onto the card reader. Adore had brought him here a few times, but he didn’t recognize her.

“This your first day?” he said, then winced.

“Huh?”

“I mean. Are you new?”

Now she was eyeing him, even less impressed than she’d been by his groceries. “No…”

“Oh.” He ran a hand over his head awkwardly. He’d forgotten his cap at home. “I just, I haven’t seen you here before. I thought…”

Her mouth twitched, and she popped her gum, a sharp snap in the air. The sound was somehow scornful. “Listen, mister – I’m working, you know, and even if I weren’t, I don’t go out with the kind of guy that bothers –”

“Oh my god, no,” Brian said, flushing, “Oh my god, no, I’m gay. What? No.”

“Oh,” she said. She started turning red too. “Oh. Shit – uh, I mean –”

He laughed awkwardly. “Don’t worry about it. Sorry for being, uh, super weird and stuff.”

The lights overhead were the sickly fluorescent yellow of small-time grocery stores everywhere. He could have been anywhere – east coast or west, north or south, any timezone, any city, any tour. His shoes squeaked on the floor when he shifted from heel to heel.

How was it less than a week ago that he’d felt so at home in this city he didn’t know at all?

“Your receipt,” the cashier said. She held it out towards him, then hesitated visibly. “Listen, uh… are you okay, man?”

He shrugged, stilted, and took the receipt, then grabbed the bags by their handles. “Oh, you know. More of the same,” he said.

It was awful to realize he meant it.

Touring was a little bit like being a ghost in your own body. You were breathing and eating and sleeping, but you might as well have been walking through walls, the way you drifted from place to place, squinting at google maps on your phone, talking to people whose names you’d either forget within five minutes or never knew in the first place. You could be anywhere at all; you might as well be nowhere.

Brian drank shitty wine and played into the night, the notes echoing hollowly across the big empty space of Adore’s living room. Music usually anchored him into his body on the road. Every chord brought him a little closer, the muscles, tendons, bones of his hands all tuned in to the melody with the ease of years. He could close his eyes and wherever he was, he was home.

But each time he opened his eyes again he was someplace new.

Seattle wasn’t a tour stop, but its grey skies, the neighbours he ran into on the staircase, the people he saw in the grocery store – none of them were home. But, fuck it, neither was LA, where he spent a few days every month or two and sometimes found himself waking up wondering whose walls he was looking at. And where the fuck did that leave him?

He played a sour note, paused, and corrected himself. Breathed. Tried to bring Emmylou’s lilting refrain back under his fingers.

Without Adore’s voice in the next room livestreaming her way out of boredom, the apartment grew stale and shadowed; without Katya’s calls every night, the days seemed endless, a pale stretch of hours where he did nothing and saw no one. And as each hour ticked past on the clock it became more and more obvious that the veneer of sunshine he’d pasted over Seattle with Adore’s friendly warmth and the sound of Katya’s smile was just that – a veneer.

Another sour note. He stopped and lay his guitar flat in his lap, then picked up his glass on the coffee table and drained it.

His phone lay still and silent beside the wet ring his glass had left on the wood.

He flicked a bit of lint from the couch off his boxers and took up his guitar again, tracing out the melody that he’d been chasing these past weeks on automatic. The sky outside was ripening, edging into evening. It was almost fall. He’d been in Seattle for three weeks, and it seemed he really hadn’t moved an inch.

He could call Katya. He could suck it the fuck up and call Katya, because maybe Katya was waiting for him to call. Maybe this whole ‘respecting Katya’s space’ thing he was doing was totally misguided, and Katya was waiting beside the phone every minute that he wasn’t out there defending Brian’s honour or whatever that was.

I fucked you up, he could say. I was so busy pretending that everything was fine now and my problems were gone because they weren’t yelling in my face every two seconds that I didn’t realize I was setting us both up to get hurt. I was so fucking stupid, Katya, and I’m so – I’m so sorry.

And Katya would say…

What?

I just want you to be okay, if he was feeling self-sacrificial; it’s your irrepressible Virgo energy, if he was feeling avoidant. Maybe, maybe, I thought you said you didn’t lie to me, and you weren’t going to start, if he was feeling particularly honest.

Katya was always honest, more or less. It was just that the truth was flexible, more conversation than monologue, and irony always had to have the last word. Brian, meanwhile, was just a bit of a liar.

Not with Katya, though. Not before. And he hadn’t meant to – he really hadn’t meant to, not even for a second; it was just –

Fuck.

It’s worse than I was letting myself feel, Brian could say. There’s things I don’t know how to tell you. Because it is about you.

His throat tightened; he let go of the frets. He grabbed for his drink blindly and for his notebook with his other hand. Resting it against the body of his guitar, he opened to a blank page and scrawled,

You fought yourself to bring all your feelings down to heel,

and if you stopped yourself from looking, was it ever really real

but everyone’s been looking

and you –

Something inside of him was drifting dangerously, thin tethers tied to his ribs all that held it in place, like a threadbare sail on fraying ropes. The words on the page blurred in front of his eyes. He raised his glass to his mouth but the rim bumped against his teeth and nothing came out. Empty.

He frowned down at his cup. Like, fuck that nonsense. He’d put good money down on those teeth.

The wine sloshing into the glass when he poured himself another sounded like the ocean creeping onto the shore on a windless day. Like Provincetown – another place he’d gone to hide; another town full of strangers. He set the bottle back on the table, cap off, and picked up his guitar again.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday he went running in the morning like nothing had changed. Before, Adore would be waking up when he got back; one of them would make breakfast, then they’d jam for a while, and then Adore would smoke up and Brian would text Katya, if he hadn’t already done so.

Now Brian just jogged. Further and further each day, until Thursday found him running along the seaside, pounding the pavement with salt stinging the inside of his mouth on every inhale. The sky was a soft feather blue, the ocean a deep silk bedsheet wavering in his peripheral vision – and then the mass of Pike Place rose up in front of him. Before he could think about it, his feet were carrying him inside; past the florists, past the bursting orange and red arrays of fresh fruit, and down the stairs to the magic shop’s door.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead with the collar of his tank top, grimaced, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

It was just-opened quiet on the floor. No customers, no music; just a vague shuffling from behind the counter. “Just a minute,” the shuffler called. “If this accursed speaker breaks on me one more time…”

There was a crackling sound from the speakers set high in the walls, like a cheap firework skidding along cement, and then a whole storm of swearing below the counter.

“Uh,” Brian said. He approached cautiously. “Can I take a look? I might be able to help.”

“No, it’s really fine –” A frazzled head popped up from behind the register. “Oh! It’s you! I know you. You think you can fix it? The damn thing goes off all the time, the wiring’s too old –”

Brian shrugged. “I work in clubs and theatres and stuff, so I’ve picked up a thing or two. Let me see.”

Steph – that was her name, he remembered – was as curly-haired and strangely-dressed as when they’d met, with a sprig of rosemary tucked behind the large crow-shaped brooch pinned to her blouse and dust all over her knees. He crouched down beside her and squinted at the mess of wires and cords, poking a hesitant finger around and hoping he wouldn’t get fried. That sound had not been good.

“I think,” he said after a minute, “I think it’s this. Hang on. I’m gonna – if I die, tell my momma I loved her, and tell my dad –” he ducked further under the desk. “Well, whatever you like, if you can find him.”

She barked a laugh behind him.

He didn’t die, although he did burn his fingers a little bit, and when the music started playing (some kind of witchy Swedish wailing, possibly Bjork, Katya – Katya would know –) he let out a “Hah!” of triumph. Eat that, three years on the road and four years of theatre school and thousands of dollars funnelled directly into the University of Wisconsin’s incredibly deep pockets. Eat the shit out of that.

Steph helped him out with two hands around his forearm, shaking him delightedly once he was more or less standing. “You’re a miracle worker,” she said with a bright smile. “I should hire you on the spot, because clearly you’re the real magic here.”

He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his free arm and grinned down at her. Clear bright light was streaming through the high windows in the walls, glinting off her brooch, her earrings, the silver in her hair. Her smile and easy warmth was the same as it had been before, and, god, that was nice. “I’ve got greasepaint coming out of ears,” he said, shrugging modestly. “You can’t really call yourself a theatre kid until you’ve nearly died a dozen different ways trying to string up the speakers on the janitor’s old ladder. ”

“Different ways?”

He waved a hand. “You know, falling, electrocution – so boring. A good old-fashioned garrotte is where it’s at.”

Her eyes scrunched at the corners when she laughed. “I like you,” she said, grinning, “you’re strange,” and he grinned back, feeling lighter than he had all week.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. Then: “Oh, hey, the book you sold me is great. Who knew reading about the end of the world could make you feel better about life?”

“That’s right, the apocalypse poems, you…” Steph said, then paused. “God, I’m so sorry, I don’t remember your name. But you’re Danny’s friend, right?”

Brian blinked. Swallowed.

“Yeah,” he said; it came out forced, like he was overcompensating for something. “Yeah, sorry, it’s Brian. Yeah. I took some time off work and I’ve been staying with Danny.”

“Oh, do you work together?” she said, brightly and obliviously twisting the knife. “I know he does something or other with clubs and theatres and whatnot too. He’s very private about those things, but such a sweetheart. I haven’t seen him around in a while, though, how he is?”

“Away on business,” Brian said, “and, you know, we’ve been keeping busy otherwise. I’ll tell him you asked.” He wiped his palms against the sides of his shorts. “Listen, I actually – I should probably be going, actually. I’m supposed to be skyping him in about half an hour.”

An absolute lie, but Steph swallowed it without a flicker of suspicion. She smiled and pressed a hand to his arm. “Tell him I send my love. And thanks again for your help, Brian. I don’t know how many more shocks my old heart could take.”

“Oh stop,” he said, chuckling, and gave a little wave. “See you around, I guess?”

The polite small talk of strangers. Preferable to a slow death, but not by, like, a lot.

Brian took the stairs back up to the ground level slowly, although his heart rate was well back to normal by this point. He wandered out of the arcade, and turned, and walked, and turned, and then he was on a raised dock, leaning against a wooden rail next to a locked gate, which guarded the ramp down to the boats. The wood pressed into the front of his ribs. He curled his palms around the rail, ignoring the bite of splinters.

A light breeze ruffled his shirt and cooled his pink cheeks. The ocean stretched out before him, golden sunshine catching in the crests and troughs of the waves.

He closed his eyes.

At home, he typed, i hope you’re doing okay. i love you.

Deleted it.

Typed, today someone didnt recognize me and THAT made me sad. i think i need an intervention.

Deleted it.

Typed, went to the beach to sea what all the commocean was about but idk im still not shore

Deleted it.

Sighed, stared out the window, looked down at his feet.

Typed, i’m sorry. katya, i’m so sorry.

Deleted it.

“You’re so white from these shadowed winter months,” Katya crowed, shielding his eyes dramatically. “I don’t know if I can be seen with you.”

“You’re real white from being born, you know, caucasian and unfortunate, but I’ve suffered your company for years,” said Brian. He frowned and wiped at his nose where something wet was dripping – sweat or sunscreen, he didn’t know. “If you really can’t bear it, I’m sure I can find one of these tanned, strapping, oiled-up hunks of meat who’d be willing to walk with me –”

Katya grabbed his arm mid-gesture. “No no no, don’t you dare!”

“I’m just saying,” Brian continued, “you invited me, bitch –”

The shine of Katya’s grin, open-mouthed and laughing, was enough to blow his whole awful night out of the water.

They walked. The sun drew rippling air waves out of the too-hot cement; the ocean crashed beautifully green into the white shore. But it somehow wasn’t too crowded, for all that it was the dead of summer, the very peak of beach days. They moved in blissful anonymity. At one point, Katya bought him an ice cream. Brian ate it one-handed, making panicked noises and laughing as it dripped closer and closer to his hand. His other hand was – well. He’d taken Katya’s as they stood waiting for the cone, and he hadn’t let go yet. His stomach flipped giddily every time their steps fell out of sync – their palms would drag against each other, just for a moment, each time making him newly aware again of the calluses on Katya’s palm.

He traced his index finger along the big tendon on the back of Katya’s hand, and Katya glanced at him sideways, quick, lips parting on a short intake of breath. Brian licked at his ice cream and said nothing, warm and smug all over.

Sea breeze and the sting of salt. They leaned over the wooden rail, right into it, shoulders and hips pressed together. The blue stretched endless.

Katya started to turn red in the cheeks around four so they ducked for shade. Brian slouched back against the blush pink wall of some souvenir shop, under the awning, and Katya stood in front of him to block the sun from his eyes. One moment Brian was looking over Katya’s shoulder at the white gulls darting and dipping over the sea; the next, he was blinking up, and Katya was closer, leaning in, one hand on the wall beside his head, his gaze flickering over Brian’s face with the same combination of lazy ease and breathless flight as the birds in the air.

Brian blinked, processing, then licked his lips to wet them. “Feeling tall?” he said.

“Feeling lots of things,” said Katya, smiling faintly. “Tall may or may not be one of them. No one’s ever accused me of a Napoleon complex, Tracy – and my psychological rap sheet is longer than the Mariana Trench. You always take me to new and exciting places, did you know that? That’s why we’re friends.”

“I thought it was for the free therapy and life coaching.”

“Don’t undersell yourself, mama. What’s newer or more exciting than uncertified therapy and dubious life coaching?”

Brian laughed. “I don’t know that ‘new’ and ‘exciting’ are words that many people have applied to me – out of drag, at least.” His mouth twitched. “You might be du-biased.”

He expected Katya to throw back his head, lean away and laugh, but instead – Katya leaned closer, his eyes glinting with mirth. “I’m gonna kill you,” he said, “I’m gonna kill you right here and dump your body into the ocean in front of the tourists, God, and everybody, and no one will punish me when they hear about the years of pun-spewing bullshit you’ve put me through.”

He was so close. Brian’s stomach flipped again; he could feel Katya’s warmth all along him, make out the freckles on his nose. “Kill me?” he said, mouth dry.

Katya blinked. Something about the set of his jaw, the small lines around his eyes, seemed suddenly vulnerable, intense and somehow opened wide.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment. “Or, I dunno. Maybe that other thing.”

Brian held his breath. All he could hear was the crashing of the waves, loud and close – or maybe that was the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. He reached up and brushed the tips of his fingers along the sharp line of Katya’s cheek.

Katya’s chest hitched.

The breeze chased the sunlight through the empty pier, stirring the sand across the wood, and Katya leaned in, slow enough that Brian could stop him if he wanted. Brian didn’t. He lifted his face, eyes slipping shut; and Katya’s mouth fell on the corner of his, once, soft, then warm against his right cheekbone, and again on his left. Brian exhaled shakily.

“What,” he said, unsteady. “Can’t kiss me when the cameras aren’t on?”

Katya huffed a laugh, the breath warm on Brian’s face. He curled a hand below Brian’s ribs; his fingers dipped into the hollow in his tank top to brush against bare skin. Brian shivered. Voice barely louder than the wind in the distance, Katya said, “My life would be so much simpler if that were true.”

Brian opened his eyes. He looked up and met Katya’s gaze, and his mouth twitched, almost a smile. Katya’s stubble scratched at his fingertips as he settled his palm more firmly along the curve of his jaw. “Well, you’re not really a simple woman,” Brian said, and Katya was laughing when he leaned down and kissed him properly.

When he opened his eyes, the sun’s lowest rays had dipped below the edge of the awning, lighting Katya up in gold, and he tipped his head back to rest against the wall, wrapped his free arm around Katya’s waist, and said, “Come home with me.”

Except that’s not what happened at all.

When he opened his eyes, the sun was shining, and Katya was lit with gold, and he tipped his head back against the wall and thought about saying it –

– then smiled crookedly, and said instead, “You kiss like you have heat stroke.” And Katya threw back his head and laughed, wheezed, “no, just heat rash,” while the sun caught in his hair and lashes.

It’s not what happened, but it could have been. He could have taken Katya home, and pressed him up against the hallway inside his door, all that sun-warm skin under his hands. He could have kissed him the way he wanted to. He could have blown him right there with his knees sore against the hardwood, or taken his hand again and drawn him back into the bedroom, kissing him all the way. And after – Brian could have asked him to stay.

That wasn’t how it happened, but, crashed out on the couch in Seattle after his run, Brian dreamed every moment of it. Every inch of hot skin and the rasp of sheets and falling asleep together and waking up together. And when he woke up – alone – he pressed his hands flat against his stomach, feeling like something had been taken out of him. Feeling ill, feeling exhausted, feeling like his head was buzzing and his mind was five feet outside of his body.

Eventually he dragged himself up and fumbled for his phone. He wiped at the inner corners of his eyes with his knuckle as he thumbed it awake; then he pressed his palm over his face, exhaling shakily.

No new messages. Of course.

His whole body hummed feverishly, the twinned effect of the sun on his morning run and the one in his dream. Maybe that was what fucked over his self-control, that sick feeling like he was out of his head, or maybe he was just giving in to the inevitable – but, whatever it was, he opened his messages and, despite all his better judgement, typed out: check in?

Hating himself a little, he hit send.

When there was no response thirty minutes later, despite the read receipt that had popped up almost immediately, he left to go find something to drink.

“Oh hey, it’s you,” said the girl behind the counter. She eyed his purchases. “Wow. I didn’t think it could get sadder than last time…”

Brian huffed a short laugh. “Still gay, don’t worry.”

“Uh huh,” she said. She ran the first wine bottle – yes, first, thanks so much – under the scanner and hit a few buttons. “So is the whole sad and gay deal an aesthetic thing? How much Lana have you listened to in the past three days? I’m trying to decide if I should be staging an intervention that I’m – full disclosure – not really qualified for.”

“Do sad gays get a discount at this establishment?”

“Nope,” she said, popping it like bubblegum. “Sorry.”

She finished ringing him, his three bottles of wine, his pack of sour key candies, and his thoroughly depleted dignity through the machine.

“Credit,” he said, offering it over.

He was threading his hands through the bag handles, waiting for his card back, when she said, “Hey. What’s your name, man?”

He blinked. “It says on the card.”

“Yeah, whatever,” she said, handing it over wrapped in his receipt with an eye-roll. “So what is it?”

“Brian,” he said, and looked at the sallow lights on her face, wondering where she was going with this.

“Brian,” she repeated. “Hi, Brian, I’m Mariam.”

Her tone was conversational but somehow serious, weighted, and Brian – Brian swallowed against the sudden and unexpected feeling of his throat going tight.

“Now who’s hitting on who?” he managed, and she chuckled, but didn’t lose that look in her eyes.

“Brian. Take care of yourself, hey?” she said.

The lights glared brightly across the empty floor, the rows upon rows of no-name brands and the scuff marks on the shitty linoleum. She was watching Brian like maybe he needed watching. He swallowed again, and nodded, and left without another word.

Dust motes floated in the slowly draining sunlight when he returned to the apartment. The whole space of it echoed with the closing of the door. He kicked off his shoes, cracked open the first bottle, and went to get his guitar, glass in hand.

Hours passed. He drank more. He scribbled in his notebook, crossed things out, scrawled corrections in the margins. There was too much in his head. Words tumbled out like a hole had been torn somewhere, all the loose change and lint of his brain escaping despite his best efforts to plug the gap. His writing got sloppier, slanted; he wiped wine from his mouth with the back of his hand and turned the page.

The beach, the dream, the night before. The months of build-up, the moment of release. Wanting, wanting, he wanted so much and he had told himself, when he was a kid, that someday he would be able to have all the things he wanted. If he was smart enough and good enough, quick enough on his feet, he could make anything happen. But here he was: trapped into stillness as the path under his feet cut off abruptly. Because how could he have all the things he wanted when they existed at such cross-purposes?

Or was it just him? Not the fame, not the fans, not the industry, and certainly not Katya – maybe it was Brian at cross-purposes with all of it, putting himself in his own way, selfish and stubborn and cowardly, refusing to accept with good grace what the universe was offering him.

The sun dipped below the blocky Seattle skyline, the buildings across the road cast in radiant red, as he stumbled into the kitchen to open the third bottle. His hands slipped on the cap; he blinked wearily down at it, then out the window at the purples and pinks of the sky, dappled and streaked like watercolours. The sun was just a winking and burnished glare over the lip of the buildings. He inhaled deeply and it almost seemed like he could still taste salt in the air.

The skyline blurred before his eyes, replaced by the memory of the things his dream had omitted. Walking the long way back down the pier, Katya with one arm hooked around his elbow and the other hand clutching at his bicep like an ingenue, twitching with laughter every minute or so because apparently this was the most heterosexual he’d ever felt. Which, Katya had definitely licked at least one pussy in his day, so. What he meant was probably that it was dumb, and romantic, and brought them so much closer together than held hands as they made their way between the shadows of the tall lights that lined the boardwalk. The sun set in brilliant gold in the distance. Brian remembered the warmth of Katya’s chest against his arm; he remembered looking at Katya’s lips, then away, and wash, rinse, repeat; he remembered the sign they passed, jutting up out of the middle of the boardwalk: END OF THE TRAIL.

He remembered going home alone, flushed and giddy with the heat of the day, and turning on his phone to see a new notification from his facebook messages. date night tracy?, it said, captioning a photo of him and Katya on the boardwalk, arm in arm, the soft look on his face all too bare in the deep amber light of the sun setting over the ocean.

Brian shook his head, and poured himself another drink.

The night after that was all in flashes. His fingers sliding along the strings of his guitar. Losing his pen under the couch; hunting through Adore’s drawers for another one. Sweet sad notes filling the room, lingering in the air like sea salt. Fumbling with his phone; his guitar; his own hands.

Love’s the kind of feeling that’s not easy to derail, that was good, that was fine, but I find that I’ve been tryin’ ‘cause, ‘cause what, ‘cause what –

He lost another pen. After that… he didn’t remember much after that.

Brian woke to a splitting headache and a buzzing phone.

The phone was on his stomach; his head was on the arm of the couch. He blinked into the bright morning light and groaned, covering his eyes.

His phone buzzed again.

Whatever it was, it could fucking wait. He let it fall to the side as he rolled over, taking in the mess of paper and pens – what the fuck, where did he get so many pens – on the coffee table, the empty wine bottles, his guitar abandoned carelessly on the floor. The glass doors to the balcony were open, though he didn’t remember opening them, and the harsh cawing of the crows outside made his eyes water.

Jesus fucking Christ.

He stood unsteadily and made his way to the kitchen, where a bag of sour key candies lay splayed open and empty on the counter and a plate with the mysterious remnants of what might be a drunken midnight snack lay beside the sink. He stared at one, then the other, then turned decisively to get a glass out of the cupboards and fill it from the tap. He downed it in one go and poured himself another.

Back by the couch, his phone was buzzing again.

Katya, he realized through the groggy fullness in his head. That could be Katya.

He returned to the couch and lowered himself gingerly, full glass clutched in one hand. He fumbled the phone trying to grab it, which probably said bad things about the balance of alcohol to water in his system at that moment; then he thumbed it awake and scanned it as quickly as he could through the low-burning nausea of his hangover.

There was, in fact, a notification from Katya. A missed call at 2:23 AM. Brian’s heart leapt and his mouth went dry; but then he looked past that, at the avalanche of notifications from twitter and instagram, and his whole body turned cold, shoved into full wakefulness and unholy sobriety.

What the fuck had happened last night?

He unlocked his phone and opened instagram to see notifications in the thousands. Thumbing over to his profile, he found a post he didn’t remember making, dated 1:57 AM. That was – he looked at the little clock at the top of his screen: 7:13 AM – barely five hours before. The little thumbnail showed his shoulders over his guitar; when he opened it, he saw it was a video.

Brian stared at the post in horror for a long moment. Then – because there was literally no other choice – he flexed his fingers, which had gone numb, and he hit play.

The screen cut to his face, frowning blearily and too close, as he tried to prop his phone up. He looked – exhausted. Shit. Dark circles under his eyes, a tight, stressed set to his mouth, which twisted down as he failed to make the phone stand steady a third time. Finally he – the Brian on screen – muttered a sharp fuck, and just leaned the phone back against something or other, putting his glass of wine in front of it to hold it upright, so the rim blurred out the bottom of the frame.

He stepped back, sat down, and pulled his guitar into his lap.

Brian, the Brian watching, took shallow breaths against a rising nausea. His pulse thrummed loudly under the thin skin of his neck.

The camera captured the body of his guitar, the slouch of his shoulders, and part of his mouth, which he wiped at with the back of his hand, pick balanced easily between his fingers. Then he sat up straighter, squaring his shoulders and sliding his other hand up the neck of the guitar into place – Brian remembered that, cool smooth wood under his palm, he remembered glancing at the camera and thinking fuck it, fuck this –

The Brian on screen played an open chord and then set into the melody that made up the verses, the tumbling notes, middle finger – pinky finger – ring finger, and, watching, his brain cut through the fog to focus on that, ring finger, ring finger, the song he’d been working on all this past month coming together despite the drunken way he slid between the metal frets.

And then he started to sing, and Brian went from feeling slightly nauseous to being absolutely certain he was about to throw up.

It wasn’t the verses, thank god. Not the harried scribbles that filled pages upon pages in his notebook, most of them awful, all of them never to be fucking revealed to the world at large because they were his, ugly and sincere and too personal. All the moments that made him want to try; all the things that made him afraid. But this –

“Love’s the kind of feeling that’s not easy to derail

But I find that I’ve been trying ‘cause

I can’t see the when and where –”

A chorus is a vague thesis; but, watching, he still felt stripped wholly bare.

“I hear waves in my dreams at night,

Feel the sunlight and your stare,

So maybe it’s to no avail –

And maybe ‘stay’ won’t turn out stale –”

Brian swallowed, fumbled for his glass of water, tried to hear anything but the roaring in his ears, see anything but his face dipping into frame as he bent lower over the guitar, eyes closed, face pained as he sang stay. And he was sliding through the notes like a drunk stumbling through a door, graceless but functional and – worst of all – far too honest.

“But I still don’t know if I can go

Off-road at the end of the trail.”

Fuck.

The video didn’t end abruptly – apparently, when drunk, he couldn’t make the crop function work for him – but with an agonizing slowness, the last, aching note from his guitar hanging hollowly in the air. His shoulders on-screen rose, then fell; then finally he reached forward for his phone. A flash of his mouth, his cheek, his eyes squinting – and then it went dark, and looped back to the beginning.

He jabbed at the screen to stop it, and stared down at his phone in mute horror, jaw slack and mouth dry.

First things first, he deleted the video. It wouldn’t shut people up, but he couldn’t just let it sit there, all of him laid out in the bare daylight. The raw sound of his voice, scratchy with exhaustion, on his shitty phone mic; that one glimpse of his face, like opening a door you’re not supposed to by accident, the kind of door you can’t close again or back away from. All a room’s quiet secrets, the small ones that cut deepest, framed starkly by the open doorframe.

He wasn’t going to load twitter, or look at the texts that had come in from his friends who’d seen, but then a new one appeared at the top of his screen as his phone buzzed in his hand. It was Shea – a youtube link. His phone buzzed again with a second message, a third, more, all from Shea. He thumbed messenger open, still numb all the way through, and scanned the group chat dispassionately. Then he stopped, and read it again.

FROM: SHEA - 7:17 AM - Friday August 29th, 2017

youtube.com/watch?v=Jf1L34kn0

Please watch this, get your collective shit together, and stop making me feel sad for both of you

Ive got better shit to do with my time

And PLEASE reach out to us, jesus, brian, we care so much and i know youre doing your own thing but we’re really, really worried.

Well. I cant speak for kim. Im worried; that bitch is probably just hungry

He huffed a laugh, but it didn’t feel like one. It felt like something was cracking open inside of him.

His phone buzzed again.

FROM: KIM - 7:18 AM - Friday August 29th, 2017

i can be hungry and worried at the same time cunt

but sheas not wrong, bri.

please.

Brian swallowed, then swallowed again, throat tight and eyes stinging. He took another gulp of his water, then, after a moment’s hesitation, typed, i’m here. i’ll watch it in a minute. i love you guys and im sorry

He wasn’t sure what he was sorry for. There was a whole laundry list of reasons he should be; he might as well cover his bases.

It wasn’t – it wasn’t that he’d been wrong to leave. It wasn’t that he’d been wrong to want out or to go silent. It was just that it could be right for him and wrong for them, and he could be sorry for that, even if he wasn’t sure yet that he regretted it.

He hit send all the same.

His phone buzzed almost instantly with their replies, but he didn’t look, pulling up the youtube link instead. Then: for the second time that morning, his heart stopped and his body went cold.

“help me i’m not dying fast enough”, said the title under the loading video. “Katya Zamolodchikova Periscope (August 29, 2017 @ 2:40 AM)”.

He didn’t want to click – he knew he didn’t want to, and also that he shouldn’t – but he did anyway, because sometimes he was a masochist like that. Lately, especially.

Katya, on-screen, stubbed out a cigarette and lit another one, inhaling deeply.

“I’m not going to tell you how many of these I’ve had tonight,” he said to the camera. “Because it’s none of your business what hell cycle of ideating and ovulating I may or may not be going through right now. That’s first of all.”

He looked… gaunt. Unkempt. Worse than in the video Shea had taken a week earlier.

“It’s a funny thing, to have – kind of – resolved myself to wanting something, and always having it sort-of in reach, and then to realise maybe I can’t have it at all. I could have, but maybe I missed my moment, maybe I didn’t lay out my thesis convincingly enough – maybe maybe maybe. Maybe what I wanted isn’t on the proverbial table anymore. That’s harder, I think, than knowing all along you can’t ever have it. It’s a different kind of wanting. I don’t know.”

He flicked his fingers in the air by his ear, ash falling grey and soft like snow from a rooftop.

“I’ve never been good at wanting things. That’s funny, right? From an addict, I mean. It’s funny. You can laugh – I’m laughing. Maybe you are, I don’t know, I can’t see you. I don’t care.

I’ve never been good at wanting things – I’ve had them, or not had them. It all seemed kind of –” he paused, then laughed, a hoarse bark. “You know, insignificant in the face of the rapid decay of the environment, our bodies, society as a whole, and ultimately the universe itself. The universe is dying, by the way, in case you hadn’t heard. I took a first year physics class, girl, so I know what I’m talking about.”

You read Neil Degrasse Tyson’s book once, you fucking idiot, Brian thought; it rung hollow, as if it came from someplace a good distance from his own body.

“So I’ve never been good at wanting stuff. Drugs isn’t want, drugs is need. And that’s not – I know I look like a mess right now, but a) not on drugs, and b) still not about need. I’m not in some kind of I’ll-die-without-you pseudo-love psycho-abusive Nicholas Sparks kinda bullshit. I’m just – I’m just sad. I’m just really fucking sad. And I’ll delete this tomorrow, and anyway –” Katya looked sharply into the camera, and for a moment, Brian felt seen – “I figure it’s only fair.”

“So anyway,” Katya continued. He turned away, towards the road; his eyes lit up with amber streetlight, glass-green and shadowed. “We’re all dying. I know, Brenda, I’m a broken record over here about it, but we’re all dying, and that’s kind of a big deal. And I love it! In some strange, existential way, it’s liberating, it’s electrifying, it brings you closer to your own body and soul and maybe even God, if, I don’t know, that’s your thing sometimes – ‘your’ being mine – but then –”

He stopped himself. Brian watched as his fingers tapped frenetically against the side of his cigarette for a moment, then he raised it, pursed his mouth, inhaled. Exhaled. He lifted his face to watch the smoke rise and disappear.

When he looked back down, he was smiling, crooked at the edges, like it hurt. “But then something comes into your life, and suddenly, it’s like, wait. Hang on. I want to see more of that – let’s stop the death train, maybe. Let’s put a hold on this dying shit. Because whatever it is I’m feeling, I want that, and – and – and why the fuck am I wasting time killing myself when this has been here, maybe all along. Self-indulgent fatalism suddenly starts to feel – selfish.”

“I mean,” he interrupted himself, suddenly and obviously changing tacks as a thought struck him, “please still come to my show. It’ll be so good. All these questions and more will be addressed – not answered, because who cares about answers, but asked? Yes. More questions than you ever wanted. Please come.”

He flashed a smile, plastic-white, but it melted away too quickly into the same tired pallor.

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if anything I’m saying is true. I want all sorts of things all the time, but it’s always a little bit – intellectual. Like, wow, I wonder what having that would be like? Feel like? I’ve never experienced this kind of wanting that doesn’t have an endpoint – it won’t just stop once I get it. It goes forward. It has a future. What the fuck is up with that, you know?

But it’s not – you don’t just get to have things.”

His voice cracked.

“No. Okay. One second,” he said, and then he disappeared around the camera. Brian could still hear him breathing, though, quiet in the night air, an eerie echo of so many phone calls over the past month.

When Katya returned, he lit himself another cigarette, and this one didn’t shake between his fingers. “I’m going to delete this the minute it ends, for the record. I don’t know why I’m even doing it. I guess I’m just lonely. I know, I’ve been on tour, and that’s great, but – I dunno. It’s lonely. Work is lonely. Dying is lonely. And there’s one thing I want and I thought I could have it but – turns out – I probably can’t, and that’s – that’s lonely too.”

His mouth twisted, an almost-smile.

“I always thought that was such a cliché: to feel alone in the middle of a crowded room. And I love a cliché when it’s not played straight, but. Maybe, sometimes, the crowd doesn’t matter when one person’s not in it.

Anyway. I’m doing a lot of whining for someone with not a lot of problems, comparatively. And this problem isn’t even really mine. Not at its core. Selfish, right? But hey – no one’s making you tune in, Elizabeth.”

He took a final, decisive drag on his cigarette.

“Okay. I’m gonna go listen to some ambient noise and try to sleep.” The corner of his mouth twitched. “Ocean sounds, track four: a classic. Yeah. Yeah, okay. Bye.”

The streetlight blanketing his face in fragile white, he looked into the screen again, directly, as if he could see Brian there looking back at him, heart sore in his throat. Then the video went dark.

Brian sat and stared down at the phone in his hands. Between the low buzzing nausea of his hangover and the Seattle morning greyness, the world around him felt – distant. Not quite real. Not as real or as close as that twitch of Katya’s mouth, or the wry, exhausted humour in his voice. The frustration and sadness and longing in every line of his body.

They were both so stupid. And so fucked.

He tapped out of Safari and into his messages, where he typed again, check in?

Knees tucked into his chest, he waited, and a minute later the reply came in – the little OK emoji, thumb pinched to index finger.

He exhaled loudly and pressed his hand over his eyes.

The phone buzzed against his thigh a moment later and he looked down again. It wasn’t from Shea or Kim like he thought it might be – it was, unexpectedly, another text from Katya. All it said was: you?

He bit his lip, thinking about it. He wasn’t going to let himself lie, to himself, to Katya, not again. He wasn’t going to do that to them. But the honest answer was – yes. He wasn’t good. He wasn’t better. But he was okay, for all the values of okay that the check-in had meant since the first time Katya had needed it: I’m alive, I’m safe, I’m here.

Yeah, he typed and sent, that’s about right.

He looked up from his phone at a sudden noise beyond the front door – a thump, like something heavy had been dropped.

It could have been one of Adore’s neighbours, so he dragged himself up and started to walk over, ready to offer assistance if needed. The woman upstairs was older, and generally bought more groceries than she could carry. But as he was approaching the door he heard the scrape of a key in the lock, and then the handle began to turn.

Adore wasn’t supposed to be back until that evening.

“Hello?” he started to ask, but then the door swung open, and he was staring into a pair of very tired, very startled eyes that definitely weren’t Adore’s.

“What the fuck,” said Bianca del Rio.

To his own surprise, a burst of laughter punched out of Brian’s stomach. “Yeah,” he said, staring back at Bianca, at the douchey sneakers on his feet, the Shangela shirt he was wearing, and the small duffel he’d dropped behind him. Brian found himself smiling, just a little. “Same.”

#I've said this to u already but… why #trixya #trixie mattel #katya zamolodchikova #dare #angst #submission #fathwtf #canon compliant

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junker-town · 7 years

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THIS WEEK IN SCHADENFREUDE, Alabama’s Iron Bowl loss reveals that the Playoff itself is just a conspiracy to stop the Tide

Your weekly sojourn through the most upset in college football internet runs through Tuscaloosa.

(It should be noted that the weekend’s actual most upset fans were at Tennessee, but this post is about games only.)

Alabama got dominated in the Iron Bowl, falling from No. 1 in the rankings, losing the SEC West to Auburn, and putting its College Football Playoff fate in jeopardy. It was the Tide’s first loss of the season and 20th in more than a decade of Nick Saban.

Let’s tour Bama Fan Internet and see how it responded.

The most ironclad conspiracy theories

Is the very existence of the Playoff part of a plot to ruin Alabama’s title hopes?

This thread at the Tide’s 247Sports message board answers the hard questions.

We need to Remember why the playoff was created.

It was created to stop Alabama. (Sec post 2011) The rest of the teams wanted Alabama to have to win two big games to win the championship. They also didn't want hot teams at the end of the season to miss a chance to neutralize Alabama with the awesome play late. It has worked two of the first three years of the playoff. It will not work this year if they let Alabama in. We will win both games. Mark it down.

It may well go even deeper than that. College football’s powers have been trying to stem the Tide ever since the Associated Press awarded them the national title before they lost the 1964 season’s Orange Bowl to Texas.

Is something deeper at play preventing Damien Harris from getting more carries?

One poster’s freshman daughter is friends with the Tide’s starting running back’s girlfriend, allegedly. And it seems like we’re headed for a break in the case.

im getting to the bottom of it hopefully

My daughter is a freshman at bama, she's become good friends with Damien Harris's gf, she sees him a couple of times a week at the sorority house and talks to him while he's there. Shes gonna ask him why he's been getting so few carries lately. Maybe he'll give an honest answer cause it makes no sense why he wasn't fed the ball against auburn and several other times throughout the year... stay tuned

Stay tuned.

Is Ohio State going to lose the Big Ten championship game on purpose to guarantee Wisconsin a Playoff spot in the name of conference solidarity, potentially changing Bama’s outlook for the No. 4 seed?

How important is it to the Big 10

To get a team into the playoffs? Would Ohio St. throw the game against Wisconsin to guarantee that spot in the playoffs? A lot of people still believe that Wisconsin laid down and allowed Ohio St. to steam roll them to get Ohio St. in. I know it sounds like quite the conspiracy, but...

I mean, who’s to say they’re not.

The most obvious suggestions to get better

Phase 1: Fire first-year offensive coordinator Brian Daboll, a five-time Super Bowl champion with the Patriots who leads the nation’s No. 12 scoring offense.

Brian Dabol needs to be fired .

This offense has gotten worse under him.

Phase 2:

Mac from Florida needs a job, bring him back!

Saban’s old offensive coordinator from Florida needs a job, bring him back....

The real problem is Alabama’s recruiting, which might drop off from No. 1 in the country this year to somewhere lower in the top 10.

With our recruiting lagging,

things don't look so well right now. I do believe that they need to re-evaluate this whole deal.

rtr

(The actual reason for Bama’s slower 2018 class is scholarship limits, fwiw.)

Actually, maybe the problem’s the QB, who was one play from a national championship as a true freshman the year prior before being outdueled by the NFL’s best rookie quarterback.

Bama will NEVER win a national championship with Jalen Hurts

Saban should have given Tua a shot in the 4th quarter to spark the offense. Another lost season for Bama. Disappointing.

Here’s a totally unrelated photograph I found:

Photo by Kevin C. Cox/Getty Images

The most comprehensive piece of advice

@AlabamaFTBL you have one game to win in any season and this was a massive loss. Guess @CoachDaboll needs replaced. @JalenHurts needs to sit. We need a QB, not a runningback. @NickSabanUofA may be out of magic. Seems we might need to make some changes.

— I R Foof (@I_R_Foof) November 26, 2017

The most passionate tweets sent to Bama’s offensive coordinator during the game, in case he’d been checking Twitter.

@CoachDaboll you’re gonna get fired

— josh c (@josh_c1995) November 25, 2017

@CoachDaboll Fuck You!

— Garret Cook (@gibbousquan98) November 25, 2017

@CoachDaboll why?why why why do you have a running back as big Scarborough and you run him sideways?!? Shit! How many damn years of watching this same shit do bama fans have to endure?

— Nicholas Daniel (@nicdaniel4UA) November 25, 2017

@CoachDaboll you suck

— josh c (@josh_c1995) November 25, 2017

@CoachDaboll DIAL IT UP

— Pats(7-2) (@KFCGodfather) November 25, 2017

Later, an addendum:

@CoachDaboll PLEASE DIAL IT UP

— Pats(7-2) (@KFCGodfather) November 25, 2017

DIAL IT UP.

Damn @CoachDaboll what about some damn slants

— Ken Morris (@bikecop24) November 25, 2017

Get. Your. Head. Out. Of. Your. Ass. @CoachDaboll

— Colby Murray (@Colbylm) November 25, 2017

Calls for Bama to just run the damn ball:

Endless.

The Tide’s last national championship offensive coordinator weighed in by just happening to cite his own team’s rushing stats.

Hmmm. Who isn't on here??? Come to #thefaU http://pic.twitter.com/SmVcNF9bRN

— Lane Kiffin (@Lane_Kiffin) November 26, 2017

If u want to win rivalry games. Run the BALL!!! Come to #thefaU #5forheisman https://t.co/MMpPr3S9ip

— Lane Kiffin (@Lane_Kiffin) November 27, 2017

Is there now a surely ironic Twitter account dedicated to sharing all calls for Saban to be fired?

There is:

Breaking news Nick Saban arrested by Alabama State Police for first degree murder of the Tide football program. http://pic.twitter.com/MBxFBztPAJ

— Fire Nick Saban (@FireSaban) November 26, 2017

And other postgame analysis

A bit earlier, from the game thread at SB Nation’s Roll Bama Roll, some comments:

Welp thats game

Fuck this team. Coach im counting on you to give this sack of shit of a coaching staff all hell tonight tomorrow fuck it give it to them until next year. This is fucking embarrasing and if anyine doesnt feel that way and is wearing crimson and white on that bench send them packing. I dont care if its a five star freshman or a coach. Send a gad dam message.

And this nice exchange between friends:

One of the cool things about any time Bama loses a game is that legions of Tide fans record YouTube instant reaction videos. And, hoo boy, have we some treats.

This guy claims he punched out his wall.

youtube

“The Eagles come in and ruin my perfect season,” our man says. “Now I was all happy and everything because Bama was winning. Now Bama is not winning. They got an L, a loss. And now, now it’s gonna change things. Are they gonna make the national champions? Are they gonna get into the SECs? I just don’t know.”

Expect an invoice for the damages to arrive in Tuscaloosa soon.

“When I gotta pay to get the new wall done, I’m gonna send the bill to Alabama.”

Here’s another Bama fan eating “one of the hardest damn crows I’ve ever had to eat”

youtube

The points made here are pretty regular and reasonable, but stop by for the excellent glasses:

youtube

In the end, Alabama was the real winner here, because the Tide experienced no joy whatsoever.

From the 247 board, in response to Auburn fans having fun after winning the SEC West:

The last time Alabama fans rushed the field? Probably the early 1990's at Legion field (Might have been the 1990 win over the booger-eaters), and it was NOT a mass event, but only about 20-30 drunk students, many of whom felt the sting of Birmingham's finest who were on the field waiting for them. Lots and lots of upset Mommies and Daddies after their drunk darlings got bllly-clubbed and/or arrested!! LOL!!!

It probably HAS happened at some point in Alabama history, but I cannot recall an "en masse" rushing of the field by Alabama fans at any time in my life.

There's a reason the SEC (and EVERY OTHER MAJOR CONFERENCE) bans it - and not just because its Classless and "Bush League" - but because its Very DANGEROUS, both for the trashy fans running out on the field, as well as for the players and staff of the losing team. People are invariably injured in these "mob scenes" - often seriously, but you don't hear about it because the schools ALWAYS keep it on the "down low"

Now, a quick whip around some other fan bases whose teams lost.

Michigan

Lost to Ohio State for the sixth time in a row.

A basic summary of how that went:

Comments are off at MGoBlog. They'll be back when I feel like it.

— mgoblog (@mgoblog) November 26, 2017

Notre Dame

Lost 38-20 at Stanford, the result of a swift, epic collapse.

Would Bob Stoops come out of retirement, less than a year after leaving a good job at Oklahoma, to take over the Irish? The evidence that he would is mounting, folks.

I sort of wondered because he bought 2 expensive houses next door to each other in Chicago recently.

Why would you buy houses there? I sort of wondered if he took this year off to watch his boys play HS football as seniors. I wondered if maybe he was waiting in the wings to take the ND job, and maybe already had contact with ND for when Kelly was let go.. I have mixed emotions. He wins a lot. He loses the really big game most of the time (NC). He had tons of criminal type players at ou, I am not sure if it could work out or not. He is Catholic. I also wonder if he is ok healthwise. It is interesting to think about.

Food for thought, indeed.

Mississippi State

Lost the Egg Bowl to Ole Miss, then had its former AD who now works for Florida hire away maybe the best coach in program history.

Scott Stricklin The Traitor

Scott Stricklin is now the biggest traitor to our university of all time.

Some folks are our enemies and big pieces of shit like Ole Miss folks. These people actively try to hurt us and they hate us. However, all of these folks we knew hated us and we never expected them to like us.

However, to have one of your own intentionally hurt your program this bad for his own personal gain, you are far worse than any of the others.

From your enemy you can protect yourself. You can fight them, you know who they are and you can build your defenses.A traitor is someone you have trusted like a brother, and you know he is a traitor only after being betrayed.... The enemy is in the open, the traitor is moving in the dark.

Stricklin should never be allowed to step foot on campus as a friend again. Hugh Freeze is now more respected by me than Stricklin is. Hippocrates suck but there is no one worse than a traitor.

It’s not clear what this person thought Stricklin’s job would be once he left Mississippi State. But I’m sure the ancient Greek physician Hippocrates would disapprove.

South Carolina

Lost 34-10 to Clemson. This post is about Clemson, I’m pretty sure:

Tater Tots have The Answer!

Recruit with attorneys! Turnupseed from ALA? Daba Dabe do knew what he was doing I think is the answer. Bringing the e-factor's dad (whom was in jail in Florence to a Jail in Greenville) just as he is visiting taterville and BOOM he is a tater with a Caddy and a bag full of money. By the way, Turnipseed came from Ala about 4 years ago

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