#For real though I did read an account once actually of an aspiring doctor who dropped out of med school

[cosmic-kiwi]

[etherealwaifgoddess]

One In A Million - Chpt.10

Summary: Now that you’ve made up your mind to stay, you can finally start planning out your future with the guys.

Word Count: 3.8k

Author’s Note: Hello lovelies! This is it, the last chapter! I feel like it’s gone so fast but here we are. The epilogue will be going up next so stay tuned. XOXO - Ash

Chapter Ten

Now that you’ve made up your mind to stay, your job in the typing pool seems just a little more mundane. It was fine for the interim while you were just biding time before going back, but now you can’t possibly see yourself doing this for the next forty years. The only problem is, you don’t have your degree in this time and you most likely won’t be able to get a job in a lab even if you did. Money isn’t a problem compliments of your supposed Sparrow status with the SSR but you don’t want to live off of that forever. You want to do something, anything, to keep busy. You’re daydreaming, walking the quiet early morning streets of Brooklyn when it comes to you. Or rather, you come to it.

Science was your first love and always would be, but your second love was books. When you stumble across the public library you can’t help but go inside. Public libraries are the same no matter what decade you’re in. The long, tall rows of books, the musty scent of paper thick in the air, children and adults alike lost in their reading. It’s comforting and reminds you of your childhood. You approach the harried looking girl at the main desk with a smile. “Excuse me. Hi. I’d like to get a library card, please.” you tell her.

The girl looks up through thick rimmed glasses with a smile of her own. “Sure, I just need you to fill out this slip and I’ll get you set up.” she hands you a three by five card for your name and address and you scrawl your information down for her. It dawns on you that you’ll never get to use your real name again. You’ll forever be Rose Rogers now and while there’s a small pang of loss for your old name, you could do a lot worse than being Mrs. Rogers. Handing your card back to the girl she files it quickly into the rolodex that houses everyone’s information. You stifle your laugh at how archaic it seems compared to the ease of saving information on a computer. 

The girl hands you a card with your name filled out on it and yawns loudly before she can get out a tired, “Here you go.”

“Long day?” you ask sympathetically. 

“The longest. Doreen had her baby and now she’s not coming back so we’re all working doubles trying to pick up the slack. We don’t even have anyone for the children's story time tomorrow now. It’s a mess.” 

“Are you looking to replace her? I used to volunteer at the library in school so I’m familiar with the Dewey Decimal System. I moved here not too long ago and I’m looking for work.” 

“Really? That would be amazing. Can you come back tomorrow to meet with Mr. Cooper? He runs the place and will be the one who has final say, but if you know what the Dewey Decimal is I’m sure he’ll take you. Most girls coming in take forever to train.” 

“Sure, what time?”

The girl, whose name you learn is Lorna, checks the calendar in the back and then gives you a time frame to stop by in. She promises to give her boss a heads up that you’re coming in so hopefully he’s expecting you. Lorna jokes that she’ll put in a good word for you too since you seem a heck of a lot nicer than Doreen ever was.

You want to tell the guys about your potential new job but also don’t want to jinx anything. Your supervisor at the SSR is kind and lets you take an early lunch for a “doctor’s appointment” so that you can run across town to meet Mr. Cooper at the library. After you explain your experience, you really did volunteer at your high school’s library, he hires you on the spot, offering for you to start the following week. You feel guilty going back to the office to put in your notice and wonder if this means the bank account you were given will be retracted when you quit. There’s a gnawing feeling in the pit of your stomach when you wonder if your new job will pay enough to keep you afloat the way you have been. It’ll be tighter for sure but you do the math quickly in your head and think it should all work out. 

You pop into Agent Wilson’s office when you get back to the office, wanting to rip the band-aid off rather than worrying about what if’s. 

“Rose, good to see you again.” Wilson stands to greet you as you step into his office.

“You as well, Agent Wilson.” you reply shaking his hand.

“And to what do I owe this visit? Is the reception pool treating you well?”

“Very well sir, thank you. But about that actually. I’ve found another job that’s more aligned with my career goals. I’ve been given the opportunity to be a librarian and it’s closer to where my husband and I moved. I know I was set up here due to my… status, but I’ll be staying in Brooklyn and would like to set up a real life here. I understand if you’ll need the funds back from the account I was given and I have a personal check here so you can access and close the account. I haven’t used all that much so far.” 

“Rose, Rose, slow down a minute. The SSR takes care of its assets even when they choose to leave the life. You were never obligated to stay here after declaring Sparrow protocol. The account is yours, we cut ties to the funds as soon as identities are handed out, we have no desire to take that security from you. I’m happy for you, that you’ve made a life here. Most girls don’t re-acclimate as easily and it’s a blessing when they do. I hope you’ll stop by from time to time to say hello.” 

“I will, thank you sir. Truly, thank you.” 

“It’s no trouble at all. Just let Marge know you’re moving on, she’ll understand. And take care of yourself.”

“Thank you, you too.” You shake Agent Wilson’s hand once again and head out into the more brightly lit main office. 

Marge and the girls are sad to see you go and you offer to stay on until the end of the week so as not to leave them in the lurch. Marge insists you’re free to go whenever but the girls plan a goodbye party for you for Friday. 

Steve is home when you get back, Bucky will be along in another hour but you can’t wait to share your good news. Steve is over the moon for you, though he does admit he wishes you had told them you weren’t happy in the typing pool. They would have encouraged you to find something new sooner like you and Bucky had done for him when he took the job at the paper. Never one to miss an opportunity to celebrate, Steve goes down the block under the guise of getting a loaf of bread to go with dinner. He comes back with bread and glossy chocolate cake, Congratulations written in cursive on top in bright white lettering. You’re kissing Steve and giggling when Bucky finally comes home, tired and worn out from his day. 

“What’s all this then?” he asks, setting his coat on the hook by the door. 

“Our girl has some really great news, Buck.” Steve tells him, a hand still around your waist.

You hold the cake up to show him the writing on top with a smile. 

Bucky’s face crumples, shock and hope and awe flickering across it as he crosses the room to the two of you. You can’t figure out what has him so moved until he presses his rough palms against your belly. “Rose?” he croaks through a tight throat.

“Oh!” you gasp, realizing what he was thinking. “No, no, not that. I’m sorry for scaring you. We probably should have been clear right off the bat. I got a new job. I’m going to be a librarian starting next week.” 

The light in Bucky’s eyes dims for a second before he can rally himself to be excited for you. “That’s wonderful, darlin’. I’m so proud of you. I always thought you were too smart to be sitting around in a typing pool anyway.” 

“Thanks, baby. Dinner is almost ready, why don’t you go wash up?” 

Bucky gives you a smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes and heads off to the bedroom to change. 

You look to Steve who looks as thrown off as you are. “He’ll be okay.” Steve assures you, giving you a quick hug, “Let’s go finish up.” he takes your hand and leads you back to the kitchen where you fall back into an easy rhythm preparing dinner for the three of you. 

The celebratory air of dinner is somehow dimmed by Bucky’s reaction to your news. You had never really put much thought into a family of your own. It makes sense that Bucky would want one, he came from a large, loving family after all. And in this era, men are taught to aspire to having a wife and family of their own. Your birth control shot was up to date when you left but it should have run out a month or two ago. Now that you’re thinking about it, it’s sheer luck that you aren’t pregnant by now and you make a mental note to be more careful going forward. You can’t exactly get a Depo booster in the ‘40s and the birth control pill won’t even be invented for another eight years. You’ll just have to time your cycle and be careful going forward. Unless. Unless you don’t want to be. Images of a little boy with floppy blonde hair and bright blue eyes comes to mind, followed by a little girl with chestnut curls and wide grey-blue eyes. You could have that, if you wanted. If they wanted. You’d never thought to ask until now, and now that you have, the questions are burning bright in your chest. 

The three of you are sitting in the living room when you finally can’t stand it anymore. “We need to talk about this.” you announce, setting down your book. Steve looks up from his sketch pad, startled.

“I’m sorry, darlin’.” Bucky sighs setting aside his crossword puzzle. “It was your big night and I’ve ruined it by bein’ dumb.” 

“You’ve done no such thing.” you scold him lightly, “But your face when you thought. Well. When you thought I was pregnant. Baby, is that something you want? Because if it is, we have to talk about this.” 

“It’s not right for me to ask you to-”

“James Buchanan Barnes.” you cut him off, “We are all adults here. You are not asking me for a damn thing. We need to be able to talk about what we want, all of us. That includes you, Steve. If we all want the same thing then great, if we don’t then we need to talk it out and come to an agreement. Now, let’s start over. Bucky, do you want to have a baby with me?”

Bucky’s jaw drops, stunned by your outburst and the frankness of which you’re talking about things. “God,” he sighs, raking a hand through his hair, “Of course I do. The idea of seeing you all full up with a baby, our baby. It kills me, darlin’. I’d have as many little chubby babies runnin’ around here as we could stand. Maybe a few little bratty blonde ones too.” he gives Steve a smirk and Steve visibly pales.

“Stevie, honey, what’s wrong?” you ask, worried.

“No, I can’t. I won’t. You know how often I get sick and how bad it can get. Believe it or not, it was worse when I was a kid. I was on death’s door more times than I can count. Nothing about my body has ever worked the way it should, why would I want to put some poor kid through all that too? Of course I want a little baby with your eyes and my smile, but what kind of life am I setting it up for when it’s half me? I couldn’t bear it.” 

“Stevie, no.” Bucky croaks, rushing over to him and lifting him off of his chair. Bucky slides into his seat, pulling Steve onto his lap so he can hold him tightly, tears shining bright in his eyes. “You would be the most amazing papa to any kid. And our girl is strong, who says your kids would have even one of the problems you had? They might be all her and only get your sass. We can’t know for sure.” 

“He’s right.” you chime in, “We wouldn’t know for sure if a baby of ours would have your health issues. And even if they did, medicine is getting better every day. They wouldn’t necessarily have such a rough time even if they did have issues. Be honest, honey. Do you want a baby with me?”

Steve thinks for a long moment, giving into the warmth radiating from Bucky. “I don’t think I need it to be my own. I want a baby with you, but if it’s Bucky’s I’d be just as happy if it were my own. And then we wouldn’t have to worry about it being sick like me.” 

“You’re always so worried about us, what about you?” Bucky asks you. 

“I never really thought I’d have a family but I think I want one now, with you two. Not saying right now. I’d like to hold off a little while so we can enjoy it just being the three of us for a bit, but someday. Yeah. It might be nice to have a few little kids running around.” 

“Let’s give it a year.” Steve suggests, “We’ll take the time to get you settled at your new job and start saving up. Maybe take a vacation too while it’s just us. Then next year we can decide if we want to try or hold off. I’ll go with you to the doctor’s if you want one of those diaphragms. Or me and Buck could start buying rubbers. Whatever you want. We probably should’a thought of this sooner.” 

“It’s okay, I wasn’t thinking about it either. Condoms are easier and I can track things so we’d only have to use them when I’m fertile.” 

“Whatever you want, doll.” Steve assures you, getting up from his spot on Bucky’s lap and joining you on the sofa to pull you in for a long hug.

“All I want is you. Both of you.” you whisper against his neck. 

Bucky is silent as a ghost as he slips in on your other side so you’re sandwiched between your guys. You can’t help but be relieved that the conversation was easier than you expected. It’s hard to believe Steve is so fearful of his DNA being passed along but it makes sense after everything he’s battled in his life. Maybe someday he’ll change his mind but you’re not going to push him. 

Leaving the girls at the typing pool is bittersweet. You exchange addresses and phone numbers so you can stay in touch and promise to host a girl’s night as soon as you can. You’re surprised to realize that you really had made a few good friends at the SSR and that you’ll miss the community of your little group. 

Your first day of work at the library proves to be easier than you expected. A grey haired woman named Agnes gives you a tour before training you on the rolodex and their filing system. It’s more complicated than scanning things into a computerized system but at least it’s easy to understand. Checking in and out books takes a few minutes of finding people’s cards and logging their books, stamping each with a due date before handing them back. No one seems to mind though, happily chatting with you while you log their books. Agnes explains that Doreen, who apparently no one will miss, used to lead the children’s story time on Monday mornings. Agnes claims her arthritis acts up making it hard to hold the books up for too long so you’re given the task going forward. You can’t really complain, the children are eager and sweet, cheering when you do funny voices and build suspense. 

By the end of the day you’re already planning improvements for the library. You’ve caught on quickly and couldn’t help but notice a few improvements that would help. You worry about rocking the boat, being so new, but Agnes encourages you to have at it. She claims they haven’t changed a thing since Grover Cleveland was in office. You spend your first week making small adjustments to make everyone’s lives easier. It’s not too much, just rearranging the main desk a little, decorating the children’s area to make it more cheery, setting out books to feature on the end caps of isles to draw people in. 

Your second week you decide to start deep cleaning. There’s always two of you there at the same time and the other women, most of them closer to Agnes’ age than yours, are content to sit behind the desk all day while you put books back and tidy up. You run around one Tuesday afternoon with a duster, going over every surface in the whole library. The next morning you attack the tall windows with newspapers and ammonia. You pick up a bottle of Murphy’s oil at the corner drug store and spend two days rubbing down every bit of wood in the place. By the end of that week you’re exhausted but happy and the library has never looked better. The other girls are still chattering the next week about much better it looks and how even the patrons are commenting. Mr. Cooper is apparently fretting that you’re too good for them and won’t last long there. You assure them you’re happy and plan on being there for the long haul. 

Steve and Bucky both notice a difference in you when you come home tired and sweaty at night. Bucky jokes they could use you down at the docks with how hard you work. They both comment on how much happier you seem and you agree with them. Working with books is much more fulfilling than typing all day. You want to expand their children’s program to twice a week, story time on Mondays and a craft time on Thursdays. You spend your free time at work putting together a plan to present to Mr. Cooper for permission. The library as it is now is nice, but it could be so much more. You want it to be a haven for the community, the way yours was growing up. You could coordinate study nights with the local schools and host literacy nights for adults who never had a chance to learn. Bucky and Steve listen as you ramble about the plans you have and exchange knowing smiles. You’re happier now than they’ve ever seen you and it seems your career change was exactly what you needed to really thrive. And you are thriving now, shockingly more than you think you ever did in modern times. You’ve found your place back time with your guys and your community. 

By the time your jump point comes it’s easier than you expected to write the letter to your team. You tell them you’ve found happiness, a new career, and a love that triumphs all. You apologize for disrupting the timeline and explain that you’re certain there’s not steering it back on course. The slight over shooting of the jump date and your suggestions on what adjustments are needed to make the calibrations more precise are included as well. You make a list of everything you think might be useful for the research and let them know where the rest of your notes are kept in your desk. You don’t know what will be helpful to them and if they can’t have you, they can at least have your notes. You whip up a batch of brownies for the typing pool girls, an easy ploy to gain access to the inside of the SSR office so you can get downstairs in time. It’s with a guilty conscience that you chase a mouse around the trash bin out back, needing something to put the note and brooch on. You fashion the poor little field mouse a bow out of one of your ribbons, clipping the brooch to the back and the folded up letter as well. Thankfully the poor thing is too frightened to put up much of a fight and you stash the little guy in your pocketbook. 

The girls at the typing pool are thrilled to see you when you show up with the pan of brownies. The container is quickly emptied and you beg off to go wash it and say hello to one of the receptionists before leaving. You have six minutes to get set up. Quietly as you can, you slip down to the basement, setting up your jump point and counting down softly to the poor little mouse who’s trembling in your hand. You adjust it’s bow, note, and brooch one last time before sitting it down and activating the transport. The gemstone on the brooch flashes, once, twice, and a third time, the mouse holding blessedly still out of fright. You’re scarcely able to breathe until the white glow starts up and in a bright flash the mouse is gone. A few tears slip out despite yourself, silently wishing the little mouse well in the 21st century. You hope your team carries on their work and goes on to do even more great things. A part of you will always miss them but you know you’re where you’re meant to be. 

You wipe your eyes, sniffling back the rest of your tears, and head back upstairs to say goodbye to the girls before you have to get to work across town at the library. It’s craft day for the kids and you’re going to be teaching them how to make hand print flowers. The craft is certain to be messy, creative, and loads of fun. 

The bright early summer sun blinds you as you step outside onto the bustling city sidewalk and it hits you. This is your life now. There is no last chance to take it back anymore. You are permanently living in this time with your guys, and your job, and your new friends. You take a deep breath of balmy city air and know you wouldn’t want it any other way. 

Tag list! @wolfarrowepz​

[lookwhatilost]

I’m going to use this video as something of a case study to prove my point. Some things that are necessary to point about Ben Shapiro: he is an intelligent person, he speaks quickly, and he makes good quips. This makes him very good for the YouTube video “LiBtArD wReCkEd” compilations. He’s also very dishonest and he tends to misrepresent statistics. This is, of course, because Ben is a fascist and fascists don’t care if they’re telling the truth.

So, this is a thirteen minute video, and barely a fraction of what this student is laying out is going to get covered. The reason why Ben is letting him talk as much as he does in the beginning instead of interrupting him the moment he started explaining what socialism is is because he’s looking for something to quote back at him. Usually he’ll let his “debate” opponent talk until he finds something to do this with, and hit them hard on the point he stops them on.

Next we have this “workers or the government” thing Ben comes back at him with: he clearly said “workers owning the means of production”. He even said it twice, I believe, and Ben pretty much says “I know you’re talking about that, but if you said THE GOVERNMENT owning the means of production, that would be very ineffective” and then he rattles off on that. Even though this student never said anything about redistribution – he deliberately stepped away from that point at the very beginning. He acknowledged the fact that Ben will often talk about redistribution without actually engaging with the core points of socialism and, once more, he never said anything about government control and he never said anything about lack of free market enterprise. Socialism and free market enterprise aren’t in any way disparate. Market socialism is a thing.

Hypothetically, what you’d have to do here is let him talk on, and when he’s done, say “That was great and all, Ben, but I pretty clearly said worker owned means of production. Would you mind answering the actual question.” You can’t treat people like this in good faith. Ben knows exactly what he’s doing here with his talking points. No one brought up the Scandinavian countries. No one brought up government owned means of production. Nobody brought up free market enterprise. Nobody brought up being paid $100,000 to dig holes in the ground. No one brought up redistribution policies – unless you count the kid bringing it up to clarify that this wasn’t what he was talking about.

He then brings up that he’s an owner. Ben is smart enough to understand the basic principles of socialism, but he recognizes he isn’t capable of addressing any substantive criticism, so he’s deliberately pretending to misunderstand what this kid is saying. “Freely choose to alienate your labor” as if you have any choice in society these days. That’s like saying you freely choose to shit inside of a toilet. You don’t have many other options in regards to that. You can if you want to, but eventually, you’re going to get in trouble with it. Again, this is a deliberate misinterpretation. The workers owning the means of production gets brought up, and he spends the first two minutes of his response saying “if you meant the government owning it, that’s disastrous, and by the way, Norway is actually capitalist, and socialists won’t tell you this, but they actually have free market enterprise. And I’m a worker, so workers do actually own the means of production. Isn’t Bill Gates a worker?” Aren’t the tens of thousands of people under Bill Gates also workers? We’re talking about all workers, not just the one worker who also happens to own the company.

Him crafting rebuttals that actually take into consideration the tenants of socialism would, at least on some level, give the socialist credence to argue in a reality based sense. If a reactionary defends their belief system by attacking socialism in ways that are actually salient, you’ve set the socialist up to debate in a fact based argument, and that’s not what reactionaries dominate. Reactionaries dominate in a purview of recited dialogue trees, of snooty quips, and emotionally based arguments. This is where they thrive. They do not want to bring the argument into a reality based discussion.

In three minutes, he’s introduced so many stupid misconceptions that the student is going to spend more time arguing against the misconception than he will putting forth his own argument. He could spend a literal hour trying to correct the dumb, deliberate straw men that Ben Shapiro has thrown out here and never will he get a chance to substantively put forth any real advocacy for socialism.

To counter his “criticism” on labor theory of value: what if you spend a lot of time and money digging up diamonds from the ground? There are plenty of diamonds that get dug up that have absolutely no mechanical or industrial purpose. He’s saying “labor theory of value is dumb and bad because the market theory of value is what’s correct” without presenting any sort of argument to support that. Neither of these are holistic theories, both of them have valid places in society as lenses of interpretation, but this is not a substantive criticism. It is, in fact, very stupid.

It also helps that he has all the social capital in this situation. You never, ever want to challenge a reactionary when they have the podium and you don’t, and while they have the audience and you don’t. If they are even slightly intelligent, it is literally impossible for them to lose in the eye of their audience.

When the student brings up Mondragon: this is what reactionaries do. They define capitalism as freedom. Capitalism is when the owners of capital own the means of production and socialism is when the workers own the means of production. Not that we should take much that economic theorists say for granted on the account of most of them being cheerleaders for capitalism, but there are plenty of things that Ben laid forth that many economic theorists would disagree with. For one, he’s laid out the assertion that free markets are somehow absolute to capitalism and antithetical so socialism, that worker owned communes are an example of capitalism, and the degree to which government intervention is present in an economy is deterministic to whether or not it is socialism. Reactionaries operate in a delusory, fantastical land where the characteristics of capitalism are amorphous and capable of being shifted to suit one argument to another. In one instance, capitalism is the liberator of the working class, the distributor of technology, and in another instance, the very real consequences of capitalism are instead a product of corporatism, of government intervention, of “globalist” policy. Not true capitalism, mind, just other things.

And hey, guys, I’ve read the Communist Manifesto. Does anyone remember any segments in there where Karl Marx claimed the government needed to cram down and force people to participate in guild markets? Does anyone remember that part? I don’t.

Anyway, this is why you don’t argue with reactionaries when they have the podium and you don’t. The student got a bunch of time to speak where he laid out a very calm point, Ben got a bunch of time to speak where he then said a bunch of shit that had nothing to do with the kids argument to mislead the audience, and then deliberately interpreted what the kid was saying to present a straw man that the kid would have to correct. Now Ben has got the student in a position where he’s basically saying “I don’t disagree with anything, you’re basically saying capitalism. Worker owned means of production? That just means the people who own it also work at it, right? If Republicans did that, would you vote for them?” The kid is never going to be able to correct all this, not in a million years, and now when he speaks up, Ben is going to keep hammering this in, deliberately interrupting the kid and forcing him to answer misleading questions.

This is how you win a Ben Shapiro debate. This is how you “own libtards”. You get the mic, deliberately misinterpret what they say, you throw straw men at them and force them to defend or respond to that, both of which are impossible, and then, just to keep them off base, you continue to interrupt them when they respond to your point. It’s a very, very simple formula to follow if you are intellectually dishonest and a complete fucking asshole.

But yeah, the free market is not exclusively capitalist. For one, the free market does not have prescriptions. The free market is not a physical entity, it’s a concept that some people aspire to, unfettered trade. And free market socialism is a thing, yet again.

At around the 8 minute mark of this video, the student makes a bit of a mistake because he’s not really harping in on the public vs private ownership of the means of production, but Ben Shapiro’s line there is completely irrelevant: “So companies shouldn’t be able to have investors?” This is a tangential question. This would be like him talking about socialized ownership, and Ben leans into the microphone and asks “well, who’s the CEO then, dummy?” This is to say, it’s tangentially related, but it has nothing to do with the thrust of the argument.

His counter to the pencil factory example is pathetic. No one mentioned doctors. No one mentioned everyone in society getting paid the same amount. This has nothing to do with doctors and pencil factory workers, this has to do with pencil factory workers and pencil factory owners. He thinks this is a “gotcha” but it literally has nothing to do with the argument the kid is making.

It is so, so difficult to maintain your composure when you are around a hostile audience. At least if you were on stage, you would have the positional authority over them. You’d be in a place where, at least physically, you are given credence by the architecture of the room – standing atop something, having the lights on you, being behind the podium, having unfettered control over the mic. These things can lend you a lot of confidence. But if you’re just standing there and someone else is holding your microphone, and the audience claps whenever Ben Shapiro says something… Ugh.

But it comes as no surprise that Ben sees capital and labor as one and the same, because he’s a fucking capitalist and he’s a piece of shit. To him, people and money are just interchangeable cogs in a larger machine that he benefits from, and that is how most capital owners see them. After all, labor is a resource, and capital is a resource, and that’s all you look at them as – resources – there isn’t much of a difference between the two. Now, of course, you’ve got a few more ~libcucky~ takes on it, like how humans are human beings, and we have rights, and should be entitled to happiness and respect, but that doesn’t really factor into that sort of economic, capitalist worldview.

To summarize, this juxtaposition, “you’re a socialist, I’m a free marketer. You’re talking about things that are voluntary, which means they can’t be socialist, because socialism is authoritarianism”, this is the dichotomy that he’s been trying to reenforce this entire conversation. I don’t know how deliberately he’s doing this, but it’s very effective. In the mind of every audience member right now, what Ben is doing right here is destroying this “libtard” right now by saying “Heh, idiot. You think that’s socialism? How can that be socialism if there’s freedom involved?' and that’s basically what he’s going for here. But when the kid gets flustered and struggles to make a coherent point in the face of all this, Ben can just shit on him. And then the people who edit this shit put in airhorns and laugh tracks so the smooth brained dipshits watching this unironically know when to clap and bark like seals at the libcuck getting owned. It’s pathetic and it’s not a real argument. Fin.

[kamino-ink]

Human Canvas | Bang Chan

✧ Genre: Soulmate!au, fluff, wee angst

✧ Summary: You were six years old when you got an inkling of what kind of person your soulmate is; they would draw little doodles on their arms all day, and you would draw back. But as an adult, its as if you two are at war with each other, with them covering your right arm with tattoos and you occasionally painting on your left arm for the fun of it.

✧ Word Count: 2.9k

✧ Want to read other parts of this series? Check out my masterlist!

                                         ✧

 Growing up as a child in the era of booming technological advances and rising platforms of social media, it was hard not to become a member of at least one standing media presence. In your case, you were a well-known star on Instagram, showing off your strange yet classical renditions of paintings on the canvases covered with colors - or, on other occasions, your left arm.

 As a child you loved to experiment with colors and silly doodles, even if you didn't have the creative capacity to paint your own designs. Your mother would frequently have to force you to take baths so she could scrub the childish splashes of color off of your arm - however on one occasion, you had noticed a little sketch of what looked to be a sad excuse of a shark on your right arm. Here’s the thing, your right hand was the only one that could paint or draw, so you had zero clue as to how or why the shark got on there.

 When you’d asked your mother about it, her lips had suddenly parted as wide as the sea. “Honey, quick - write something on your arm!” She had told you, her shaking fingers handing you a blue-ink pen she had been writing with just moments ago. You didn't question her, since you were still just a kid that listened dutifully to everything your parents told you to do, and wrote out the word ‘hello.’ on your left arm.

 Within seconds you felt a strange sensation on your opposite arm; when you glanced over at it in confusion, you saw red ink being scribbled onto your bare skin to spell out ‘who are you?’

 That same day, your mother had the “the talk” with you - in which she explained that every single person on Earth had someone they were essentially destined to be with; no one knew why or how it came to be, but the evidence was there.

 Your mother recounted on how she found her soulmate, your father, in high school. Apparently her bond was one where she could write something down, anything, on any sort of material and it would appear on the closest object (albeit reasonable) within minutes by your father. It was somewhat similar to your bond with this other kid, except if you drew something on your skin, it would appear on the same part of his body in seconds.

 The boy you were bonded with, Chan, was apparently ambidextrous but preferred writing with his left hand, which was why he never doodled on the same arm as you. Within months you two had made interesting splashes of colors, silly sketches, and much more on each other’s skin.

 However, as you got older, this came to be a rather pressing issue; in one of your college classes, you had been in the midst of a serious presentation when the professor cleared his throat awkwardly to signal you to stop. You’d looked over to him in confusion, as well as your giggling classmates, only to glance down at your right arm now covered in some rather... inappropriate designs. Why did you have to wear short sleeves that day?

 In retaliation, you casually asked Chan what classes he took at school and when he had them; clearly he mistook your questions as just plain old curiosity, because the next day during his history class you had decided to paint a mural of bright yellows and pinks onto his skin. He was stuck with the neon colors all day, as none of his friends would lend him a jacket or coat in favor of laughing their asses off at him.

 From then on it was like an all out war - he would doodle obscurities on your arm and you would stain his some ugly combination of colors. Then, one day, you’d woken up to a fucking tattoo on your right arm.

 You were tempted to rant about it in a caption on a post, but decided you were better than that. Instead you took out all of your frustrations on painting your left arm with a plethora of delightful blues and yellows, creating a sort of rendition to the piece Starry Night by Van Gogh.

 You snapped a picture of your artwork, feeling quite proud of yourself, and posted it on your Instagram page, it being only one of the many other art pieces you had on your page. In minutes the comments had been flooded with mostly positive remarks and a few mindful critiques, not that you minded; feedback was feedback, and all of it would hopefully further your progress as an aspiring artist.

 Still, you knew that you needed to find Chan before he put even more tattoos on your body; you were a person who kind of needed to be presented as classy, and that meant no tattoos on your skin - sure you found it ridiculous, but you also didn't mind the pay you got from your job at the hospital.

 “Y/N - is that, is that a tattoo?”

 “For the love of - zip it, Minho!” You hiss at your amused yet stunned coworker, a fellow nurse by the name of Lee Minho. Both of you had gone through the basic stages of medical school together, and now you both happened to be some of the best nurses the hospital had seen in ages; so naturally, the two of you were rather close. “I didn't choose to have it, okay? That stupid soulmate of mine got it a few weeks ago.” You explain softly under your breath so passing doctors and nurses couldn't hear you.

 Minho lets out a small noise of understanding, though his lips are still pulled into an amused smirk. “I see, I see. But why don't you just let it be seen, it's actually really cool.”

 You sigh at his question, knowing he was just curious as to why you didn't want to show it off or anything. It wasn't like tattoos weren't allowed, per say, but you knew that it came off as more professional if the ink wasn't visible, no matter how cool it looked on your arm. “It’s just more professional this way, Minho. Don't get me wrong, I think the design is really interesting and beautiful, but now I have to wear long sleeves even though its hot as hell in here.”

 “Fair point. So, you don't know where this Chan guys lives, or what his full name is?” The nurse asks, waving to a senior doctor that passes by you with a clipboard in hand.

 “Nope.” You reply simply.

 “Then why not ask him? All you need to do is write it somewhere on your arm, right?” He presses on, the curiosity eating him alive as to why you hadn't just asked your soulmate who exactly he was and where he lived so you two could actually meet each other.

 You blink at him, once, twice, and then once more. “You... have a point,” you admit to the man, who is now smirking all too victoriously at you, “but - whenever I asked for his name all those years ago, he said that his nickname was Chan. I’m guessing he doesn’t like his real name or isn’t ready to find me yet.”

 Minho whines at your explanation, his fingers going to the that had ridden up to expose the ink, tugging it down for you. “It wouldn’t hurt to ask now, right? I mean, you’re both adults now. There’s no way that he doesn’t want to meet you yet.”

 You shrug softly to yourself, subconsciously tracing over the part of the sleeve that was covering the tattoo. While you had been ready to finally meet your soulmate, you had an odd hunch that Chan just wasn't ready, and you were afraid to accidently pressure him into it so soon.

 “I’ll think about it.”

 About a week later you finally decided that you really needed to find Chan, because he had gotten yet another tattoo on his arm - now along with the stunning rose covered in dark thorns just under your shoulder, there was a shorter cluster of thorny stems; it seemed like he was working towards getting a full sleeve.

 It's not like you disliked the tattoos - in fact, you were amazed that you didn’t have to go through the pain or process of spending the money on the beautiful designs. You just wanted to lay out a few ground rules - like, nothing on the face... what, tons of people got face tattoos these days, you had a right to be worried about what else the guy wanted on his - and your - skin.

 You’d been in the middle of scrolling through your feed, a french fry lazily resting between your lips as you nibbled on the salty snack, your eyes trained on the bright screen of your phone. Suddenly you stopped mid chew, eyes widening at what had caught your attention.

 It was the same exact tattoo inked onto your right arm, except the stems had been extended towards the wrist where they wrapped around the skin to look like roots, and there were falling, wilting rose petals drifting down the sketch. Within seconds you had clicked on the suggested account’s username, waiting anxiously as it redirected you to an account run by what appeared to be a tattoo parlor. If you were right about the sleeve being an original design, then that meant there was a big possibility Chan had gotten his ink done at this particular parlor.

 Furthering your investigation and completely abandoning the fries next to you, you click on the linked website in the parlor’s description, praying it wasn’t too far away.

 Oh my god, you thought to yourself in a mixture of pure shock and growing excitement, staring at the directions from the map that had popped up when you allowed it to use your location, its only three miles away!

 Not caring that you were still wearing loose sweatpants covered in cat hair along with a baggy, very wrinkled shirt, you literally jumped out of bed to run and slip a pair of shoes on, swinging your door open and shutting it quickly. You stared down at your phone as you hopped into your car, activating the GPS as you began your drive to the tattoo parlor.

 The entire drive you felt like you were either going to puke or cry - maybe both. After all this time, after all those years of communicating through scribbles of messily written words on your skin, along with the silly drawings, you might actually be able to meet Chan... your soulmate.

 When you arrived it was just another hour before it closed for the night, so you could only hope that someone working there would recognize the tattoo on your arm and be able to tell you who else got it recently. You quickly locked your car, nearly dropping your keys you were so jittery, and walked into the parlor. At the front desk there was a man with dyed blonde hair and darker brown roots, and the second you walked in he had glanced up at you with a warm, welcoming smile.

“H-hi,” you breathe out after a second of silence, still trying to catch your breath from rushing out of your house so fast, “um, weird question, but has anyone else gotten a tattoo like this recently?” You ask the receptionist, turning and lifting your sleeve so the entire piece was visible.

 The man lets out a small hum, looking up at you from the desk curiously. “Our main tattoo artist designed that himself a while ago, he’s been working up to a full sleeve since about... four weeks ago, maybe?”

 “Is - is his name Chan, by chance?”

 “That’s his sort of nickname around here, yeah. His actual name is Chris. Are you... a friend of his?” He asks you, chuckling softly at your disheveled head of hair and red cheeks. Clearly you had been in a rush.

 You shake your head at first, but remember that you are the guy’s soulmate, and technically you have known each other since you were kids - in a sense. “Is he here, right now?”

 The receptionist nods again, jerking his head to a door behind the desk. “Yeah, he’s alone cleaning up right now. Go ahead.”

 You send him a thankful smile, nearly stumbling into the corner of his desk as you walk slowly towards the door that is acting as the only barrier between yourself and your soulmate. Your mind is screaming at you to walk away out of sheer fear, but your heart is pounding so hard in your chest that you ignore any other thoughts racking your brain - and you walk inside.

 Holy shit he’s gorgeous. Is the first thing that pops inside your head when your eyes land on the man, his right arm dotting the same tattoo on yours, his hair a pretty sort of silver color. The man raised an eyebrow at you, then glanced down at your arm as you quite literally held it out towards him.

 “Um... what am I looking at?” Chan hesitates on his words, glancing back up at you in confusion. Your eyebrows furrow in wonder; was he seriously choosing now of all times to play around?

 “We have the same tattoo, Chan - it’s me, Y/N!” You insist after an awkward pause, only to recoil in shock as his eyes narrow into a glare.

 “Alright sweetheart, you’ve gotta be high as shit right now because I don’t see one dot of ink on that damn arm.” The artist retorts lowly, as if he was offended by your rash outburst. “I don’t believe you - Y/N would have to have my design on her arm, and you don’t.”

 Your lips part in hurt, and a bit of... pride? Here Chan was, standing right before you with his arms crossed over his chest, glaring down at you because he thought you were some random chick claiming to be his soulmate.

 Then it hit you.

 “Um - you know what - never mind, I guess I got confused.” You apologize to the man. “Actually I came in to get a - a tattoo. I completely forgot to make an appointment, so I can come back tomorrow or-”

 “Just lay down and tell me what you want, I could care less about an appointment right now. No one else is scheduled to come in.” Chan instructs and you listen, going to lie down on the leather chair. You were nuts - here you were, getting your first real tattoo just to try and prove that you were his soulmate. Were there easier ways to do so? Obviously, but the adrenaline pumping through your veins mixed with the loss of any rational thought had skewed any other possible plans to convince Chan of your identity.

 “Can I get... three birds on the back of my shoulder?” You blurt out suddenly, knowing that it was a simple tattoo. Chan hums at your choice, telling you to lift your shirt off so he can prep your skin. He tells you that he has a design like that and shows it to you for approval, and you of course nod in agreement and wait for him to get everything ready.

 The next thirty minutes go by as a blur, with Chan inking your left shoulder with tiny black birds and tiny details of wind and feathers. Once he’s done patching it up, you tap his arm to catch his attention.

 “Can you um... look at your shoulder?” You ask him, your cheeks heating up when he snorts at you in disbelief. You’re not sure if he’s just trying to flatter you, since to him you were some weirdo who’d popped into his tattoo parlor out of nowhere for no real rhyme or reason; but he does as you suggest, walking over to a mirror hung onto the wall. He dips the hem of his shirt downward and tilts his head to see - nothing.

 There wasn’t a trio of black birds on his skin.

 “Holy shit - you really are Y/N, aren't you?”

 You glance up at the baffled man in bewilderment, wondering how he had figured it own even though your tattoo hadn’t showed up on his shoulder.

 “Didn't you... didn't you see the birds?” He questions you quickly, only to furrow his eyebrows when you shake your head slowly. “Wait - maybe, maybe we can’t see what we’ve done to the other person’s body - I’ve heard of it before, in cases like this-” The silver haired man starts to speak a mile a minute, taking short steps towards you with each rushed word that escaped his lips.

 “Sometimes, when soulmates are close to each other in terms of distance, the bond acts on its own and can make a sort of - barrier, I guess? Here, look at your wrist.” He says after he’s grabbed a stray pen from his cluttered counter, doing a quick doodle on his own wrist. You flatter him, looking down to see a cute little smiley face staring back up at you - then you glance to his wrist, seeing the same exact doodle in black ink.

 “You can see it, right?” You nod, too shocked to speak. You had finally found him, your actual soulmate.

 Chan lets the pen drop to the floor and wraps his arms around your body tightly, pulling you into his chest.

 “You found me, Y/N.”

                                           ✧

A/N - thanks, I hate it! :)

[theartofdyingrp]

Congratulations!

Welcome, Valeria! You’ve been accepted as Aaron Solano. Well, I may or may not have cried reading this. Thanks for that. I think your vision of Aaron is so well thought out and I can’t wait to play on the dash :) 

Please send in your account to the main within 24 hours and be sure to read our New Member Welcome Page.

OOC INFORMATION -

N A M E

Valeria, she/her.

A G E

Twenty-four!

T I M E Z O N E

CST.

A C T I V I T Y  L E V E L

REMOVED FOR PRIVACY

A N Y T H I N G  E L S E

REMOVED FOR PRIVACY

IC INFORMATION -

D E S I R E D  R O L E

Aaron Solano.

W H O  A R E  T H E Y  T O  Y O U

Aaron is deeply afraid of disappointing the people who matter the most to him. Failure is simply not an option for someone like Aaron Solano. That’s why he ended things with Eileen. Whenever his father went to prison, Aaron felt disappointment and hurt within himself, and deep down, he wanted to spare Eileen of that. Even if it was on a subconscious level. On the surface, Aaron believes that he ended things with Eileen because she simply didn’t understand that type of grief that he was feeling. She didn’t understand the world that he was a part of because he wouldn’t let her.

For someone Aaron’s size, it’s pretty impressive that he managed to worm his way into such a violent hobby. Determined and competitive, Aaron’s rather fearless whenever it comes to his opponents. Most people would think that someone of his stature would be easy to beat, but Aaron has a lot of heart, and he was trained by the very best. Aaron cannot shy away from a challenge. He’s gotta be the greatest, every time – it’s probably a Solano thing.

Though Aaron noticed the flaws in his father, he still thought that the man was the closest thing to perfection. Aaron idolized the man, aspired to be just like him whenever he was all grown up. The fact that Aaron placed his father on such a pristine pedestal certainly made everything all the more difficult whenever his father fell from grace. Aaron sincerely believed that his dad was untouchable and watching him cuffed and sentenced in a court room hasn’t left his mind since. Aaron didn’t like the idea of not being in control of that situation – that there was nothing he could possibly do to fix his father’s mistake. Because of that, Aaron is wildly protective of Amelia. While his cousins don’t necessarily need protecting, that doesn’t mean that Aaron wouldn’t do anything humanly possible to keep prevent another family tragedy.

Whenever it comes to work, Aaron can actually be rather charming! Most people underestimate Aaron because of his boyish looks, but Aaron’s managed to win over quite a few independent dealers with his charisma. Money looks good on Aaron, and he wears it exceptionally well. Aaron’s confident, and potential clients can always see that. With a wave of the hand, Aaron can usually summon a server with the most expensive bottle of liquor in the building.

C R E A T I V E

I don’t have any creative stuff (yet) aside from the para sample~~ I will try to maybe get some other things together later!

- - - - -

No matter how hard Aaron tried, he couldn’t move on from the idea that his father was gone. For-fucking-ever. He’d rot in a prison cell for the rest of his days – a goddamn sin for such a skilled fighter. Now, his father would eat shitty, prison food. He’d lose his agility as the years went on – his muscles would get stiff. He’d grow old in a gray fucking cell, wearing an orange colored jumpsuit, and miss out on Aaron and Amelia’s entire lives.

Aaron didn’t think it was humanly possible to be as angry as he was. Losing the man who had taught him everything, after losing his Uncle Luis. It was a shitty fucking year. Why not get rid of the last good thing in his life?

Eileen.

Aaron loved her – a whole fucking lot. But after all of the loss that he’d endured, there was no room for love in his heart. There was no room for tenderness, or understanding, or patience.

Aaron stood at Eileen’s doorway, stiff as she wrapped her arms around his neck. She was trying to comfort him – to show him compassion and empathy, but there was a wall that Aaron couldn’t tear down. There was another side to Aaron’s family that she was, for the most part, very unfamiliar with. She could never understand.

“You doing okay?” Eileen wondered, her hand resting on the nape of Aaron’s neck. He glanced down, found her eyes, and nodded – as if he wasn’t about to fucking break her heart. He could see the concern on her features as she tried to decipher the puzzle before her.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Aaron began, gently removing her hand from the back of his neck. Aaron took a step back. As if he wasn’t ripping his own heart in two. “We’re over.”

Eileen stood there like she’d been hit so hard that she couldn’t breathe. Finally, she opened her mouth – to argue or offer some sort of explanation, but Aaron couldn’t hear her. He’d made up his mind.

“I can’t, Eileen,” he snapped, his voice cold and detached. “I just can’t fucking do this anymore.” He said it like it didn’t hurt.

Aaron turned around, walked away before Eileen could say another word. He made it down to his car, sped away to the location of the next fight. It was over. Thank fucking god it was over. Right?

Aaron forced himself not to think on the fight over. He didn’t wonder if he’d regret this later on, once the dust has settled. He didn’t think about what Eileen had done once he’d left. He didn’t think about how Max’s arms were probably around her.

He won the fight, but only barely. Aaron walked away with a few broken ribs and a swollen left eye. But he’d won, and every time that his fist slammed into his opponent, he saw his father, his uncle, his ex-girlfriend. He’d walked away from the match with a couple thousand bucks – pocket change for Aaron Solano. It meant nothing.

A trusted associate dropped him off at Amy’s. He didn’t want to go to a hospital. She opened the door, obviously concerned, and tended to Aaron’s wounds. Amy went to work quickly, digging out the first aid kit that had been running low on supplies after his last few visits.

“You look like shit,” Amy said gently, trying to mask the concern in her voice. She knew that it was a difficult time for… everyone. And Aaron seemed to be taking it the hardest.

“You should see the other guy… or whatever,” Aaron replied with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Amy didn’t laugh. He stood, pulled at the ends of his shirt to change into a spare t-shirt that Amy had, but he winced in obvious pain. Aaron tensed, stifled a cry in his throat. He watched as Amelia’s hand inched towards her cell phone – probably to call a doctor.

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “They can’t do shit for broken ribs. It’ll be fine. Just… let me crash on the couch.”

Amelia frowned. “You need to get out of that shirt if you’re getting anywhere near my couch.”

Amy walked over, fished out a pair of scissors from a drawer, and tore Aaron’s shirt down the middle. Amelia froze whenever she saw the deep, purple bruises forming on his abdomen. Aaron didn’t realize they were that bad.

“Aaron…”

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Just gotta sleep it off. I don’t work for a few days.”

Amelia stayed silent as she wrapped an ice pack with a clean kitchen towel. She pressed it against Aaron’s swollen eye. “I can call Eileen–”

“Nah. We broke up.”

Amelia knew better than to lecture Aaron, or pry into the details of his break up. Especially right now.

“Oh. That sucks. I’m… really sorry.”

“It’s fine. Hey, we should order expensive food and a few bottles. On me.” Aaron dug out the wadded up hundreds in his pocket. He slammed them on the table.

The twin telepathy thing was real. He could physically feel Amy’s concern, and he knew that she could feel how badly he was hurting. Even if he’d never admit it.

“'kay. You pick what we watch,” she said, handing him the TV remote. Aaron looked up at the TV, his vision slightly blurry. He blinked a few times. Fuck. Did he have a concussion, maybe? Amy must’ve notice the look of confusion on his face, and the way he was squinting to get a better look at the TV.

“Aaron…” Amy said, staring at him with the same sad eyes that she’d had since their father got locked up. “You’re– I think– you’re…”

Aaron looked down, saw that his chest was wet. He reached up, the pads of his fingers brushing away what felt like tears. He was crying.

“Oh. I guess my ribs hurt more than I thought,” he simply said.

Amy nodded. She knew what that really meant. She wrapped a blanket around Aaron’s shoulders.

“I think we should watch something scary,” she suggested. “I hear Hereditary is really fucked up. I bet you’ll be so scared, your ribs won’t hurt anymore.”

Aaron nodded. He walked over to the couch, sat down as comfortably as he could without being in too much pain. As Amy pressed play on the movie, all Aaron could think about was how fucking miserable he felt. He had no desire to crawl his way out of this misery, either. He wanted to live in it forever – his own prison cell.

[republicstandard]

Evidence Over Experience: Confronting Racial Supremacist Ideologies

The Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., once said, “The most segregated hour of Christian America is eleven o’clock on Sunday morning.” Given that there is no governmentally-forced integration (yet), this observation, borne out by the statistics—close to 95% of American churches have congregations that are at least 80% one distinct race or ethnicity—tells us that when left to their own devices, most people naturally self-segregate. A trip to just about any major city will confirm this as different areas and neighborhoods have a distinct racial or ethnic composition, and in leaving the cities and heading into the suburbs (though gentrification sometimes reverses the process), and certainly the country, you’ll notice an increasingly uniform population of whites. This is actually true with many Western countries. This is anecdotal evidence and would not be permissible in a court of law, but people have eyes and instincts. Finnish sociologist Tatu Vanhanen observed:

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Interest conflicts between ethnic groups are inevitable because ethnic groups are genetic kinship groups and because the struggle for existence concerns the survival of our own genes through our own or our relatives’ descendants.

To prefer our own is perfectly natural, or as Vanhanen put it, “Ethnic nepotism belongs to human nature.” It ensures our continued survival. For one to not prefer their own, they would have to be either literally psychotic, or, in select cases, there is something called Williams Syndrome, which is a kind of mild mental retardation where healthy fear of the unknown, strangers, social inhibition, and racial preference are all absent due to normal neural communications being disrupted. Why then the incessant drum-beat for one group and one group only to cast aside this preference for the genocidal embrace of “multi-culturalism”? We should’ve learned from the events of 376 AD at the latest that multi-culturalism is a bad idea. To quote Kevin MacDonald;

“White liberals…are deluding themselves about the attitudes of the non-Whites that they so eagerly embrace. Their liberalism won’t save them when push comes to shove.”

For Jared Taylor:

Americans therefore live a contradiction that makes it difficult to talk honestly about race. There is probably no other subject about which there is a greater divergence between what is said publicly and thought privately…At least that is true for whites…Blacks and Hispanics [openly reject] the civil-rights ideal of transcending race. For many minorities, race or ethnicity is central to their identity…Non-white racial/ethnic solidarity is an entrenched part of the political landscape, and the pressure tactics to which it gives rise have been very successful…[Whites] have dismantled and condemned their own racial identity in the expectation that others will do the same…They should…ponder the consequences of being the only group for whom [racial] identity is forbidden and who are permitted no aspirations as a group.

The government can obscure and re-classify races on the census and manipulate and doctor crime statistics, but it doesn’t change the fact that biology is the primary driver of culture. Sickle cell is not a social construct. Tay-Sachs is not a social construct. Given full self-determination, Liberia—which has a constitutional amendment barring whites from citizenship—Liberia did not become Wakanda. It became Liberia. Like Liberia, Haiti has had two hundred years with no white interference or help, and it has become a very close proxy for hell on earth. Ethiopia, master of its own destiny since the dawn of sedentary societies minus a five-year interregnum from 1936-1941, is no better off. So let’s stop with the fiction for once. The culture reflects the people.

When a black says they’re going to “educate you,” what you can expect is an endlessly self-referential polemic of microwaved post-colonial jargon heavily imbued with the “lived experience” of “blackness,” utterly devoid of quantitative reasoning or evidence of any kind. You may also encounter vague references to “trauma” and definite examples of slavery and Jim Crow, which they will never have experienced first-hand. Black culture is a dead-end. If we as whites are not nearly racially-conscious enough, blacks are the opposite, luxuriating in this “blackness” despite having contributed virtually nothing to civilization outside of the pop-cultural realm. If whites internalize and have high rates of suicidality, blacks externalize, with a toxic excess of self-esteem and an enactment of their frustrations on others.

Blacks account for about 13% of America’s population but commit 52.5% of its homicides and at least forty percent of other violent crimes. Blacks commit 85% of violent black-white interracial crimes (blacks are twenty-seven times more likely to attack whites than vice versa; Hispanics eight times more likely to attack whites than vice versa) and commit interracial aggravated assault over two hundred times more often than whites. Black males are fourteen times more likely than white males to commit homicide and are between seven to ten times more likely to commit a crime than whites. Over half of blacks convicted of rape in the last decade chose white victims. Even on college campuses, center of the one-in-four rape hysteria when in reality college campuses are statistically safer than the national average, blacks are grossly overrepresented. Consider the real rape culture on Baylor University’s campus or the fact that the University of Missouri football team, which is 65.3% percent black, commits sexual assaults at five times the rate of the general student population, which is 8% percent black.

Statistically speaking, a white woman dating a black man is about as bad a decision as it is possible to make: 92% of children from a white mother and black father are born out of wedlock, and 82% wind up on government assistance. As we know, single parenthood is the single greatest guarantor of inter-generational poverty. For that 8 % who get him to put a ring on it, you have this to look forward to: in black male-white female marriages, the white woman is 12.4 times more likely to be murdered by her spouse than if she had married a white man.

But, as Taleeb Starkes points out, if “a black person is killed by a white person (my note: which, as evidenced above, statistically happens far less often), the benefits for the deceased black person are seemingly limitless. They include:

Canonization with eternal recognition as a martyr.

Incessant comparisons to icons of the Civil Rights movement i.e. Emmet Till.

Front page news coverage, and despite criminal proclivities or rap sheet, benevolent-looking pictures will always be used to propagate the victimology narrative.

Marches and protests with customized slogan.

Foundation created with celebrity endorsements.

Birth parents and even step-parents will become celebrities (Mom may also get to speak at the United Nations).

Trademarked likeness (Note: This may cause family members to fight over rights).

Covered funeral expenses with the likelihood that a big shot from the Race Grievance Industry will deliver the eulogy.

The white perpetrator will be caricatured as a racist demon whose purpose was to snatch black lives.

The white perpetrator’s private information will be publicized on social networks with emphasis on vengeance.”

More blacks are killed by police per capita because they are in contact with the police far more often with their criminal overrepresentation! Always lamenting the predations on their communities, most blacks and browns never put two and two together—criminality isn’t a shapeless cloud that menaces the black ghettoes and the barrios, it is the young men whose fathers have abandoned them to roam free as feral thugs, looting and terrorizing their own communities, utterly unconcerned with general upkeep, steady employment, and social harmony. The high-fecundity blacks and browns have the lowest investment in parenting, so we have a situation similar to pack animals now, where the alpha cultivates what is essentially a harem, and the betas scrounge around the periphery of the pack, or are killed or exiled (probably to terrorize Europe). The decrease in pair-bonding leads to lower investment parenting and either single-parenthood or in the case of sharia-compliant marriages what is effectively single-parenthood as the men may have up to four wives and at least one sex slave.

Lower investment parenting and single parenthood lead to a whole host of elevated risk factors for criminality to psychological issues to dependence issues. Play this out a few generations, and the trends we are already seeing manifest themselves in ways wholly unconducive to the maintenance, let alone advancement, of civilization. It takes six Japanese women to reproduce what one woman from Niger is “accomplishing” with her womb. Neither is healthy. Over-population by high time preference people and under-population by low time preference people is going to lead to environmental degradation, lack of proper aquifer and reservoir maintenance, and eventual mass famine and starvation. The farms in Zimbabwe né Rhodesia plummeted to one-tenth of their productivity once they were seized from the white farmers, and the nation went from food-exporting to food-importing. We are witnessing a similar trend in South Africa. By the time you read this, there may well be no more running water in Cape Town.

Lothrop Stoddard wrote about the inevitable deterioration of a society under “The Lure of the Primitive” when its “life-line of civilization wore thinner and spurred to fiercer energy those waxing powers of barbarism and chaos.” What did Rhodesia and South Africa do that could’ve caused the present situation? What is much of the West rushing lemming-like off a cliff to do now? Ah, right: The enduring image of one dead child on a beach in Turkey as a result of irresponsible parenting has been enough to accelerate the flooding of the European continent with feral young black and brown men, but the horror stories of the native Europeans victimized by these people are swept away as nothing but collateral damage in the pursuit of DIVERSITY.

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As whites, they are permitted no identity, and by extension, they are denied full personhood, especially if they are from the loathed lower classes. They have none of the mystique of the jungle primitive or the allure of the Orient, just bad teeth, a life on the dole, incomprehensible customs, and too many damn kids! Wait, is that the white lower class or the people the “elites” are importing? Remember, noticing is forbidden:

"If the Nazis hadn’t noticed that the Jews were actively debasing Germany during the Weimar era, the Holocaust would have never occurred, in which 6 million of the 2.4 million Jews in German-occupied Europe were mercilessly slaughtered, and their remains turned into useful household products like soap and lampshades. If white Southerners and South African Boers hadn’t noticed the criminal propensities of blacks, their reckless envy of whites and white accomplishment, and their general affinity for strongman-rule, we would have never had the brutal horrors of Jim Crow and apartheid. If Jesus Himself hadn’t noticed the man-made traditions and self-idolatry of the Pharisees, the specter of anti-Semitism would have never reared its ugly head. Noticing led to the greatest acts of oppression and injustice ever known in human history."

Forget everything you just read and get back in line, White Man. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil!

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[slyni-sparklyeyeshadow-blog]

*Sparkly Eyeshadow*

So, my day started a few hours later than everyone providing a service to the world. Right now, I am in grad school and it has taken its toll on me. Always tired, always stressed, and always (sometimes) studying. My anxiety has been off the charts since starting grad school. It's so not my personality.. so serious. At least during my one-year in the real working world without having mom and dad rescue me at rent-time, I was always around people talking, laughing, and throwing coworker frenemies under the bus when the boss got mad. Now, I am around classmates a few hours a dayor 30 ten-year-olds 40 hours a week. It's really hard to find a happy medium. Emphasis on the happy.

This morning, I hit snooze for an hour per usual and end up waking up at 8:30 instead of 7:30 to finish my paper that I was supposed to start last night. But my gosh, have you seen the Instagram Explore page? Sign me up for a perfect bod, unlimited cash flow, and a travel agent with a keen eye for exotic places.

 My point exactly. Already off track. I wake up and do my ten minutes of quiet time before anything else. *Alright, Ashlee.* I think. *You can do this.*

I get started and am amazed at how I rip through my first paragraph and how bomb my thesis is. Then I zip through the second paragraph and only ten minutes has passed by. I've realized I'm starving and my head is hurting because I have no coffee at the apartment. *Nope, not moving until you get this paper turned in.* So I'm typing and text my boyfriend good morning. Then I check to see if I have any Facebook and Insta notifications. And OH MY WORD I look terrible this morning! Need to wipe the coconut oil off before I Snap anyone. I wonder what filters there are today...

*Focus, Focus, Focus*

Back to the paper. It's fairly easy. At around 10:15 I get stuck because I am so hungry and am so mad at myself because I only have two paragraphs left. I talk myself into going to the Shell Station right around the Corner where I am pretty sure they think I live in the dumpsters with the cats. I look TERRIBLE when I go in there. Usually no make-up, hair pulled back, and my white vans that have more brown on them. I go. Today, I choose Java Monster because the Dunkin' Donuts Coffee I am obsessed with is 90 more calories than my 200 calorie Java Monster and Regina George and I really wanna lose 3 lbs. Like it really matters once I get a Peanut Butter Crunch Cliff bar... which is gone before I return to my apartment within walking distance.

So then I think to myself... it's almost 11. You have an appointment at 1. Why don't you just hop in the shower and fix up today? You look terrible. It'll do yourself some good. Maybe your head will even quit hurting. So I hop in and am already feeling like a productive person that will one day contribute to society. I get out and start my eye make up. *Remember this is the doctor, Ashlee. No silver metallic. Just white sparkles.*

 I line them and paint them and cannot find my eyeliner sharpener. Pretty sure I threw it away after sharpening a pencil and convincing myself that I would get lead poisoning if I sharpened my eyeliner in there, too. So the eye liner could be better today. *Just remember thin lining on top.* 30 minutes has passed by and I realize I need to get with it and this is the doctor's office on a Wednesday at 1:00 pm. Not New Year's Eve in Time Square. So I try to do my foundation "natural" and this means mixing a Mac foundation with Estee Lauder's DoubleWear Foundation. That's easy. Ain't no brown spots seen through that stuff. I blow dry my unruly hair made better with It's a 10 Keratin treatment and BOOM! Lightening strikes my car. Swear. My car alarm is going off. For some odd reason I hide in my closet a second and realize it is lightening. Not a tornado. Either way,  I think my reasoning was because I was far away from windows. Then the weekly panic phone call to mom goes through.

*Mother*

Yes, Ashlee.

*I think lightening struck my car.*

What?

*Like lightening just struck over the apartment and now my car alarm is going off. I think it hit my car.*

Oh, well it could have been the sound from the thunder was so loud, Ashlee. That happens. I don't think lightening would hit your car it's grounded with rubber tires.

*I'll check after the storm. If I touch my car will it shock me?*

No, Ashlee. It won't.

*K, bye. Love you.*

Love you.

 I show up to the doctor's office in white linen pants even though we may have multiple tornadoes today and got there 30 minutes early because my doctor has moved offices and I know finding this office will be like the blind leading the blind. If I know me, I'll find the nicest, youngest looking millennial receptionist that shares my over-reliance of Google Maps and even though she works there every day, she will STILL lead me to a Parking Deck across the clinic and not my doctor's office. 34 minutes later, it is now 1:04, I find my doctor's new office. Another patient and I apparently didn't get a memo or preferred automated message to let us know the office was closed that day. Really? There is an unfinished paper icon sitting on my desktop. That's another phone call crying to mom today. Bless his heart, it would have called my boyfriend but he has heard me cry over the phone every day this week and I am trying to let him think I am having the best, most productive sunshine filled day as possible.

How unprofessional of my doctor! This girl with no current profession makes sure to leave her med school graduated physician a message deeming her unprofessional. I would have threatened to find a new doctor but she has 4 stars online and I decide to keep her. I'm sure she would be so relieved...

*Well half of your day is gone but you can still turn it around. Go to Barnes and Nobles so you can finish your paper around people and not by yourself in your dark room. I go to Barnes and Nobles... finish my paper and knock out two other assigned readings. YES. Just time to get distracted again.

My sister calls. The people in Barnes and Nobles now know my nephew had staph infection on his foot two weeks ago and that my doctor is a dill hole and I could "literally be dying. OMG." I get a lot of looks. Some sympathizing. Some dirty. And decide to go print out the 383874298 pieces of paper my professor e-mailed us. Who needs trees? Not like they give us oxygen or anything.. I drive to Fed-Ex because I broke my printer while Youtubing a video about how to insert the cartridge. Did I mention it starts hailing on my drive? No where to pull over.. whatever. Just drive through it... SLOWLY of course.

At Fed-Ex, one lady is annoyed I e-mailed them with so many attachments to print. Yes, she should be furious with me. They are providing a service and I am PAYING them for it. Thankfully this guy that always gives me free printouts is there. (Okay, that happened one time). I smile at the lady when he offers to help me to let her know that I'm a good paying customer and have built better relationships with her team than she has. APPARENTLY. She literally could care less even though I feel I have really socked it to her.

- That'll be $4.39, Miss *Insert My Last Name*

-thinking to myself * Wow, so glad he can read my gmail account name*

- ALOUD * How is that only four dollars? I printed like a million pages.*

- Well, I guess it could be less. * HE SMILES *

- thinking to myself * EWW. this is why you don't need to wear sparkly eye shadow. You totally send off the wrong message about your future aspirations. *

- I actually respond "Oh! Thank YOU!" He asks how my day goes and I immediately spill the beans about my car getting struck by both lightening and hail and he ensures me I can stay at FedEx as long as I need to.

- thinking to myself *GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!*

- I actually LAUGH and pretend I didn't hear him. "Thank you so much. Stay safe."

So I return to Barnes and Nobles in the hailstorm and continue to read while occasionally looking at the window. A security car has gone by a few times and the driver keeps making eye contact with me. *Really? Is this eye shadow so shiny he can see it through the window?* He keeps staring and I am actually mortified now even though he is supposed to keep all of us Summit Shoppers safe. Naturally, fearfully, I smile. Not a big one. You know, one of those smiles where they are supposed to understand they have no chance - a smile where you show no teeth and you squint your eyes weird. NOT FREAKING TODAY, BUDDY. YES, I SEE YOU AND THIS IS WEIRD. STOP. This is what I call TACT. COOTHE, as my mother has always called it. She says I need more of it. Boy, would I have made her proud today. Would've made up for one of my two panic phone calls...

A minute later, the security truck, not car, quickly comes to a halt in a nearby parking spot. He runs out.

*Oh my gosh. I hope no one has shoplifted a book. Some of the hard covered books are tempting because I want to read them but don't want to spend 30 dollars. I wonder what's going on? Is there a fire in the Starbucks? No, stupid. You are right here. There's no fire at the Starbucks. (Then I sniff the air) REALLY, there is no fire.*

"EXCUSE ME, MISS."

*OH SH*t* I think. Did I do something? Is he going to say he sees me leave the gas station around the corner with a brown bag in my hand way too much in front of all of these people?!?! I always wait until I get home. I would NEVER drink and drive!*

"I was just going to ask if you would like to KICK IT sometime."

*Relieved* Kick what? Oh HANG!

"Yeah, you know, hang out? Get coffee or something."

* thinks to myself, idiot we are IN a coffee shop. "Oh! Ha, I would but I've had a boyfriend going on 4 years now.* (I would NEVER. I have so much coothe...)

"Oh, dang. Well... I hope y'all break up."

"What?!"

"Yeah, I hope y'all break up! Can I still get your number?"

"No!"

"What about your name so I can look ya up on Facebook?"

* thinks to myself WELL MY pictures ARE CUTE..." "Yeah! It's Ashlee. a-s-h-l-E-E." *I put major emphasis on the last two letters of my name. ESPECIALLY THE LAST ONE. Just so he doesn't think there should be a Y there. Then, I give him my last name with major emphasis on the phonics so he gets it right.*

"Can I write on this?" Points to bottom of my homework.

"Oh yeah! There's nothing at the bottom." *He still writes my name wrong. Really? Even after that Alex Trebek phonics lesson? Maybe he won't find me now.*

"Okay and I'll leave you my number."

"I don't want-"

"Different area code."

"K, thanks." *I give the tactful smile with no teeth again to send the vibe that he needs to get gone.*

"I saw you through that window and thought THATS A BAD MAMA JAMA!" Apparently he didn’t catch my vibe. Why I hate coothe.

"HAHA... ohhh that's me!" *seriously, please leave before I cry.*

"Have a good day, Ashlee. Call me when you and your boy break up." I then realized he ripped exercise 4 off of my homework.

Umm, what just happened. He runs out to this Security Truck with Green lights on top still flashing. I see him out the window open his Facebook page. I just smile out the window at the events of my day and I start dying out laughing. People in Barnes and Nobles now think I wear too much sparkle eye shadow and cheat on my boyfriend. Good Lord. I quit laughing when I see the looks I'm getting. I wish I could give them all a tactful smile but am too embarrassed. Still can be petty in my head though. *Maybe yall should try sparkly eyeshadow, HATerS!*