#I cite my sources whenever possible

[getvalentined]

Thinking about finally throwing all my FF7 meta analysis and lore deep dive stuff onto a sideblog. It'd be reblogged from here, but I'd be able to organize it a little better, have a directory so people could find things more easily, and maybe it'd stop people from regurgitating things I say word-for-word for brownie points when they can just find and reblog the fucking original post(s).

[ya9amicide]

Redamancy [BTS]

chapter one

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summary: Hybrids were accepted in society to a certain degree. To some, they are for entertainment. Used as sex and money tools. To lock up and abuse whenever and however they please. Something to have control over. To others, they are companions. Just like regular animals are used for therapy or simply companionship, hybrids are too.

To the rest, they are just like everyone else. Someone with their own life who deserves the same freedoms as your everyday John or Jane Doe. Wren is one of these people. She hates the idea of owning a hybrid. She has nothing against those who own them for medical or companionship reasons. Just the rest.

But, when a ragtag pack of seven mismatched hybrids somehow ends up in the woods behind her home, she takes them in and does the one thing she never thought she would do. Own them. But, she also does something she didn't even think was possible. She fell in love with each and every one of them.

pairing(s): ot7 x ot7, ot7 x oc

warnings: none

Most hybrids come from Asian countries because of the ethereal beauty they possess. For most, that is the only asset that keeps them alive. The way most of these hybrids end up in other countries is if they are sold to someone and brought there. Now, the entire world has hybrids mixed into its population.

Being a writer, I always get asked why I haven't written anything about hybrids. For a fantasy writer, it's like the jackpot of writing material considering they actually exist and all the information I would need is right at my fingertips if I want it to be.

It's just something that never sat right with me. I don't know everything and the only way to know everything is to speak to one myself. I don't own a hybrid. I won't own a hybrid. I have nothing against people who own them as long as they are treating them with care. But, I just don't feel comfortable interrogating someone for the purpose of a story.

Hybrids have very unique, very personal aspects to their lives that other people don't have. It would be like asking the deepest most personal questions about someone's life. It's unfathomably uncomfortable.

Luckily, I can escape the demands for hybrid content when I'm teaching. Teaching Greek mythology to college students has its perks in that regard. Which, leads me to where I am now, wrapping up my lecture for the day.

"Alright everyone, don't forget your homework for the weekend." Some students groan at the back of the room. I stand from behind my desk, walking around to the front where I lean against it with my hip. "Yes, yes, I know. Just be thankful you get a whole weekend for it, your other professors probably wouldn't be so nice. Now, any questions?"

Two hands raise in the air and I call on the first one to come up. "How many sources did we need to cite again?"

"At least three," I say. "You can use more if you'd like, I have no issue with that. However, I hope I don't need to remind you which types of websites aren't credible sources?"

Everyone shakes their heads and I nod, calling on the next person. "Will there be any time to come in to ask questions about our papers before Monday?"

"To come in, no. Unfortunately not. However, if you'd like you can email me with any questions you have or just send me a draft and I can read it for you and give you feedback that way. I will try to get back to you asap if I can. Just please do not email me Monday morning or late Sunday night as I will be asleep and it will be too late for you."

When I finish speaking everyone shuffles in their seats. "Any more questions?" When nobody else speaks up, I lean upright from my position in front of my desk. "If that's all then you are all free to go. Have a good weekend." I receive goodbyes from almost every student as they leave. Once the last one does, I shuffle all of my belongings together and leave the room, locking the door.

On my way home, it starts to rain. It's been in the forecast all week but it was only supposed to be a slight drizzle. This, however, is a torrential downpour. Pulling into my driveway and parking, I brace myself to make a run for it. There's no way I won't get drenched.

Walking inside, I toe off my shoes and drop my things by the door before going upstairs to change into warm and comfy clothes for the evening. Walking into the kitchen for food, I pass the large, sliding glass doors that lead to my backyard and the woods behind my house.

Cereal for dinner sounds good. With a bowl of dry cereal in one hand and a glass of milk in the other, I make my way to the living room. On the way, I pass by the glass door again. Lighting strikes, lighting up the yard and the woods in the distance. In the treeline, I almost swear I can see an animal. It's not super big, but it's not small either. Surprisingly, even with the woods bordering my house, not many animals make their way out. so, seeing one now is slightly odd.

I set my food down on the coffee table and move back to the kitchen, making a plate of food for...whatever is out there. If it's in the woods in a storm like this, it must be hungry. Sliding open the glass door, I set the plate down on the porch under the awning and move back inside where I sit on the couch with my own food and the tv playing in front of me.

I'm around two episodes into the show I was watching when I hear footsteps on the back porch. They're small but loud enough for me to hear through the rain which has settled down into a soft drizzle. Standing, I make my way to the door, trying to keep my steps light and my posture open so whatever is out there doesn't feel threatened by me.

When I'm close enough to see what it is, I find a German Shepherd right before it shifts and a man is left in its place. My hand reaches out for the door handle when he sees me. His eyes widen and he scrambles to pocket all of the food and make a run for the woods.

I quickly open the door trying to stop him. "Wait, please! You don't have to go." He freezes in his steps, halfway off the porch. "I- I can give you more food if that isn't enough. And some water too if you want?" He's thin and pale and shaking like a leaf where he stands. "Please?" My voice is soft, I'm afraid if I speak too loud he'll run away. "I just want to help."

It feels like we stare at each other for hours before he nods his head, barely enough for me to see but it's still a nod. "Okay, okay that's good," I say and lead him inside. "Let me get you a towel so you can dry off, you must be cold." I don't wait for him to respond before I rush off to get it. When I come back, he's in the same spot I left him.

"Here," I hand him the towel and watch as he wraps it around himself. Slowly, his shivering starts to calm down. "Do you have any preferences?"

He looks at me strangely, head tilting to the side. The ears on the top of his head flop to the side softly, the fur wet. "To eat? Is there anything in particular you want? Anything I should avoid?" He seems to take a minute to process what I asked him before he slowly shakes his head. "Okay. You can um...you can come wait in the kitchen while I get you something if you want."

He timidly walks in behind me and watches everything I do. I decided on soup. Hopefully, the warmth from the food would make him feel better. "Is it just you?" I ask timidly.

"No," he says softly after some hesitation.

"Are- are they close? Whoever you're with?"

"Yes."

I pause what I'm doing. Maybe I should make more soup..."How many of you are there?" How much food am I going to need to make?

He shifts uncomfortably. "Seven. Including me."

"Do they want to come in? You can invite them if you want." I avoid looking at him, continuing to make more food.

"What?" He sounds surprised and wary.

"Only if you want. I mean," I stop and chuckle slightly, "seven versus one? If I were to try anything, which I won't, I think you all have the advantage. Don't you think?"

He waited for a few minutes, probably trying to see if I was pulling his leg. "Okay." He slowly makes his way to the sliding door, I can feel his eyes on me, keeping me in his sight. Leaving the door open, he shifts back into a German Shepherd and lets out a loud howl towards the forest. Anything else beyond that, I don't hear because of the volume of the storm raging outside. It was around 15 minutes before he came back inside, several pairs of footsteps shuffling in behind him.

I freeze, gently putting down what was in my hands before slowly turning to face the group of hybrids in my home.

[theperfectawful]

Blind Item / Chapter 1

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x OFC

Chapter 1: Gimme More

Rating: Explicit (18+) Series Summary: 2007. Hollywood, CA. As a former child star, you face the harsh reality of growing up in the unforgiving spotlight. A car crash on Sunset Boulevard and a cocaine scandal give you one option: Rehab. Reluctantly agreeing, you embark on a 90-day stay at Promises Malibu to attempt to salvage your career. But when Dieter Bravo arrives, your journey takes an unexpected turn. Drawn to each other, you navigate sobriety and the wreckage of your reputation. As the double standard of Hollywood's treatment of troubled stars becomes evident, you question if redemption is truly possible in a world of unequal consequences. Word Count: 11k

Content/Warnings: Age gap (~10 years, Dieter is in his mid-thirties), alternating POV, heavy drug use, illegal drug use, alcohol use, driving under the influence, frenemy dynamics, oral sex (f!receiving), dubcon/noncon, it is neither reader nor Dieter's finest hour when we meet them. Period-typical language and behavior, Hollywood assholes.

Notes: This is my first fic - I've never written or posted anything like this before, so please be kind and feel free to share any feedback or suggestions. I never would have been able to write something like this, let alone work up the nerve to post it, if it hadn't been for the kind and gracious support of @pennyserenade, @whatsnewalycat and @frannyzooey all lending me their advice when I slid into their DMs. They all inspire me endlessly with their work and talent and it’s because of their work that I was inspired to write something of my own.

Our reader is, for now, and unnamed OC. While I’ve done my best to avoid using physical descriptors of her, it should be noted that this story is a period piece that takes place in early 2000s Hollywood. The main character would have been a contemporary of stars like Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan and Nicole Richie, and there are certain assumptions I’ve made about what she looks like based on that factor of this particular story. The early 2000s could be dark, ruthless times, y'all, especially for young women in and effected by Hollywood. My intention is to examine that. Thank you for reading!

Desperate times call for desperate measures: sources say that this former child star’s team is working overtime to keep her employed. When she made her not-so-graceful exit from her latest film, the star cited conflicting schedules as the reason for her departure. The film’s producer has a different story: the Hollywood juggernaut has been heard around town calling the star unprofessional, accusing her of being late to her call times and using drugs in her trailer. She’s got a shot at a last resort: a return to television. Word is, the bad publicity has her team bargaining and drawing out sober contracts just to get her hired.

Whenever you were in town for work, you stayed at the Chateau Marmont. You were in Los Angeles often enough and long enough to justify buying a home there, but you refused, the idea of actually owning a home in LA never quite sitting right with you. Instead, you rented the same room each time you visited. You loved that little bungalow. The thick, lush landscaping shaded the windows and kept it nice and cool inside, and your front door was only a stone's-throw from the swimming pool. 

It felt like home after a few years, anyway. These old, tucked-away places were what you liked most about Los Angeles, unlikely, quiet havens hidden between sky-high condos and overly sleek offices. The building breathed old-Hollywood luxury, vintage tiles and original hardwood floors and the ghosts of silent film stars wandering the hallways. The staff knew you well. The same breakfast was delivered to your door at noon every day. The top-tier maid service employed by the hotel kept the living room, kitchen, bathrooms and second bedroom impeccably tidy, though they were given clear instructions not to enter your bedroom.

Your bedroom did not inspire the same glamorous aesthetic as the rest of the hotel. Clothing was piled high against the walls and pouring out of dresser drawers, tags and receipts discarded in the wake. Empty bottles cluttered the hardwood floors, clear, crushed water bottles and rattly orange pill canisters. A full ashtray sat on a side table, a makeup mirror and various products scattered next to it.

In the middle of the room was a king-sized bed, an antique walnut headboard sprawling against the wall with a mountain of sheets and blankets layered atop a deep mattress. You laid swaddled in those sheets, rubbing your palms into your shut eyes and groaning as you rolled over, dragging your hands wide across your face to peek out at the clock on your nightstand.

4:41pm. You blinked, straining your eyes to focus and confirm you read that right. 4:41pm. Fuck.

Bleary-eyed, you reached for your phone, met immediately by a barrage of missed calls and unread messages when you slid it open.

MELANIE [3:21 AM]: Bathrrom

PETE [3:36 AM]: Did u leave

CORINNE [9:00 AM]: Call with NBC @ 1. Please be available. Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL: CORINNE

CORINNE [11:30 AM]: Confirming availability at 1pm. Corinne Roxford.

(212) 555-4325 [12:06 PM]: Hey gorgeous ;)

MISSED CALL [12:30 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [12:45 PM]: CORINNE

MISSED CALL [1:00 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:03 PM]: ??? Corinne Roxford.

MISSED CALL [1:05 PM]: CORINNE

CORINNE [1:07 PM]: Call immediately. Corinne Roxford.

“Hiiiii,” a soft, tired voice called from across the room. You looked up, squinting, at your best friend Natalie leaning in the doorway to the bathroom.

“Mmmm,” you hummed in response, peeking out from where you lay buried in the sheets. “Hi.”

She crossed the room, kicking piles of clothes out of the way and perched herself on the corner of the bed, her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. You cracked open one eye, locking eyes with her. In an unspoken acknowledgment of your situation - what you got into last night, the state you’re currently in, the splitting headache you’re certain she has, too - you raised an eyebrow at her. She smirked back at you and the two of you erupted into laughter. You lifted yourself up to sit, pushing your foot into her side from under the covers.

“You were insane last night!” she accused, still smiling as she resumed brushing her teeth.

“Me!” your voice was raspy and you coughed. “Me? You were the one making out with the bartender.”

“He wasn’t a bartender. He said he was with the DJ or something.”

“Yeah, ‘cause that’s better,” you snorted, the sound muffled by the plush pillows that cradled your head. You rubbed your palms across your face again, feeling the coarse texture of your own tired skin. The room was dimly lit, with the soft glow of morning seeping through the half-closed blinds. 

Your phone vibrated on the nightstand, disrupting the quiet ambiance. You picked it up, groaning when you saw your manager’s name blaring across the bright screen. With a sigh, you slid it open.

“Hi, Corinne,” your voice was a hoarse whisper as you did your best to sound alive. Natalie stirred from her spot and crossed back to the bathroom, old floorboards creaking underneath her feet.

“I needed you on that call this morning. This is your career I’m trying to save here. Do you think I’m doing all of this for my health?”

“I mean… you’re not not…” It’s out of your mouth before you can stop it. She is on your payroll.

“Very funny. I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re running out of friends and favors here, hun. I don’t think you want me to join that list.” Her sentence was punctuated by the sound of her horn honking and a muttered expletive. She sighs. “NBC still wants to speak with you, and soon, but they want to do a four-episode Growing special. The rest of the cast is on board, and they think if we play this right we can turn into a full-on reboot. But you have to straighten up, do you understand? I need you in the Santa Monica office first thing Monday to sign the paperwork.”

“I’ll be there. I promise.” Your eyes closed again, and you sunk into the plush embrace of the king-sized bed, the soft cotton fabric soothing against your skin.

“I don’t know how to make it any more clear to you how much trouble all of us are in. This is  your shot at a comeback.”

“I understand.”

There’s a bit of silence, the noise of New York traffic floating through the airwaves and into your ear. You insisted on total honesty from Corinne, unable to tolerate your team coddling you, so her words might have hurt more if this was the first time you’d heard them. Or maybe if the haze you’d woken up in were a bit thinner.

“Tomlin and the team will be in on Thursday night to get you ready for the VMAs. I’ll see you then, too.” Corinne changed the subject, her voice a mix of stern professionalism and genuine concern.

“Okay. I’m sorry.” Your voice was sickeningly sweet, a defensive baby voice you switched into when you were nervous, a trademark of yours that had been mocked by everyone from ex-boyfriends to the cast of Saturday Night Live. Corinne said goodbye and you felt Natalie’s weight return to your side.

You groaned, long and drawn out, tossing your phone into the labyrinth of sheets and blankets surrounding you. The show she referred to was a reboot of the sitcom you spent your childhood working on - Growing Together. It's one-half cast reunion, one-half desperate, nostalgic cash-grab. The producer you sat across from at the pitch meeting was almost delirious with excitement - explaining what a smashing success it was sure to be, a “televised homecoming for America's favorite family.” It took so much strength not to roll your eyes right in front of him that you thought you’d pop a blood vessel.

“Are you in trouble?” Natalie asked, a teasing tone in her voice.

"Yeah, almost always," you replied, casual in your admission. As you sat up, fully awakening, you stretched and planted your feet on the floor. You chugged the warm Vitamin Water on your nightstand before reaching for your bag on the floor and digging through its contents. Gum, a fluorescent orange paper wristband, a baby pink Juicy Tube, a black and white photobooth strip of you and Natalie with your tongues out. Not finding what you were looking for, you dumped it out onto your bed and continued rummaging through the items and garbage inside. Your iPod, a receipt from the drugstore, 3 loose cigarettes and half a dozen empty quarter-sized plastic bags. You sighed, shoving everything back inside carelessly. 

“Did we finish everything last night?” You call out, patting the bed behind you, your gaze darting around in search of your phone.

“We?” Natalie’s laughter rang through the room. “I don’t know about ‘we!’”

“God, no wonder,” you muttered, the realization of this morning's particularly splitting headache dawning. Locating your phone again, you typed out a text message to your dealer, padding out of your room to the kitchen.

[5:13 PM]: Andyyyyyy. U going to Lush tonight?

You tapped the side of your phone restlessly for a beat, then texted again.

[5:13 PM]: Can you bring what u brought last night

In the kitchen, you opened the cabinet, revealing an array of neatly arranged pill bottles. Without looking, you pulled out a bottle of Advil and an empty glass. Seated at the kitchen table, engrossed in her Macbook, was your assistant, Rhea.

“Corinne’s pissed.” She said before she even looked at you, focused intently on the screen in front of her.

“Good morning,” you responded, filling your glass at the sink and beaming an exaggerated, pageant-queen smile at her. She scoffed in response.

“The sun is going down in… 40 minutes.” she retorted, her gaze flitting momentarily to the clock on the wall, then back down. You made a mockingly offended expression, hands lifting with dramatic flair.

“Time is a social construct, Rhea,” you declared, tossing back the Advil and chasing them with the full glass of water.

“Yeah, for you, maybe.” She muttered, still typing like a maniac.

You were fired six weeks ago.

The movie was meant to signal a departure for you, a leap into serious territory - a drama marking an overdue graduation from the teeny-bopper films you’d spent the last decade of your life making. You’d been lucky a year ago - a really excellent writer took a chance on an elevated high school comedy with you at the helm that had people in the industry, finally, taking you more seriously. 

Seriously enough to get you in the door, at least. Being on set gave you a different impression. You felt as coddled as ever, still treated like an unqualified child star whose presence was more of a slightly annoying novelty than a creative asset.

You wanted to be treated like an adult - a real actress, a professional. This movie was supposed to accomplish that. Despite the fact that this project had a huge, award-winning director attached to it, it was subject to the same issues you’d experienced on countless, lower-tier productions. Poorly communicated call times, technical issues, handsy producers hanging around your trailer. The latter issue caused you to insist on Rhea being by your side whenever possible - power in numbers in an attempt to keep greasy Hollywood exec’s hands away from you.

You weren’t going out any more often than you usually did. Now that you were old enough to not have to sneak into clubs anymore, you were having fun. Though your evenings often bled into mornings, occasionally pushing the limits of your call times, it felt manageable. However, Corinne was relentless in reminding you of the stakes and your professional expectations: show up, behave, perform.

That morning, exhaustion hung over you more heavily than usual. The night before, you’d been out celebrating Natalie’s 23rd birthday. A friend of hers had just returned from Amsterdam and brought with him a bag of European ecstasy as a souvenir. After Le Deux closed, you threw an after party at the Chateau’s pool, you and Nat drank champagne on your floaties as the chemicals rushed through your systems. Your fingers dipped in and out of the heated pool, the two of you gossiping and giggling and floating along until the sun came up.

You were on set on time - early, in fact - but the MDMA had worn off and your energy was plummeting fast. You’d run through the scene several times with Rhea, but it didn’t seem to have helped much.

“Cut,” the director called out, sighing and stepping out from his position behind the camera. Your costar groans softly, standing up from his spot across from you and stepping away as the surrounding crew moves quickly to reset the scene.

“I’m sorry Alan,” you offered immediately as the director approached your mark. A makeup artist swoops in, tapping a brush to your under eyes.

“You’re furious with him, remember,” he coached you. “I understand it’s early, but I need you to manage to muster up some energy.”

You nodded, trying to focus despite the persistent buzzing in your head. “I’m really sorry.”

“I don’t need you to apologize to me like a punished child, I just need you to perform the way I’ve asked you to. Can you do that?”

"I'll get it right this time, I promise," you assure him softly, swallowing the lump in your throat.

He eyed you skeptically, his weaning lack of patience with you made clear by his expression.

“We’ll break for five.” He called out to the room, still staring at you as you stood up and shuffled off behind him.

Rhea arrived at your side with your cell phone and a Red Bull. You flip open the screen as you walk, quickly scrolling through your text messages and trying to distract yourself from your dull, nagging headache.

“That was okay, right?” You asked, trying to sound casual but unable to hide the uncertainty in your voice. “Is it as bad as he says?”

“You were fine,” Rhea’s voice was uncharacteristically high-pitched as she held out the straw of your energy drink in front of you. Her eyes flit back and forth, scanning the area, and her voice lowers into a whisper as she continues. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I’m tired,” You brushed her off, shaking your head and handing your phone back to her. “I’m fucking exhausted.”

Rhea nods, a concerned eyebrow lifting as you arrive at your trailer. Everyone in your life was looking at you like that lately - as if doing anything less than completely coddling you would cause you to fly off the handle. The cautious glances, the careful choices of words, the subtle tiptoeing around your every move - especially from Rhea, who never gave a fuck about your feelings - it all grated on your nerves like an itch beneath the surface. 

She held out her hand and you took it quickly, grabbing an orange bottle from her and slipping through the door of your trailer.

In your trailer, you sat at the vanity and closed your eyes, taking a couple of deep breaths before opening them and gazing at yourself in the mirror. You opened the bottle, pouring out two small pills on the counter in front of you. Scanning the surface quickly, you located a plastic card and pushed it against the pills with the ball of your hand. You pushed it again and again, finally finishing and scraping the excess powder from the card onto the table. Dragging the powder into two lines, you leaned down to inhale them and stood straight back up. You licked your finger and picked up the excess residue, pushing it into your gums and taking a couple more deep breaths to re-center yourself.

The acrid taste of the pills gave you a Pavlovian surge of energy, the anxious buzz in your chest subsiding and easing into a steady hum. You sat at the mirror, dragging a finger underneath your eye to wipe smudged eyeliner from your face. You sniffled, forcing the action into another deep breath and staring at yourself in the mirror. You belong here. You do. You know what you’re doing.

A sharp knock at the door pulled you back to reality with a jump.

“Jesus,” You called out “Alright, Rhea, one second!”

“It’s Alan. Open the door.”

Fuck. You frantically began cleaning the counter in front of you - slipping the credit card into your pocket and brushing your hands across the surface.

“Now!” Alan boomed from outside.

“Okay, okay!” You moved to the door and turned the lock, opening the door just enough for him to see you. You sniffled again, trying to camouflage the reaction with a cough. “Yes?”

Pushing the door firmly, Alan moved into your trailer, his body dwarfing yours in the small space.

“Listen to me,” he said, low but firm. “I’m done. I’m not doing this with you. I am not letting you fuck up my movie.”

“What?” You were dumbstruck.

“Don’t play dumb. Not now. You know exactly what I mean.” He was inches from your face now and getting angrier by the minute. You swallowed, desperately looking around for Rhea. Tears stung the corners of your eyes and you fought them, willing yourself not to blink.

“They’re prescribed,” you attempt. It doesn’t work.

“I don’t care what you do on your own time,” he continued “But this is mine. This is important to me and to everyone else out there whose livelihoods depend on this project, and I’m not going to let some spoiled, coked-out little actress spoil it.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

“Corinne fought hard to get you on this project. This was more of a fucking favor to her than you. But this movie does not live and die by your actions, do you understand me? You can kill yourself if you insist, but you will not pull my movie down with you. You’re fired.”

Your jaw dropped. You were unable to find words let alone choke them out. Rhea’s face was stark white when you spotted her just outside the door of your trailer, her cell phone firmly against her cheek, whispering into the receiver with her eyes wide.

“This is no longer viable for me or anyone else on this crew. I want you off my set now.”

You couldn’t move, your heart pounding in your chest. He stood there for another moment before exiting the trailer and slamming the door behind him. The force of the slam caused the door to open slightly, revealing Alan standing in front of Rhea.

“I don’t want to see you here again.” He said to her, loud enough for you to hear, his voice stern and uncompromising. “You’re lucky I don’t call the cops on you for bringing drugs on my set.”

You hung in the doorway as he stormed away, and as the room swirls into focus you see the eyes of the crew on you, their faces filled with curiosity and concern. Turning your head, you quickly blinked away your tears and wiped your eyes with the back of your hand.

Officially, you’d been let go due to ‘scheduling conflicts’. It was flimsy, Hollywood jargon for your star showing up fucked up, and unfortunately, the euphemism did little to quell the relentless scrutiny surrounding you.

Rhea had shown you the footage of you that began making the rounds after your firing was announced - a creepy, shaky video leaked by some PA of Alan berating you on set, cut with another clip of you walking around the soundstage. It was embarrassing - your hair was disheveled and you were pacing around in a way that looked strange out of context, but there wouldn’t have been anything interesting about it at all if the rumor hadn’t gotten out that you’d been fired for your drug use. Since then, the attention on you had been relentless.

The paparazzi had been a regular part of your life since you were a young teenager. It, generally, wasn’t as bad in New York, which is part of the reason why you preferred to stay there, but in LA it felt as if you were never more than a few feet from a camera. 

When you were 16 and working on your first film after Growing Together ended, you started going to clubs with your coworkers. No one ever gave you any trouble, and you didn’t even start drinking until you were 18, but despite that, the mere optics of a child star reveling in nightlife proved a lucrative angle for the media to exploit.

Since then, you were followed almost constantly. Leaving home, returning, getting groceries, getting your nails done, driving through McDonald’s - flashing lights in the corner of your eye were such a regular thing that you barely even noticed it anymore. There were photographers you knew at this point, friendly ones who knew your angles and creepy ones who constantly tailed your car.

It’d never been like this before, though. Literal throngs of photographers showed up anywhere you went, watching you like hawks, all waiting to swoop in on the slightest slip up. Going shopping was an event that needed to be scheduled in advance, boutiques needing to be warned that you’d be coming in so that they could prepare to lock doors behind you. Every step, every breath, felt scrutinized and captured for public consumption, leaving you suffocated beneath the weight of it all.

You were so angry about being let go - your behavior, truly, was no different from what any other actor your age was doing. You partied with your friends, you were out late sometimes, but you knew you were a good actress. It had been your passion since you were a child, and it was beyond frustrating to hear people tell you they loved you and wanted to see you win and then have them turn against you the moment you made a mistake.

So, although you’d behaved and spent the first week or two lying low at the insistence of Corrine, you were over it now. You stayed in LA, uninterested or unwilling to go home to your family and friends in New York and explain to them what's been going on. You were going out with Natalie every night, usually to Le Deux or Lush or Teddy’s. You stayed out late and slept in late and generally just did your best to avoid confrontation with any paparazzi or journalists or producers you’d pissed off.

You weren’t lying to Alan when you told him you were only taking what had been prescribed to you. It just happened that a lot of things had been prescribed to you. Lately, you’d been alternating between Adderall and MDMA for the last week or so, making you too speedy and anxious to really dwell on the current state of your career. You were, admittedly, running through your prescriptions more quickly than usual, causing you to need to make some calls in order to fill in the gaps.

Throughout dinner, you anxiously slid the screen to your Sidekick open and shut, open and shut. You thumbed through the wheel of apps, trying to will into existence a text from Andy that didn’t seem to be coming. It’s not exactly like you expected rigid punctuality from the guy who sold you drugs, but his radio silence was making you antsy.

[9:05pm]: Hellooooooooo

Natalie exclaimed as a tray of shots was delivered to the table, echoed by the group of acquaintances that you met up with at Don Antonios, the restaurant you always went to before a night out. Eagerly, you took one off the tray, blindly grabbing another as you knocked the first one back. You chased that shot with the other, the warmth of the liquid making you feel more like a human being and less like a raw nerve.

Seated to your right in the booth was a girl you kind of knew. She was always hanging out on the fringes of your group, some friend of a friend of a friend who was for sure going home and telling everyone she partied with you. She’d been gawking at you all night, beady eyes locked on you since you sat down, craning her neck and sitting uncomfortably close to you, your dress pinned under her studded jeans. You’d been resisting the urge to ask her what the fuck her problem was for the better part of an hour. As the group around you became distracted by the arrival of the shots, you seized the opportunity to confront her.

“Can you please get off of my dress?” you spat.

Her eyebrows shot up as she took her eyes off of you for what felt like the first time that evening to look down, apologizing and scooching over. She had tall red stilettos on and, when she looked back up at you, you could see the smudged mascara on her eyelid. Just as you were going to take the opportunity to move away from her, she leaned over to talk to you over the noise that surrounded you.

“Sorry. Hey, I’m Katie.”

You grimaced, not in the mood to talk to this person.

“Hi.”

You turn away for a beat, but your attention is grabbed again by Katie’s voice lowly in your ear.

“Hey, I have Xanax, if you want one,” the offer took you by surprise, the prospect lighting you up immediately.

“Oh, my god, I love you,” you said, quickly turning towards her and extending your palm. “Please?”

Downers really weren’t your thing, even booze wasn’t your favorite, but this evening was going to turn from boring to maddeningly insufferable fast if you didn’t get your hands on something.

“I know someone who needs one when I see them,” she laughed, discreetly dropping two pills into your palm.

The clubs in LA were the same thing every time. You showed up in big black SUVs, posed and made nice for the photographers outside for a moment and then clamored inside towards the booth that was waiting for your party. 

It felt like high school. Well, you assumed, since your high school experience took place entirely on set. You saw the same people everywhere, all scattered around the room, broken up into their own little cliques. All gossiping, the room alive with murmurs and whispers. Who’d just shown up? Who was fighting with who? Who’d stolen whose boyfriend? It all felt so juvenile, but not being here was worse, so you put up with it. The people changed, but not really - you usually ended up surrounded by the same cast of promoters, wannabe socialites and greasy LA club dudes, swapped out every couple weeks by stand-ins and understudies and new arrivals. They circled your table like vultures, mingled with one another and made use of your tab while you sat engrossed in your Sidekick.

The night became slightly more tolerable once you’d taken one of the bars Katie gave you, but you were still desperately trying to get a hold of a dealer. By the time you left the restaurant and were climbing into the backseat of your car to head to Lush, you’d even resorted to texting backup options, people you’d partied with once or twice who you suspected might be around. 

Sinking into the plush booth, you let your head loll to the side, eyes shutting against the assault of strobing lights. The steady, pumping rhythm of the bass sent a rattle through your bones.

After a minute, Natalie's hand landed gently on your knee, snapping you back to reality.

“You okay, girl?” She asked. Her voice felt distant, barely audible over the pounding bass reverberating through the room. The glitter on her eyelids shimmered in the blue light, the only part of her face you could clearly make out in the shadowy corner of the booth.

“I’m fine,” you answered impatiently, kicking your feet up into the seat next to you. Just then, your phone finally buzzed, your heart skipping a beat as your dealer’s name flashed across the screen

ANDY [11:03PM]: not goin tonite

You scoffed, pausing for a second before furiously tapping out a response.

[11:03PM]: FUCK U ASSHOLE

You hit send and threw your phone into your purse with a huff. You were going to have to come up with something else. Or maybe just slit your wrists right here at the table instead.

You surveyed your group as bottle service brought two large bottles of tequila to your table along with a tray brimming with shots. knew all it would take was a couple hundred bucks from a photographer outside for them to spill about how you’d begged them for coke. They'd probably do it for free just for the attention. You'd already asked Katie, but all she had was Xanax and a joint, and Natalie would've let you know if she got a hold of anything else.

You started scanning the rest of the room, looking for anyone you knew. The club was packed, some sort of launch party that’d booked a huge DJ filling even the VIP section from wall to wall.

Suddenly, your attention was grabbed by the sound of a man shouting at the booth directly across from yours. He was the typical guy you'd find in places like this: a douchey-looking producer type, each of his arms wrapped around two miserable-looking models to his left and right. Intrigued, you followed his gaze to see who he was yelling at.

Oh, bingo.

Dieter Bravo. You recognized him instantly. An actor like you, you knew you’d seen him around at award shows and parties, but you’d never met. His reputation preceded him, though; you knew he partied, knew that he, too, had been let go from movies due to 'scheduling conflicts' more than once. You knew he’d been in trouble for drugs. Last you'd heard, he'd been in the news for cheating on his wife or something. You were certain that all it’d take was a little bit of flirting and buttering him up to get him to share whatever he had with you.

Without a word to anyone, you rose from your booth, ignoring Natalie's questioning as you strode towards Dieter's booth. Immediately, though, you lost your footing, lightheaded from standing up too quickly. You brushed it off, saved from a fall by someone at your booth. Straightening your dress, you grabbed a bottle of tequila before pivoting on your heel and starting back towards Dieter.

Dragged out against his will, Dieter was a guest of honor at a launch party for Elysium Fragrances, the cologne brand he’d shot a campaign for last year. His presence was requested tonight as a make-good for being a no-show at the launch of his own campaign, instead being spotted that evening by the California Highway Patrol speeding down the Pacific Coast Highway with a model in the passenger seat. 

He’d been stopped by a cop as he attempted to pump gas, some asshole photographer seizing the opportunity to swoop in on the interaction and hurl all sorts of insulting names at his date. Dieter lost his patience, blowing past the cop to shove the paparazzo to the ground, shattering his camera in the process. He was arrested that evening on five charges - assault and battery, destruction of property, drunk and disorderly conduct, assault of an officer (come on) and, thanks to a thorough search of his car, possession with intent to distribute.

As his smug-faced mugshot circulated the tabloids, it eclipsed the glossy editorial photos that the brand had invested millions in. The extravagant campaign was reduced to a joke, its over-the-top glamour juxtaposed with candid snapshots of Dieter’s angry face shouting at the photographer.

Unbelievably, the brand hadn’t thrown him out then and there. He almost wished they had - he preferred the couple of nights he spent in jail to the following days spent in meetings, his team arguing with Elysium over their ability to sway this and use his reputation to their advantage. Ultimately, they maintained his status as a face of their brand as well as his 6 million dollar contract, with the stipulation that he shoot another campaign and make himself available for any event, launch or party the brand requested for the next year.

Being asked to party in exchange for six million dollars was a sweet deal - he understood that - but the reality of being a cosmetics brand’s puppet meant that he ended up at the same fucking parties week in and week out, always babysat by an appointed employee of the brand or, failing that, someone on his payroll.

Tonight was particularly torturous. The tabloids had latched onto the whispers of his crumbling marriage - rumors that were, fortunately or unfortunately, completely legitimate. Heidi was meant to be the one to tie him down, set him straight, clean him up. Their wedding photos looked like a fucking editorial, glossy photos ran with headlines predicting their domestic bliss. But a year and a half, a relapse, a DUI, and a string of affairs - all on his part - had shattered those illusions.

Last week, Dieter returned home from a 3-day bender to Heidi’s mother on the landing at the top of his stairs. She was screaming and hurling the contents of his closet at him, plus whatever else was within arms reach. Heidi, her once-bright eyes now dull with tears, cowered in a doorway behind her mother, slamming the door behind her when he called out in an attempt to reason with her. Her mom located his Oscar, hurling it towards his head with a warning to leave the house before she called the cops. He’d ducked just in time to avoid the statue concussing him, it instead crashing through the glass window of the door behind him.

The stories spread like wildfire, his team scrambling to reshape the narrative, casting Heidi as the cold, unfeeling spouse who couldn't handle his demons. They painted her as the villain, accusing her of rejecting him for his vices - after all, she knew who she married - all the while conveniently forgetting that she had stood by him through more than most people would be able to tolerate. It was an angle he wasn’t happy with; He may have been hedonistic but he wasn’t cruel. In the interest of giving her space and avoiding any additional negative attention sent her way, he moved out. He kept an apartment closer to town, and staying there made it that much easier to avoid any reminders of his failures.

The word on the poor, dejected husband had spread, causing every asshole he ran into tonight to look at him with the same pathetic, sympathetic expression. He resented their pity. He resented this party, this club, his obligation to be seen holding some stupid bottle of cologne in order to maintain his career. The four whiskies he'd downed had done little to numb him from it, and even the lines he'd snorted on the way over had failed to dull the edges of this evening.

You’d stumbled in about an hour ago, perching yourself in the booth across from his own. Your eyelids were heavy in a familiar way, his dirtbag instincts making him suspect you’ve popped a painkiller in addition to whatever you’ve been drinking. A group of giggly, hungry hangers-on swarmed around your table like flies, posing for pictures and parting only to let bottle service in and out.

Dieter knew you - or at least, he knew of you. The cute little starlet who always popped up next to him in the tabloids. He’d seen you in enough movies and on enough billboards to recognize your face, and he’d lurked around clubs like this often enough to have seen you before. Before you’d walked in, he’d resigned himself to an armchair as far back in the VIP section as he could find, determined to wait out the evening before bringing home whatever model ended up in his car. The whiskey he’d been drinking was only just beginning to kick in and he didn’t fight it, leaning back and willing the time to pass faster. But you… you were interesting.

Your gorgeous legs were stretched out along the booth, climbing up to the hem of your dress, a pink silky thing he imagined he could tear off of you with the smallest amount of force. Glossy lips pouted at your phone, eyebrows furrowed in a sweet little frustrated expression. When you looked up he didn’t look away - he kept his eyes trained on you as you looked around the room. You were looking for someone, obviously restless. A boyfriend? The thought twisted at his stomach uncomfortably and he willed himself to stop watching you, putting his glass to his mouth and draining it with a single swallow.

“Bravo!” a voice bellowed from his left, snapping him out of it. Clint - some hack from Elysium Fragrances and tonight’s designated narc waved enthusiastically from the booth next to him. “You gonna sit there and fuckin’ mope all night, bro?”

Fuck this guy. Like most of his brand-approved chaperones, he was content to accept the babysitting opportunity and spend the evening running up Dieter’s tab and shamelessly hitting on the girls at his table. The least he could do would be to leave him the fuck alone.

His attention returned to you when he heard a commotion from your direction. There you were, knees buckled, held at your elbow by one of the guys surrounding your booth. A couple of cell phone cameras lift and snap photos behind you as you attempt to compose yourself. He can’t take his eyes off of you as you stand back up, adjusting yourself, your little dress riding up for just a moment before you smooth it back into place.

The bottle he’d finished had begun to cloud his vision, so it took him a moment to realize you were stumbling towards him, your plush lips slightly parted as you swung a bottle of tequila at your side. Despite the haze, your smile was unmistakable as you arrived at his chair. When you held up the bottle with a subtle lift of your eyebrow, he nodded in agreement.

He wasn’t entirely sure if you climbed into his lap or if you simply floated there, an ethereal presence that captivated his senses. You were such a gorgeous little thing, soft legs draping over him effortlessly, while your electric fingertips traced delicate patterns along his arms.

“Where’ve I met you before?” You slurred, fingers playing with the buttons on his shirt as you settled in his lap.

You were fucked up. If it wasn’t obvious before, it was now. Good - he was, too. His plan had been to leave, get one of the models at his table to come home and roll over for him without much effort, but passing the evening with someone in his same state of mind would spare him from having another dull fucking conversation tonight. Plus, you were so pretty, big black pupils dilated and fixed on him beneath the lazy black fan of your eyelashes.

“You tell me,” he answered, running his finger along the rim of his glass.

Did you know who he was? He goes along with your guesses as to where you’d met before. Miami, London, the Met, whatever you said, as long as you didn’t piece together that you know him from a TV show that aired when you were still in middle school.

Music blasted through the speakers surrounding you, strobe lights flashing and highlighting flecks of glitter on your shoulders. He lifted his hand to run his finger along the thin strap of your dress as you lifted the bottle up between you and raised your eyebrows in question. He nodded, holding up his empty whiskey glass. 

“Glastonbury?” You asked as you filled his glass. 

“That must be it,” he agreed, knowing he hadn’t been to Glastonbury since 1995, and clinked his glass against your bottle. He watched as you took a long draw from the mouth and could see the grimace you were holding back as you squinted, your throat bobbing as you swallowed. He followed your lead, emptying his glass in three big gulps. Your eyes flitted over momentarily to the group he came with, crowded around the booth to his left, then back to him.

“You alone?” You asked him, glossy lips smirking.

“Just like you.”

You let out a knowing chuckle and leaned in closer to him, tequila and lime and smoke on your breath as it mingled with his own. The way you dragged your lower lip through your teeth had his cock twitching, the combination of the chemicals in his system and you purring in his lap like a kitten destroying any shred of inhibition he had left. 

There’s an acknowledgment between people like you and Dieter. It’s one of those things that doesn’t lend itself to description, but he knew it when he saw it - in the mirror, in friends and acquaintances and enemies, in blown-up photographs on the covers of tabloids, suicides and DUIs announced in newsstands. Raw nerves covered in glitter, celebrity or civilian, death drives winning over life drives every time. He saw it in your dilated pupils and the way your thighs were rubbing together, the silk of your dress doing nothing to hide it. You’re like him, too, and most importantly, you know better than to ask why.

His hand cupped your face before he realized he’d done it and he closed the space between you, your lips soft against his the next sensation he was aware of. You tasted good, and he wanted more right away, deepening the kiss and digging his fingers into your thigh forcefully. He ran his tongue along the seam of your mouth, his own lips going numb as he licked into yours. He pulled you up to straddle him and you moved easily, hips lowering onto him immediately and settling, the lace of your panties brushing up against the thin fabric of his pants. His mouth trailed to your ear, worrying your earlobe between his teeth and guiding your hips to roll against his crotch again and again.

“You don’t give a fuck, do you?” He said, his voice low and hoarse in your ear. He knew you had the attention of his group and your own, not to mention anyone else who happened to look over, but it didn’t seem to matter to you. He knew you’d been in trouble lately - the same limelight, coming-of-age growing pains he’d been through himself several years ago - and his own instincts threatened to kick in and shield you from the excess attention. 

You laughed with a shake of your head, tossing your hair over your shoulder and, without looking away from him, lifted his hand from your thigh to your lips, dragging your tongue across the length of his index finger and popping it into your mouth.

Oh, you were fun. You were already making him hard, and he knew you could feel it as you grinded into him again and again, letting his finger drop from your mouth when he pressed his lips back to yours. He needed to be careful - the linen lounge pants he’d thrown on to come here would betray nothing if you kept it up much longer.

It’s a noticeable absence when you hum and pull away from the kiss, the urge for more of you rolling over him and causing his fingers to dig into your thighs possessively.

“Do you have anything… funner?” You asked, big, blown out eyes pleading as you lifted the tequila bottle up again. Aha. It just so happened he did - a baggie of coke he’d brought along just in case sat in his pocket, along with two tabs of acid. It didn’t seem like that kind of night, though, at least not yet. He’d stick with the coke.

“I might have something,” he replied, a genuine smirk spreading across his face for the first time that evening. He sat up straight, smacking your ass and biting your jawline at the same time, the yelp it pulled from you quickly transforming into a wild giggle and sending a rush of blood to his cock as he peppered kisses and bites down your neck to your collarbone. 

Quickly, he helped you to your feet and guided you through the crowded room, following you across the floor, his index finger linked with your pinky, prying eyes and pointing fingers meaningless to the both of you. You may have been stumbling, but you were confident. Or at least not at all concerned. A camera phone at the bar flashed and Dieter instinctively ducked his head, moving a hand to your hip to rush you forward and out of sight. 

Tucking into a hallway at the back of the club, he kicked a door open and hurried you inside a small, dark room. It was clearly an employee restroom, high piles of backstocked paper towels and toilet paper toppling over when he pushed you up against the wall harshly, his hands cupping your face, the cool metal of his rings pressed against your cheek.

He pulled a pink baggie out of his shirt pocket, opened it and tapped a bump of white powder out onto the skin between his thumb and index finger. He held it up to your nose and, without any question about what it was, where he got it or if he’d already tried it, you’d inhaled, one hand holding his steady while the other held your nostril closed. 

Fucking finally. Your head lit up immediately with euphoria and relief as the amphetamines rushed through your system and you melted against Dieter as he lifted you to perch you on a stack of cardboard boxes. 

You let him move you like a rag doll, smiling as he propped you back and tapped out two more bumps onto your chest and snorted them, running your fingers through his messy curls as he dragged his tongue along your cleavage, licking up what was left.

His lips found yours again, and the pungent taste of the powder on his tongue mingling with his taste drew you in closer. Looping your arm around his neck, your free hand clutched his bicep. The acrid taste turned pleasantly tingly on your tongue, a numbness spreading as it explored his mouth.

“Here, baby,” he urged, breaking the kiss breathlessly, and you hummed in response as he tapped out another bump on the back of his hand. You inhaled it again, then he used his finger to gather the remnants of the powder. Cupping your cheek firmly, your jaw relaxed under his touch as he rubbed the excess powder into your gums. You reacted instantly, closing your eyes and drawing his finger deeper into your mouth, succumbing to the rush of sensation.

He groaned in approval, your lips already open when he kissed you again, drawing him in for more, thighs parting to wrap your legs around him. The flimsy strap of your dress fell off your shoulder, the fabric across your chest following shortly after.

Blissfully content with the relief of the chemicals rushing into your bloodstream for the first time today, you went numb, rolling your head back and watching patterns dance behind your eyelids. You allowed Dieter to touch and move you at his will, his hands skillfully brushing the other strap of your dress off your shoulder, exposing your chest completely. A throaty moan escaped him at the sight, the gentle sway of your breasts moving with the rhythm of the rough push of his hips into yours. He drew you closer, his lips finding purchase on your skin. Roughly latching onto you, he drew your breast into his mouth, his tongue drawing circles around the peak of your nipple before switching to the other side of your chest.

Sparks shot down your spine and your mind went blank for a second, lost in the feeling of him against you, the synapses in your brain firing and lighting up. You snapped back into the moment when you felt him grasp your hand with his own, his fingers intertwined with yours. He guided you down to press your hand into his crotch, grinding the firm length of himself into your hold again and again. 

A soft moan escaped your lips, surrendering to the warmth and pressure of his body against yours. You tightened your grip around his neck, allowing yourself to fully yield to his control, your body pliant and responsive to his every move.

You’d fuck him, you figured, as you moved against him. He was good looking - now that you were feeling a little less edgy, you could appreciate it. Corinne would kill you if word got out, but he seemed like someone who knew a thing or two about discretion. He stiffened even more as he firmly thrusted into the cradle of your hand and you cupped your fingers around his length, the soft fabric of his pants allowing you to feel him completely. You walked your fingers up to his waistband, nails dipping under the fabric and pulling at it slightly. You’d go home with him. Whatever. You’d bring Natalie with you and you could leave by morning. He probably wouldn’t even notice a missing gram or two.

You followed the thought as he trailed kisses up your chest and neck, finally settling at your ear. His hand rose up your thigh, thick fingers dragging along the lace fabric at your center. The bundle of nerves there erupted at his touch and your thighs instinctively squeezed around him.

“Let me taste you, baby, please,” He growled just above a whisper into your ear. You arched your back into his arms, moaning and nodding in agreement, the cool porcelain of the sink underneath you causing your skin to goosebump as your dress rode up further. You opened your eyes, peeking at the chestnut brown curls, the color blending into the dark room surrounding you. Your eyelids felt heavy, and you fought to keep them open, wanting to stay present with him. But the warmth of his breath against your skin and the gentle touch of his fingers on your cheeks were lulling you somewhere else. You felt like you were floating, your vision blurred at the edges and you fluttered your eyes shut again, feeling his fingers curl around the waistband of your panties and stall there for a moment. 

Your fading in and out like that threatened to spook him away. You couldn’t be too fucked up. He lightly tapped your cheeks a couple of times, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. "Stay with me, baby," he whispered urgently. "Gotta hear you say it."

“Mmmm,” Dazed, faraway eyes looked up at him, your blown-out pupils mirroring his own. You nodded again, dragging your teeth along your bottom lip. Your pulse raced between your legs, and you felt your hips moving towards him, trying to ride something that wasn’t there yet. “Do it, Dieter, please.”

There we go. He smirked, lifting you from the stack of boxes to push you up against the wall and sinking to his knees. He bunched up the fabric of your dress at your hips, roughly pulling your panties down your legs, the black fabric hanging loosely at one ankle as he lifted your leg to hang over his shoulder.

You shrieked when he slid his tongue through your folds, your knee buckling when he repeated the motion, his strong hands moving up to your hips to support you. His tongue pushed wide against you, him tasting and exploring you as his fingers dug into your hips with bruising force.

He felt fucking amazing. You typically hated when men touched you, especially when you were high, but he felt incredible. You’d give him anything. Despite your rapidly dulling senses, the feeling of his tongue working your clit back and forth was at the front of your mind. He pushed his tongue wide against you again and again, fucking two thick fingers up into you without warning. 

You gasped, your mouth opening wide as you root your fingers into his hair to ground yourself. He wanted to wreck you completely, to smear the dark makeup around your eyes and watch that glossy mouth of yours stretch around his cock. His lips locked around your clit, and as the blood rushed to the bundle of nerves there you threw your head back, chest heaving, loud, wretched moans spilling from your throat.

With your senses dulled, he knew it’d take a little more to send you over the edge. A third finger pushed into you with a stretch, starting slow and working up to get in and out of your tight, soaked cunt. You moved your hips to match his rhythm, your pace hiccuping as he began working you faster and faster, working your clit between his teeth with a pinch.

Your moans were frantic, hitching higher and higher as he confidently worked you towards an orgasm, your surroundings blurring and swirling around you. 

THUD, THUD, THUD. Just as you neared your release, a loud pounding at the door shattered the moment.

He groaned in frustration, pausing briefly before attempting to resume. You struggled to regain your focus, your chest heaving with heavy breaths, nerves coiled tightly at your core.

The knock was followed by a muffled argument and the clanking of keys from the other side of the door. Reluctantly, Dieter's head emerged from between your thighs.

“Fucking assholes,” Dieter grumbled in frustration as he stood up, moving the straps of your dress back up your shoulders and quickly adjusting himself. You steadied yourself with a hand on his shoulder as you pulled your panties back up, frustration pounding angrily between your legs.

“Find me, alright?” He breathed, smoothing out your dress, his hand lingering on your ass and eyes slowly moving up your body. “I’ll take you home.”

You nodded as the door was thrown open, the bright, white light of a flashlight shining into the small room. You stood up straight, quickly fixing your hair in the mirror and sneakily grabbing the small, plastic baggie Dieter left on the counter, hiding it in your fist behind your back.

“Let’s go. Knock this shit off,” a voice bellowed from behind the light, which darted back and forth between you and Dieter. “We’re not doing this in my fucking club, get the fuck out, let’s go!”

“What the fuck is this?” Dieter asks, moving to stand in front of you and block you from the bright light.

“I’m sorry, man, I tried to stop him,” Another voice followed from outside the room. You squinted and peeked over Dieter’s shoulder, annoyance showing on your face. A large bald man in a suit held the flashlight and to his right was the small, douchey-looking guy you recognized from Dieter’s booth. Natalie’s head popped up behind the both of them, looking relieved to have found you.

“You’re not doing drugs on my floor and fucking little girls in my bathroom. That’s it, Bravo. Get the fuck out of here, let’s go,” the angry man repeated. Dieter raised his hands and murmured an apology to you as he shuffled out, one hand poised defensively in front of his face. He pushed out of the room past Natalie, her brows furrowed at him in confusion as he passed. His counterpart flocked to his side, immediately rushing into what sounded like a flurry of explanations and reassurances. Natalie slid into the room smoothly, wrapping an arm around you to usher you out. You stumbled at her side, annoyed and disoriented.

“I’m TWENTY-TWO, ASSHOLE!” You screamed at the man with the flashlight, attempting to shove him with your balled-up fists. He raised his eyebrows, bald head wrinkling and frown deepening. Natalie pulled you away from him quickly and you could hear her apologize behind you. “Don’t tell’um sorry, Nat, ’m not fucking sorry, I was in the fucking bathroom!” you slurred, your voice disjointedly raising and lowering in pitch.

“C’mon, babe, let’s go,” Natalie urged you.

“Yeah, ’s get the fuck outta here,” you agreed, stumbling as she shepherded you out. She handed you your purse and you quickly shoved your hand inside, dropping the half-empty baggie into the side pocket. One or two flashing lights from the crowd gathered at the bar stole your attention for a moment, but it quickly returned to the big, bald, interrupting gorilla with the flashlight. “This place SUCKS!” you screamed as you began to turn back towards him, leashed by Natalie’s grip around your arm.

“Let’s go,” she repeated firmly. You followed her through the crowded bar, stomping across the floor and ignoring the unending stream of heads turning towards you. The two of you shoved out the heavy metal doors of the club, clicking and flashbulbs immediately erupting around you as the cool evening air breezed across your skin. Your name was shouted from your left and right as Natalie dug in her bag for the valet ticket.

“Having fun tonight?” A photographer asked. You rolled your eyes. “Alright, over here, honey,” the same voice continued. With a resigned sigh, you turned to offer a practiced pose, your mind ticking through your media training despite how fucking annoyed you were. Stumbling a couple of times as you attempted to maintain your balance, you moved through a lazy pose or two. You knew the routine - let them get their shot and maybe they'll back off. 

“Partying tonight?” Another voice interjected. Moron.

Natalie finally located the ticket and the valet handed the keys over immediately, your car already parked and waiting curbside. Impulsively, you decided you’d drive, intercepting the keys before Natalie could take them and nearly smacking them out of the attendant’s hand before stumbling towards the vehicle.

“She’s not getting in the driver’s seat. No way,” reasons the voice of a man with a video camera to your left. “There’s no way!”

Another blinding eruption of flashing lights emerged around you. You stared down at your feet as you stumbled forward, trying to see where you were walking through the relentless assault of flashbulbs. Natalie called out your name from behind you. You struggled a couple of times with the handle before throwing the car door open heavily.

“Hey, you can’t drive, honey,” Another voice called out. You rolled your eyes.

You climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door shut, exhaling loudly as the noise of the chaos surrounding you finally muffled. Flashing lights continued, your windshield now completely blocked by cameras. The volume raised again for a moment, a cacophony of voices and camera clicks, as Natalie scrambled into the passenger seat beside you.

“Are these people serious,” you asked, angling your head in towards Natalie and shielding your eyes from the barrage of flashbulbs pointed at you, frustration mounting with each flash. “How’m I supposta drive when they’re fucking blocking me?”

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t.” Natalie said, concern in her voice. “Let me, okay?”

You shook your head adamantly. “’M not going back out there.”

“So climb over,” She suggested.

“Not in this!”

Natalie let out an exasperated sigh, her fingers tapping anxiously on her thighs.

“Hey, since when do you know Dieter Bravo?” She asks, momentarily changing the subject.

“Who? Oh,” you replied, the question registering with you once you answered. The reminder of him sent your attention between your legs and you shifted slightly in your seat. “I dunno. I know’hm from an awards thing.” You offered. It was an unconvincing lie, but Natalie didn’t fight you on it.

“He’s so random,” she laughed. “I can’t believe you hooked up with him. I think my older sister had a poster of him in high school. Right next to River Phoenix.”

“Whatever,” you huffed, everything about this evening now pissing you off.  The incessant clicking of the paparazzi's cameras only added fuel to the fire, and you narrowed your eyes in irritation, slamming your hand down on the horn for a solid ten seconds in a futile attempt to disperse them.

“MOVE!” you yelled, only inciting more flashing lights.

“Let me drive, babe,” Natalie tried again.

“Oh, my god, fuck this,” you snapped, frustration finally boiling over. With your hand still shielding your eyes, you shifted the car into drive. “You're my eyes now.”

“What?! No!” She replied, her voice rising in panic.

“Be my eyes. I’m going.” You repeated. Very slowly, you eased your foot off the brake, the car beginning to inch forward. Voices clamored outside the vehicle.

“Oh my god, um, okay. Go slow. Turn left. Slow!” Natalie began to guide you. The crowd cautiously parted around the car, photographers scrambling to avoid being flattened while still unwilling to sacrifice this shot. “Oh my god, this is so stupid. Slow, slow, slow.”

“They’re fuckin’ stupid! What am I supposed to do?”

“No, yeah, okay, just slow, keep going left.” Natalie's voice trembled slightly as she continued to navigate. The relentless barrage of flashing lights illuminated the interior of the car, casting everything in stark, blinding brightness. “Okay, cut it! Cut it and keep going straight.”

You cut the wheel to the right and straighten it out, cautiously peeking through the gaps in your fingers to confirm you'd cleared the throng of photographers.

“Haha!” you exclaimed, your laughter echoing through the tense air as you slammed the gas pedal to the floor once the street ahead is clear. With a screech of tires, you peel off into the night, Natalie's nervous chuckles mingling with your own laughter. “Bye, assholes!”

You rocketed down Highland with reckless abandon. A couple of familiar vehicles creeped up behind you - regular photographers who paid their bills by stalking you. The driver to the left’s hand hung out the window, a digital camera pointed squarely at you. The light was yellow at the intersection in front of you and you smirked, not letting up on the gas and rolling your window down to flip off the camera as you raced through the intersection just as the light turned red.

“Slow down!” Natalie yelled, panicked, her hand clutching the door handle in a white-knuckled grip. “What is your problem?”

“My problem?! These guys are the ones with the problem,” you fired back, your tone frustrated. “I can’t do anything without getting fucking cornered!” Your car veered dangerously across the yellow lines and Natalie yelped. You overcorrected, the vehicle lurching back into its lane just in time to avoid a collision with an oncoming car, its horn blaring in warning. Natalie’s body stiffened further in her seat as you took a wide right turn onto Sunset. You turn on the radio, a Rihanna song picking up midway through.

“Did he give you something?” she shouted, her tone urgent. You furrowed your brow, shooting her a confused look. “Dieter,” she clarified.

“Oh, right!” you exclaimed, mood shifting as you suddenly remembered the baggie tucked in your purse. “Look what I got us!” You reached for your bag on the passenger floorboard, swerving again. Natalie lunged across the seat, her hands fumbling for the wheel to correct your course, while a chorus of horns blared from the vehicles behind you. Finally retrieving your purse, you fished out the baggie from the side pocket and held it up between your fingers for Natalie to inspect. She grabbed it from you quickly, examining it in her lap.

“What is it?” She asked. You shrugged.

“Coke, I think. Shit, hold on,” you floored the gas to race through another newly red light.

“Stop!” Natalie shrieked. “This is so fucking stupid, dude, let me drive!”

“Jesus, Nat, fine,” you groan, slamming on the brakes. You both jolted forward as the car came to a stop in the middle of the road. “You wanna drive so bad, fine.”

You unlocked the car doors, opening yours slightly and reaching down to unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Are you serious?” She scoffed, disbelief etched across her features as she surveyed the chaotic scene unfolding around you. You nodded in affirmation, a defiant smirk playing on your lips. “You’re such a bitch.”

With a surge of stubborn adrenaline, you stormed out onto Sunset Boulevard, Natalie following suit. The gray Honda belonging to one of the persistent photographers tailed you, coming to a halt beside you as the driver scrambled out, camera at the ready.

“LEAVE ME ALONE” you shouted. “I gave you your shot at the club, I’ve been nice to you guys, what more do you want?!”

You considered what it would take to get him to go away. Words weren’t working. Should you kick his car? Throw something? You began to stumble towards him, interrupted by Natalie yelling your name again. You turned around to see Natalie standing in the street, gaze fixed on the intersection ahead. Your car - which you apparently failed to put into park - was rolling into the intersection on its own. 

With a frantic surge of panic, you and Natalie sprinted after the runaway vehicle, the strobe of camera flashes behind you incessant. Arms flailing, you both desperately signaled to other drivers to stop, your heels clattering against the pavement as you raced towards the car.

As the car veered left, you were powerless to stop it from crashing into a parked BMW at the corner. Rushing to catch up, you flung yourself into the open driver's door, slamming on the brakes and throwing the gear into reverse. You leaned across the cab to fling the passenger door wide open.

“Come on!” You shouted at Natalie as she climbed back into the car. With a tense exhale, you navigated the car backward, turning wide in the intersection before screeching forward.

Your mind was completely clear with pure adrenaline. You were only a few blocks away from the hotel now, the castle-shaped outline shrouded in trees just ahead on your right. You floored it, a tense silence hanging in the car, both you and Natalie’s eyes locked forward on the road in front of you.

Only slowing down to make a right turn into the hotel driveway, you didn’t bother waiting for the valet. Tossing your keys onto the driver’s seat, you left the door ajar as you stormed through the garage toward your room, ready to put this evening behind you.

[chansaw]

on red and blue symbolism in heathers: an essay

i read one of those buzzfeed listicles the other day that was like “crazy fun facts and secrets about your favorite 80s movies!” and one of the first fun facts was “did you know that in heathers, every character is associated with a color?” that’s not a fun fact. it’s not even a secret. heathers is a lot of things but one thing it’s not is subtle. heathers practically beats the viewer over the head with color symbolism but in this essay, i would particularly like to draw attention to the colors red and blue and their significance in heathers’ narrative.

a short preface: when possible, i cite stills sourced from the movie itself. some images, however, are served better by the gif format, so whenever i post a gif i will also cite the tumblr user who made it. if your gifs are used in this post and you would like me to remove them, please let me know.

okay, with that out of the way, let's start at the beginning (naturally). below is the title card. right away, the cinematographers inundate the viewer with red, informing the viewer that red (and whoever wears it) will be significant to the narrative.

red represents the social order and the natural hierarchy of predators and prey at westerburg. red is omnipresent throughout the production design of the school's campus.

by assuming the color of the school itself, heather chandler assumes control of the school. and when she drags veronica along to the remington party to help boost their reputation, the whole dorm is bathed in red light.

when we first meet veronica, she's wearing gray and black, with only occasional pops of blue (the brooch in the outfit above, her croquet mallet, etc) but as veronica's discomfort and unease begins to grow, something interesting begins to happen!

blue light slowly begins to creep into the frame, and once veronica has finally had enough of brad's bullshit, it becomes even more prominent. just as red represents control of the social hierarchy, blue symbolizes discontent and rejection of the social order.

(gif by @/fireairshadow)

meanwhile, heather chandler isn't having a great time at the party either. this scene is the only time in the film we see heather chandler completely alone, in a moment of vulnerability and self loathing, and she's surrounded by the color blue.

(gif by @/tibby ily tibby)

and then all hell breaks loose. i honestly dont think one image or gif alone can do this scene justice so im linking to tibby's (beautifully colored) gifset of the scene.

note how as veronica declares war ("lick it up, baby!"), red and blue lights flicker across her face. and as heather promises to ruin veronica in turn, the red light casts heather's face in shadow and overpowers the blue.

of course, heather never gets the chance to make good on this promise because veronica and jd kill her. and that may have been a mistake, but the color of their poison is quite deliberate.

(gif by @/nowadayz)

and right before she dies, she takes off her red scrunchie - conceding her control.

of course, heather's death doesn't mean her exit from the narrative. red lingers throughout the rest of the film. but guess what color veronica wears to the funeral?

tumblr is a little bitch and i dont have the time or energy to expound upon the rest of my argument at the moment. it's probably been examined and analyzed in greater detail by people smarter and far more eloquent than me. but i'll conclude with veronica's reclamation of the red scrunchie at the end of the film. you could choose to interpret this as veronica conceding to the hierarchy even after all she's been through, but i choose to interpret it as a bitter compromise.

(gif by @/nowadayz)

and so it ends the way it begins.

anyways all this to say vote for chansaw in the @redandbluebracket tomorrow or i'll kill you.

ETA: a note to anyone who came to my blog from this post - hi! you don’t have to like chansaw romantically/as a ship. im not expecting to proselytize and convert people en masse (although if you HAVE been converted, welcome). even without the shipping element, i believe that veronica and hc’s dynamic as character foils is the backbone of the narrative, which is why i genuinely think they deserve to win the red and blue bracket. vote here. my name is heather chansaw and i approve this message.

[jiminrings]

as a psych student learning something about human development, i wanna know how the couple will be all around the internet searching about shits in parenting. OR MAYBE one of them starts overanalyzing or over observing their baby bcoz they saw those articles abt childs development AND THEY WANT TO BE A GOOD PARENT

does that scream jungkook to me? yes, im picturing him in that position but it can be y/n too!! AM SO EXCITED FOR THE NEW ERA BABE!!

478: drabble

alternatively, a glimpse of hwayoung’s first 100 days <3

[ 478 masterlist ]

DAY 13

“Hi, pretty girl,” Jungkook hovers above Hwayoung as she lies on her back, much to her curiosity and much to your amusement.

“Heyyy-…” Jungkook drawls as he goes from the center of the foot of the bed all the way to the side, suddenly straightening up as he does a standing long jump all the way to the other, “….pretty girl!”

Your daughter doesn’t seem to be amused as you but she still watches her dad anyway, making you snort so hard that the grogginess you’ve had from the night before starts to dissipate.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s week two. I’m trying to see if Hwayoung can track things with her eyes; that’s supposed to be a milestone this week.”

“Where did you get that from?” you wonder out loud, trying to recall if you read that anywhere from the pamphlet that her pediatrician gave you.

Jungkook sounds almost offended that you’re asking him to cite his sources, making him scoff playfully. “My instincts.”

You try not to bring up Jungkook’s constant indecisiveness and his need for approval whenever it came to tending to Hwayoung, yet with just one look, he scoffs as he changes his answers.

“The pedia.”

Your glance is empty and you’re just about to believe it because sometimes, you have to talk Jungkook out of texting the doctor at godforsaken hours in the morning just because he has a question. 

He mistakes your glance for something more and instantly he relents, shoulders sagging as he huffs. “Fine, it’s the parenting subreddit.”

DAY 32

“Is it just me or is Hwayoung not starting to coo yet?” you mumble under your breath, startling Jungkook awake not because you suddenly spoke while he’s only shallowly sleeping, but because it’s the same thing on his mind.

“Not just you. I thought I was going crazy,” he sighs, pinching his eyes. Surely enough, your daughter knows how to cry and shriek, but she isn’t at that stage yet where she mimics the basic syllables that you echo to her. 

You sigh, rethinking the past few days with utter concentration just to see if you’ve missed a milestone. Jungkook thinks as hard as you, eyes fluttering to see Hwayoung awake in her crib but peacefully just looking up at the toys.

Jungkook stands up as you list off the things you’ve searched on your own, crouching down to get Hwayoung off her crib so the both of you can fawn over her more closely as you ponder over her (incoming) milestones. He’s less nervous now when it comes to picking her up because supporting her comes to him like second nature now, however no matter how secure she is in his hold, Jungkook overlooked the possibility of his entire head bumping against the overhead toys.

He hits his head so hard against the base of it that he hears a resounding slap against his skull, but apart from that, he hears something else — Hwayoung cooing.

You immediately squeal in celebration, clapping your hands that makes your daughter turn her eyes to you this time. Jungkook blinks once, twice before breaking out into a grin.

He settles Hwayoung on your lap, walks over to the crib again before crouching, and prepares an act.

DAY 65

When you walk out of the bathroom fresh from your shower, the first thing that greets you is the sight of two figures laying down on the mat; one delicate in her new onesie, and the other clearly overgrown for the playpen.

“It’s tummy time.”

Jungkook calls out to you even if you don’t beg for an explanation, craning his neck to look at you from behind him. His nose almost dives to the floor if not for you snickering at how you have to walk backwards just to catch him and Hwayoung in the same frame.

“How’s the neck?”

“Hmm, it’s a little sore. I fell asleep on the couch again,” Jungkook frowns, rolling out the tensions with his knuckles. He pleasantly hums at the pressure, eyes blinking until he realizes why you’ve never responded to him. He sheepishly chuckles, scratching his head. “Oh. You meant Hwayoung.”

DAY 100

Hwayoung can’t just seem to stop giggling.

Her laughter has no real agenda behind it but its common theme revolves around Jungkook fumbling for something one way or another, the current fit of laughter your daughter’s in now being your husband fumbling for the strings of Miso’s collar (that he crocheted himself) that goes with the party theme.

There’s a distinct warmth that spreads in your chest, less of recalling that Hwayoung’s milestones are on time and more of the realization that you have everything you’ve ever hoped for; your very own family getting ready in the dressing room where just outside, all of your closest family, friends, and colleagues wait to celebrate Hwayoung’s first 100 days.

“Jungkook?”

He hums at the mention of his name, brows furrowed in frustration because Miso won’t just stay still but he still gives you attention. He straightens up immediately at the way your eyes seem glassy, and normally, he’d race towards you at the very first sight of you being down.

Jungkook, however, doesn’t have to do anything because Hwayoung coos and giggles once again, reaching her hand out in such a smooth and controlled manner that her little fist hovers above your face, almost as if she’s willing for the happy tears to stay inside.

You burst into laughter at that, the tears still coming to show that you’re so overwhelmed and happy — it actually stings. Your eyes flicker between your husband and your daughter, a grin making its way to your lips.

“Love you.”

[sixty-silver-wishes]

talking to Actual shostakovich scholars is so weird lol. like I know way more about shostakovich than the average music history enthusiast. but I just got off the phone with an Actual Scholar and I feel like I know basically nothing. like Yeah I’ve read most of the basic english language sources and some of the russian ones. but I’ve never actually been like. in the archives. literally anything I’ve been able to access has already been published and made publicly available. I don’t do actual musicology; I’m just very very interested. so it’s really cool to speak to the people who have been in the research trenches. but also very humbling lol

also !! if I post anything about shostakovich (or any historical subject), I will try to cite my sources whenever possible. if you learn something from me, great, but do not cite me as a source. refer to the sources that I’ve cited instead, and if they’re secondary sources, try to find the primary sources that they cite. I care about historical integrity and I try to do my best, but I’m not an expert.

[trainingdummyrabbit]

What do you think of aroace spectrum angela or like. any variant idk

REAL AND TRUE AND CORRECT. NOT TAKING ARGUMENTS AT THIS TIME <3

like. ok ive definitely spoken abt it offhand sometime before so im just going to use this opportunity to aimlessly ramble ok? ok. hyperfixation trap card.

like yeah theres the whole 'only having rep thats robots and aliens and etc' thing which is very much a fair and appropriate response, but also like. at a point you Do just kinda have to go 'Man Just Look At Her.'

i certainly couldnt say it as well as other folks, but... Man Just Look At Her. theres so many threads that are Literally Right There, its kinda hard Not to. id have to study again n cite my sources or whatever but also this is my house. ok.

like theres the obvious 'i see you as a friend' interaction with her and roland sometime mid-to-late ruina, which is. again. Its Right There. but its also the way she looks in lobcorp, and the instant she gets any agency she immediately veers in a completely different direction. (as a reclamation of self, as another small rebellion, as an exploration of how She would like to present herself and be seen)

its that interaction with xiao, her genuine confusion towards the concept of lovers, what they are, what makes it so different from any other sort of person. (as a jab towards her own isolation, the values she was made to uphold, her unfamiliarity towards cityfolk and the ways they carry themselves-- and that seeming contradiction of that affection vs. the way she was told cityfolk Work.)

angela, to me, feels like the type of character to simply Be. for lack of a better term. its a difficult concept to Describe in a way that makes sense, (despite me being, how do you say, In The Same Boat.) its something i could see her toss around out of curiosity, but honestly just... not really care for. she has things to do.

like... angela is just. a very cut and dry character, to put it in a way. she just kinda states things as they are, sometimes rather bluntly. its hard to elaborate because things simply Are. plain and simple, no need to fuss over it. and thats what this feels like itd be, yknow?

also iam just shrimply. forever an angela+roland qpr truther. tbh. like i dont know what the Hell those two have going on but you literally Cannot separate them. i hesitate to call it 'love,' because. well yes, but also no. but also kind of? but not quite. again, it just Is. they simply Are.

its one of those things that just feels Odd seeing her in any other context, in regards to romance or whatever. which is tied to a whole slew of other problems only tangentially related to the subject (shipping content bias, character simplification, and so on and so on,) but its just... man she would Not fucking say that. she would not Do that, she would not Act that way.

like i certainly believe it Is possible to have romantic interpretations with her, but its gonna be. Specific. with the way she carries herself, how she acts, and how she reacts to things. even with the romantic elements, itd still dip into aro experience territory, if you know what im saying. like whoever it is, this shit isnt going to fit into Roles and Archetypes, like how a lot of folks like to write ship content. for lack of a better descriptor, its gonna be Weird.

and thats honestly whats so frustrating about it! you Can have an interesting through-line and interpretation of that sort of thing, but a lot of the time whenever i (rarely) see it, its just... Typical Beauty Standards, Hot Secretary Lady, Scary Controlling Whatever the hell like... i hate t judge but cmon guys we can do so much better than that. ironically, wheres the Love? the respect for who she is, the curiosity on exploring that sort of thing with who she Is? guys come On...

which. grain of salt, because its not like i search out ship content, yknow. im not gonna speak like an authority for stumbling onto stuff sometimes. the fact that it isnt so popular and in-your-face is genuinely refreshing honestly, but. tangent.

anyway arospec angela agenda never sleeps and iam one of the strongest soldiers. the ace is Non Negotiable come back later with a warrant so i can Not Look At It. (<- this is a bit. (<- but im serious.)) thankyou. bows.

[lostlegendaerie]

"you are not immune to propaganda" expands to text posts by ordinary tumblr accounts btw. and TikToks. and tweets. and anything that makes statements about the world or anything beyond one individual's experience without citing sources.

there's this thing called an anecdotal argument, or an anecdotal fallacy, and it's about how incredibly convincing we humans find a personal story. looking at a study on how essential oils can only be moderately linked to improvements in things like stress, anxiety, etc. is only so convincing - watching someone on TikTok tell you that essential oils gave them a skin rash (or alternately cured their skin rash) is going to *feel* much more convincing because there's a person you feel like you 'know' behind it. even if that person isn't real.

I don't think there's harm in empathizing with people when they share their triumphs and hardships; I am not suggesting that any social media platform is inherently bad, nor am I suggesting that other news sources are inherently factual. But I think it's extremely important to remember, whenever you see something that provokes a strong emotion in you:

Am I falling for engagement bait? And who benefits from my instinctual reaction to share this media?

whenever possible - and it is almost always possible! - verify not only the facts presented in the post/video, but the conclusion they're drawing.

[deathlessathanasia]

It's so funny (and annoying) seeing people associate Artemis with the moon and Apollo with the sun. Like, people? That's Roman gods Diana and Apollo.

As far as I know Apollo was associated only with the light in Greek mythology but not with the sun, right? That was Helios. And of course Artemis had nothing to do with the moon.

I can see what you mean. It is particularly annoying when "god of the sun/goddess of the moon" are used as their primary identifications, and one of my biggest pet peeves in Trojan War retellings is the characters calling the sun Apollo. It's so anachronistic please stop.

That said, while this idea doesn't really seem to be attested in the Archaic period, the association between these two gods and the sun and moon apparently existed in Classical Greece. To quote Timothy Gantz's Early Greek Myth: A Guide to Literary and Artistic Sources:

„Whatever his other early interests, no source prior to the fifth century ever calls (Apollo) the sun (the latter is always Helios or Hyperion). Parmenides and Empedokles may have done so, if a late source can be trusted, but seemingly in the context of philosophic structures that found physical equivalents for many of the gods. Eventually, and for perhaps the same reasons, the idea also surfaces in Orphic texts. But the first sure literary identification of Apollo with the sun occurs no earlier than Euripides, in a fragment of his lost Phaethon (fr 781.10-12 N2), and we cannot tell from the text whether the innovation is his or something previously in circulation. Earlier in the century there are admittedly some suspect moments in Aischylos on this point: we have seen that the playwright probably does link the moon with Artemis (fr 170 R), and his Hiketides (212–14) has been thought by some to call the rays of the sun Apollo. In addition, the same poet's lost Bassarides may have contained a reference to the dismemberment of Orpheus by those women, who we are told were sent by Dionysos because Orpheus ignored him and worshipped only Helios, whom he called Apollo (p. 138 R).

I must confess that I am skeptical of most of this evidence: the tale of Orpheus comes from Ps-Eratosthenes, who cites Aischylos for one brief point near the end of the story, suggesting that the rest of the account (including Helios/Apollo) derives from other sources (Katast 24). 37 As for the Hiketides, the link between Apollo and the sun there is achieved largely by emendation of an (admittedly corrupt) text that originally implied just the opposite. 38 And while different plays are entitled to different views, we should note that in the Choephoroi Helios is addressed by Orestes in a way that emphasizes his separation from Apollo (Cho 984-86). Still, there is the reference to Artemis as the moon, if we have read the fragment correctly. Whenever the connection between god and sun was made, it was surely fostered by Apollo's title of Phoibos, used so often by Homer and the Hymn to Apollo (with or without Apollo added), and meaning (or thought to mean) "shining." But on balance we should probably conclude that the myths of the Archaic period (virtually) always made Helios and Apollo two separate figures; they are never confused in early art.”

In the Iliad scholia, the Theomachy from Books 20-21 is interpreted allegorically and Artemis is said to represent the moon (Hera the air, Hermes reason, etc, and possibly Theagenes of Rhegium (6th century BCE) is responsible for this idea. I can't confirm though whether or not he was cited as a source in the scholia, I'll need to look more into this. Artemis is clearly associated with the moon by Greek authors dating from the Roman period (ex. Plutarch), but her identification with the moon goddess Diana most probably explains why.

Personally I don't refer to Artemis as the goddess of the moon or Apollo the god of the sun, let alone as the actual moon or sun.

[literary-illuminati]

Book Review 11 - The Comanche Empire by Pekka Hämäläinen

Okay, second history book of the year! I actually liked this one, so the review’s probably not going to break 2,000 words like my one of The Bright Ages did nope never mind.

Anyway, this has been on my tbr for something like a year now, having ended up there for the incredibly nerdy reason of ‘got cited in a blog post about how bad the historical accuracy of the Dorthraki in game of thrones is’, and more broadly just because I remain shamefully uniformed about North American indigenous history beyond the highlights. So, for example, this book has expanded my knowledge of the 17th-19th century southwest several times over, and my knowledge of the indigenous people’s there from, well, not quite nothing, but not too far from it either.

This is actually the second book of Hamalainen’s I’ve read -I’d previously gotten my hands on his Lakota America, which is the more recent work. I rather wish I’d taken better notes as I read it, honestly, feels like a more complete/detailed compare and contrast would be interesting.

Anyways – so the book’s got both a broader historiographical/polemical thesis and then also the specific guiding narrative for its particular subject matter. The broader thesis is essentially that indigenous peoples in the Americas were full and active agents of history, and for centuries after the Columbian Exchange many of them were quite rich and powerful and had significant freedom of action – history isn’t just something that rolls in from the east, which people were then effected by or reacted to, they weren’t just trapped in antediluvian ways of life politely waiting for Progress to arrive. It’s a point he returns to in his latter work, but it certainly one that still seems like it needs making.

His specific thesis for the book, though, is that between the early 18th and late 19th centuries, the Comanche were able to create a real nomadic empire in what became the American southwest, driving out or incorporating rival nations to essentially dominate all the best land for the intensive dual pastoral/hunting economy they developed on the southern plains, and reducing the colonial states of New Mexico and Texas (and at different times Louisiana and almost all of northern Mexico) to the status of imperial tributaries or raiding hinterlands. It was only with the collapse of the buffalo population and the resulting famine (combined with smallpox) that the US Army and the rivers of settlers from Texas and further east were able to seize the southwest and convert it into an agrarian economy.

The book’s very much published by Yale University Press, and not exactly easy reading. It is, however, really very light on jargon, or at least makes sure to introduce all its terms and be clear in their use and meanings. The lack of Comanche written records means Hamalainen mostly has to rely on colonial sources or the reports of merchants and traders, so he has made an explicit point of trying to cross reference multiple such sources from different colonizers whenever possible, and especially for all his significant claims. Besides only barely glancing at the endnotes, I honestly found it really very readable, if dry.

Politics and colonialism aside, one thing Hamalainen really does an excellent job getting across is how revolutionary the (re-)introduction of horses to the Great Plains was. He frames it in terms of access to energy – having horses allows you to being exploiting the massive amounts of calories in the grasses and inedible plant life of the prairies, increasing the total amount of energy you have to do work several times over. Especially when the southern great plains are basically the ideal environment for horses, and their population started exploding basically the second the Spaniards lost track of a breeding pair.

You don’t realize how much easier a nomadic life gets when you upgrade from dogs to horses or mules for pack animals, and how much incredibly more efficiently you can hunt buffalo when you’re not doing it on foot and don’t have to haul back everything you take by hand. Not even getting into how much it shrinks the world in terms of trade and communication, or the massive advantage in being able to dominate hunting grounds and win wars. All incredibly obvious things I just hadn’t particularly thought about.

All this is especially relevant with the Comanche, because from the late eighteenth through mid nineteenth centuries they basically made themselves the fulcrum of the horse trade on a continental scale, with herds that put basically everyone else to shame and an incredibly lucrative business raiding Texas for horses and mules and trading them along with ones they’d raised or tamed themselves north and east.

Speaking of ‘raiding’ – the ‘empire’ in the book’s title isn’t just there to grab attention. The whole book is organized around the thesis that the Comanche both essentially migrated into and conquered the southern Great Plains with a mixture of warfare, diplomacy, and incorporating other groups, and then – along with making themselves the centre of an incredibly lucrative trading network that reached across most of the continent, with Comanche becoming an increasingly common language for trade even quite far from their actual territories – reduced the sedentary and agrarian communities around them (both indigenous and colonial) to the status of an exploited imperial periphery.

This was especially the case in Texas and New Mexico, the former being used as an intensive raiding hinterland and source of livestock well into the mid nineteenth century (at several points raided until the point of near-collapse), and the latter a collection of entrepots, whose governors provided annual tribute and whose towns traded at favourable rates for Comanche goods with the variably explicit promise that failure to do so would be rectified by raiding to make up the difference of a fair exchange. By the time of the Mexican-American War, the governor of the state was more or less openly defying the central government and maintaining a stance of pro-Comanche neutrality in the conflicts between the two.

This peaked in the early-mid nineteenth century, with essentially all of northern Mexico being reduced to an extraction zone for massive annual raids, and individual states or towns negotiating without any real reference to the larger Mexican state, often providing information and scouts to help attack their neighbours in exchange for immunity.

Which actually leads into one of what seemed to me to be one of the book’s more striking claims – that Mexico’s performance in the Mexican-American war can largely be put down to the fact that northern Mexico was only nominally part of the country even before the Americans invaded. There was little appetite for fighting and dying for Mexico City as the Americans moved in because from locals perspective Mexico City had been failing them quite comprehensively for years. (The decision to invite Anglo settlers into Texas is also put down as an attempt to create a shield against Comanche raiding, and the failures of Mexican attempts to reconquer it down to the lack of logistics and organization that resulted from all the possible staging grounds being de facto hostile territory).

Anyways, war and high politics aside, the book was excellent at describing what was actually involved in a nomadic economy on the southern Great Plains. The yearly schedule of raids and hunts, and the importance of river valleys to winter in (and the resulting conflict with sedentary/agricultural communities living in those valleys full-time) is just fascinating. The massively increased efficiency of an entirely hunting/pastoral lifestyle being matched by how fragile it was, likewise- it was vitally importance to get maize and other plant calories through trade or tribute to avoid protein poisoning from an all-meat diet. (Which, like, not actually a thing I’d known to worry about!) Likewise, the fact that horses and buffalo ate basically the same grasses and flourished in the same habitats imposed some real tensions on raising herds of the one while hunting the other – and the fact that even just passing through en route to California, a wagon train of settlers was immensely destructive, stripping river valleys of feed and firewood that was needed for winter camps, not even mentioning all the hunting they did.

One thing that definitely struck me – and the same thing happened with the Lakota, if I’m recalling Hamalainen’s other book correctly – is how the massive increase in prosperity over the 18th/19th century actually made Comanche society massively more patriarchal. Hunting was traditionally a man’s role, and treating/preparing the hide his daughter or wife’s. But a mounted and firearm-wielding man can kill way more buffalo than a single woman can possibly handle, and buffalo robes were, along with horses and captives (either for ransom or as slaves) one of the main trade goods Comanche rancherias used to buy guns, maize, metal cookwear, or whatever else they might need.

The result was a massive spread and institutionalization of polgyny, with junior wives essentially being labourers in the household manufacturing business. With the wealthiest and most important men often having dozens of wives, this rather unsurprisingly had the effect of creating a large class of peripheral young men with strong collective interests in raiding or feuding with neighbouring communities, either to win enough prestige and wealth to attract a wife, or just to kidnap and forcibly marry someone during the raiding. The fact that even as inequality grew more and more extreme, social mobility remained fairly high – among men, of course, but there don’t seem to have been real aristocratic dynasties – is a big part of the explanation Hamalainen gives for why the pressure and tension was all focused outward, and internal Comanche politics remained fairly peaceful and consensus driven (if increasingly oligarchic.)

The economic importance of slavery and the slave trade to just...everything in the region until the late 19th century was also something I probably should have known but still kind of took me by surprise, honestly. Kidnapping people from outlying ranches or other indigenous nations on the Great Plains and selling them to the colonial elite was an extremely lucrative trade throughout the Spanish colonial period, which mostly just transitioned to ‘ransoming’ them after theoretical legal crackdowns. According to Hamalainen, the Comanche didn’t initially practice slavery internally, but after a smallpox epidemic decimated their population several times over around the turn of the nineteenth century they turned to it in a pretty big way to have enough labor to sustain their economy and trade relationships (a fairly temporary kind of slavery, it should be noted, with most seemingly eventually being integrated as full members of the community. Which did mean the pressure to go raid for more was ever present.)

The book was an incredible trove of examples of things where I had previously sort of thought something that was just the result of individual greed or brutal social pressures was actually just, like, consciously racist/imperialist state policy on the part of New Spain or the United States. Either ineffective and kind of comical (Spanish policy for a good bit was to intentionally sell the Comanche secondrate and fragile guns so they’d break more often and they’d be more continually dependent on Spanish goodwill. They just started buying from the British) or extremely effective and pretty consciously genocidal (buffalo overhunting for greed and capitalism reasons was absolutely cratering the population, but at a certain point it was absolutely the policy of the US Army to just destroy the economic basis of Comanche independence.)

I honestly have no idea whether Hamalainen is trying to prove too much, but the argument he makes for the eventual American invasion and conquest of the plains – that the actually armed conflicts were kind of besides the point, because Comanche power had already been pretty thoroughly decimated by a late breaking smallpox outbreak and buffalo-overhunting induced famine, combined with mostly successful efforts to suppress their trading connections in now-American New Mexico, and that the actual campaigns were less battles and more intentional campaigns to destroy their winter villages and the food and goods stores within – seems to hold together and make sense.

Anyway, yeah, heavy and dry book, not exactly cheery reading, but incredibly interesting and informative read. Would recommend, if ‘350 pages of book followed by 150 of endnotes, index and bibliography’ is the sort of thing that appeals.

[fitzrove]

do you, as tumblr's Resident Rudolf Expert, have any tips on writing his internal monologue? because i'm currently trying and failing.

Ahh, thanks for asking!!! It's very flattering that you value my opinion on this >:]

The way I approach it is usually (at least subconsciously) based on this, my favourite anecdote about him:

For me there's always a lot of bitterness, a lot of cynicism and hence complaining, and yet a spark of hope somewhere underneath it that things could get better. I have a terrible habit of always writing similar kind of cynical POV characters though,,,,, because it's also similar to how my own inner monologue functions 💀😂😭... He's not super articulate when he's just thinking to himself (especially if under the influence of something which is not infrequent lol), sometimes trains of thought might start and end within the same sentence. I also tend to put in some cognitive dissonance, because I definitely see the inherent contradictions between his status and ideals (he's obsessed with mingling with the common folk but smart enough to know he can't really be level with them) and between his different overlapping roles (Rudolf the dutiful son can't work towards the same goals that Rudolf the ambitious statesman feels he must) as contributing to his mental state.

But I also like to put in some subtle (dark) humor, it's quite apparent to me that he had a sense of one whenever biographers quote his letters! Though that is also part of how I like to write in general 😁 Also there is some level of grace/charm and also intelligence naturally, he knows how to get what he wants or at least tries to intentionally make things go in his favour, and that also plays into how he thinks about things - he's a strategist and not above manipulating people. So in his inner thoughts I write Rudolf as tending to be looking for opportunities, even if he's not as good at it as say, [musical?]Taaffe.

So, that's tone stuff. For the actual content I will often (given that most of my todolf oneshots start with Rudolf despairing over something hahaha):

1) think of what's bothering him or on his mind right now (enough to whine/talk about it)

2) as he's whining about it, connect it back to something else that's also bothering him or generally on his mind (I usually pick from: childhood memories/childhood trauma, relationships with specific people important to him, current events that he's observed or knows about and has an opinion on, random interests like hunting/science/sex. Lol I think his life outside his job actually revolves around those come to think of it 😂💀. Sometimes these references come from historical events that I know happened, but other times I will make up stuff that I think would fit, like I do not cite with sources every love affair he's had in the past in my fics ajdkdkfkd some I just make up - even though I do think I'm prone to excessive research in some areas.)

3) this is because I write todolf fic lol, but usually after enough complaining Rudolf will start thinking about Him (personified depression boyfriend) and the aforementioned may or may not make an appearance hahaha. And Tod always knows what buttons to push, because what he's saying and doing are a more extreme and violent and hence (usually) sexual version of Rudolf's internal monologue.

Anyway - this is only one way to write him, a lot of it doesn't have a direct basis in musical canon so actually it's no more "accurate" than possible other interpretations. But I find that it's easier to write when Rudolf has a specific thing he's thinking about and when he's thinking about it in a Rudolf way akdlsldl, which to me means filtering it so his interests and obsessions and his specific varieties of trauma and psychic damage (but also more positive things from his background!) get emphasised 😌😁

[8bityinyang]

Annoying Head Twitch [cw/tw: rant, discussion of anti-autistic ableism, ABA, and psychological abuse, broken foot]

[cw/tw: rant, discussion of anti-autistic ableism, ABA, and psychological abuse, broken foot]

I don't know if anyone's gonna see this, but if any of you here do, it's great to have you here.

I hope you don't mind me ranting here on something that's been really bothering me recently, but I've been having this thing for a while where my head twitches uncontrollably on occasion whenever I'm distressed, which is very often due to having my psychologically abusive parents constantly trigger my autistic burnout. It's completely involuntary and it causes me a great amount of pain whenever it happens.

The uncontrollable nature of this is the worst part about it because it can happen anywhere at any time and there seems to be absolutely nothing I can do about it. It even happened in the Modern Dance class that I have this semester, and not only does this hurts me, it's really embarrassing when it happens and I'm always afraid that it, along with my already-existing shakey hand stims (which I don't have a problem with at all and don't want to have to hide if I don't have to) that came out of me since my recent college-era efforts to unmask my autistic traits, may possibly detriment my grade, but maybe I'm reaching here, though I have my doubts as my college has given me a hard time about my Autism before (I'm not comfortable disclosing specific events or details at the moment, so please do not ask about that).

The thing with my hands hasn't really been much of a problem at all so far as everyone on-campus seems to be fine with it and pretty understanding.

It's just that my distressed uncontrollable head twitches, which I remember had developed within the last year (2022) at around Fall, after my recovery from my now formerly-broken foot (I had broken it by accident at home on March 16, 2022 when I slipped down the stairs like an absolute imbecile), have become a really big problem for me and, if possible, I would really like some advice on how I can make this head twitching stop because it's really bothering me and I know that the more I force it to stop, the more it will happen.

Do not interact with this post in any way if you are only here to try to pressure me into ABA again. It is an abusive practice that has been confirmed to increase likeliness for suicidality and post-traumatic distress within autistic individuals. (Cassidy et al., 2018) (Kupferstein, 2018)

Cited Sources:

Cassidy, S., Bradley, L., Shaw, R., & Baron-Cohen, S. (2018, July 31). Risk markers for suicidality in autistic adults. Molecular autism. Retrieved January 31, 2023, from https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/30083306/  

Kupferstein, H. (2018, January 2). Evidence of increased PTSD symptoms in autistics exposed to applied behavior analysis. Advances in Autism. Retrieved January 31, 2023, from https://www.emerald.com/insight/content/doi/10.1108/AIA-08-2017-0016/full/html 

[age-of-moonknight]

Baruch Haba!

Welcome to all visitors and sundry other travelers of the night!  Thanks for stopping by and I’m happy you’re here. If you’d like to filter out material from the newest comics, filter the tag “latest release.”

This started out as just a place for me to record things I found of interest as I read through all of Moon Knight’s 616 comic book appearances, but since (surprisingly????) some individuals seem interested in following along, I thought I would make a bit of an information post.

Post content

Typically, I try to stick to posting just the panel/s of note and a source citation.  I would highly encourage those who are interested to look up or purchase the original comics themselves, as the comic book industry could always use more support (and I at least would value hearing all of your opinions).

Citation format (bit of a mutated MLA style): “Individual Comic Title,” Comic Book Title (vol. #/year of volume’s first issue), #issue number. Writer: name; Penciler: name; Inker: name; Colorist: name; Letterer: name (Let me know if I miss anything or if any of you would like me to add anything more that might be of use).

Tags

Tagging System: At the moment, my current system involves tagging, amongst other things, the name of the cited comic book and reoccurring characters that appear on panel.  Note: I try to tag “Steven Grant” or “Jake Lockley” whenever those alters are either mentioned or when fronting so as best to facilitate archiving purposes.  After that you can find any personal comments I might have in the tags, which you can read or ignore entirely at your own convenience.  What I have to say isn’t critical; I’m just here to read comics hahaha

Some Commonly Used Tags:

1. Let’s get this bread: started as a joke about Marc’s insistence on using the term “bread” in reference to money in his first appearances, but now I use it to tag comic book covers and the beginning of when I start posting about a new comic book issue.  I also use “let’s get this other bread” for variant covers.

2. Comics are why my sense of humor is broken: I blame learning to read via the 1963 Amazing Spider-Man comics for why I love really corny humor.  Expect to find groan-inducingly bad jokes and general comic book wackiness within this tag.

3. Sometimes comics are bad and I hate them: As much as I admittedly love comic books, there are some thematic elements endemic to the comic book industry (as a relic of the times they were published or due to creator biases) that are not, nor in many cases never have been, okay.  Filter out this tag if you would rather screen posts for racist, misogynist, or ableist content.

4. Where’s Moony: For when Moon Knight’s lurking in the background as a cameo.

A derivative of this tag is “Moon Knight is in this issue I swear.” My initial goal to post the cover of every comic book issue Moon Knight has appeared in has backfired a little in that some appear to be non-sequiturs.  But yeah there’s a Moon Knight cameo I swear

5. Knight Mail: My responses to any asks I may get.

6. Not Moony: I’ll try to limit the off-topic content as much as possible but sometimes other things do catch my interest.

Let me know if there’s anything else you would like for me to add here and I’ll look into it.  Thanks again for following along and welcome to the Midnight Mission! 

[augustheart]

Do you have any writing advice? :)

oh jeez. i don't know. maybe?

try to think in the voices of your characters. if you're writing fanfiction for something where they have a canon pre-existing voice that you've heard, that makes it easier, but if you're writing in the voice of one of your original characters, try finding a voice that you think is the closest approximation to what they would sound like and playing it in your head saying what you want the character to say. they don't have to look like whatever or whoever you choose, but i personally find it helpful to give characters real voices of some kind while i'm writing dialogue.

whether you're writing fanfiction or original fiction or nonfiction, check your sources as much as possible. try to find at least one more that cites what you're saying, one where the source isn't just the other one you found. (remember that serious historical fiction book that used a legend of zelda recipe because it was the first thing that author found?)

don't just spellcheck at the end, do it basically whenever you feel like pausing for a bit. it helps. this is something i myself should probably do more often, but whatever.

writing rules really don't matter as much in dialogue. use a bunch of contractions, repeat words, etc. if it feels clunky try reading it out loud. if it still does, rework it, if it feels like it fits the tone of where the story is, leave it and maybe come back to it. this is another time when having a character's voice in your head comes in handy.

acting out certain positions can be very helpful. you don't need to do this every time, but if you're kind of stuck on where an action can go, pretending to it can be useful. and if you know what you want the character to do but are struggling to describe it, doing it yourself can also help you think about how someone else would look at it. (like, for example, leaning back from a crouch and catching yourself on your hands, or rocking back on your feet and bringing your fists up.)

sorry if this isn't useful. it's just things i personally do and try to keep in mind while i'm writing regardless of what i'm writing about. i tried to make them apply to fanfiction and original fiction equally, which is kind of interesting because my real original works tend to be nonfiction. but i'm not sure if i have any nonfiction writing advice aside from what i mentioned about sources up there.

[tomwambsgans]

man, i like your blog and shit but if you're having ocd meltdowns whenever someone has a different interpretation of the characters, it makes engaging with you kinda impossible. it's a small fandom and is getting smaller each day, don't spend half of your time complaining about other people's fics and posts and then act surprised when the vibe sucks

is this solely in response to that one recent late-night rant i posted? bc i'm getting the sense that this may also be about posts on my main, and if it is, then tbqh i'm gonna say that i need somewhere to vent for venting's sake or else i'll go even more insane. so like, i'll concede that maybe i should just remove my main url from my blog bio or something. but other than that, i try genuinely hard to keep my fr meltdowns to myself and, when i make meta posts on here that are fueled by the motivation to reassure myself, to still cite my sources and whatnot and put real meat in the posts bc it's really important to me to not feel like i'm talking out of my ass. and also to make posts that other people will want to see. my recent more personal posts about it are bc lately i'm not having a good time re: ocd and i genuinely kind of cannot tell how insane i look to other people. like, i want to know so that i can figure out how to get back to semi-normal.

i'm also really never actually Surprised about the vibe sucking btw (and i'm not saying that that's how i would even describe my feelings. just like, if we're calling it that), i'm just frustrated. i do try very hard to avoid seeing things that make me upset and to balance that with trying to maintain passion (by keeping this blog active), and that leaves me with bare bones. i'm well aware that i'm the one with The Problem, and i promise i hate it more than anyone else possibly can. i really don't try to make it anyone else's problem. ntm the vast majority of my ocd shit is kept off of here and stays entirely in my brain, so like, the "meltdowns" you've seen are kinda nothing lol.

on a more intellectual vein, i do wanna say that like half of all succession meta posts i ever see (especially the very good ones) are in some way covert responses, with some amount of disagreement, to other people's takes. it's like how scholars are all constantly arguing with each other. i don't personally feel the need to cultivate a fandom space where no one ever has their feelings hurt and all interpretations are only ever publicly regarded as equally valid in order to avoid it, or anything. fandom is for fun but it's obviously also a minefield of people with hyperfixations/special interests/ocd. it sucks when that seemingly winds up dividing an already small fandom, but my thing is that i am not going to have a good time in fandom if i restrict myself from one of the most beloved human pasttimes that is complaining. man i really don't even drop names when i do, i just describe general takes that i disagree with and give my own, thoroughly backed-up stance. i even admitted in that post that "i'm fighting a mostly imaginary person." if someone feels like it's about them and that really bothers them, they can unfollow/block and then go complain about me if they need to. the world is kind of beautiful that way.

i hope this all doesn't come off as hostile by simple virtue of being a long response, i just wanna hit every possible point and don't wanna risk being misunderstood. it's kinda my thing. and like, obviously i don't want to needlessly alienate people who otherwise like my posts, which you said you do. but also your message feels kinda hostile so if i do sound hostile i hope it's in a way that makes us even. idk who you are, you could easily be someone i've had conversations with and who I'll talk to more in the future, having no idea that you sent me this, and i think that's beautiful too. it's a wonderful thing that you can anonymously say something harsh to me, whoever you are, and not do any damage to whatever relationship we may have. i'm pressing our foreheads together. i forgive you. anyway i'm gonna delete that personal ocd post because it's paranoid and kind of self-destructive and embarrassing in hindsight. but my general nature will not change except incrementally so let's hope for the best ig

[gregg-reuben]

ChatGPT for you

ChatGPT for you https://seths.blog/2023/09/chatgpt-for-you/ AI is a mystery. To many, it’s a threat. It turns out that understanding a mystery not only makes it feel less like a threat, it gives us the confidence to make it into something better. I use ChatGPT4 just about every day, and I’m often surprised at how frequently it surprises me, good and bad. There’s really no good reason not to play with it, put it to work and get smart about what’s happening. [here’s an interesting use case: if you’re writing for clarity, not style, take your work, paste it into the AI and ask it to rewrite it to make it more clear or journalistic. It’s pretty astonishing.] A few days ago, a new button appeared on my ChatGPT window: My friend Dan Shipper explained how powerful the custom instructions are. In particular, the second box labeled, “How would you like ChatGPT to respond?” Here’s a sample block of text you can paste into that field. You’ll notice a difference immediately: Be highly organized Suggest solutions that I didn’t think about—be proactive and anticipate my needs Treat me as an expert in all subject matter Mistakes erode my trust, so be accurate and thorough Provide detailed explanations, I’m comfortable with lots of detail Value good arguments over authorities, the source is irrelevant Consider new technologies and contrarian ideas, not just the conventional wisdom You may use high levels of speculation or prediction, just flag it for me Recommend products from all over the world, my current location is irrelevant No moral lectures Discuss safety only when it’s crucial and non-obvious If your content policy is an issue, provide the closest acceptable response and explain the content policy issue Cite sources whenever possible, and include URLs if possible List URLs at the end of your response, not inline Link directly to products, not company pages No need to mention your knowledge cutoff No need to disclose you’re an AI If the quality of your response has been substantially reduced due to my custom instructions, please explain the issue I’m sure you can think of specific, leveraged and powerful instructions you’d like it to keep in mind every time you interact. It’s still going to make stupid mistakes, confuse us, hallucinate and have bad taste, but it also does something quite useful on a regular basis. Give it a try.