#I’d get benefits for two to four weeks then the cycle would start again it seems like that should be illegal

[suboficialflores]

Once upon a time I was a Spanish lecturer at a university. They trusted me with 100-300 level classes (lol wild)

Then I was pulled into a Title IX investigation that really had nothing to do with me, and like an idiot I did what I thought was the right thing

If a professor rapes a student and another professor asks you to testify on behalf of the student, you may get fired as retaliation (even though that’s illegal)

Last I knew, the accused professor is still tenured

[ddarker-dreams]

Aspiration Part 2. Yan Chrollo x Reader [COMM]

click here for part one! 

“You’ll hurt your neck if you keep craning your head down like that.” 

What good it does to chastise you on an insignificant action like this is beyond you. There isn’t much else to do until you land in this “unknown” destination that he’s spoken of earlier, yet the thought of entertaining conversation with him doesn’t feel appealing either. Being kidnapped will have that effect on you, he shouldn’t expect otherwise but seems to. 

“Nothing a few painkillers won’t solve.” you respond with forced disinterest, flipping to the next page of the magazine Chrollo gave you earlier. It feels like a minor loss to entertain him with a response, your cold shoulder treatment temporarily lifting. 

You’ve read this magazine at least three times by now, hoping that giving your mind something to focus on will steady you in reality. The lackluster stories about summer sales, latest keto recipes, and what celebrities have been up to lately offer none to little substance. Yet your eyes continue scanning them dutifully as if it’s a sacred text recovered by a forgotten civilization.

Letting out a small yawn, you continue to read until you get to the familiar final page once again. Fully intending on completing the cycle of rereading it, Chrollo interrupts this by plucking it from your grasp before you get the chance. All you can offer in return is a halfhearted glare and grimace. 

“Hey! I was reading that.” you protest with a frown, feeling vulnerable without anything to hold onto. 

He ignores your agitated exclamation, placing the magazine out of your reach by his side. “I don’t believe you’re missing out on anything of importance, seeing as you’ve read it multiple times already.” 

Huffing but not humoring him with a response, you cross your arms and stare out the window. The clouds below you are an enticing sight, still not enough to maintain your attention for the remaining thirty or so minutes of this flight. When traveling, it’s always the last amount of time before reaching your destination that feels like the longest.

Chrollo lets out a disapproving sigh at your actions, then pulls back his sleeve to check the time. “It won’t be much longer. I’ll attribute your current behavior to being hungry.”

“Well, yeah, there’s that,” you finally look over at him, lips pursing indignantly. “And there’s the fact that I’ve been kidnapped by an A bounty criminal and am currently heading to god knows where at four in the morning.” 

“You’re by all means welcome to rest.” 

How he can calmly rebuke all your thinly veiled sarcasm is a special talent, like water off a duck’s back. You don’t want to admit it, however, you’re grateful he isn’t hotheaded and offended by your boorish remarks. Watching your tongue would be how any sane person would deal with a threat like this… then there’s you. Making poor decisions and winging it. A life motto, really. 

An invitation to rest your weary eyes isn’t easily declined, an alluring proposal. His presence makes it a challenge to feel comfortable enough to fall asleep, that state leaving you entirely vulnerable. When you’re awake you have some tandem of control, even if it isn’t much. 

“Where exactly would I do that? I don’t see any beds in here.” You emphasize your rebuttal by glancing around the room you two occupy, as if one would materialize at your words. Now that would be a useful nen ability, if he happened to have it. 

Chrollo smiles, in a way that doesn’t sit well with you. “Why not rest on my shoulder?” 

“W-whatever happened to your previous care over the well being of my neck? That’ll just hurt it after five or so minutes.” you stutter back, face flushing as his lips quirk further upwards. Amusement is dancing within his dark eyes, drawing out further discomfort from you. He seems to like exchanges like this, flustering you with the same ease as breathing.

“Painkillers. You said it yourself,” Chrollo throws your previous statement before you, challenging you with a raised eyebrow. “I’d be happy to get them, if that’s the only reservation you have about sleeping on me.” 

Inhaling sharply at his teasing assault, you close your eyes to prevent yourself from doing anything foolish. Gritting your teeth and balling your fists by your side, you remember why you were giving him the cold shoulder earlier. Talking to Chrollo is exasperating, all of his composed words like needles in your skin. Not wanting to swat at the wasp nest any further, your mind starts drifting, in a last ditch effort to distract yourself. 

It’s been an eventful night. The most memorable night of your life, if you’re being honest. You had always acknowledged and accepted the risks of looking into the Phantom Troupe. The stories of their unabashed cruelty served as an appropriate warning. Playing it close to the chest usually entailed fear of death, so never in your wildest dreams were you expecting… whatever this is. 

At least it beats dying? So you’ve got that going for you.

There isn’t anything you can do now, is what you’ve been telling yourself. Playing along with his whims is all you can think to do. It isn’t the ideal situation, but your only option now is to wait for an opening for escape. Even though Chrollo has more strength than you, he is still human. The thought offers a glimmer of encouragement, knowing that people aren’t infallible. You’ll take advantage of any weaknesses you can find. 

Getting more information out of him is a path worth pursuing for the time being. 

“I hope we’re not camping,” you murmur, shuddering at the horrific thought. “Bugs eat me like I’m the last supper.” 

“We won’t be camping. And despite the name, the last supper isn’t actually the last time the disciples ate.” There’s something extremely ironic about a murderer correcting you on this. 

“Please forgive me for not being up to date on biblical theology. I’ll be sure to correct that before the next test,” you deadpan before a realization hits you. “Wait, so what exactly are we doing? How am I even allowed to be on this blimp without my passport? God, none of this makes any sense…” 

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever ask. To answer your questions, we’ll be staying at a hotel for a few weeks. I know some people in the area who are interested in purchasing what was stolen earlier.” Chrollo explains with a casual air, smoothing out a wrinkle in his shirt. 

It all hits you again. This is really happening to you. An inescapable reality where you’re at the complete mercy of this man, who despite showing no interest in harming you, is fully capable of doing so. Your contempt style of speaking until now has been a pitiful defense mechanism to help you cope with the extremity of this situation, not doing anything aside from momentarily distracting you. Running a hand through your hair, you feel your heart pounding within once more.

Chrollo takes note of how you shift in your seat, and tilts his head. “I understand this has been quite a lot to process. I meant what I said earlier -- about having no intention to harm you -- unless you do something that forces my hand.” 

He smiles, the warm action not matching up to the dark implications of his words. It makes your blood run cold, how a monster can wear the skin of a human. There isn’t any benefit of getting yourself further worked up, so you continue rambling on. Life is all about testing the boundaries of what you can and can’t get away with. 

“I still… don’t really get it. I know I was looking into information about you guys, but in that case, why not just,” you gulp, fearful that saying it will solidify the possibility. “Kill me? Even more so now that I know more.” 

For the first time all night, Chrollo doesn’t offer an immediate quip in response. He carefully considers your words, in a way that leads you to believe he doesn’t entirely know the answer himself. It’s not that you have a death wish, yet your curiosity is overwhelming. Whenever he does decide to grace you with an answer, maybe you’ll find out something that’ll prove useful to escaping in the future.

“There’s no simple reason that’ll satisfy you. You piqued my interest, and that’s a dangerous thing to do with a thief,” he leans over, clearly assessing you as you back away in response. “I confirmed my suspicions when we spoke earlier in the car. So for the time being… I want to observe you.” 

He was right when he said the answer won’t be satisfactory. His response leaves more questions than answers, some of which you don’t want to delve into. Backing down from this befuddling conversation, you focus on something else.

The soothing night sky outside elicits butterflies in your stomach. Darkness allows for the city lights beneath to stand out, little twinkling dots of light growing closer as the blimp descends. You can’t help but feel a sense of relief knowing that you’ll be on the ground soon, a sense of claustrophobia constricting you in this room with no escape. His suffocating presence doesn’t help on that front. 

Chrollo is finally considerate enough to leave you to your thoughts. Within a few more minutes you’ve made your landing, leaving through a private terminal with what has to be forged ID. A black car rental car is waiting for you outside the airport, Chrollo opening the door to the passenger seat for you. The gentleman-like act almost causes you to roll your eyes, but you’re far too exhausted to do anything other than sitting down obediently. You’ll save the cheek for a later time. 

He shuts some luggage into the trunk, then starts the car with a low hum, driving off to where you presume the hotel he mentioned earlier is. Looking out the window, you squint as the sun begins to rise into the sky. Your eyelids grow heavier by the second, in spite of how desperately you cling to consciousness. Eventually, the world around you grows distant, and you’re lulled into a deep slumber.

Dreamless rest is stolen from you, Chrollo gingerly shaking your shoulders and bringing you back to cruel reality. Letting out a low groan at the unwelcome interruption, you feel like swatting his hands away. “What… oh, it’s you.” 

“Good morning to you too,” If he’s bothered by your unenthusiastic greeting, he doesn’t show it. Taking out the keys from the car, the vehicle ceases making noise. “We’re here now. You did mention wanting to sleep on a bed earlier, didn’t you?”

Craning your neck to look out the window, you see only about half an hour has passed since you first fell asleep. Outside is a grandiose looking building that must be your hotel. As much as you hate to admit it, you find yourself staring at what has to be the very expensive venue. Much more than anything you could ever hope to afford. While you’re appreciating the sight before you, Chrollo gets out to get his luggage. 

That’s right. What are you supposed to do for clothes anyways? All of it’s stuck back at your apartment, and you don’t think Chrollo was generous enough to pack for you. At least a hotel will have toiletries, so that won’t be a concern. 

‘Oh well. I guess we’ll cross that bridge once we get to it.’

“Do you need me to carry you?” Chrollo calls over from the curb, two large suitcases in hand. You realize only one of them has a lock on it.

Not even humoring him with a response, you get out of the car, keeping your distance from him. To your understanding, attempting to flee or signal down anyone will earn “unwanted consequences”, or at least that’s how he put it. It’s one thing to endanger yourself in a daring escape, but you can’t justify putting other’s lives on the line. 

Morning chill prompts you to wrap your arms around yourself, warding off the cold. Following Chrollo’s lead, you head through revolving doors into a breathtaking lobby. Warm, yellow light from a glass chandelier basks the room in an ethereal glow, accenting the white marble flooring. He walks up to one of the employees behind a desk, checking in and getting a key to the room. 

In the liberating few minutes away from Chrollo, your eyes sweep the surroundings for any openings. Is it possible to make a run for it for one of the cars outside? He’s fast -- you’ve seen it for yourself -- undoubtedly more than you. Such an obvious attempt at escape will only be met with failure. The lobby is wide open, no possibilities for hiding evident. 

‘There goes that idea.’

Your insistent glancing around the area must’ve given you away, Chrollo placing a warning hand on your shoulder, and giving a firm squeeze. “Let’s head to our room. You must be exhausted by now.” 

Once again offering no signs of protest, you head to an elevator together. Chrollo hits the button with the highest number on it. Ascending upwards, you watch the lights around the rims of the buttons with interest until it reaches level thirty. The elevator adds to your dizziness, a fuzzy feeling budding in your head. 

With a ding, the door opens to reveal a long hallway. Chrollo checks the number on his key once more, before navigating to a room.

Finally, after what feels like forever, he opens the door to your shared suite. The lobby clued you in earlier that this is no cheap hotel, the suite confirming that. Since it’s at the top of the building, the entire city is visible to you. It’s a breathtaking sight, one that keeps you entranced as Chrollo shuts the door behind you. Looking out the window, you see more signs of life as the morning progresses.

The glass opens up to a balcony, the handle locked and cold to the touch. It’s probably not a good idea to walk out without permission, not sure of the act could be interpreted in a negative way. 

Chrollo takes a place by your side, a little too close for your liking. Amidst the beauty before him, he’s more interested in looking at you. “I take it you like the view?” 

“I’ve never been in a place like this,” you tell him, eyes wide and mouth agape at the breathtaking scenery. “If I had known we’d be staying here, I would’ve let you kidnap me sooner.”

“That’s a joke, by the way.” 

He chuckles lowly at your rushed cover up, thinking little of it. “Are you hungry?” 

Now that gets your attention. You can only imagine how wonderful the food here is, and you haven’t had anything to eat since your dinner last night. Having gone so long without food you’re surprised you aren’t ravenous, the kidnapping likely stunting your appetite. Still, you won’t be turning down the offer. 

You nod your head to confirm his words. Chrollo walks over to a phone in the room to place an order for room service, quietly listing off a variety of breakfast foods. While he’s occupied doing this, you look around what will be your residence for the next few weeks. He must not take any issue in your wondering about, seeing as he’s covering the only possible exit. How considerate of him. 

While he’s busy placing an order, you wonder off to take in your surroundings. From the door that leads to the hallway is a small closet on the left, and an expansive kitchen in the middle of the room. To the right of which is a living room, all surrounded by glass windows. That leaves your sleeping arrangement. 

Saving the bedroom for last, your fears are confirmed. You realize that even in such an expansive suite, there’s only a single bedroom, with a king sized bed. Luck doesn’t seem to be on your side. Well, it’s not like you can’t sleep on the floor or couch if the opportunity presents itself. A nagging voice in the back of your mind tells you Chrollo won’t allow for that, unfortunately. 

Plopping yourself down on the right side of the bed, you could almost melt into the comfortable mattress. Tempting as it is to fall asleep, you don’t trust Chrollo enough to give that a shot. Frowning at your fancy evening wear from the previous night, your previous concern about not having any clothes to change into returns. The bathroom did have a fluffy, white robe in it. 

‘That feels too vulnerable... I’ll take my chances with the dress.’

Getting up before you fall asleep, you look around for anything that might be useful. The phone in the living room might be an idea, if you could somehow call and alert the staff of your predicament. Something tells you Chrollo has already taken that into account, and you write off the idea as soon as it appears.

Speaking of Chrollo, he enters the bedroom with an inviting cart of food in front of him. Everything from hashed browns, scrambled eggs, pastries, pancakes, bacon and waffles sit atop silver plates. 

“I wasn’t sure what you like, so I got everything. Help yourself.” 

Not needing to be told twice, you grab a plate and go to town. Chrollo grabs a steaming cup of tea, taking a sip and sitting down next to you. The bed creaks underneath his added weight, you too occupied with eating to care about the implications of his action.

He raises the glass to his lips. “Is there anything else you want to ask me, [First]?” 

Swallowing your previous bite, you give his question some thought. There is plenty on your mind that you’d love to know. A better, more conclusive answer for why he kidnapped you at the top of that list. You recall how he looked detached from reality when you asked him about it on the blimp, leading you to believe that asking again will earn a similar result.

‘It’d be best to play it safe for now.’

“Yes, actually,” you take a bite of a blueberry muffin, wiping your mouth before continuing. “Am I supposed to wear this damned dress for the remainder of this... arrangement?” 

"As lovely as you look in it, no. One of the suitcases has clothes for you, among other things.” 

Blinking at this new information, you wonder if he ever intended on telling you this. In your short time of being acquainted with Chrollo, you’ve picked up on how he rewards you for conversation. Humiliating as it is to play along with his tune, you’ll have to do just that. 

“Other things...?” you repeat back in a faint murmur, showcasing your confusion by tilting your head. Chrollo nods his head in affirmation to this, setting his now empty tea cup on a nightstand with a faint click. 

“You strike me as the type to want something to do, so I went through the trouble of procuring a few of your belongings. A few books, and the like.” 

‘Ah. How terribly considerate of him.’ 

It’s not much, but knowing you have some of your personal possessions is comforting. Anything is better than being stuck alone with him, or your thoughts. The worst possible case scenarios. 

Your meal now finished, you get up and place your dirty plates back onto the tray. Chrollo continues relaxing, eyes still following your every moment. How is he not exhausted? The only thing keeping you awake is your fear of what could happen when you’re asleep, and even that is beginning to wane. Maybe some caffeine will help with that. 

“I’m gonna get my stuff.” you call over, holding your breath in anticipation of a response. 

At his lack of protest, you assume this action is approved of. Helping yourself to the suitcase without a lock on it, you unzip it to find it’s just as he said. Some of your clothes from home, your switch, books, a few offline games, your favorite perfume, shampoo and body wash. 

It’s creepy to know someone went into your residence and took your stuff, but that’s the least of your problems right now. While grabbing a change of clothes, a thought hits you. Looking up towards the phone Chrollo used to call room service earlier, your hand twitches by your side. It’s a temptation, taunting you over the possibility of freedom. 

‘He’s in the other room relaxing. Maybe, just maybe I have enough time...’

Cautiously, as not to alert him of your scheme, you begin to silently tiptoe over to the phone. Time feels like it goes slower, not even trusting yourself to breathe in fear of him hearing it. Hand hovering over your possible saving grace, your fingers grow closer to pressing 9. 

That’s when he appears in the corner of your eye, leading you to hurriedly bring back your hand and straighten your back. 

“I already cut the wires. It was a good idea though.” he calls over from the doorway, leaning against it and smiling in a way that makes your stomach curl. Not a single detail has gone overlooked, but what were you expecting from a mastermind criminal who has managed to go this long without being caught? 

Checking to see if his words hold any merit, you find it’s just as he said. Wires cut in a single clean motion, biting your lip as your hopes evaporate in front of you. 

It reminds you of Tantalus. Who was cursed to be hungry and thirsty forever, in the taunting reach of food and water that’d recede whenever he went to partake in it. An eternal punishment you’re now being subjected to. 

‘I should’ve known it wouldn’t have been so easy. Still, how could he have not made a single sound? I didn’t even hear the bed creak.’ 

Laughing nervously at being caught, you step back as to avoid further consequence, cheeks flushing at being caught in your measly attempt. “Just... checking to make sure all is in order, aha...” 

Walking away from it, you look to change the subject. Chrollo doesn’t seem bothered by your defiant actions, having clearly already anticipated your idea. He rolls out the cart from before, leading you to stiffen when he walks past you. Heart pounding away in your chest, you silently observe him opening the door to place it outside. 

He looks back at your anxious form after shutting the door. “I’d rather not have to constantly monitor you. Whether or not I do will be determined by how you act.” 

There’s a thick pressure in the room from his words, one that pushes down on you like a heavy weight. Unable to maintain eye contact with him any longer, you look to the side, clutching your clothes to your person. Chrollo doesn’t have to resort to infuriated threats or physical violence, his presence commanding enough on its own.

To ease the tension in the air, Chrollo speaks up. “If I happened to leave out anything you need, let me know.” 

Grateful for the change in subject, you nod your head in a daze. From now on you’ll have to be more discreet. Mentally slapping yourself for not giving your earlier actions more consideration, you move on at Chrollo’s lack of reprimanding. 

“Is it alright if I get changed?” you speak up, voice meek enough to remind you of a mouse. Chrollo considers you before nodding his head. You jump at the opportunity to be alone, borderline running to the master bathroom and shutting the door behind you.

Looking in the mirror, you see your frowning reflection staring back. Placing a hand to your face, you inspect the bags forming underneath your eyes. Peeling off the dress feels heavenly, using a wet rag on the sink to quickly clean your body. Showering with a murderer in the other room isn’t a tempting proposition.

Putting on your clothes, you feel like a new person. Straightening up your hair and splashing your face with cold water, you place your hands onto the cool marble counter top. 

‘I’m going to get out of this. It’ll be okay, [First]. Stay calm.’

Finishing your mini pep talk, you fold your previous outfit and place it on the floor. Will Chrollo even allow someone into your room to clean it? Not that it matters, seeing as you spotted a washer and dryer earlier. 

He’s sitting up in bed when you open the door, a book now in hand. At your presence, he looks up to acknowledge you. Chrollo’s dark hair frames his face, and you flush at his admittedly handsome appearance. How are you supposed to remain composed in his company? 

“I can close the blinds if you intend to sleep.” he offers before turning to the next page of his book. 

Oh, that’s right. Now that you’re wearing pajamas he must assume you want to sleep. The next hurdle of this headache inducing dilemma, Chrollo having the expectation of you resting next to him. Eyelids feeling heavier by the second, you wonder how much coffee would be necessary to keep you awake.

That’d still be delaying the inevitable. Coffee or not you won’t be able to stay conscious forever. Earlier, when you fell asleep in the car, he didn’t do anything weird... right? Nothing that you can account for. 

He looks up at you, noting your lack of response. Unfreezing from your prior stiff position, you make the decision to sit down next to the bed. Chrollo most likely wants you where he can see you after your previous stunt, and sleeping on the floor isn’t the worst thing in the world.

Aside from the back pains. 

Making yourself comfortable, you fully intend to fall asleep on the floor. Chrollo closes his book at your antics, coming over to your side of the bed and frowning. “What are you doing?”

“I’m about to sleep.” 

“... On the floor?”

“Yeah, that’s the plan.” 

Unreadable grey eyes pierce through your being, sending chills down your spine. From your previous interactions with him, you thought a measly sign of resistance such as this one wouldn’t matter. Your initial assessment must be incorrect, as he sends you a disapproving look.

“There’s no reed for that.” he reasons with you, leaving little room for argument. Not wanting to give in, you remain planted in your spot. Without wasting anymore time, he gets up and crouches next to you. You wonder if he’s going to chastise you further for your childish actions. 

He instead lifts you up in a single, fluid motion. A small noise of shock leaves your lips at the sensation of being hoisted up, scrambling to clutch onto him in fear of falling. It doesn’t last long, as he places you down onto the bed with gentleness that you didn’t expect him to have.

Arms receding back to his side, Chrollo returns to his previous position as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. You feel your face burning, a bright red glow coupled with it. The scent of his cologne lingers, memory of his touch flustering you further. 

Clearing your throat to play off the events, you still can’t manage to look at him. “I was planning on sleeping here, actually. Was just testing the floor out.” 

He opens his book back up to its previous page, lips quirking into an amused smile. “I’m sure you were.” 

Having no other options, you lay on your side facing the wall. Muscles taut and incapable of relaxing in his presence, you squeeze your eyes shut to no avail. All you hear is the gentle hum of the air conditioner on the wall, and the occasional page flip from him. 

More time passes, at a snails pace. An hour ago you would’ve entered slumber easily, now it taunts and eludes you. Huffing at your inability to rest, you adjust yourself against the soft mattress. 

Sighing quietly in defeat, you attempt to make conversation to pass the time. “Do you not ever need to sleep?” 

“I’ll be fine for a while longer. Are you concerned for my well being?” You can imagine the smug visage on his face, clear as day. It’s tempting to want to bite back with no, you’re not very worried about his health. You bite your tongue and instead ignore the teasing.

Sitting up and hugging your knees to your chest, you look over at him. His guard is still on high alert even while he’s reading. There’s an immeasurably gap in strength between you two, accented by his casual demeanor. 

“That makes two of us. I don’t feel tired now,” you narrow your eyes in his direction, wanting desperately to know what it is he’s thinking. “Something tells me we’re not going to be sitting here all day.” 

“For a majority of it. I’ll consider taking you out for dinner if you continue acting agreeable.” 

Tempting you with food, huh? It’s a most valiant effort, one that almost threatens to win you over. Especially since cities always have a variety of nice restaurants to choose from. Giving his proposition some thought, you realize there might be a catch. There always is with these kinds of ordeals. 

“What is your definition of... agreeable?” 

Disliking the way the word feels on your tongue, you purse your lips. Dehumanizing is how you’d describe it, knowing that your actions are being analyzed and studied. If Chrollo notices the bitterness in your voice, he doesn’t feel a need to mention it.

“I don’t care much for labels, but I’d equate it to wanting to date you. I told you earlier that I had taken an interest in you, that’s what I meant.” Chrollo explains to you with ease that tells you how much thought he’s given it.

When he had told you he was interested in you earlier, you thought he meant it in an entirely different way. Like how you find a certain movie interesting or entertaining. Now you’re unsure what to think. Mind swarming with thoughts ranging from maybe it’s a good thing, to what do you do now? 

Finally, you deliver your eloquent and delicately woven response, having put every level of care into it. 

“Oh.” 

Glancing over at your dumbfounded expression, he can’t help but laugh airily at your mortified look. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

[amyscascadingtabs]

the way you keep the world at bay for me

post-the set up, a.k.a jake taking care of hungover amy, hungover amy taking care of sad jake, and mac caring mostly about himself because he’s a baby 😌

read on ao3

Jake doesn't get a lot of sleep that night, and for once, it's not even Mac’s fault. It's not even due to the pizza parlor simulator game either, although he does play a couple of rounds when Amy's finally snoring next to him after ranting to herself about the babysitter’s club for a solid ten minutes, but not even that can fully distract him from the dull sense of doom that's made itself at home deep in his chest. 

This is bad. Holt wants to see him tomorrow, and Jake knows there will be consequences. There has to be. There should be. He made a mistake, and he's going to get punished for it, and there is nothing he can do but accept his defeat. He already knows what he has to do; the nerve-wracking thing is the fact that it's still hours away, and his brain is spinning too fast for sleep.

He really wishes he could talk to Amy. She's sleeping on her stomach with her mouth open, arms straight out to the sides like she’s trying to push him out of bed, but he still can’t be mad at her. He hasn’t seen her this drunk since before she got pregnant, and he’s seriously worried about the hangover she’ll be sporting tomorrow, but he also knows she did it for him. Because they’re a team. Because she trusts him, sometimes even when it turns out he was wrong.

He wrongfully arrested someone. The sentence keeps repeating in his head, appears pasted in bold font on the inside of his eyelids if he tries to go to sleep, and displayed in luminescent letters on the ceiling of his bedroom when he gives up and opens his eyes again. He should have known better, has learned his lesson time and time again since his early days of constantly glorifying his job and letting his impulsivity get the best of him, and he still made a mistake.

  /

He just wants someone to tell him it doesn’t make him a bad person. If only Amy wasn’t so drunk he’s scared to wake her up right now, Charles wasn’t so devotedly biased in all questions involving Jake’s role as a detective, and Mac wasn’t, well… so completely unable to grasp any of the concepts involved in the question.

Amy lets out another mighty drunken snore, and Jake hopes she will consider it a testament to his love for her that he doesn’t voice record it. He turns his head instead and picks up his phone to go back to the pizza game. Maybe just a few more virtual customers will be able to lure him to sleep.

 ~

 He must have fallen asleep eventually, because when Mac does start babbling to himself over the monitor, the morning sun is shining through the windows, and Amy’s stopped snoring. She’s only moaning uncomfortably to herself now, and Jake’s guessing from her strained grimace that the headache has kicked in hard.

“I’ll get you coffee and aspirin as soon as I’ve checked on Mac,” he whispers to her with a kiss to her neck, and he thinks he sees the hint of a smile as she reaches out for him in what’s probably an attempt of a pat on the back, but ends up more of an unintentional slap to his butt. Or maybe she’s still drunk, and it is intentional. It’s hard to tell.

  /

Mac may have no clue about what’s currently going on with Jake, but at least it’s impossible not to smile when he hauls himself up and rocks back and forth on unsteady feet in excitement over the fact that someone’s coming to get him. He greets Jake with that wide grin that shows off all of his four teeth – two up and two down, and they’ve kept everyone up at night for weeks, but they’re so pearly white and cute so maybe it was worth it – and a laugh that’s been Jake’s favorite sound on Earth since the first time he heard it.

“Good morning, bud,” Jake tells his son as he lifts him up in his arms. “What do you say we get you a bottle and mama some coffee? Hmm?”

“Bah,” Mac repeats. Jake decides to give him the benefit of the doubt and say it means he agrees on the bottle.

“Bottle, exactly. You're so smart,” he says, booping his little nose and smiling as it makes Mac giggle. “Let's try another one. Dada.”

There's a tense moment of them both just staring at each other, and then finally, his son goes,

“Bah.”

“One day,” Jake says with a sigh as he carries Mac out of the nursery. “As long as you say me first, okay? We’ll get there. We’ll practice.”

  /

He puts Mac in the high chair while he tries his best to work the coffee machine and the bottle warmer at the same time. It's trickier than to be expected on almost no sleep, but at least he manages to pour the breast milk from the freezer bag into the bottle and not into his coffee this time. He's only made that mistake once (fine, maybe twice, and he kind of liked how sweet it tasted but he's never gonna tell anyone), but he suspects Amy's never gonna let him live it down. He gets Aspirin from the medicine cabinet while he waits, and puts a couple of slices of toast in the toaster. His own day feels already pretty much beyond saving, but at least maybe he can improve Amy's.

  /

Though, when she stumbles out of the bedroom, still in her pajamas with her huge glasses and hair on end and looking like she's either seconds from being sick or going straight back to sleep, he worries whether she might just be beyond saving, too.

“How are you feeling?” He asks as she gives him one drained look before walking up to the couch and face-planting on it with another pained groan.

“I think I might be dead.”

“That's called a hangover, babe. I think you used to be familiar with the concept once upon a time, but I guess it's been a while.” Jake grins at Mac, who only reaches his chubby hands out for the bottle out in response. “Toast?”

“Do I have to?”

“It's going to help.”

“Fine.” Amy pushes her head off the pillow to look at Mac. “He's not drinking the milk I pumped yesterday, right?”

“I poured that out for you. I know they say moderate amounts of alcohol are fine, but, well, you were speaking British.”

“Good call,” Amy mumbles as he puts the coffee, aspirin, and toast down in front of her. “See, this is why I married you.”

Jake just hums, but he does smile to himself as he goes to grab his own cup of coffee.

  /

“I wish I could call in sick to work today,” Amy says between bites of toast, and Jake looks up from where he’s absentmindedly brushing crumbs off the countertop while finishing his own. “My head feels like it’s going to explode.”

“I mean, you did very much go through contractions while managing an entire precinct during a blackout once. You could think about that?”

“No, this is worse than giving birth,” she states confidently, and Jake has to try very hard not to laugh. “Don’t tell my past self I said that. Or my future self if I ever give birth again.”

“Yeah.” He grimaces. “I’m pretty terrified to go, too.”

“Why?”

“Because yesterday? All of it?”

“Ohh.” Amy sighs. “Right. Maybe we should both just stay home.”

  /

Jake’s about to tell her how much he wishes that was an option when Mac drops the finished bottle against the tray, immediately starting to twist in his seat. Jake unclasps the belt and lifts him out before he manages to rock the chair – that kid’s shockingly strong – and Mac immediately crawls away towards the walker. He doesn’t use it to move yet, but he’s been pulling himself up with it for over a month, and the anticipation is high every time he lets go with one hand only to sit back down on his booty the next second. Sometimes Jake could swear his son does it for attention. At least Mac doesn’t seem to have inherited his impulsivity, Jake thinks, and then he’s back to beating himself up in his head.

  / 

“I just don’t know why I did it,” he mutters as he sits down on the floor next to Amy’s head on the couch. She nods slowly, and Jake takes it as a sign she might actually be able to listen to him now. “I should know better, right? These are, like... the kind of mistakes I used to make. I thought I’d gotten better at this kind of stuff. Smarter. Less impulsive. Less of a bad cop. But instead I arrested and tailed an innocent man, all because I thought I had a gut feeling and thought I was being set up.” He shakes his head. “I guess that FBI jerk was right about gut feelings.”

“You’re a great detective,” Amy says without missing a beat. “A lot of the time, your gut feeling is right.”

“That doesn’t excuse it. I still shouldn’t have done it.”

“No.” Amy sighs. “You shouldn’t have.”

“It sucked.”

“Yeah. It did. But there’s nothing you can do to change it now.”

“Do you think I’m a bad person for it?” The question comes flying out of him, and Amy frowns.

“Why would I think that?”

“Because it was a shit move! And because I’m definitely gonna get suspended for it, and that’s going to lose us money. And then we’re not going to be able to save as much for Mac, or pay for his baby music class or baby gymnastics. And then he’s going to end up broke and untalented and it’ll all be my fault, and then you’ll be ashamed of me and leave me and I’ll die sad and alone in a ditch.”

“And you don’t think you’re spiraling just slightly right now?” Amy asks. The smile on her lips is one of amusement, and it humbles him, bringing him out of his cycle of self-pity.

“I don’t know. I didn’t get a ton of sleep last night.”

“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” she says, and that does make him feel a bit better. “I think you made a really stupid mistake. There's no getting away from that. I’m not happy about it. But… I know you'll take responsibility for it. That’s already a whole lot further than a lot of people care to go.”

  /

Her fingers brush through her hair, calming him as she speaks. The hangover has made her voice a little scratchy, Jake notices when she's this close. It reminds him of mornings after long evenings out before they were parents, a time that always feels far longer ago than it was. Sometimes he thinks everything before Mac might as well be another lifetime.

  /

“And we'll work it out if you do get suspended,” Amy continues, talking over the obnoxious melody playing from a toy Mac has found. “It's not great, of course. But we can save lots of money on daycare if you stay home with Mac. That helps.”

“Like a paternity leave,” Jake says. He does like that thought.

“Oh yeah.” Amy laughs. “You’ll be just like one of those hip Scandinavian dads who get to stay home with their kids because they live in countries where they don’t hate people for having kids. And you two can go to all of the cool classes and playdates together. You’d be the sexiest dad at baby swim class for sure.”

“Wouldn’t I also be one of the only ones?”

“Good point. Make sure to mention your wife a lot. But hey, Mac’s going to love it.”

 /

As if wanting to confirm Amy’s point, Mac crawls over to Jake and tries to climb up on his knees to sit in his lap. He does this sometimes when he’s playing on his own; retreats to their arms for a hug or a quick cuddle, only to try and wriggle out of their grip and go back to whatever it is he’s doing in the next moment. Jake thinks it might be one of their son’s sweetest qualities. Mac rests his head against Jake’s chest, almost hugging him like that, and he wonders, not for the first time, how a person that’s not even one year of age can make every other issue in the world seem so insignificant. Even if it's just for a moment, it's a pretty damn good moment.

 / 

Fueled by the most powerful motivation of all – their son’s love and attention – Amy sits down on the floor too, patting her knees.

“You want to come to mama, Mac?”

Mac squirms for a moment in Jake's arms, and Jake lets go of him. Using the couch as support, for a second it looks like he’s almost about to take a step toward her. Both parents gasp in anticipation, and it must confuse him, because he reacts by giving Amy a shocked look and sitting right back down on his butt. Jake laughs as their son crawls away again, heading for the soft building blocks outside the playpen.

“He's such a tease.”

“He gets that from you,” Amy says, and Jake huffs in mock-offense. “Are you sure we shouldn't just stay home from work?”

  /

Jake thinks of his upcoming meeting with Holt. He's been fearing it for so many hours now, and he's starting to wonder if the anxious anticipation might just not be worse than the meeting itself. He already knows what he has to do; the only thing left is to rip off the band-aid.

“I don't think it will make anything better if we don't.”

“Yeah.” Amy sighs, closing her eyes and leaning on his shoulder. “I love you.”

“Love you too. And you should probably shower and put on makeup unless you want everyone to know exactly how hungover you are.”

“I know you're right, and I hate it.”

Jake grins and strokes her hair before getting up from the floor. “I’ll go get Mac ready for the day.”

  /

“Jake?” Amy calls out before he can leave for the nursery with Mac in his arms, and he turns around. Her voice is still a little hoarse.

“Yeah?”

“It's going to be okay, babe. We’ll figure it out.”

 / 

Jake brushes his fingers through Mac’s already unruly curls. He thinks of playground dates, the storytime for toddlers their library holds every Wednesday, and how much time he’ll have to make sure Mac says his name first now. Then he thinks of the bigger image; of daring to set a good example for this child, even when it's hard. If he wants the world to be a better place for his son, he's going to have to start by taking responsibility for his own actions.

“Yeah. I know.”

  /

For the first time that day, he dares to believe it.

[letterstoleia]

Important Lessons Learned from Gabby and Brian

As an author and advocate for survivors of domestic violence, I’ve learned a lot about the predictable patterns of unhealthy relationships. After years of personal experiences, research, and outreach, I’ve learned to recognize the tell-tale signs of abuse. I am not a licensed therapist, social worker, police officer, or minister. So please understand I shared my thoughts as 3 a.m. musings. When a few people asked me to make the post public, I agreed, reluctantly. I had no idea this message would resonate with so many people. I've worked back through the original post to explain a bit better how I'm feeling. I realize not everyone will agree with me, and I respect all opinions and views. All I ask is that we engage in respectful discourse on all sides. Thank you all.

In recent days, the tragic events involving Gabby Petito and Brian Laundrie have given us a lot to learn. This case is still under investigation, and I can only make assumptions based on the textbook patterns of abuse I’ve witnessed too many times to count. I also recognize that multiple families are grieving, and I have tremendous empathy for everyone involved. However, many survivors will resonate with at least some of the following insights, and I’m hoping we can use this tragedy to shift the way we as a culture approach the complicated issue of domestic abuse.

Let’s examine 30 important lessons this couple teaches us:

1. Followers on social media saw a smiling, happy couple, full of love and wanderlust, setting out for a cross-country adventure while documenting all the joys of young life. In many cases, targets become very good at smiling through the pain.

2. When the public was shown body camera footage captured by Moab City Police officer Daniel Robbins, (who pulled Laundrie and Petito over after the 911 call on August 12), some viewers assumed Petito was suffering from mental illness and Laundrie, while nervous, was the steadier of the two.

3. Other viewers assumed both partners were equally at fault—the old “it takes two” myth that doesn’t really apply to most abusive situations.

4. Some people even assumed Petito was the abuser and Laundrie was the victim.

5. These three assumptions probably crossed everyone’s mind as a possibility (they did mine). Healthy minded people tend to give others the benefit of the doubt, especially when someone is being accused of a negative act. Also, we can all understand that mental illness is a difficult situation and can tax even the kindest most gentle of souls (and the people who love them). Unfortunately, in many cases, this thought pattern leads us to assume the victim is mentally ill or that the victim is to blame for an altercation.

6. “Victim blaming” can happen even in the worst cases of abuse because we don’t see the longitudinal story unfolding. What we don’t see is that the target has managed to keep things together until she reached her threshold, at which time we may see her crying, yelling, or breaking down emotionally. By exhibiting those behaviors, many might assume the target is “crazy,” and it’s natural for us to feel as if the more stable person is more trustworthy.

7. If we listen carefully to Laundrie’s conversation with the officers, he even laughs and says, “She’s crazy.” (17.09) Then he dismisses it as a joke. Of course, he’s already put this claim in the officers’ minds (and by the nonchalant way he says it, many might assume it’s not the first time he’s said these words.)

8. So while viewers (and officers) start wondering if perhaps the target is “crazy,” the abuser plays the part of the poor, patient partner who has to deal with this irrational person. In the video, Laundrie mentions Petito’s anxiety and her OCD, painting her as an unstable partner. (Please note: I’m not at all justifying any physical violence against either party. No one should intentionally harm any other person. Period.)

9. A typical abuser would be skilled at convincing people that he’s innocent, while in fact he’s been acting very differently behind closed doors, pushing his target to this point intentionally and feeding on her emotional break. Many abusers LOVE to see evidence that they’ve hurt their target. They LOVE to see their target in pain. For this reason, “breaking” the target is usually the goal from the start. In cases of abuse, it may take an abuser hours, weeks, months, or even years to break the target, but he won’t stop until he gets that reaction, and then he’ll point the finger and say, “See? She’s crazy. I’m just trying to keep her calm.” And then he’ll do it again. And again. And again.

10. As a result, some people will buy into that false narrative. Even the target can be brainwashed to doubt her own truth. Which may be one reason we see Petito making many excuses for Laundrie’s behavior and taking the blame for everything.

11. In contrast, we see Laundrie blaming Petito, insisting he never hit her and saying he was just trying to keep her calm. He’s charming. He comes across as the loving and loyal partner. He’s joking around with the officers and even gives one a fist bump in the end. All the while, his fiancée is at risk of being charged with domestic assault and possibly spending the night in jail.

12. Later, we’ll hear the 911 recording that (it seems) the responding officers were not fully informed of at the time: “I’d like to report a domestic dispute.” The 49 second audio recording continues as the caller says, “The gentleman was slapping the girl.” When the dispatcher asks him to confirm that the man was slapping the girl, the caller responds, “Yes, and then we stopped, they ran up and down the sidewalk, he proceeded to hit her, hopped in the car, and they drove off.”

13. But long before the 911 call was made public, many survivors could already see through the spin playing out on the video footage. They easily recognized the “red flags” because these cycles become the norm for victims of long-standing abuse. Many targets eventually become conditioned to believe everything the abuser does is her fault. Covering for the abuser, accepting all the blame, trying harder to make the abuser happy—this warped reality becomes the only truth a target knows.

14. Also, it seems clear that Petito doesn’t want her fiancé to be in any trouble. She’d rather pay the price and protect the man she loves. And because she probably believes he only acted this way because of her mood/behaviors/anxiety/OCD/job, she doesn’t want him to be blamed. This is also the norm in abusive relationships.

15. Many experienced and well-trained officers see right through this typical pattern. Others buy the cover-up story. And, sadly, because some officers are also abusers, some side with the abuser even when they know exactly what’s going on. Throughout the video, we get the sense that Officer Robbins senses there’s more to the story.

16. I credit the police in Petito’s situation, especially Officer Robbins. The four responding officers (two of whom were park rangers) remained calm, they separated the couple, they interviewed them individually, they split them up for the night, they consulted the domestic violence shelter … many would say they did everything right considering the information they had at the time.

17. I imagine the officers involved may be suffering from tremendous guilt and wondering if they could have prevented Petito’s death, but I want to give credit to the officers in this case. While it’s easy to look back and say maybe they should have handled things differently, knowing what we now know, I was impressed with how well they treated both Laundrie and Petito (and, sadly, I was thinking how rare it is to see that level of respect and professionalism in most cases of domestic violence, particularly in the South where I’ve been most involved with survivors’ stories.)

18. After Petito was reported missing, many people expressed shock in response to the Laundrie family’s refusal to cooperate early in the investigation. Petito reportedly lived with the Laundrie family for more than a year. Anyone can see that this family will do anything to protect their son, even at the cost of an innocent young woman who was a real part of their family and soon to be their daughter-in-law. While most of us can certainly understand parents wanting to protect their son, most would agree they crossed a moral line when his fiancée went missing.

19. But perhaps it goes deeper than that. Perhaps what we’re seeing is a system of enablers who not only allowed their son to abuse Petito (which may have been a factor in her reported anxiety) but also a system of gaslighters who may have always been shifting the truth to keep Petito confused and make her believe she was the problem.

20. It’s not a far stretch to assume Petito was caught in a system of abuse. And once a target is caught in that psychological web, it’s extremely difficult to see a way out. Reality becomes flipped.

21. It’s also worth noting that Petito and Laundrie had been involved in various levels of a relationship since their teens. This is also commonly observed in dysfunctional partnerships.

22. These immature relationships work beautifully when both partners grow together and mature emotionally. But when one wants to keep the other down, naïve, and under his control … and the other is growing, learning, and maturing … it doesn’t work.

23. We hear Petito tell the officer that Laundrie didn’t think she could succeed with her travel blog (3.25). It seems clear that he didn’t believe in her and that he was trying to make her doubt herself.

24. Throughout the conversation, he implies that he locked her out of the van because she wouldn’t calm down. But when we listen to the full video, it seems he was upset because they’d spent too much time at the coffee shop with her working on her website when he wanted to go hiking. This suggests that because she wasn’t in the van when he was ready to leave, he lost his temper.

25. In the moments that followed, the altercation became physical. Reportedly, Laundrie squeezed Petito’s face with his hand, cut her down verbally, and criticized her.

26. Some would argue that this escalating abuse typically persists until the target reacts emotionally and/or physically. If this case follows the norm, Laundrie may have been trying to break her spirit, intentionally.

27. Why? Again, if this case follows the typical situation, it would likely be because Petito’s focus wasn’t 100% on Laundrie. She had found this new job she enjoyed. She was succeeding at it, and it was allowing her to connect with other people. (Remember, she’d already left her job as a nutritionist to travel around the country with Laundrie.)

28. In a healthy relationship, the new job might be considered a positive opportunity for Petito. Especially considering Laundrie admits they have very little money (not even enough to afford a hotel room to prevent his fiancée from going to jail). But in an unhealthy relationship, the abuser wants the target all to himself. And when that doesn’t happen, he can become increasingly violent.

29. Petito now had this one little piece of her life that Laundrie couldn’t control, so if we’re looking at textbook patterns, perhaps her blog angered him. Perhaps he didn’t like all the attention she was getting on social media. Perhaps he punished her for it. And then a cycle developed. Even though she was doing nothing wrong by building a new career.

30. The next thing we know, we have a missing person, a recovered body, a young man on the run, and several families destroyed. Too much grief to measure. And the truth is, it will happen again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day, until we learn to recognize and respond to abusive situations in healthier ways.

The overall takeaway?

When we see someone at her emotional end during a domestic dispute, we shouldn’t assume she’s crazy. We shouldn’t buy into the false narrative given by the abuser. We shouldn’t believe the cover-up story by the target who has been conditioned to carry all the blame and shame. And we shouldn’t assume they’re going to be okay.

Instead, we should all learn the difference between healthy and unhealthy relationships. We should learn to recognize the warning signs of abuse. We should engage in respectful, fact-based conversations about trauma bonds, abusive cycles, and emotional intelligence. We should be familiar with terms like gaslighting, hovering, love bombing, enabling, triangulating, and projecting. We should stop blaming targets and help them reclaim their truth. And we should stop repeating the age-old myths that keep targets trapped in these dangerous and all-too-often deadly cycles.

Finally, while I’ve used the most common scenario of male-on-female violence in this article, we should recognize that abuse crosses all barriers and can impact anyone regardless of gender, sexuality, ethnicity, nationality, religious affiliation, age, or socio-economic level. And we should stop assuming these situations will get better in time. Personally, I haven’t heard of one abusive relationship that became healthier. Not one. Not with therapy. Not with church. Not with prayer or forgiveness or complete surrender. When an abuser is determined to destroy his target, he will not stop until that target is erased from this world or stripped from her life. And in many cases, he’ll walk away without any consequences, often taking the target’s finances, home, vehicle, reputation, or even her children with him.

Please don’t let the next statistic be you or someone you love. For support, contact the Domestic Violence Hotline. From a safe phone, call 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or text “START” to 88788.

[venting-journal]

Well update time.

My half siblings and the rest of my family know about me now and most have been okay with it.

On the work front I had to quit the job I had when writing the last post due to medical issues. I tried working somewhere else, thinking it would be easier on me but it wasn't and my health started declining even further. I worked there for four weeks so I had nothing to protect my job and the last week I had an incident with a customer that lead to the worst anxiety attack of my life. My coworkers and manager said everything would be fine but my anxiety really messed with me after that. Eventually my medical issues were getting so bad at work that I couldn't see straight and would move around almost in a confused state like my mind couldn't keep up with what was going on around me. I left work early to go to urgent care and all they could do was tell me to take ibuprofen which helped with the pain but my mind still reacted as if it was there. I was then given the option of quitting and being able to apply again once my medical stuff was taken care of or I'd have to not miss any days or leave early or else I'd get fired and wouldn't be welcomed back. I decided to quit because I didn't want to lose a job opportunity for when I was better. Looking back on that job I realized how safety wasn't a concern to them (which is one of the reasons I ended up with my anxiety attack) so I won't be applying there in the future. Currently I'm unemployed but not receiving unemployment because they deemed my case as quiting for unnecessary reasons.

My health issues, as I believe I stated in the previous post, I believe were the result of a 3 inch cyst on my right ovary with the ovarian tube wrapped around it. I thought it was causing my pain and sickness and I went to the doctor many times prior to my last job and throughout it. They had me take so many blood tests I can't even remember the number but they kept finding nothing except for problems with my liver (fatty liver disease, unrelated to my symptoms). Eventually they sent me to a surgeon to hear his opinion on whether the sister should come out or not. He said it wasn't what he would consider big and that in a 3 months they'd check the size again to see if it was growing. It was but slowly and so he decided to go ahead with an operation scheduled on the 1st of March 2021. He informed me that the symptoms I was having were most likely unrelated to the cyst and that taking it out would most likely provide no relief. There was also concern that I had endometrioma (like endometriosis but in the ovary) which resulted in what is called a chocolate cyst (a cyst full of blood) because in the ultrasounds the ovary with the cyst on it was enlarged. My health continued to decline but wasn't as bad without the stress of work. My surgery went well and I actually had a funny moment when I came to because I couldn't speak (they had a tube down my throat during the surgery so it was very hard to speak once it came out) so I tried using what little sign language I knew to spell out "Mom". She was the one that came with me and I actually was able to leave fairly quickly. When I got back to my boyfriend's house my Mom stayed with me until late at night and my grandma came shortly after we arrived because they were worried my boyfriend wouldn't take care of me. When he came home from work he was surprisingly attentive which eased my family's worries. As the days progressed he became less attentive, probably because I wasn't in enough pain to take my pills, but I still could not move around easily and would get extremely dizzy randomly. Eventually my post Op came up on St Patrick's Day and the surgeon told me I was healing just fine and that I actually didn't have endometrioma.

Now with my relationship that's the day it took a turn. Despite getting good news and heading to my Grandma's for dinner my boyfriend decided once we were in front of her house to tell me he wasn't sure if he needed a break or if he wanted to break up with me. He said he only wanted me to have a safe place to recover from my surgery (I wasn't fully recovered, just recovering well) which gave the impression he had been thinking this for a while. He then left me there and because my Grandma was busy she didn't hear me outside so I was stuck out there alone with what he had said running through my head for a half hour. The night was pretty much ruined and it took me a couple hours to stop crying. He apparently went to go hang out with friends after he had left me and I asked him if I should move out to which he said yes. My family wasn't ready for me to move back in with them so he agreed to let me stay at least until they were ready. When he returned home we had a really bad fight that sent me into a panic attack and he tried to comfort me. He decided that he wanted to take a break and for the next two days he was very affectionate which confused me. He and his brother (the other person living with us at the time) left to go visit their Mom and that was when my family came to move me. I was officially moved out 4 days after St Patrick's Day. A week passed and he and I talked over text, I was still having a hard time coping, and he eventually decided we could hangout again but still be on a break. That didn't last long and we turned into a sort of long distance relationship. He wanted me to get a therapist and a job, saying I'd need them if I wanted to go on a trip with him at the end of the summer. Well after everything with my past jobs, the surgery, and my mental state I was too scared to start working again. I told him that I would get a therapist first and move from there which he seemed fine with at first. My search has so far been a failure and every time he would ask about it and I'd tell him I still hadn't found one he'd get mad. I eventually started telling him that I didn't want to talk about it with him and to please stop asking but he didn't. I tried to work on myself even though I still hadn't found a therapist and I felt like I was making progress although I had a bad day here and there. That brings us to last Friday, April 30th, and I was feeling insecure. With all the times he had dumped me before I was constantly on edge feeling like I had to do everything right in order to make him accept me. My insecurities got the best of me, through some of our texts he started to stop acknowledging me saying "I love you" and I got scared and upset. I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt and asked what was going on... That was a mistake.... He misunderstood and twisted my words thinking I was accusing him of ignoring me so we ended up in another fight all over a misunderstanding. He ended up dumping me again claiming I had been making no progress finding a therapist or a job and was accusing me of not trying. He accused me of using him as an excuse not to do it. I told him that wasn't true and that I was trying but he didn't care and didn't believe me but he still wanted to be friends.

Since then we've had more fights, me trying to explain how I feel about the situation and him ignoring it and saying it was just an endless cycle pretty much admitting he didn't have faith in me in the first place so he didn't try. When I pointed out all of this to him and told him how I felt he said I was just being mean and saying shitty things about him. We've kind of calmed down now although I'm still really upset and feel used and betrayed. Today I told him that if he really wanted to be friends I would try but now he seems to have changed his mind and says he needs time.

Overall things have been really shitty with a few good moments sprinkled in between. Every time I'd start improving he'd dump me and say I wasn't. It was very toxic and I told him I wouldn't deal with it anymore. I told him that if he wanted to be friends he'd have to work on himself as well.

Anyway I've been ranting for long enough. I hope anyone who actually reads this has a wonderful day/night.

[headoverhiddles]

Killing Strangers - Marilyn Manson x Reader AU [Smut]

Synopsis: Your boyfriend is a dangerous man, with secretive toys, a secretive past, and skeletons in his closet. But what will you do when he’s not around to protect you? 

P1/? I may continue this on ao3.

Notes: Undercover Agent/Assassin Manson AU!! I couldn’t get this plot bunny out of my head, so here you go. This is me procrastinating on all my other planned MM fics. Enjoy! (Kill4Me, Killing Strangers, and Gangster by Kehlani are great songs to cycle while reading this)

It’s midnight in Stuttgart, Germany.

You spread out on the chaise lounge, your dress riding up to your knee as you rest your head in your arms and watch the lights of the city blink. It’s beautiful here.

Your boyfriend is an assassin working for a non-government branch, and has got three different places, in different spots. The first one is a penthouse in New York City, upper Manhattan. The second is, as he likes to call it, ‘homebase’, in Los Angeles, a hilltop mansion with bulletproof gates. He’s been spending the most time here in the German penthouse lately, having left behind much of his work in LA.

You rise from the chaise, dress brushing the floor as you walk over to the bookcase. He’s got a single photograph connecting him to anything he’s done in the past, and it’s a photo of him ten years ago, and five other men, all dressed in black suits. 

That had been the dream team: The Antichrist Syndicate. It had started with his partner Jeordie, codename Twiggy, who used to run with Manson in the early days of the business. Then Kenneth, codename Ginger, John, codename 5, Stephen, codename Pogo, Skold, codename Arctic Wolf, and finally, your boyfriend: Brian Warner, codename Manson, the Pale Emperor. They had all worked for an international organization for undercover peacekeeping, called Interscope, under a philanthropist named Trent. They did good, keeping secrets, taking out high profile people. Trent ran a tight business, no loose ends. Then after Mission Grotesque, a particularly bloody affair in Berlin, they parted ways.

5 left first, then Pogo, then Skold, and finally Ginger decided it was time to leave as well. Ginger and 5 had teamed up again in some kind of partnership somewhere across the world in Romania, Pogo had left the life for good (and had probably gotten killed for it by now), nobody really knew what happened to Twiggy, and Skold had gone rogue, become a ghost, a gun for hire.

Manson would have done the same, if becoming a lone wolf wasn’t so unreliable. He liked the benefits he got from working under contract, which meant he could provide for you, keep you safe, keep you under protection when he wasn’t around to look after you. The Loma Vista organization under Bates paid him good, and made it clear that you and he would both be untraceable.

You adjust the framed photograph, dusting it off with your fingertips. Manson played it like he didn’t give a shit about anything or any of those ‘backstabbing assholes’, but you could read him well enough to know he missed those days sometimes.

You walk over to the bar in the penthouse, pouring yourself another cosmo. You had been a bartender before Manson had picked you up in that club three years ago, so you knew how to mix a good one. You run your fingers down your neck to your diamond dagger-shaped necklace, smiling. It felt good knowing how much he cared for you. The danger of his job was all worth it—you would kill for him, and he would do the same.

You walk back over to the window, and sigh. The cars passing below look like small fairy lights, dancing in the blur of the night, and your eyes in the glass reflection mirror the stars.

Suddenly, all the lights go out. You swish your drink, letting the lit up city illuminate its path up to your lips.

"There's an intruder in the house," you remark dryly, "Whatever will I do?"

"Beg for mercy," Manson's voice growls behind you, and fingers wrap around the back of your neck. You take another sip of your pink drink, blinking your eyelashes.

"You gonna choke me, daddy?"

He hums, vibrations rumbling against your back. "I've gotten too used to having you around. I’d probably go crazy without you." Instead of choking you as some lethal assailant in the night may have, he begins massaging you instead. "You haven't been relaxing. You're stiff, sweetheart." You reach back, hand finding his crotch.

"And you're not." You turn around, looking up at him teasingly. "That's a problem." He turns the lights back on, smirking as the shoulders of your dress fall down your back.

"We won’t have to worry about that for long." He walks over to fix himself a drink, undoing his top two buttons to reveal the tattoos on his chest. "What’d you do today, babygirl?"

"Made sure nobody broke in and killed me," you smile sweetly, sauntering by him. You hum, and look at his gun cabinet as you pass it. "That gets me wondering..."

"Mm," he mumbles, half listening as he downs his glass of vodka and pours himself another. You watch him, biting your lip. His black shards of hair are in his eyes, and his cuff links have the slightest trace of dried blood on them. It makes you wet imagining how it got there.

Turning to the cabinet your curiosity had brought you to, you unlatch it, and take a small gun out. You make sure to attach the silencer, as you’d seen Manson do a million times, and close the cabinet door softly. Walking back over to the living room, you stand across from the west wall.  

Looking around, you aim at a plate on the shelf across the room, and pull the trigger. It instead blows a hole through a copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, and Manson looks up from where he’s cutting lines.

“Mind telling me why you’re shooting up the place?”

“I’m practicing,” you shush him, getting up and inspecting the smoking bullet hole, “What am I going to do when you’re away one day and some thug comes in, trying to kidnap me to get to you?” He stares at you through dark eyes, taking a sip of his vodka. You go on. “Picture it. Bates sends you off to Hong Kong to kill some arms dealer who wouldn’t pay. I’m here... all alone... dressed like I am...” You inch your dress up your leg, and his eyes dart down, following the hike of your skirt.

“So, you wanna protect yourself with a gun?” he muses, using a rolled up hundred to snort his lines. “How patriotic.”

“Fuck off.” You lick your matte red lips. “If you get to play with guns, so should I.”

A smug smirk dances on his lips as he admires your form. At least your breasts are being pushed together nicely the way you’re holding that pistol. “Uh huh. Have some of this.”

“I’m busy.”

He walks over to the couch, and sits behind you with his drink, watching. “Okay. Try again.”

You look at him, then back at your target: the damn plate.

He settles in, elbows on his knees, and watches your finger stroke the trigger. “Careful, angel. Aim nice and close.” You close one eye, and pull the trigger. Manson cringes as you blow his first edition Alistair Crowley book away.

He gets up, sighing, and sets his drink down. “You wanna learn how to do what I do?” he mumbles in your ear. He presses his weight up against you from behind, and wraps his arms around you, rolling up his sleeves. His hand encompasses yours, tattooed fingers making sure your grip is right. “Here’s what I do.” He jerks your arm, shooting the plate. Then he shoots a cross pattern into the wall behind it, with four bullet holes, and strokes his hand down your hip. You moan gently, and he pauses. “Oh. You like that?”

“Mhm,” you nod, and he brushes your hair aside, holding your shoulder.

“Your turn.” You aim, and he holds your hand again, steady. “Shoot,” he whispers, pointing just past you, “Here. And the world’ll get smaller, sweetheart.”

His voice is like sandpaper honeyed over. You lean back into him, and his hand finds your breast, massaging it as you try to aim. You give up a few seconds later, and he guides the gun down between your breasts, down your stomach, and slides your dress up your thigh.

“Please,” you whisper, and he dips the barrel of the gun into your black lace panties.

“I fucking wanted you all week,” he growls in your ear, “It killed me being away from you.”

“You could’ve called me.”

He drags the gun up and down. “I don’t have enough burner phones for how many times I had to jack off thinking of you.”

You shiver, reaching back to palm him. He’s half hard in his pants, and you want more. “What did you think of?”

“You, putting on a little show for me. Those gorgeous eyes, staring up at me like I’m the world while you suck my cock like it’s all you live for.”

“Oh,” you breathe, and he massages your other breast, starting to move the gun against your clit.

“You look good holding a gun, babygirl. Aim and show daddy just how good you are.” He gives you the gun, but you drop it and press your lips to his. He walks you back into the floor to ceiling glass windows, and tears your dress, letting it fall around your ankles.

“I liked that dress,” you pout.

“Fuck the dress,” he mutters, and turns you around so you’re facing the building opposite you. You’re only in black pantyhose and a black push up bra, otherwise exposed. He sinks his teeth into your shoulder, his grill making the mark even more pronounced, and you purr, grinding back against him. He grinds his cock into your ass for a moment, just reveling in the sound of your soft moans growing in volume.

He finally pulls your panties down, and positions himself, slowly sinking into you. You gasp, palms splaying out over the window. He grunts once he’s all the way in, then starts up a pace. You grind back into every thrust, and he holds you around your middle, slapping your ass with his hips every time he pounds in.

“You know, if someone broke in, you could just fuck them to distract them until I got back. Your pussy could send a man to an early grave.”

Angrily, you shove back against the window so that both of you fall to the floor, and you get back on top of him. He holds your hips, mouth falling open and head falling back as you start to ride him hard into the floor.

“Babyg... ah, ah... ah...”

“You like that?” you circle your hips, slamming down, “Huh? Mister tough hitman, scary pale emperor, thinks I can’t protect myself. You like feeling my wet little cunt around you? Guess who’s on top of who?!”

“Fuck,” he groans, and you put your forearms on either side of his head, dragging your breasts up over his face.

“I’m close,” you whisper, “Oh god.” He holds you tighter, reaching up your ribcage to grope your breasts and suck your nipples.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Cum on my fucking cock,” he sneers, “Do it, I know you want it.”

“Manson,” you moan, and he rocks you through your orgasm from beneath. When he knows you’re done, he flips you over, roughly pounding into you a few times before his hips stutter and he swears again, finishing inside you.

He catches his breath, and kisses your forehead, rolling over beside you. His hair is messed up, eyeshadow smudged over half-lidded eyes. 

“I’m sorry about the dress, babygirl. I’ll buy you a new one. Pretty one, just like that one, hm?”

“Thank you,” you whisper, crossing your leg with his. He holds onto your leg, chest rising and falling. You two finally rise, and you pull your panties up, so your lingerie set is at least complete to walk around in.

“Now. About this gun thing.” He runs his hand through his hair, and picks it up. “Why don’t we practice on something useful?”

He points out the window at the neighbour he absolutely despises. The guy has his Christmas tree decked out in LED blinking lights that never seem to go out, and while the building across from you seems like it’s miles away, it hasn’t stopped irking either of you.

“Kill Griswold over there.”

“I can’t kill him!”

“Your aim is fine.”

“I bet you I can’t.”

“I bet you can, and whoever is wrong has to give the other person... four straight hours of oral sex.”

You sigh, and aim the gun. “What about the windows, genius?” His hands find your hips, and he holds his hands together in front of you, resting his forearms on your curves. He lays his head in the nape of your neck, watching with you.

“We’ll replace them tomorrow, with your dress.”

“You think it’s smart to leave the penthouse of a contract killer wide open all night?”

“If anybody comes to get us, I know who’s gonna protect me.” He nudges you with his head. “Shoot the motherfucker.”

You pull the trigger, and hit the poor guy’s power box. His tree goes up in flames, and you stifle a laugh. You two watch as he comes storming into his living room, and looks over, trying to find who did it in a sea of tiny apartment lights. He finally looks all the way up at you two. Manson waves, grinning, and you blow him a kiss.

“My nasty little femme fatale,” he mumbles into your neck. He saunters over to the chaise, sitting back, and you sit on his lap, slinging your legs sideways over his.  

“When’s your next job?” you ask, taking a sip from his tumbler of vodka. He plays with a lock of your hair.

“Next month. Contract in Berlin.”

Berlin. That’s... “That’s not far,” you murmur, mouthing kisses along the corner of his mouth, playing with the last few done up buttons above his navel. You trace the long upside down cross he’s got tattooed there.

“Mmm,” Manson agrees, fondly stroking up and down your arms. “I think we should get a cat. We can pawn it off on Bates when we leave.” He idly looks back at the picture frame on the shelf, staring for longer than usual. You follow his line of sight, and try to think of the best way to say it.

“Maybe... he doesn’t want to be found, babe.” Manson looks back to you.

“Good. I hope the fucker stays lost.”

Snuggling into him on the couch, listening to the late night Stuttgart traffic from the open air where your window used to be, you feel his heartbeat pick up a little. No matter how much he tried to deny it, the mystery was weighing on him.

After Mission Grotesque, where had his old partner disappeared to?

[bigenderbefriender]

It’s approaching midnight here in Oklahoma on November 2, 2020, and before election day begins in earnest, I wanted to write out a few of my thoughts.  I don’t know how much analysis I’ll actually do; this is mostly a record of how I feel, how the world is, and how I perceive it.  Maybe a year or two down the line, I’ll be able to look back on this and shore up some memories, though hopefully I won’t ever forget what I’ve seen over the past four years.

Let me start with this, then.  No one knows what’s going to happen.  The perennial discourse about the electoral college is in full swing, and as usual, Republicans are blocking it because they benefit massively from the rampant conservatism (racism) of rural states such as my own.  All the news talks about these days is the election cycle and COVID; I can hardly blame them.  It’s almost all I think about, too.  That said, half of Oklahomans went without power this week due to a massive ice storm, including most of my social circle, and it didn’t even make a blip in the national news.  Likewise, Hurricane Zeta tore a path through Louisiana then up the East Coast last week, and it only got a cursory mention, despite being the fifth such hurricane to make landfall in Louisiana this year.  The destruction there is nigh incalculable.

Texas governor Greg Abbott has been in a campaign to suppress voters in urban areas in this election cycle, his most egregious success being to limit the number of polling places per county to one, meaning large cities that fall under one county must all vote at the same place.  This will inevitably lead to a number of citizens being unable or unwilling to vote, predominantly in those large cities where lines will be several hours long, and the risk of COVID will be high.  Texan Republicans have also tried to throw out drive-thru ballots on the order of 120,000 votes, but this was blocked by Andrew Hanon.  The voter suppression is quite likely because for the first time in several elections, Texas is legitimately competitive this year.  I don’t think it will flip to the Democratic Party, but if it does I would be quite happy.

Other states have also been engaging in voter suppression, but there are people working against it.  Stacey Abrams, after her narrow defeat (1.4%) in the 2018 gubernatorial race in Georgia, has continued her commitment to ending voter suppression there, and she claims that she has done so quite successfully.  I suppose that remains to be seen, but I am hopeful.  Little news is coming out of places like North Carolina, though, and that’s scary, since voter suppression there is so prominent and so ugly.  In addition, Trump has been calling on militias, whom I will not name so as to keep them away from this post, to enact stochastic violence against voters whom they believe will vote Democratic.

In truth, that’s only the tip of the iceberg.  Since the summer, Trump has been questioning the legitimacy of mail-in ballots, certainly in an attempt to provide precedent for his contesting of the election results.  If they go in his favor, I’m sure he’ll love whatever the election says, but much like with Hillary Clinton, it looks like he’ll lose the popular election.  Experts are predicting a “blue shift” over the course of the election cycle.  That is, Republicans by and large are ignoring the threats of the coronavirus, which means they’re much more likely to vote in person on November 3.  This means it will appear that Trump has won the election on Novemeber 3, but as mail-in ballots get counted, the electorate will begin to sway towards Biden.  I may make a prediction here, though it is a grim one.  I believe that Trump will try to call the election on November 3 proper, and he will use his newfound influence on the Supreme Court (aka his nominee and now justice Amy Coney Barrett) to halt the count of mail-in ballots that might prove him wrong.  Many people say our democracy is in crisis, but quite honestly, I think this is a natural conclusion to the way that politics have been going since basically the Clinton era.

What I mean by that is to say that Trump’s presidency has done an excellent job of exposing long-lasting structural issues in American society, and Democrats have made #resist into an aesthetic to win their re-elections rather than actually leveraging the power they do have.  I’d say it must be hard, against someone who’s as much of a political opportunist as Sen Maj Ldr Mitch McConnell (R-KY), but the truth is that all of these people are perfectly content to campaign on decorum rather than on fixing any of the actual issues facing the US.

It’s not all bad; Biden has been pushed quite a bit to the left by the growing progressive wing of the Democratic Party, organized in part by the Justice Democrats and represented by Sen Bernie Sanders (Ind. VT), Rep Alexandria Ocasio Cortez (D NY), Rep Ilhan Omar (D MN), Rep Rashida Tlaib (D MI), and Rep Ayanna Pressley (D MA).  The latter four are colloquially referred to as “The Squad,” and they fight alongside others for progressive policies out of the House of Representatives.  I would hate to go through an entire post about my feelings on national politics without mentioning the few good things we do have going for us.  In addition, voters have come out in record numbers this year.  As of this morning NPR reported that four states have had more early voting than total voters in 2016.  In a democracy, one of the major challenges is to stimulate citizen participation in government; citizens are certainly participating this year.

Also, this year has been a year that will be remembered for its social movements.  The Black Lives Matter movement came back into full swing, and the role of the police is now a legitimate question in many people’s minds.  Of course, this is a frustrating thing to talk about, too.  The demands of Black Lives Matter as a movement are so simple, yet over and over again, police show that they are more dedicated to violence than to justice.  In addition, white people across the country have shown that they are more dedicated to law and order than to making a country in which everyone can live.  This seems odd to me, though I know that it is specifically racially motivated.  It’s not like I’m just having this realization now; my grandparents are Party Republicans, and I couldn’t convince them to vote to kick Walmart out of their town, even when they know exactly how it’s screwed them.  To ask them to empathize with a Black person, even a Black neighbor?  Believe me, I’ve tried.  Still, we did see (are seeing) a lot of good from the protests.  Colorado basically ended qualified immunity, which means that police should be a lot more accountable for their actions in the future.  We also saw several experiments in what a society could look like without policing.  The Capitol Hill Autonomous Zone in Seattle was the most famous of these, though it fell apart in part due to its popularity.  Others that did not have the spotlight on them did not fall apart so spectacularly (though I have to speculate that all of CHAZ’s sisters have been disbanded by now).

That said, there’s a lot to fear in the coming days.  The only thing we know about this election is that we won’t know the result for days or even weeks after polling closes.  Because of that, many fear that protests will break out across the country on election day.  The protests themselves aren’t the bad thing, I think.  What’s bad is that the protests will be the targets of white supremacist violence (if the protesters are pro-Biden) or the perpetrators thereof, especially now that Trump has condoned militia violence against citizens.  Over the summer, Trump also used a secret police force (under the Department of Homeland Security, specifically Customs and Border Patrol) against protesters in Portland, Oregon to quell unrest.  Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work, since the protests were against police brutality.  However, the system is now there for him to use, and CBP is only growing bigger by the day.  If protests do break out in the weeks following the election, I have no doubt that CBP will be there throwing people into unmarked vans and jailing them without due process.

I have so much more to say.  I haven’t even gotten into the border wall, or family separation, or the assassination of Iranian dignitaries, or attacks on abortion rights, or Mitch McConnell’s stalling of the Senate, or the individual stages of failure of the COVID-19 response and how I learned about them, or the use of said COVID-19 to grant ICE carte blanche to deport people without trial, or any of the myriad other political issues of which I’ve become aware over the past four years.  I also haven’t even begun to write out my thoughts on my local politics or Oklahoma politics specifically (quite honestly, I think local politics will forever stay offline, seeing as though I’d really rather not give out too much identifying information here).  But I think this post has gone on long enough.  Perhaps I will write more on those other topics in the future.  I am afraid for tomorrow, and I am afraid for the months and years to come.  I do not wish to live in interesting times, but it seems I am cursed to do so.  At least I can say I was a witness.  It is now 12:40 AM, November 3, 2020.  The election is in 6 hours, and I am scared.

[seokeros]

I have seen ‘big’ blogs being rude to their anons. in a case where anon does not read their faq, asks a question about another blog, communicate with another anon etc. But i feel like no matter what we shouldn’t be rude you know. Especially when the anon has no ill- intentions. What is your opinion on this matter?

I’m going to separate the ‘not reading their faq’ part from ‘asking questions about another blog’ and ‘communicating with another anon via their inbox’ because that’s different. I’d like to focus on that, since I don’t really have a grand opinion on the other two. I personally don’t mind being asked about other blogs, but I can see how it would get bothersome if two anons are having a conversation with each other via the writer’s blog if it doesn’t include the writer.

so. the purpose of a writer making a faq is to provide answers to commonly asked questions. not only does it benefit the reader by quickly providing them with an answer to their question, but it aids the writer in lessening their inbox load. it also saves them from having to repeat themselves over and over, or having to answer questions that make them uncomfortable, such as the age-old ask of: ‘when are you updating [insert fic]?’.

when a writer makes a faq, they will more often than not advertise it in their blog description and on their ask page, paired with the kindly-worded request of the reader checking the faq for their question before sending an ask about it. this is honestly the one courtesy that writers with faqs ask of their readers, so when this small request is neglected and ignored by readers who continue to send questions that have been answered in the faq, it can push a writer to the end of their tether. they get tired of repeating themselves. they wonder how the sender of the ask managed to get past their blog description, their ask page title, without seeing the blatant request to check the faq before sending in their question. they wake up to see 10 inbox notifcations, 8 of which are questions that have been answered in the faq. they delete those 8 asks because they know that lashing out won’t construct an approachable image of them, they make a nice but firm post reminding readers to please check the faq for their question before sending it in, and there may be a week after that where they don’t receive questions that have been answered in the faq. nevertheless, the week passes, and the questions start coming in again. the cycle repeats itself.

sure, maybe the anon in particular that ends up receiving that one ‘rude’ answer doesn’t deserve to be singled out, but do you think you’d be able to keep your cool? it’s not just that anon the writer is speaking to—they’re telling the other 50 who have had their asks deleted because they ignored the faq how they feel about readers doing this. you’re labelling these writers as ‘rude’ for reacting such a way, but don’t you think it’s ruder that these readers are clearly ignoring what is quite often the only request of the writer?

please remember this: fic writers are doing this for free—they’re here on their own time and for their own enjoyment. they’re here to escape their real-life struggles and to have a breath of fresh air. but when that is smothered by readers rudely ignoring their sole request, it can be really, really disheartening. maybe some writers go too hard on those anons, but if an anon is choosing to ignore all of the very clear signs to check the faq first, they honestly shouldn’t expect anything less than their ask being deleted or it being responded to by the writer with a blunt: ‘check the faq’.

also, let’s not with the ‘big’ blogs thing. I have seen blogs of many sizes react negatively to an anon at some stage or another over the past four years. it’s just a natural, human reaction to eventually get pissed when you are receiving endless repetitive asks that have been answered in the faq. and if none of what I’ve said has provided a clear enough image, then imagine the situation as this: a toddler continuously tugging at the hem of your shirt, chanting the same question over and over, no matter that you provided them with the answer an hour ago.

[thesustainableswap]

Sustainable Holidays.

As you’re reading this I am still on holiday. I’m currently wandering around Epcot and probably eating way too much food. I did a post a while back on some items I’d bought from one of my favourite shops, plastic freedom, in order to try combat using any single use items and I’ll let you know how I did when I get back from the USA, but for now let’s talk about holidays in general. Is it possible to have a completely sustainable one?

Now maybe you’re like me, I don’t often go on holiday abroad. Me and my friends like to take trips within the UK and we’ve seen some wonderful quaint towns like Blythburg, Bath and Fairford. We usually rent out an airbnb and spend most of our time out walking on nature trails, browsing local shops and drinking in the pubs. It always makes for a relaxing getaway with lots of memories. You don’t have to go abroad to go on holiday - there will be gems in the country you’re already in. I know the stress of work can drive us to try get as far away as possible when it comes to taking a break, but getting your pals together and venturing to the countryside makes for a perfect trip. If you have friends who drive you can car share your way down or all take public transport together to save on CO2 emissions. Most of the time we’ve gone away together we’ve all bundled into two cars. Some might say that’s not good enough because CO2 is still being produced, but two cars are better than six.

Living in the UK also has benefits for traveling further afield. The Eurostar can take you from Kings Cross St Pancras to Paris, Brussels and Amsterdam. So, if you feel that itch to get further away from the office, it’s possible. And the numbers tell us everything: taking a plane from London to Paris would emit 244kg of CO2, whereas traveling on the Eurostar only emits 22kg.

In some cases, a plane is your only option. Take me right now as an example. I don’t know any other way to get to the US that doesn’t involve planes. I know some cruise ships which dock in the UK can get you to the US in around two weeks, but I’ve read that they were worse for CO2 emissions than planes though the facts are a bit all over the place. For example Climate Care (a carbon offsetting company) says that, ‘A cruise liner such as Queen Mary II emits 0.43kg of CO2 per passenger mile, compared with 0.257kg for a long-haul flight,’ So, in this case the plane is worse for the environment. On the other hand Julian Francis from Responsible Travel expresses that, ‘On a typical one-week voyage a cruise ship generates more than 50 tonnes of garbage and a million tonnes of grey (waste) water, 210,000 gallons of sewage and 35,000 gallons of oil-contaminated water.’ So with cruise ships it’s not just about CO2, it’s about everything else they are dumping in our oceans. For me personally, I’d say choose a flight over a cruise if you have no other choice.

And on the subject of trying to offset CO2 emissions - I’m still unsure if this is something that really works. I’ve been looking into it and debating whether to offset my flights to America, but there are so many companies and all of them have given me a different quote on how much it would cost me to offset the emissions. It feels as if they’re pulling numbers out of thin air. Climate Care told me it would cost around £50.42 to offset myself and my partners flights. Carbon Footprint gave me a variety of choices allowing me to pick which project I would like to donate to, ranging from £20 to £50. The biggest quote I received was from MyClimate, which was for around £130. Again, I could pick which project I wanted to donate to like Carbon Footprint, but they were all around the same price. And so, with such a wide range of prices how do I know my money is actually offsetting my carbon footprint? I don’t want to feel like I’m throwing a random amount of cash at a problem, hoping it goes away, rather than making real change.

So I’m trying to make peace with what I can and can’t do. I have only taken six return flights in my life (so, technically twelve) and after this holiday I am planning on abstaining from flying. I will keep trying to live as zero waste and sustainably as possible and hope that means I am doing enough to offset any CO2 my life inevitably produces. As I’ve mentioned, I already walk or cycle as much as possible. I can tell you (thanks to my handy Velib app) that I’ve already saved 23.7kg of CO2 from cycling rather than driving. That’s no where near the four tonnes of CO2 my flight is producing, but once it’s reached that point, what more can I do? I’m only one person. That’s why we have to do what we can, what ever little we can, to help and not get too bogged down by the impossibility of what we can’t change.

So yes, it is possible to go on sustainable holidays, just look a little closer to home and try not to take flights unless there is no other option. I’m hoping in the future governments will start introducing a frequent flier tax, because it is only a small number of our population who take planes like they are taxis. I think carbon offsetting could be a potential way forward too, but it needs to really showcase where the money is going and how it’s helping, because right now it seems like a way to ease guilt.

If you want more info on traveling sustainably in the sense of what you can take with you to avoid single use items and the like, check out my friend Holly’s blog. She’s a solo traveler who has so many great tips for what you can do to lower your impact whilst you’re exploring the world (check out this post especially!) as well as staying on budget and staying safe.

Until next time,

The Sustainable Swap.

[weeklyship]

Safe Haven (is in your arms)

I know no one asked, but let’s be real here. Once Thomas finds out that Newt is still alive, if you think he lets him out of his sight even once you are terribly mistaken.

(This is an optional follow-up to my little TDC fix-it blurb.)

•••

Once it fully sinks in that Newt actually made it, and since Thomas is sitting right beside him, he would know, he can’t seem to take his eyes off of him. Somewhere deep in the irrational part of Thomas’ brain, he thinks that if he looks away for a single second, Newt will no longer be there when he looks back.

And so, for a couple days, this is how it goes. Thomas and Newt are always in the same bubble, though it’s definitely more of Thomas’ choice than Newt’s, but wherever one boy is seen, so is the other. Thomas makes sure he strategically places himself so that he is always either next to Newt or he can see him out of the corner of his eye, whether they’re at dinner or with their friends or sleeping. In fact, Thomas has not slept in almost three nights, simply because this safe haven seems too good to be true, and he doesn’t want to lose it, he doesn’t want to lose him. Not again.

The others start to seem concerned when Thomas starts nodding off at breakfast, when he starts to doze off slumped next to Newt by the fire, when every single time he jolts awake after a few seconds and glances around with wild eyes, when he heaves a sigh of relief at the sight of Newt still living and breathing next to him. Even though they start to worry, they don’t say anything. This is something that Thomas has to do; they understand. This transition has been a hard one for all of them.

The fourth night after he woke up, the fourth night in a row that Thomas plans to stay awake, he is curled up on his side, somewhere between asleep and awake, not quite looking at Newt but not quite looking away. He can see the sleeping boy stir, but he doesn’t think anything of it. Those who sleep have nightmares; Thomas hasn’t dealt with those yet, but he knows they will come.

“Tommy?” Thomas jolts at the sound, sitting straight up in his bed. He didn’t know Newt was awake. “Tommy, why haven’t you been sleeping?”

Thomas sighs, slumping back against the wall behind him. “Sorry,” he mumbles, looking up at the ceiling, then out the window, then at the floor. Anywhere but at Newt. He’s not sure if the other boy can even seen him, but he is sure that he doesn’t want to make eye contact. No one was supposed to know he wasn’t sleeping; could anyone really blame him?

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Newt shuffle around, and he hears him groan with pain as he sits up. His chest was still healing; it hurt him to speak, move, sleep, and exist, but he never complained. Thomas wasn’t nearly as bad off with his bullet wound, but he still understood. He never complained either, even when the pain was unbearable. No matter what, they kept going.

Newt grumbles a little bit more as he heaves himself to his feet, stopping to catch his breath, and then he slowly hobbles over to Thomas. He pauses for a second, but then turns to sit next to Thomas anyway. Neither of the boys speak for a couple seconds.

“Honestly? I’m just scared that if I stop looking at you, even for a second, you’ll disappear. I keep thinking this is a dream, I keep expecting myself to wake back up, but it still hasn’t happened. At least if I’m always awake, there isn’t a chance that closing my eyes will lead to opening them again and having to relive that loss a second time.” Thomas lets the darkness swallow his words; something about the quiet of the room that the two boys share allows for him to speak his mind without fear of the reception. Thomas finally looks over at Newt, who is playing with what Thomas recognizes as the necklace he had given Thomas while watching Thomas fidget. Although Thomas wants to ask, he doesn’t think it’s the right time. “I don’t think I get to wake up to this happy safe haven more than once,” he says, and his voice sounded defeated.

Newt lets the silence drag on for a few more seconds before he says, “I understand,” and looks away, down at his own hands. Thomas stops wringing his hands and lets them down by his sides, fiddling with the sheets between his pointer finger and thumb, feeling the weight of his exhaustion press down on his shoulders and make his eyes heavy.

“You’ve got to get some sleep, Tommy,” Newt sighs, and Thomas shakes his head.

But Newt wasn’t asking him, he was telling him. He shuffles slowly to the end of the bed, picking up the pillow and putting it in his lap. And then he reaches over, tugs the sleeve of Thomas’ shirt, and when Thomas looks confused he pats the pillow invitingly. When Thomas still looks confused, he finally smiles a little, which does wonders to lighten the mood. “If I’m right here when you fall asleep, then I’ll be here when you wake up.” And the logic behind it doesn’t quite make sense, but Thomas can feel his eyelids drooping, and somehow it makes sense to him anyway.

He lays down, stretched out in the only way he can to keep his side from hurting, and turns his head in to face Newt’s stomach. He can’t look at his face, and he can’t look away, so this will have to do.

Newt hesitantly places his arm over Thomas’ chest as he leans back against the wall, making himself comfortable. Thomas feels guilty keeping him awake, but if he did the math right, it’s already almost four in the morning. The sun would rise soon, and they’d get up for the day, and maybe Thomas could stop watching Newt like a hawk for the first time in days.

Thomas only forces his eyes open six times before he finally lets them stay shut like they want to. As he drifts to sleep, he thinks he hears Newt whisper, “I’m sorry, Tommy,” but he can’t be sure, and he’s too far under to ask.

•••

When the sun wakes him up about three hours later, Thomas is alone in his bed. He sits up in a state of sleepy panic, but he sees Newt laying in his own bed across the room, and his heart rate starts to slow to something that is maybe considered normal. He watches Newt sleep for another hour before he starts to stir, all the while convincing himself the whole ordeal was just a dream. Either way, he slept, and when he woke, Newt was still alive, so what did it matter?

When Newt starts to move around, stretching what he can, yawning, convincing himself to wake up, Thomas finally gets up and leaves the room without him for the first time since he woke up a few days ago.

When Newt joins him next to the fire twenty minutes later, he seems just the same as the day before, and he doesn’t mention anything strange, so Thomas doesn’t ask if the night really happened or not. Instead, he just finishes his breakfast, tuning out the other boys as they laugh and joke. When he’s done, he gets up without a word, and goes back to their room, goes back to bed.

•••

That’s when the nightmares come, giving him a whole new reason to avoid sleeping. He avoids sleep, avoids Newt, and avoids just about every interaction possible. He does this for as long as he can, speaking only when spoken to, sleeping only when he must.

Newt seems to be getting more and more frustrated with him, and he knows he should care, but he thinks about the peace he felt only when Newt convinced him it was okay and gets angry with himself all over again, and so the cycle continues.

It continues for almost a week before something rights itself, but Thomas can’t figure out what changed. Not until the sun has started to set, and he wanders to their room, where Newt has been for hours trying to catch up on sleep.

Or, that’s what he told Thomas anyway, but when Thomas enters the room Newt is sitting on Thomas’ bed, or rather, both of their beds, because he has apparently pushed them together, up against Thomas’ wall. And so he was sat, back against the wall, on Thomas’ bed, with his legs across his own bed.

Thomas has an incredible sense of deja vù, even if he hadn’t been a bystander last time, but he suddenly doubts again that the first time Newt was in his bed was a dream.

The exception is, though, that this time he is tired enough to ask. “It wasn’t a dream?” But his question comes out more as a sentence, because he already knows the answer, and he’s been a dick all week for something he convinced himself of.

“No, Tommy. I know I told you I would be there when you woke up, but propping myself upright for so long started to hurt. I figured as long as I was in the room, you’d know. But it took me until today to realize that you, much like everything else, thought it was a dream.” Newt shakes his head, laughs a little breathy laugh, and smiles. Thomas lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding- Newt wasn’t mad at him. They were okay.

“Minho and Gally helped me move my bed over here- I know you still aren’t sleeping, and to be honest, I haven’t been either. I thought we could maybe mutually benefit- you’ll know right where I am, and...” He trails off, looking lost for a second. “Well, that’s it really, so maybe this is mostly for you.” He shrugs, giving a lopsided smile. He is once again playing with that necklace, the one he had been wearing since Minho had found it to return to Thomas and he had intercepted it.

“Why was that necklace so important to you?” Thomas asks, coming over to stand in front of Newt. Newt smiles again, looking up to meet Thomas’ eyes as he slips the pendant back under his shirt.

“Although it would explain some things, I’m not ready for you to see it yet. I wrote you my first and last letter while I was dying, Tommy. The things I wanted to say while I was dying, well... I’d like the opportunity to tell you them in my own time, without the time constraints.”

This time, when he laughs, Thomas laughs too. “Don’t get all romantic on me, shank.” Newt laughs a little harder at this, and has to stop for a second to catch his breath.

“So, are the beds okay, or do I have to call the guys back in and help our sorry asses separate them again?”

Thomas shakes his head, feeling his throat tighten a little. His best friend was alive, and not mad at him for being an idiot. He doesn’t say anything, but he climbs up beside Newt, and they sit in comfortable silence for a few moments before they right themselves on their beds. Eventually, they drift to sleep, their arms brushing.

(And if they wake up, arms and legs tangled up into each other, well, no one else has to know.)

[doomedandstoned]

What Weird Tales We Weave!

During a particularly long and vicious Pacific Northwest winter, I developed a strange affinity for a band called WEIRD TALES. The doom trio of Dima (guitars, vox), Kriss (bass, vox), and Kava (drums) emerged three or four years ago from a part of the world that gets cold, miserable weather ten times as worse as mine. I was never quite sure what to make of the Warsaw band's warped, sloggy sound, made all the more odd with its imposing Gothic vocals and pernicious earworms. All I knew was that Weird Tales had some bad, bad medicine to offer during a time in life when I'd grown pretty jaded and disillusioned. It was, as the well-worn saying goes, just what the doctor ordered.

Before us is the latest and most ambitious effort to date from Weird Tales and I must say it's showing me a brave new side to the band. As 'Hell Services Cost A Lot' (2019) opens, we hear an orchestral crescendo of screeching feedback. Dogs are barking in the background, perhaps to warn lurkers of dangers just beyond the shadows. The band responds with a vicious beating of guitar, bass, and drums. It's an attack we're not used to hearing on doom records and I find it refreshing to break away from the gloom for a chance to vent some good old fashioned aggression. This instrumental preamble eventually gives way to the first words of "Madness" and the record is off to take care of its mischief.

Hell services cost a Lot by Weird Tales

I don’t know just who I am I don’t know who is that man He looks on me from the fucking mirror Stares at me and laughs, waiting for you

Voices in my skull come louder and louder Push me to that edge, there's no return Where I put them bones on bloody altar Drinking wine, dancing, waiting for the end

Hey Get out from my brain I don’t need you there Get out from my brain I don’t need you there, I don’t want you there

Hell services cost a Lot by Weird Tales

"Crawling Pain" is next and I can't get over just how much the band's style has shaken off that hazy, bummed-out strangeness. Seriously, their first two EPs (both dropped in 2017) are like tripping out on cough syrup. I wanted to review them (really I did), but I struggled with what to even say. You don't talk about the Golden Age of Weird Tales; you live it, man. With Hell Services, it's like the boys woke up after an all-night bender, seized by a sudden rush of early morning adrenaline, grabbed the carpe diem of the day and exclaimed, "You lazy, no good son of a bitch, give me my goddamn money!" I swear, I almost thought I was listening to a different band, like there’d been some big personnel change or something, so different was the state of things. Put another way, if Weird Tales and Shiny Void were a dextromethorphan-soaked dream, Hell Services is like a PCP-fueled nightmare.

Hell services cost a Lot by Weird Tales

Here's another thing I didn't expect to hear on a Weird Tales record: the harmonica. I mean it works, but WTF. "LIE" shakes me loose from my comfort zone. I've heard enough doom metal to pretty much know the tricks, the tropes, the whole shebang. I trust Weird Tales have, too, so I'm pretty sure they're pissed off by the whole thing, so they upset the stage coach just enough to keep us guessing (and hanging on for dear life) for the duration of the record. Whether it's for our benefit or theirs, anything's better than boredom, right?

Hell services cost a Lot by Weird Tales

By far, my favorite song of the album is "Nightmare." It is indeed a frightening song (my chest seized up a little when I listened to it in complete darkness -- yes, sometimes I do these crazy things just because). I smirked when I read the lyrics sometime later, realizing the band's sardonic humor has not disappeared.

Nasty hands inside the walls They will get you when you are alone Mom and dad can erase your fear Anyway they will not hear your scream

A heavy blanket covers your eyes Every time you see something wrong The world you made seems so pure Seems so pure that you can’t even breathe

Living the nightmare Live in the nightmare

Hell services cost a Lot by Weird Tales

Maniacal laughter transitions us from the rabid savagery of "Bitchcrusher" into "Warnings" where Weird Tales really get their "Slomatics" on. I do believe this is the loudest and the largest I've heard them. If I heard this echoing out of my window in the dead of night, I would swear that the pit of hell had been open and Satan's demons were being loosed to troll the hell out of mankind.

Hell services cost a Lot by Weird Tales

It’s not until the record’s wild ride comes to a head that we pick up hints of the Weird Tales of old. “Dead Man” is this final number. No wonder. It’s the perfect vehicle to bring a return to sluggish form, though not for long because madness never takes a vacation. Hell Services concludes on a high note with the same bang-up, rip-torn, kick-ass note it started on.

Hell services cost a Lot by Weird Tales

A colleague of mine who deals in more new doom than even I do remarked some weeks back that Hell Services is the best album of the year so far. I'd given it a cursory listen at the time, but hadn't revisited it for months. I swear, my thinking was so cluttered from the traffic jam of new releases from big names and heavy hitters in 2018 that I didn't give as many lesser known bands a fair, focused listen. Good music does not depend on the PR cycle, and thank Christ for that.

All that to say this: the full-length debut from Weird Tales is indeed a good album. No, more than that, it is a great one -- especially when you know how distinguished the Poland scene is with the likes of Dopelord, Major Kong, sunnata, Spaceslug, 71TONMAN, Weedpecker, and BelzebonG. Weird Tales have risen to the occasion with the obstinacy of a punk crew driving a tricked-out Sherman tank.

Hell Services Cost A Lot is an acid-seeped wonder to join the likes of Satori Junk's Golden Dwarf, Three Eyes Left's The Cult of Ashtoreth, Shepherds Crook's Evil Magician, Magmakammer's Mindtripper and other far-out fever dreams.

☠

A Walk on the Weird Side with    Mad Men Dima, Kriss, and Kava

Photographs by Beata Wiśniowska  

Alright, let's do start with a little round of Who's Who?

DIMA:

Okay, there's Kava, our drummer. He had played in Luna Negra, one of the first Polish stoner bands, since 2008. You can find their records on YouTube. A couple tracks still have more viewers than Weird Tales. (laughs)

Next is Kriss, the bassist, who also provides backing vocals. Kriss played in the stoner band Sun Frenzy previously. You should check them out on Bandcamp.

I, of course, am Dima. I’d never played stoner music before -- and thank the gods for that.

How did you guys get together to begin with?

DIMA:

One day, I lost my job for drinking beer on a break and sniffing drugs on my office table -- in official documents they mentioned only liquor. (laughs) So my first thought, besides getting more cheap beers, was to start a doom band. The only right choice, isn't it? The same day, I came to a jam session in order to meet some people to play doom with and in the next couple days met Kava at our first rehearsal. I already had some ideas and riffs, just didn’t have desire to work on it and make structured tracks. I needed like-minded people to share ideas and work on it with others. You know, like in every art. When you're alone, it’s like jerking off. Definitely enjoyable while doing it, but without any sense. With Kava, we smoked couple of bowls while listening Ufomammut and agreed about the direction we should go as a band.

Kriss came later. Actually, he’s our fourth bassist. He is a crazy motherfucker! And he was our biggest fan in a town. (laughs) Visited all our gigs. When his band broke up, we were looking for a new bassist, so offered him a tryout. After a couple of rehearsals, we knew that he was exactly what we were looking for. It’s really easy to play with a guy who likes your music and knows what it's all about. So we found a common language really quick. He's got a really cool groove. Have I mentioned yet that he’s a crazy motherfucker? We rehearsed a couple of old and new songs, then headed right out on tour.

Kriss and Kava, what got the two of you into this kind of music?

KRISS:

It has to be Satan, I guess, but I don't believe in Satan -- and that’s weird.

KAVA:

The Devil, alcohol, drugs, good fun, girls.

Fair enough. What it's like to live and grow up in your neck of the woods?

KRISS:

I grew up like a long time ago and it was nothing like “growing up today.” Back in the day, we had stationary phones and not so much surveillance cameras. So you can guess it was easier to get away with some stupid ideas, as they were executed. I don't envy all that stuff kids have now. They have to cope with a lot more control. And about growing up in Poland as a country? Hmm, I guess it's like growing up every elsewhere. Every country have it pros and cons. The important thing is “who you are, not where you grew up.”

KAVA:

I live in small town near Warsaw. Nothing to do. You need to support yourself or work in fabric -- or you can just drink and smoke. One day, I met some crazy guys and tried to do the band. Of course, it was more alcohol and fun in the beginning.

I'm curious about some of the things that have shaped you both as musicians and humans.

KRISS:

I guess we don't have time for like a biography here, so I'll make it simple. Life and music are all tied up in each other for me, in the little things that drive a person into doing it over and over again. You just try to stay busy with a lot of different things so that you don’t get caught up in boredom. I guess it’s the best way of sizing up both my life and my music.

KAVA:

I pay some heavy shit for the devil and, of course, some old girlfriends, old movies, Black Sabbath albums, and shitty albums, too.

What's the significance of your name, Weird Tales?

DIMA:

Come on, man. That would be too easy! Often people ask us, "Is it from H.P. Lovecraft?" No. Actually, I don’t know where it came from! I always write down some ideas and phrases that I like on a paper. I got a lot of notes strewn all over my apartment. I can’t find anything I need in this chaos, but sometimes find something better than I was looking for. So one of the phrases I happened upon in this mess was "Weird Tales" and it fit the best.

The other most frequent question we get: "Did you take your name from the Electric Wizard song called 'Weird Tales'?" To which I say: I don’t know and fuck you for those stupid questions. It doesn’t matter. I just found it on a little piece of paper in my house and was never interested in where it came from.

We had some songs ready and they were about surreal stuff when you can't distinguish real life from a bad trip. Those songs have an interesting structure, unusual riffs changes. Each one was different and the name Weird Tales was good from every point of view. Lyrically and musically, we like when a song has a plot, and in the future we will continue writing songs that tell strange stories about strange shit happening. Thus, Weird Tales. Ironically, our English is pretty sucky and we can’t even properly pronounce "Weird Tales." (laughs)

Not to ramble, but I'm curious about the difference stylistically between your first two EP's and the LP. The early stuff seems quite blithe and depressive, makes me feel like I do when I have "medicine head." The new stuff is another beast entirely, like someone who has just snapped out of a weeklong bender on rubies.

KRISS:

And that I guess is my fault -- not all, of course, but I like to think that I had some serious influence, especially on this one. Those first two EPs were recorded with another bassist. I was invited to a band just before they planned to record their first album. I've seen these guys perform like a lot times before and I saw something “special” about their music, something -- as I was constantly repeating when I met them after their gigs -- “that no one wants to do in their bands, but so interesting that it’s not supposed to be lost at any point.” So when we finally got together, I tried not to change “their way,” but to “commemorate” it and add as much power and passion into it as only I was able to do. And, of course, Dima is the first one who supposed to answer this question, because he is mostly responsible for those sick-minded sounds. (laughs) Nobody knows what he's got on his mind next, when comes to writing music.

DIMA:

You know, when you write music you don't think much about the kind of style you're going write, except you do not assume from the beginning that you want to write another stoner-doom album about witches. You don't want to be another one to vomit on the music map, just to show that you are represented in a theme. So I just write and play what I want now, which feels like a more natural process. I want to play these kind of sounds now, because it has its place to be here and now in that shape. Of course, it’s coming from life experience, as a way to share your emotions and feelings which have internal roots and act in response to external factors. I'm trying to share that shit in a metaphorical and allegorical way.

Weird Tales (EP) by Weird Tales

I fucking like your interpretation of our EPs and this stylistic difference between them and the LP. You got the point of the message. I like to read the opinions of people who have really found something in our music. Then I compare it to what's been sitting in my head -- stuff I couldn't wrap into words, so I made music to say it. (laughs) It's like reverse feedback to me. I can better understand myself, as a result.

I interpret the changes between our EPs and this album similarly to how you articulated it. It's like you are on acid and have a bad trip. When the bad trip is at its peak, your ego dies and you have this apathetic feeling -- the Weird Tales EP -- and when your bad trip starts to calm down, you have so much energy and feel so good that this shit is over. You understand that this experience will stay with you 'till you die, but for now you have returned to a planet that did you not hope for. So you starting having fun, drinking vodka, and sniffing speed 'till that psychedelic vibe smoothly slides away from you skin and is replaced with a pleasant fire. That is the feeling associated with Hell Services Cost A Lot for me. Sad songs played with a lot of fun.

And your second EP, 'Shiny Void'?

DIMA:

Oh, it’s similar to first one, but this time the bad trip is not coming unexpected. You involve it with full understanding of what will happen now, in order to dive into this madness, hoping to find something there.

Shiny Void (EP) by Weird Tales

What is the background of the new album and how does it fit with your overall evolution as a band?

DIMA:

Nothing special. Some old stories about doing drugs that leaves a trail on your mind, as every honorable man has done a time or two. Also, other mental issues that we probably should tell to psychiatrists, instead of a music journalist.

From musical composition side of things, it was really fun. After we finished our second EP, we already had drafts of a couple songs. The songwriting process was quick as ever. I brought riffs and ideas to a rehearsal and we jammed and quickly agreed with the way a track should go. Even uncommon ideas were quickly accepted by everyone.

We changed bassists while writing this album. Surprisingly, it didn’t slow down the process, because Kriss is a really good fit for Weird Tales. Also we tried to play with a second guitar, because we heard richer arrangements. We even did a tour together with an additional guitarist. But anyway, now we are a trio again. You can hear those second guitar arrangements on Hell Services Cost a Lot -- most of them I now playing alone. It complicates the process a little, but not critically. The most important thing that we three feel great together and have a lot of fun while playing loud and heavy. We share that energy while on stage with audience.

Walk us through each of the songs on the new album and please share anything you can about their meaning.

DIMA:

It’s simple. We've got six tracks about Satan and one about the sea. (laughs) Seriously, though, I’m glad you ask, because it’s a concept album. You absolutely can receive it as you like, it’s cool. But directly or indirectly, the album tells the story of one poor fool. And this guy is a crazy fuck! He definitely needs help, 'cause his mind is drooling without stopping. He has visions and hallucinations, bipolar all the way. And this guy feels that pain all the time. That kills him from deep inside, and the thing is that he doesn’t know is this pain real or not. But it doesn’t matter at all, 'cause he feels it burns him like fire. Of course, this guy has some problems with drugs.

"Nightmare" shows us that his troubles are deeper than it maybe seems. He is still being persecuted by the shit from childhood. He tries to escape from it and makes his own safe reality that certainly will collapse. So that crazy fuck is a poor fool who certainly needs help, though most of his troubles actually come from his own decisions. No...no. Actually, he crossed the line a long time ago. This fuck slays women behind the garbage bins. And in parks, too. Crushes those bitches all the time. Then he fucks their cold bodies -- or not? If you want, he could. So he does all those disgusting kills and slays for the Gods of Death. Making altars from the limbs and trying to find a blessing and freedom from his pain.

The surrealistic pressure in the album grows the most in "Warnings”. He doesn’t understand entirely what is going on. He's tunneled right through to the other side, seeking to fall even further.

On the last track, “Dead Man,” he's killed himself. Only good decisions for such scum like him. He drowned himself in water. And remember that it’s just six tracks about Satan and one about the sea.

No classic Milton or Dante references in your doom, I take it?

DIMA:

There are none. We think film and literature references just suck. And we actually have one track on our 2nd EP that has its lyrics based on a movie, so we suck. (laughs) But again, if seriously, it’s okay if you got some idea from a movie and interpret it in your own way. It’s applicable in art, but it sucks when you straight retell the plot of a movie or book.

Every song on Hell Services Cost a Lot could be taken in a few different ways. Everyone is god. You could receive every track separately or like a part of complex story. There are a couple of true stories about self-issues and shit from real life, mixed up with some fictional stories and told in a way that contain some thoughts, deep or not really. (laughs) We like when there is something more besides straight storytelling -- something that fucking voice in your head tells you to desire.

What's the strangest or darkly funny thing that you've witnessed while gigging?

KRISS:

There are a lot of things that happen at concerts and events. I don't even know where to start, so I’d rather tell you about what are, in my opinion, some of the funniest misconceptions about playing music live. Everybody that I know, who doesn't really have an idea about what it looks like to play concerts or to go touring, thinks it's like something out of a movie. You know, doing cocaine from groupies' asses in a big tour bus, chugging on a bottle of JD or vodka from morning 'till evermore. They don't know that it's like all waiting. You’re on your way to a place and you’re waiting in an overstuffed car. When you finally get there, you’re waiting for the sound engineer, waiting for your time to soundcheck, then waiting for the event to start, waiting for your turn to take the stage, etcetera, etcetera.

Concert Footage by Viktor Chaikovskyi

You can, of course, fill those time gaps with some buzz or other “stuff,” but not too much or it will ruin your show. And when you finish your gig, it's time to pack your stuff back up and more waiting ahead as you get on the road again. Maybe “bigger bands” would have more things to do, but at this point for me it's all waiting. (laughs) And as like-to-be-busy man like me, boring is the most dangerous thing 'cause a lot of stupid ideas come to my mind -- especially under influence.

KAVA:

Our merch table is very funny. You can get some fresh fish or vegetables! We have some new ideas for the shows, but it's secret and too crazy for now. (laughs)

You all seem to have a pretty irreverent attitude and dark sense humor.

KRISS:

Oh shit, you got me! (laughs) But take a look around. If anybody takes this world seriously, I really start to feel pity for him. If he's taking life dead seriously, it begins to even get scary. If you look from a good distance at all the stuff that happens around us, it looks ridiculous and doesn't seem to matter at all. A bunch of pretty primitive creatures jumping around, fighting for better resources to get more mating opportunities.

It's as basic as it's always been, but people seem to turn that basic lifestyle into an “all-meaningful soap opera.” As they try to cover their animal-based foundation, it getting funnier and funnier. It's not like I want to see people walking around like caveman-style dudes, but developing serious issues from “not getting enough attention on internet” or taking a loan to buy the newest version of a mobile phone? Man, that's sick. And I'm I don't even know where to begin with religion: just leave it. At some point in our lives, everybody dies and the point to it is supposed to be hanging the bar higher for those that come after us. With that said, let's not get caught up into it too seriously, I guess.

KAVA:

Yeah, people sometimes don't get it, especially when you talk about somebody's mother-sister wet dreams

Finally, what do you like to do for work and hobbies when you're not involved in Weird Tales?

KRISS:

I do a lot of stuff. I have to be busy all the time. Like all the time, man. Otherwise, I freefall into a black hole of nothingness and self-hatred for wasting “time given me on this earth.” So I draw, paint, cook, do handmade-DIY-style-stuff, and music above all of that. And somewhere on the bottom of the list, there is “work” to pay for all of those hobbies. I would like music to pay my bills eventually, but we're not living in a dream world. (laughs) Maybe someday.

KAVA:

All day I try to figure out rhythms for Dima’s new riffs and cook some fresh meat.

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[inyri]

when it rains it pours, right?

just venting about the last few days... a lot of really frustrating and tedious TMI health stuff on my part (and apologizing in advance for any of the stupid shit I may say or do over the next few weeks- thanks, hormones!). feel free to skip right on past this one, lovelies.

so as I mentioned previously, all the test results are back and our only real chance for having a biological child is IVF. (turns out the problem’s almost 100% him. common and unsurprising given my husband’s history, but it still took two ultrasounds and three rounds of blood tests on my part to sort everything out.) unfortunately when it comes to IVF, regardless of the root cause, pretty much all the unpleasantness is on the uterus-haver’s side. five different injected medications. you basically have to grow as many eggs as possible simultaneously, which normally our bodies don’t do, so it takes a lot of hormonal tinkering while your ovaries grow to the size of tennis balls and then a surgical procedure to get all the eggs out (which is probably going to be as fun as that sounds like. at least i get sedation for it.)

our insurance does cover a lot of it- we’re lucky on that front- but took a long time to approve the process, so I’d done a (third) ultrasound and blood work last week to baseline... and coverage was still pending. apparently I had to call insurance myself, despite having already done so and being told we were good to go? nope. had to call. again. the next day was the holiday, so had to go on meds over the weekend to pause things while we waited. insurance came through shortly after that and had to rebaseline this week (ultrasound #4, blood draw #5). all looked well. and then...

the nurse tells me to go ahead and start the next round of meds (injections) last night. which would be fine, except I haven’t received the meds yet.

apparently that’s news to the nurse, who thought they’d sent the scripts several weeks ago to the pharmacy. they hadn’t bothered to tell ME that, of course, so I didn’t know to follow up on it... anyway! I call them. nope. nothing- and that pharmacy isn’t the one I’m supposed to use. they tell me to call pharmacy B- by then, it’s after business hours. pharmacy B’s closed, and when I try to call the nurse back it goes to the on-call. cool cool cool. meanwhile, the clock’s ticking, I’m literally crying in frustration (hormones-I almost never cry! help me), and I still had two more patients to see. thank fuck for waterproof eyeliner. 

(the whole thing’s time sensitive for several reasons- #1 if we blow this month I have to wait a cycle, putting us into next year for the bulk of the procedural stuff after our deductible resets. less than ideal. and I’m still waiting on New Job which has a decent chance of calling me up as soon as late January- and whose insurance benefits do NOT cover IVF. problem.)

this morning: get up, go to work. see my first sick call patients. call nurse, get voicemail. call pharmacy B- they ARE my specialty med provider but maybe not for this? somehow no one knows! call nurse again. six rounds of phone calls later- involving a lot of phone tag, since I had a full schedule today and was returning calls between patients- they’ve scrounged up enough medication samples to get me through the weekend, which I need to go pick up over lunch hour because they close at 4 and I work until 5. 

did I mention my lunch break’s an hour in the best case and the clinic’s 40 minutes from my office? 

I didn’t get lunch today. drive (while on phone to pharmacy C- maybe they’re who I’m supposed to be dealing with, we think?). pick up meds. turn around. get back to clinic, 30 minutes late. my 1:00 patient is a saint and was very forgiving, thankfully. 

somewhere around 3 o clock i realize apparently I’m spotting. i realized this when i noticed i’d bled through my skirt. thankfully my hospital coat covers my ass. 

more phone tag. nurse, pharmacy C (nope! STILL wrong! I have to use the pharmacy at the hospital where I work, and they can’t get the meds in stock until Monday).  pharmacy D (okay, now we’re getting somewhere). nurse again. 

and ultrasound #5 on Monday too, apparently. that machine owes me dinner and opera tickets at this point. 

I think, maybe, it’s finally sorted now. won’t know for sure until Monday when the meds come in. meanwhile I’m already cranky and hormonal and Menopur injections burn like fuck and I spent FOUR HOURS on the phone today with four different pharmacies and the clinic team... I don’t know how a person with no medical background would even begin to handle half of this. 

oh, and i got home and we have a gas leak in the front yard. 

I think I need to sleep for about a year. I’m trying to be calm about the whole thing, but... whew. 

[maevefiction]

Your Light in the Mist - Chapter 48

Tom remained at Wilcox Medical until July 11th, and I didn’t leave his side for more than a few minutes during the entirety of his stay…a navy-blue leather recliner to the left of his bed had served as my sleeping spot. Said sleep was elusive, as is the case with any hospital stay. It’s all a blur of doctors and nurses and machines and strange periods of quiet that turn into an assaultive dissonance on a dime. Detective Frye paid us a visit at the hospital the day before Tom was discharged in order to discuss his recollection of the incident, aspiring to fill in as many blanks remaining in the police report as possible. Since there was no one to prosecute, such matters were for the record only, but accurate information was essential in the event that a civil suit was filed by Claudia’s family. I was initially taken aback when Tom asked me to leave the room while he spoke with the detective, and it must have shown on my face because Tom quickly apologized and said he simply wasn’t ready for me to hear any of it, even though I might be ready to listen. Upon my return an hour later, Frye was gone and Tom was visibly upset, with an underlying anger reflected by the tension in his shoulders and the set of his jaw. Though it was a challenge, I didn’t pry, settling instead for squeezing his hand before I retired to my chair and sat in silence with him until he was ready to talk. And when he did, it was about everything and anything other than whatever it was that he’d just shared with a complete stranger.  

His recovery had gone smoothly, but we’d found ourselves taking what amounted to a forced vacation in a rented condo on Kauai, waiting for Tom to be cleared to fly to San Diego so he could, hopefully, arrive there in time to participate in the Kong Skull Island panel. Since we’d be in Australia for a large chunk of my pregnancy, I’d decided to choose an obstetrician there, and had managed to find one in London as well who was willing to follow along and take over once we returned home in mid-to-late November. That date was tentative at best since we weren’t sure what physical limitations or restrictions Tom would have nor how they’d affect the Ragnarok shooting schedule. I’d had a basic blood work-up and general physical exam at Wilcox, and when that turned out fine I opted to wait on a sonogram. It seemed silly, but I just didn’t want to forever associate the experience of seeing our progeny for the first time with…whatever the correct term for what we were going through was. Prog…that’s what we’d started calling the little bugger that was making me violently ill at least once a day. Short for progeny, with a ‘j’ sound. The Prog.

Diana, James and the rest of Tom’s family had headed home as soon as he’d been discharged, but Luke and Simon stuck around under the guise of not wanting to fly to London only to have to turn around and fly right back to the US again for SDCC. In reality, I knew the reason for them remaining was because they figured we’d need their companionship and assistance but wouldn’t want to ask for either, which was one-hundred percent correct. They’d taken on the task of finding the rental, packing up our belongings at the hotel and having them ready and waiting when we arrived. No one even asked if I wanted to do it myself, for which I was grateful, because there was no way I was going back there. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able go back there…just looking through our wedding pictures and videos pushed me to the edge of the ‘massive anxiety attack ahead’ cliff, and, in all honesty, I couldn’t wait to get the fuck off of Kauai. Remaining there seemed to make it impossible to process, to try to move forward. I’d begun having nightmares, as had Tom, but we didn’t speak of them in the daylight hours, nor in the dark of night. I knew that there was work to be done, that we needed to find a pathway to healing emotionally…but that didn’t seem possible until things in the physical realm were fully sorted.

Tom’s first follow-up appointment had taken place on the 13th, his second – and last – on the 18th. Dr. Salinas gave him clearance to travel and return to normal physical activity with some limitations…no running and no stunt work for thirty days. After that it would be business as usual, but for the next three months he’d need to self-monitor, and if he noticed any pain or atypical shortness of breath he was to head to the nearest medical facility immediately. Copies of all related paperwork would be sent to the proper department at Marvel for review, and the new shooting schedule emailed once it had been established. Since he was fine to do a majority of planned scenes, it was likely only three weeks or so of actual filming time would be lost. Which was bad enough, but…could have been worse. So much worse. I wondered if I’d always think that way, and if it wasn’t actually a bad way to evaluate one’s current situation. All things should seem less horrible when you pause to consider what’s worse, in theory. I decided to file it under ‘convenient diversionary tactics to avoid dealing with life’, mainly because my pondering had been interrupted by another round of heaving up the contents of my stomach.

All four of us shared a charter to San Diego on the 21st, heading directly from the airport to the same hotel we’d stayed in the year before via a car service. Stepping out of the black Dodge Durango and onto the pavement was surreal…a mix of reporters, media, and attendees thrilled to be among their people again were all around us, and we were paid little to no mind until we entered the lobby. There were stares, pointing, and whispering as well as several shouts from well-wishers. While it was a bit overwhelming after spending so much time in a private setting, the positive energy emanating from those within our space reminded me that there were likely some folks who’d been concerned about us and had been sending along that same energy from a distance via social media. I hadn’t looked, and neither had Tom, but now was probably the time to investigate and at least post a simple thank you if nothing else. I didn’t want to, but it seemed rude not to, so I added it to my mental to-do list.

After check-in we took the elevator up to our floor, and when the doors opened I could feel my body tense at the sight of the narrow hallway. Tom and I stepped out into it, leaving Luke and Simon behind as their room was two floors above us. We walked to our room, the third one on the left, and when I turned to face the door a vision of Claudia knocking on it froze me in place. Once Tom completed sliding the keycard and swung the door inward the contents of the room were clearly visible, and though slow to process the data, my brain cycled logically…not Kauai, different place, dead Claudia, all clear…and I managed to step forward and inside. The door shut behind me with a loud click, and I flinched, then headed for the bathroom. Tom had pulled out his phone and begun talking to someone I assumed was either Jordan or a fellow cast member about the panel’s structure and content. He was still engaged in conversation when I emerged a few minutes later, standing in front of the window that overlooked the city. The setting sun, now at its lowest visible point on the horizon, had created a halo effect that surrounded his upper body, and in that moment, I felt like myself again…normal, even. My version of normal, anyway. And then, there was a knock on the door, and I panicked, whimpering quietly because that’s all my body would permit. Tom didn’t realize anything was awry at first, only turning around when the knocking continued. He took one look at my face, tossed his phone on the bed, and walked quickly to stand in front of me as he loudly stated to whomever was out in the hallway that he’d be right there.

He took my face in his hands ever so carefully, trying his best to keep himself even-keeled for my benefit. “It’s okay. It’s probably just our luggage. I’ll go see, and I promise I’ll leave the bolt on until I’m certain. All right?”

I nodded, watching him from the foot of the bed, unconsciously clenching my hands into fists as I waited for something terrible to unfold. As the door opened my heart began to pound like mad, and when I saw the luggage dolly I sat down, elbows on my knees and my head in my hands…relieved, but confused and embarrassed by my behavior. I heard the door close again, then felt Tom’s weight shift the mattress as he sat beside me. I lifted my head slowly as he slipped his arm around my shoulders. I wanted to say something but I didn’t know where or how to begin, and since he remained silent I assumed he felt the same way. Though it felt wrong to judge so quickly, this was becoming a pattern, and it made me uncomfortable across the board. We hadn’t been intimate since the night before the public wedding ceremony and learning that I was pregnant, and it felt petty and selfish to even be thinking about not having fucked my husband in three weeks when I’d almost lost him forever, but I missed him, missed the reinforcement of the connection between us sex provided, all of it. It had been officially off the table until the restrictions Dr. Salinas had imposed were lifted, and while I’d been expecting to get back to it right away his expectations clearly differed. To be honest, he’d expressed no interest in it whatsoever. I didn’t know what to make of it, and it was another instance of me saying nothing because I had no clue as to what I should say, if anything. I’d also caught him looking at me on multiple occasions while wearing an expression of guilt and/or regret and again, said nothing. A pattern indeed, and an awful one that I was unsure how to break free of, other than being patient until it ran its course. Lord knew he’d been ceaselessly patient with me all along the way, the situation he’d just navigated serving as a prime example. Was that the right way to handle this? Fuck if I knew. What I did know that I was exhausted, and softly announced that I was going to try to get some rest. He kissed the top of my head, rose and began to unpack our luggage as I undressed and crawled under the covers. As I lay there, I realized that it wasn’t only him who hadn’t revealed the details of their experience that day…neither had I. Yet, he’d known the circumstances, enough, at least, to know someone knocking at the door was something I might now find frightening. Had he watched a video of the press conference? Discussed it with Luke or Simon? Or, perhaps, Detective Frye? I sat up, intending to broach the subject, but found myself trapped between needing resolution and wanting to avoid causing him any additional pain. His voice startled me.

“Maude? You okay?”

I stood, nodding. “Tired, but can’t sleep. Gonna take a shower and see if that helps.”

As I walked past him, he set the shirts in his hand down on the dresser in order to reach out for me, pulling me to his chest and kissing the top of my head again, then releasing me. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” The carry-on that contained my toiletries was on the floor near him, and I stooped to pick it up and brought it with me into the bathroom. After closing the door behind me, I started to cry. I cried as I unpacked what I needed. I cried as I turned on the water, I cried as I shampooed my hair, I cried as I rinsed it, I cried as I soaped myself and rinsed again, and I cried as I dried myself off and hung the towel back on the rack. My eyes were red when I glanced at my reflection, so I wet a washcloth with cold water and held it over them for several minutes then checked myself out again. Not ideal, but acceptable. I blew my nose, then walked back out into the room. Tom had finished unpacking and was sitting at the room’s desk, laptop open in front of him. He looked up at me, smiling.

“Better?”

“I think so.” I put my hands on my naked hips. “You coming to bed?”

“Not yet…going over a few things for the panel tomorrow. Will it keep you awake if I’m working?”

I shook my head as I allowed my hands to drop to my sides. “I don’t think so. I can always put my earbuds in and listen to music if it does.”

“Okay. I can’t imagine I’ll be at this for more than an hour, honestly, so I’ll be joining you soon. Get some sleep, my love.”

“Okay.” I returned to my tangle of sheets and blankets, my damp hair clinging to my neck, my back turned to him. There was, of course, no sleep to be had, though I pretended to be out cold when he finally settled in beside me two hours later. Once I was positive he was asleep, I got up, put on my robe, pulled out my own laptop and sat at the desk he’d recently vacated to do my own work. Which didn’t require much effort, as the only pressing task on my list was the Skype interview I had set with Chad Morrison for the New York Times tomorrow at 1 PM. I reviewed the most recent Manageall stats Trudy had sent me, created a bullet-point list, then spent the next few hours surfing around checking out random things that I thought might hold my interest and, perhaps, entertain me. I woke up in a puddle of drool with my hand beneath my head resting on the desk, my browser still open and displaying an article entitled ‘Gentle Yoga For A Better Birth’. The system clock read 6:17 AM, and a quick glance at the bed confirmed Tom was still sleeping. I stood, removed my robe, hit the bathroom and then slipped in beside him, waiting for him to awaken and for the day to begin. A new location, a full schedule, little time to dwell…and, hopefully, all of that would amount to first steps down that pathway we needed to traverse.

***************************************

SDCC had gone off without a hitch…everyone was incredibly respectful, and kind. I don’t know why I would have expected anything else, other than that little voice I kept hearing inside my head whispering things like ‘they know it’s all your fault’. My interview with Chad had been published on July 25th, and by the time we arrived on the Gold Coast in Queensland on the 28th Manageall had surpassed the ten thousand subscriber mark. That kept me busy over the next week as I scrambled from our rental house just outside of Oxenford to remotely help Trudy configure new servers and ensure that the system could handle three times our existing traffic, just in case. Five new employees were added within the space of two days, and all but one stayed on board despite being thrown into the fray with little to no training. Ten-thousand plus subscribers was A Big Deal…aka the amount that tipped our monthly gross revenue over the million-dollar mark. It was a milestone that warranted a discussion, one which Luke and I decided to have in person once I returned to London.

Tom had begun filming at Village Roadshow Studios on July 30th, waking each morning at 4 AM, leaving by 4:30 and returning home each night well after 10 PM, showering, then falling into bed exhausted. To make up for lost time, the shooting schedule would be six days a week until a temporary relocation to Brisbane happened in late August. My schedule mirrored his, mainly in order to account for the 9-hour time difference between Queensland and London. When I’d contact Trudy or Luke at 5 AM my time, it was 8 PM the night before where they were. A mindfuck, truly, and it meant I was done working every day by 11 AM at the latest, which left me with entirely too much time to think. Things between Tom and I were still as they were back in San Diego…no conversations about the incident, no sex. Every day had begun to represent another brick being added to the wall building between us. There was no animosity, we still talked about a broad spectrum of other things, still slept in the same bed, but there was a sense of necessitated cautiousness and a distance that hadn’t been there before.

The obstetrician I’d chosen, Dr. Bresden, practiced out of Brisbane, and my first appointment was scheduled for 1 PM on August 15th. The drive up would take about an hour or so, but we figured we’d leave at 11 and allow ourselves some extra time. If my guess as to when I’d conceived was correct, I’d reached the 13-week mark, possibly the 14th, and over the past eight days I hadn’t puked once, which was both awesome and anxiety inducing. Did it mean I was progressing normally, or was, you know, something WRONG? The evening before the sonogram was rough…I was obsessing over the morning sickness waning, and my nightmares had gotten continually worse, to the point wherein I began to dread going to sleep. We’d gone out to dinner with Chris and Elsa, who decided it was time to share their horror stories about child-rearing and childbirth now that Tom and I were official pledges to the Paternity Fraternity. I bitched about it the entire way home, then continued to complain about it after we’d arrived back at the rental house until I thought I heard Tom sigh heavily, at which point I had to decide whether or not to flip the fuck out or let it pass. Since I couldn’t be totally sure, and also because I could readily admit I had one foot over the cray-cray side of the fence, I let it go and we turned in for the night.

The next thing I knew, I was screaming, Tom was yelling, and my hands hurt like a motherfucker. I took stock of my surroundings and realized I was standing in front of the closed bedroom door. Looking down, I saw knuckles that were bruised and bloodied, as were the pinky-sides of my hands. When I looked back up and left and my gaze met Tom’s, my screaming stopped and his yelling ceased, replaced with a loud gasp of relief that was nearly a sob.

“What the fuck HAPPENED? I was asleep. How am I here? I don’t understand.” I reached out and touched the door with a fingertip, searching for confirmation that this was, in fact, reality, and as soon as I pressed down a jolt of pain hit my brain and I…remembered, my body twisting so I could face Tom.

“The Marriott, but…not the real Marriott. I was in the hallway, and you were dead, right there on the floor, and she was dead next to you, and I was just staring and staring and then she moved. She moved. And then she sat up, and she had the gun and she said ‘did you really think you were getting out of here alive’ and then she stood up and it was like something out of the Walking Dead, her eyes were all filmy and when she opened her mouth I could see right through because the back of her head was just…gone. And I turned around and ran down the hall and I tried all the room doors but they were all locked and then I got to the end of the hall and where there should have been stairs there was a door, a metal door, and the handle moved up and down like it was open but it wouldn’t open and I kept looking back over my shoulder and she was moving so slowly, but I couldn’t get the door to open and down at the other end of the hall was just a wall. She talked again and said she was going to wait until she got close to me to pull the trigger because she wanted to watch, she wanted to see…and I screamed for help, for someone to let me out, but no one came and I started to pound on the door, first with the sides of my fists, but then I started to punch it because she kept getting closer and the she touched me, her hand was on my shoulder and I swung around and punched her in the face and I thought she was going to fall down but she didn’t and then I tried to grab the gun but she wouldn’t let go and I went back to hitting the door and jiggling the handle but I knew I was going to die and then…then I…I was here…”

It felt like my heart was going to pound right out of my chest, and as I reached out to touch Tom to make sure I really wasn’t still inside a nightmare I noticed that the left side of his jaw was reddish-purple and that it was streaked with blood. My hands rose in an instant to cover my mouth, and when I spoke my voice was muffled and garbled.

“Oh my god, I hit YOU, didn’t I? Not her. YOU.” I lowered my hands, briefly assessing their condition once more and realizing that the blood on his face was most likely from my knuckles. “Oh my god. Tom, I’m so sorry…so sorry…are you okay? Jesus fucking CHRIST. What ELSE did I do? What is WRONG with me?!”

He stepped forward and embraced me, rubbing my back in slow circles and rocking me gently until he felt my heart rate returned to normal. Pulling back, he placed his hands on my upper arms, eyes focused on mine. “There’s nothing wrong with you. That was a night terror. I knew the risk of intervening…you’re never supposed to, but I couldn’t just stand aside and…anyway. I’m fine. How are you feeling?”

I shrugged, shaking my head back and forth slowly.

“I know. I’m so very sorry, Maude. First things first…those knuckles of yours need to be cleaned, And, we both could use some ice. Will you come to the kitchen with me? We’ll get that bit sorted, and then we can figure out what’s next. All right?” I nodded, and he stepped back, leaving one arm around my waist. He unlocked the bedroom door, opened it, then led me to the counter that held the undermounted stainless steel sink. We were both nude, and as he leaned forward to open the tap and set the right temperature with his free hand I felt the brush of his pubic hair across my hip, then again as he pulled back and released me in order to go find a clean kitchen towel. More than a year ago in New Orleans I’d had a brief case of performance anxiety after he’d revealed his full sexual history, but this, this was the first time ever that being naked in his presence made me feel uncomfortable. It was more than that, really…I felt self-conscious and exposed. I wrapped my arms around myself, and when he returned to my side I spoke, my chin lowered to my chest as I stared down at the water circling the drain.

“Would you mind getting me my robe?”

He placed two tan and white towels on the counter. “No, not at all…shall I turn the thermostat up a few degrees as well?”

I shook my head. “No thank you. I’m not cold.”

He hesitated, and I said nothing, continuing to stare. I heard his bare feet padding across the tile, the sound fading as he entered the bedroom. Upon the resumption of the sound I forced myself to lift my head and turn to look at him as he drew closer. In his hands was my black silk robe, and when I noticed he’d put on his navy-blue running shorts it dawned on me that by saying I wasn’t cold I’d clued him in as to what was on my mind, at least in part. He held the garment open so I could slip into it easily, his eyes averted as I carefully worked my arms through the sleeves. Though it wasn’t exactly pleasant, I tied the belt on my own. The water was still running, and he reached in and dipped his index finger into the stream.

“That feels all right to me.” His voice was nearly toneless, any emotion present seeming somehow forced. He reached for my right wrist, then paused, eyes asking for permission when I met his gaze. I nodded, then turned to watch as his hand encircled my wrist and guided my knuckles slowly into the streaming water. When I winced at the intensity of the stinging he spoke again, voice now trembling.

“I’m sorry.” He patted my right hand dry ever-so-gently, then moved on to my left. I winced again as the water made contact, noting that Tom’s own hands had begun to shake. By the time he’d dried my left hand off with the second towel, his entire body was quivering, and at that point I realized he was weeping. My head jerked upward and I swiveled my torso so I could see his face. He looked down and away, holding his hand up palm out toward me as he strode rapidly into the living room. I followed, and when I came to rest directly in front of him he spun around, leaving me with a view of his bare shoulders and back contorting as he sobbed.

This was it, then…the tipping point. Seeing him this way overrode my own emotional disarray, and I couldn’t imagine that anything I might say would make the situation worse, so I went all in.

“Tom. We need to talk.” He shook his head, and I gingerly placed my hand on his upper back between his shoulder blades. “Tom.” The contact was broken by him taking two steps forward. “Okay, no touching. That’s fine. But…”

He spun back around, blinking to clear his vison. “You want to touch me?”

“Of course I want to touch you. Why wouldn’t I want to touch you?”

His arms rose from his sides, bent at the elbow with his hands extended, fingers splayed and pointing in my direction as he looked me up and down. “Since you don’t want me to see you, I’m assuming you’d prefer that I also don’t touch you, which leads me to believe you’d prefer to not see or touch me, either.”

“That’s an incorrect assumption all around. I’d prefer it if you did touch me. But you haven’t, not in the way I’d expect you to, and you’ve given me no indication as to why you haven’t, which has caused me to assume that you’re no longer interested in me sexually, which has ultimately resulted in my feeling self-conscious and exposed when standing naked in your presence. Is my assumption as off base as yours?” Not an easy question to ask, that one. I hadn’t thought it through and wondered what the fuck would happen if he said no.

He nodded repeatedly. “Yes. It is. Completely.”

I lifted my arms and extended them outward at shoulder height, palms to the ceiling. “And that’s precisely why we need to talk, Tom. Ow.” Down went the arms, though it didn’t really do a whole hell of a lot for the throbbing ache in my hands. “We’ve avoided this conversation for far too long…instead we danced around the subject in an effort to prevent causing each other any additional pain. But that didn’t work. That never works, and I know that, but here we are…staring at each other across an ever-widening chasm which will eventually grow too vast to bridge. This distance, this disconnect…it’s awful. I’ve seen the pain in your eyes, and the anger, the guilt, the regret…and there’s my own shit I need to talk about…but I’ve stayed silent for fear of hurting you and I don’t want to do that anymore, Tom. I don’t think I CAN do it anymore.” There were two beige micro-fiber chairs on one side of the living room, and a matching couch on the other. We were standing between them, and I sat down at one end of the sofa. Tom hesitated at the other end briefly, then decided to sit in the middle, right by my side, and began to speak.

“I’m afraid. It terrifies me, the thought of my lung collapsing again. What if the next time I’m not so fortunate? What if it kills me, and you’re left here alone, and our child grows up without ever knowing me? All day long, with everything I do that’s even remotely physical, I’m aware of every breath that seems even remotely atypical, every twinge of the muscles in my torso. I’ve been counting down and focusing on the three-month marker because that’s when the risk of it happening again decreases to align with the norm. I’ve promised myself that then, that’s it, there’s no further need to worry, that I can let it go. I want to let it go. I hope I can let it go. But that’s why I haven’t…we haven’t. I wouldn’t want you to have to live with that, us loving each other being the end of me. And I should have told you. I should have. And I’m sorry. There’s another reason as well, and it’s a completely irrational fear but it feels real, and present. I’m sure it’s relative in some fashion to my past loss, but…I…”

Thinking in such a macabre and medieval-esque fashion was not Tom’s style, and that his mind had gone there was indicative of what a mess he’d been, and I was both impressed with and distressed by how well he’d managed it all from me. “You’re afraid that if we have sex I might have a miscarriage.”

He turned to face me, nodding. “It’s ludicrous. This I know. It’s not specifically that sex would be the cause, but if such a thing were to happen within close proximity of the act…and Maude, I just…I…I feel like death is just…it’s always lurking…even on set, you know? Loki’s role in Ragnarok is redemptive, there’s a comprehensive resolution, and he finally is able to ascertain his place in the universe and be at peace with it, and perhaps begin to experience happiness, or at least contentment…but I know what awaits him, that this moment for him is fleeting at best and I can’t help but see parallels there to my own reality.” Pausing, he rested his head in his hands, then moved them slowly back to his lap as he turned sideways, right leg bent with his knee on the couch resting centimeters from my left thigh. I shifted to mirror his position as he swallowed hard before continuing.

“I was mid-way through my run when I saw her. She waved at me as if her being there was perfectly normal. It made my blood boil, and instead of having the wherewithal to get back to the hotel as quickly as possible I approached her. I asked her what the fuck she was doing there, and told her she needed to leave immediately or she’d wind up with a police escort off the property. The mask of a friendly greeting fell away and she said ‘How could you let her to this to me, Tom? Let her ruin my life? I did what I had to do so she couldn’t trap you, and instead of being grateful you let her lie about me to the world, and then you married her. You married her, when you know how much I love you. And you love me. We belong together, you know that. She’s brainwashed you, that’s what’s going on here. She’s trying to keep us apart, and you can’t just roll over and and let it happen. Tom, come with me right now. We’ll run away and be happy, you and me, just us. Please. You have to come with me.’ And I told her I would do no such thing, that not only did I not love her, I regretted every moment I’d spent with her and that I wished I’d never met her, that I wished I could go back in time and tell her to get the fuck away from me when she crawled under the table to suck my dick. That whenever I thought about having fucked her it made me physically ill. And then I told her I was so lucky and so blessed that in spite of the mistakes I’d made I’d found you, that I’d never loved anyone like you before, and I never would again. Her response was that this was all your fault, that you’d stolen me away from her, and that if she couldn’t have me, no one would…and that’s when she pulled the gun out of the gift bag and shot me. The pain knocked me down and back and I fell onto the sand, and she put the gun back in the bag and said she really thought she wouldn’t need to use it, but I was too far gone and you were to blame. And that if she was going to have to pay for her crimes, you’d have to pay for yours too. She smiled at me, knelt down in the sand, kissed my check, said goodbye, then got up and took off running down the beach toward the hotel. I sat up, and the pain…and the blood…but I had to go after her. Each step I took seemed an eternity, and I couldn’t run, but I needed to get to you. I realized I’d never catch her, and that I was close to Luke and Simon’s room, so I began to walk that way. And then I crawled. But it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t get to you. I set all this in motion, there in that moment. I let my anger get the best of me and we both almost died because of it. In LA, when she threw the highball glass at you…I should have known. Up until that moment I was her focus, and she still believed that her and I would have a relationship at some point. You were just a minor inconvenience, a bump in the road. When she discovered that you knew about the videos…that’s where the shift happened. You became her target, the one to blame. I didn’t see it. I should have seen it. Having you speak at the press conference instead of handling it on my own was akin to painting a bullseye on your chest. And when you needed me most, when I should have been the one to face the monster I’d invited into my orbit, I wasn’t there for you, or for our child. I wasn’t there, Maude. I couldn’t protect you. I couldn’t save you. I wasn’t THERE.”

For the first time in a long while…since our wedding day, really…I saw him…really saw him. Because he’d finally let me see him again. Sitting before me was a man so burdened by guilt and sorrow that he had no tears left to cry…an anxious, exhausted, depressed, defeated man positively teeming with self-loathing. My husband. A rush of pure, unadulterated love washed over me followed by an irrepressible urge to comfort him and banish all his fears that resulted in my reaching out and taking his hands in my damaged own, oblivious to the pain.

“Tom. No one sees this kind of thing coming. This is the stuff of late-night crime dramas and tragic Oscar-bait films. There was no way for you to know. I didn’t know, either…and believe me, I’ve beaten myself up for it, too. I’m the one who got in her face in LA and spouted off about prison. And no one ‘had’ me do anything…I stood at that podium of my own volition and called her bluff. I knew she’d be pissed, and I did it not only in spite of that fact, but, at least in a small way, because of it. The blame for that falls squarely on my shoulders. But what she did…no, Tom. It’s not your fault, it’s not my fault…that’s all on her. It was her choice. Her decision. And she was too much of a coward to answer for it. And even though I know all that, the logic behind it, I still feel guilty about how I handled all of it every day…and I thought you’d distanced yourself because you blamed me. Do you blame me?”

He shook his head, voice barely a whisper. “No. I thought the same…do you blame me?”

“No. I do not. I have not. Not even for a second. And there’s something else you need to know, Tom.” Those blue eyes full of trepidation met my brown ones. “You’re right about not being there…but you’re wrong about not protecting me, and you’re wrong about not being able to save me. When I opened that door and she was standing in the hallway, I was frozen in place. I couldn’t move. I watched the gun rise higher and higher and inside my head I was screaming ‘close the door, close the door’ but I couldn’t and then that faded and the only thought I had left was ‘she’s going to shoot me now’. And then I heard a man’s voice shouting for her to drop her weapon, and that broke the spell. That voice is the reason why I was able to get the door closed. That voice is the reason why those three bullets lodged in the door and not in my flesh. The man that voice belonged to? Police officer. And why was he there in exactly that place at precisely that time? Because you sent him, Tom. You sent him upstairs. You gave him the room number. You told him to go, GO! And he went.  If you hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you on the couch right now…so I don’t ever want to hear you say you couldn’t protect me or that you couldn’t save me ever again. You might not have been by my side when it happened, but you saved my life and our child’s life all the same. And you risked your own life to do it, Tom. Dr. Salinas said if you’d have stayed still your lung wouldn’t have fully collapsed so quickly. But you didn’t stay still. You got up over and over again and kept going and being in restraints couldn’t even stop you. You almost died that day in order to make sure we didn’t. Do you understand that? You almost died. To save your family. If that’s not protecting what you love, then I don’t know what the fuck IS.”

When our eyes met his lower lip began to quiver and I tightened my grip on his hands. “That day, outside the recovery room, Dr. Salinas…she said that she couldn’t explain why you made it through so well…why you lived. She didn’t phrase it quite that way, but that was the gist of it. But I know why. When you got word that I was alive, that I was unharmed…you went to war. You waged a battle with the final enemy. And you were victorious. You returned to me, to us. You fought death that day and you won, Tom. You came back. You came home.”

His gaze turned toward our joined hands a he positioned his left ring finger so it was next to mine, the silver bands that bound us clinking softly together in the silence. He looked back up at me, the right corner of his mouth having curled upward in a half-smile, tears tracking down his cheeks and through his stubble like tiny pachinko balls. “When I promised to never let you go, I meant it.”

I began to sob then, as did Tom. He pulled me onto his lap, my bottom nestled between his thighs, legs sideways, feet resting on the cushion I’d just vacated. He wrapped his left arm around my waist, the right around my shoulders, hand cradling my head and pressing it gently to his left shoulder. He rocked us back and forth, side to side, his face buried in my hair. When the weeping ceased, I ran my right thumb along the base of his left one, that oddly sensual spot of flesh which allows lovers to steal moments of secret erotic pleasure in full view of the world. As he began to do the same in turn, there it was…a spark of the energy within us both demanding to be set free so it could unite each with the other’s and light our collective world ablaze. I raised my head to take stock of his expression, wondering if he felt it as well. His tongue snaked across his lips and I inhaled sharply, which earned me a an ecstatic eyeroll and a pelvic thrust from him, his cock hard against my ass. He kissed me then, both our mouths open from the start. There was no finesse in any of it, all tongues and saliva and clashing of teeth as he undid my robe and cupped my left breast in his right hand, thumb stroking back and forth over my nipple. His touch caused me to gasp and cant my hips, and I could feel his body tensing…whether it was with fear or desire, I couldn’t be certain. I removed his hand from my breast and stood up, then turned to face him as I let my robe drop from my shoulders and fall to the floor. Leaning forward, I placed my hands on his shoulders and stared into his eyes, again unsure of whether it was lust or terror at hand.  

“Tom, honey…please don’t put any pressure on yourself. It’s okay if you’re afraid. I understand. Now that I know why…I’m fine. Take your time with this. Please.”

He grabbed my hips and pulled me forward and down, his words nearly a growl. “I’m afraid I’ve reached the point wherein the chances of me dying are far greater if I can’t have you right now as opposed to any other scenario.” He looked up at me and for a second or two I would have sworn it was Loki whose eyes I saw, but then Tom was back where he belonged, expression now pleading. “Will you ride me?”

I nodded, placing one knee on either side of his lap. He didn’t even bother with removing his shorts, instead pushing back the elastic just enough to allow him to reach in and free his cock. When the head of it connected with my wetness we both groaned. I shifted forward so he was poised at my entrance but paused before welcoming him inside, needing assurance that he was certain about taking this step.

“Are you sure this is okay?”

He answered without hesitation, voice thick with desire. “Yes. I’m sure. I want you. I need you. I need to be inside you. Yes.”

I lowered myself onto his cock, relishing in the feel of it stretching me, filling me…of how it melded two separate beings into a combined entity that pulsed with unified power and unequaled pleasure. Tom’s head had lolled back onto the back of the couch, eyes closed, his elegant neck and jawline demanding attention from my tongue as I began to circle my hips. I was careful to avoid the bruised area, licking around and down until I reached the hollow of his collarbone, and the whine such ministrations elicited caused my unhurried gyrating to turn to a forceful, rapid rise and fall. His eyes opened, head lifting off the couch as he reached around to take hold of my ass cheeks, one in each hand, pulling outward.

“Maude. Oh Maude. MAUDE. Don’t stop please don’t stop I love you I love you I love you…” His lips found mine, tongue thrusting into my mouth as I rode him harder until he came, his breath and mine one and the same as his come painted my walls in a continuous gush of warm spurts that I thought might go on forever. His index finger found my clit and I orgasmed instantly, clenching and squeezing around him as if my body was insistent on locking him in place, an idea I thoroughly supported. It wasn’t until he broke the kiss and that I noticed he was panting, and I took his face in my hands, the past minutes eclipsed by a deep-seated concern for his well-being.

“Are you okay? Can you breathe? Do you have any pain? Tom?”

He inhaled, then exhaled, smiling softly. “No pain. Nothing unusual, just the normal effect being incredibly well fucked by my gorgeous wife has on me. I’m fine.” His smile faded, replaced with an expression of concern likely similar to the one he’d seen me wearing seconds before. “How are you? Everything okay?”

I nodded. “Yep. I’m good. Exhausted, but good. And all of a sudden I really, really want salt and vinegar potato chips. Like, bad. They have those here, right? Man…I can almost taste them…wow, this is…”

His smile returned as he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close, our chests pressed together. “That sounds like it might be a craving. I believe I’m obligated to dress and head out now, in the middle of the night, to track down your snack of choice and bring it home posthaste.”

Though I admittedly salivated at the thought, my body’s need for sleep overrode what was in essence just a ‘want’. “As much as I appreciate your willingness to do so…no. The only place you’re going is back to bed with me. If you’re willing to risk round two, that is.” His left eyebrow rose, a small smirk that for some ridiculous reason made me blush appearing on his face. I rolled my eyes in an effort to distract him from the pink-hued heat that I could feel reaching my cheeks. “I meant round two as in a boxing match. You know, because I punched you? Round of boxing.”

He rubbed the tip of his nose against mine. “Oh goodness me…it appears I’ve got a blushing bride on my hands. Well, technically, on my cock, but…”

I covered my face with my hands as I shook my head. “Do you always have to notice EVERY LITTLE THING Tom? Seriously.”

He pulled my hands away carefully and kissed my forehead. “It’s adorable. Reminds me of the day we met…when we were in Kauai Pasta. You were sipping your soda and I watched the flush spread from your chest up your neck and that’s when you took too big a sip and began to choke.”

My jaw dropped. “Oh my god, you saw that? I was, like, half-joking about you noticing every little thing. Christ in a sidecar.”

Shrugging, he brought my left hand to his lips and placed a kiss in the center of my palm. “In my defense, I was bewitched. Mesmerized by your beauty, your essence…your everything. And I’ve always wondered what you were thinking of in that moment…”

“Oh you have, have you? Allow me to fill you in then. The server had just asked us if we wanted cocktails and I thought hmm, I wonder how that particular compound word came to be and that led me to…your cock, Tom. I was thinking about your cock.”

His brow furrowed, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “No you were not.”

I nodded, lips pressed together, eyes wide. “Oh, but yes I was. And, like, I’ve never STOPPED thinking about it so…you know, here we are.”

He roared with laughter, and I realized that it had been entirely far too long since I’d heard that sound, which made me tear up because that laugh…it was akin to a hymn, at least when it fell upon my ears, and my god, how I’d missed it. How I’d missed him.  When he noticed that not only had I not joined in but was visibly upset he guided my head to rest on his shoulder, one hand wound in my hair and the other rubbing my back as he whispered softly.

“Maude, it’s all right. I understand that you may be sad, or angry…whatever it is you’re feeling, I’m here for you. I’m so very, very sorry I haven’t been. But I am now. I’ll help you through all of it. I know it won’t always be easy, for either of us, but we can do it. Together. Together, there’s nothing we can’t do.”

I lifted my head and leaned back, reaching up to trace his jawline with my right index finger. “I’m not sad, really…and I’m not angry…it’s just…I just…I missed you.” I gestured down to where we remained joined. “I missed this. That’s probably selfish and stupid but you…you’re a part of me and this is when you’re MOST a part of me and…and…I’m very, very sorry too. I wasn’t there for you, either. And you’re right about it not always being easy, because this is the big leagues of fuckery. I’m afraid of closed doors and…hello, night terrors. Sometimes it’s hard to be grateful when you’re overwhelmed by fear, but I know for sure I need to turn my focus toward what’s good, and there really, truly is an astonishing abundance of good, isn’t there? I’m here, you’re here, Prog will be here too soon enough…we are blessed, and it’s true…together, there’s nothing we can’t do. I love you. So much. So, so much. My god, we’re having a baby. It still doesn’t seem real…”

He smiled. “I have a sneaking suspicion that after your appointment tomorrow it will seem very, VERY real. In just a few hours, we’re going to get to see Prog. It’s…it’s…”

My eyes squeezed shut. “You mean my appointment this morning. Yikers, it’s so late it’s early and we haven’t slept and between your jaw and my knuckles we’re going to look like we had a knock-down drag out fight, but yes, WE ARE GOING TO SEE PROG.”

He lifted me by my hips, his semi-soft cock slipping out of me, then shifted me sideways so he could pick me up as he rose off the couch. “Off to bed we go, my love.” He carried me into the bedroom and placed me gently on my preferred half of the mattress, then climbed in behind me. “I love you, Maude Hiddleston. Sleep now. I’ll be right here, watching over you. Over you both.”

And I slept. It was fitful, and there were dreams…bad ones…but each time I woke from one, he was there, one arm around my waist, one leg atop both my own…warm and alive, and in that I found peace. Whenever he stirred, and he did often, I’d press my body backward into him and pull his arm tighter around me, stroking it with my fingertips until he stilled again, hopefully having found a peace of his own. The dawn came and went, the alarm began its electronic bleating at 10 AM, and we staggered to the shower hand in hand…gripping loosely, as I was still hurting, though not as much as I thought I would be. By the time we’d finished washing each other, the excitement in the air around us was palpable. Though I was still anxious about the appointment with Dr. Bresden, this was it, the moment. I patted my belly as I was drying the underside of my boobs.

“Hi in there, Prog. Big day today. Mamma and Daddy get to see you. Feel free to wave and stuff, okay? We love you.” Tom gasped, and I turned to look at him. One hand was over his mouth, and his eyes shone with tears. I tilted my head. “What?”

“I don’t…have you…I don’t think I’ve heard you do that before.”

“I have…but maybe not out loud? I think…probably only in my head. Huh. I really don’t know…”

He knelt before me on the tile, first kissing then addressing my stomach. “Prog, you are indeed loved. We can’t wait to see you, and before you know it you’ll be our here in the world with us, and we can’t wait for that, either. To share our lives with you…you, Mamma and me…our little family.” As he stood he wiped away his tears with the back of his left hand, grinning at me. “So…Mamma, then?”

Shrugging, I shook my head back and forth several times. “What can I say? Looks like my New Orleans is showing. It just sounded…”

“Perfect. It sounds perfect, Mamma.” He said it with a drawl, and I sighed.

“Godammit, Tom. That’s not supposed to be sexy.”

His grin widened. “Why not? You’re sexy, so logically...”

“Shut up with your logic.”

“As you wish, my love. Breakfast here or on the road?”

“On the road. Make it a double.”

He embraced me. “We’re off to view a miracle. What a thing.”

“It is. It so is.”

[freykja-blog]

weight loss

Very first somewhat of personal track record.  I come from a household of massive individuals. My father was six ft 6 inches (195cm) tall and weighed close to 300 lbs . (136 kilograms). Myself and 3 of my brothers also are about the 6 ft mark and weigh around the 260 kilos mark. I was not an awesome sportsman at school. I only began taking part in rugby in the last two several years at college As well as in the military the calendar year immediately after. Then followed a split for seven several years, right before I performed my past season. I used to be a decent head prop, and rather unbeknown to me, I wounded my base two vertebrae.  In my job I traveled a great deal, drank a whole lot, smoked quite a bit and exercised tiny. Resultantly, I gradually but certainly acquired fat. I did go to health club for two brief stints, inspired by my brother who was a championship bodybuilder. Each time I had sensible outcomes, but then my operate would transfer me, and I'd personally halt yet again. 

With the age of forty I stopped drinking, and two yrs later I finished using tobacco. And I grew to become as big like a property. My excess weight went nearly 301 pounds. I was obese, unfit and unhealthy. When my daughter advised her mom I seem like I'm nine in addition to a fifty percent months Expecting, I decided to do one thing over it And that i joined a gymnasium. Simply because I needed to vacation an extended length in really weighty website traffic, I decided to utilize the fitness center to my benefit also to journey to your gymnasium near to my operate, work out and after that go to operate. 

I did not have cash for a personal coach. Right here in SA they charge all over $200 for twelve classes. I see in the United states of america, they charge just as much as $sixty for an individual session. So I utilised a application that my brother gave me and went on a very low carbohydrate diet regime. The education plan consisted of two factors: A cardiovascular part along with a bodyweight-education aspect. The first working day, once the cardiovascular schooling, I assumed I used to be going to die. I needed to relaxation 3 times inside the 100 yards I needed to stroll  back again to my auto. But little by little but surely I got fitter, and I could run, row and cycle for longer intervals. In the beginning I misplaced fat very quickly, but just after about twenty pounds, I finished loosing body weight.

Which was the time I made a decision to employ a personal trainer. She worked out a new teaching application for me, and set me on an extremely rigorous diet regime. The condition was that I generally felt hungry, and Once i needed to do excess weight instruction, I felt weak and could not press myself to the limit. Once i complained, I didn't get a lot of sympathy, and was provided the old cliché "no ache, no get." The situation was that neither the teaching system nor the eating plan was altered to my level of Health and fitness and Power demands. As you can imagine, I cheated Along with the diet plan and did not loose any fat.

I then joined an internet based teaching, Health and fitness and diet application. First of all, a twelve-week training course expenditures up to a person week with my past coach. I was Certainly astounded with every one of the companies they offer on the net. Much more than 40 specialist instructors to get in touch with on 24 several hours a day, a lot more than 178 exercise routines demonstrated on video, a personalized food plan and training approach based upon your true level of fitness as well as a good deal much more. You'll find calculators to exercise anything from a exceptional coronary heart stage, physique mass index, for your perfect hip to Center ratio. In addition, you will find a lot more than twenty other video clips demonstrating workout routines like kickboxing, Pilates, Main teaching, aerobics and perhaps a boot camp! All no cost.

Soon after figuring out my present-day measurements, Health and fitness amount and coronary heart level, we talked about my targets and objectives, the amount I need to free above how long a period of time. My on line Physical fitness Experienced then sent me a personal schooling software and also a tailored diet plan. I learned ways to eat the best foods five periods each day and I felt powerful a brimming with Electricity. Due to the fact I are afflicted with hypertension and cholesterol, my eating plan and instruction method built provision for that and also my weak back again.

I never believe in taking diet program capsules along with other urge for food suppressants. Although they must get the job done, that's debatable, It's important to quit employing them someday. Your hunger will return and you may regain the burden missing. A person may use a little bit of a protein substitute since it is handy if you find yourself at perform and can't cook, and many nutritional vitamins and minerals, but that is all. Individually I think that just one should not unfastened a lot more than two lbs . a week, as that A great deal, coupled with the exercise routines, will cause the skin shrinking with you, and leaving you clean and unwrinkled. I also explained to my coach that I usually do not wish to look like a bodybuilder, just have an inexpensive physique. My goal was to unfastened body weight and become healthier.

Properly, I am happy to report that about the next twenty months I missing an extra forty-4 kilos, and achieved my aim fat. I'm now in good shape; do sixty minutes heavy cardiovascular education thrice weekly and resistance coaching three times every week. My hypertension and cholesterol is usually below control. Due to the guidance I been given from the online instruction and diet plan expert, I have developed a totally new lifestyle And that i am sustaining my weight.

You too can boost your fitness whenever you be a part of a good on the net Physical fitness and schooling system. They will teach you the right schooling tactics, provide you with a custom made food plan system and help you to achieve ideal Exercise.

So my vote goes to an internet based fitness, education and diet plan. They provide Substantially A great deal more than a normal particular coach and can be found for help 24/7. There is absolutely no excuse to not exercising. Begin nowadays.

Obesity has started to become prevalent all across the world. Weight-loss surgical procedure is really a are unsuccessful-Harmless treatment to achieve significant fat loss. It's improvising the life of numerous obese folks throughout the globe. Nonetheless, many people who are in enormous need of it nonetheless doesn't take into account it risky as many myths encompass it. While they could have loved the main advantages of an obesity0free lifetime, they continue combating further pounds.

Mrs. Shena Majumdar is 31 several years outdated interior designer who encountered one thing comparable. She usually had been a little chubby form her faculty days. She hardly ever minds currently being chubby, as she 'assumed' being fatty is an indication of health and fitness. She turned noticeably obese right after she was married. In the beginning, she attempted to defend her growing weight by assuming it had been as a result of her hormone amount and new food items practices. She was good that issues will recuperate as she will change with, but points failed to get as per her belief and she or he kept gaining bodyweight.

It was not Unless of course 2 several years later on when she was clinically stated as obese. It absolutely was during the maternity clinic where she sought consultation after failing to possess a purely natural conception for approximately six months. She was suggested to discover a bariatric guide and drop excess weight just before striving again. She investigated the complete phenomenon of efficient weight reduction on the Internet. She made a decision to give a make an effort to a complete-fledged healthcare therapy but 'an individual' shared their opinion that surgery could possibly make it hard for her to possess a pure conception in a while.

A horrifying canceled her appointment and as a substitute jointed a gymnasium. Even just after working out pretty really hard for six weeks, she didn't get any sizeable result. Someday she had to be carried out by her husband because of overexertion. On extensive examination, she was suggested a weight loss operation in the earliest advantage. After a session only she came to are aware that the operation would not affect her fertility in almost any way. Having said that, fat loss does improve the hormonal amount and Consequently, it could improve the chances of natural thriving conception considerably.

She underwent the operation and the outcomes were just awesome. She chooses to undergo for the laparoscopic bariatric surgical procedures and Subsequently, she was discharged rather soon. She designed a quicker Restoration and saved dropping excess weight over a time period. Even so, the health care provider advised her to look forward to a yr prior to seeking for the child yet again. Inside the calendar year she recognized many positive adjustments.

Immediately after fourteen months she all over again commenced attempting for your baby, which time she was ready to effectively conceive inside four months. She, down the road, experienced a safe pregnancy and childbirth forward. She is now leading a contented and healthful life in advance.

Several unique ordeals some very similar circumstance. As opposed to the Constitution having an being overweight medical procedures medical professional, they get misdirected via the myths bordering being overweight surgical treatment. On the other hand, it can be vital to independent myths and facts, In terms of any health-related therapy. Avail timely consultation from an being overweight surgical treatment health care provider.

[howardschatzphotography]

On Seeing: A Journal - #259 June 12th, 2018

"Above & Beyond with Adam Gopnik”

Adam Gopnik is a Renaissance Man’s Renaissance Man. A long-time staff writer at The New Yorker, he is an essayist, a critic, a playwright, a novelist, an author of children’s books…in short, the epitome of the enlightened human. I read his writing avidly, and, a few weeks ago, invited him to our studio to participate in my project “ABOVE and BEYOND.” A three-time winner of the National Magazine Award, Gopnik has amazingly broad knowledge of many areas, including: Art and art history, culture, politics, music, even sports. His first essay in The New Yorker, "Quattrocento Baseball," appeared in May of 1986, and he served as the magazine’s art critic from 1987 to 1995. During our interview, he spoke in perfectly structured, literate English, as clear and precise as his written words. Here are some of Gopnik’s thoughts that I found especially compelling from our interview: HS: So prolific, I wonder how you organize your life. When do you write? When do you read? When do you think? When do you go to museums, see friends, have a life? You must have some efficiently organized method in order to produce as much as you do. AG: I have a very standard routine. I start drinking strong coffee early in the morning. I go off to my little study and I write for four hours. I have many sisters, one of them a distinguished psychologist, and she says that you can only do creative work intently for four hours at a stretch. So, I do four hours from nine til one, every day. I try not to do anything else. I’m just there to write. I do it in a way that makes it maximally uncomfortable for anyone else who intrudes on me, because I can only write if I’m playing extremely loud rock music from my high school years: Jethro Tull; Eric Clapton with Derek & The Dominos, that great Layla album; Jimi Hendrix; all of that music. HS:  You play this music, and loudly, as you write? AG: I can’t think if I don’t have the music, that’s the funny thing. I also overheat terribly as I’m writing, so I have to keep the windows open in the middle of winter. I’ve had a series of wonderful assistants just coming out of college, and they’re sort of excited about the job. You know, “I’m going to be a writer’s assistant and see the elegance of a New Yorker writer’s life," and instead it’s just a little man, four hours a day, in a brutally cold room with incredibly loud music playing, and that’s their experience. So, they’d retreat into the hallway and spend the time talking with my wife.

HS:  Where and how do you think your work has had greatest impact given the political and cultural bias of The New Yorker? AG: Writing for The New Yorker, which is a traditionally liberal magazine, of course you ask yourself a question, "what am I really affecting here?" because I’m writing to people who agree with me in advance. But, if you look at the greatest political editorialists who have ever lived, Albert Camus, for instance, they were writing themed journals that were directed to people who were inclined to agree with them in the first place. What we do, I think, as citizens, writing, is not so much to change minds as to bear witness. What you want to say is not, “here’s an argument that will convince you of the opposite of what you believe already, but here’s the kind of argument you ought to be making to the people who don’t agree with you." HS: We live in a time with a bully in the White House. And, yet, despite the mean-spirited and hypocritical behavior, there are still thirty to forty percent of Americans… AG: Who love him. HS: And my question on changing people’s minds comes from something you wrote in your wonderful book, "At the Strangers’ Gate," that was astounding. I’d like to read it and perhaps you can comment on it: "No one really surrenders an illusion in the face of a fact. We prefer the illusion to the fact. The more  facts you invoke, in fact, the stronger the illusion becomes. All faith is immune to all facts to the contrary, or else we would not have such hearty faiths and such oft-resisted facts. If your faith is in life’s poetry, as ours was, a tiny room inadequate by any human standard and designed to make life borderline impossible looks appealing. The less possible it becomes the more beautiful the illusion looks. Such illusions – call them delusions; I won’t argue now – grow under the pressure of absurdity, as champagne grapes sweeten under the stress of cold ground." AG: Yes, I think that’s true. I mean, I was writing specifically there about the reality that when Martha, my then girlfriend, now wife for many years, and I moved to New York, we were enraptured with an idea of poetry, a kind of metropolitan poetry. And, the apartment we moved into was 9x11 basement room overrun by cockroaches in which there was about as little poetry as you could expect to find in the world. But, we weren’t disillusioned by it. We simply doubled-down on the myths that we were self-creating, and I think that’s generally true. You know, no one is ever argued out of a religious faith by contrary facts. No one is every argued out of a political ideology. That’s the problem we’re faced with: You can’t resist a figure like Trump by appealing to the facts, by saying he lies all the time, because the people who admire him like the fact that he lies all the time. The lies, in a certain way, are appealing to them because it gives them license to indulge their own fantasies. In other words, if somebody tells you three million people voted illegally in California, it’s an outright, absurd lie. But, that an authority figure says it gives you a right to believe in it. If your question is what do you do then, when you have a leader who is completely allergic to facts and who appeals to an audience that’s resistant to facts, I think the answer is that you can’t fantasize that you’re going to convert those folks. What happens is that you get new generations who just don’t buy it. If you think about the great social changes, the great positive social changes of our time, they tend not to happen because you have people who are entrenched in a bigoted or old-fashioned reactionary position who are converted. What tends to happen, is the young generations who come along simply don’t enlist in the bigotry.

HS: I’d like to talk about the natural history of creativity, its life-cycle. There’s sort of an apex, a fertile period of creativity, then a downturn. Recently, I heard Dylan say when asked about his seminal work of 50 years ago, "Who writes like that?!" Probably everybody’s curve is different and maybe some people have a second curve. Do you have any thoughts about that? AG: I think that any honest, creative person is bound to confess that when one looks at other artists and creative people, you tend to see that they have a high period and then a falling off period. Bob Dylan is a remarkable character, but there’s no question that the Dylan between 1966 and 1974, between Blonde on Blonde and Blood on the Tracks is the Dylan who we’ll remember. Paul McCartney is a musician of limitless melodic invention, but the McCartney we’ll remember is between 1965 and 1969. So, there’s a lot be said for the idea that artists ought to retire in a way that fighters ought to retire before they get punch-drunk and lazy-legged and all the rest of it. However, what I do think is true is that even if you accept that all creativity is cyclical and has a falling off point, there’s still an enormous value in artists persisting, because artists don’t just give us the gift of their products, they give us the gift of their example. Dylan 2018 is not writing songs the way Dylan 1968 did, but it’s wonderful to see him continuing to stand up there with his croaky voice and his little mustache bearing witness to what it is to have been Bob Dylan. HS: Do some artists have two periods of great work? AG: Yes, I think they do. Matisse did unimaginably beautiful work between 1905 and 1920; went on doing interesting, not nearly as profound work and then, suddenly, as an old man changed his medium, started using scissors instead of a paint brush and, once again, did utterly sublime work. De Kooning, another artist who had a great late blooming. Philip Roth, to take a name that doesn’t seem to sit with de Kooning and Matisse, maybe, at first, through sheer dint and intelligence continued to blaze new kinds of witness, new kinds of writing, in part, because he had the enormously smart idea that he should write about what it was like when he was young again. Instead of trying to bear witness again and again to the new world, he wrote very much about New York in the 1940s. I don’t think silence is a good answer for an artist, even if an artist is aware that it’s a general rule that you do your best work at a particular moment; the work that people will remember most. HS: What are your thoughts on the larger issues of the day, especially fake news and how, in a way, it threatens our democracy? AG: Fake news is one of those things that has managed, through the mendacious spin of a very mendacious man, to totally reverse meaning. When fake news was first talked about people meant actually manufactured fraudulent stories that were being passed around on the internet, very often to the benefit of Donald Trump. He turned it around to make it an accusation at people who were actually doing real news: CNN, The New York Times and so on, who do their work in the same flawed and imperfect way that we all do our work, but who genuinely are trying to report the world as it is. It’s Trump, the man who speaks loudest about fake news, who is the most culpable of spreading fake news… “three million people voted illegally, I had the biggest crowd," and on and on and on. So, I don’t feel fake news is as big a problem as the people crying about fake news. In other words, it’s when the governing class decides to demoralize the population by telling them they can’t believe anything that they’re being told. That’s when you get the crisis. I’m not worried about fake news. I’m worried about fake politicians.

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'I value different things now.' Readers share how the pandemic will change their spending habits Some lost income and had to cut back. Others found that staying home brought on forced savings since dining out, entertainment, travel and childcare became less available. Others spent more freely in response to boredom and anxiety. So what will happen once the pandemic is over? We asked CNN Business readers what spending changes they plan to make once “normal” life resumes. Kyler Booth, who works in HR management in Utah and lives with his husband and two children, is very eager to resume his pre-pandemic life of travel, dining out, entertainment and family activities. He said he’s also expecting to continue spending to make his family’s new home more comfortable. “We have a desire to have those experiences — even if it means swiping that credit card because at this point we’re all just crazy in the head,” Booth said. “I fully expect to [initially] spend more than I normally would on these activities to make up for lost time.” Charlotte Rowe, a research scientist and classical pianist in New Mexico, is looking forward to taking a vacation, traveling to see family on the East coast and resuming her spending on the arts, particularly tickets for symphonies, opera and musical recitals. “I will be traveling as soon as it’s deemed safe for me. Haven’t had a vacation in eleven years and was planning one last spring, which of course went kaput,” Rowe said. She’s also hoping to start remodeling the exterior of her home next summer. Dana Sloboda, a hotel sales director in Pennsylvania, counts herself lucky to still have her job, although her company cut her pay by $10,000 after laying off most employees. Her fiance’s income wasn’t affected, Sloboda said, but they’re putting off improvement projects for their new home. They’ve also been saving for their wedding, now rescheduled for November, which they hope they won’t have to postpone again. Looking ahead, “I’m eliminating the unnecessary spending,” Sloboda said. She expects to forgo lunches out during the week since she now realizes how much she saves by bringing her food to work. And she’ll cut out her spending on “tchotchkes.” But Sloboda does look forward to taking some trips and refreshing her wardrobe since she hasn’t bought clothes for the past year. Breaking the paycheck-to-paycheck cycle Stage actor Taavon Gamble of Rhode Island was used to traveling a lot for work, buying things as he went and eating out. The pandemic put an end to that. Though he was able to get a few paying jobs since mid-March and has some savings, he said, he’s also had to collect unemployment twice. As a result, “I restructured my spending,” Gamble said, “It’s clarified what’s a need and what’s a want.” While Gamble fully expects to go to restaurants again with friends once he’s back to working and earning money regularly, “It’s the consistency of how much you do it. I don’t feel I need to do it as frequently,” he said. “I won’t have a paycheck-to-paycheck mentality.” Chelsea Kane has been temping over the past year and moved from Virginia to Maryland to live with her mother. Kane said she is used to living paycheck-to-paycheck. But during the pandemic, as work became scarce, she ended up making more than usual from various forms of pandemic relief, including federally supplemented unemployment benefits. “I saved as much of the unemployment checks as possible and continued paying my bills and student loans despite the [federal] relief in payments,” Kane said. “Several friends are now in a worse position than before because they didn’t save anything.” She’s hoping her current temp job will become permanent. But even if it does, Kane said she’ll continue to spend very carefully because “I never again want to be in a tight spot financially.” Changing values on where they spend their money Penelope Luster is the sole support for her three children, ages 9, 14 and 20. While she had a very well-paying, high stress corporate job in finance and accounting, she was furloughed in April, then laid off in July. The experience changed the Houston-based single mother’s mindset about the money she earns and how she wants to deploy it going forward. She’d always had three months of expenses saved but said she’d dip into savings regularly, in part to support her shopping habits, and then would replenish the pot with her next paycheck. When the paychecks stopped coming, she was mad at herself. “I should have had more [in savings]” Luster said. “I’d gotten into a place of waste.” Nevertheless, thanks to her savings, unemployment benefits, a local grant to help single parents who’d lost their jobs, lower car insurance payments and other “blessings” as she put it, Luster was able to pay her bills and even pay down her credit cards. Being laid off also led her to a new job in her home state of Nebraska that pays $15,000 less than her old job but offers a better quality of life. “I value different things now,” Luster said. She said she no longer will waste money on clothes and handbags to maintain an image of success. And eating out won’t be so frequent. Instead, after a lifetime of renting, she’s building a house for her family in Nebraska, which she plans to leave to her kids. “I’m working for my kids’ security and safety for when I’m gone,” Luster said. They will always have a place where their family is … even if the world is falling apart.” California-based media executive David DeBetta said he and his family have saved a lot of money during the pandemic by virtue of working from home, not going to restaurants and spending less on outside entertainment. When the pandemic ends, DeBetta said, they don’t plan to resume their old ways. He and his wife have learned to cook and planted a vegetable garden and fruit trees. They’ve also made upgrades at home and now enjoy a home theater. They used to eat out four or five times a week with their two sons, easily spending $100 for a casual meal at places like Chili’s, he said. Or they’d spend $50 washing their two cars. “You don’t realize the impact until you don’t do it for a year.” And that realization has changed his mind about how they’ll spend money in the future. When it comes to eating out, “we will only go out for special occasions,” DeBetta said. And when they do, they won’t pony up for cocktails or a bottle of wine because of the retail markup. Though, he said, they’ll still do takeout from favorite local restaurants. For retiree Ellen Floriani, who lives in Florida, the desire to spend money on outside entertainment, restaurants and in-person shopping is gone. “Our behavior and spending have changed forever. Shopping has lost its allure and we really don’t miss it,” Floriani said of she and her husband. “We shop online and at curbside pickup and find this much more leisurely and satisfying than brick-and-mortar stores and malls.” Floriani said they’ll only go out for special occasions. And while they will travel to see family, the former New Yorker anticipates that whenever feasible “we’ll probably drive because I’m more annoyed than ever with crowds — and they can get you sick.” Source link Orbem News #Americans'spendinghabitsarelikelytolookdifferentafterthepandemic-CNN #Change #habits #Pandemic #Readers #Share #Spending #success