#Just watch them come after me on a 3rd account with more accusations of how much I hate sex workers

[fiendir]

lmfao, so I tell this 21 year old to stop using the Spiritbox tag to promo her tiddy out onlyfans posts. and block, because I don't wanna deal with any inevitably shitty response.

Love it when I'm proven right anyway :DD

Always been extremely cool with people having an OF, like go nuts? Your body your rules, sex work is real work, y'all know where I stand. nobody have and nobody will change my opinion on that anytime soon. even if some are really trying to here uwu

I'm less fucking cool with following the tag for my favourite band, just to get a bunch of spam posts on my dash instead. And then getting the homophobic insults and told to get therapy? Yeah okay that was kinda funny thou, thinking that old material would get to me 💅

[junicai]

blue shell.

| summary | Things get serious in the Dreamies dorm when Mark brings over Mario Kart.

| word count | 1.3k

| warnings | not serious contemplation of murder(s) 

| era | circa. April 2018

Aria wondered how long she’d go away for if she committed a septuple homicide. 

The idea had taken root in the back of her mind several months ago, what with Chenle’s unfortunate habit of rolling while asleep and kicking her off (a) a couch, (b) a bed, and on one miraculous occasion, even a table. 

Don’t ask how he managed to get his leg up that high - not even Aria knows. All she remembers is sitting on the edge of the table, perfectly content and minding her own business, before there was a foot being unceremoniously shoved into her back, and then she was on the floor. 

The tiles are rather unforgiving, she discovered, when you face plant into them with no chance of stopping yourself from doing so, because you were pre-occupied with trying to not spill hot coffee over yourself and your companion, who had just veritably kicked her out of her sitting position moments beforehand. 

Aria ended up with a bruised cheek, for her attempts, and Chenle still wouldn’t admit that he’d done it - claiming that she must have just fallen off herself. If she didn’t know any better, Aria would claim that Chenle had done it while he was awake, just out of spite.

He has resided at the bottom of her “Rescue In Case Of Fire” list ever since. 

Donghyuck let out a great whoop of victory from his position in the middle of the living room floor, as his character - Baby Yoshi, in the tall booster seat car that he insisted didn’t give him an advantage, but Aria could swear that thing had a smaller turning circle than the rest of them - crossed the finish line, a large gold 1st coming to hang over Yoshi’s head. 

He sat back in his seat, looking altogether too smug for someone who had just cheated his way into a victory. His remote dangling from the wrist-strap that Jeno insisted they all used for the WII remotes (there was an incident, Aria knows, with one of the remotes and a now-broken vase), Donghyuck’s little half smirk had never been more infuriating to Aria. 

She had been leading the race for the better part of two laps, racing around Shy Guy Beach with a banana trailing behind Toad’s little cart in reserve. The finish line had been within her sights, and she was already beginning to settle back into the cushions, prepared to royally gloat her way through the rest of the evening before the unimaginable happened. 

Renjun, steadily clinging onto 4th place but encroaching on Jeno’s 3rd, gave a cry of excitement. There was a whooshing sound - 

And then Toad exploded in a cloud of blue. 

Spinning out of control, Aria fumbled with the buttons uselessly, knowing there was nothing she could do to salvage her position but trying fruitlessly anyway. 

She sat back, stunned and betrayed, as Donghyuck brushed past her and crossed the finish line smoothly - avoiding the loose banana peel that Toad had lost during his spin-out. The dust of the beach was kicked up by Yoshi’s booster kart wheels, and Aria found herself cursing the animators as Toad literally coughed in the cloud. 

Was there much more in the world that could humiliate her so?

Perhaps that thought in itself, had been the tipping point of Aria’s spectacular downfall.

With her mouth dropped open, she watched as Renjun and Jeno passed - neck and neck - Jisung bringing up the tail end before Toad finally got himself under control again and pushed himself off into motion again. His kart was slow - slower than she wanted it to be, but they were moving and picking up speed.

He barely made it two feet. 

A green shell crashed into the back of Aria’s cart, Toad flipping forward and stopping again, waving his hands around in protest. Mark flashed a cheeky grin at Aria from where he was perched on the edge of the coffee table in the centre of the room, zooming past Toad with Daisy snatching 5th place from beneath Aria’s nose. 

She let out an aggrieved shout, dropping her controller in her dismay. “Mark!” 

He couldn’t even have afforded her the dignity of being taken out by a red shell? No! He had to use the green ones, the ones you can actually escape if you have the speed and space to do so. 

“Sorry,” He apologized, looking distinctly un-sorry. 

Mark moved down the “Fire Save” list to just above Chenle.

With her controller on the floor, slid somewhere in between the throw pillows that had been kicked off by Chenle an hour earlier, Aria was forced to sit back and watch as Chenle chased Peach over the finish line, Bowser letting out a commiserating roar as he secured 7th place after Jaemin who took 6th with Princess Peach at the helm. 

The race ended, 7 out of 8 players having crossed the finish line and one remaining stationary - 2.3 seconds away from the finish line. 

With the sweet dulcet sounds of too-peppy Mario Kart music that was really beginning to give Aria a headache playing through the speakers; pandemonium broke out. 

“You cheat!” 

“It wasn’t me! That was hyung!” An incriminating finger was pointed at Renjun, who in turn threw a betrayed hand to his chest. “Sung! I thought we had a pact!” 

“A pact?!” Aria’s voice grew in both volume and pitch. “So it’s true!” She spun to face the others, all who had been tossing the blame back and forth, while rolling about in fits of laughter. “You’ve all been plotting against me!” 

“Never!”

“NO!”

“How could you accuse us of such a heinous crime?”

Their protests were heavily undermined by the fact that they were all holding their sides in pain from laughing too hard, and each of them wore a face-splitting grin. Aria narrowed her eyes at them all, glaring. 

“Come on, noona!” Chenle goaded, straightening up momentarily only to flop back down onto Aria, bringing her into the impromptu cuddle pile that the others were forming on the floor.

She landed with an oof, and was going to apologize before realizing that it was, in fact, landed on Donghyuck. She only felt slightly bad for the elbow that landed in his stomach, then. 

“You promised us dinner.” Donghyuck wheezed out, clutching at his ribs. 

Scrap that. Aria didn’t feel bad at all.

“Wh-”

“’Loser buys dinner.’ I believe those were your words, Riri.” Jaemin grinned at her from his horizontal position stretched out over both Mark and Jeno. 

Aria sighed a long suffering sigh, pinching the bridge off her nose. Muttering underneath her breath, she began attempting to extract her arm from Chenle’s vicious grip, before she was stopped by Renjun’s hand on her wrist.

“Or,” He began, and honestly Aria should have known better than to trust the mischievous twinkle in his eye but goddamnit she only had so much in her bank account at the moment. “We could go best out of three, and loser gets dinner tonight and tomorrow.”

Her credit score begged her to take the deal. She could feel her credit card crying out for her to accept, and to form an alliance with one of the conniving devils that she calls groupmates. 

Aria wondered, again, how long was the jail time for multiple homicides.

Not long at all, if she didn’t get caught, she supposed. 

[donttouchmeimwriting]

Argo ch. 1

Friday the 13th - Friendship/Romance - Jason Voorhees/OC M/M ship

2897 words, 3rd person POV

This is not following canon closely at all and I'm kinda blending bits of Jason's personality between original movies, the remake, and fan versions so this is pretty solidly AU. I hope you enjoy!

Cross-posting on FFN under PyroTheWereCat

There was no pleasure in killing. It was a task, like any other, but one that had to be done adequately. Even if it took several tries and the body was mangled by the end of it, the life had to be gone from their eyes.

"We can't have them coming back to hurt us, can we?"

Mother was right. Mother was always right. She was the only one who cared. She was the only one who knew kindness. It was her idea and her decision to take revenge against the wicked counselors of Camp Crystal Lake, and what she wanted, she would get.

She had nearly died herself trying to punish the ones responsible for her son's drowning, and so the pair needed to live in hiding, deep in the woods surrounding the camp. It took over ten years of teaching and training, but it was finally time. Mother knew best, and Jason Voorhees was willing to serve her every command.

Four years ago, Jason began his killing spree. He picked off the counselors one by one, catching each in a deadly infraction. He worked carefully at first, making the disappearances look like believable shirking of duties or horrible accidents. That year, authorities ruled the camp could reopen for the next season with some extra safety precautions. Jason was praised so lovingly that year.

The second year, Jason continued his streak, but allowed himself to get a little sloppy. The murders were attributed to one of the staff members, and no one was the wiser to his presence (or, more importantly, his mother's). The camp was forcibly closed for the following season, and Jason's mother prayed it would stay closed and they could be free of the evil of the counselors who knew no compassion.

But, as an investigation cleared the camp of outside interference, further cementing the falsely accused staff member as the murderer, Crystal Lake reopened for another season, forcing Jason out of hiding once more. He did not want to go back, having enjoyed the peaceful summer with his mother last year, but he knew he had a job to do. He dusted off his mask, sharpened his machete, and set out for Camp Crystal Lake once more.

This year already felt different for Jason. Perhaps it was the time off, or perhaps he was growing tired of killing, but this year he decided to approach things in a different way. He spent the first two weeks of camp watching from the shadows, identifying the counselors and their habits. There were eight of them: four men, four women. Their ages were uncertain, but it seemed the youngest was about seventeen and the oldest was about twenty-five, the majority being roughly twenty-one. College age, Mother had said, was the worst age for most folks. Leftover rebellion from their adolescence and newfound freedom created a sinful breeding ground for debauchery and cruelty that needed to be punished. Jason was of this age now as well, and he had promised to not let himself lose sight of his task.

During the weeks Jason watched the camp, he noticed a few important details. First, he noticed that ghost stories about the murders he and his mother had committed were being told at nightly bonfires, embellished to near supernatural lengths. This excited Jason to some degree, seeing that his hard work had noticeable impact years later. Second, he noticed there were no hikes on the outer trails and strict curfews were imposed on both the campers and the counselors, keeping the grounds barren between the hours of 9PM and 7AM. This rule would make Jason's work difficult if he planned on making any of these deaths appear accidental, but he could improvise if needed.

The third detail, and the most curious of all, Jason noticed that out of all eight counselors, one stood out as unique. The first distinctive feature was that he was shorter than the rest of his coworkers, somewhere close to five feet tall. Jason almost mistook him for a camper at first, but the back of his shirt clearly read 'COUNSELOR'. What truly set him apart from the rest, however, was how attentive he was to the campers. He made sure every voice was heard and no one felt left out. He kept a bright and supportive demeanor no matter the circumstances, and helped the campers with every activity. Furthermore, he did not seem interested in sneaking off to sacrifice his job duties in favor of more lecherous behavior. Jason found himself growing fascinated with this counselor, and opted to watch him a little more closely to see if he had any damning secrets that would confirm his impending death with the rest.

Another week dragged on, and Jason regrettably had lost track of time. He followed this seemingly kind counselor as he engaged the children in their activities and lent a listening ear to those who had problems or concerns. What could he be hiding? Mother was certain that anyone who took a job at this camp was a bad person, and Mother was always right...right?

"Alright, everyone!" the strange counselor called one morning, catching the attention of his group, "It's Friday tomorrow, and that means s'mores night!"

He allowed for a brief cheer from the kids before quieting them down again to continue,

"S'mores are really nice, aren't they?" Whoops and words of agreement rose from the group. "Do we agree that nice kids deserve to have nice treats?" More affirmations rang out. "That's right! But it's come to my attention, as well as the other counselors, that there's been some of you who haven't been as nice as they should be."

Jason leaned forward from his seated vantage point on a log, listening curiously to the counselor's teaching moment. Would he punish the whole group of kids for a minority's bad behavior? Would he revoke s'mores privileges? Would he try to drown some of the children in the lake? That last one was unlikely, but the thought still crossed Jason's mind. The counselor continued,

"Here at Camp Crystal Lake, we value honesty, teamwork, and what else?"

"Accountability," the children chorused.

"Exactly right," he praised, "And if one of us is being picked on, it's up to the rest of us to help them feel included, right?"

"Right!"

The counselor clapped his hands together, smiling kindly at the group.

"I don't want anyone to feel like they're in trouble, so we're gonna make this into a game, okay?" he proposed, "We're all detectives looking for clues on whodunnit. We have to solve the mystery of who's being a bully and have them apologize by tomorrow night, or all the s'mores will have to go away until next week. Does that sound fair?"

"Yes," the kids answered, somewhat anxious now that the promised snacks might be withheld.

"Awesome! Here are the rules of the game: you can't force someone to give you a clue if they don't want to. That would defeat the purpose of the game! You also can't point any fingers until the bonfire is lit tomorrow night. If the person who was mean wants to come forward on their own, they have to come to me or one of the other counselors so it doesn't spoil the end of the game. Once the person is revealed, they have to apologize to the person they hurt and will spend the weekend making it up to them because, here at Camp Crystal Lake, we want everyone to have a great time. If one of us isn't having a good time, we all have to work together to help them so we can leave here at the end of the summer with the best memories and the best friends. So let me hear it from you guys: are we ready to go out and have a great day?"

The kids burst into another round of cheers and the counselor shepherded them off to their first activity of the day. Jason propped his elbow on his thigh and rested his chin in his hand. He frowned in contemplation. This counselor was so dedicated to the kids...could he be an exception? Could Jason's mother have been wrong? He would have to catch this counselor alone to find out more. He still had plenty of time to dispatch the whole staff, he figured, so he had the time to learn what he could about this one counselor.

Jason stalked the counselor over the next few hours, watching him be the perfect role model for the kids as usual. Finally, sometime near midday, the counselor took a break after passing his group to another and announced he was going to check the nearest hiking trail for debris before he took the kids on it later. One of the female counselors offered to walk with him, and Jason detected signs of flirtation in her body language, but he refused, claiming it would be a short trip. Jason felt his heart beat faster with anticipation, following him just out of sight as he walked the trail, moving any large sticks or rocks from the path. Jason flexed his fingers on the hilt of his machete, wondering if he should kill him now despite having no evidence yet that he was a bad person. He resolved he would wait until they were far enough away from the camp where screams would not carry, then he would decide.

The counselor moved at a brisk and energetic pace, enjoying his time alone. He seemed so full of life and vigor...Jason almost felt bad that he was planning on murdering him. The counselor stopped at a fallen branch blocking the path and looked it over, his hands on his hips.

"That's a big one," he commented to himself, "I hope I can get it out of the way on my own."

With that he bent down to lift one end of the branch, stepping backwards to drag it off the trail. From Jason's position, he could see another, smaller branch on the ground behind the counselor, twisted and gnarled, but big enough to pose a hazard. Jason watched as the counselor caught his foot on the hidden branch and tumbled backwards, rolling through the leaves and sticks as he fell down the slope. He went over a slanted rock near the bottom and crumpled on the other side of a rotting log, his ankle caught in a hole in the log. Jason slowly approached, minding his steps down the slope so he would not fall as well.

The counselor grunted in pain as he pushed himself up on his elbows and attempted to free his leg from the log. He had dirt on his face and debris in his hair and, as Jason drew closer and could see more clearly, cuts and scrapes all over his arms and legs. Unsuccessful in his attempts, the counselor fell back on his elbows, breathing hard. He craned his neck to look over the log, having heard the approaching footsteps, and his eyes met Jason's, mere feet away.

"Oh my gosh, you startled me!" he greeted, "Thank goodness someone else was on the trail! I'm okay, by the way, I'm just a little stuck. Can you help me out?"

Jason froze as the counselor addressed him. Oddly enough, he didn't seem afraid, despite Jason's hulking stature, out of place hockey mask, and freshly sharpened blade in hand. He tilted his head to one side, puzzled. He hadn't been this close to another person (aside from his mother) in almost two years, but he distinctly remembered every person he had been this close to fearing him on sight. He looked down at his machete, wondering what was holding him back from stabbing this man and walking away. It was all so easy before...

"Ooh, yes, you came prepared!" the counselor said, noticing the machete as well, "If you're careful, you can probably hack around the opening so I can get my foot loose. If you want, I can get you some free food back at camp for helping me out. It's not much, but Miriam makes a mean chicken salad."

He smiled up at Jason, and Jason felt his heart stop for a moment. There was not a single flicker of fear in the counselor's eyes. All he could see was the same gentle expression shown to the kids back at camp. An unfamiliar feeling came over Jason and, for the first time in years, he felt compelled to help. He raised the machete, his eyes focused on the counselor's trapped leg. His breathing hitched, one part of his mind urging him to kill as Mother instructed, the other begging him to show mercy, just this once. He glanced back at the counselor's face, at that warm smile, and made his choice.

The machete swung down and struck the wood of the log, sending a spray of splinters into the air. The counselor winced, shielding his eyes from the shower, and tried to wiggle his leg loose.

"Still a little stuck," he announced, "I think one more whack on the other side oughta do it."

Jason wrenched the blade out of the wood and swung again on the other side of the counselor's leg. As predicted, the counselor was able to maneuver himself out of the weakened structure. He brushed the splinters and dirt off of his skin and shakily stood up, clearly in some pain from the fall.

"Thank you," he said to Jason, his smile returning, "Really, I would have been in some trouble if you weren't here, so thanks a lot. My name's Lijah."

He extended a hand to Jason to shake, but Jason was too caught off guard by his own response to the situation as well as Lijah's genuine friendliness to return the gesture. Lijah lowered his hand, unfazed by the lack of reaction.

"Not a talker, huh? That's okay," he noted, then became visibly nervous, "Oh, cripes, I'm sorry, are you deaf?"

He made some strange hand movements with that last sentence, gesturing to Jason and to his own ear. Jason shook his head, slowly coming out of his confusion.

"Ah, gotcha," Lijah said, relaxing, "That works for me. I'm not very good at signing."

He laughed at this, and Jason felt a pang of....something. Lijah's laugh was light and pleasant sounding...it reminded Jason of dappled sunlight through trees. He couldn't explain it, but he wanted to stay near Lijah for a while longer.

"In all seriousness, what is your name?" Lijah asked, "I'd like to know who my hero is."

Hero. That wasn't a word Jason thought would ever be associated with him, but it felt surprisingly good to hear Lijah call him that. He looked around himself for a moment, then up the slope at the trail. He motioned for Lijah to follow him and made his way up to the flatter part of the forest floor. Lijah had some slight difficulty following him, being so much smaller and having mild injuries, but he made it up the slope all the same. Jason waited until Lijah had caught his breath and stood next to him. He held his machete out to the ground and drew the letters of his name into the dirt. Lijah read the name aloud once he had finished and looked up at Jason brightly.

"Jason!" he chirped with delight, "Like the Argonaut in Greek mythology!"

Jason tilted his head, frowning. His mother had told him many stories as he grew up, but they were all from the Bible. He wasn't familiar with the character Lijah was referencing, and Lijah could see his bewilderment.

"He's a hero in his story," he explained, "well, for the most part. He goes on adventures with his crew and they see and do all kinds of amazing things together."

Jason nodded, liking the sound of this hero with the same name as himself. And the fact that he was not entirely virtuous...that struck a chord with him. He gestured to Lijah, who seemed to understand that he was asking about his name.

"I was originally supposed to be Elijah," he said, emphasizing the 'e' at the beginning, "but my little sister had trouble saying the whole name, so I changed it to just Lijah. By itself, I don't think it means anything special, but it's pretty special to me."

Jason stared at Lijah. How was he so good-natured? Even with an intimidating stranger like Jason, he managed to keep his upbeat attitude and unselfish way of speaking. Was he stupid or genuinely that benevolent?

"Hey, walk with me back to camp," Lijah encouraged, setting off in that direction, "I owe you lunch."

Jason felt a small stab of panic and shook his head. He looked over his shoulder and back at Lijah, who nodded.

"You've got somewhere to be - that's fine! Don't worry about it, big guy! But, if you find yourself back this way, come find me at counselor cabin 5 and I'll get you a meal to pay you back for helping me. Thanks again!"

He waved goodbye before turning and walking back towards the camp, the pep in his step dampened only slightly by the soreness in his legs. Jason watched him go and wondered wildly what had just happened. Had he somehow accidentally made a friend?

[gothfoxx]

Bnha prompt where Easerhead is made to look over the income students files and doesn't like how bakuguo looks. So he goes to see himself and sees how he acts and has proof so in the end even after passing both the paper and qurik exam he is turned down. And bakuguo doesn't know the useless deku is in ua until he sees him win the feastal

Ok I can’t sleep so you get yours early!

Mrs Midoriya was a kind woman that loved her friends fiercely but no amount of friendship was worth seeing her baby boy charred and bloodied. She and Izuku had lost their closest friends but they were both able to grow because of it. Inko filed for divorce and Izuku saw that idled idol worship wasn’t going to get him into hero school without a quirk. They both faced ridicule for ‘forcing’ a mark on an exemplar and honored student. It wasn’t the last mark Katsuki got for harming Izuku while they attended the same middle school.

Every year Aizawa had to wade through stacks and stacks of student entry files. The ones that didn’t pass the written exam or didn’t meet the cut off number of points for consideration had already been tossed so all that was left were those deemed qualified for assessment. Which was all just fancy words for these are the kids he and Ken would be picking their next classes from. This year Principal Nezu had added on an interview to the process, one with the student and their guardian and one with their middle school home room teacher. Aizawa knew it was because he had expelled his whole class last year by the end of the first week so this was Nezu’s way around that problem.

Out of 67 candidates Hero Eraserhead had gone to 43 school rooms and homes. His next stop was Aldera middle school where two hopefuls attended. He was curious about the place that produced both a kid as clever and determined as Midoriya Izuku and a kid as brash and tactically minded as Bakugou Katsuki. He was also curious about the missing pages in both of their files, it could have been a fluke but he wasn’t an optimistic man.

The building was nothing to write home about but Eraserhead knew better than to judge a book by its cover, many had done so to him in the past. He counted his luck that he could finish two interviews with one trip once he set foot into the school. It smelled of mildew and the wooden stairs were warped in places, not a good first impression. The teacher who greeted him at the classroom was a middle aged man with a slight hunch and thin hair. “Welcome Eraserhead sir, we are so honored to have you with us today. We don’t normally have students achieve such feats but it’s no wonder with our promising prodigy Bakugou, we are so proud of him!” Praises the Aldera teacher, as he walks Eraser to a seat at one of the desks.

He notes it as odd the man hadn’t mentioned that they had two students in the running for UA and writes it in the notebook he brought for today’s set of interviews. “Yes Bakugou has shown he has the mind and skill it takes to make it at UA but there is only so much a video and an incomplete file can tell us about a child. So that’s why I’m here today. I would like you to tell me about your students today. Particularly Bakugou AND Midoriya.” He drones only putting emphasis on the fact this was for two students, not just one. The cheerful face the man was wear slips into a exasperated one at the mention of the other student. “Oh so he got into General studies did he, well can’t say I’m surprised. He isn’t much be he has a good melon on his shoulders, could probably get into marketing if he wasn’t so hung up on being a hero, that damn Midoriya.” The teacher ponders aloud like it wasn’t just for show. Keeping a straight face and not just calling the man out on favoritism Eraser pushed forward with the interview.

Drawing out the folder for Bakugou first Eraserhead flips to where behavioral records and notes should have been. “Normally a file will have at least a note or two on student behavior so teachers down the line can help curb bad habits or know how to handle a quirk controll issue. Neither student submission had one which seems like an odd over site. What can you tell me about Bakugou’s history with his quirk and other students?” As he spoke the teacher was growing more and more agitated. “He’s a good student, I don’t know what you’ve heard but he deserves to be a hero! Just because he has a slight temper doesn’t mean he’s a bad kid. That bitch and her son just wanted attention! Slandering a prodigy before he gets a chance to shine? It’s absurd.” Rants the hunched teacher, sounding like a politically backwards uncle. Eraser makes a mental note to stop at the office to get another copy of the files.

“That was informative. Do you have any notes on Midoriya’s behavior?” He asks fearing he already knows the answer. “Like I said before the kid is smart but he is constantly garnering for attention. Probably because he’s quirkless and his father ran off. Mess up him and his mother, they accused poor Bakugou of picking fights and using his quirk in public. Absurd, Bakugou wouldn’t ruin his chances on some nobody like Deku.” Aaaand that was all he need to hear. He would be advising Nezu to investigate this place, the building wasn’t the only thing that smelled.

The secretary seemed like a nice and headstrong lady. When he asked to see the original files she pulled them out of a false bottom in one of her cabinets. She must have been waiting for someone to finally see what she must every day. “I was told to lose these as soon as both boys applied to UA. I’ve seen that poor kid come in fine in the morning and then leave covered in marks or limping home.” She whispers quickly, sparkling purple eyes checking for nosy nellies. “My mom is quirkless and the stories she told me are mother compared to what must be happening to him.” He thanks her and discreetly snaps photos of both files. One taking longer because how large it was.

Bakugou’s sheet listen 7 accounts of bullying since the 3rd grade. And that was just against one student, there were many more of one off fights or arguments. No matter what though it painted the kid as an egotistical narcissist with a God complex who was not above physical violence as a first option. Not what Aizawa would call exemplary or promising. Midoriya on the other hand had no official marks but all his teachers before had called him disruptful and attention seeking. He would have to see for himself at the home interview but he might as well get the one he was sure about out of the way.

So...the Bakugou family was dysfunctional to say the least, Aizawa had been forced to not only use his quirk and also restrain the mother after she attacked her son and made several remarks about her wish for him to “just shape up or go kill himself”. Aizawa felt bad for the father he had tried to calm the situation but his eyes betrayed him, the man had known it wouldn’t work. Now Mrs Bakugou was facing charges of child abuse and suicide baiting, both were small charges but she would still serve time for it. For the two Bakugou men the court would probably suggest therapy for ptsd and whatever non-addressed issues Katsuki would probably had ignored in his childhood.

On the other side of the coin the meeting with the Midoriyas was a short and peaceful affair. The notes on the kid’s file were obviously just the teachers discriminating against a kid that was already delt a bad hand in life. He was definitely having Nezu pick apart that school, hire the secretary too for her smart thinking and strong morals. “Well Ms Midoriya I will be in touch with you soon. And Izuku, you’re going to do great things no matter what you choose to do.” Okay so the kid impressed him...multiple times. He didn’t have a soft spot for bullied kids with minds as sharp as their eyes, no matter what Mic says.

-3 months later-

The sports festival was playing on the television at the support house. The little kids were oohing and awwing. It hurt to even listen to as the students all fought for a spot at the top. Katsuki’s therapist had told him “it is okay to be upset about thing like this but the way you show that emotion should help you get the emotions out not bottle them up.” So he was letting himself be mad and sad and holding onto his dad’s hand for comfort. Another thing his therapist had told him was okay, comfort and crying weren’t weaknesses. Some of the kids were cheering now and one typically shy kid shouted “go green boy!” And there was no way.

Katsuki let go of his dad and moved closer to the tv. The smaller kids gave him room to see the screen. Just as he thought, a small bundle of wirely limbs and green hair slung a slab of metal forward on a pile of canisters. The explosion of pink and red glitter launched Midoriya Izuku, the kid Katsuki had thought he had hated for most of his life, past the losers just hopping over the obstacles and into third place. He joined the kids in their cheers, he wasn’t sure what De- Izu had done to win these kids over but to them he was already a hero. They all watched as he used all of those brains that the Bakugou’s recognized and all of the skill they did not to get further and further through the competition. He thinks his therapist will be happy to know that when Izuku was named that year’s Champion that the only things Katsuki had felt were pride, happiness, and anticipation. He couldn’t wait to get better and be able to tell Izuku just how much he saved him.

Okay so a little different than you probably were expecting buuuut I hope you still like it

[scoobydoomistakes]

What with Tumblr‘s years of commotion, and the very kind concerned messages...

...I feel it’s important to say don’t worry — I’m not gonna abruptly delete/abandon SDM.

The whole point of the blog is to make people smile, and if it can still do that, the show must go on.

That said, please leave your favorite other platforms you’d like to see SDM on in the comments! More on that near the end of this post.

Of course, since I was informed recently...

...twice, for some reason...

...that the blog had, apparently, been secretly flagged explicit for who knows how long...

...and seeing as things like wholesome, family-friendly cartoon gorillas...

...are constantly flagged as adult content... well, the future feels a bit sketchy. 

So, let’s talk a little about the state of Tumblr – and to (hopefully) inject some levity into this mess, let’s use the one true medium of communication...

...Scooby-Doo reaction images.

They can make anything easier to discuss. It’s been scientifically proven.

To start things off, there are 3 vital keys to running a platform well:

1. Communicating with the community

Acknowledging issues, explaining upcoming fixes, answering common questions. This shows users you care, and are listening!

2. Fixing problems as they arise

Patching bugs, stopping platform abuses, adding vital absent features. This allows both creators’ content and the community to keep improving!

3. Moving in an understood direction

Working towards improvements & goals that most users agree are logical. This gives people confidence in the future!

Having all 3 is ideal, but isn’t always possible... 

...but fortunately, nailing 2/3 covers well for the 3rd! 

For instance, if you want to move in a direction that’s unpopular, but have a history of fixing issues well, and you communicate about changes in a consistent and timely manner, users will largely understand. 

Sadly, in the almost 5 years I’ve been here...

...Tumblr has made no visible attempt at a single one of these things. 

Communication is almost nonexistent, major issues persist indefinitely, and improvements never come.

I would go in-depth into each issue that the community has reported for years, but the file size of that much text would prolly crash the internet. 

And saddest of all, when a rare change does come, it causes more problems than it solves.

See also: the history of the mobile app, and tomorrow’s new rules.

What Tumblr needed was to finally own up to the users... 

...AKA, the people who watch the ads that make Tumblr earn money... 

...that yes, there are huge issues, and communicate on what they’re doing to fix – say – abusive content and the broken safe mode filter.

Instead, they’re banning even any legitimate, positive, properly-flagged content that’s considered explicit... despite the fact that they can’t even make the existing safe mode work... and it meant giving a literal two-week notice to artists who depended on the platform for the last 11 years?

Even for 110% family-friendly blogs like SDM... 

...well, it’s concerning to know things can be deleted or banned incorrectly at any time. 

Heck, my grandma’s Santa collection was apparently very explicit...

...so for all we know, this Santa-Scooby rug could get this post flagged too.

Be careful – there’s no tool to see which of your posts are currently flagged to request reviews for them. It’s all a mystery.

As far as we know, posts may be taken down at any time, and old flagged content may be lost forever. 

If SDM gets posts flagged wrongly all the time, what blog can’t? SDM has a flawless 4,200+ post record of safe content, and even its flags aren’t automatically reviewed. And this level of broken-ness extends to every facet of the platform... and seriously, don’t get me started on the mobile app.

I’m sure there’s loads of very nice people working there, but as a company... 

...the way Tumblr operates is inexcusable.

Despite refusing to communicate, admit issues, or improve things over the last 4-5 years, Tumblr was quite adept at accusing my mother of following Russian propaganda accounts, breaking gifs randomly for about half a year, making text display on mobile never work right, breaking blog titles, swapping images between unrelated posts, and so much more.

Now, all this said... 

...we only complain so much because we care about this platform. 

We want to see Tumblr succeed, improve for everyone, and be profitable for those working there.

Nobody wants something they care about to figuratively turn into a decrepit old skeleton, falling out of the fuselage of the internet.

Now, that’s an analogy you don’t get to use every day.

Buuuuuuut to be safe, since we’ve politely asked for communication and fixes for years to no avail, I feel I should ask all you smart people... 

...is there another platform you’d like to read SDM on as well? Especially one that supports its weird long-form-post nature?

With so many people leaving Tumblr, if SDM can help bring them a laugh somewhere else as well, I’d gladly look into it.

I’ve even considered what changes it would take to make SDM work in short social platforms’ posts...

...but I dunno, isn’t the in-depth silliness sort of what makes SDM fun? Having multiple images, gifs, and lines of riffing is pretty essential to the blog. 

And as flexible as YouTube video is, it'd take far more work for way less content... plus, I’ve always liked the “scroll through with friends and chat” aspect of SDM being in post-form. You can talk over it, and spend as long laughing at a derpy frame as you like.

I’m also reluctant to just host SDM as its own site – people want the convenience of all their content aggregated together into a feed. It’d have advantages for me, but makes more work for you guys to see it. 

So, have another blogging platform you love? Let me know! One way or another, it’ll all work out in the end.

Oh, and a final FYI: I’ve seen posts of 250k+ people planning to log off on the 17th for 24 hours, in order to hopefully make Tumblr notice they need to actually listen to the users for once. 

If you’re interested, feel free to investigate – I’ll be posting right after midnight today, and will be off the site for the rest of the day. 

Your pal,

–Colin 

[chezzkaa]

Numb pt 22

Click here for more Numb content OR JOIN THE NUMB DISCORD

Lumberjack AU Pairing: Ryan Haywood x Reader WC: 2100+

Date posted: 18 Nov 2018

Megan Pottsman Missing 17/12/2015 - Found 22/12/2015 Body, female. 10 yo. Found 500 meters past tree line. Blunt force trauma. Lacerations across torso, shoulders, base of skull. Clear Bear Attack. No labs required.

SCRIPT

Interview with Mathew. D. Pottsman (Father) Interviewer: Officer G. Sorola Supervisor: Det. Insp. M. Hullum 17/12/2015 03:37am

Sorola: Hello, Mr. Pottsman, I’m Officer Sorola. I’m going to ask you some questions relating to your daughter’s disappearance. Please remember that you will need to tell us everything so that we can do our jobs.

Pottsman: Yeah, okay. I can do that.

Sorola: And you’re alright with being recorded?

Pottsman: Yes.

Sorola: Then lets get started. Mr. Pottsman, when was the last time you saw Megan?

Pottsman: Probably at dinner the night she went missin’. I made her favourite, and she wanted to watch TV. I went to do some reading and left her watching some cartoon show.

Sorola: Is that all?

Pottsman: I heard her.

Sorola: Pardon?

Pottsman: I heard her. There was a knock on the door and she answered it. I heard her tell me she was going out, and that’s the last of it. Told her to come back before the snow got too bad. When the street lamps came on. But she… she didn’t.

Sorola: Any ideas as to which of her friends it was?

Pottsman: … no.

Sorola: No?

Pottsman: That’s what I said. I don’t know which friend it was.

Sorola: So, please let me know if I’ve somehow misunderstood you. You let your 10 year old daughter leave the house with someone you assume to have been a friend, of who you don’t know, in the middle of a brewing snow storm? And, more importantly,you made no effort to check on your daughter and her friend for yourself.

Pottsman: No, no now you’re making it sound like I wanted her to leave. Like I don’t love my daughter!

Sorola: I haven’t said anything of the sort.

Pottsman: You don’t have too! You’re sat right in front of me acting all high and mighty. You know what? It’s my fault. There, I said it. It’s all my fault. I was a shitty dad and now my daughter is missing. If Megan doesn’t come back I’m going to be the one that’s killed her. Not whoever took her, not the weather. Not some wild animal. Me, cus I couldn’t bring myself to be a good dad.

Sorola: Mr. Pottsman, please. No one here is accusing you of anything. Right now this is a missing persons case and we’re doing everything we can to locate your daughter. That includes interviewing everyone that came into contact with her before the incident. The person who you claim to have knocked on the door is a prime suspect, and possibly the last person to have seen Megan. Is she likely to have left with an adult?

Pottsman: I don’t think so. She understood stranger danger.

Sorola: What about an adult she recognised?

Pottsman: Listen here, officer. Everyone in this town knows everyone. We’re friends with every family here cus we all go to that damn community garden thing. Megan gets along with all of them, even that new carpenter down the street. She baked him some cookies cus she was worried he wouldn’t have any friends, ha, she told him to go to the garden cus she though he’d get along with the large guy. What’s his name? Jack? He was over the freakin’ moon when he fixed up our neighbours house and she brought them out with a little card she’d made.

Sorola: New carpenter? Are you talking about Haywood?

Pottsman: Hmm? Yeah, him. Stand up bloke. You don’t think it was him, do you? Oh god, Megan told him to hang around with the other kids.

Sorola: No, we don’t believe he is involved. His alibi is airtight. He is accounted for outside his home at the time Megan disappeared. We currently have no suspects, which is why we’re talking to you.

Pottsman: So you do think I did it!

Sorola: Please, we’ve been over this.    

Pottsman: I - I… okay. No, okay. I’m sorry. My nerves are just - it’s been a long few hours. I’ve smoked a pack. A whole pack, can you believe it? I haven’t smoked in years, and now I can’t sit still without something between my damn fingers.  

Sorola: It’s perfectly normal to revert into old habits when you’re nervous.

Pottsman: Nervous? No, no the claw marks on my neighbour’s porch that’ve now turned up on mine make me nervous. The snow and that bleedin’ livestock massacre that’s going on either side of my home makes me nervous. But my daughter being missing? I’m fucking terrified. I’m so scared I can’t see straight. I just - I can’t. Everytime I close my eyes I can hear that damn knocking. I should have gotten the door. Jumped that fucking railing so Meg didn’t have to open it. It should’ve been me. Oh god, it should’ve been me.

“Hey Michael,” you call over your shoulder, fanning out the photos of the tiny body covered in blood and curled in the snow. “I think I’ve found another one.”

His head pops up over the stack of files he’s working through, eyes encased in growing bags. Sat cross legged in the evidence locker, he’d long since abandoned the confines of a desk. “What’s the date?”

“She was found on the 17th of December in 2015.”

He whistles, glancing down to the timeline at his feet and following the numbers with his finger. “Got it! Gimme a name.”

“Megan Pottsman,” you read off, peering at a shot of her on a medical table. Body bloated, skin crossed with blues and bruises.

“She’s an early one.”

“She’s the 3rd we’ve found in 2015,” you murmur, bringing the photo you hold closer. “Happened before Jeremy moved here, too. He arrived in 2016, I think? This victim was put down as a bear attack.”

Michael perks up, shuffling over to you and sifting through the file. He stops on one of the same set of photos you’re trying to make sense of, lost in the line carving across skin. “Doesn’t look like a bear.”

“Bears rarely attack people, too,” you add. “Get this: her dad said in an interview that she went out with someone that knocked on the door. He thought it was a friend, and look at the lacerations. They’re not quite like the ones on the victims we’ve got, by they’re a damn lot closer to the markings on entryways of Pottsman’s home and the neighbours.”

“You’re right!” Michael exclaims, “this is the third body with similar markings. And his testimony puts the knocking and the scratches in the same timeframe as the missing person.”

“Is there a photo of her from behind?” you ask, rifling through the contents, urged on by the burn smouldering at the base of your skull. Irritation thick around your throat. It takes a moment for you to find, but eventually the gloss of the image you’re searching for sticks to your fingers.

“Here,” says Michael, plucking the picture from your hand and lining it up with the other 2 photos of the 2015 victims, all presenting their necks.

Drawing closer it gets harder to breathe. With an uncomfortable constricting sensation that tightens your throat - of which you blatantly try to ignore -  you take in the wounds. It’s not hard to recognise them anymore. The tell tale signs are obvious after having witnessed them so many times. The slightly blacked curl of the incision located at the base of the skull. The raw irritation circling the neck. Sure, their skulls hadn’t been removed like the later victims, but they matched the earliest cases you had, clumsy as the wounds may be.

“This is fantastic. That ties our killer to the body!”

Michael doesn’t even question you with a funny look, equally excited. “Perfect in the worst possible way, but absolutely awesome. We’ve finally got an undeniable link between the Widow ghost story knocking bullshit and the killer. Meaning analysing the scratches on doorways and comparing them to the body lacerations will help with determining the murder weapon!”

You’re nodding, compiling the evidence into a seperate box and pointing to Michael with a determined finger. “You got Jackie’s number?”

He rockets into standing. “You bet your ass I do!”

“Then call her, damn it. With this information she’ll be able to confirm the correlation between the new victims and the scratches, prove that we should be looking into the possibility of a copycat killer for the Widow of the Woods. We’ll finally prove to Jeremy that he’s a fucking idiot for not listening! We can do this.”

“We can fucking do this!”

“I’m absolutely exhausted! I’m going home.”

“Me too!”

“Nope,” you reject, beaming at him and handing over the box, “you’re going to face the beast.”

“How dare you call Jackie a beast?”

“Jackie? Hell no. I’m talking about Jeremy. You can tell him he’s wrong, I value my life.”

-

The walk home is everything you could have asked for. Cold enough for the wind to nip at the skin lining your cheeks, to gnaw on your nose until it’s red raw; but warm enough in the burrow of your clothing. And isolated enough to gather your thoughts into something you can almost excuse for a pile.

Because as the snow starts to dance, the streets clear. Families giggling with eager children into shelter, doors closing with audible snaps and warm orange light flooding from the windows. Even the distant figure of Ryan, of who you raise a hand to wave to as he sits stagnant on his front porch watching the white caught on the wind, stands to head inside. You don’t blame him. Continuing past until the store disappears behind you.

It’s quiet, which is nice. A welcome change to the mayhem that’s been inhabiting your mind so frequently. Chaos causing havoc and a constant stream of uncontrollable chatter. Hands buried deep in your pockets, it’s with every turn of your charmed stones that you realise just why it’s been so loud inside you head. Why you haven’t tried to instate some silence.

Because, if you had, you’d remember her.

Which, honestly, isn’t ideal with an open serial homicide case running rampant through your priorities.

And again, now that you’ve mentioned honesty to yourself, you can’t avoid the reason why you’re so frustrated with Jeremy. Why you want to take him by the shoulders and shake, desperate to hear the rattle of common sense. Of a failure you’ve both shared, and the experience you seem to have taken away while he’s remained as stubborn as ever. If he keeps going the way he is, refusing to explore a potential lead because it seems implausible, or silly, or pointless, someone else is going to die.

The crunching of snow beneath your boots works wonders, sound enough to ease the panic bubbling just below the surface. Every few steps draws in a deep, freezing breathe. Calm with every recount of ‘left foot, right foot, repeat’. Doused in the glow of happy homes and flanked by snow banks, it all starts to make sense. There’s an uncomfortably misplaced relief at the prospect of connecting the things you knew to be related all along, the links between the scratches, knocking, and missing children now so solid that people can’t ignore it.

So solid that you can’t question your sanity anymore, because the evidence is clear as day. Paranormal or otherwise. The Widow of the Woods, or the story at least, had a role to play. Of that you were sure.

The lodge comes into view after a few more minutes of quiet walking, nothing but the wind accompanying its breech above the snow. Through the windows comes the compassionate glow of Lauren’s summertime; of warmth and comfort and family as she spins in Trevor’s arms, the pair laughing and dancing in the firelight. The hum of music trembling into the snow. Wrapped in the intoxication of togetherness, of the overwhelming love they have for one another - that same love that greets you at the door as you ease off your shoes and unravel from your layers.  

But you don’t bother them, not yet, anyway. Instead watching them claim the living room as a dancefloor, Lauren’s sunshine caught in Trevor’s gaze that looks as though he can’t thank the stars enough for the beauty he holds in his hands. Can’t tell the woman with shining cheeks and a smile that brightens the room just how wonderful she is. How she glows whenever he so much as throws her a glance, or fractures into rays of gold when he smiles. Her happiness so warm and inviting that it throbs around her body, casting those she loves in her own light. And as he looks at her now, it’s like words won’t be enough.

That nothing will be, which is why he’ll never stop trying.

[blueskiesandnewskies]

Just what is Celebrate Recovery?

Celebrate Recovery (CR) is a biblical and balanced program that helps us overcome our hurts, hang-ups, and habits.  It is based on the actual words of Jesus rather than psychological theory.  20 years ago, Saddleback Church launched Celebrate Recovery with 43 people. It was designed as a program to help those struggling with hurts, habits and hang-ups by showing them the loving power of Jesus Christ through a recovery process.  Celebrate Recovery has helped more than 17000 people at Saddleback alone. And is now in over 19,000 churches worldwide! **I urge you to check it out. Find a Celebrate Recovery near you and attend at least 3 times before you make up your mind about whether or not it will work for you. I figured I had nothing to loose when I first went. And now a word from the best selling author Rick Warren of "The Purpose Driven Life" and pastor of Saddleback Church in Lake Forest, CA. "The Bible clearly states “all have sinned.” It is my nature to sin, and it is yours too. None of us is untainted. Because of sin, we’ve all hurt ourselves, we’ve all hurt other people, and others have hurt us. This means each of us need repentance and recovery in order to live our lives the way God intended.You’ve undoubtedly heard the expression that “time heals all wounds.” Unfortunately, it isn’t true. As a pastor I frequently talk with people who are still carrying hurts from 30 or 40 years ago. The truth is – time often makes things worse. Wounds that are left untended fester and spread infection throughout your entire body. Time only extends the pain if the problem isn’t dealt with.What we need is a biblical and balanced program to help people overcome their hurts, habits and hang-ups. Celebrate Recovery is that program. Based on the actual words of Jesus rather than psychological theory, our recovery program is unique, and more effective in helping people change than anything else I’ve seen or heard of. Over the years I’ve witnessed how the Holy Spirit has used this program to transform literally thousands of lives at Saddleback Church and help people grow toward full Christlike maturity.Most people are familiar with the classic 12 step program of A.A. and other groups. While undoubtedly many lives have been helped through the twelve steps, I’ve always been uncomfortable with that program’s vagueness about the nature of God, the saving power of Jesus Christ, and the ministry of the Holy Spirit. So I began an intense study of the Scriptures to discover what God had to say about “recovery.” To my amazement, I found the principles of recovery, and even their logical order, given by Christ in his most famous message, the Sermon on the Mount.My study resulted in a ten-week series of messages called “The Road to Recovery.” During that series, my Associate Pastor John Baker developed the workbooks, which became the heart of our Celebrate Recovery program. I believe that this program is unlike any recovery program you may have seen. There are seven features that make it unique:This recovery program is based on God’s Word, the Bible. When Jesus taught the Sermon on the Mount, he began by stating “Eight Ways to Be Happy.” Today we call them the Beatitudes. From a conventional viewpoint, most of these statements didn’t make sense. They sounded like contradictions. But when you fully understand what Jesus is saying, you’ll realize that these eight principles are God’s road to recovery, wholeness, growth, and spiritual maturity.This recovery program is forward-looking. Rather than wallowing in the past, or dredging up and rehearsing painful memories over and over, Celebrate Recovery focuses on the future. Regardless of what has already happened, the solution is to start making wise choices now and depend on Christ’s power to help me make those changes.This recovery program emphasizes personal responsibility. Instead of playing the “accuse and excuse” game of victimization, this program helps people face up to their own poor choices and deal with what they can do something about. We cannot control all that happens to us. But we can control how we respond to everything. That is a secret of happiness. When we stop wasting time fixing the blame, we have more energy to fix the problem. When you stop hiding your own faults and stop hurling accusations at others, then the healing power of Christ can begin working in your mind, will, and emotions.This recovery program emphasized spiritual commitment to Jesus Christ. The 3rd principle calls for people to make a total surrender of their lives to Christ. Lasting recovery cannot happen without this step. Everybody needs Jesus. Celebrate Recovery is thoroughly evangelistic in nature. In fact, the first time I took our entire church through this program over 500 people prayed to receive Christ on a single weekend. It was an amazing spiritual harvest. And during the ten week series that I preached to kick-off this program, our attendance grew by over 1,500 people! Don’t be surprised if this program becomes the most effective outreach ministry in your church. Today, nearly 73% of the people who’ve been through Celebrate Recovery have come from outside our church. Changed lives always attract others who want to be changed.This recovery program utilizes the biblical truth that we need each other in order to grow spiritually and emotionally. It is built around small group interaction and the fellowship of a caring community. There are many therapies, growth programs, and counselors today that are built around one-on-one interaction. But Celebrate Recovery is built on the New Testament principle that we don’t get well by ourselves. We need each other. Fellowship and accountability are two important components of spiritual growth. If your church is interested in starting small groups, this is a great way to get started.This recovery program addresses all types of habits, hurts and hang-ups. Some recovery programs deal only with alcohol or drugs or another single problem. But Celebrate Recovery is a “large umbrella” program under which a limitless number of issues can be dealt with. At Saddleback Church, only one out of three who attend Celebrate Recovery are dealing with alcohol or drugs. We have dozens of other specialized groups too.Finally, this recovery program produces lay ministers! Because Celebrate Recovery is biblical and church-based, it produces a continuous stream of people moving into ministry after they’ve found recovery in Christ. Eighty-five percent of the people who’ve gone through the program are now active members of Saddleback Church, and an amazing 42% are now using their gifts and talents serving the Lord in some capacity in our church.In closing, let me say that the size of your church is no barrier to beginning a Celebrate Recovery ministry. You can start it with just a small group of people and watch it grow by word-of-mouth. Your won’t be able to keep it a secret for long!You are going to see lives changed in dramatic ways. You are going to see hopeless marriages restored and people set free from all kinds of sinful habits, hang-ups, and hurts as they allow Jesus to be Lord in every area of their lives. To God be the glory! We’ll be praying for you."

http://www.celebraterecovery.com/

[papermoth-bird-blog]

Red, Blues & the Greyhound bus to Nashville

Most people, when I said I was going to take the bus between my stops, gave me a very strange strange look. As if to say “why would you subject yourself to that?” or “I’m worried about you.” I have no regrets though. Truly, I set out to get an authentic understanding about what is going on in the American south right now, and let me tell you, I certainly have been learning a lot. Now, of course, in all my stops I’ve landed in blue cities in Red States, so I’ve felt quite sheltered for the most part. But there is no way better to learn, then riding the bus.

Now leaving New Orleans was difficult, I’ll tell you. Not just because I had such a great time there, but because my new friends were literally getting ready for the WITCHES BALL as I was packing up my bag. It was like the city was dangling the carrot begging me to stay. On top of that- Will Smith showed up and played the preservation hall. I mean--- New Orleans just has to stop flirting with me. It’s too much. As a matter of fact, it was like the city was holding on to me. My bus was supposed to leave at 9:30 pm, but it ended up leaving half past midnight. I didn’t mind, I knew the bus wasn’t going to glamorous or fun persay. I wanted to see the landscape/ people-scape change as I moved through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama & Tennessee. It was palatable too.

I mean, I don’t know if other places are like this, but from my time on bus’ in Canada, I’ve never been made to get off before. Here you do- At every. single. stop. Which is tedious to say the least. My ticket originally said I just had stop in Mobile, Alabama, for an hour. As it turned out, we actually had an hour long stop in Mobile, Montegomery, Birimgham (maybe another one too?). Each time we stopped for a while, the bus would be emptied out & cleaned from top to bottom. I which is nice, but how messy could they possibly get in two hours?The stop in Mobile ended up being more like 5 hours- because we missed the connecting bus. I didn’t really mind (I mean, I sighed up for it & all I could do was go with it, being negative wouldn’t change the situation & I wasn’t even tempted to be).

Most people were grumpy though, if I’m being honest. Those poor greyhound people, I think every person going through those terminals, particularly in Alabama, was swearing and cursing those greyhound staff. They were grumpy about all kinds of stuff- but mostly because of that missed connection. 

There really were ‘all-kinds’ on that bus. Joining up in New Orleans, there was a whole group (of maybe 20) parents & children coming into the country (via Texas) for the first time. In Nola, a man and a woman, rushed towards them, handing out supplies & fruit & a manner of many other small items. It was clear they were migrating because they all had the same lime green totes, with the name of a charity that helps with these things printed on them. We parted ways in Montgomery, where many of them continued on to Atlanta or Florida. 

In Birmingham, I mostly occupied my time with watching videos Eli was sending me about Tulum. (Which I think is growing on me as a destination). I made small talk with a guy next to me who (I didn’t realize until later) was wearing a shirt with a confederate flag on it, that said something like “never apologize for your past”. He asked me where I was coming from and where i was going & I told him. In regards to Nashville, he said “Oh, yeah I like it up there. They are a lot more polite than in places like down here.” He also told me he’d always wanted to go to Canada, but couldn’t (he learned at the boarder one time) “on account of my convictions”- which turned out to be 3rd degree assault & battery. I didn’t really ask more questions. 

Maybe it was a fluke, maybe not, but I also found the amount of people wearing the colour red was super unusually numerous. Like everyone, white people, people of colour, old, young. Maybe it’s a style choice, but I definitely noticed it in Birmingham. Our stop in Birmingham also ended up being a lot longer than we initally thought it would be because the police wouldn’t let our bus leave. They picked out a couple of white guys in the back (who had been with me since Mobile) who were both wearing red shirts & grey hoodies (my co-incidence, I dont think they knew eachother). They were both asked to leave the bus, where they were searched for weapons. When they got back on, they were both making a fuss, saying that the cops were trying to figure out if they were “in the brotherhood” or not. The brotherhood, of course, being the Klu Klux Klan. Which made me both uncomfortable & way more aware. I mean, I was one of the only white people on the bus (definitely the only white woman on the whole trip), and if it made me uncomfortable, I can’t imagine what it would have felt like otherwise. The bus driver, who was a black woman, then got up to warn us that she would have “no tolerence for any kind of nonesense” and that she would kick anyone off if she felt any trouble from them. It had me kind of on edge, but it turned out fine.

I did sleep for the most part. I mean, it was a night bus anyways, but I didn’t feel like anyone else was feeling super chatty. (okay, that may be a lie. A guy that was on his way to rehab in Colombus kept offering me peanut butter sandwhiches. Actually, he was one of the people accused of being in the KKK. Maybe it was me that wasn’t feeling chatty- I was doing my best to observe.) In Huntsville, a young man came and sat next to me. His speech was super slurry, and I couldn’t easily understand him. He did keep making conversation with me. Then he started crying. The whole way to Nashville. He was messaging back & forth with a girl, who clearly broke his heart in someway. As if sitting next to a crying, stranger wasn’t awkward enough. He couldn’t read that well, so he kept turning to me ASKING ME TO READ THE MESSAGES to him. Which of course, would make him burst out into tears all over again. Texts including “N ya. that’s y I dnt wanna b wit u” & “I do got luv for u. Just nt as a couple”. He then kept voice memo-ing her stuff including “That’s fucked up!” over and over again. It started to feel like I was breaking up with this guy. This strange, strange, socially awkward person. I try not to pity people, because I think that is a sentiment that can be disempowering for the subject. Not going to lie tho, I felt a lot of pity for that guy. Honestly, I felt a lot of relief too, when we finally got to Nashville.

I haven’t explored too much yet- I mean- It’s 8am on the morning after my bus rolled in (a good 7hrs after it said it would). I did wander just a little to find Two Boots pizza-which was relatively near by. Two Boots is the pizza chain that Leon (Asa’s cousin) family owns. It’s a cajun, pizza place- the two boots being Louisiana & Italy. So I got a calzone & tried not to feel sad about the fact that I wasn’t in New Orleans anymore. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I have a good feeling about Nashville. Definitely crush worthy too. The mountains that hug this city were beautiful to watch with the setting sun. I do feel a sense of land-locked-ness, which I wasn’t necessarily expecting, but I think that’s my spoiled east-coast girl showing. Nashville has a really good energy about it. Bubbly, a little hooky for sure, but friendly as ever. I already feel much more comfortable walking around at night here.  I’m gonna do my best to get my country music fix here- I can tell it won’t be hard- there are honky-tonks everywhere.

[driftwork]

A station where life ended (3,4 of 6)

3.[Defense lawyers]: Not long after the police arrive at the police station we received a call  - A client has just called and asked for a lawyer to take a case, please go to Mugeyeong police station. What is the case ? we asked,  I don't know the details,  an important client has been arrested and is at the police station.  It involved some people dying, that was all they knew. She is very important.   The inside of the police station is mostly painted in municipal grey and with the pale blue that the police seem to prefer. The section of the floor she was being held in is an open plan office with three sets of desks arranged in groups of 7,  the dividers are a soft grey colour with white boards strategically arranged. each desk having one or two monitors, with tough laptops or low profile desktop computers. Photons flood the room from led lights set into the ceiling, some of the desks have additional desk lamps, strip lighting or angle-poise lamps. There is the low humming from the air heat exchange unit.  The detectives on the floor are dressed in various styles of business casual clothing, shirts, tee shirts, jeans, trousers, trainers or boots. Its 2/3rds men and 1/3rd women. There are a few officers dressed in the local police uniforms.  She is escorted onto the floor and passed over to the duty inspector who in turn hands her over to Detective Inspector Ross. It's sometime after nine when we arrive, when its an important client we always travel in pairs, in this case myself and my assistant. Detective Inspector Ross was waiting for us at his desk, situated at the end of the third row of desks.  Ross had interrogated  thousands of people over the years and was  extremely effective  at interviewing suspects and extracting confessions from them. He was meeting a wall of patient silence. He was just back from holiday and was already wishing he'd taken a few extra days off to avoid this case.  There is a tendency for interrogators to shout and browbeat  suspects/witnesses who are too silent, in this case Ross had taken one look at the CCTV footage and knew there was no advantage in using aggression. He judged that it might even be dangerous. It took about fifteen minutes for us to get through to the room where they were keeping her.  She had not said a word, hadn’t even looked interested. They tried various european languages, then mandarin, korean, and finally  japanese, she had smiled at their bad pronunciation. They had taken photographs,  fingerprints, checked her wallet and bag. She had refused to take off or unzip her jacket. They were trying to find her details so that they could log the crime, identifying her as either a victim or an aggressor. In the outer office there had been a steady stream of police viewing the CCTV recordings: "Christ, look at that, how did she do that ?" was the immediate response. The video was copied onto PC’s and IPADs and eventually uploaded where it stayed for half a week before vanishing. The accountant and a few other witnesses were interviewed which established that the three men had threatened and attacked her after verbally threatening and abusing the woman further down the platform [...] DI Ross was unusually pleased to see us,  the police normally prefer to interrogate people without our presence, but to our surprise, he said “We are getting  absolutely nowhere, she is simply refusing to cooperate. Perhaps she will speak now you are here"  We went into the dark green painted interrogation room and tried to speak with her,  she thanked us for attending but said nothing except for....  "I haven't eaten since lunch, is it possible, for me to have something to eat, perhaps some tea and water ?". My assistant went down to the canteen on the ground floor and came back with a couple of sandwiches, chicken and bacon and a cheese sandwich, a cup of tea and a bottle of water. She scraped the mayo off the chicken and bacon sandwich. She wolfed the sandwiches down in a predatory fashion. "I was starving" she said sipping her tea as  Ross returned with his Sergeant and tried to question her again, whilst we sat beside her. This continued throughout the night.  A trace of a smile appeared on her face at around 5 AM. She asked for water when the Sergeant went out for drinks. We went and sat in Ross's office drinking coffee from the star buck's next door that had opened at 6AM.  We watched the video a few more times. She asked for a breakfast sandwich.

4.I said, we said, to Ross that it was a classic case of self defense. "True, but something about her is wrong. She is obviously waiting for something but what ?" I agree, I said, but you have no possibility of holding her. If she starts speaking about it, it may get even worse. "We have two dead men and a man in a coma, I would like to charge with manslaughter."  But it was clearly self-defense, we have witnesses and video to prove it. Nobody would charge her and expect a conviction. This was the core of our discussion about the event and continued all night. At seven AM Ross phoned his Detective Chief Superintendent, who begrudgingly came to the station on the way to his office. We all sat down in the glass walled meeting room around the table at around eight AM. He read the testimony of the witnesses three of four times. Then watched the video from where the three men entered the station to when the police arrived. He watched the fight sequence half a dozen times. "That is one dangerous woman." He told the technical sergeant to turn it off and looked at us expectantly."I'd like to hold her with a view to arresting her for manslaughter, failing that,  failing that excessive violent defense. The excess being the knife in the man's chest and the two punches in his throat and the kicks..."  Ross said."Go ahead" he said looking at me and my assistant. "That is insane,  she was assaulted by a man with a knife, another with a baseball bat and... so of course she is allowed to defend herself. DI Ross knows that he cannot possibly believe that with this evidence he could take this case to a jury.""Ross, Have you been able to establish her name ?""Not yet,  she won't speak""And I cannot tell you who she is, as I have been asked not to. I can supply details of the client through the office which contacted us. It's ten, eleven hours since she was brought here. There is no chance of any successful prosecution."(I had no idea who she was and only found out later) "...Nor is the accused obliged to identify herself, she after all has done nothing illegal or wrong. Nor has she been cautioned. So she is allowed, encouraged to remain silent.""Is there any known relationship between the victims and the woman ?""We don't have any information about that" Ross said."Do we  have anything about her from our files ? fingerprints, dna etc. Is there evidence of any crimes ?"”Nothing at all. There are no records. If we arrest her, then we may find other things ...”“A charge that there is no chance of successfully prosecuting...” I Interjected.Ross groaned. To the DCS's visible amusement. "The complete autopsy reports have not been delivered...."The DCS looked cynically at him - "Well the two dead men certainly did not die of heart attacks or old age." The DCS grunted as he looked at the paperwork again, he told the Duty Sergeant to go and fetch her.  She came in carrying a bottle of water that she collected on the way from the interview room. I could see her scanning the open plan office as she walked towards the meeting room.  We talked and exchanged a few more views, more or less repeating what we had said  when she wasn't there. We repeated the conversation just so that she knew what we were talking and thinking about. She sat facing the door and looking out of the room into the station towards the exit. She was looking pale and tired. Sergeant Taylor came into the room carrying a breakfast roll, a drinking yogurt and an orange juice. She handed it to the woman. She nodded her thanks and started to eat the roll. It was now after 9am, the morning shift was arriving,  people looked with interest at the room, understandably curious at what was going on. She was looking with interest at us speaking. She looked as if she wanted to join in the discussion but wisely kept silent. The DCS asked her a few questions which she did not reply to. He told her that he thought she was very irritating. She looked like she wanted to smile at him."O.K. In fact I think your grasping at straws, Ross. I have heard enough." He stretched back into his chair. " The issue of self-defense is pretty clear, if someone is attacked with a knife  and a baseball bat, a person is allowed to defend themselves so that the attack is ended. There is no way the prosecution people could win this case."He looked between the four of us before facing her.  "Ross is right it is an unusual case. I think the calmness with which which you faced the attackers/and/victims alarming. But I do not think that excessive violence was used. Which is also demonstrated that the third man will be prosecuted when we can do so..." He paused and looked at Ross who shrugged." Your request for an arrest warrant is refused. The witness/accused is to be released." The sergeant began to prepare the discharge paperwork.  Ross was about to answer when she suddenly smiled. Beamed, the tiredness flickering away. She was looking past him across the room, what she was waiting for arriving. "They have come for me..."The DCS turned and looked at the man who he recognized and his Sergeant who were walking across the room."Is that who you mean ?" "yes, and that's his DI/Sergeant..." The five of us watched them walk across the room, the duty Inspector intercepts them to say good morning.

[junker-town]

NFL Dad: Watching Week 2 with sick kids and a barfing dog

Every week, one intrepid dad watches RedZone with two young children in his apartment. This week: broken bones, a fever, and dog vomit — many of which are metaphors.

My daughter broke her clavicle last week. It’s a common injury for young children, not just Tony Romo. She fell out of a chair a few minutes before we had to leave for her second day of preschool, and I didn’t think it was a serious injury at the time. “We have to go! Can’t miss the second day of school!” was my thinking. I should be an NFL team doctor.

So she’s in a sling for Week 2 of the NFL season (and for the next four weeks) while my son happily toddles around the house. Just kidding! My son is battling a 102-degree fever and an ear infection. Ha HA! Let’s watch some football!

EARLY GAMES, FIRST HALF

— In Pittsburgh, Sam Bradford is a late scratch due to his knee rejecting last week’s touchdown implant. Case Keenum will start, and if I had a bookie I would put my salary on the Steelers today. Instead, I move Adam Thielen to the bench on all three of my fantasy teams.

— I make five picks against the spread every week for Team OddsShark in the Las Vegas SuperContest. After a disappointing Week 1 (1-3-1), my picks this week are the Eagles +5.5 at the Chiefs, the Bucs -7 versus the Bears, the Broncos +2.5 versus the Cowboys, the Seahawks -14 versus the Niners, and the Lions +3.5 at the Giants.

I’m not sharing these picks publicly so that I can be held accountable as some kind of “expert.” It’s more to explain my rooting interests as the day goes on.

— The Pats score the RedZone Channel’s first touchdown of the day when Tom Brady lofts a pass for Rex Burkhead, capping a 10-play, 75-yard drive. It’s gonna be a long game for the Saints.

Hey, remember when the Saints were awesome at home? Now it’s just a place for them to score lots of points in a loss. The Patriots miss the extra point. I’m not too concerned about it affecting the outcome of the game.

— Not that I’m looking for silver linings, but my daughter is the ideal kid for convalescence. She’s enamored with books, and her linguistic learning is superior to her physical development. The day after her injury, she spent four straight hours on the couch, just sweating through the pain while my wife read her dozens of books.

Eventually, my wife cued up an episode of Sesame Street for her, which is a big deal since the only TV my kids usually see is whatever football they can absorb on Sundays. I didn’t think she retained any of that episode until this morning, when she picked up the menu from a local donut joint, held it up to her face, and went, “OM NOM NOM NOM NOM.” Cookie Monster has staying power.

— The Saints kick a field goal to cut the Pats’ lead in half. An Eagles drive stalls in the red zone and they settle for a field goal. Lots of field goals early. TOO many. I DEMAND TEEDERS IN MY PEEPERS.

— While Rob Gronkowski hauls in a 53-yard touchdown, my daughter is sitting next to me with her own keyboard. She knows the alphabet song and recognizes the letters in her name, but putting them together to make words is still in the distance.

I adjust the font on my notes document to a much larger size and type out her name and her brother’s name, saying the letters aloud as I type them. “Now Mommy,” she says. I type MOMMY. “Now Daddy.” I type DADDY. She says aloud the names of friends who’ve visited recently, and they get added in 48-point font.

All movie dialog for credulous aliens is written by someone with a toddler.

I highlight different names and quiz her: “Who’s this?” I say. She gets most of them wrong, but is fascinated by the highlighting, which she calls “blue tape.” This is one of my favorite things of living with someone with a solid base of English but almost no context for the world: highlighting is blue tape, Aaron Rodgers is the Yellow Man, and jerseys are “number shirts.” All movie dialog for credulous aliens is written by someone with a toddler.

— Tom Brady throws a touchdown to Chris Hogan on an illegal pick play that is so obvious, even your dimwitted, distracted columnist sees it. The referees pick up the flag, though, and Brady has his third touchdown of the first quarter.

Tom Brady has now thrown touchdowns to three different white guys.

— Matt Ufford (@mattufford) September 17, 2017

I’m loathe to be one of those writers who embeds his own tweets into his column, yet here I am. The response to the above tweet got every kind of reaction imaginable in America in 2017. There were genuine #MAGA responses, ironic #MAGA responses, people jokingly calling Brady racist, people accusing ME of calling Brady racist, people who pointed out that the feat was accomplished without Danny Amendola and Julian Edelman in the lineup, and people who were mad online that this was the “analysis” I had to offer.

Three thoughts on this:

If you have a visceral reaction to Tom Brady throwing touchdowns to white guys, I strongly recommend amending your worldview.

Really, I just felt bad for people who have Brandin Cooks in fantasy.

Twitter remains a cesspit of humanity.

— Joe Flacco’s arm-punt pins the Browns deep in their own territory. It’s impressive work: the pass is overthrown into double coverage. He sucks so hard.

God, that feels so good to type. Not a joke about whether he’s elite, just “Joe Flacco sucks and the Baltimore offense is eye poison.” Yeah, yeah, he had one good playoff run that led to a Super Bowl win. That makes him half as good as Eli Manning, and that dude sucks too.

— Drew Brees throws a short touchdown to ... Coleman? Who is Coleman? DAMMIT, BREES. Why must you always spread the ball to thirteen different receivers? Just run up the stats with Michael Thomas and Coby Fleener like a NORMAL elite quarterback would, you pyramid-scheming pygmy.

My theory: Brees has been in the league for so long that he’s like an adrenaline junkie who should have died in a stupid stunt years ago. “I CAN’T FEEL ANYTHING UNLESS THE RESERVE FULLBACK SCORES.” The next time RedZone clicks over to the Saints offense, Brees targets Ted Ginn on an end zone fade on third down. (Do I even need to tell you the pass is broken up?) THE MAN IS PERVERSE.

— Mike Glennon, previously seen fumbling the ball to his former team, throws a pick-six to put the Bucs up 24-0. I have closed the book on “Mike Glennon Revenge Game” and opened a file for “Mike Glennon, Buccaneer Sleeper Agent.”

— A dry affair in Kansas City spring to life: a Darren Sproles fumble leads to a Chiefs field goal just before half, and the Eagles appear unlikely to respond with barely any time on the clock. But Carson Wentz’s long pass down the sideline bounces out of cornerback Terrance Mitchell’s hands and into Zach Ertz’s arms. Ertz sprints into the red zone and gets knocked out of bounds with just enough time to attempt a field goal.

Andy Reid calls timeout, icing Philly’s make. The second attempt sails wide, and the Chiefs enter the half with their lead intact. UGH. I hate it when icing works. If the refs can’t blow the whistle before the snap, the kicking team should choose whether the kick counts. What’s one more bad rule in the NFL’s thousand-page refereeing handbook?

— “I falled off a chair.” That’s how my daughter describes her injury, but it’s also a nice metaphor for the first 90 or so minutes of hot, wet garbage on RedZone. Three of eight games have zero touchdowns at the half: KC leads Philly 6-3, the Titans have the same lead in Jacksonville, and the Panthers are up 6-0 at home over the Bills. HOLD ON, FELLAS. Save some of this dogshit football for Thursday night!

SECOND HALF, EARLY GAMES

— Blake Bortles throws an interception, his third turnover. The Bortling is upon us! #PoopinBortles

— The Vikings attempt a fake punt — with their punter throwing — from their own 35. And what are they supposed to do? Hope that Case Keenum wins the game for them?

The Marine Corps instilled in me some adages about hope that I believe in to this day, even as I grow soft and old. One is “Hope is not a course of action,” which is something judgmental captains usually tsk-ed at lieutenants whose plans that didn’t account for every possible outcome. But my preferred saying is “Hope in one hand, shit in the other, and see which one fills up first.”

Anyway, good on Mike Zimmer for not going quietly into the Case Keenum night.

— In Jacksonville, Derrick Henry thumps it in from 17 yards out for a 16-3 lead, and the Jags have no chance to get back in this game unless they score two defensive touchdowns

— Dalvin Cook scores 26 yards out, but he’s ruled down at the half-yard-line upon review. Fullback C.J. Ham vultures the touchdown. ZIMMER!!! I regret saying anything nice about you! Go shit in your hand, you fake-punting turd.

— Chris Hogan comes up two yards short on 3rd and 9, and the Pats kick a field goal out of politeness. It’s not like the Saints were gonna stop a 4th-and-two. This one’s over.

— Hey, the Bears are in the red zone! Down 29-0, they’re the only team with no points yet today. We join them on 2nd and 10:

Josh Bellamy immediately drops a pass. The announcers note that it’s his second drop of the drive.

Kendall Wright drops a pass on 3rd and 10.

The Bears go for it on 4th:

Mike Glennon throws a five-yard crossing route to a covered receiver on a fourth-and-10 down 29 points in the fourth quarter. It didn’t work

— Bill Barnwell (@billbarnwell) September 17, 2017

This concludes Chicago Bears RedZone Theater. There will be no refunds.

— A Carson Wentz pass deflects off a helmet and gets intercepted, setting up KC with a short field. One of the things Bill Barnwell and I talked about on his podcast while previewing Week 2 was that Wentz’s tendency to make difficult, highlight-worthy plays masks his inaccuracy on garden-variety throws for an NFL starter. This would be a good example of that.

Kansas City will turn that possession into seven points, with Travis Kelce taking a shovel pass and leaping a defender to score a touchdown pass.

.@TKelce just jumped 5 yard line... And landed in the END ZONE. WOWOWOWOWOW. #ChiefsKingdom #PHIvsKC http://pic.twitter.com/TasZHdfqNS

— NFL (@NFL) September 17, 2017

This is a lot more like the Alex Smith touchdown pass I’m used to than the ones he threw in New England in Week 1.

The Chiefs now lead by seven with the fourth quarter more than half gone, and I’m certain my bet of Eagles +5.5 is hopeless: they’re too hapless on offense to score a touchdown, and they’ll forego any chance of a field goal that would earn them a cover. Woe is me, the first person to know less about football than Vegas bookmakers.

— My daughter (or as my wife calls her, “f***ing FDR in bed over there”) has a severe Rear Window vibe going. Since breaking her collarbone, she has:

worn pajamas all day on Friday;

worn sweatpants all day on Saturday;

only changed out of pajamas after noon today.

And yes, I stand by my reference to a 1954 film rather than acknowledge her very obvious predisposition to follow in her father’s blogging buttsteps.

— I have a lot of notes for the stuff that happens in the Bills-Panthers and Cards-Colts games, but zero inclination to give give them any kind of context or analysis. Oh, J.J. Nelson caught a long pass against Indianapolis? ALERT REUTERS, THE FANTASY OWNERS MUST KNOW.

— My son wakes up after 3-hour nap. He immediately starts housing the macaroni and cheese he was too tired to eat at lunch. After shoving three forkfuls into his mouth, he lets his jaw hang slack, and the pasta tumbles out of his mouth and into the catch of his bib. He switches to the cold pouch of vegetables and fruit.

When we only had one kid, the pre-made pouches were an issue for my wife and me — too much cost, too much waste. We blended up organic concoctions like beets and raspberries for my daughter. But two kids? POUCHES AHOY! I have 12 minutes a week to myself, I’m not spending it making hipster baby food.

Even in small doses, the Browns are too sad for my tastes. And I like Bon Iver.

— The Browns, despite getting meaningful snaps from Kevin Hogan while DeShone Kizer was sidelined earlier by a migraine (surely not football-related!), have the ball in the red zone and the chance to make it 24-17 with more than 11 minutes left. Kizer, though, throws a pick in end zone.

I root for the Browns for approximately five minutes a week while watching RedZone, and it’s STILL too sad for my tastes. And I like Bon Iver.

— The Panthers are up 9-3 (woof) with a minute left, but the Bills are driving. Tyrod Taylor is moving the ball well. The Bills let clock burn instead of using a timeout. On 4th and 11, an open Zay Jones lays out for the catch at the 1-yard line and … drops the ball.

It a brutal way to lose. But also: maybe score more than three points before the final drive?

— Kareem Hunt scores another TD, this one hard-fought in heavy traffic, and that should do it for the Eagles.

bae caught me scorin http://pic.twitter.com/IPSVczIc1N

— SB Nation GIF (@SBNationGIF) September 17, 2017

— My next note is simply “Carson Wentz is trash,” but I no longer remember the context. You’ll have to take me at my word.

I suppose this is unfair to Wentz, who’s only in his second year. But I’m sorry: my notes are my notes, and what I write down while possibly distracted by my children and/or seven other games happening concurrently is etched in stone. The man is ginger cheesesteak feces, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

— Hey! The Bears are on the board with 1:43 left. RED LETTER DAY. Who scored? I don’t know, don’t care, and wouldn’t remember if you told me.

— Bortles TD to Hurns! Garbage time is Bortles time, baby! Use the transitive property!

The greatest QB in NFL history is "Blake Bortles down 27 points."

— Frank Schwab (@YahooSchwab) September 17, 2017

Bortles was 11-of-25 for 89 passing yards the entering 4th quarter. He went 9-of-9 for 134 passing yards in the final period. #Vintage

— Mike Kaye (@mike_e_kaye) September 17, 2017

— The Cards are backed up on their own 12-yard line with just under three minutes left with the game tied 13-13, but a long catch-and-run takes them to almost midfield. They are DEFINITELY winning this unless Carson Palmer can throw a back-breaking pick.

But no, they punt. And Colts can’t do anything either; they punt back. The specter of overtime is terrifying. The NFL shortened OT to 10 minutes this offseason, but the REAL solution is one they’ll be too chickenshit to ever make: let a tied game at the end of regulation just be … a tie. Save overtime for the playoffs, when you actually NEED a winner.

I’m serious. I don’t understand why so many Americans (a) think every sporting contest MUST have a winner, and (b) consider this attitude part of their national identity. Is it because our wars keep going to overtime?

Anyway, another successful kicker icing (UGH) leads to overtime, but thankfully Tyrann Mathieu immediately intercepts Jacoby Brissett, setting up the field goal that ends this horrific game.

— Nelson Agholor’s first catch of the day is a meaningless touchdown with 8 seconds left that pulls the Eagles to 27-20.

But then Philly recovers the onside kick! There’s a chance for the Chiefs to blow a 14-point lead in 8 seconds! This would be EXTREMELY Chiefs-y.

Alas, the Hail Mary is tipped out the back of the end zone. I realize that if the Eagles had made the 30-yard field goal at the end of the first half, they would have covered. (*shakes fist at sky*) GAMMMMMBLINNNNNNNG!

LATE GAMES, FIRST HALF

— Forget Cowboys versus Broncos. Ignore my Seahawks in their home opener. The only thing I care about is Miami-Los Angeles. Dolphins-Chargers. CUTLER VERSUS RIVERS, HELL YES BABY. It’s exactly like Marino versus Fouts, if all their arm talent was transferred to their faces.

The Chargers have failed to fill an MLS stadium that’s half the size of the smallest NFL arena, and ... is there a hot take here? Did we not see Dean Spanos brazenly screw over San Diego to move the Chargers 100 miles north to a city that already didn’t want the LAST team that moved there?

Carson, California has all the charm of the docks, minus the ocean breeze.

Do y’all know where Carson is, by the way? It’s inland from Long Beach, so it has all the charm of the docks, minus the ocean breeze. Its main draw is an IKEA. Remember the exurban factory blight-hole from the second season of “True Detective”? Carson’s not exactly that, but it’s not NOT that, either. No Angeleno is just gonna drop in on the Chargers this season.

— In Oakland, Marshawn Lynch is back doing what he does best: making the most interesting 3-yard carries in the NFL. The man just inflicts pain on a defense. On third-and-one, he bursts through line, breaks a tackle, and picks up 13 yards.

It’s his first game playing for his hometown team in front of his hometown crowd in the last season they’ll play in his hometown. I hope he scores a hundred touchdowns.

But on first-and-goal from 2, Derek Carr throws a fade to Crabtree. He pulls down the jump ball, and the box was stacked against the run, but I’m still sad for Lynch. In the other room, my daughter is crying, and I want it to be about the Raiders’ play-calling.

— There’s not much you can do about a broken collarbone besides put it in a sling and wait for it to heal. But a sling is a choking hazard for kids, so the doctor recommended that we pin my daughter’s pajama sleeve to her belly at night.

This is an excellent technique, if you want your child to sleep in a bed with open safety pins. After two nights of her thrashing her arm free, we let her sleep unrestrained. She chooses to lie on her injured right shoulder. I’m convinced this will deform her.

— FLEA FLICKER! I love flea flickers, even if the defense never bites on them quite the way I wish they would. This one isn’t all that impressive in terms of results, but check out the hustle Lynch puts into pass blocking after he pitches it back to Carr:

Flea-Flicker Alert! #RaiderNation http://pic.twitter.com/rSEx6IYAsw

— NFL (@NFL) September 17, 2017

This is gonna be a Marshawn Lynch propaganda column every week, and I’m not sorry about. I’m more enthusiastic about Beast Mode here than I am about my own children.

— Russell Wilson has converted three third-and-longs and a fourth down on Seattle’s first drive, but the Seahawks stall out a few yards from the end zone. The telecast has already shown a LOT of Pete Carroll working his gum furiously. On third-and-goal, Doug Baldwin swats away what might otherwise have been an interception. Seattle kicks a field goal.

— Emmanuel Sanders scores a touchdown on a ball perfectly lofted past three defenders to put the Broncos up 7-0.

Defenders everywhere. But it doesn't matter. This @TrevorSiemian to @ESanders_10 TD pass... #BroncosCountry http://pic.twitter.com/HOdRWX0Ztj

— NFL (@NFL) September 17, 2017

— I have to care for my son while my wife and daughter go next door to borrow a cup of flour. C.J. Anderson breaks three tackles to explode for a long run. Want more details? Sorry, my son has wandered into the other room, holding the baby monitor to his ear like a phone.

— A Bobby Wagner interception leads to another Seahawks field goal after another Seahawks stall in the red zone. Did Jimmy Graham get an end zone target? No, why would they do that? Wilson DOES throw a third-and-goal pass to Tanner McEvoy, though, who drops the touchdown. And it’s easy to see the Seahawks’ logic: at six-foot-five, McEvoy is shorter than Graham, but also not as good.

almost like tanner mcevoy hasn't caught 20 total passes since he left high school

— Field Gulls (@FieldGulls) September 17, 2017

I’m not one of those fans who roots for coaches to be fired. That’s why I want all of the coaches responsible for Seattle’s offense to be dropped into an active volcano.

— Lots of red at the Coliseum in support of Washingto — wait. No, sorry, those are just empty seats. Lots of empty red seats.

— I will probably never say this enough (in this space or in real life), but my wife is the hero of this column, of Sundays, of my whole life. If you put me in charge of two toddlers for a day, I will throw them bricks of pre-made food until help arrives and I collapse across the finish line.

But here’s my wife, holding our 16-month-old in one arm while she helps my daughter (herself one-armed) make individual pizzas with the other. There are not enough arms for this work. I take my son and put him in my lap while I type.

He’s fussy from being sick, so I hold him in my arms and cuddle him. Washington is up 10-0 and driving at will, but my son is staring into my face from four inches away. I am definitely breathing in his death-virus. His bright blue eyes are light near the pupil, ringed by a royal blue on the outside, like my father’s. He stares and I stare back, lost in the moment. He lets out a low, rippling fart.

— Disregarding petty things like rooting interests and outcomes, Jay Cutler is my favorite player in all of football.

Jay Cutler slinging a Hail Mary 20 yards out of bounds cracked me up http://pic.twitter.com/erbIPVVkQf

— Mike Renner (@PFF_Mike) September 17, 2017

He just gets me.

— Hey, Marshawn Lynch gets an actual carry on first-and-goal! It goes for zero yards. Crap, here come the end zone fades.

But no! Lynch gets the ball on second down, too. He’s hit immediately, and somehow breaks two tackles in the backfield to gain a yard or two.

On third-and-goal, the Raiders hand it to Lynch again, and he bursts up the middle for an easy score. FEED THE BEAST, YOU CRAVEN PASS-HAPPY COSPLAYERS.

— Even though it’s time for dinner and his bath, my son, groggy with exhaustion, goes down for a nap. My daughter rejects her pizza because part of the crust got stuck to the pan. All of her food must be WHOLE. You should’ve seen the tantrum I weathered because I cut her sandwich in half once. You could have seen it; it happened in public.

— Jimmy Graham is helped off the field after an apparent knee injury. On one hand, I’m stricken with concern. On the other is all of the world’s sarcasm, packed more densely than a neutron star. “Well gosh! Now he can’t do all that nothing for the Seahawks offense!”

Luke Willson, next up on the depth chart, immediately gets three targets. By the end of the game, my molars will be smooth like a stone shaped by the ebb and flow of millennia of tides.

— Carlos Hyde breaks off a 61-yarder to put San Francisco in the red zone, but c’mon: we know this won’t be a touchdown. Michael Bennett sacks Brian Hoyer on 3rd-and-six, and eschews his usual hip thrusts to raise a fist in protest.

Michael Bennett celebrated a sack against the 49ers with a raised fist. http://pic.twitter.com/J46niolm4G

— SB Nation (@SBNation) September 17, 2017

My daughter, now eating her pizza, raises a black power fist in solidarity. She’s gonna turn out all right.

— Todd Gurley hurdles over a defender; a few plays later, Jared Goff dumps it to Gurley on a blitz for 28 yards. I write “these teams are trash” even though they’re both far more entertaining than MY trash team, which has allowed San Francisco to get back in the red zone after the Niners got a huge play by running a draw play on third-and-12.

This sport is bad. The Niners and ‘Hawks go into halftime tied 6-6. I think about taking the Seahawks -14 today. “Maybe the defense will score a touchdown,” I lie to myself.

LATE GAMES, SECOND HALF

— I’m facing Jay Cutler in fantasy (it’s a deep league) and I can’t bring myself to root against him. But then, I never root for Cutler’s success or failure: I only root for him to be himself, and that is all he ever is, and that is why he’s never disappointed me.

Devonta Parker makes a tremendous catch down the sideline to set up first-and-goal, and then Cutler is himself. He overthrows a receiver in the end zone, then gets sacked on third down by Melvin Ingram (The Chargers lead the league in Melvins). The Dolphins kick a field goal to take the lead.

— Oh hey, Broncos and Cowboys! It’s the first quarter in this game after a weather delay. Forgot about y’all for a while there.

— Cordarrelle Patterson gets a handoff for the Raiders on 3rd-and-1 around midfield, and he takes it to the house. With his braids and visor, he looks like a very tall and disappointing Marshawn Lynch who is slowing down before the end zone. If Lynch did this, I would celebrate his swag. But it’s Patterson, so I chalk it up to him being a lazy draft bust. I’m an enlightened fan!

— Trevor Siemian gets sacked and fumbles, and the Cowboys recover inside the Denver 5-yard line. What happens next? My neighbors borrow two tablespoons of olive oil, my son gets up from his nap, and my daughter out of the bath running around naked. (Dez Bryant scores a TD, I think.)

— My son is mostly a nonverbal little chimp, but when I ask him, “How’s the pizza, buddy?” he responds, “Good.” I glimpse a future where he’s not communicating by pointing at things and grunting at me, and one of the million tiny weights of parenthood is lifted from my shoulders.

— With Eddie Lacy already a healthy scratch for the Seahawks, Thomas Rawls starts the second half on bench. Chris Carson looks good on three straight runs, and if you have any Seahawks on your fantasy team, I can only remind you: you did this to yourself.

— Jalen Richard scores for the Raiders on a 52-yard rush. I’m happy for them, but I also have an interest in Marshawn’s fantasy success, and these waiver-wire dildos are feasting on the defense that Beast Mode wore down. I DEMAND SATISFACTION, SIRS.

— Another Todd Gurley hurdle (GURDLE), this time for a TD:

Be careful out there, folks. Todd Gurley might be hurdling you as you read this. Head on a swivel!

— My son is walking around, now using a Wii remote as a phone. My daughter throws Magna-Tiles, earning a timeout. NEVER THROW MAGNA-TILES. They are Daddy’s most cherished toy. Seriously, I could build Magna-Tile structures for HOURS if we just had some more of them. Each individual square is like $30.

— Crabtree catches his third touchdown (the Raiders’ sixth). There are still 12-plus minutes left in the 4th quarter, but you know the saying: the game’s over when Marshawn dances on the sideline.

— RedZone has stopped showing Niners-Seahawks altogether, and I respect the decision. I follow the play-by-play on Twitter. Russell Wilson sails two throws on a 3-and-out. I close Twitter.

In the other room, my wife is reading Someday to my daughter, a book with such an emotional punch I sobbed the first time I read it to her — just ugly-crying, gasping for air. My wife and I can now read it without losing our faces, but it still makes me feel like I’m missing out on valuable family time. I pause the TV so I can help with bedtime.

— 7:14 pm: Kids are in bed, and I’m about 25 minutes behind realtime. Emmanuel Sanders catches his second touchdown, and my wife is lying down on our new shag carpet, looking at Instagram. Every day after the kids go to bed, we look at our phones for 10 minutes before engaging each other.

Regarding the Broncos, though: Trevor Siemian is … good? He takes what the defense gives him, throws it away when there’s nothing there, and distributes the ball well to his weapons.

— Cody Parkey puts the Dolphins up 19-17 with 1:05 to play. Rivers is gonna throw a pick, isn’t he?

Not to start, at least. His first pass is a “bullet” — please note the sarcasti-quotes — to Keenan Allen for a first down, then he finds hunter Henry, then Melvin Gordon, then Allen again. Keenan Allen is such a good route-runner; he’s a ton of fun to watch when he’s not inju— (*Allen loses his legs in a freak combine harvester accident*).

What happens next is perfectly befitting a Jay Cutler-Philip Rivers game.

What happens next, in the game’s final seconds, is a comedy of errors perfectly befitting a Jay Cutler-Philip Rivers game. I refuse to hash out the details, but the gist is this: the Chargers try to blow the game with a stupid decision, but the Dolphins bail them out by calling timeout. So Younghoe Koo comes out for the game-winning kick — and for once there will be no icing, because the Dolphins can’t call timeout twice in a row.

And a week after missing a kick that would have sent the game into overtime, Koo ... misses another kick. Oh no. Oh my darling, flipping boy. DON’T CUT HIM, THE FIRST KICK WAS THE LINE’S FAULT.

Scott Hanson, usually happy to direct the viewer to the next bit of action, takes the time to LAMBASTE both teams, saying they’ll both regret their “debauched” decisions. Hell yes. 10/10, best game of the day.

— With the Seahawks (ugh) trailing (UGH) 9-6 (UGH!!), Russell Wilson runs for a first down on third-and-one. There are 10 minutes left in the game and it somehow feels over? Or maybe I just want it to be over? I crave the end of this game and/or the sweet kiss of death.

Touchdown, Seahawks! Wilson evades a hungry pass rush on third-and-seven, rolls to his left, and finds Paul Richardson in the end zone. It’s Seattle’s first touchdown of the season, and it only took them an hour and 52 minutes-plus of game time. Certainly this is a Super Bowl contender, and not a critically flawed team.

Blair Walsh misses the extra point. Niners trail by three. Of course.

— A Jonny Hekker fake punt! The Rams may not have Jeff Fisher around to call the all-fake-punt offense, but they still know who their best player is.

Wait, why am I watching the Rams? I hit fast forward.

— Jamaal Charles gets a carry for the Broncos, who are cruising at altitude. It’s still weird to see him in a Broncos uniform. There should be government subsidies to pay star running backs to stay with their defining teams.

— After a Niners three-and-out, Chris Carson picks up a couple first downs on the ground, and the Seahawks are going to kneel this one out.

My dog starts gagging over the rug. NO! The whole reason we got the new rug is because she barfed on the old one too many times. As she horks, I chase her away from the rug, and she vomits on the hardwood floor instead. She’s a Rottweiler mix, and even as 65-pound dogs go, it’s a lot of vomit.

But I’m thankful, I guess. Cleaning a liter of dog barf off of a hardwood floor instead of out of a shag carpet approximates what I just what went through with Niners-Seahawks. God was a little heavy-handed with the metaphor, but I can at least appreciate the timing.