#QR code sock drawer

[cheollollipop]

The Nine and the One. | Song Mingi - Chapter 1.5

genre: slice of life. angst.

warning(s): mentions of drinking. existential dread.

word count: 4k

Present:

I always wake up before my alarm.

Not because I want to. I'm not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, but because Seoul never lets me sleep in. The pipes rattle. The trucks start backing up before dawn. My upstairs neighbor sounds like they're dragging a dresser across the floor at 4AM. Again.

There's also the light. Soft and blue, but insistent. Slipping through the cracked blinds and washing over my bedsheets like it's reminding me: you made it another day. Whether I like it or not.

I lie there for a moment, listening. One of my roommates is already awake. The water's running. The kettle clicks off. My phone buzzes against my nightstand.

7:27AM. Right on time.

I still live in a shoebox apartment with Joon, who only wears his socks halfway and plays music way too loud in the shower, and Nayeon, who claims she "doesn't steal clothes" while she's literally wearing my hoodie for the third time this week.

They're still chaotic, and I couldn’t love them more.

I slide out of bed, wrap myself in the same gray cardigan I've had since undergrad, and pad into the kitchen. It smells like toasted bread and strawberry jam. Joon's standing by the sink shirtless, cereal bowl in one hand, phone in the other.

"Morning, princess," he mumbles.

"Morning," I yawn.

He looks at me for a second. "You dreaming about anything?"

"No."

He shrugs. "You had that look. Like someone who's been fighting demons in their sleep."

"I was fighting the radiator."

He grins. "Brutal."

Nayeon appears behind me like a ghost in Nike slides. "We're out of oat milk."

"We're always out of oat milk," I mumble, digging through the drawers for a protein bar.

"Okay but you said you were going to buy it."

"You said you were going to stop borrowing my hairbrush," I shoot back.

"You're so dramatic."

She plucks my last banana from the fruit basket and walks away. I sigh and grab a granola bar instead.

The bathroom door swings open, blasting a wave of hot steam. Joon emerges in a towel and sings off key to a song that hasn't played in five years.

This is my life.

The train to work is packed, as usual.

I'm pressed between a girl filming a GRWM TikTok in the window reflection and a man who's watching a mukbang at full volume. A baby cries somewhere behind me. The woman next to me is wearing too much vanilla body spray.

I pull my headphones on, queue up a playlist Courtney made called "sigh but make it romantic," and stare out the fogged glass. Seoul glides by like a moving painting, blurred neon signs, parked scooters, corner vendors bundling up in knit hats and gloves.

Courtney's already at the café when I arrive.

She's behind the counter dancing like she's performing for backup dancers only she can see, hoodie sleeves rolled up, her hair pulled into a gravity-defying ponytail.

"Good morning, Seoul!" she declares, flinging an imaginary spotlight in my direction.

"Courtney."

"Yes, my queen?"

"It's 8AM."

"And it's a beautiful day to be a barista," she beams, lowering her voice like she's telling me a secret. "Also, I made you a playlist."

"Oh no."

"It's for your walk home. I call it 'existential dread in cute boots.'" She hands me a tiny folded note with a QR code and a heart drawn next to my name.

I snort. "You're unwell."

"You love me."

I do.

The day rolls in like fog, slow at first, then blinding.

By 9:07 the rush is in full swing. We're pulling shots, steaming milk, wiping down counters, restocking napkins. The door chimes constantly, bells jingling as people file in and out and we're both moving like we're part of some synchronized ballet.

"Large oat latte, no foam!"

"Pickup for Yejin!"

"Can I get a coffee that tastes like tea but still like coffee?"

"Do you guys have Wi-Fi?"

"Yes, but the password is emotionalstability," I mumble.

A woman orders six cappuccinos and changes her mind twice. A student spills an entire iced americano trying to open her backpack. A businessman says my name too many times in a row without looking at me.

An older man asks me for a latte in Mandarin. A couple gestures to the pastry menu, confused, their Thai is soft, tentative. I answer them smoothly, gently, slipping between languages like stepping stones.

It's the one thing that never feels like work.

"You're like a real life Duolingo owl," Courtney mutters while restocking cups.

"I'm haunting your dreams tonight," I deadpan, and she cackles so loud a customer jumps.

Around noon a man yells at me because I forgot his extra shot. I apologize three times. He doesn't even look at me.

During break, I sit in the back with my knees tucked to my chest, sipping hot water from a paper cup. My phone buzzes. My mom sent a photo of our dog in a reindeer sweater. My heart squeezes.

"Everything okay?" Courtney asks, sliding in beside me with a croissant.

I nod. "Just tired."

She doesn't push.

The café smells like espresso and cinnamon. Jazz hums from the speakers. A warm breeze drifts from the open door. I lean my elbows against the counter and watch people walk by. Students, couples, businessmen with Bluetooth earbuds and creased frowns.

Sometimes, I imagine their lives. Where they're going. What they're hoping for.

Most days, it makes me feel full like I'm part of something bigger. Other days, it makes me feel like a glass wall is between me and everything else.

Today, I don't know which it is.

By the time I get home, the sun's already fading.

Joon is spread eagle on the couch, shirtless again, watching an action movie with surround sound that shakes the floor. The remote is lost in the cushions, as always. Nayeon's in the kitchen, holding up two dresses like she's choosing between life paths.

"Which one makes me look like I didn't try too hard?"

I don't even glance up. "Neither. You look hot in both."

She beams. "Tell me that again when I need a reference for my dating profile."

"You have to match with someone first."

She gasps. "Rude!"

Joon throws popcorn at us.

I sit cross legged on the floor while Joon narrates the show like it's Shakespeare. Nayeon's humming. The room feels like it's wrapped in a blanket.

We don't talk about work or stress. Just dumb things. A meme. A neighbor's cat. The fact that none of us have called our parents this week.

It's not much. But it's something.

I eat instant curry standing over the sink. Nayeon's perfume lingers in the hallway. The apartment feels lived in, warm, cluttered in a way that makes it feel alive.

Later, I'm curled up in my room with a blanket and my laptop, half watching a reality show and scrolling through Instagram. My thumb hovers over a post from a girl I used to know in LA, she just got signed to a modeling company. Pretty, glowing.

I stare at the photo too long before locking my phone.

Courtney's name flashes across the screen, causing it to light up.

courtney 🍓: we're going out tonight. no arguments. me: we have work in the morning. courtney 🍓: you need a life. me: i have a life. i'm currently in a very committed relationship with my bed. courtney 🍓: 10PM. be ready. wear lipstick. me: ugh. me: ok fine.

Getting ready is a whirlwind.

I curl my lashes. Nayeon lends me her earrings. Joon pretends not to judge us as we argue about heels vs boots.

"You look like a bisexual vampire," he tells me.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"You should."

I leave around 10:30. The air is freezing and electric. The sidewalks are wet. Seoul feels alive in a different way at night, less pressure, more pulse.

⸻

We meet at a tiny bar tucked between two convenience stores and a laundromat.

It smells like citrus and cheap vodka. The floor's sticky, but the music is good. A DJ with neon headphones spins lo-fi remixes of early 2010s pop and no one pretends to be cool about it but everyone's singing along by the second chorus.

Courtney hands me a shot. "Don't ask. Just drink it."

I do.

We dance like idiots. We scream lyrics. A girl in a gold dress compliments my eyeliner. I compliment her shoes. We follow each other on Instagram and forget each other's names in ten minutes.

At some point, I sneak off to the bathroom, press my back to the wall, and breathe.

Everything smells like perfume and humidity. My lipstick is fading. My boots hurt. I splash water on my face and stare at myself for a second longer than I mean to.

I look fine. But not whole.

Outside, the air is freezing.

My cheeks sting. My coat's too thin. The city glitters above me, loud and brilliant. Everything is still moving, taxis, lights, distant laughter.

And for a second, I feel it again, like I'm chasing something I haven't named yet. Like I'm standing on the edge of something sharp and unreal and new.

I breathe in.

Exhale.

Smile.

I don't know it yet, but this is the last version of me that will ever feel this free.

The next morning, I wake to the sound of yelling.

Not the scary kind but the Joon accidentally dropped a mug on his foot and now he's blaming the universe kind.

"Why is it always me?" he groans from the kitchen. "I am but a humble man trying to enjoy his cereal—"

I groan into my pillow. "It's too early for monologues."

"No such thing," Nayeon calls back. "Also, YN, the café group chat is blowing up. Apparently the building's plumbing is cursed."

My eyes flutter open. "What?"

"Pipe burst in the storage room. No work today. Congratulations, we're unemployed for the next 24 hours."

I sit up slowly, blink against the soft morning light filtering through the blinds, and fumble for my phone. Sure enough:

manager-nim 🍞: pipe burst in the backroom. cafe closed. sorry team, unexpected maintenance today. enjoy your day off!

Unexpected maintenance. I stare at the message like it's a prophecy. A gift wrapped in leaky pipes and industrial failure.

A day off.

I flop back onto my mattress and grin at the ceiling like it just told me a secret.

By noon, we're three bowls into cereal roulette and two hours into a rewatch of Coffee Prince.

Nayeon's hogging the couch like she was born on it. Joon's on the floor, cross legged with a bowl of cinnamon cereal and the TV remote tucked under his knee like a gremlin guarding his treasure. I'm nestled in a nest of laundry I swore I was going to fold today. I didn't.

"This is unrealistic," Joon says.

"So are your eyebrows," Nayeon shoots back.

"You're just jealous I have two," he retorts.

I snort laugh into my cup, and Joon points dramatically. "See?! YN agrees."

"No," I mumble, "I'm just here for the free entertainment."

He grins, victorious. Nayeon flips him off without looking

The heater rattles. Somewhere outside, a dog is barking nonstop. None of it feels urgent. Time doesn't exist in this living room. Only the smell of cereal milk and the echo of Joon's running commentary.

"Tell me again why we haven't started a YouTube channel?" he asks. "We could've been famous by now."

"Because none of us can cook," I reply.

"And our apartment lighting makes us look like ghosts," Nayeon adds.

"Rude. I'm luminous."

"You're fluorescent."

⸻

Later in the afternoon, we brave the cold.

It's the kind of crisp that bites at your fingertips even through gloves. We bundle up like penguins and shuffle down the block, debating food options for twenty minutes before settling on the bingsu café we always pass but never enter.

Inside, it smells like toasted sugar and matcha powder. The chairs are fuzzy. Everything is pastel and warm toned and the kind of cozy that makes you feel like maybe you're in a slice of life anime.

We split a mango plate and a strawberry latte and pretend like we're not staring at the wall covered in Polaroids of smiling customers.

Nayeon leans over the table. "If we take a photo right now, I'll never forgive you if I look crusty."

"You look like a skincare ad," I reply.

"Liar."

"Gorgeous liar," Joon adds with a wink.

We laugh.

For a while, it's all just nonsense. TikTok drama. What if scenarios. Joon swearing that he once got flirted with by a guy who turned out to be famous on Twitch. Nayeon pretending not to know the name of her situationship when his texts light up her phone.

It's easy.

But then Joon leans back in his seat and says it:

"So... what's your five-year plan?"

Nayeon answers first. "Get rich. Get glowing skin. Marry into a family with a vacation house in Italy."

We laugh again, but Joon's still watching me when it fades.

"YN?"

"What?"

"Your plan."

"Oh." I fumble with the straw in my drink. "I don't know. I guess... I just want to figure out what I'm even doing. With any of it."

Joon hums. "That's vague."

I glance out the window. "I just... sometimes it feels like everyone else is climbing something. Like they're reaching for a goal. A job. A dream. And I'm just... here. Floating. Working, eating, sleeping. Repeat."

There's a pause. Not uncomfortable. Just quiet.

"Floating's not the worst," Nayeon says softly. "At least you're still above water."

"I know," I murmur. "It's just some days I wake up and wonder if I already missed whatever my thing was. Like it passed me in the night and I slept through it."

Joon tears a napkin into strips. "That's a brutal thought."

"I don't mean it in a sad way. I just... I think I'm waiting. For something. And I don't even know what."

Nayeon reaches across the table and flicks my wrist. "Maybe it's still on its way."

"I hope so."

That evening, we return to our cave.

Joon orders takeout. Nayeon lights a candle that smells like overpriced linen. I put on a playlist that makes the walls hum.

For dinner, we eat tteokbokki straight out of the foil container, passing chopsticks back and forth and arguing over the best dipping sauces. My tongue burns. Joon almost spills soda on his shirt. Nayeon chokes from laughing too hard at something dumb I said about a guy I once ghosted in three languages.

We stay like that for hours, warm, messy, alive.

⸻

Later, I curl into my blanket burrito and pull out my journal.

I used to write every night. Songs. Short entries. One line sometimes. It felt grounding. But somewhere along the way, I stopped.

Tonight, I start again.

January 11 No work today. Joon broke a mug. Nayeon bullied me into bingsu. I talked too much. Or maybe not enough. I think I'm in a place where everything feels fine but none of it feels mine. I'm waiting. For what, I don't know yet. But something has to change. I want to feel something again. Something big. Something terrifying. I think I'm ready.

I close the journal and tuck it back under my bed.

Somewhere outside, the city exhales. A siren. A cat yowling. The low hum of traffic like a lullaby.

I stare at the ceiling and let the silence settle.

Tomorrow, I'll go back to work. Nothing big will happen.

But tonight, I feel it.

Like something is shifting.

Like the next chapter is quietly turning.

The next day, the café is open again.

The busted pipe is fixed. The bleach smell still clings faintly to the floor, sharp in the air like a reminder of how easily things can break. Courtney hums as she unwraps pastries. The lights buzz faintly. Everything is technically back to normal.

Too normal.

The moment I clock in, I feel wrong. Off-tempo. Out of sync with everything around me.

"Rough morning?" Courtney asks, handing me an apron.

"Didn't sleep much," I mumble, tying the strings too tight.

She raises a brow but doesn't push. Just hums again and goes back to prepping.

The rush hits early. A line forms before 8AM. Orders fly. I move on autopilot, but something's off. I spill steamed milk down the side of a cup. Burn my hand on the espresso wand. Knock over a tray of syrup bottles when I turn too fast.

"Whoa," Courtney says, catching one before it hits the floor. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

She pauses. Eyes scanning my face. "You sure?"

I force a smile. "Just tired."

She doesn't buy it. I can tell. But she nods anyway.

"Take your time. I've got register."

I nod and go back to pouring shots, but my hands feel disconnected from the rest of me. Like I'm moving through water. Everyone sounds too loud. The espresso machine hisses like it's yelling. I can't seem to hold a single thought in place.

A woman asks for oat milk and I give her almond. A man complains his latte is too cold even though it's steaming. Someone else says my tone was "a bit short" and I want to disappear into the supply closet and scream.

It's like my brain is glitching. Like I'm trying to do simple math with half the equation missing.

I mess up another order three minutes later. The woman sighs at me like I ruined her entire morning. I apologize twice. Smile even though my eyes sting.

Courtney swoops in without asking and remakes the drink. She doesn't say anything, but I can feel the question hovering between us.

"You sure you're just tired?" she asks eventually, handing me a restock basket.

"Yeah," I say, tossing lids into the drawer. "Didn't sleep."

"Dreams?"

"Thinking."

She nods slowly. Doesn't push.

I'm halfway through wiping the counter when I feel it.

That weight.

The sense that someone's watching.

I look up, eyes drifting to the front window. And there he is seated alone in the corner, cappuccino untouched in front of him. He's not scrolling his phone. Not on a laptop. Just... there. Quiet. Composed. Eyes drifting toward the counter.

Not in a weird way. Just... aware.

I recognize him, vaguely. He's been here before. A handful of times, maybe. Always around the same time. Always alone. Always calm.

But something about him sticks now.

His face is sharp, thoughtful. Dressed neatly in dark layers, coat folded over the chair beside him. Like he walked out of a magazine shoot and into our tiny café without telling anyone.

Courtney leans beside me, voice low.

"Okay, that guy's back again."

"Hm?"

"Corner seat. Cappuccino. Not the usual regular type."

I glance back subtly. "I think he's been here before."

"A few times, yeah," she says. "But not like... regular-regular. Not 'knows our Wi-Fi password by heart' regular. Just enough to make me wonder if he's scouting us for a weird espresso cult."

I snort. "Do those exist?"

"In this city? Probably."

I shake my head and turn back to the milk pitcher, but the image of him lingers. Something about him feels intentional. Like he's here for a reason but not one I can put my finger on.

I don't dwell on it.

Not for long, anyway.

There's coffee to make. Counters to clean. A spill by the pastry case that I slip on and catch myself just in time. Courtney gives me a look, but I wave it off.

"I'm just off today," I mumble.

"Yeah," she says softly. "I noticed."

I expect her to follow it up with a joke or a prod. But she doesn't. Just keeps working, humming under her breath.

Later, when I glance toward the window again, the man is gone.

⸻

Break comes late.

I sit in the back hallway, shoulders slumped, cup of lukewarm tea balanced on my knees. My phone buzzes once, twice, but I don't check it.

I just scroll, letting the glossy, filtered lives of strangers wash over me. Vacation photos. Job promotions. Another baby announcement. A friend from college just got into med school. Someone I used to work with opened their own business.

Meanwhile, I forgot to buy fabric softener and my socks smell like damp cardboard.

It hits me all over again, the five-year plan talk. The way everyone else answered like they'd had their blueprint ready for years. The way I laughed it off, only to spiral later like the punchline had finally caught up to me.

I press the cup harder between my palms and breathe.

But it doesn't help.

I don't cry at work. I never cry at work.

So I hold it in until I'm home.

Until I've showered. Eaten something microwaved. Changed into pajamas that smell like fabric softener and a little bit of Courtney's perfume because I stole the hoodie she left on my bed.

It's almost midnight when I finally let myself dial.

The phone rings once. Twice.

"YN?" My dad's voice is groggy. I glance at the clock. It's past 11 here, which makes it early morning back in LA.

"Hi," I whisper, suddenly unsure what I even want to say.

"You okay?"

There it is. Just two words, and I already feel my throat tighten.

"I'm fine," I lie.

He pauses.

"You don't sound fine."

I close my eyes.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I admit quietly, the words cracking in the middle. "I know I say that a lot, but this time... I really don't know."

Silence on the other end. Just the sound of his quiet breath.

"We were talking about five-year plans yesterday," I continue, "and I laughed about it at the time, but I came home and couldn't stop thinking about it. Everyone's doing something. They're in school, or working towards something real. They're saving for a wedding or a house or a degree. And I'm... here. Making drinks for strangers. Living paycheck to paycheck. Still sharing a bathroom with two people. I don't know."

I swipe at my face and realize I'm crying.

God.

"I feel like everyone's moving forward and I'm stuck on pause," I choke out. "Like I missed the train while I was staring at the map."

My dad doesn't interrupt. He waits. Lets the silence hold me. Then he speaks, soft, calm, certain.

"You've always moved differently," he says. "You don't sprint just because other people are running. You look at the road first. You walk when it feels right."

I sniff. "But what if it never feels right?"

"Then you make it right. You carve your own pace, your own path. You don't need to follow anyone else's timeline to build a life that matters."

I nod, even though he can't see me.

"You've always been the quiet one," he adds. "But quiet doesn't mean lost. And just because you haven't seen the next step yet... doesn't mean it's not coming."

The tears fall harder now. But slower, too. Less frantic.

"I just thought I'd have something figured out by now."

"You've got more figured out than most. You're kind. You're sharp. You hold onto people even when life makes it hard. That's not small, sweetheart."

I swallow the lump in my throat.

"Thanks, Dad."

"You don't owe me thanks," he says. "But I'll take a visit home sometime soon if you're offering."

I laugh through the tears. "I'll check my work schedule."

"Good," he says. "And hey. It's okay to cry sometimes. Just don't forget who you are underneath it."

"I won't."

"You've always been brave. Even when you don't feel like it."

We sit in the quiet a little longer. The street outside my window is dark. Someone walks by with a dog. A siren hums faintly in the distance.

The ache in my chest softens. Just enough.

Eventually, we hang up.

I set the phone on my nightstand and lie back, staring at the ceiling.

I don't feel better. Not really. But I don't feel as alone.

And maybe that's enough for tonight.

⤷ network tags: @blossomnet @k-films

tnato tags: @yuuuuuuusthings

･ ⟢ ⋮ masterlist

[sevasey51]

What things would Connor and his wife have ready for emergencies? Would they have a bag packed with essentials by the door?

The Emergency Bag

Summary: In a household where chronic illness and flare unpredictability rule the day-to-day, Connor and Y/N don’t leave things to chance. From emergency kits in every room to a go-bag by the door, Connor makes sure they’re always ready—because when things go sideways, the last thing he wants to do is waste a second. This story explores what they keep on hand, how Connor manages each scenario, and the deep, quiet comfort of being seen and protected in every detail.

It sat by the door.

Always packed. Always ready.

A simple black backpack with a red carabiner clipped to the handle—not fancy, but organized like a trauma cart. Labeled pouches. Laminated checklists. Refilled every Sunday by Connor’s hands, even when he got home late from a shift.

Y/N used to roll her eyes at first. “It’s not like I’m going to code on the street,” she’d said once.

Connor just gave her that look—the one that said you’re everything to me, and I don’t gamble with that.

After the third unexpected hospital run in six months, she stopped teasing.

Inside the bag were the essentials:

• A port access kit: sterile gloves, dressing changes, alcohol wipes, extra lines, and two port needles—Connor’s preferred gauge and Ava’s backup.

Meds: Labeled by type and urgency.

• IV Zofran and Toradol for migraines

• TXA for bleeding

• Beta-blockers for acute POTS attacks

• Pressor vials and emergency epi

• A single preloaded morphine dose—locked and sealed

• Electrolyte tabs and glucose gels

• Flonase, lidocaine patches, and extra Imodium

• Oral options if she was stable enough to take them

• Fluids: Two bags of cold saline. Always replaced.

Documentation:

• A laminated summary of her diagnoses

• Latest medication list and dosages

• Her most recent flare log, clipped in a waterproof folder

• Emergency contacts: Will, Ava, Hannah, Jay

• Copies of her surgical history and port placement notes

Comfort items:

• A pair of fuzzy socks

• A small tube of unscented lotion

• Her favorite heat pack

• A backup stim toy

• Lip balm

• Headphones and a backup charger for her AAC device

• Change of clothes: soft joggers, a long tee, and a hoodie Connor had stolen from Jay years ago.

And clipped to the side: a mini med pouch with Connor’s emergency medical ID and a second for hers—because if something happened, he wouldn’t be thinking clearly either.

⸻

They also had:

• Crash kits in the bathroom, bedroom, and kitchen

• A fully-stocked med drawer in the hallway with labeled drawers

• A QR code on the fridge that pulled up her emergency protocols, accessible by anyone in their circle

• A coded med log app that auto-alerted Ava and Hannah when certain thresholds were entered

And when things got really bad—like a sudden bleed or syncopal cascade—they had a code word.

“Charlie crate.”

It was their not-so-subtle way of saying get the bag, get in the car, and we’re going.

One quiet night, when her flare had calmed but the fatigue lingered, she sat on the couch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and watched him repack the bag for the week.

“Do you ever get tired of this?” she asked softly.

Connor glanced up.

“Of what?”

“Being the one who’s always ready.”

He paused—zipping up the kit, double-checking the morphine dose.

“No,” he said. “I get tired of watching you hurt. But not this.”

He crossed the room and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“This?” he whispered. “This is loving you. And I wouldn’t trade a second of it.”

[homosexualgirlandbags]

Kate decides to implement a new tradition on base after a particularly rough month.

It wasn't anything big, just exchanging presents to someone else on base anonymously. Each person gives out one and gets one.

Simple, right?

Except of course with the crash team of ragtag gays she had, it was never easy.

It all started with the socks. A pair of compression socks sitting on John's desk. Innocent looking enough to pass by at first glance. John doesn't even realise what happened until after he wore them. The back of the socks formed a fucking dick when placed together. They found the culprit soon enough, and Simon had to deal with shipments for a month. (Tons of paperwork for my boy. It was torture)

Then, the second month rolls in, and maybe because of what happened last month to Simon, the gifts were milder now, just pens or chocolate or little bottles of sleeping pills for Laswell (because John still cares about her after all).

And Johnny got a mug. It was a nice mug, ceramics and all. But it was still a mug. A lame gift, considering the other options, but he's not complaining. It's cute, and it has his name printed on it. No more mug stealing, he supposed. He left it forgotten in a drawer somewhere in his office.

It wasn't until the next week or so, when he finally used the mug for tea. 2 in the morning and his sanity is chipping away from prepping. Eyes half closed as he steeped the teabag into the hot water. He misses the QR code slowly appearing on the mug until he sits down for work.

it wasn't until he had sat down back in his office, making a mental note of replacing the cushions when he finally saw it. And out of curiosity (even though the countless amounts of seminars warning soldiers just like him to never open any website you don't know), he scans it.

Johnny eyes blow wide open at the Google drive that pops up. His attention immediately focused on the skin he could see from the preview pictures.

Fuck, it was Simon. In fucking lingerie and bondage. Videos and pictures of him tied up in frilly lingerie threatening to rip apart if he so much as flex his muscles. Some of them were absolutely downright filthy, with Johnny's missing clothes involved. Johnny doesn't miss the fact that the camera work was fucking professional, taking in the best angles of Simon's chest as it slowly trails down...

He damn near jumped over his desk running out of his office, the mug safely stowed away in his drawer. Johnny's ma didn't teach him to be rude growing up, and he damn well intends to show his lieutenant just how grateful he is.

[qrganize-blog]

QR code sock drawer

We live in a world where more content is generated in one day that can be consumed in an entire lifetime. The amount of information pushed at us daily is nothing short of enormous. Something that is intriguing and can capture our attention for even a brief moment is amazing. That's what QR codes do.

Here's a definition of QR codes that you may have heard:

Real world hyperlinks.

If QR codes are real world hyperlinks, why not have the power to manage them the way you do online hyperlinks? 

While stationary from your laptop, perhaps you do/have done any of the following:

Used a bookmark bar in your browser such as Chrome or Firefox

Bookmarked URLs

Bookmarked URLs to a specific folder

Emailed yourself interesting articles

Managed your Email inbox using labels

Favorited a tweet you liked

Created a twitter list

Created a G+ circle

Circled someone up on G+

Used the service: Instapaper

...and the list goes on.

If you do/have done any of these (conscious of it or not)--all you're doing is making it easier for yourself to find something that struck you as important or interesting. You're trying to be more productive. You're organizing.

So the question is: If QR codes are real world hyperlinks why not...

Have more command of your scans

Extend the life of your scans

Easily find your real world hyperlinks when you need them

Create a sense of scan ownership

Increase your productivity 

Take in scan content on your own time

Enhance your overall QR code experience

...and the list goes on.

Why not organize your QR codes?

It's a QR code sock drawer out there. Let QRganize tidy it up for you.

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PS - Even if you're not interested in organizing your real world hyperlinks immediately, but have a slight hunch that you might want to eventually--direct your eyes to our "Uncategorized" blog post.