#STRIKE 2: INTERRUPTING ME AND MY COWORKER EVERY TIME WE TRY TO SPEAK

[olberic]

had to deal with a client so unbearable this morning i had to book a boardroom and go in and turn the lights off and lie down on the floor. blood pressure through the roof today

[vorta-whore]

Transition of Power, ch. 2

You receive an invitation you can’t refuse.

Weyoun 5 x female reader

Chapter 1: An Introduction | Chapter 2: A First Date | Chapter 3: A Walk Together | Chapter 4: A Night on Bajor

—

Very little changes for you over the next week – with one alarming exception. As you watch for the Vorta’s daily trek across the Promenade, it appears he also watches for you. Every afternoon, without fail, those violet eyes dart up to meet yours at your usual table on the upper deck. He holds the glance but briefly; just enough time to smile and nod to you. And, breathless, you nod back.

You begin to sit with your back to the wall each time you dine out for lunch. So far, there have been no further interruptions by uninvited guests, but all the same you fear being caught off-guard again.

After two weeks, you begin to relax, thinking perhaps it was an empty platitude after all. Vorta have so many other more important things to worry about than going on dates, you rationalize; he was probably just entertaining himself by playing with you during a moment of free time. It seems the type of thing Weyoun would do, if he noticed someone taking a special interest in him. Stealthy as you thought you were being, dealing in furtive glances and sidelong stares, you really aren’t that surprised to know he saw right through you. Or maybe, with those unique ears of his, he simply heard you making your judgmental comments to yourself as he strode by. Really a terrible habit. You wonder, uselessly, what he’s heard you say.

The chime of an incoming transmission interrupts your contemplation. Curious, you set down your raktajino and tell the computer to put the audio through.

Your blood runs cold when you hear the velvety voice on the line.

“Ahh, Y/N! How lovely to speak with you again. I trust I did not wake you?”

“I – ah, no. I was just about to have breakfast, actually.”

“Well then, please excuse my interruption. I don’t intend to take up much of your time; I was simply wondering if you’d do me the honor of sharing dinner with me tonight. I do seem to recall some promises being made about your famous hasperat souffle?”

You’re grateful there is no visual feed to capture your wide-eyed expression. Your first instinct is to search for excuses, and a moment of silence passes as you reach for one –

“It doesn’t have to be tonight, of course,” soothes the Vorta at your hesitation. “I did take the liberty of contacting your employer, I hope that’s alright,” – it isn’t – “and he informed me that you have two days off each week, so I’m certain we can work something out if you aren’t free this particular evening.”

Damnit.

You have no choice but to relent: “No, no…this evening is fine, actually.”

“Wonderful! Then I’ll be over, oh, say, nineteen hundred hours?”

“Sure.”

“I look forward to it,” he concludes, the smile audible in his voice, and with a dismissive chime the call cuts out.

You lean forward and hold your head in your hands. This is not the kind of day off you were hoping for. You had reading to catch up on, friends to chat with, shop windows to peruse.

Now you have a souffle to bake.

—

At half past eighteen hundred hours, your quarters were clean, the table was set, and the souffle was in the oven. You’d dug out an acceptably refined cocktail dress from your closet, not having expected to be donning it at any point during this occupation, and sat yourself down in front of a mirror to apply makeup with a trembling hand.

Nineteen-hundred comes and goes. Weyoun strikes you as a very punctual man; is he late on purpose? You fiddle nervously with the hem of your dress, watching the door, your anxiety growing by the minute; your hand is halfway to the bottle of springwine you’ve set out when the sound of the door-chime nearly causes you to jump out of your skin.

“Come in!” you blurt, rising and smoothing out your dress.

The door slides open and in steps one dashing Vorta – who, upon entry, stops to take in his surroundings. He surveys your elegantly-decorated quarters with quiet amusement before settling his gaze on you, and, smiling, he steps forward.

“Your quarters are nearly as lovely as you are. I truly am grateful for the privilege of dining here with you tonight.”

As though he didn’t invite himself, you think. But as he speaks, he takes one of your hands in his and presses the back of it to his lips, and quite quickly your head empties of all thought. He holds on just a moment or two longer than necessary before releasing it as well as the gaze with which he had affixed you, which you notice is quite effective at keeping you rooted to the spot.

“Ah! Springwine,” he notes suddenly, breaking the tension. You turn your attention to the coffee table where you’d prepared a bottle and two glasses. “How thoughtful of you.”

He guides you to the sofa with a hand on your elbow and you both take a seat. Your anxiety begins to bubble over.

“I, uh. Hope you like springwine. I wasn’t really sure what you’d prefer – springwine can be so sweet, sometimes it’s a little overpowering – but it goes well with hasperat, tempers the spice a bit, you know, and I had a couple bottles lying around anyway, so I figured…”

You trail off, your babbling ceasing as Weyoun clasps a hand over the one you had just set on the bottle. You glance up to him, uncertain, but the kindness behind his smile is reassuring and you relax just an iota.

“It will be just fine. But truly, my dear, you’ve done enough already – at least allow me to do this.”

You nod, and he softens his grip enough for you to slip your hand out of it. As he pops the cork and begins to fill the glasses, you find your thoughts drifting to worry again, to fear; the phrase “comfort woman” swirls in your mind. You wonder with increasing panic what exactly this man expects of you tonight.

Weyoun hands you your wine glass and raises his into the air, waiting for you to do the same. “A toast,” he says, “to the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

You smile. You tap your glass against his. You take a sip.

The Vorta leans back in his seat and regards you pensively. “You seem…uneasy,” he points out, crossing his legs. “Not at all like you were at that Klingon cafe. Is everything alright?”

You stare into your wine as if trying to find an answer there. None comes.

“…My dear.”

There is a soft clink as Weyoun sets his glass down. You startle as his fingers brush just beneath your chin, guiding you to look away from your drink and into his eyes. Behind them resides – to your confusion – genuine concern.

“Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean to pressure you into anything that would make you uncomfortable. Perhaps I was too forward – but I was certain I detected a hint of interest from you over the course of these last few weeks. Forgive me.”

He bows his head in apology.

You realize you’re at a crossroads. He’s offering you an out – something you very desperately wanted a moment ago. However, now that the option is available to you, it seems entirely the wrong choice. Why, after all, would you have spent the entire day making sure that souffle would be the best you’ve ever baked? Why would you have dolled yourself up, broken out the springwine?

These are not the actions of a woman under duress.

Suddenly feeling very foolish, you scramble over yourself to correct him: “No! No, I… I am… interested.”

His head jolts back up. You shrink a bit under his intense stare, but as he leans forward and takes your hands in his, his excitement begins to usurp your fear.

“I’m very glad to hear it.”

A smile twitches at your lips. “I’d just… like to take things slow, you know?”

“Perfectly understandable,” he accedes, and releasing your hands, he returns to his glass of wine. “From this moment forward I promise not to do anything that might jeopardize your comfort.”

For the first time that night, you truly relax.

—

The souffle is ready in short time and the two of you while away the night chatting about this and that. You learn Weyoun cannot stand the fizziness of Bajoran ale, but – being unable to taste most things – he quite enjoys the smoothness of springwine, even if its sweetness fails to register at all. Likewise, his affection for hasperat souffle stems from its airy, delicate texture, and the strong level of spice approximates something close to taste for him.

You’re convinced you’ve thoroughly bored him with your menial tales of day-to-day life, the rants about your annoying coworkers and your anecdotes surrounding family recipes. But Weyoun attends it all with rapt attention, even after the two of you have polished off the entire bottle of springwine.

You’re quite surprised when the computer interrupts a moment of shared laughter to announce the initialization of your nightly bedtime routine. The lights fade to sunset-orange and a short chime indicates you’ve entered do-not-disturb mode.

“Oh,” you sigh, disappointed. “Is it that late? I didn’t realize…”

“It’s my fault,” interjects Weyoun, standing and straightening his clothes. “I’ve stolen your entire night away. How rude of me!”

He offers you his hands. You take them, relishing how cold they feel against your warm skin, and allow him to lead you to the door.

“Please accept my apologies.”

Staring into those smoldering amethyst eyes, you flush suddenly, realizing the vulnerable position you’re in.

The kiss.

He’s going to go for it. He’s going to expect it, after the wonderful night you’ve shared – and you don’t want to insult him, don’t want to disappoint him, even, but you’re not sure if you’re ready, you haven’t thought about it –

He brings your hands up to his lips. On the knuckles of each hand he plants a kiss, firm, poignant. You shudder at the contrast between his cold hands and warm breath. At his unbroken eye contact.

“…Apology accepted,” you exhale.

He smiles in return. Bows his head, releases you.

“I look forward very much to our next meeting.”

And then he’s gone.

You sink into the sofa, suddenly drained. The background hum of the station is the only sound in your quarters now and the relative silence presses in on you like a physical presence. The empty wine glasses cast your reflection back on you – and you feel judged.

You close your eyes.

Prophets have mercy.

[stay-neurotic]

Transition of Power

Chapter Two: A Date

went to my horseback riding lesson, came back and slammed out chapter 2, you’re welcome

Chapter 1: Introduction

---

Very little changes for you over the next week – with one alarming exception. As you watch for the Vorta’s daily trek across the Promenade, it appears he also watches for you. Every afternoon, without fail, those violet eyes dart up to meet yours at your usual table on the upper deck. He holds the glance but briefly; just enough time to smile and nod to you. And, breathless, you nod back.

You begin to sit with your back to the wall each time you dine out for lunch. So far, there have been no further interruptions by uninvited guests, but all the same you fear being caught off-guard again.

After two weeks, you begin to relax, thinking perhaps it was an empty platitude after all. Vorta have so many other more important things to worry about than going on dates, you rationalize; he was probably just entertaining himself by playing with you during a moment of free time. It seems the type of thing Weyoun would do, if he noticed someone taking a special interest in him. Stealthy as you thought you were being, dealing in furtive glances and sidelong stares, you really aren’t that surprised to know he saw right through you. Or maybe, with those unique ears of his, he simply heard you making your judgmental comments to yourself as he strode by. Really a terrible habit. You wonder, uselessly, what he’s heard you say.

The chime of an incoming transmission interrupts your contemplation. Curious, you set down your raktajino and tell the computer to put the audio through.

Your blood runs cold when you hear the velvety voice on the line.

“Ahh, Y/N! How lovely to speak with you again. I trust I did not wake you?”

“I – ah, no. I was just about to have breakfast, actually.”

“Well then, please excuse my interruption. I don’t intend to take up much of your time; I was simply wondering if you’d do me the honor of sharing dinner with me tonight. I do seem to recall some promises being made about your famous hasperat souffle?”

You’re grateful there is no visual feed to capture your wide-eyed expression. Your first instinct is to search for excuses, and a moment of silence passes as you reach for one –

“It doesn’t have to be tonight, of course,” soothes the Vorta at your hesitation. “I did take the liberty of contacting your employer, I hope that’s alright,” – it isn’t – “and he informed me that you have two days off each week, so I’m certain we can work something out if you aren’t free this particular evening.”

Damnit.

You have no choice but to relent: “No, no...this evening is fine, actually.”

“Wonderful! Then I’ll be over, oh, say, nineteen hundred hours?”

“Sure.”

“I look forward to it,” he concludes, the smile audible in his voice, and with a dismissive chime the call cuts out.

You lean forward and hold your head in your hands. This is not the kind of day off you were hoping for. You had reading to catch up on, friends to chat with, shop windows to peruse.

Now you have a souffle to bake.

---

At half past eighteen hundred hours, your quarters were clean, the table was set, and the souffle was in the oven. You’d dug out an acceptably refined cocktail dress from your closet, not having expected to be donning it at any point during this occupation, and sat yourself down in front of a mirror to apply makeup with a trembling hand.

Nineteen-hundred comes and goes. Weyoun strikes you as a very punctual man; is he late on purpose? You fiddle nervously with the hem of your dress, watching the door, your anxiety growing by the minute; your hand is halfway to the bottle of springwine you’ve set out when the sound of the door-chime nearly causes you to jump out of your skin.

“Come in!” you blurt, rising and smoothing out your dress.

The door slides open and in steps one dashing Vorta – who, upon entry, stops to take in his surroundings. He surveys your elegantly-decorated quarters with quiet amusement before settling his gaze on you, and, smiling, he steps forward.

“Your quarters are nearly as lovely as you are. I truly am grateful for the privilege of dining here with you tonight.”

As though he didn’t invite himself, you think. But as he speaks, he takes one of your hands in his and presses the back of it to his lips, and quite quickly your head empties of all thought. He holds on just a moment or two longer than necessary before releasing it as well as the gaze with which he had affixed you, which you notice is quite effective at keeping you rooted to the spot.

“Ah! Springwine,” he notes suddenly, breaking the tension. You turn your attention to the coffee table where you’d prepared a bottle and two glasses. “How thoughtful of you.”

He guides you to the sofa with a hand on your elbow and you both take a seat. Your anxiety begins to bubble over.

“I, uh. Hope you like springwine. I wasn’t really sure what you’d prefer – springwine can be so sweet, sometimes it’s a little overpowering – but it goes well with hasperat, tempers the spice a bit, you know, and I had a couple bottles lying around anyway, so I figured…”

You trail off, your babbling ceasing as Weyoun clasps a hand over the one you had just set on the bottle. You glance up to him, uncertain, but the kindness behind his smile is reassuring and you relax just an iota.

“It will be just fine. But truly, my dear, you’ve done enough already – at least allow me to do this.”

You nod, and he softens his grip enough for you to slip your hand out of it. As he pops the cork and begins to fill the glasses, you find your thoughts drifting to worry again, to fear; the phrase “comfort woman” swirls in your mind. You wonder with increasing panic what exactly this man expects of you tonight.

Weyoun hands you your wine glass and raises his into the air, waiting for you to do the same. “A toast,” he says, “to the beginning of a wonderful friendship.”

You smile. You clink your glass against his. You take a sip.

The Vorta leans back in his seat and regards you pensively. “You seem...uneasy,” he points out, crossing his legs. “Not at all like you were at that Klingon cafe. Is everything alright?”

You stare into your wine as if trying to find an answer there. None comes.

“...My dear.”

There is a soft clink as Weyoun sets his glass down. You startle as his fingers brush just beneath your chin, guiding you to look away from your drink and into his eyes. Behind them resides – to your confusion – genuine concern.

“Please don’t misunderstand me. I don’t mean to pressure you into anything that would make you uncomfortable. Perhaps I was too forward – but I was certain I detected a hint of interest from you over the course of these last few weeks. Forgive me.”

He bows his head in apology.

You realize you’re at a crossroads. He’s offering you an out – something you very desperately wanted a moment ago. However, now that the option is available to you, it seems entirely the wrong choice. Why, after all, would you have spent the entire day making sure those souffles would be the best you’ve ever baked? Why would you have dolled yourself up, broken out the springwine?

These are not the actions of a woman under duress.

Suddenly feeling very foolish, you scramble over yourself to correct him: “No! No, I… I am… interested.”

His head jolts back up. You shrink a bit under his intense stare, but as he leans forward and takes your hands in his, his excitement begins to usurp your fear.

“I’m very glad to hear it.”

A smile twitches at your lips. “I’d just… like to take things slow, you know?”

“Perfectly understandable,” he accedes, and releasing your hands, he returns to his glass of wine. “From this moment forward I promise not to do anything that might jeopardize your comfort.”

For the first time that night, you truly relax.

---

The souffle is ready in short time and the two of you while away the night chatting about this and that. You learn Weyoun cannot stand the fizziness of Bajoran ale, but – being unable to taste most things – he quite enjoys the smoothness of springwine, even if its sweetness fails to register at all. Likewise, his affection for hasperat souffle stems from its airy, delicate texture, and the strong level of spice appropriates something close to taste for him.

You’re convinced you’ve thoroughly bored him with your menial tales of day-to-day life, the rants about your annoying coworkers and your anecdotes surrounding family recipes. But Weyoun attends it all with rapt attention, even after the two of you have polished off the entire bottle of springwine.

You’re quite surprised when the computer interrupts a moment of shared laughter to announce the initialization of your nightly bedtime routine. The lights fade to sunset-orange and a short chime indicates you’ve entered do-not-disturb mode.

“Oh,” you sigh, disappointed. “Is it that late? I didn’t realize…”

“It’s my fault,” interjects Weyoun, standing and straightening his clothes. “I’ve stolen your entire night away. How rude of me!”

He offers you his hands. You take them, relishing how cold they feel against your warm skin, and allow him to lead you to the door.

“Please accept my apologies.”

Staring into those smoldering amethyst eyes, you flush suddenly, realizing the vulnerable position you’re in.

The kiss.

He’s going to go for it. He’s going to expect it, after the wonderful night you’ve shared – and you don’t want to insult him, don’t want to disappoint him, even, but you’re not sure if you’re ready, you haven’t thought about it –

He brings your hands up to his lips. On the knuckles of each hand he plants a kiss, firm, poignant. You shudder at the contrast between his cold hands and warm breath. At his unbroken eye contact.

“...Apology accepted,” you exhale.

He smiles in return. Bows his head, releases you.

“I look forward very much to our next meeting.”

And then he’s gone.

You sink into the sofa, suddenly drained. The background hum of the station is the only sound in your quarters now and the relative silence presses in on you like a physical presence. The empty wine glasses cast your reflection back on you – and you feel judged.

You close your eyes.

Prophets have mercy.

[kichimiangra]

I only needed 5 minutes...

A story of my day.

I Dunno who actually wants to read this? I wouldn't even want to. But I feel like I need to vent. The last couple of weeks have been fucked... but yesterday I ruined the day... again. I've been doing that alot lately. Almost every other Saturday since August. I hope venting makes me feel better if nothing else. I'll probably delete this later because I don't like leaving a notable paper trail of this stuff that anyone can find. Nothing but trouble comes of that. When I'm on my pc I'll put this under a read more because I dunno how to do that on mobile.

-----------------------

The Holidays are almost over and I am running out of time to get done. One thing in particular, a gift, is unfortunately gone. My mom has orchestrated all of Christmas, even down to the gifts other people are getting for her... and she's not happy about it. She feels like nobody is willing to lift a finger to help her make Christmas happen. I wanted to surprise her.

She loves making soap. I'm not good at sculpture but I wanted to make a custom soap mold for her. I began with the original that would be used to make the mold. It took days upon days of trying and retrying to get it satisfactory, including one failure where my momnpoked her head in and I slammed my chin down on it so she wouldn't see, though my dad swears my mom never pokes her head into my room... but like she does???

Anyway... I finally had my original, though I think I could do better there's not much time left. I ordered a silicone mold kit and went to work... and it failed immensely. BUT there's still a little time left! I'll order another. Now THIS time was frustrating.

My mom wasn't being nosy... but literally EVERYTIME I got the stuff out to work on she would be there by sheer coincidence! Wait until she's asleep? Dad will have a coughing fit and wake her up and she'll wander out into the kitchen. Wait until she's out of the house? She never leaves. Wait until she does? She forgot something and comes home unexpectedly and I have to quickly hide my shit. She's not doing it on purpose but it gets more and more frustrating that I just can't just fucking get this done! Like... Jeebus Christmas! My dad says this doesnt happen but... it does????? And then I fuck up my second attempt. Fuck... I have less time...

But that's okay! I have enough time to order another kit! I've only spent 80$ so far with nothing to show but third times a charm!!!

Once again I just can't get the time to get this done. She's always there, or up, or poking her head in. It's almost cartoonish! But I have not time left. It has to be today.

My folks go down for an afternoon nap and I immediately get to work. I get toward the end of working, all's going well. I only need 5 minutes...

Then my dad gets up and my moms not far behind. Fuck... I can't move the mold yet... fuck. I just need 5 fucking minutes! I'm wrestling with curious cats. Fuck... My dad is useless at maybe luring my mom away. Fuck... my mom insists she needs to be in that same corner I'm working at. Fuck...! I just need five minutes!!!

Then of course disaster strikes... there's a crack or a hole in my original and silicone is leaking out! I had barely enough silicone to even make this happen! I can't afford to lose anymore! Fuck! I need to fix this! I just need 5 minutes to fix this!

I'm getting frustrated to the point I am starting to do that angry sob thing. I take it to another room now that I can move it. I just need 5 minutes to fix this! My parents follow my to the other room to find out what's wrong. Honestly my dad knows what I'm trying to do so given the context what do you thing is wrong dad? Clearly something has gone wrong with my mold. I tell him to go away cuz really I'm trying to fix this and I need to be left alone. I need five minutes to fix this... but he won't leave until I tell him what's wrong. I try to whisper it to him, the mold is leaking, I don't have enough silicone, nowhere local sells it, I can't get more in time. But his hearing has gone so he can't hear what I'm saying! He wants me to speak up but mom is just around the corner in the other room! I need him to fucking go. I'm frustrated and I tell him rudely "Just fuck off! I have to fix this!" Rude and inappropriate I know... but I just need 5 fucking minutes to fucking fix this I am sobbing at this point.

My dad leaves but of course my mom comes in next and wants to know what's wrong. I'm being very curt with her using my body to block the sight of my mess, telling her as calmly as I can, which isnt very calm, that nothings wrong, no she cant help me fix it, I'll tell her later, go back to the kitchen. I don't swear at my mother. That is important. I just need 5 minutes to fix this!

Finally the leak stops but so much silicone is on my baking tray that the mold is no longer submerged. I use a plastic spoon to get as much as I can back in the mold but it's not enough. I'm covered in silicone up to my wrist, and it's also in my hair. I put it up on a high shelf because the cats helped ruin mold #2 and sit down to mourn the loss of the only gift I had for my mom. I had no backup plans and this ones a bust.

I just need 5 minutes to calm down. I was rude to my parents and need to apologize to them, but first I need 5 minutes to just calm down and breath. Maybe I can find another gift in time? Maybe I can just wrap the original and promise in the nearish future when I can procure more silicone that she will have a mold? First I need to calm down. Then I need to apologize.

My dad comes into the room and chews me out about how rude as I was and how I need to go apologize to my mother. I hate when they do this, now when I apologize it's because I was told to, not because I took the initiative to. My folks can't comprehend I would otherwise apologize if not being told. All I wanted was 5 minutes to calm down.

I go and apologize. I am not the good guy in all of this, I am an adult. An autistic adult but an adult nonetheless, and being rude to my parents was inappropriate regardless. I didn't get my 5 minutes but off to apologize I go. "I'm sorry I lashed out guys. I was doing something, it didn't go my way, I got super frustrated and you guys were just there by coincidence. I didn't mean to lash out." I did mean what I said.

Mom didn't see it that way. My mom is very passive aggressive and honestly I get to be one of the reasons today she hates living here in this house and around us because all we do is "abuse" her physically and verbally. She hates living here and she hates being around us. I apologized again because great. Once again Kacey ruins everything. I need to stop being upset about this shit it's like every other saturday! She continues about how much she hates it here. I leave the room trying and failing not to sob.

My mom also gets up and goes to another room. Whatever she's doing is loud and she's quite verbal about it. I go back to my room, I just need 5 minutes to cry and calm down again. I still have other shit to do for Christmas too.

My mom comes by with a box and puts it on the table, with a sharpie she writes "Christmas soap fail 2020" and tells dad to take it to the basement. For context we had been making soap kits for xmas gifts. I had coworkers who got me gifts. I was dissuaded from buying them much in return because we were makin by the soap gift bags. Those where the soaps... I have nothing in return to give my coworkers. I don't have enough time... all the while my mom is still going off. Later my dad says it wasn't all my fault, he had done something to upset her earlier in the day, then my older sister, I was just the straw that broke the camels back. But honestly in this family it's whatever baby wants; baby gets." And what baby wants is to be mad at me.

I go upstairs and hide in my brother's room. Surprisingly despite the fact that my mom acts like he is one of the only people who care about her and defend her, he was the first one to tell me "Fuck her. If she wasn't going to be mad at you it was going to be something else. Now watch me play Aladdin on Sega genesis!"

After a while my younger sister came over to do her laundry. I began to quietly tell her what the flippity floop she walked in on. In the middle my mom came out and started chewy us out. Y'know, don't let her interrupt us from talking privately amongst ourselves about how much of a bitch she is. Her words not mine. And to be fair I was telling my sister about how I lashed out and caused this. But my mom doesn't like when we sibs talk privately, though she also doesn't like if we overhear what her and my dad talk about privately. Double standards I know.

I thought maybe if I explained what was up maybe she'd understand? So I out myself. I was trying to make her a surprise gift. She orchestrated ALL of Christmas and I just wanted to surprise her. Everything started going wrong and I was getting frustrated because she woke up and entered the room at an AWFUL time and I couldn't get me and my wip gift away from her seeing which made everything worse. Now one thing to know about my mom, explaining oneself is equated to excusing your behavior... and she does not tolerate that. She chews me out more. I'm sobbing again.she insists I told her to fuck of and get away from me... even though I did NOT curse at my mom... at all. I was rude but I did NOT say that! I repeat that I had just wanted to surprise her. She tells me about how unsurprised she is that this is how her day ends. She tells me that she doesn't want whatever trinket I was making for her because now it's tied up in the baggage of having apparently told her to fuck off and get away from me, that she doesn't want another in a long line of ass-kissy gifts because that makes being rude to her okay. It wasn't an ass kissy gift in response to being rude to her... it was a custom made Christmas gift for her... because I thought she'd be surprised? Because I thought it'd make her happy? Though I guess it doesn't matter... she doesn't want it anymore. She doesn't care what it was. Now it is a bad reminder of me treating her like everyone in her whole life has except specifically people who are dead. I have ruined quite a few things.

Honestly... I love my mom. I love her so much and I wish she could be happy. I want to do things to make her happy. But when she tells me that I am just one of the things that make her wanna run away to another state and tell no ody where she went and love alone... I'm not gonna sugar coat it, I wish I was dead.

I am a 29 year old autistic woman. I feel like a failure at growing up. I have stressed part of my colon into not working anymore. I still live at home with my parents and work in a minimum wage fast food job. I have few friends and I speak to them infrequently, but if you are at a place where I call you friend... we could not talk for 10 years and your still my friend until officially broken up. I surround myself with animals and I play with a digimon tamagotchi. My sisters have grown up jobs and drive and live in an apartment away from home and I feel like a failure because I missed all these adulting milestones. I feel CONSTANTLY guilty about everything. I feel like I can't say "hey let's do a shark mermaid themed charity zine and all the proceeds can go to buying preservatives for Rosie the dead great white shark!!!" Without the guilt at the mere idea that someone will tell me "Wow... you care more about a dead shark than say... real living people? You know there's no water in Flint right???" Without feeling guilty that... yes? I like a dead shark more than living people? I don't like people? Also shark is cool? I feel guilty that if I call a day off work SOMEONE ELSE has to be inconvenienced to work my shift. I feel guilty playing World of Warcraft because I'm accused of "Chasing a time I view as better" instead of growing up and moving on. I feel guilty about wanting to ask for someone else's time because they too have shit to do. I feel guilty about so many things...

And I feel guilty when my mom says I'm just another abuser in her life. Her fuse is so short it takes almost nothing to set her off. You have to be calm and happy all the time or she has to "walk on eggshells because anything she does can set US off!"

When my mom is mad at me like that... I hate myself. I have some dark thoughts on a normal day but when she's mad at me in this specific way... I wish I could just unexist. Or go to sleep and just not wake up. I can always logic my way away from the dark thoughts... but they're there nonetheless. And when I'm one of the things that makes my mom want to run away? Then I just wish I was dead really. Or just unalive. Not since I was 14 at least. I don't want to die. Just cease to be. I don't know if that counts as being suicidal but I'll tag for it anyway.

I don't normally talk about this shit with people. I don't wanna look like I'm crying out for attention or help or pity. I don't talk to my folks about it because there's never a good time. When I try to hint it's not taken seriously, and when things aren't bad I don't feel as bad. Keeping quite hasn't made me feel better so maybe just typing this out and being heard will make me feel even slightly better? Like a diary entry.

There's more to the morbs in my life but for now I leave it as this. It's 7am, I am in bed and have dried silicone in my hair and under my nailes, and I have work today. Who knows, maybe it'll all blow over like it never happenned like the bipolar way things go in my family sometimes. Maybe I'll get out of work and my folks will be happily dancing in the livingroom to sugar pie honeybunch like teenagers in love and I will be the only one stressed about it.

Don't take this post at face value. This is only my side. The human brain is flawed and the human ego will remake memories to protect itself. I normally turn to siblings who where there at the time to tell me if what I think happenned really happenned that way.... but I've also been informed that my siblings don't want to deal with me, and don't have the balls to call me out on my bullshit so will tell me whatever I want to hear, so really... I don't even trust that my recount of events even happenned that way.

Maybe I'll continue the story in another post?

And now

I go to bed. Goodnight. I am a tired bitch. I probably only just need 5 minutes to fall asleep.

P.s. I'm sorry if you read all that. It's a bummer. I know. I'll hide it under a read more when I'm on pc.

[themominars]

Caroline Fardig - An Eye For An Eye

 Caroline Fardig is the USA Today bestselling author of the Java Jive Mysteries series, the Lizzie Hart Mysteries series, and Ellie Matthews series. She has worked as a schoolteacher, church organist, insurance agent, funeral parlor associate, and stay-at-home mom before realizing that she wanted to be a writer when she grew up. Born and raised in a small town in Indiana, Fardigstill lives in that same town with an understanding husband, two sweet kids, two energetic dogs, and one malevolent cat.

Interview with Caroline Fardig Q:  I've read some procedurals, classic dicks, and crime mysteries, so I'm not unfamiliar with the genre(s). However, I've never read a book starting from the perspective of the first victim. What lead you to do that?

A:  When I wrote the first book in the series, BITTER PAST, I actually had 4 chapters leading up to the murder, which originally happened off-page.  But when my agent and I were discussing that book, he said it didn't start with enough of a bang.  There was too much lead-up before anything really happened.  So, I hacked those chapters and started (literally) with a bang--the victim in the first book was shot.  It ended up being a great formula to draw the reader into the action and feel something for the victim, so I kept on with it.  Every Ellie Matthews novel will start that way.

Q:  One of my favorite authors does a ton of real world research for her books. Shooting the guns, doing interviews, suiting up with a SWAT team.... I know you do too. Can you describe what research you do and why you do it?

A:  In the past couple of years, I've taken 3 college-level classes in Criminal Justice--two forensics classes and one criminal investigations class--to prepare for writing this series.  There are so many books and movies and TV series that get the procedural stuff "wrong," I was determined to write something that showed the real way it's done--of course within the realm of fiction to keep things interesting.  In the forensics classes, we did a lot of labs, which ended up being hands-on training provided by real criminalists who work at the Indiana State Police lab.  My teacher is one of the firearms examiners, and she had her coworkers come in to teach lessons and labs in their field of expertise.  They would bring actual supplies from their lab so we could have a true experience at evidence examination.  We also got to tour the lab itself, which was incredibly exciting for me.  My teacher and her coworkers have been so great about answering my many "what if" questions about forensics, even long after the classes were over.  It's been an amazing experience.

Q:  Your main character in this book is an aunt while you are a mom. I've noticed that a lot of authors, either intentionally or not, often infuse their characters and stories with elements from their own life. Can you tell me how Ellie and Rachel are or are not like yourself?

A:  Well, they have a sweet Golden Retriever just like me.  But on the serious side, Ellie's sarcasm comes straight from me.  We both get into trouble for our witty yet cutting observations that maybe shouldn't always be shared with others.  Ellie and Rachel's life and experiences are the polar opposite of mine, though, except for the teaching part.  Although I don't use it, my degree is in education. 

Q:  Are there any real world inspirations for your characters?

A:  Always!  Every time someone says or does something that strikes me as interesting or unusual, I'm immediately on my phone, sending myself an email outlining the situation or turn of phrase so I can use it in the future.  And we all know people who deserve to be caricatures in stories--but I'm not naming any names...

Q: Since this interview is for the Mominars I should probably ask some "mom" questions. How did you get started as a writer? With your diverse background what inspired you to try writing?

A:  I honestly started getting fed up with how books I read would end.  I would always rewrite the ending in my head, and I finally figured...why not do it on paper?  I guess that was my muse giving me a nudge to write my own books.  And my...ahem...diverse work background certainly plays a part in my writing.  Through the many different career paths I've taken, I've managed to meet all sorts of people and have varied experiences. Q: Do you find being a parent presents challenges that other authors may not be faced with?

A:  Absolutely!  I try to get all my writing done when my kids are at school.  But sometimes I have to keep working once they're home.  It's easier now that my kids are older and entertain themselves, but it's not always easy to write something meaningful with the TV blaring in the background.  My husband also works out of our home, so that can be challenging as well--we're always managing to interrupt each other at inopportune times. Q: Let's play 'High/Low'. What's the best part of being an author? What's the worst?

A:  There are a lot of highs for me.  I love it when readers connect with a book and let me know.  I love it when I get good news about my career (new contracts, making bestseller lists, being nominated for awards).  I love to talk about my writing with other people and meet with other authors.  As for lows, it's pretty much the opposite of the highs--bad reviews, publishers saying no, low sales figures.  It's quite a rollercoaster ride! Q: High/Low: parenthood?

A:  I love watching my kids do what they enjoy and excelling at it.  I love it when they're proud of themselves.  I love it when they display kindness toward others.  As for lows, again the opposite--getting upset over a bad performance or worrying over a bad grade, getting into arguments with their friends.  And the worst--me realizing the times when I've not been a good role model and they're copying my bad behavior. Q: No one else may care, but I took a brief look at your FB and your husband had an interesting theme to your Christmas gifts. Care to explain that? A:  HA!  For years, he has always managed to get me a Christmas gift that either makes me laugh until I cry or embarrasses the heck out of me and I have to take it in another room to unwrap by myself.  This time, he went full out and got me 12 of those crazy gifts, one for each day leading up to Christmas.  He got me a foul-mouthed cookbook, a talking toilet paper roll, a farting butt bank, a book of cat poems called "I Could Pee on This," and a set of pens with some really weird sayings on them, to name a few.  He made up for his nonsense on Christmas day, though, and got me a custom made electric guitar. Q: Is there anything you wish people would ask about?

A:  I guess my music--most people who know me know that I'm a musician, but not everyone knows I've got 2 recorded songs under my belt.  I wrote them for my Java Jive series, as the heroine is a struggling musician/songwriter, and recorded them with the help of a friend at a local recording studio.  They're on iTunes, etc. if you want to check them out!

Q: Ok, I'll bite. Let's talk about your music. You said you wrote your songs for your Java Jive series, but do you think it will be something you pursue further? Another thing on your "ahem" diverse resume?

A:  I’d love to write and record music all day, but that would mean putting my day job (writing) on the back burner.  I have a lot of music in my life anyway, as I’m the lead singer/guitarist/arranger for our praise band at church.  Writing brass parts isn’t quite as fun as writing love songs, but it uses the same part of my brain.  And I perform at open mic nights every time I go to Nashville, which is a couple of times a year.  As for my other former jobs, I don’t think I’m ready to dive back into the mortuary world anytime soon… Q: Speaking of diverse interests, as people who happen to be parents and do something to earn a living, we (people) often have interests too. What are some of yours?

A:  Well, music.  I’m lucky to be able to share that with my family—my husband plays piano for our praise band, my son plays trumpet, and my daughter sings with me.  Aside from that, I love to cook, especially baking with my daughter.  My son and I bingewatch sitcoms together and make Starbucks runs.  My husband and I watch and even attend Pacers basketball games together as often as we can.  As a family, we love to travel. Q: One of my interests is genealogy and I happen to think your last name is interesting. Do you know where it comes from?

A:  Yeah, real interesting.  You would not believe the number of people who mistakenly thing there are actually people out there named “Farting.”  Seriously?  Anyway, I think it’s Scandinavian originally. Q: Classic author question: What two pieces of advice would you give to aspiring authors?

A:  I’d say the best thing you can do is surround yourself with people who are willing and able to help you get to where you want to be.  I’ve got a great support system of family, friends, fellow authors, and industry professionals who help me polish my work, get my name out there, and offer great advice.  Secondly, do your research.  Keep up with what’s hot in the industry.  Study the writing and marketing styles of other authors and learn what readers respond to best.  Make sure what you’re writing has an audience.  There’s nothing more soul-crushing than pouring months of your life into a manuscript and having someone tell you that no one is going to want to read it.