#THIS IS THE EIGHTIES OF MY MOMMA

[bougiebutchbitch]

nobody:

absolutely nobody:

me: so the kragdu break up in vol 2 literally happened because kraglin's the stepdad who always felt like he had to compete with the kid and he was just sick of it and he has a really interesting fraught but loving relationship with peter that's sort of fatherly and sort of weird-uncle-y, where they both really care about each other but struggle to define it. whereas yondu laid eyes on that kid and was like. full momma-duck mode. I am a parent now. I am going to do an absolutely AWFUL job of this because I have processed precisely 0 of my trauma and I think hitting a kid to teach him how to fight and keeping him in fear by threatening to eat him at every opportunity is what Good Pirate Parenting looks like because hey, it's better than selling your baby into slavery, right!!!! :DDDD and the two of them are trying to keep this fragile sack of human (or... potentially...... HALF GOD) flesh alive and THE FUCK AWAY from his Evil Child-Murdering Sperm Donor while pretending they just fucking kidnapped him on. a literal whim. for the funsies (and to stop him chasing down the truth, but where Yondu 'babytalks as a really weird power move' Udonta's involved, let's be honest.... it's mostly for the funsies). All while babysitting their ultraviolent gang of leather-clad space-biker-pirates who will MUTINY AND SLAUGHTER ALL OF THEM if they show Peter any overt affection or favouritism. meanwhile Peter LITERALLY JUST LOST HIS MOM and was KIDNAPPED UNDER EXTREMELY TRAUMATIC CIRCUMSTANCES FROM HIS HOME PLANET AND HIS WHOLE FAMILY. Sure, he's an excited and adventurous kid by nature who loooooves space and exploring new worlds (what kid DOESN'T want to be a space pirate???) but the realities of Ravagering are rough and bloody even if they're sometimes fun. He's desperately trying to keep hold of the little boy his mom loved, the boy who got beat up by the bullies at the river trying to protect a helpless little frog. Trying to preserve something of her - of himself - through a lifeline of seventies/eighties bops. And against all the odds, IT WORKS! Peter finally flies the nest, goes his own way and gets his own crew, and hasn't absorbed that cycle of abuse!! he is a GOOD DAD to groot!!!! he is.... recovering from alcoholism and a WHOLE lot of grief, but in the end, he comes home to Earth, changed in so many ways, some for the worse but most for the better -

my beloved followers, living in 2024, with no idea what I'm talking about: okay

[poetrex]

Photographs Don't Show That Anymore

[F]Sunlight was more [Fmaj7]golden in the [Bb]Eighties; The [C7]film & photo[C]graphs, they do not [Am7]lie.[F] [A7]Things, they were more [Dbdim]orange, &[A7] kinda [D]grainy— & we [A7]rode our bikes out [A9]late until [C]The moon rose over [C7]Shanty Hill, [F]Streetlamps filled the [Fmaj7]night with much more [Bb]mystery. We [C7]drank in parks and [C]smoked inside the [Am7]bar.[F] Oh, I'm [A7]livin' that Late [Dbdim]nineteen-hun[A7]dreds his[D]tory, When [A7]phones hung on our [A9]walls from cords We [C]tied in knots [C7]when we got bored. [F]But kids these days, they [Fmaj7]don't know how to [Bb]do that. I [C7]can't say I re[C]member how my[Am7]self.[F] [A7]Sunlight was more [Dbdim]gol[A7]den—but [D]you knew that. I [A7]let the tires [A9]run out of air, I [C]put my dreams up [C7]on the shelf. [F]But somewhere, [Dm]deep down, I've still got it [F]in [Am]me: The [F]willow tree; the [A]streetlamp; and [Dm]the dark. [F]And somewhere out there, [A7]always [Dm]one more [Bb]mystery. The [A7]Berlin Wall was [Dbdim]not so [A7]far As [C]midnight on the [C7]VCR. [F]And not all of our [Fmaj7]cars came with a [Bb]seatbelt. Yea, [C7]we rolled down the [C]windows with a [Am7]crank.[F] [A7]Rewound our [Dbdim]cassette tapes[A7] with [D]a pencil. [A7]Dialed random [A9]numbers, Got [C]the cops called on a [C7]prank. [F]And kids these days, I [Fmaj7]don't know how they [Bb]do it. It's [C7]not that I'm too [C]old to learn new [Am7]tricks.[F] And [A7]if this is the [Dbdim]Future, I'm [A7]in[D]to it— But [A7]every now and [Dbdim]then I need [A7]my [A7]Late 1900s fix.[Dm] [F]‘Cause when I was a [Dm]boy, my momma [F]told [Am]me, As she [F]brushed a lock of [A]hair from out my [Dm]face: [F]The years fly by, but [A7]only these [Dm]moments [Bb]hold me. Then she [A7]tucked me into [Dbdim]bed [C]As she sang Chantilly [C7]Lace. & she said, [F]Sunlight in the [Fmaj7]Sixties [F]was more [Bb]golden When we [C7]thought those Cuban [C]Missiles'r gonna [Am7]fly.[F] [F]When you get the chance [A]to make your memories, [Bb]hold em; When [A7]Paul McCartney beamed on [Dbdim]Channel 3, [C]We screamed until we [C7]died. [F]Yea, sunlight in the [Fmaj7]Sixties [F]was more [Bb]golden, [A7]But the future always [Dbdim]finds you [A7]far too [Dm]soon. Your [F]momma’s much too [A7]young to feel this [Dm]old, and[Bb] [A7]I can’t believe [Dbdim]we argued over [C]Elvis & Pat [C7]Boone! 'Cause [F]we're all much too [Dm]young to feel this [F]old, and[Am] [F]Nothing is the [A]way it was [Dm]before, [F]And somewhere out there, [A7]sunlight still [Dm]is golden[Bb] [A7]But the photographs… They don't show that any[Dm]more.[F][Bb][A7][Dm] (They’re bad at! bad at! they scatter the glamour the gloom!) No, they don’t show that anymore. (They’re bad at! bad at! that data! the digital boom!) They don’t show that anymore! (They’re bad at! bad at! that glittery goldeny hue!) They don’t show that anymore.

[unlimbed]

harris dickinson,  29 / 78,  cis man,  he/him   𐫱     ›   hey, isn’t that skyler harvey? i’ve heard that they’ve lived in bearhold for eight years. rumor has it that they can be rather impulsive and hyperbolic, but hey, that’s just in their nature as a nightwalker vampire. they totally make up for it by being versatile and steadfast. if you’re looking for them, you can probably find them at their work as an uber driver in bearhold.

BASICS :

BIRTH NAME : [ REDACTED ]

KNOWN AS : skyler harvey, or simply sky

BIRTHDATE : april 1, 1946

BIRTHPLACE : texarkana, texas

AGE : physically 29, literally 78

SPECIES : nightwalker vampire ( turned in '75 )

SEXUALITY : bisexual / fluid

OCCUPATION : your friendly neighborhood uber driver

BIG 3 SIGNS : who gives a fuck about all that??

POSITIVE TRAITS : versatile, steadfast, confident, accepting

NEGATIVE TRAITS : impulsive, hyperbolic, jaded, conniving

SPOKEN LANGUAGES : english, some spanish

ABILITIES : amplified persuasion with the aid of physical touch

DISTINGUISHABLE FEATURES : 6'2, an unfortunate ginger mullet, pristine skin that some would say glitters, an unshakable southern accent

FAVORITES : the color of red dirt, summertime swimming holes, pistachios, line dancing, humans as juice boxes, night drives, getting lost in a crowd, crashing parties, anonymity, horses, holding onto anger, complicating the simplest plans

THUS FAR . . .

everyone gets a different story. you smile with all thirty-two of your pearly whites bared and spin a new tale every time ; "i'm from texas, my momma raised me right," you say all low and husky in the ear of a woman who won't live to see tomorrow. " - and then!" you explode with enthusiasm, enthralling a bar full of old-timers, "he rolled in fuckin' cow shit!" it doesn't even feel like a fib when you look around the main street of a nondescript town and declare, "yep, never lived anywhere else. can't imagine it any different." your life is a tapestry of lies, draping across state lines and folding over on itself as the years fly by. you lose track of people, places, and things, wrapping yourself in the comfort of an eternal hangover, cherry-picking the memories you plan to live from one fleeting moment to the next. it feels good to choose who you are. to take that control back. in all your travels, there is one constant. you do not mention the fear — the confusion. you never think about how you can't remember it. the night that your life changed. the night that your life ended - and you were reborn, just like goddamn jesus christ himself. you are not lonely. you are not starved. you do not miss the warmth of the sun or your brother's laugh. you focus instead on the power and the fury, and the ice running so quick through your veins you still feel hot some nights. you do not know your maker, so you return the favor to the universe tenfold. you leave behind a string of bitten lovers and strangers alike, bestowing the same cursed gift that befell you, once upon a time, and leave them stranded without a guide. is it revenge or retribution? you dwell on it frequently until — until there's bearhold. a damp comfort of a town, so different from your home ( your real home, that you pretend to not recall ) and its screaming your name so loudly its practically echoing between the cliffs and ocean. maybe it'd do you some good to settle for a while. just a while... you're almost eighty, after all. maybe it's about time you started acting your age.

[sallysgrancanwrite]

Chapter Eighty-Four

Masterlist.

As Chloe lay in bed she couldn’t help but think of Alan. He was a great friend and had been there for her many times. Michael hated him because he thought Chloe was having an affair with Alan. She would never do that, even with all the pain Michael caused her and Emma, Chloe had always been faithful.

She wondered if Beth and Edith were right. Did Alan like her as more than just a friend? How come she couldn’t see it. They were just friends, she kept telling them, but now as she closed her eyes to sleep she started asking herself, was there more? And how did that make her feel? After Michael, she had become a bit scared of men. A little untrusting of men. But there was something different about Alan.

Soon she passed out, thoroughly exhausted but happy about how great the day had been. Tomorrow it was back to work.

Beth had to wake Chloe for work the next morning. She had overslept.

“Chloe, you have to get up. We have to get to work. “ Beth told her pulling off her blankets.

“I’m so cold and it’s warm in bed,” Chloe said. “I’ll jump in the shower quickly.” She told Beth.

“You don’t have time sweetie. We have just enough time to grab some coffee and head out.” Beth informed her.

Chloe hurriedly put on her uniform and put up her hair. She ran downstairs where Emma was up helping Grammy with eggs.

“Come here little bug and give Momma a kiss before I leave.” Chloe said.

Emma came over and kissed her Momma goodbye and quickly ran back to the egg making adventure. Chloe grabbed her purse and out the girls went.

Work was super slow that day. Families were still gathered together for the long holiday weekend. No one was out and about. The town was very quiet.

Chloe waited on a couple tables but she could tell today would be a bad tip day.

As she made another pot of coffee, the entrance bell rang. She turned to see Alan walk in.

He walked to the counter and found a seat. Beth asked Chloe if she wanted to wait on him.

“I guess I can.” replied Chloe.

“I just thought because he’s your friend you would want to do it.” Beth informed Chloe.

Chloe grabbed a menu and walked over. She was a bit embarrassed by how she looked. Hair just thrown up, no makeup. Just a mess.

“Good morning,” she said as she handed him the menu.

“Good morning, Chloe. I don’t need a menu. I’ll just have two eggs over easy, toast and coffee. “ Alan said.

“Okay. I’ll get this in. It won’t take long.” Chloe told him as she walked to turn the ticket in.

Beth walked over to Alan and made small talk with him. Chloe just listened while she filled salt and pepper shakers.

“Alan, we are playing cards tomorrow night. Would you like to come?” Beth asked him.

What is she up to? Chloe wondered. She knew Beth, Edith and Bob really liked Alan. She just got divorced. How would it look if she started seeing him? Michael will think he’s right and we had been seeing each other all along.

“Would you mind?” Alan asked Chloe.

“That’s fine. If you would like to.” Chloe stated.

Alan’s breakfast was ready so she took it to him and filled his coffee cup.

“Enjoy your meal.” She told him as she put the plate in front of him.

“Thank you.” He replied.

Just then in the door came Michael. Oh great thought Chloe. He’ll have something to say.

“Don’t you have a cafe in your town Alan?” Michael asked him. “Or do you like my wife?”

“I’m not your wife. Let’s get that straight!” Chloe snapped.

“Oh, that’s right. You got the judge to hand you over all my money.” He snapped back.

He grabbed her arm when she walked back and growled, “This isn’t over. Just remember that.”

Both Alan and Beth ran over and Alan told him to let go of Chloe’s arm.

“She’s not your punching bag anymore!” Beth told him.

Michael let go but was seething inside. He wanted nothing more than to get rid of Chloe and Emma.

Chloe went to the back and Beth followed.

“Are you okay?” She asked her friend.

“Yeah, it’s just sore. He grabbed me pretty hard.” Chloe responded.

“Chloe! You already have a bruise starting!” Beth said angrily.

“It’s fine. I’m used to it. Let’s get back to work.” She said.

They walked back out and Alan wanted to know if she was okay. “It’s fine Alan really.” Chloe told him.

“No, it’s not. He bruised her.” Beth told Alan.

“You need to tell the sheriff. He’s violating his restraining order.” Alan told her.

“He shouldn’t even be in here.” Beth said.

“How about we go for a drink after work.” Beth said. “You are welcome to come too.” She said, looking at Alan.

“You girls don’t need me hanging out,” he replied.

“Nonsense,” they said. “Besides, I owe you a drink for standing up for me,” said Chloe.

“Well, okay. I can stop in for a minute.” He told them. Inside he was happy to spend more time with Chloe. She was becoming special to him.

[stickthisbig]

Sabine, why did it take so long for you to switch to Firefox?

That would be because Firefox is so goddamn ugly its momma would call the church, but every time I try to find a fix it's eighty-nine pages telling me how actually, I'm the one who's wrong, how dare I try to impose my standards on precious Mozilla

[simgrump]

Gen One, Day Eighty-Two

“We need to pick up my honors cord,” Eris told her Mom as they headed to the dressing room with a few dresses to try on. Eris was referring to the cord she’d wear over her gown to signal that she had graduated with honors from high school. “We have to get it by Friday or I might not have it in time...-” 

“We’ll get it, sweetie,” Robyn promised, taking Eris’s spare dresses that she wanted to try and sitting down so she could help her daughter decide on the dress. Eris was worrying more about graduation than she’d worried about a lot of things in life, which made Robyn a proud momma. She should be excited for it. Should be proud of the accomplishments she’d made in school. She was smart and Robyn had no doubt that those smarts were going to carry over into her college studies. 

A physics degree was no joke, but Eris had her mind set on being a civil engineer. Ever since she’d met someone from a company out in Evergreen Harbor that had worked as a civil engineer, Eris had been awestruck. Plus, it would allow her to continue with her computer aided design passion. 

“Oh, Mom!” Eris cried when she tried on the first dress. It had been her first pick and she didn’t think she needed to try on any of the others. “This is it.” 

Legacy Page

[longliverockback]

Paul McCartney Limited Edition CDS [SHM-CD Box Set] 2024 MPL Communications ————————————————— Track CD One: McCartney 01. The Lovely Linda 02. That Would Be Something 03. Valentine Day 04. Every Night 05. Hot as Sun • Glasses 06. Junk 07. Man Was Lonely 08. Oo You 09. Momma Miss America 10. Teddy Boy 11. Singalong Junk 12. Maybe I’m Amazed 13. Kreen • Akrore

Tracks CD Two: Ram 01. Too Many People 02. 3 Legs 03. Ram On 04. Dear Boy 05. Uncle Albert • Admiral Halsey 06. Smile Away 07. Heart of the Country 08. Monkberry Moon Delight 09. Eat at Home 10. Long Haired Lady 11. Ram On (Reprise) 12. The back Seat of My Car

Tracks CD Three: Wild Life 01. Mumbo 02. Bip Bop 03. Love Is Strange 04. Wild Life 05. Some People Never Know 06. I Am Your Singer 07. Bip Bop [link] 08. Tomorrow 09. Dear Friend 10. Mumbo [link]

Tracks CD Four: Red Rose Speedway  01. Big Barn Bed 02. My Love 03. Get on the Right Thing 04. One More Kiss 05. Little Lamb Dragonfly 06. Single Pigeon 07. When the Night 08. Loup (1st Indian on the Moon) 09. Medley   a. Hold Me Tight   b. Lazy Dynamite   c. Hands of Love   d. Power Cut

Tracks CD Five: Band on the Run 01. Band on the Run 02. Jet 03. Bluebird 04. Mrs.Vandebilt 05. Let Me Roll It 06. Mamunia 07. No Words 08. Picasso’s Last Words (Drink to Me) 09. Nineteen Hundred and Eighty Five —————————————————

* Long Live Rock Archive

[theblogofruth]

"The Fib." From the Book of Ruth 1: 11-18.

A dead husband, #360, "dead calm" in Judaism is verily, a thing of the past. All one has to do is pack up and move home to momma and things will be all right soon enough. The characters in our story, Ruth and Naomi disagree. Naomi "delightfulness" says she is too old and bitter for a new man, but Ruth "friendliness" says God's helping hand will provide her with a new life if she has faith.

Parsha Tazria "the bitter whores" is dedicated to this very topic. Recall bitterness which refers to the scent of myrrh is not a bad thing. It is a sign experience has made one more masculine, scented not with body odor or nasty smell, but the ardor of achievement. Age is also not discouraged in the Torah. Every last one of the sages and prophets aged out around one hundred, meaning they achieved Shabbat at the proper age.

Observe: Shmot says Moses stood before Pharaoh at the age of 80 and died at the age of 120:

Moses was eighty years old and Aaron eighty-three when they spoke to Pharaoh, Exodus 7:7.

The Value in Gematria is 5418, הדאח‎, the dah, "the age of reason" which scholars say can begin as early as age 7.

and

Moses was a hundred and twenty years old when he died, yet his eyes were not weak nor his strength gone, Deut 34:7.

The Value in Gematria is 8843, חחדג, "he was picky, he used a spade."

= He was capable of discernment, managing complex thoughts and their interactions.

Everything in Tazria takes place as a consequence of inexperience between age 80 and 120. They are essentially the opposite reactions to life as in the Sefirot.

A brash young man or woman emotes in response to life with bitterness of the wrong kind, causes by defiling diseases, but a confident one that is silent until his Jewish background is thoroughly researched and sanctioned by his master is bittersweet in ways that are positive:

The names of the ten Sefirot are:

Chochmah - wisdom,

Binah - understanding,

Daat - knowledge,

Chessed - kindness,

Gevurah - strength,

Tiferet - beauty,

Netzach - victory,

Hod - splendor,

Yesod - foundation,

and Malchut - kingship.

The next few passages in Ruth deal with the transition between the two kinds of bitternesses. The structure consists of eight stanzas, considered by the Gematria "an Endearment":

11 But Naomi said, “Return home, my daughters. Why would you come with me? Am I going to have any more sons, who could become your husbands? 

12 Return home, my daughters; I am too old to have another husband. Even if I thought there was still hope for me—even if I had a husband tonight and then gave birth to sons—

 13 would you wait until they grew up? Would you remain unmarried for them? No, my daughters. It is more bitter for me than for you, because the Lord’s hand has turned against me!”

14 At this they wept aloud again. Then Orpah kissed her mother-in-law goodbye, but Ruth clung to her.

15 “Look,” said Naomi, “your sister-in-law is going back to her people and her gods. Go back with her.”

16 But Ruth replied, “Don’t urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. 

17 Where you die I will die, and there I will be buried. May the Lord deal with me, be it ever so severely, if even death separates you and me.” 

18 When Naomi realized that Ruth was determined to go with her, she stopped urging her.

The Values in Gematria are:

v. 11: Return home. The Number is 10719, יזא‎‎ט‎, yazat, "do this now."

v. 12: I am too old. The Number is 9276, טב‎ז‎ו‎‎, "tableau" = figures in history. We grow old but not irrelevant. The opposite is true especially if we always follow the Torah which explains aging to us.

v. 13: Even still, why wait till you grow up? The Number is 12002, יפפספסב, ipfsfb, "equate a fib to zero."

"The famous tale of Archimedes in the tub commemorates how difficult it is to discern between true gold and false gold, which in turn discusses how difficult it is to discern between true knowledge and a slick fib. A gold crown may conveniently be submerged in water, but a substance to test a "crown of knowledge" is hard to come by.

The rightful veneration of knowledge necessitated tools to mine it, to purify it, to store it and to retrieve it. It was the birth of information technology. The invention of script allowed the perpetual storage of knowledge in a medium other than a perishable human brain, which made David triumphantly cry out that the "Holy One" [i.e. the Word] would not "see decay" (Psalm 16:10, ACTS 2:7).

But even prior to this amazing invention of data retention, a convention had to be wrought that governed the way observations were harvested for data, and data was transformed into knowledge."

v. 14: At this they wept aloud. This is because Orpah "the hinterland, submission due to fear or stubborness" and Ruth "the vision" are at odds with each other:

"The verb ערף ('arap) means to drip or drop. Noun עריף ('arip) means cloud and ערפל ('arapel) describes a heavy cloud mass.

The noun ערף ('orep) means neck. It possibly derives from a whole other, unrelated verb of unknown meaning, but it may also be that underneath all these words hides a core meaning of to droop. This latter noun is used nearly solely in expressions that are based on the hanging of one's head (in submission, fear or stubbornness). The denominative verb ערף ('arap) literally means to neck but in practice it describes the breaking of one's neck."

vs.

"Most broadly, the root רעע (ra'a') describes compartmentalization: to break some continuum apart into separated elements. Human minds are designed to be nodes of a much greater network of exchange, and must continuously interact to maintain a liquidity of wisdom — hence the noun רע (rea'), meaning friend or companion (and hence too the story of the Tower of Babel).

All wealth requires liquidity and that requires units of economy to go around. This explains why "evil" — רע, ra', evil — is not the opposite of "good" but instrumental to it: hence the perfect Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil in the heart of perfect Paradise. Despite popular misconceptions, in the Bible, all רע (rea') comes from God (Isaiah 45:7) and has a specific and wonderful function in any naturally evolving system.

Verb רעה (ra'a I) means to pasture or feed and the participle רעה (ra'a) means shepherd. Nouns רעי (re'i) and מרעה (mir'eh) mean pasture. Noun מרעית (mar'it) means pasturage.'

A dead husband while "hinterland" is as we said a moment when life, while appearing to strand us has actually liberated us.

The Number is 5836, ה‎חגו‎‎‎, "cry, then celebrate."

To cry, according to the Rab is to know all of life. Once one knows all of life, one knows how to do it right, which is why being separated or single again can be part of God's plan and should be viewed with optimism.

"From earliest infancy, we cry and smile as a form of communication. But with whom are we communicating when we weep solitary tears? With whom are we sharing our joy when we smile to ourselves, alone and unseen? The Arizal writes that the numerical value of 'Dimah–Tears' is 120, which in Torah signifies full life."

v. 15: Look! Go back to your gods!

The Number is 4581, דהחא‎, doha, "repulsive, repellant, objectionable, unsavoury". Deities and demigods are boys with penises. Not to be confused with the gods of Israel who are angels who have been charged with Sumer, "guarding Israel."

While the Torah is obnoxious about the worship of gods, it does allow a men and women, boys and girls to idolize each other and to become infatuated. If he's not a god why would you want to be with him? God wants us to fall in love with gods provided the admiration is justified. They key is to know the difference between gods that are protective, called a Sumerian, and which are destructive. The type of god depends on the level of reality, either the sacred or the profane with which one is contending.

Asher is not Ashur, for instance.

vs.

= The Torah states unless the "object" is consecrated, it is off limits. No good will come of it. Consecration is defined in Naso, which explains all the ways a boy god called a Nazir by the Torah becomes a man. It is not that complicated:

"...they must not make themselves ceremonially unclean... because the symbol of their dedication to God is on their head. 8 Throughout the period of their dedication, they are consecrated to the Lord."

=

v. 16: Where you go, I will go. One must not try to relate to God on one's own. Without a shared romantic reality, one lives within an isolated delusion. So as the Torah and Ruth both state, the God one finds through compatible companionship with one's honey squeeze is the right one:

Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God. 

The Number is 14853, ידחג‎ ‎ "will postpone." We know we are with the right person when we want to postpone the rest of life to spend time in their presence. To find and abide in life with such a person is the goal of all Jewish lifetimes. It is essential not to misunderstand this. To live otherwise is heresy and evil in the eye of the Lord.

v. 17: Where you die, I will die. The Number is 10326, יג‎‎בו‎, "will collect all the backup."

When Jewish people die and undergo salvation, they undergo a process called Emulation, "to surpass by following the rest."

The process involves fading, also called manasseh, the evaporation of all that does not resonate with the Shoftim, the Jewish Self. Ruth is a bridge bewteen understanding this process and actual activation of it. This does not mean we "give it all to God" that makes no sense. The Torah says God will take it all away from us once we reach a level of the fullest involvement with the Torah and Tanakh.

As stated above this cannot be done outside of happy matrimony.

v. 18: Ruth stopped urging. Urges are latent self-expressions. Some society will agree with, some it will punish. Those which are good but possibly punishable are the ones we want to show on the surface of the Self. A good friend with benefits 😒 will seem determined to contribute to their success.

The Number is 5802, החאֶפֶסב, "the prisoner hafesb." "Keep this person prisoner in your house, in your life."

The friendly entity known as Ruth called the "assistant vision" is not God or the Torah or the religion, he or she must be a real person and not too much of a god. Religion can be confusing in this regard, but thankfully that is now cleared up.

The New Jewish Romance Channel will continue....

[noloveforned]

a little thought exercise for you this afternoon. imagine waking up on thanksgiving morning and realizing you still need to go to the grocery store before you can cook dinner. that's kinda how it feels when bandcamp fridays coincide with my radio show. i've finally gotten a bit better at the balancing act so we've got all the trimmings for tonight's show on wlur from 8pm to midnight. all you need to bring is yourself (and maybe a drink if you'd like one!)

there are also plenty of leftovers for you- last week's show is up on mixcloud (also seen below).

no love for ned on wlur – march 29th, 2024 from 8-10pm

artist // track // album // label the spinanes // hawaiian baby // rummy 7" // imp chastity belt // hollow // live laugh love // suicide squeeze non la // every lie // like before // mint the mystic tide // why // frustration // numero group rick white // these days // twenty golden hits of the eighties // (self-released) antenna // antenna state // antenna cassette // urge dancer // rein it in // ten songs i hate about you // meritorio essential logic // shabby abbott // john peel session on february 21st, 1979 10" // precious bzdet // starania // maybe it is enough? cassette // tetryon tapes the intelligence // always be kidding // now, squirm! // vapid moonlighting inc. sub verse // chance romance // scaling triangles compilation // zaius tapes anohni // it’s my fault // my back was a bridge for you to cross // secretly canadian beyoncé // ameriican requiem // cowboy carter // parkwood entertainment al harper // some day i'll be a farmer // the analemma observation league // take a turn etta james // my mother-in-law // tell mama // cadet cat power // tell me, momma // cat power sings dylan: the 1966 royal albert hall concert // domino cassie kinoshi's seed. // gratitude, part iv // gratitude // international anthem alice coltrane // shiva-loka // the carnegie hall concert // verve mike and tony seltzer // skurrr // pinball // 10k lilblackkids featuring sainvil and jassxnc // tcl // planet of the blues: part two // epistrophik peach sound e. live // city girl // cloud vibes // star creature maxo featuring zelooperz // playdis! // debbie's son // smileforme liv.e // bma // demos part 1, august and september 2023- sometimes they can't stay (ideas you love) ep // (self-released) the high llamas featuring bonnie "prince" billy // how the best was won // hey panda // drag city ruth garbus, sam gendel and philippe melanson // nature's piano // earth flower // fresh bread vagabon // autobahn // sorry i haven't called // nonesuch nights templar // o dhalgren // year two // reapo present electric // winged victory // present electric cassette // paisley shirt touch girl apple blossom // sidewalk // ep - ep // summer shade poundsign // coffee flavored friend // house of faith demo tape 1993 ep // speakeasy studios sf

[lunar-rotation]

08 Jan 2024

Playing around a bit with formatting since I seem to like doing the liner notes but maybe not fill your dash with one post. Anyway, lemme know what you think

This week’s playlist:

Holding Patterns by Rise Against 

Bde Maka Ska by Atmosphere 

Hanging On by Sophie Lloyd & Lauren Babic 

Footsteps in the Dark by Goodnight Sunrise 

Bang Bang by Momma 

Speak of the Devil (feat. The Score) by Magic Whatever 

When You & Me Dance by Grabbitz 

Eat U Alive (feat. Steve Davit) by Marian Hill 

Until I Come Home by Two Feet & grandson 

Quiet Little Voices by We Were Promised Jetpacks 

Lunar Rotation Weekly by Winifred Yost

Liner Notes (beneath the cut):

Holding Patterns : A playlist needs a strong start, right? Well, I don't think that there are many songs strong than Holding Patterns. I've got a soft spot for rebellion punk and this is that 10000%. Makes me want to headbutt a fascist lol.

Bde Maka Ska : Now we switch gears real hard to a Minnesota rap song about survival and going with the flow. Unlike another song I have talking about BDE, this one is referencing a lake.

Hanging On : It's an epic kinda song with a Wild West feel but also metal and scream. It's a lot. But also really cool.

Footsteps in the Dark : I think I've already written about Timesick, which is the song that put Goodnight Sunrise on my radar. Where that one is much more of a nineties garage rock ballad, this one has a Neo-eighties feel. Still rock. But like. 80s influenced.

Bang Bang : This song is about fucking. Especially as someone's dirty little secret. Mamma once again graces the rotation, this time with a song that feels like it's a bit more influenced by Hole than Verruca Salt. Basically still music that came out before most members of the band were born.

Speak of the Devil (feat. The Score) : Continuing the songs about fucking and desire, this one is about forbidden fruit and being irritatedly attracted to someone. I love a song that has guitar riffs but also a very strong dance beat. Not sure what genre that is. But it's one I like

When You & Me Dance : This song is less about fucking, but more and more about being close to someone in a moment of time. Definite dance song. The music video is wild. Fun fact, I make character playlists for all my TTRPG characters, and this one appears on one for an emotionally stunted gunslinger that sees fighting as "the dance"

Eat U Alive (feat. Steve Davit) : Marian Hill is really good a making songs that are a fusion of thirsty and something else. Most of my favorites are either thirsty and funny or thirsty and foreboding. This one has a bit of a foreboding feel to me. She does a good job of capturing the craving of stupid desire. Plus gotta love the saxual innuendo (no that's not a typo lol)

Until I Come Home : This song brings together two of my favorite artists. There's this feeling of loneliness and separation. The whole thing is very cinematic and just powerful

Quiet Little Voices : Okay, this one isn't really an indie artist or anything. Like, even I know they had radio play. But still, it's a fun song, and one that a lot of you might have missed maybe. It's that same kinda brit rock (Scottish specifically but you fall under brit rock until you're independent sorry) that gave us little lion man.

[dearyallfrommatt]

Family Bibles & Old Picture Books, Halloween Edition

Having a conversation with Momma is a trip. Ask her a question, especially when she's already been wound up, & you might get an answer. You will definitely get an answer that bounces from topic to topic, none with any reasonable connection to the original answer and rarely to each other. You will also get a borderline embarrassing info dump of her family's history. You know how Claudius told folks he was working on a history of the Julians, his family? It's like that but with a lower-middle class, blue-collar family of Mississippi country people. Not rednecks or hicks and definitely not hillbillies, but country people. It's her thing and she's been doing that for as long as I've known her.

She's having a minor medical procedure tomorrow, one of those things old folks have to do to stay alive. It's nothing major but her diet's restricted. In a question about what carbonated drinks can and can't have, she jumped from topic to topic at least eight times in the span of less than three minutes. I never did get an answer, either. This is needed information because I'm having the same procedure next month, as I am officially in the "Gettin' Old" phase of life.

I did learn something terribly interesting, though. My maternal grandfather - someone who looms large in Momma's family history - was a twin and his brother died when I was very young. I don't think he made sixty. Pawpaw made eighty but just barely. Anyhow, both of their wives had the same name.

Not too crazy, I know - one of those cute coincidences that make Reader's Digest lists - but there's something y'all can't get. My grandmother had a very unique first name. Her middle name is a different story, but she had the same name as my uncle's wife. I've never or seen this name anywhere and it's probably a mispronunciation of a name from Classical Rome that Southerns had a thing for around the latter quarter of the nineteenth century.

The only thing interesting about my family is that we're pretty dull. No Faulknerian secrets or hidden shames, just generation after generation of mechanics, farmers, and teachers. We were always good at what we did and could always be counted on to do what we said we'd do. We're still like that, and we still spend just enough time at work as they need to have a family, own where they live, and indulge in their hobbies, usually hunting and/or fishing.

They don't misbehave much, either. Pawpaw's daddy ran a moonshine still and my cousin's middle boy has done time for selling pills. He's straightened himself out that, acknowledging that while he had many talents, he was too dumb to sell drugs. His words and he's a good kid.

It's always the core running thing, but in-laws get absorbed in and treated no differently. Divorced in-laws become persona non grata with a thoroughness Joe Stalin would have admired. And for the most part, everyone's successful middle-class bourgeoisie, the American Dream played out. There was darkness and even though people back then didn't consider it darkness, it was still pretty damn dock. No millionaires, though my uncle's assets count. His surviving son played a season with the Rockies minor league team before deciding he didn't like the life. That's about it. My brother and I have both been in bands you never heard of, but we had fans and sold CDs. That is stretching and I ain't going to pretend it ain't. And alcoholism, but that's almost background noise in those days. Nobody farms anymore but everyone works the Land. The Land is very important in my family and deserves a capital letter.

They're just boring and doing pretty good, basically. Typical middle-class Mississippi, right there, still fixing machines and working the land. But this new revelation and the generational vengeance tropes seen in a multitude of horror movies and books, give me pause. What if my family is cursed? I'm the only stone loser and absolute square peg in the bunch. Furthermore, apart from my brother, I'm the only one who'd agree the fictional family deserved said generational vengeance. My life is fucked up flatter than hammered horseshit because I'm carrying the retribution for my family's sins, which are still not all that unique or interesting.

There is a certain... poetry to it, you got to admit that.

[rhaenyratargeryn]

I mean the aesthetic of early eighties vs late eighties is vastly different @ ppl being all “they don’t have an eighties aesthetic in stranger things anymore!!”

Yeah they do. But it’s the horrifying big hair, leg warmer and ugly ass clothes of the late eighties now folks!!! THE EIGHTIES HAD UGLY ASS TRENDS AND CLOTHES~ NOT EVERYTHING NOSTALGIC IS GOOD 😂😂😂

[yanderemommabean]

Hey Momma I could use some advice if that's ok. I'm currently in year 12 (Australia) and I'm kinda terrified about the future. I don't know what I want to do as a career and I'm scared I'll make a mistake and ruin my life. I try and tell myself that I'll be ok but I'm aware that I need to make that happen so the safety of that sentence goes away. I'm 18 and have never had a job (but I'm trying) and can't drive yet. I just feel like a mess I know I like talking to people about their feelings and I don't mind kids so I think maybe I'll go to TAFE and study psychology and childcare and I like history. But I'm not sure if it'll make me happy or not and I mostly just don't want to end up as a deadbeat still relying on her parents. Any Life advice you could give?. Sorry if this made you uncomfortable.

I completely understand the fear of the future. You feel as if life is coming at you too fast, demanding too much and asking questions you have no time to answer.

You're young. You have eighty years or even more in this life, and trust me, the younger years are for figuring out what works and what doesn't. You aren't a "Failure" if you don't find your calling ASAP. Media has poisoned us to believe that if we aren't successful by 25 we should stop trying, when that simply just isn't the case or how life works.

You're right to be concerned, but know that you DO have time, and if that means taking one road and finding out you need to take another, then so be it! Take it one step at a time, and keep moving forward! Even if you fuck up here and there, you'll be alright.

If you think childcare is a path you'd flourish in then by all means! you have my support for it for sure!

And-for the record here- I'm 22, i went to nursing school because it's what I thought my mom would want and I got so sick both physically and mentally that I had to quit.

Relying on your parents at a young age like this isn't a bad thing, hun. I live with my family and rely on them for things such as cars and what not, does that make me a deadbeat?

All over the world, living with family and relying on each other is normal. Having someone have your back doesn't make you a deadbeat. Whomever put that in your head is wrong plain and simple.

I hope this isn't a dumb ramble sksksk I just want you to know that you have time, you're still young, and depending on people doesn't make you a deadbeat unless you refuse to help or just lay around and act entitled.

As for job advice? Well i've had a few but they were fast food and retail, but you learn as you go from my experience. Just be upfront about any questions or concerns and most people are willing to answer, such as "What do we do if this happens?" or "Wait what about this? Do I do that or is that someone else's job?"

If you come to a place where things are too much, and you need a breather, that's A-OKAY as well! Life is scary, but I'm here to help however I can as well as the rest of the bean family!

I hope I made sense lol I talk too much

-Mommabean

[soulmate-game]

This is an alternate ending for my Bio!dad Joker / Bio!mom Harley AU. Or really, the timeline itself will be entirely different starting from the moment that Marinette’s plane lands in Gotham. If you haven’t read the original, you can do so here.

—*—*—*—*—*

“He’s going to find out, Mom.”

“No he won’t, don’t be silly! I’ve been very careful about hiding you from him, Nettie-pie.”

“Mom… I just have a bad feeling. I don’t think we can hide who I am from him. If he sees me, I think he’ll know.”

The phone went silent.

“If he hurts you, I’ll kill him. If I was crazy about him, Sugar, then I’m head over heels for you. Not even he can stop me from caving his skull in if he tries his usual tricks with you.”

“... My plane leaves soon, I’ll talk to you when I land. And mom?”

“Yeah, honeycake?”

“I love you.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Marinette often hated how accurate her intuition tended to be. She had barely even stepped out of the airport before she had felt the prick of a needle in her neck and the sensation of being shoved into a small, dark space before her vision cut out.

Looks like her mom wasn’t able to hide her existence away as well as they thought.

And unfortunately for Marinette, her darling asshole of a father had apparently had ample time to plan his first meeting with her. If he had just used the much easier to acquire Chloroform on her, then Marinette likely would have woken up early enough to come up with a plan. Chloroform was unreliable and wore off fairly easily. But no, he had actually had the time to steal hospital grade anesthetic.

Which meant that Marinette woke up with her wrists zip-tied to heavy links of chain above her head, and her ankles connected to the chain below her with what felt like ten layers of duct tape.

Lovely.

“Ah, there she is! Good morning, sleepyhead!” Those were the high-pitched, dramatic words she heard when she came back to consciousness. She didn’t even need to open her eyes to know who the speaker was— she had watched enough videos online and not-so-legally obtained Asylum and Prison footage to immediately recognize the speech patterns and tone that was echoing around her.

Apparently keeping her eyes closed was not allowed, because it was only a few seconds later that Marinette felt a harsh slap sting her cheek and whip her face to the side. Oh, that would become a bruise without a doubt. Her teeth betrayed her, cutting into the inside of her mouth with the force of the hit. So, when Marinette opened her eyes to glare at the sperm donor responsible for half of her DNA, she aimed her bloody spit right at him. It landed on his shoe, which only a few seconds later slammed into her gut.

Marinette gasped for air even as the chain she was on swung violently, making her dizzy and upsetting her stomach. Too bad she didn’t have anything in there to throw up on him, she thought angrily. The chain links rattled loudly, ringing in her head alongside the electric pain of both of her newly forming bruises.

“Honestly, is that any way to treat your dear ol’ Daddy?” Joker cooed with false offense, one hand over his heart. Marinette glared at him as best as she could as she continued to sway in the open air, the chain she was tied to being the only thing keeping her from plunging straight down into a vat of sickly green, bubbling liquid.

Marinette didn’t need to be told what that liquid was. And joker knew that, the moment he saw her look down at that vat and saw the realization almost immediately cross her face. So instead of explaining, he laughed. Loud, high, and deranged.

“Good, good! That idiot Harley kept you educated, at least,” he said between psychotic chuckles. “Ah yes, and she somehow managed to choose the perfect name,” he glided over to her, as if he was some ethereal demon of chaos instead of a human. His paper-white hand reached out, grabbing her chin in a crushing grip and turning her face this way and that. Inspecting her as if she was a piece of china and not a living being. “So easy to adjust. Right now, you’re Marinette. Just like how, all those years ago, your mother stood here as Harleen. But just as she was dunked into acid and became my harlequin,” he stepped back and grabbed Marinette’s shoulders. He spun her like a top, making the metal chain creak and clink as it wound into a few weak coils and then released back out, trying to go straight again. It sent Marinette twirling through the air in a horrid half-spin, one-eighty degrees one way before sharply spinning to the other side. Joker laughed.

“Just like that, you’re gonna go from boring old Marinette,” he stuck out his tongue like a child, as if the mere taste of her name was bitter. “And you’ll be reborn as my new little Marionette. Aren’t you excited?!”

“Fuck you,” Marinette spat, even as she tried to blink and return her vision to normal. She was far too disoriented to even come up with a plan— but she was still coherent enough to register that the sky was dark outside the high windows of the factory she was apparently in. She had been missing for a few hours then, which meant that her mom and Momma Ivy would have called for help a long time ago. Maybe if she just stalled long enough, it would get there in time. “I’m not a puppet. Not for you, not for anybody!” She snarled.

Joker rolled his eyes, but his smile still widened. “Oh, that’s what they all say. In fact, your mother put up a good resistance there for a while, but her inner chaos couldn’t resist me. You’ll bend even easier, I have no doubt,” her ran his hand along her cheek in a motion that was so gentle that it felt foreign, wrong, to her coming from him. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to whiplash her, take all her hope away before dangling the option he wanted her to choose in front of her like a carrot on a stick.

Too bad he didn’t know her at all. She cringed away from his gentle touch, revolted by the mere feel of his skin on her’s.

“And your accent is a nice touch,” he cooed as if her reaction didn’t bother him at all. It probably didn’t. “Exotic. Just the thing I need to freshen up my usual act a bit, the Boston twang my old Harlequins had is just… stale by now, don’t you agree?”

Marinette clenched her jaw at the reminder that he had tried to pass off a cheap look-alike as her mom when she disappeared, back when she was pregnant with Marinette, to hide her baby from Joker. How he had discarded that woman like trash when Harley went back to him, only to replace her again when her mom left him for good.

No matter how badly Joker spoke of her mom, Marinette knew that Harley had been the only Harlequin of his to actually last. The only one he kept around, and there was a reason for that. Now, he was looking for another replacement. One that was more than a cheap knockoff, and he was hoping that a teenager with not only Harley’s genetics, but also his own, would be the exact kind of right-hand prop he wanted. An obedient little puppet of chaos, just for him.

But Marinette was nobody's toy. She had been used and taken advantage of enough back in Paris, she had spent her whole life struggling to escape the side effects of her parentage. To deal with the things she inherited.

The obsessiveness, the way she was so quick to get attached. She knew she inherited that from her mom. But there was also the rage, the anger that Marinette constantly had to stuff down. Hide below the surface before it hurt someone. Keep under a tight reign and hide away in the back of her mind, her own dirty little secret.

The constant reminder of just who her biological father was. Because that anger, that viciousness, could only have come from him.

She had spent her whole life trying to carve herself her own identity, to create beauty with the chaotic elements she got from her blood. And she couldn’t blame her mother, not really. Her mother at least did her best to help, and always leant an empathetic ear when Marinette needed it. But Joker?

Oh, she could, and would, blame him even long after he was dead and gone. Because he was the one who hurt her mother, he was the one who twisted her and drove her to feel unfit to be a parent. And sometimes, Marinette thought it would be better if Joker never existed. Sure, that meant she never would have been born. But wouldn’t that have been easier, too? To not ever have to experience the struggle that came with being his daughter, a title she never consented to?

But she couldn’t change the past. She was alive, and she would use her life to spite everything that the Joker stood for. That would be her revenge. He wanted a toy?

Joker had been monologuing, but Marinette drowned it all out as she kept her periphery vision on the windows above her. Shadows moved out there, with familiar bright yellows and shadowy blacks. The bats were there. She just needed to stall.

She opened her mouth. Joker pulled a lever.

Marinette dropped.

Wire whizzed through the air, knocking the breath out of Marinette as it wound around her torso. She was barely able to piece together what was happening; one of the bats shot a human-safe grapple to try and pull her away from the acid.

But the chain and her restraints were stronger, heavier, and just dragged the grapple down with her body.

The impact sent a large wave of sickly green liquid surging over the side of the vat, and Marinette was dragged from view underneath the surface.

It burned.

She distantly felt the tape around her ankles peel itself away from her skin, the combination of acid and wetness rendering it useless. She felt the chemicals burning at her, sending painful tingles across every last inch of her skin. It got in her mouth, she didn’t have any breath in her to hold and ended up swallowing some. It seared her throat and created a river of lava inside her. It hurt.

It hurt so bad, she just wanted out. Out. Out. Out!

Someone pull her out now!

The zip tie around her wrist loosened enough for her to pull herself free, right as something heavy slammed into the heavy metal bowl. The entire container sloshed, slamming to fall onto its side. Marinette’s body was pulled alongside the rush of liquid as it flowed out, and she was able to breathe air again. Sweet, cooling air.

And then she hacked up acid, spitting and spewing it in an attempt to purge every last drop she had accidentally ingested. Like a cat choking on a hairball, she coughed and hacked and her chest convulsed and contracted to try and help her. Her ribs ached, she figured that the grapple that had tried to save her had ended up fracturing or breaking a rib or two. But all she cared about was breathing and getting rid of the chemicals she had inhaled. She needed it out. All of it. Out. Out. Out of her!

“Try to take a deep breath,” a gruff voice commanded, soft but solid. Something stable for her to cling to. So she did as it asked, forcing herself to stop hacking and instead focus on inhaling. As slowly as she could. It was difficult, the first few breaths cut themselves off with more involuntary coughing, but the owner of the gruff voice stayed nearby. Repeated it’s request. “Deep breath. Steady, now. In. Out. Good.”

Marinette was just starting to calm down, just starting to claw herself out of the haze of panic and adrenaline, when that wretched laugh cut through the air again.

“There you are! Heheheheh! My cute little Marionette!”

Marinette froze. She could barely think, barely understand her own emotions. But she knew she was different now. She knew there was no way back, he had taken it from her. He had taken her normality, he had taken all of her years of hard work and burned them right in front of her.

He had won. The bats hadn’t been fast enough. But, if her foggy mind was correct, Batman was the one trying to bring her back to lucidity. Batman was the one trying to help her get air back in her lungs.

Not her so-called father.

If he wanted a toy, she’d be a haunted doll. She’d harass him, haunt him, until he wanted nothing to do with her. She’d come back, like a possessed porcelain doll refusing to be thrown away. She would make him regret ever awakening the monster that she had spent so long forcing down. Because she was her father’s daughter, yes. But she was also her mother’s daughter.

And most importantly, she was Marinette Quinzel-Isley. Her own damned person. The Chosen wielder of the Creation miraculous. And she would never bow down and be used by anyone, ever again.

Tikki’s words from so long ago echoed in her mind. Resounded even louder than Joker’s laughter;

“That’s all order really is, Marinette. The decision to take all the chaos and madness around us, and make it make sense. Make it do something good.”

And wasn’t that everything Marinette had ever done? It was a part of her now. Like a tattoo she had inked into her very soul.

She took the chaos she was given, and turned it into something beautiful. And right now? Right now, the most beautiful thing she could think of was Joker’s face when she slammed her fist into it.

“Easy,” Batman repeated, but for a different reason now. Marinette’s lungs still stuttered a little, but her breathing was mostly under control. Now, he was saying it because Marinette was forcing herself to her feet. Her legs trembled under her, threatening to lay her out on the floor again. But she was every bit as stubborn as Joker, which made for a terrifying combination with her all-consuming fury. The acid had broken the mental chains Marinette had been using to hold it back, and now it burned fierce and bright in her eyes.

So Marinette kept herself up right, cognizant of Batman’s hand on her shoulder but ignoring it. She grit her teeth against the burning light of the room, everything suddenly too bright and colorful. Too vibrant. But it did little to distract her. She realized that one of her hands still gripped the heavy chain that had sent her drowning in the acid, and sent a snarl at her darling, jackass of a father as she whipped it out right towards him.

“Marinette!” Batman yelled, his grip tightening on her shoulder. But he didn’t pull her back, which spoke louder than any words he could have said to her right then. He wouldn’t save Joker from his daughter, he knew the man deserved at least this much pain. And sure enough, the metal links slammed right into Joker’s side, winding around him like a crushing whip.

But that was all Marinette had the strength to do. As soon as she saw Joker’s body hit the floor, writhing in agony and painfully loud cackles, her hand let go of the chain and her body tumbled down. Batman caught her.

“Red Hood, Nightwing, get Joker back to Arkham,” Batman’s order faded in and out of focus. Now that her most pressing desire was taken care of, the effects of the acid reared their ugly heads with renewed ferocity. Everything was too bright, too loud, and her thoughts echoed in her head like voices wrestling for supremacy. “Robin, Black Bat, stay on alert. Harley said that she’s incredibly trained,” he warned his partners. Marinette didn’t begrudge him, the only other two people who had survived being dunked into those chemicals hadn’t exactly treated him with kindness and pacifism. But she could barely focus on them anyway, too distracted by trying to reign in the chaos in her mind.

But Joker would never stay silent, even as he was dragged away in chains.

“Hehehahahahaha! Paper white, paper white!” He jeered cheerfully. “That’s my girl! Violent just like Papa!” Red hood knocked him out with a harsh punch to the side of his neck before he could say another word. But it was enough— enough for Marinette to gasp in realization.

Her skin. It was paper white, just like his. Not even Harley’s skin had been bleached like the Joker’s after her dip in the acid. That had always been makeup. Her mom had a healthy, peachy complexion like anyone else. A complexion Marinette had shared— until now. Now, she was unhealthily pale. Just like him.

A painful screech tore itself from her already raw throat, and Marinette’s fingernails immediately began to tear at her own skin. Red. Red was better than white— she didn’t want to look like him. She couldn’t. White was bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.

“Marinette! Stop!” Strong hands clamped around her wrists, pulling her hands away from herself even as she wriggled and tried to keep clawing at herself.

“No! No no no!” Marinette howled. “I don’t wanna look like him! I don’t wanna be like him!” She managed to get one hand free and immediately tried to tear away at her face. Batman was able to wrestle her arm away before she could do any damage besides a few angry red lines. “I refuse! I refuse! I refuse!” She shook her head, not feeling as tears flung themselves off her cheeks.

“Okay,” Batman’s voice was solid again, soft and grumbly and stable. She grabbed at it again, drawn to anything that might help bring her stability. She needed his unflappable attitude right then, and he probably didn’t even realize how badly. “That’s good. But you don’t need to rip your skin off to do that, you know that right?”

Marinette hiccuped, finally sinking down to sob as the weight of everything she had lost pressed down over the chaos of deafening light and blinding sound that continued to jumble around inside her head. “He changed me,” she choked out. Batman nodded even though she wasn’t looking at him.

“He did.”

“Th-that f-fucking bastard,” Marinette managed a sad chuckle before devolving right back into sobs. “I wo-worked so h-hard. N-never hurt any-anybody. Never… never yelled. Ne-never hit… Not people who didn’t attack f-first.”

“I know. Your mom told me,” he confirmed calmly. Solid, tethering. Marinette swallowed another gulp of air, trying to calm down. But everything was too much.

“Mom!” She suddenly realized out loud, turning and grabbing at Batman’s chest, clinging to his uniform. She didn’t even care that she almost sliced herself on a batarang, she clung to him desperately with wide, crazed eyes. “G-get Mom and… and Ivy! They… they can help. They know—“ Marinette paused to breathe, then resumed. “Momma Ivy— she gave me—gave me a diluted… th-thingy, years ago, I can’t remember—“ Marinette’s eyebrows furrowed as she tried to get her mind to calm down. To work.

“The serum she gave Harley?” He asked. “The one that made her immune to poisons, and gave her increased physical abilities?”

“That!” Marinette agreed frantically, nodding. “I was too— too little, to give the real thing, so she diluted it,” she swallowed her spit and winced when it burned her throat. “It… I think it’s helping with the—the—the—“

“The chemical’s effects?” Batman suddenly sounded like he was paying much more attention than before, his shoulders a little straighter at her explanation. “You think it’s slowing down or numbing what it did to your mom and Joker?” Marinette couldn’t talk anymore, it hurt too much. Everything hurt too much, so she just nodded. “Good. That’s good, Marinette. Robin! Get Harley and Ivy down here, now!”

That was when the voices started. Sometime during the ten minutes it took to get her Mom and Ivy to her, they had apparently been waiting nearby anxiously incase the Bats had needed backup, the voices had built from ominous whispers to devious shouts, ordering her to do things like slam her elbow into Batman’s throat or see what happened if she splashed Robin with some of the acid that was still on the ground.

Her body didn’t move. She kept herself carefully still, focusing on ignoring her impulse to listen to one of the voices. She was still lucid enough to know that she would regret it if she did any of that. That the Bats were more on her side than any of the voices or the Joker were. But it was growing painful, and Harley and Ivy walked in to Batman trying to keep Marinette from hitting her own head. She had devolved to trying to knock herself out to get the voices to be quiet.

“Shut up,” she hissed, her voice hoarse and gravelly. “Shut up, shut up, shut. Up!” She was clearly talking to herself, her eyes screwed shut as she continued to try and hit her head. Harley gasped, hands flying to her mouth and eyes watering at the sight. This was something she had hoped she would never see.

“Harls,” Ivy spoke softly, putting a gentle arm around her wife’s back in support. It hurt Ivy to see Marinette in so much agony, but she knew it pained Harley even more. And much more personally. “Come on. We can help.”

“Y-you’re right,” Harley agreed shakily, taking a deep breath to try and compose herself before they both approached their daughter. Batman didn’t let go of Marinette, but did lean out of the way to give them access to her.

“Honeycake?” Harley called out softly, a little unsure how the chemicals were affecting her baby’s personality right then. The first few days were going to be the worst, and she knew that. The Dunk never took it easy on it’s victims. Marinette gasped, stopping her muttering and raising her head to look at Harley with wide eyes.

“Momma?”

Harley had to swallow heavily to shove back the sob that wanted to bubble up out of her. She had to be strong for her baby. She couldn’t break yet. But Marinette hadn’t called her Momma since she was little, now she called Pamela ‘Momma Ivy’ and her just ‘Mom’.

“It’s me, sugarplum,” she assured her daughter, kneeling down and cupping one of Marinette’s cheeks in her palm. And that was when she noticed it, and couldn’t help but widen her eyes in shock. But Marinette’s senses were so sensitive that she noticed it right away, and stiffened.

“Wh-what is it?” She grew frantic when Harley didn’t immediately respond, only winced in sympathy. Marinette knew that wasn’t good. “Mom? What is it? What did he do? What else did he do to me?”

“Darling,” Harley started, licking her lips nervously. “My sweet baby girl, your right eye… it’s green now, sugar.”

Marinette’s world froze. She tried to smile, but it came out lopsided and disbelieving. “No,” she somehow managed to breathe. “No, mom, I have your eyes. Your blue eyes. I love your eyes,” Her voice steadily got more and more panicked as she went on, not wanting to accept what her mother was clearly seeing. She watched as Harley’s face broke a little, a few tears escaping before the older woman could stop them. Marinette shook her head again, slipping her tiny wrist out of Batman’s hold and raising it to her eye. “No. It’s one of his tricks. He—he must have slipped a contact in my eye when I was passed out, that’s— that’s— that’s all—“ but her fingertip met her normal eye. No contact to be felt. Marinette’s hand fell into her lap limply. The room was absolutely silent as everyone gave her a few seconds to process just how much she had been changed, entirely against her will. She opened and closed her mouth, not sure whether she wanted to yell or curse or cry. Instead, her voice just came out in a very tiny, broken:

“...fuck.”

—*—*—*—*—*

Marinette had gone mostly mute. She would say a word here or there, but for the most part she was doing a good impression of a vegetable. She stayed silent, as still as possible, and just stared at the ceiling of her hospital room.

She had been like that for the past two weeks they had been monitoring her in the Acid’s aftermath. Her ribs, which had turned out to only be bruised thankfully enough, had healed. Her cheek and torso were healed up too, only the barest hint of sickly yellow to show as a reminder of Joker’s hits on her. Sometimes the cameras would catch her talking to seemingly empty air, only for a nurse to rush in and see that Marinette had gone silent yet again.

Tikki was doing her best to help. She had been separated from Marinette, but Pamela had found Marinette’s purse and returned it— and subsequently Tikki— when they had gotten her to the hospital. She was the only person Marinette regularly spoke to, because Marinette knew Tikki understood. Tikki had been around since the Big Bang, she had seen worse things than a little insanity. Tikki had always been there to help her feel at ease with her mind and body. She shared a piece of Tikki’s soul, even, according to the tiny god.

But talking to anyone else was too hard. Too scary. She still had those damned voices at war in her mind, trying to convince her to do things that made her lock her joints and keep her body absolutely still before she acted on any of the coaxes. Possibilities she had never considered before came startlingly easy to her mind now— like how it would only take two seconds to tear her IV out and stab it into her nurse’s eye. How she could use her blanket to strangle Momma Ivy, or how she could fake jumping out the window and Harley wouldn’t waste a second trying to save her.

They were horrible thoughts. Intrusive, ugly, and far too loud. She didn’t want to act on any of them, but sometimes she found her fingers twitching only a second before she could follow through on one.

She spent a lot of time meditating, because of it. Which is why most people thought she was ignoring them. She didn’t mean to, she just needed to meditate. It was like her brain was a giant room filled with filing cabinets that held her thoughts and emotions. Her whole life, Marinette had carefully kept this room alphabetized, organized, and neat. Every file in its correct drawer. Until Joker had come along, and ripped the entire place apart. Tore certain files in half, broke her cabinets, ruined her filing system. And now she had to put the room back together, one drawer and piece of paper at a time.

That’s what the meditation was doing. She was getting reacquainted with herself. Learning what had changed in her mind and trying to adjust. She couldn’t be the old Marinette anymore, but she’d be damned if she let the Joker turn her into someone ugly like him.

So she needed time.

One day, towards the end of those two weeks, she got a visitor slipping through her window. Considering her room was on the tenth floor, she had it pretty narrowed down as to who it could be. Batman had visited her every night, a silent shadow in the corner, but he had already left for the day so it couldn’t be him. None of the other bats had dropped by after the second day.

She turned her head to see that that was now changed; Red Hood sat on her windowsill with one leg inside the room and the other bent on the sill itself. He looked the very picture of comfort despite being a stiff wind (or quick shove— no, bad brain) away from falling to his death. And then Hood took off his helmet, which was ugly enough to inspire some of the more violent suggestions in her brain and make them seem appealing.

“Ya know. Red Hood used to be what Joker called himself,” were the first words out of the vigilante’s mouth. Marinette’s eyebrows pulled down, and it was clear she was confused (and a little angry) at what he told her. He grinned, his eyes still hidden by the domino mask on his face. “Eh. The bastard killed me, ya know. I was the second Robin, a lifetime ago.”

Marinette’s eyes widened at that, and the violent voices dimmed and seemed to grow muffled. Marinette couldn’t quite understand what they were trying to tell her anymore, which made her figure that she had better pay attention to what Hood had to say. She licked her dry lips, and spoke softly. Her throat was still damaged from the acid, so she couldn’t speak very loudly yet.

“Then how are you… you know, here?”

The man chuckled. “Another group of assholes happens to have a magic pit in their basement. It’s a glowing green lake, ten different types of bad news. But it brings people back to life, and they dunked me in it without even caring for a second if I even wanted to come back.”

Marinette’s shoulders relaxed all on their own. It seemed to sink into her brain all at once, a simple:

Oh. He gets it.

“I guess the water doesn’t take it easy on your brain, either?” She hazarded an educated guess. He laughed, shaking his head.

“Not at all. I went off the deep end for a while, and killed a lotta people. They deserved it at least, but I don’t like how violent I was back then. Before I learned how to cope. Attacked people who were innocent. Red Robin almost died when I attacked him, back then, when he was just Robin.”

“Then why’d you keep calling yourself Red Hood?” She asked, tilting her head. He finally turned his head to look straight at her instead of just staring out the window. His grin widened, but it was lopsided. The grin of someone who was healed from some serious shit, but knew that it would always ache. A bittersweet expression.

“Cuz he doesn’t own that name. I made it into something that stands for at least a little good. Something that scares the assholes who don’t care about killing or abusing innocent people. Hell, some people take comfort in the name Red Hood now. And you know what that means?”

Marinette shook her head, and his grin widened into a shark-like smile.

“It means I stole it from him. The name Red Hood. He’ll never use it again, and now it stands for the opposite of anything he’d agree with. You can do that too, you know. Find something to steal from him, or use something he gave you, and make it your own.”

“Turn the chaos into something good,” Marinette said dreamily, clearly quoting someone. Red Hood nodded.

“Exactly. It’s not gonna be easy, but you got the choice here. You ain’t going back to who you used to be, but you can take the victory away from him.”

“... make him regret ever dunking me in that stupid vat,” she agreed, narrowing her eyes as they filled with determination for the first time since her body hit the acid. “He wants a puppet, an obedient little doll, I’ll give him Annabel.”

“There ya go,” The vigilante slid off the windowsill and approached her bed, holding out his hand for a shake. “I can help you get to that. What do ya say?”

Marinette was silent for a long minute, staring straight into his masked eyes. And then, a slow smile spread over her lips. “I got one question, Red Hood.”

“Shoot.”

“How do you feel about black cats?”

—*—*—*—*—*

This took four hours, holy hell. I’m actually happy with how this turned out. What do you guys think? I even got to max length on Tumblr 😂

[sallysgrancanwrite]

Chapter Eighty-Three

Masterlist.

Dinner was finally ready. The turkey's stupid button, as Beth called it, had popped up so it was perfectly cooked. The skin was nice and golden brown. All the dishes were prepared and pies done. Chloe had even made some dinner rolls. It was the first time and they turned out great. When she was married Martha did most of the cooking.

“Emma, would you help Momma get the china, and set the table in the dining room?” Chloe asked Emma.

“Yes, Momma.” Emma said, sliding off Grandpa’s lap. She loved sitting on his lap.

“Be very careful with Grammys good china honey.” Chloe told her daughter as she handed her some to carry. She didn’t have to walk far with them because the china hutch was in the dining room.

Chloe got out the beautiful silverware from the drawer and box. She remembered having to polish these when she was younger. She hated doing it. It took her away from her friends. Doing it now wasn’t such a big deal. When you grow up your thinking and priorities mature.

“Chloe, make sure to put out some wine goblets for the adults.” Edith told her.

“Momma, can I have a pretty glass too?” Emma asked Chloe.

“You don’t drink wine honey.” Chloe replied.

“I know, but can I drink my milk out of one? Emma said.

“You go ask Grammy.” Chloe told her. “That’s up to her.”

“Okay,” Emma said, running into the kitchen.

“Grammy, can I drink my milk from your pretty glasses? Emma asked her.

“Can you be very careful and not break it?” answered Edith.

“I will, I promise.” Emma told her.

“Okay, I guess that would be alright.” Edith said.

“Thank you, Grammy!” Emma said hugging Edith very tight.

She ran to tell Chloe. She was so excited. “Momma!” Emma hollered. “Grammy said I could!”

“Okay, but no screaming in the house please.” Chloe told her.

“Sorry, I got excited.” Emma said.

“That’s okay, honey. I’m not mad.” Chloe told her. She had to be careful correcting her daughter after all the abuse from her father. He was terribly harsh and cruel to Emma. Chloe made sure to always let her know she wasn’t mad at her. She didn’t want to damage her anymore than she was already.

They called the guys to come sit down. As promised Emma got to sit by Alan, her new best friend.

“This looks and smells amazing!” said Alan. “I admit it is much better than a turkey dinner at the cafe. Not that the food is bad there.” He commented.

“No one should spend Thanksgiving alone.” Chloe told him.

“Okay honey, will you carve the Turkey please.” asked Edith.

Bob got out his good carving knife and fork from the hutch. The knife just slid through the meat.

“Chloe, go get the gravy in the kitchen. I plum forgot it.” Edith told her.

“Hand me your plate Beth. Do you want white or dark meat?” asked Bob.

“I’ll take either one. Thank you Bob.” She told him.

Chloe and Emma both liked white meat and Edith ate dark meat.

“Alan, what would you like?” Bob asked their guest.

“I’ll take some dark meat if you have some cut up.” Alan answered.

Chloe was genuinely happy this Thanksgiving for the first time in many years.

They didn’t celebrate Holidays with Michael. He would always get drunk and soon the abuse would start.

Emma looked happy too. She really liked Alan and he was very nice to her. It was good for her to see that not all men are like her father.

They ate themselves silly. Now for the enormous cleanup.

“Well, Alan, shall we turn on the game?” Bob asked him. “What would you like to drink? I can mix you one.”

“Actually a beer would be okay. If you have one.” Alan answered.

“Coming right up.” Bob looked happy to have a guy to hang out with and watch football with.

The ladies got to cleaning the food up. Emma went and got some Barbie’s and sat by Bob’s feet and played.

“Girls, let’s use the dishwasher today. There are too many dishes to do by hand.” Edith told Chloe and Beth.

Afterwards the ladies went back to playing a card game. The afternoon just flew by.

“Does anyone feel ready for some pie?” asked Edith. “Lord knows we have enough.”

“I will, dear.” replied Bob.

“I’ll take some as well,” said Alan. “What do you have?”

“We have sweet potato pie, coconut cream, blueberry, apple, and banana cream. “ Edith answered.

“I’ll take coconut cream.” hollered Bob.

“I’ll have the sweet potato pie.” Alan replied.

Chloe took the pies into the living room for the guys. They didn’t want to miss the game.

The ladies ate in the kitchen. They were tired from all the cooking that day.

“I’m beat,” said Beth. “But how are you holding up Edith?”

“I'm doing good. You girls did most of it today. It was a great help.” Edith stated.

With the game over, Alan stood up to get ready for home.

“Do you have to leave?” asked Emma.

“I’m afraid so, honey. I have to work in the morning.” He said looking down at the little girl with a smile. “But I’m sure I’ll see again sometime.”

“I hope you had a good day,” said Bob. “It was nice to watch the game with you.” Bob said, shaking Alan’s hand. “Don’t be a stranger. You’re welcome here anytime.”

Chloe got him his jacket and walked him to the door.

“Thank you for a wonderful day.” He said looking at Chloe.

“You are very welcome. I’m glad you have fun.” She stated.

He opened the door and for a moment he paused as if he wanted to say something but instead just turned to leave.

“Goodbye,” Chloe said

“Goodbye.” Alan said, walking to his car.

It was a great day, Chloe thought to herself. She enjoyed Alan’s company. For some reason she had a smile on her face.

“What are you smiling at?” Beth asked as she chuckled.

“Nothing. I’m not smiling at anything.” Chloe replied.

“Uh huh. How about at someone?” Beth asked.

“Oh, stop that Beth. We’re just good friends.” Chloe said turning red.

“Then why is your face red?” Edith teased her.

“It was cold holding the door open. It’s just from the cold.” She said defensively. “Emma, come on. It’s time for a bath and bed.” Chloe said changing the subject.

“But I don’t have school tomorrow. Can’t I stay up a little bit longer?” Emma asked.

“No, I've already let you stay up later than normal. Pick your Barbie’s up and get in the tub please.” Chloe replied.

Emma, unhappy from the answer, slowly picked up her toys and headed for the bath.

“I’ll be right there, bug.” Chloe told her.

Chloe went and got her some clean pjs and went to wash Emma’s hair.

“Are you washed up ready for your hair?” asked Chloe as she walked in the bathroom.

“Yes, Momma. Can we still read a chapter tonight?” She asked her mother.

“Yes, we’ll read a chapter. Let’s get you out of here.” Chloe said, finishing with Emma’s long blonde hair. It had been a long day and Chloe was ready for bed.

[its-elvie-innit]

The egg crashed my browser, so quick recap-

-Techno fed the egg

-It whispered something that i can’t understand because the egg sounds like an eighty year old smoker damn

-BBH is trying the anarchy excuse again

-Puffster stepped in and nixed that “the egg IS a government

-Techno took a break to turn off alerts ooc

-Puffy took out her mom voice “bad, explain the eggpire -_-”

-MOMMA PUFFY I LY !!!!