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arsonforcharlie · 4 years

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Sleater: 🏡 📚 👀 ❓ ; Bril: 🌟💐 📚 💕❓ ; Giant crab boi: 💎🔪; Pumpkin blight: 🥀 🏡(sometimes I think I'm funny)

sleater

🏡 Describe your OCs ideal house! Give us a tour around! What’s their garden like? Their bedroom? Kitchen? Where is it and how many people live there?

while sleater isn’t really into the idea of home ownership and setting up somewhere really permanent, if she did, she’d definitely set up somewhere in a city- where there’s always something happening. it would be pretty big, with lots of spare rooms so people could come and go whenever, and she’d definitely have filled it with knick knacks.

📚 If your OC was given some kind of forbiddon knowledge, what would they do with it? Would they tell anyone? Use it for evil or good? How would it change their outlook on life, if at all?

everyone in the party would know INSTANTLY. she’d definitely try and use it for good however she could, and if there was not a real immediate reason to try and keep the secret, she wouldn’t try too hard to.

👀 Describe your OC through the eyes of another person! (bonus + specify who)

“i didn’t know about sleater at first. she was a crack shot in battle, to be sure, but impulsive, which can be dangerous. and outside of a fight, well, she was just so... soft. it was weird, and i absolutely wasn’t used to it, especially when we first met. it’s still not ideal- when you find out someone’s been following you and watching you for ages, the first response shouldn’t be to say hello and introduce yourself! i think below that softness, though, there’s this steel core of caring about people that really gets her through. she’s excitable and flighty and definitely treating her travels far too much like tourism, but i’ve seen her run into a building that’s on fire to try and save people she didn’t even know, and she’d do anything to protect us if she needed to, so i guess that’s something.”

❓ A random fact or short drabble! Or make up your own question to ask the OC!

while this absolutely isn’t established, i like to think the more she travels the more weird unmatching accessories she picks up and just wears whenever.

bril

🌟 When your OC loses all hope, who do they turn to first? What helps make them feel better? What calms them down and reassures them? Why?

they usually just, like, go sit in the woods for a while. maybe turn into a bear for a bit, that’s always fun.

💐 Does your OC like flowers? What are their favourites? Do they keep a garden of some sort? What flowers would they use in a flower crown? (and if you like, research the meanings behind those flowers!)

they don’t keep a garden as such, but generally they do love them some plants. while they aren’t really the flower crown sort, if they were to make one, they would probably use a lot of weird things that aren’t strictly flowers- cool leaves, berries, weird sticks, that sort of thing

📚 If your OC was given some kind of forbiddon knowledge, what would they do with it? Would they tell anyone? Use it for evil or good? How would it change their outlook on life, if at all?

they’d ruminate on it, a lot. maybe if there’s a clear authority consult with them on what to do with it, but otherwise, they’re likely to keep the secret.

💕 How is your OC like with physical affection? What are their boundries? Do they enjoy being touched or is that a no-go? Is there any reason behind this?

fucking do NOT

❓ A random fact or short drabble! Or make up your own question to ask the OC!

since their military service ended, bril has kind of revelled in being able to control their own appearance- both in the turning into a bear sense and also just, like, growing out their hair and beard and wearing whatever. they’re very excited about that.

crabhammer

💎 Does your OC collect anything? Is there a reason? When did they start and is it beginning to turn into a little bit of a hoarding issue? What do they do with their collection?

i mean, it’s less their collection and more of a sacrifice to them, but there was a small hoard of things in the cave from other less fortunate adventurers.

🔪 Has your OC ever killed someone? Ever had to defend themselves against violence? How did this make them feel? Or, alternatively, has your OC ever attacked someone? Seen someone die?

yeah, they’ve killed a lot of things. they don’t have much feelings on the subject beyond “crab” tho

pumpkin spicey

🥀 Has your OC ever been hurt by someone they love? Ever been betrayed? Abused? Attacked? Give me the angst! (if you’d like, write a short drabble about it!)

if you count the earth souring and turning them into a monster instead of a regular pumpkin plant, yeah, absolutely.

🏡 Describe your OCs ideal house! Give us a tour around! What’s their garden like? Their bedroom? Kitchen? Where is it and how many people live there?

they were doing just FINE in the well before someone fucked it up

#hey idk you could have had some burning questions about churence #oldearthaccretionist

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mysteryshelf · 6 years

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FALL INTO MYSTERY BLOG TOUR - A Fatal Obsession

Welcome to the “Fall Into Mystery Event” happening Sepetember 10th to 21th, 2018, at SHANNON MUIR’S THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF!

DISCLAIMER: This content has been provided to SHANNON MUIR’S THE PULP AND MYSTERY SHELF arranged by Partners in Crime Book Tours. No compensation was received. This information required by the Federal Trade Commission.

A Fatal Obsession

by James Hayman

on Tour September 1 – 30, 2018

Synopsis:

“James Hayman’s edgy, ingenious novels rival the best of Lisa Gardner, Jeffery Deaver, and Kathy Reichs. A Fatal Obsession is his finest to date: a ferocious live-wire thriller starring two of the most appealing cops in contemporary fiction.” —A.J. Finn, #1 New York Times bestselling author of The Woman in the Window

Zoe McCabe is a beautiful young actress on the verge of stardom who has been basking in the standing ovations and rave reviews she’s been getting from critics and fans alike for her portrayal of Desdemona in an off-Broadway production of Othello. As she takes her final bows, Zoe has no idea that, seated in the audience, a man has been studying her night after night, performance after performance. A man whose carefully crafted plans are for the young actress to take a starring role in a far deadlier production he has created just for her.

Portland, Maine detectives Mike McCabe and Maggie Savage are settling into the new rhythm of their relationship when McCabe gets a late night call from his brother Bobby that Zoe, McCabe’s favorite niece and Bobby’s daughter, has suddenly disappeared. The NYPD is certain Zoe’s abduction is the work of the man the tabloids have dubbed “The Star Struck Strangler,” a killer who has been kidnapping, abusing and finally strangling one beautiful young performer after another. Bobby begs McCabe to return to the New York City crime beat he’d left behind so many years ago, to work his old connections, and to help find Zoe before her time runs out. The stakes for McCabe and Savage have never been higher. Or more personal. And suddenly the race is on to stop a vicious attacker, before the McCabe family is torn apart beyond repair.

Book Details:

Genre: Mystery, Thriller Published by: Witness Impulse Publication Date: Aug. 21, 2018 Number of Pages: 432 ISBN: 9780062876676 Series: McCabe and Savage Thrillers #6 Purchase Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads

Read an excerpt:

Prologue

The worst thing about the rage was its randomness. Tyler Bradshaw never knew what might trigger one. A tone of voice. A look. An innocent or perhaps a not so innocent remark. Tonight he could feel it starting to build just seconds after he’d begun walking down the center aisle of the small McArthur/Weinstein Community Theater on Manhattan’s Lower East Side.

Having attended all eleven previous performances in this limited-run production of Othello, Tyler knew exactly where he wanted to sit for tonight’s finale. The same seat he’d occupied for every performance so far. The same seat he was going to sit in tonight no matter what. A12. On the aisle. Front row. Right-hand side. By far the best seat in the house in terms of offering him the most intimate view of the death of Zoe McCabe, the young actress cast in the role of Desdemona.

This would be Tyler’s last chance to watch the woman he wanted so desperately, the woman who’d been haunting his dreams for months, meet death at the hands of Randall Carter, the well known black actor who was playing Othello the Moor. And if all went according to plan, this closing night would become opening night for a much more intimate relationship.

But Tyler had taken only a few steps down the aisle when he was stopped short by the sight of some son of a bitch sitting in his seat. The theater was practically empty, and some asshole had actually had the nerve to plant his butt in the seat Tyler claimed as his own. He stood for a few seconds watching the guy as the anger grew. Some skinny twerp with a shaved head and black-framed hipster glasses leaning over and talking to the woman next to him as if unaware of his transgression. Tyler barely managed to suppress an urge to run down the nearly empty aisle to the first row, pull the guy up by his ears and kick the shit out of him right then and there.

Take it easy, Tyler told himself. Don’t start a fight. Don’t cause a scene. Don’t get your ass thrown out of here. Do that and you’ll miss Zoe’s final death scene, and you really don’t want to do that. Still, when something he so desperately wanted was denied him, when something he considered rightfully his was withheld or taken away, Tyler found it nearly impossible to suppress the anger filling his brain. But he knew he had to try. Taking a deep breath, he managed to walk at a measured pace the rest of the way down the aisle. He stopped and stood directly in front of the guy in A12. He looked down. “Sorry, buddy,” he said in a voice filled with no more than a hint of threat, “you and your girlfriend are gonna have to move. This seat’s taken.”

“I beg your pardon,” the guy said in what Tyler thought was a condescending tone. Tyler hated it when people condescended to him. New York was full of them. It was one of the reasons he really didn’t like spending time in the city even though he’d been born here. Even though he still kept an apartment here. Even though he’d worked three years at his uncle’s fancy Wall Street law firm. That job had gone down the crapper the day Tyler totally lost it when one of the other associates had condescended to him. Told Tyler in front of like ten other people that the only reason the firm had hired Tyler was because his uncle happened to be managing partner. Tyler reacted by slugging the guy right then and there in front of six other lawyers. Knocked the bastard flat on his ass. Then followed up with a kick to the gut. A deliciously satisfying kick even though it marked the end of his legal career. The only reason Tyler hadn’t been charged with assault was that his uncle convinced the other guy his own career would go much better if he simply forgot about the whole thing. Tyler still got pissed off when he thought about that asshole.

“You heard me,” Tyler said to the guy who’d taken his seat, making sure he kept his voice quiet and controlled. “You’re sitting in my seat. This has been my seat for the last two weeks. The entire run. And it will continue to be my seat for tonight. That means it’s time for you to tell me how sorry you are and get up and move.”

Condescension changed to huffiness. “I don’t know who you think you are but there’s no reserved seating in this theater. We took these seats first. That means they’re ours. There’s plenty of empty seats all over the place. Just take one of those and leave us the hell alone.”

“This is my seat and you are going to have to move.”

For exactly twenty-three seconds the guy said nothing. Tyler knew it was twenty-three without having to consult his watch. It was this brain thing he’d had ever since the so-called accident. He always knew precisely to the second what time it was and precisely how much time was passing. Just as he knew how many steps it would take to get from one place to another without having to think about it. It hadn’t always been that way. Just since his old man had tossed him headfirst into the shallow end of the swimming pool at their country place when he was fourteen and he’d bashed his head against the concrete. That’s when the rage problems started as well.

For the entire time, the guy just sat where he was and looked up at Tyler. Maybe he was debating whether to challenge someone who, at six foot three and two hundred and twenty pounds, was way the hell bigger than he was.

Tyler was getting closer to hoisting the guy out of the seat and tossing his skinny little ass out into the aisle. Which would have ruined everything. Thankfully, one second before he would have done just that, the guy’s wife or girlfriend or whatever she was, broke the impasse.

“Come on, Richard,” she said. “Let’s move. I don’t like being this close to the stage anyway.”

“I oughtta call the police,” said Richard.

“Call whoever the fuck you want, Richard. Just get your ass out of my seat.”

“Richard. Please,” said the woman. “This guy’s unhinged.”

“Yeah, Richard, I’m unhinged,” said Tyler, putting as much menace in his voice as he could.

“And if you want to know the truth, I’m getting more fucking unhinged by the second.”

The woman rose, took Richard’s hand and pulled. “Please,” she said.

The guy finally stood. No doubt relieved not to have to confront someone as big and angry-looking as Tyler. But, Tyler figured, also ashamed that he lacked the cojones to stand up to the bully who’d shamed him in front of his girlfriend. A lot of people responded to Tyler that way. He usually enjoyed it when they did. He especially liked it when people backed down and did exactly what he told them to. Which was most of the time. Most people were too chicken-shit to stand up for themselves.

Tonight was no different. The guy named Richard picked up a canvas messenger bag from the floor and let the woman lead him across to the other side of the small auditorium, where they found seats a couple of rows back. Tyler watched them go. Neither looked back at him. Neither noticed the small, satisfied smile he threw at them. Confrontations that ended like this and the adrenaline rush that came with them always made him feel better.

Before sitting down, Tyler unzipped his backpack, pulled a pair of latex gloves from the package he’d put in there, and put them on. Then he took out a packet of antibacterial wet wipes and used three of them to wipe down the seat, the backrest and the arms before easing his large frame down into seat A12. His seat. That done, he closed his eyes and focused on breathing deeply in and out. Pictured the rage that had come from the confrontation slowly dripping out of him, drop by drop, like water from a leaky faucet. That’s what Dr. Steinman, the therapist he started seeing a year after the swimming pool incident, had taught him to do when he felt this way. He watched the drops falling . . . exactly one drop per second . . . and knew without counting that one hundred and forty-four drops had fallen before he’d totally emptied himself of the anger and felt calm enough to open his eyes.

Tyler had another twenty-one minutes and twelve seconds to wait before scheduled curtain time. Maybe even more minutes and seconds before the curtain actually went up, because they never seemed to get the timing right. To pass the time he popped a couple of sticks of Juicy Fruit gum in his mouth and started chewing. Then he pulled a week-old copy of the New York Daily News from his backpack and unfolded it. He stared for what had to be the hundredth time at the banner headline, the big black letters seeming to leap out at him from the front page. StarStruck Strangler Strikes Again. He wondered if that was just one headline or if that was the nickname they were going to give the killer. He wondered if the name would stick. Tyler thought about it. Star-Struck Strangler wasn’t nearly as interesting as, say, Son of Sam. Though it was, he supposed, equally alliterative. Both had multiple S’s, which had always been one of Tyler’s favorite letters. He repeated the headline to himself. Star-Struck Strangler Strikes Again. Four ST words in a row. Tyler preferred S words when they were followed by L’s. Words like slasher. Slimy. Sleazy. Slippery. Slinky. Slick. Slutty. Yes, SL words were much better than ST words. His favorite SL word, slithy, wasn’t a real word at all. Just something made up by Lewis Carroll. ‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves / Did gyre and gimble in the wabe. Wonderful creepy-crawly sounds.

Beneath the headline that dominated the front page was a subhead set in slightly smaller black type. It read, Missing Ballerina Found Murdered on Beach. No alliteration there unless you counted the M’s in Missing and Murdered and the B’s in Ballerina and Beach, and Tyler didn’t think that really counted. Tucked next to the headline and subhead was a color photo of an attractive young blonde, her hair pulled back in a bun, smiling at the camera. A happy smile, he thought, for a woman who’d turned up dead over a week ago. Tyler flipped open the tabloid and read full the story once again:

Friday, October 2, 2015. The body of 21-year-old Sarah Jacobs, a dancer with the New York City Ballet who had been reported missing two weeks earlier on September 15, was discovered late last night lying in a shallow, sandy grave on a stretch of beach in Sherwood Island State Park., The beach is located on the Long Island Sound in the affluent suburb of Westport, Connecticut.

Investigators say Ms. Jacobs’s body was discovered at approximately six a.m. by Westport resident Edward Todd. Todd told police he was walking his dog on the beach as he does every morning, when the dog raced ahead and started sniffing at something in the sand. When Mr. Todd was close enough to see it was the remains of a human body, he immediately dialed 911 on his mobile phone and informed Westport police, who arrived moments later. After identifying the body, Westport detectives notified the NYPD, which had been searching for Ms. Jacobs since her disappearance.

The victim, Sarah Jacobs, was a well-regarded dancer who was considered a rising star with the New York City Ballet. According to police sources, the victim’s body, when found, was wearing a black leotard and black ballet slippers, an outfit identical to the one she wore on stage during her last performance at Lincoln Center on September 12, three days prior to her disappearance. Her hair was also arranged identically to the way it had been during the performance.

Ms. Jacobs was the daughter of prominent Broadway producer Frederick Jacobs and Chelsea art dealer Marjorie Hanscomb Jacobs. Both parents refused to comment on the discovery of their daughter’s body. André Komar, the company’s ballet master, told reporters, “Sarah was an exceptionally gifted young dancer with a bright future ahead of her. All of us who knew and worked with her here at the New York City Ballet are grieving along with her parents. This is a real tragedy and we will all miss her enormously.”

Assistant New York City Medical Examiner Dr. Peter Weisman told reporters the apparent cause of death was strangulation. He also said the body was badly bruised and there were clear signs that Ms. Jacobs had been sexually assaulted prior to death. Her body is scheduled to be autopsied by the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner to determine, among other things, time of death and if strangulation was indeed the cause.

The victim has been the subject of an intense New York Police Department manhunt ever since her disappearance. She was last seen leaving a private party at the Museum of Modern Art in Manhattan on the evening of September 15th. Her father told reporters she left the party early after complaining of feeling “queasy” and said that she was going to take a cab home to her Greenwich Village apartment.

Ms. Jacobs is the third young member of New York’s performing arts community to have disappeared from Manhattan since the beginning of the year. The body of an earlier victim, Ronda Wingfield, 28, an actress who appeared frequently in musical productions in Manhattan and elsewhere, was discovered last May 19th in a wooded section of Manhattan’s Highbridge Park.

A third performer, actress Marzena Wolski, who also lived in Manhattan and who, for the last two years, had a starring role in the TV crime drama Malicious, was reported missing September 28th. Police have reportedly found no clues as to Ms. Wolski’s whereabouts.

When asked if police believed the three kidnappings and two confirmed deaths were the work of a serial killer, the NYPD’s chief of detectives, Charles Pryor, told reporters, “While we can’t be absolutely sure at this point in the investigation, given the obvious similarities in the choice of victims, all of whom performed on television or on stage, as well as similarities in the cause and manner of death of the two victims found so far, we are fairly certain that that is the case.” Pryor added, “There are currently no suspects but we are hopeful that the discovery of Ms. Jacobs’s remains will provide some relevant leads.”

Tyler reread the article a couple of times even though he already knew it pretty much by heart, as he did just about everything else that had been published about the kidnappings and murders. He then turned back and examined the front-page photo of Sarah Jacobs. With her long, narrow face, Sarah wasn’t really all that pretty. At least not compared to Zoe McCabe. For Tyler Bradshaw, there was no one who could compare to Zoe.

Tyler finally returned the paper to his backpack, relaxed in his seat and waited patiently until the curtain rose, and Roderigo and Iago entered a bare-bones version of a sixteenth-century Venetian street. Tyler watched the beginning of the play with minimal interest. It wasn’t Iago or Roderigo he’d come for. Tyler’s only reason to sit through this part of the play over and over again was to make sure he got the right seat to feel the closeness of the woman he so desperately wanted. His gaze never strayed from her from the moment she first came on stage in Act I, Scene III, until she was finally done to death in Act V, Scene II, bloodlessly smothered by the actor who played the title role. When the play got to that point, Tyler whispered Desdemona’s last words to himself, doing his best to mimic the way Zoe spoke them.

That death’s unnatural that kills for loving.

Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip?

Tyler sometimes practiced gnawing his nether lip when Zoe said the lines. She was right. It didn’t seem natural. Still, the most famous writer who ever lived had written it that way.

Some bloody passion shakes your very frame: These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope They do not point on me. . . . A guiltless death I die. Oh yes, my love, he whispered to himself, a guiltless death you die. But not too soon I hope. For I’m quite sure I want you with me for a much longer time than the Star-Struck Strangler had allowed either of the others.

And then, when it came time, he mouthed the famous lines spoken by the Moor.

When you shall these unlucky deeds relate, Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak Of one that loved not wisely, but too well . . .

Tyler had fixated on these words since he’d watched the first performance two weeks ago, for he believed they precisely defined who he was. They were his lines because he believed that he too was one who loved not wisely but too well.

When the play finally ended and the curtain fell two hours, twenty-seven minutes and thirty seconds later, it was the third longest of the twelve performances he had attended. It irritated Tyler that the actors couldn’t do a better job of getting the timing right. Yes, in one performance, the actor playing Iago had even screwed up one of his lines and Othello had to ad-lib filler dialogue until Iago got his brain back on track. But that was the only time they had an excuse.

He let the irritation go when Zoe and the rest of the cast stepped in front of the curtain to take their bows. He stood with the audience and applauded as loudly as, if not more so than, anyone else in the theater. Took the overchewed ball of gum from his mouth and whistled loudly.

Of course, Tyler’s applause was only for Zoe. His gaze fixed only on her. Her dark and penetrating eyes. Her glorious smile. The slender perfection of her figure. At last, when the curtain calls were finally finished and the actors gone from the stage, Tyler slung his pack around one shoulder and walked out, once again practically the last to leave the theater. For the first time, his mind was finally and truly made up. He could wait no longer. He pulled a crushable Aussie outback hat from his backpack and put it on. Kind of goofy-looking, but what with all the damned surveillance cameras on the streets these days, the wide brim did a good job of hiding his face. And on a cold, drizzly night like this, it wouldn’t even attract much attention. Tyler left the theater by a side exit, crossed the street and stood in the shadows of a darkened computer repair shop, waiting for Zoe to emerge from the stage door dressed in her own street clothes.

When she finally walked out, she wasn’t alone. She was with Randall Carter, the big black dude who played Othello. They stood together on the sidewalk talking. Tyler felt rage once again building as they talked. Especially when Carter leaned down and kissed Zoe on the lips. Nothing passionate. Nothing sexy. But still. The woman Tyler considered his own kissing some hotshot Hollywood bastard? A black hotshot Hollywood bastard no less, which made it even harder to take. Tyler could barely keep his rage from roaring back, barely restrain himself from rushing across the street and kicking the shit out of Carter. While he stood there seething, a black Lincoln SUV pulled up. Randall Carter got in. Zoe waved. The car drove off. Zoe pulled up the hood on her rain jacket and started walking by herself along the street. Tyler watched and waited until she was a little ahead before following.

***

Author Bio:

JAMES HAYMAN, formerly creative director at one of New York’s largest advertising agencies, is the author of the acclaimed McCabe and Savage Thriller series: The Cutting, The Chill of Night, Darkness First, The Girl in the Glass, The Girl on The Bridge, and A Fatal Obsession.

Catch Up With James Hayman On: jameshaymanthrillers.com, Goodreads, Twitter, & Facebook!

Tour Participants:

Visit these other great hosts on this tour for more great reviews, interviews, guest posts, and giveaways!

Enter To Win:

This is a rafflecopter giveaway hosted by Partners in Crime Virtual Book Tours for Harper Collins/Witness Impulse and James Hayman. There will be 3 winners of one (1) copy of The Cutting by James Hayman (eBook). The giveaway begins on September 1, 2018 and runs through October 1, 2018. (FOR BOOKS Open to U.S. addresses only). Void where prohibited.

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FALL INTO MYSTERY BLOG TOUR – A Fatal Obsession was originally published on the Wordpress version of Shannon Muir's The Pulp and Mystery Shelf

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fashiontrendin-blog · 6 years

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I Did Whatever I Wanted for 3 Days and It Was…Telling

http://fashion-trendin.com/i-did-whatever-i-wanted-for-3-days-and-it-wastelling/

I Did Whatever I Wanted for 3 Days and It Was…Telling

My mom and dad’s parenting philosophy largely revolved around teaching me the value of hard work and, especially, earning life’s pleasures. Play dates came after chores; dessert came after dinner; spending money came after an 8-hour shift. I hated it as a kid, but over time developed a sort of Stockholm syndrome in regards to delayed gratification, becoming almost unable to enjoy things I didn’t “earn.”

Today, I’m the ultimate loyalist to the long game, which doesn’t mean I always play it as much as it means I feel immeasurably guilty when I don’t. My boyfriend calls me crypto-Catholic. (You can call me fun.)

Feel Good Month on Man Repeller seemed an appropriate time to re-examine my relationship with feeling good, particularly the part where I sometimes stop myself from it out of a blind expression of self-discipline. What would it feel like to orient my life around instant gratification instead? The idea sounded so alien I decided it was good, and thus the “hedonism diet” was born: three days of doing what felt good instead of what felt responsible, and not an hour longer.

For the sake of not burying the lede, this turned out nothing like my Yes Diet, mostly involved having a second roll or waiting too long to pee, and ultimately revealed the dull boundaries of my Tuesday-through-Thursday imagination. The diet also came at an interesting time: I was a week into a mildly depressed slump and less in touch with my desires than ever. I tried to use the diet as a sort of catalyst for emotional movement, but quickly learned my day-to-day life has little room from spontaneity outside the bounds of what I eat.

Speaking of which: As tepid a vehicle for hedonism as food is — the image of a group of people screaming down a highway to Vegas on a Monday seems more fitting – indulging in it with abandon was the main fantasy raised by people who learned I was on the diet. That’s either a commentary on the people I know, New York in general, or humanity as a whole. Will let you theorize on that one.

If you want to read my diary over the course of the three days, it’s below. If you don’t, I won’t blame you, and will leave you with a question instead: What would your hedonism diet entail? I have a feeling the answer might reveal a lot, but in my case, I kind of hope it doesn’t.

Day 1, Tuesday

7:40 a.m. I wake up wondering if I’ve ever slept worse, but feel inexplicably energetic. Probably adrenaline; a great way to start my hedonism diet.

8:02 a.m. After cleaning up and washing some dishes, I decide to watch Jane the Virgin while I eat a bowl of yogurt and granola. I was never allowed to watch TV before school as a kid and have maintained that rule as an adult. This feels weirdly indulgent. I love Jane the Virgin.

8: 31 a.m. I pick an outfit on my first try. A miracle since getting dressed has felt impossible lately. I put on leopard shorts, a mustard shirt and lace-up sandals.

9:36 a.m. When I got to work, I buy a small 8-oz. coffee. I’d rather get cold brew but the one I got yesterday turned me into a manic pixie nightmare, plus I don’t want to spend the extra dollar.

12:18 p.m. This morning has been stressful. With a new onslaught of work, I consider killing this very story, but I resist my impulse and decide to keep it on the calendar. An ironic hedonism fail.

1:53 p.m. I haven’t had a chance to eat lunch and I’m hungry. I realize I’m in the mood for a bagel and don’t second guess it. I’m wild.

2:05 p.m. While waiting for my almond butter and jam bagel from Black Seed, I let myself mindlessly scroll Instagram, something I normally resist. I end up on Sofia Richie’s account, find out she’s dating Scott Disick, and then wonder whether I’m out of touch and if that’s a good the until my bagel gets called.

4:50 p.m. Work black hole. Hungry again. Guess bagels aren’t all that nutritionally dense? All we have in the office are almonds.

I’ve never been hungry and wanted almonds

— Haley Nahman (@halemur) August 3, 2017

I run to Grumpy’s and get the only food item they have left: a piece of pumpkin bread. Weird choice after a bagel lunch, but it sounds good.

6:45 p.m. On my way out the door for a dentist appointment, I steal a piece of gum from Emily’s desk (sorry Emily!) without considering her feelings. Is hedonism just psychopathy?

7:13 p.m. Just got to my dentist on time and mildly have to pee but am not gonna go. SO THERE.

9:07 p.m. I’m getting dinner at a French restaurant with my boyfriend. The soap in the bathroom is on a pole that requires you do a jerk-off motion to get a lather. There is a jar of condoms next to the sink. It is a mildly sexual experience that I’m trying and failing to connect to my hedonism diet.

9:09 p.m. I refuse to Google whether air hand dryers cover my hands in feces, as my boyfriend is currently suggesting, which I consider a win, despite his pouting.

10:11 a.m. When we got home, we plop on the couch instead of going to bed, and I put on a random YouTube video, which leads to another and another. My boyfriend is great at putting together an interesting and educational YouTube playlist. Under my hedonistic guidance, however, it entails a girl giving herself a makeover for 45 minutes, a women giving unhelpful tips on “how to pose” by a dirty pool, and a 30-minute compilation of “jean hacks,” such as turning your jeans into a bag or turning your jeans into a larger bag. It’s truly some of the worst content either of us have ever seen.

Day 2, Wednesday

8:21 a.m. While getting dressed I consider whether wearing red shoes and a red sweater is too much, then remember such considerations are for another day.

9:22 a.m. I decide to text my boyfriend something we really should talk about in person — an impulsive decision I would normally not entertain. (It wasn’t worth it, for the record.)

1:52 p.m. For lunch I get a salad from Sweetgreen because I’m in a hurry and need to be efficient. Am too busy to entertain other impulses.

5:04 p.m. Elizabeth brings cupcakes for Ashley’s birthday, I go for the second one I touch. Bold.

7:35 p.m. At a lovely media dinner surrounded by people I’ve never met. Our bread basket has two biscuits no one is eating. I eat the first one. It’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted.

7:52 p.m. I eat the second one.

9:08 p.m. After dinner I realize I lost my ring, but am so embarrassing by the thought of crawling around on the ground that I decide to call it a loss. Very irresponsible.

11:38 p.m. When I get home I take a shower, brush my cat, and right when I am about to get in bed, decide to watch Jane the Virgin instead. I go to bed at 12:18, like a real party animal.

Day 3, Thursday

8 a.m. The first outfit I put on makes me look like a waiter, so I swap my button-down for a pajama top, which is probably inappropriate for the dinner I have later but is the only solution to the getting-dressed woes I’ve been experiencing of late.

12:52 p.m. I set up a therapy consultation. The best-feeling thing I’ve done all week.

2:43 p.m. I decide against a salad in an attempt to prove my desires extend beyond Sweetgreen. I try out The Dez, the new Mediterranean place on Mulberry Street. I get my food to go and start eating my pita on my walk home, like a kid who failed the marshmallow test.

7:05 p.m. At dinner with some girls. Everything we order is some form of bread or pasta, rounding out my inadvertent carb-only diet this week. After mutually agreeing it’s not embarrassing, we order vanilla gelato with rainbow sprinkles for dessert.

8:31 p.m. If I were truly following the diet I would get a car home. It would take 15 minutes, but I can’t bear the cost, and so I take two long trains home. It takes an hour.

11:11 p.m. When I get home, I clean my house, shower, skip TV and go to bed like an adult.

This may not have been the most thrilling time to live by way of impulse, but it was at least interesting to note that by doing so I saw almost no consequences (except perhaps a lack of nutrients), aside from feeling less guilt. In a way, I put my conscience to the test to prove it’s overactive, and I’m delighted to say it worked, for whatever that’s worth.

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