#can you imagine not wanting to spend ten or fifteen fucking dollars on your own child who's broke and severely mentally ill and is just

[sovaharbor]

sorry it just pisses me off endlessly how carelessly my mom will spend money on herself but god forbid i ask for. Sunglasses. a new pair of sunglasses. that aren't mom-core from the fucking 2000s that have been sitting in our kitchen junk drawer for years and years. i get a "well if you don't care how they look [in reference to me saying i didn't really care about TRYING THEM ON FIRST because the shape of them isn't a concern of mine] i would prefer you just use them from the drawer"

like i'm going to 1) explode, and 2) cry .

[ms-demeanor]

You know what’s funny is whenever I make a tech post I get people going “this is blatantly untrue” and I get people going “this is really good information and everyone needs to know it” and the dividing line is how much time you spend with people who are tech literate.

Yep, I would tell my computer savvy friends where they could get keycaps and fix their keyboards; I don’t even have to bother telling my computer savvy friends how to run a fifteen year old laptop because we’re all pretty good at it.

But GODDAMN I just read a response to my “cheap computer season” post that claimed that it was totally reasonable to run a macbook from 2010 and

Look.

That’s not a reasonable thing to tell a student who needs a functional computer to do research and write papers. (have fun trying to find installation discs from when the OS was still named after cats and have fun trying to get a browser to get along with that OS)

You know why most people bring me laptops with missing keys? Because the key got ripped off by their two-year-old and damaged the soldering in the keyboard and I have no idea it’s going to be “oh, yeah, that’s a ten dollar fix” or “sorry, that’s going to be an hour and a half to disassemble and reassemble and we’ll have to order you a new keyboard specific to that model out of new old stock” and the thing is the second one is much, much, much more common in my experience than the first.

Do I think you need to replace a laptop when the bezel is cracked? No. I also don’t carry my laptop powered on in the bag with a flashdrive sticking out of the USB port. Customers do weird things that I don’t understand and when a customer tells me they want me to fix the bezel they think it’s a twenty-dollar snap-on repair because they have no idea how this works and then they get mad at me when I explain “no, you’ve gotta have this specific piece of plastic, these haven’t been made in five years, and you might be better off buying a used model online than trying to track down a new bezel.”

So here’s the thing: Can Macs get viruses?

There are three answers here.

“No, of course not, Macs are made to be virus-proof”

“Macs need antivirus protection because, while it is less common than infections for PCs, there are types of malware that can infect macs and it’s worthwhile to guard against that”

“tEcHnIcAlLy a virus has to be self-replicating and IOS’s file management system [or some other bullshit] prevents that so TECHNICALLY Macs can’t get viruses and what you need is anti-malware software if you need anything because you’re fairly likely to have security through obscurity”

I’m aware of the third position and voicing the second position to people who believe the first position.

YES TECHNICALLY YOU CAN KEEP A COMPUTER RUNNING INDEFINITELY AND YES IT’S TOTALLY POSSIBLE YOUR LAPTOP WILL LAST TEN YEARS.

“Well if you treat it right and run it well it’ll be in great shape for a long time”

YES THAT IS CORRECT DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW MANY PEOPLE WHO DON’T WORK ON THEIR OWN CARS DRIVE AROUND WITH THE OIL CHANGE LIGHT ON FOR MONTHS?!?

Tons of people in the world today use computers. They use computers every day, they use computers at home and at school and at work.

Tons of people drive every day. They use cars for fun and for commuting and for their jobs.

That doesn’t mean that all (or even most, or even half) of the people using these things is any good at keeping them running, or even has the barest idea of how to start tracking down a problem.

Someone in the notes of that post described a green line on their screen and thought that was a symptom of hard drive problems. I don’t have the hours in the day to catch this person up to speed on why a display issue on a laptop isn’t indicative of hard drive issues.

Do you know how much people think it’s going to cost to get data off of a broken drive? Not “won’t power up” not “won’t spin” but “I dropped this and part fell off and now it won’t power up or spin and also the platter is chipped”? I’m going to have to send that shit to a clean room and the customer is *staggered* that it might cost more than a hundred dollars to get their data. “Outrageous, what kind of blackmail operation are you trying to run here, just plug it in and get my pictures.”

A year or so ago I was at Jiffy Lube (ew). I’d been shooting the shit with the mechanic when a parent and child rolled in in a panic. And they should have been panicking! They’d thrown a fucking rod because they’d been driving with no oil in the car for god knows how long because neither of them had had the oil changed in the two years they’d owned the vehicle.

*I* can keep a 30-year-old car running. I can put a belt back on an engine in a dark parking lot with a wrench and a headlamp. I can drop a gas tank and replace my fuel filter and thumb my nose at the mechanics who tried to upsell me on “replacing your old, worn-out air filter” the day after I’d popped a new one into my truck.

These folks couldn’t keep a new car running with three alarms telling them what was wrong.

*I* can power up my 2005 macbook running Leopard and use garage band to record a song or do some design work on my copy of Adobe CS3; I can kludge its FF3.5 browser into playing nice with the internet and accept that it’s going to be a slow piece of shit.

The lady who called me confused by the fact that the password to her email was different than the login information for her grocery store rewards account will not be able to function if she gets a pop-up that says she’s using an outdated browser and will think it’s a virus if her bank won’t let her log in on that browser.

And you know what, I’m kind of sick of this attitude.

I would *fucking adore it* if computers were actually easy to repair; I’d love it if you could run new OSs on old hardware (especially on macs because I think apple are kind of shitheads about planned obsolescence).

But you know what, no, most people *CAN’T* reasonably expect to use a ten-year-old computer and have pleasant experience of it. It’s going to run slow. It’s going to shut down when they don’t want it to. The battery is going to swell slightly with the heat and your touchpad is going to go nuts. Your USB ports will stop working. Standard wear and tear that most people don’t know how to protect against and don’t know how to repair is going to make it harder to use AND software requirements will outstrip the hardware capabilities of the computer.

If your old computer sucks it’s not your fault. If you can’t happily use a 10-year-old laptop to do your homework that’s okay, it wasn’t designed for you to use it that way and YOU SHOULDN’T FEEL GUILTY ABOUT IT.

Because that’s kind of what a lot of these “well anybody should realistically be able to run a laptop from 2010″ responses comes down to: if you need new hardware you’re just not doing it right. If you have to replace your computer you didn’t make good choices when you bought it. If your battery dies it’s because you didn’t take care of it.

No. No. No. No.

This shit is A) designed to fail and B) actually really hard to keep running (hey how many blown capacitors do you think someone has to have on their motherboard before you say it’s not their fault for wanting to replace the laptop)

ALSO SOMEONE IN THE RESPONSES OF THAT POST LITERALLY SAID THAT IF YOUR BATTERY DIED AT THREE YEARS IT WAS BECAUSE YOU WEREN’T DOING THE DRAIN CHARGE CYCLE RIGHT AND FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU FUCK YOU. It’s discharge cycles and heat, motherfucker; they are going to fail at some point and people shouldn’t feel bad if their batteries stop working after a couple years.

UGH.

You shouldn’t have to be a mechanic. You shouldn’t have to be a computer technician. Yeah, your shit will last longer if you know how to take care of it but, fuck. Imagine you were still using internet speeds from 2010. Imagine all your devices still had USB 2.0. Imagine you couldn’t log onto your online bank because your hardware won’t run he software that your bank recognizes because the hardware manufacturer decided it won’t support the older hardware.

What I was trying to get across in that initial post was “computers fail, and they fail pretty frequently; your life will be better and you will save money if you plan on replacing them at a regular interval and have reasonable expectations in terms of cost and failure. So buy a cheap computer now because you’re probably going to need one at some point”

And now I’ve got to Do A Yell about how there’s no ethical consumption under capitalism and it’s unreasonable to expect tired, overworked, broke people to become experts in computer repair in order to do their homework or play the goose game.

FUCK THAT.

IT’S CHEAP COMPUTER SEASON MOTHERFUCKERS. LAPTOP FAILURE RATES INCREASE AT THREE TO FIVE YEARS AND DESKTOP FAILURE RATES INCREASE AT FIVE TO SEVEN YEARS. RIGHT NOW THERE ARE DISCOUNTS ON NEW COMPUTERS AND IT’S CHEAP TO GET AN EXTENDED WARRANTY.

LIVE LONG AND PROSPER AND WORK ON COMPUTERS IF YOU WANNA AND PLAN TO REPLACE REGULARLY IF YOU DON’T WANT TO WORK ON COMPUTERS.

ALSO CHANGE YOUR FUCKING OIL YOU’RE PROBABLY DUE.

[whomstism]

George rambles a little bit about a job interview he had, RV Life, The Gorilla glue girl and now the Gorilla glue solo cup guy, and the 117 year old lady that survived covid ---------------------------------- --- Support this podcast: https://anchor.fm/the-whomst/support

_________

(Rough unedited Transcript of The Whomst Podcast Episode 129 )

Hey what's up everybody welcome to the homes podcast episode 129 I randomly checked a hundred episodes ago around like 28 to 29 and I don't know why I checked on soundcloud but I did just to see if like anybody listening see if I missed some like comments or whatever but uh, I got a few more more listened than I expected cuz I don't promote. 

A soundcloud at all and back when I was using soundcloud it just was not it was not what's up because I can only upload like four episodes so like the the earliest episode I post say if I post some like six seven eight, nine, I'll have to delete six so I can upload eleven, you know what I mean, cuz I cuz the only give you like a certain I think is like two hours of free free hours or something like that three minutes and I'll use it up in like four episodes or three episode five. 

Talked a lot in one especially in this case. I did episode like episode 27 to 28 with Jason fifi a friend of mine from in fellow comedian from our Alabama and we were we talked for like an hour and a half something like that so that took up like all my space so but that was like the last episode that I uploaded on soundcloud before I realized. 

Because the only way they'll give me more time more spaces if I paid for it and you know what? I'm not paying I'm not paying to talk to myself I'm not that damn crazy right like yeah spend money to make money but it's out of cloud come on good good thing I didn't good thing I am cheap and I kept looking around because I I wouldn't have found my current host would you probably hurt the uh the ad from the beginning of the episode the anchor that anchored out FM, that's basically where I use and now a lot of people use see. 

I thought that's kind of thought I kind of ran into something new like a year ago, but every time I ask people who started up a new pipe. Guess and I try to recommend them the anchor host they already know about it and look yeah, look, okay. I guess I'm not as unique as I thought oh shit. 

But man check the shit out, um, but yeah you already know who's podcast if you knew TLD are basically what to show is it's just me George Collins. I'm a comedian. I just talk about the news talk about what's what's going on that's kind of just do whatever like but uh you already know this episode and all episodes is brought to you by ugly drinks calm that is a the drink of choice for this show ugly drinks calm, they just actually rebooted a flavor great flavor they try to. 

Tease it on Twitter. I kind of guessed that shit quick as hell, but great flavor great flavored sparkling water, so I guess recommended TI if you don't like grape some some weird reason try out peach peach or. Yeah, I recommend peach flavor just try that so ugly drinks.com let's just jump into it, um this week before we get into the news, hey I finally got I actually got two interviews this week. 

I'm trying to get trying to get a second job because you know, I can't really save with my current money that make up I make pretty decent but it's not. I can't save because of me. I'm I spend money on bullshit all the time and I can't stop it, it's a drug yeah. 

I boss you on Amazon I post made a lot of stuff because I don't like cooking. I think I told you I like the ratio of how long it takes me to cook and how long it eats depends on if I actually cook it so yeah, so in the buying a lot of post makes because that's shit and, I mean, yeah, it's my own fault, that's all that is I need to fix it, but what can you do huh what can you get all right but? 

Okay because I did the research right and I don't remember if I told you I'd not but I actually got in contact with some of the some of the gets crushed words with some of the RV sellers here in Vegas and they hit me up and you know, how car salesman this is like they just trying to like make a sale and they'll tell you anything and I told them I had bad credit and shit like that and I mean, you know, yeah, we see what works out and then as he was telling me that I remember when I'm trying to get a car backing out. 

Obama and I'll just try to get my own car again after my ex wrecked my other one. Basically they'll they'll tell you hey yeah we try to work something out but in reality yeah, they'll sell you car but they'll like deposit or be like double sometimes triple so I'll like oh fuck last time I looked at RV and like a dealership they wanted like fifteen twenty thousand like before they even checked your credit so it's like I could just imagine what exactly they wanted. 

I might be exaggerating a little bit it might actually been like ten thousand but it's still in the thousands it's a thousand. Couple thousand dollars deposit, it's like a it's like a fucking house it is house it is a house. So I can just imagine they look at my credit and they're like yeah, it'll actually be like $25,000 down some shit like this so I'm like they kept trying to call me which that's that's cool and all but I'm like, I know I'm not gonna be able to get whatever is no no way yeah, you're gonna be nice enough to let me get something down, let me put a little bit lower down. 

Sort I can get it there then there going by the book instead of going by then they're they're not gonna take a chance you feel me like cuz it's not because the rent the quote unquote rent of the RV I can handle no problem that's that's not a problem at all especially because me doing a math my current rent and my car is will be about a thousand dollars so I can handle an RV which is gonna be a little bit lower than that actually so I can actually handle. 

Because if I got the RV to actually help me out I'm gonna get rid of the car I'm gonna get rid of the car. I'm a I'm not gonna be I'm gonna be staying in this place no more so I can handle whatever payments I have to make for RV so whatever extra money yeah, I'll be saving up I can use for whatever maintenance for an RV but since it'll be like a semi new one. 

I won't have to worry about maintenance or anything like that. I can actually focus on like the things that I need for like to keep it keep it going, you know, I don't know. I don't know it for sure because I haven't. Tad an RV myself but I know you had that like licenses and it might be something here something different than the last time. 

I looked it up in Bama might be some like parking laws or whatever in Vegas. I don't know. I haven't looked all that up. I'm probably should but at the same time like, I don't I don't I'm I don't I don't have the money for it, so what's the plan me looking up if I don't even have one you know what I mean? 

I don't know me being semi negative but yeah I said that because I had got that the second job second when I didn't get it yet, but I'm pretty sure I'm gonna get it my experience if they don't they don't pick me. I don't know why maybe because you know, you know what's funny about that because the interview it'll just place called I'm not gonna no, you know it fuck it, it's not fucking say it. 

I don't know what crazy motherfucker listen to this all right, but it was basically they don't want to be called a temp service but they're a temp service and it's they are they basically trying to hire someone for janitor work and I've had plenty of that is whatever and. 

They they try to be like we're done we're we're new we're a new modern day interviewer so we don't do all that old school stuff so one of the things they had me do on top of the application which was weird because they asked me for an interview then did an application that's backwards but a part of application was a survey for like, hey, we're gonna see what type of personality you have so it'll be like three questions and each questions be like a one example would be how do you? 

View yourself and underneath the question to be like a literally a hundred words that you can click multiple words, of course. Click it as many words you want to describe yourself. I kind of. I you I wanted to make a joke about it if I wasn't so serious about getting this position I would have been joking and just like it's either I would have picked just one word out of a hundred words that they gave me who just picked one to describe me or pick all of them just like picked every single one of them just to like fuck around you know, I thought that I don't know but that's it. 

I thought that that was that's like a new thing and then when she was interviewing me, right she was like, One thing that kind of caught my eye which is kind of funny she made it very clear like yeah, we're gonna we can't ask you if you have a criminal record bud if we run one well something pop up like right now and this is like okay, can you do you think you'll be able to pass a drug test well we also senses legal here we it we don't test for marijuana she like made this super clear as if. 

A lot of people did they got they tried to get the position had that issue so they was like who didn't get rid of it or? Or they you know, what kind of makes makes it kind of clear because a lot of people when I first moved here was like, oh they do a drug test but they don't test from marijuana but I'm but you know what I never tested it. 

I never wanted to be in that situation, you know what I mean, like just in case what it would have these mother could just lie, huh? And you get caught and I got marijuana and my system and I just like go take a drug test now. I'm in trouble and I don't have a job anymore because I took marijuana because I had marijuana in my system what I'm gonna argue with them like oh I thought it was legal but like I don't know I stomped I still kind of scary about this so I'll try to like not do it just in case yeah, you never know like who am I? 

I don't have money for lawyers. I can't fight this shit fuck that so no, I'm not taking that chance but she made very clear maybe it was a test. I'm not testing that she angled. Me you're not gonna trick me into failing the drug test plus, um, one thing I'm kind of glad they didn't do it's like hey dress because at the second interview I got the one I didn't go to it was a different position. 

I actually forget what it was no we was working for it was one of those people that works that runs the little cart at the airport and like put it in and out whatever one I didn't I didn't pick that one because it was like nine bucks an hour and like the reviews. 

I've heard that's on ND because You do like reviews of jobs and some other well a good amount of reviews were saying like, oh it's is really hard work and she like that. I'm like nah I'm done and I could look I don't look I'll work hard. I don't mind working hard but at this point how long I've been working in manual labor. 

I I'm not getting paid nine dollars an hour to do manual labor again, all right, you have to pay more than so I kind of left out alone plus on top of that airport job. I mean, I could have moved up but who I ain't got time for this shit. 

Deals like a come to the interview and in business casual and I they never. I could never really understand it like for like certain jobs like like says say if I try to get hired for Walmart when I was younger and like my my sister is on my mom or something like that was me like you have to dress up you have to dress for the interview so like that which didn't make sense because I was I was just becoming like a janitor or like a car pusher like why am I coming in like a half a suit for like that doesn't make no goddamn sense like a dress for the job you want like I'm going to be a carp pressure like I'm coming in jeans and a t-shirt. 

I'm. Come with a smile on my face that's about the only professional thing that I'm gonna put on on purpose, all right Christ, that's that's by anyway, that's what the janitor job the actual interview actually went to. They didn't do that they I just kind of came in the the the clothes that I were to work basically just like these black g black pans and like a black t-shirt my jacket. 

I didn't like look overly hood or anything like that. I don't think I could even if I tried but. But they I if I don't get a job. I don't know. I'm kind of rambling whatever anyway. Well, okay the only reason why I brought that up is because they could have FaceTime me because I went if you know the layout of Vegas, I live on the north side all the way on top right and the interview was all the way at the bottom like past the airport in on like Russell Road, so I'm like, That was like a solid 30-35 minute drive just on my raggedy ass the reggae is jeep just for like a five-minute interview just for them for them to say hey yeah, we just wanted to see your face and see if you come on time and then they gave me the actual application like I said, I gave it to me after the interview and then said we'll hit you up in a few weeks. 

This is a waste of fucking time man all day damn gas plus like look. I don't know it's because maybe because I haven't been driving long distances in a long time, but driving on the highway in Vegas kind of like. Kind of kind of freaks me out sometimes man and I look I just try to rest stay away from them just I just stay on the land stay on the streets these people can drive a drive all extra aggressive and shit only I ain't got time for that. 

I'll be trying to chill. I mean, I maybe you know what maybe the dumb driving all crazy or keep me like alert and because you know, I got the narcolepsy so I'm like, that's the one thing that kind of makes me kind of scary because I'm like driving straight for a long time kind of fucks for me, so maybe the shitty drivers. 

Shaking me awake actually helps maybe I should appreciate what I have. I don't know hope this thing is stop recording. Jesus Christ, oh my God, okay. I didn't. Oh shit all right in the news after 16 minutes of me wrangling okay, look yeah, I already know about the gorilla glue girl and a good news out of that stupidity she she uh, she got certain that surgery but basically we got some doctor that did it for free which is fucking cool as hell. 

Who basically created this like little mixture that broke down the the glue. And she got her hair back, so I mean not all of it, but like she got her hair back, so she's seen my back to normal which I'm kind of happy for for that but same time. 

Yeah, I'm look I'm repeating what other people say it like what the fuck like how to who why did you think that was good idea? Anyway but it was a good good ending to the story on top of she's not I'm pretty sure you saw like online where she was they were saying that she was going to sue the people who created gorilla glue which ended up just being there just another fucking internet lie doesn't rumor one from trying to get clips clicks. 

So at the end of the day, it's just stupid people got stupid prizes and they got a way out of it so that's that's cool like I said, I'm happy for but that's not the end of the story y'all that's at the end of the story, ah, there's a why what one thing why is it always the black folks brah these motherfuckers are like throwing us back further and further every time make some steps it's always some motherfuckers there is you know, it's not even just black people it's just people in general just fuck. 

Ing us up every time we make a step in in a good path somebody always try to do something that are like. Basically give aliens a reason why not the ever communicate with us we're too damn stupid as you can hear me talking um, but no man okay, yes another gorilla group glue is situation this guy I think is from Louisiana, okay, just listen to this clip man. 

Louisiana guy thought that she was that the outcome look. I'm not even remember these people name but this guy from Louisiana made a video. I guess he's a rapper or whatever. He basically thought that the gorilla will girl. Was making it up that it was all for clout like gorilla glue isn't that strong so he so what he did fucking IQ of a thousand what he did was uh, took a bottle gorilla glue. 

Put it on a party cup one of those red solo cups and put it to his lips and he pretty sure you can guess you want to take a guess what happened yeah you're you're right he's in the hospital foot shit he's in the hospital for gluing red solo club cup to his lips and he got it how how some of the articles saying it they saying that he got his whole lip removed. 

I doubt it. I'm pretty sure the surgeon just like cut the surface. That that was actually glued on that's it because anything else seems excessive. I'm not a doctor who knows. To buy it there's a funny thing is like listen to this clip don't show you right and I'll show you but listen to because he basically goes on the news and interviews one of the wonderful things like Fox 6 is I'm sure like that. 

Basically what happened in his mindset and all that stuff is just overly stupid just listen.

you know, all right so the funniest thing about the whole thing is is I love how he he wants to like, oh I'm gonna be careful about like making sure my lips aren't exposed to like this virus and it's an open cut and all this nonsense right but this the motherfucker that put glue on them in the first place like come on like, Look okay let's play devil's advocate for a minute okay, let's say I understand his point of I want to I want to prove that she was doing this all for cloud is all for faking she like there so I wanted to have a real video critical real video of glue actually touching skin, it's not that strong right flow, right? 

Why lips why the lips bro you you had any other place on any other non-incentral places on your body it could have tested it on like your arm yeah your fingers you could be doing arts and crafts, you know, how the glue gets on your fingers like you can test it at that way anywhere else anywhere else does not important like he might he might as well hes squeeze squeeze a little bit and it's nostrils and close them all fuckers up like as well, so we go in important parts up let's let's glue my glue my These I can't talk. 

Let's glue my lips together. Jesus Christ. I'm surprising to do that now plus you know, what what we know is stupid is he didn't he said he we wanted to see if it was real what you're doing real. He could have just he didn't do it on his hair like I figured what he looks like. 

I'm now but uh, he could have tested it Harry at least that's stupidity is comparable at least it has a theme like oh I was I was trying to prove that the her superglue thing wasn't real so I put it in my hair or in my beard so I'm like that at least. 

At least he got that at least you still stupid you still stupid as hell but at least I understand unless you did test on the exact same thing she did you know, but now let's let's put a put this glue a cup to my lip now. I can't use my lips. 

I have to have a mask on the cover of my lips, he pie it only like the where the mask cuz he wasn't wearing it properly in in the video. He was still had he still had his nose out so he was just he just had to mask on the cover his fucking glued on lips, that's that's about it so. 

It's I mean, I guess that one has a semi happy ending he. I mean, he's not so much embarrassed that he didn't he he's going on TV the interview people know his name. Like you doing this for for cloud like it's not working bro, like no one's gonna buy your wrap album yeah, you're mix tapes, oh yeah if people do buy it's really fun novelty just like oh yeah, this is the dude who this is the rapper they glued his fucking lip to a red cuts red solo cup like that's about it. 

I would buy it. I mean, you got that I guess. 

So the sister survived covet, she's 117 years old look me personally. Look if I was 117 and I finally got covered but I will be ecstatic just like fuck finally getting the fuck out of here like god damn and then it don't happen. I'll be pissed because uh, I don't know if you heard it but she's she's blind and on the video she's looks like sitting in a chair obviously she can talk since they interviewed her. 

I mean did like I said, it's just me personally like I can't live that long. I just can't like it's it's been 29 almost 29 years and I'm done with it already, so I'll just imagine. Fuck that's like was 80 almost 90 more years yeah fuck that man. I'm sorry like just in me. 

I like I think I've said it before it's like when I get old enough to where like if something unfortunate happened it happens to me to where I like because I don't mind being old and I could take care of myself just fine yeah if I have the money to take care of my myself and I'm like comfortable that's cool. 

I'm not saying just like being old fuck that no I'm saying is um, If I something happened to you where I can't take care of myself and I just need like let's say if I have kids like my my son on my daughter to take care of me or or if I had the money to to do it have like some like nurse. 

Come to my house and have to do everything for me then fuck that just this like punch me in the soft spot in my brain like just uppercut me into heaven like god damn it, like I know I can't I can't do that man cuz um, I remember when I broke my leg and I don't know just them having it happen to help me get up to go to the bathroom it's just the masculine and even though it's not it's the it's the job and some of them don't complain about it it's cool they they happy to help people and it's people like that that's that's great but don't don't help me the only way to help me is get one of those like miniature novelty bats. 

Crack me across the skull. I write a note so you don't get in trouble fuck that's why I was thinking. I had a random thought earlier this week on Twitter saying, uh, okay, you know how you have like an argument not? I know I don't know if you've done a done before but you've seen it or you heard about it to do this again to an argument and at a bar and one of them gets one of them shoots the other one and. 

Sometimes you'll see the videos on like world started like oh you got a gun shoot me dead shoot me dead and what if its like if that person does shoot them can they is there a loophole in the system? That says, oh says he's especially got video of it like this dude acts for it he asked for you to shoot him is there a loophole in the system that says oh yeah, well you you was just doing this man a service is there something out there like that could add a little yeah that'll take a lot of like a lot of stress out that will take a lot of these people who. 

Try to use that as to to make themselves look tougher like that you need in brah like they'll really think twice about saying whatever they say in an argument like but yeah back to cracking me against the head with a bat. I mean if she's cool, she's happy doing that, but like like she said what she's scared, she's like no. 

And that's why I think like she does talk she just done now she just kind of just waiting you she don't even watch TV she like listening it's like what the fuck do you do you just she's a nun does she just pray all day. I'm kind of fucking around a little bit but like what does she do all day it's like how do you stay sane? 

Is the is the thought of of God or whatever she believes in and follows is that so calming that you're fine with living this life how long has she been blind that's that's why I want to look up to. Because whatever keeps her saying on a daily. I I want somebody because I can see I can walk I can take care of myself and I am depressed. 

Then and that's that's why that's the one thing I don't like the back like when I was a teenager because I'm an atheist so I'm more of a gnostic now because I don't argue with people about it. I understand why people need things like back when our teenager. I'll argue with people about like the afterlife of God notice stuff, but now I kind of I understand why people need it and, I'm kind of jealous. 

I kind of how my brain works. I just cannot. Cannot do the whole religion and spirituality spiritual spirituality and saying that word it stuff like that. I just can't do it, so that's why I'm not but I'm jealous for people who can who looks into a book and can be happy. 

A book and just just have hope and be happy for the rest of their life just doing whatever because they have this this figure in the sky looking out for them quote unquote looking out for them. I'm jealous for that so if that's. Was keeping this lady alive and being fine with the fact that you can't do shit for real. 

Then. Is on owner like. That's good that's cool. I guess I don't really have nothing funny to say about it, it's just like I am I'm gonna I'm a little bit jealous of people who just if that actually is the reason that's keeping her alive and keeping her saying then and yeah, that's that's that's what's up but um, 

Not me though give me into about 60 and I can it and it takes me like three times as much strength to get up out my seat nope ended please game over well when I fart and I and I fucking pissed myself nah don't hit in this shit. I never oh I didn't want to end it on a dark note but like down but I look I'm happy that she's survived she's a second old second oldest person ever in the world, I guess. 

I've been looking for number one is. That's that's not a good existence. I wonder what their diets are like what how did what did you eat on for all your life to survive that long sometimes like I was arguing with people not arguing but we just have enough conversation on the clubhouse. 

About death because this dude came in like super fucking woke, you know, those dudes who have like a three dreads but they call it locks now yeah he had three locks and so he's like super spiritual and shit like you start talking about like playing the garden and shit he's like asking us do we plant gardens like obviously a fucking don't come on now? 

I don't I don't garden it's the same way. I don't like cooking it's like I'm not fucking waiting. Two and a half weeks to eat one tomato wait, obviously if you keep doing it you do it do it properly yeah. I know but like still I'm not it's just takes too fucking long but so I appreciate the moderate modern day way of us eating shit yeah, it's not great for us but like who the fuck cares like? 

Haha look at stuff it's just. You don't matter if you eat well you're still gonna die and it was like saying those same delves truck that that was being negative. Because like I don't know because I because I accept death that's that's I don't know people just don't understand me. 

Let me see hold on what the fuck? Oh well, basically I'll just say and tell them I'm like it don't matter if you eat well like yeah, oh add maybe 20 years to your life but do it do it really really matter especially when you're 60 if I die at 60, sometimes it don't matter you like you eat all the well your exercise every day you take care of yourself you take your vitamins and you'll still die of stroke at 32 like sometimes you get unlucky and like you can't. 

Just blame food it's not always food it just sometimes, you get luck unlucky it's like I had I had a stroke during the fucking pneumonia. I was fine. I was working fine that week before and then I went to sleep woke up fucking body hurts so like the shit happens all right and I'm actually I'm actually taking care of myself. 

I only started only start eating like shit and again because I was in quarantine for so goddamn long and I couldn't do shit. I just got bored so I just went back to what I was doing but before that I was taking care of myself, so. Explain that damn. 

I don't know I'm gonna leave it at that. I've been talking for too long. I talk to you later thanks for listening episode 129 now see ya next week thanks for listening, um shit just I got the links on the Instagram and the bio is you can buy merch you can all borrow that good stuff follow me on Instagram at regular as George shared a show share the show. 

I appreciate y'all love y'all peace.

[tervacious]

Since Everything is a Feminist Dissertation Imma blog about Shane Dawson’s palette for a minute

Nine times out of ten when you make a statement and end it with BUT, you have outted yourself as a hypocritical ass who should have the ovarios to say what follows the BUT without the opening statement.  Maybe this will be true for me too.

In agreement with most radfems I totally think the cosmetics industry is a clusterfuck of male entitlement and wealth being siphoned away from girls and women to men and male CEOs, etc etc, and I also think the sheer amount of product and time involved in placing thirty-five different products on one’s face to achieve a “natural” look is insidious and a perfect exemplar of what misogyny functions like on a daily basis, BUT

I’m a survivor of an extreme fundie xtian cult that controlled female behavior by emphasizing conformity, femininity, modesty, and lack of adornment/personality.  I did not like this even as a small child because I’m a loner, Dottie.  A rebel.  Which means I was a totally normal little girl who didn’t like being controlled and who fought back at every opportunity.

Which might explain why I’m a goth.  I’m also an artist, and I’m on this planet, as are you, for a very tiny amount of time, and if I want to spend a fraction of that time adorning myself and wearing lots of black eyeliner, by the goddess I’ll fucking do it.  And there’s nothing radical or feminist about that, any more than there’s anything inherently radical or feminist about not doing it.

I have a single small dresser drawer filled with makeup, and I’ve been eyeballing it recently because I should really pitch out and replace about 80% of it for age related reasons alone.

And thus we come to the Conspiracy palette by Shane Dawson x Jeffree Star, and also the mini palette, Lorde help me

Jesus christ, look at that.

I only buy one eyeshadow palette at a time and use it until it is gone or falls apart into dust.  The current state of the beauty industry is such that they are pressuring women and girls into buying palette after palette, some of them enormous, some small, but a grown-ass woman owning stacks of these things is not unusual anymore.  And new ones are coming out constantly-- to the point where there’s a whole part of beauty YouTube devoted to “the anti-haul”, in which people announce which makeup thing they will NOT be buying.  This is a sorry state of affairs, there’s no way around it.

I don’t collect makeup because that’s silly.  It’s a huge waste of money.  I watch otherwise sensible women hoarding vast numbers of eyeshadow palettes, and they use only one or two colors and that’s... just sad?  Apply that to the vast quantities of makeup products, to your lipsticks and glosses, to your pencils and correctors and corrector palettes and concealers and blushes and highlighters and contours and powders and foundations and primers and mattifiers and setting sprays and mascaras and a bunch of others things I forget, add a pile of false eyelashes and I don’t know, eyebrow merkins or some shit, and that’s what a well-appointed makeup afficionado is supposed to have in her arsenal.  And all those things can’t be just one-- you have to have multiples, for reasons.  But I honestly think the eyeshadow obsession is the worst, which is strange coming from me, because I adore eyeshadow.  

And yet in spite of this I have a black stand-alone eyeshadow pan, and one large palette that is cheap, made in China, not great but with a lot of weird colors in it, so I use that one when I bother, and a few pots of glitter.  My plan is to use it up or wait until it’s too old to use safely, and then pitch it/repurpose the case for something (it is literally the size of a laptop with a huge mirror in it so I can think of something), and get a new palette.  I only buy one at a time, and use it until it’s gone.  You know, like a rational person.

At first I’d decided when the time comes I’d get the Jawbreaker palette and mini, by Jeffree Star, because I loved the colors, but now I’ve changed my mind, because Shane Dawson’s not only has a case that matches my aesthetic, it also has awesome colors and, most importantly, BLACK.  I use black eyeshadow alone or to set my eyeliner, so I’m devoted.  And while all of these palettes have too many neutrals for my taste you can always use those for some kinda detail, and the Conspiracy Palette is my jam.  It’s really gorgeous.  Not gonna lie.

The documentary he made about the making of this palette is interesting on multiple levels-- there’s the process itself, which I didn’t know shit about until now.  There was the portrayal of his relationship with Jeffree, which was interesting and often pretty funny, and touching.  And from my chronic can’t stop writing feminist dissertations POV, the way women are the target of this business and yet completely sidelined was a real eyeopener.   Let me just mention this one part:

In the final episode when the palette is assembled, each pan glued into the box and then the box boxed up, there’s a song with a woman singing about how she’ll never be Prom Queen.  Shane is walking through the assembly line, emotional, because this is his project coming to fruition.  Jeffree is with him, and Shane starts crying, and Jeffree comforts him.  The song is clearly meant to be something Shane feels.

But the scene is of dozens of women, none of whom will be prom queen, none of whom are about to make millions of dollars on cosmetics, in white coats and hair protectors and goggles, busily assembling a beautiful object, which one suspects only a few of them will be able to afford for themselves though I can’t swear to that, it’s possible they are paid well, the place is unusual, Jeffree makes all his product in the United States, and I’m not inclined to jump to conclusions.  But they are anonymously and busily working, putting together this thing, meant for women, and no woman really had any functional input into this project at all.  This was, as everyone was joking, Shane and Jeffree’s baby.  A baby.  You know, the thing a man can never have.

I appreciate film making that reveals truth, even if it wasn’t intentional.

So other than that there’s not much to say.  You can watch the epic thing yourself on YouTube, it was entertaining (and good for me because I need to opt out of some of the heavier shit I’m always buried in, yet one more reason I fucking QUIT MY JOB and am now FREE,) but if you want a look into the way the business works on the indy end of the spectrum, not the old timey Cosmetics Corporations but the new one that Jeffree Star basically spearheaded and upturned large chunks of the old business model, I think this documentary is a good one for understanding exactly how marginalized women remain in a business that ostensibly is directed at us.

The reason I think women like watching men like Jeffree and Shane and whoever else do these things is because it aids and abets the lie that wearing makeup is all a choice women make.  The men are choosing, because men have zero pressure on them to do these things.  Women are taught to have affinity with men and to ignore their lack of affinity with us.  These bits of entertainment are a great brainwashing reinforcing device, to get us along for the ride, to hop in the car we never ever get to drive.  And none of it is intentional, which is the best part.  As smart as Shane is, the joy of being male is you just take things, casually, as your birthright.  You’re totally entitled to make a nine-hour epic following your friends and family, unapologetically, put it on the internet, and get accolades, including the one I’m writing right now.  You’re entitled to dictate the facts as if they contain a great truth.  You can be totally unaware of the impact your decisions have for the greater bad.  You can think you’re helping your sister-in-law through her crisis created by the very culture you are responsible for while mocking the women she blames for making her feel bad.  This set of films is a monolithic treat for a radical woman to confront.  And I hope, since there’s truth hidden in plain sight throughout, that a lot of other women and girls will see it too.  Will notice the few females scattered throughout the film, consulted in the most cursory way, knowing they have to perform or they’re replaceable.  I’m an Old, and used to seeing the real world, which has looked like this all my life.  I don’t know what a fifteen year-old will see.

Tati Westbrook also released a new eyeshadow palette last week I think, and since people think if she puts out a forty-five minute video she’s talking too much, she naturally did not film a massive docudrama showcasing her Eyeshadow Palette Journey or whatever I could imagine her saying.  Thus she was very much overshadowed by something that won’t appear for sale until tomorrow.  I have no doubt she’ll do well, but will she make twenty million dollars?  Will she do as well as she could have if she were a man?

Should anyone, off of what is essentially bullshit?   Pretty, gorgeous bullshit?  Of course not.  That’s the actual feminist conclusion, it doesn’t matter if a male or a female is profitting off of, essentially, the insecurities and desires for cool new things and to be hip and liked and looked up to, which all of us have to some extent in some arena.  I’m not immune to it either, ain’t lying again.  It’s always an unseemly pleasure to have someone half my age ask me what I’m wearing and where I got it.  Capitalism has conditioned all of us to associate material things with social acceptance and admiration, and if you are a materialist person like I am, that association comes very easily.

Anyway, that’s it, that’s the bit.  I have no doubt this thing will sell out in approximately two hours, which will happen without me because my old eyeshadow palette still works.  

[wheelthefridge]

in honor of last night having been my last ever shift dishwashing at the same restaurant i’ve been at for the past four years here’s an absurdly long list of random chaotic moments that literally no one asked for that i’ve been compiling since day one:

bj, with a half full gallon of orange juice: this expired two months ago. *pours down drain* that was a long time ago

sam: YOU! I HAVE A BONE TO PICK WITH YOU!! *carries on normally with no explanation* bj: smack that! that too! smack those vegetables! punch that burger in the nose! chop that bun! bob: no, flick the bun. you have to flick it. 

*bad and boujee playing* bj: walks into kitchen, singing bj: you better know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away, know when to run bj: walks out of kitchen, still singing

me: hey can you put the wet floor sign out for me dylan: sure dylan: *slips while putting the sign out* me:

sam: get this- i haven’t smoked pot in like three days and my brain is ready to roll! yeah!

joe: ha! oldest trick in the book i just started writing 

dude @bar: ten percent of people are over 6'1" other dude: what about 6'2"  dude 1: what? no. ten percent of people are OVER 6'1" - so that includes 6'2" dude 2: idk I know a lot of tall guys. taller than me dude 1: what? i’m saying- just- ten percent of everyone in the whole world- you know how many people there are in the world? 7 billion– dude 2: i thought it was six billion  dude 1: no, 7 billion- ten percent of 7 billion—

joe, digging through the trash: i’m just gonna peruse through here,, aaaaannnd….. nope not here me: what’re u looking for Joe: …..a book

didi: is eating a pistachio  katherine: is that sour cream

sam: some dirty whorebag wants two pickles 

joe: sam she am. that’s right. dr seuss wrote a book about her 

katherine: oh my goddd this song is always on i’m so tired of it joe: is it? i don’t think i’ve heard it before carolyn: eh it’s all just one long brazilian song to me

katherine: look at my straw i put it in the pencil sharpener 

sam: i’m on crack cocaine. you heard it here

sam, aggressively putting silverware in the tray: just the way the cookie crumbles me: yeah? sam, fake crying: yes

adele: if you’re ready- sam: what if I’m not bob: too bad. she only cares if she’s ready

something: *breaks* sam: time for the mop. and by mop i mean… this thing *holds up dustpan*

mike: you should go on junior master chef…. and only make fries 

sam, quietly as she speedwalks by me: panic panic panic panic panic panic panic panic

sam, beginning of the night: my goal is to make at least forty bucks tonight. hopefully sixty sam, later that night: i’ve made five dollars

sam, pouring a drink into the trash right next to the sink: you know, im not sure why i poured that in the trash. i’ve had a very off day

katherine, after accidentally spraying salsa on herself: i just sprayed salsa all over myself bj: i feel like that too sometimes. i love salsa so much

sam: can you imagine if i did like hardcore drugs how messed up i would be- i’m messed up soberly

someone: what’re you supposed to feed twenty kids  kerry: pizza bj: vodka 

sam: will you let bob know there’s gonna be seven in the snug bj: seven in the snug? that’s my band name. we’re really good

edson: *spins cover on counter and stares at it for solid thirty seconds before putting his finger down to stop it* edson: good. 

sam: what should i draw bj: you should draw casey, hanging from a cliff, with a pterodactyl flying towards them who is on fire, but, seems optimistic about it 

bj: life is too short for low fat cheese. remember that. 

sam, beginning of night, in a really good mood: guess what i’m drunk and high right now  sam, later that night: i was just pouring a beer and i dropped it. like my hand just let go of it sam, end of night: i’m never doing this again 

joe: you know who didn’t clock out yet?? i have two thumbs! joe: ……wait joe: you know who has two thumbs and hasn’t clocked out yet?? this guy!! me: there ya go buddy

bob: i’ve slept fifteen hours in the past four days me: that’s not good bob: yeah

edson: look edson: *holds out hand with top spinning in his palm* *giggles*

sam: i cannot wait for this day to be over  me: it’s barely started  sam: i took a shot before i got here. i have more in my car

bob: hi sam sam: hi bob  didi: hi sam sam: fuck off

joe: her? oh yeah her name is sarah whitaker  katherine: oh i think i know her joe: that’s funny because i just made that up. i’m willing to bet money that she’s nineteen tho me: why joe: bc i overheard her say that she’s nineteen

joe: i’m gonna send you a video but you can’t watch it now it’s needs full attention with headphones and the lights off 

bj: if you lose your hand, don’t replace it with a fork. that would be a bad choice. i know it’s probably the cheapest option, right up there with stick, but just spend the money. 

bj, on a different day: i think if you were to get your hands cut off, getting them replaced with plates would be a very bad idea. you can dig. and you can toss. but that’s about it. no playing the saxophone.  

colby: *doesn’t show up to work* bj: maybe i should leave him a message of just me crying 

katherine: i think an old man just asked me to live with him

sam: wait *pulls celery strings out of her mouth* that just came out of my throat

bob: i’m such a grump tonight. i’m in a good mood i’m just so grumpy.  bob: maybe i’m not in a good mood…

bj, after sending christa downstairs to get liquor for the bar: i put a live cobra down there too so… if she comes back with it dead in her hands…. she’s a champ. and that’s that. 

bj: i had a dog today did you have a dog? me: no bj: oh. well. 

dylan, holding phone camera at joe: hey joe can you pull ur shirt down joe, pulling the collar of his shirt halfway down his chest: yeah like this? dylan, taking picture: yeah thanks 

bj: HI-YAH carley: you’re a ninja!! bj: yes. don’t be alarmed. i only use my powers for good. 

bj, with one bottle in each hand, pouring water in the sink, mimicking cow milking motions: it’s like a cow. mooooooeeeeeeuuuuuhhhhhhgggg aaaaaauuuuuueuejhshhsii. that’s what cows sound like right?

bj: we have a dog, and we’re getting chickens. i’m not really sure why were getting chickens. do i consider myself a farmer? not really. 

bj: we should make a youtube channel of just me saying really random things to you and you not responding to me whatsoever me: mhmm

nancy: I’m sleeping

sam: *pours drink out on counter next to sink* sam: wHAT the FuCK was that!? why did i do that?? i’ve lost it! i’ve hit rock bottom!!

sam: *bends over* ughhhhhhhhhhhhh *straightens up* ok i’m fine

bj: yum! that’s how i rate the soup. two yums up!! *laughs for like a full minute*

sam: i got my motorcycle license over the weekend and now all everyone’s saying to me is “no don’t get a motorcycle they’re so dangerous” like shut the fuck up if i die i die it’s my choice 

bj: i think if i were to be turned into some kind of commercial type of food, if i got turned into a nugget, i think i’d be indignant. i’ve lived my whole life and now i’m a nugget??? “oh i was a great roasted-“ i was a nugget. i was eaten with fries out of a box with a small soda. 

bj: hello everybody. i have arrived. please remain calm.  bob: *screams*

radio: the fastest lawn mower in the world goes up to 150 miles per hour! bob: …….why??

sam: i just meowed in scotty’s face and he was completely unfazed by it. like a full on Meow. 

bob: lemme just touch these live wires with my wet hands  bj: bob has gone offline

katherine: i totally forgot to put their order in for i don’t even know how long me: ……..i’m sure it’ll be fine katherine: i mean, nothing matters, right? right. nothing matters. 

bj: hey did you guys hear that kate: yeah what was that bj: oh i was just yelling……….. about the soup kate: me: katherine: bj: i’ll try to keep it down next time

bob: you sleep a lot when you’re old. it’s just practice for death. getting ready for The Big Sleep. let’s see how do i wanna go out? on my back?? nah not for me. on my front babey! 

didi: hi sam sam: SHUT UP didi, quieter: okay…… sam: i love you  didi: no bj: so you’re a grownup now. that’s means you have to do grown up things, like, pay for dinner and stuff? me: uh huh bj: it’s all downhill from here 

bj: pon pon the van poco. right? me: mhmm bj: probably. i mean. i’m no doctor, but

random woman @ bar: we are the matrix. We. Are. The Matrix. 

bj, to the tune of frosty the snowman: clunkity clunk clunk clunkity clunk clunk look at all this stuff. clunkity clunk clunk clunkity clunk clunk making casey’s job tough! pretty good right?? i just made it up 

bj: *walks into kitchen* YES! that’s all i have to say. that’s it. BOBS killing it. DIDIS killing it. casey MURDERED it. you’re welcome. *walks out of kitchen* bj: today is the second day in a row my dog has eaten my lunch. yesterday and then today. it’s my own fault really bob: well you know what they say about men who like floppy french fries. *doesn’t elaborate*

sam: there’s a toy baby in my section. like just a toy baby taking up a seat in my section. what do i do like do i move the bitch? do i leave her there??

bob, talking to himself: if you get sick tomorrow, just remember. it’s your own fault for eating food off the floor. 

bob, to katherine: no, you don’t have to mop the carpet

bj: cheeeesy. 

laura: if i get through tonight without a heart attack it’ll be incredible. if i do have a heart attack tho just let me go

caldo: *unintelligible yelling* SELLING my BODY for SEX *more unintelligible yelling*

bob: my fathers brother sent all his kids to australia. i guess he figured at least one of them would make it

caldo: i don’t trust people who go out to eat tuna fish

bob: can you make some more guacamole soon we’re running low laura: pulls five (5) avocados from her pockets 

bob: he looks like jesus. well. he looks like what white people think jesus looked like

sam: yeah. Please. eat some more mother Fucking crackers. 

bj: i feel like i gave birth to the eggplant stacks tonight. and honestly? if my child looked like that? i’d be proud. proud to have an eggplant child

bj: alright everybody let’s get the fuf out of here!! i said fuf not f- it’s safe. f u f starts and ends with soft letters no one gets hurt. any word that starts with a soft letter and ends with a hard letter is bad news… i feel like every time i come in here i annoy you guys. casey’s one dumbass comment away from killing me. “hey so what are your thoughts on grass?” “that’s it” *mimics shooting a gun*

ilia: -and the dogs gonna get diabetes- katherine, indignantly: i cleaned it really well!

mickey: i’ll tell you one thing. crack is good. 

sam: some lady just rolled up to the bar, no bra, nipples beamin through the shirt- LETS GET IT!!!!

caldo: *speed walks into kitchen and shotguns a beer over the trash* ok i’m back. i should not have smoked this morning

dom: little kid just picked up a knife and went “oh cool i can stab someone” me, katherine, and sam in unison: good dom: yeah the dad took it away 

sam: my friend was like “why is your go to dance move just to snap” and i was like “i don’t know, i’m white” *shrugs*

bj: someone just asked me if i’m having fun. am i having fun? i don’t know if i’m having fun. there are certainly other things i’d rather be doing right now, but i don’t know if i can definitively say that i’m Not having fun. 

bj: some jobs require Only a ladle bj, thirty seconds later, after walking away and coming back: sometimes, also a funnel

bj, @ laura who’s eating cornbread: you cornbread eating chef!!!  laura: bj: laura: bj: i’m just saying facts in a weird way. you know like you’re in trouble. 

sam: *war cry* *spits out gum* *walks away*

bj: what kind of smoothie? Soup Smoothie!!

katherine: so this woman ordered some hot water so i gave it to her and her husband says you know what that’s for right and i’m like ….to drink? and he says nope! and doesn’t explain so i’m just like ………..okay! and walk away bc i don’t even want to know 

bj: there’s no shame in it! A Grown Man Can Bathe In Yogurt!!!

bj, leaning down very close to to-go box: i love you

bob: anyone want a drink? brian: whatever’s your strongest bob: milk it is

guy at bar: sUE HIM?!?!??? oh i’d sue him yeah

sam: who orders something extra cold?? like, you need to Die now thanks. 

sam: do you dare me to drink this buffalo sauce me: yes laura, walking by: snort it

sam: one more day. just one more day laura: of what sam: waking up

bob: *is trying to explain easter to jewish laura* laura: wait so he died… then he came back to life?? then he died Again??? bob: he died. then he came back just to tell people he was alive. then he said SEE YA and ascended to heaven

sam: i HATE margaritas. i don’t know why i just made myself one. 

bob: wow. i have this overpowering urge to just go home. 

bj, putting back a slotted spoon: this is a bad choice for dressing. a bad choice. 

me: *catches a plate about to fall* bj: woah! smooth moves!! spider-man? maybe. 

danny: so you know how at my other job everyone calls me daddy?

sam: *dumps out two full wine glasses* i fucked up. tell no one. 

me: remember when we used to be able to leave early? bob: no. i think we imagined it. 

danny: i didn’t realize we served DICK here -a few min later- danny: sorry i just got out of work and i’m all fired up

sam: my moms drunk and she won’t go home

bob: hey wasn’t that slang for mari- bj: cocaine. 

bj: *kicks kitchen door open* YEE-HAW!!!!

danny: sorry casey  me: what for  danny: for having to deal with me me: yeah *shrugs* danny: they should pay you more me: yeah

didi: i kill you ilia: do it now didi: no ilia: do it i wanna die

danny, about a burger: we’ve got ourselves a squirter!!

sam: is that a chicken patty  sydney: it’s my dog

sam, on my last night with her: lets get casey TRASHED tonight

sam: are you gonna go dancing in new york didi: yes laura: whore it up

[stanowarb2]

EMPTY NEST

A fic for @subwaystanwich celebrating Stancest Secret Santa 2017; art by @toastybumblebee​, text by redbeardbluesky.

Rating: T (language, sexual references); 2190 words.

At summer’s end, the bus rolls away from the station and Stan worries that his knees might go out from under him.  He watches the bus move farther away, growing blurry in his vision as hot tears roll down his cheeks.

Amid sniffles he rubs his eyes and nose with one hand as the other carefully traces the seams on the sewn-on letters that adorn the sweater: Goodbye Stan.

In a flash of panic he recalls the years before the twins arrived, and the steady, grueling waves of depression that marked his days and nights.  That weight had dissipated during the past few months, but now, with the kids gone, he feels laid bare and alone, just like before, just like he’d been for four decades.

But then Ford drapes his arm across his shoulders and, with a look, wordlessly tells Stan all he needs to know: from here on out, they’ll never be apart, they’ll always look after each other, and maybe — maybe as soon as tonight — they’ll let their hearts and hands and bodies take them back to the love they’d once known.

“Well, Sixer?  Ready for the rest of our lives together?”

Ford smiles awkwardly, “Let’s get back to the Shack.  I started a few experiments downstairs I need to check.  It’ll be good to have the place to ourselves.”

Hearing him say those words makes Stan’s heart leap.  The urge to throw himself into Ford’s arms is almost too much to resist, but he manages somehow.  A vision comes to him about the next few hours, and as they get in the car he floats the plan.

“How about I make us something really nice for dinner?  You know how the kids only eat four or five different things — what do you think of me making you something fancy.  I’ve gotten to be a pretty good cook while you’ve been away.”

“Watch the road, Stanley.  There’ll be no dinner if we get in an accident.”

Stan obeys without hesitation but he keeps talking, planning the menu for the evening, explaining to Ford which ingredients are best to buy at the grocery store and which are best to buy at the farm stands along the highway.  When he asks Ford about dessert, he lets his mind run free a bit, testing the waters to ensure he hasn’t misread anything about the possibility of spending the night — their first night alone together — in each other’s arms.

“So, I’m not much of a pastry chef, but Lazy Susan’s apple pies are almost as good as Ma’s.  You loved those, right?  We can stop and get one on our way to the market.”

“Actually, Stanley … I —“

“And remember how we’d eat dessert in front of the television?  We can do that too, after dinner.  I know I don’t have a couch in the TV room, but hey, we could roll it into my bedroom and we could eat our pie and ice cream there, huh?  That would be fun, right?”

Ford clears his throat and checks the time.  “Sure, Stanley.  Great.  But are you willing to do the shopping on your own?  I need to check these experiments.”

“Oh!  Oh right!  Ha ha ha.  See what a scatterbrain I am, Sixer?  Some things never change I suppose.  Sure, I’ll drop you off.  Not a problem.”

It all feels fine as long as Ford rides shotgun in the El Diablo, but once he exits the car and trots up the steps to the house Stan feels the twinges of sadness creeping back.

As he goes from stall to store, collecting his groceries, Stan darkest thoughts begin getting the worst of him.

Sixer talks a good talk about a Stan-O-War 2, but he’s more interested in his books and science than he is in his dumb lunk of a brother.  Now that the kids are gone he’ll get more and more into his experiments and forget all about adventures on the high seas.  The damned brainiac will probably forget he has a brother at all.  And the kids … they’re growing up.  They’re right at that age when everything changes.  They’ll forget about me too.  It’s going to be just like before this summer started.  I’m going to be ALL ALONE!

“Mister Pines?  Did you hear me?  That’ll be fifteen dollars, even.”

Stan fumbles for his wallet and fishes out a ten and a five.  As he hands it over, the cashier edges forward to make eye contact.  “You okay, Mister Pines?  You usually haggle down the price.”

“What?”  To be honest, Stan forgot where he was for a moment.  “What are you talking about?”

“You always try haggling down the price, so I, well, I had increased the total by a couple bucks.  It’s really only thirteen.”

As the cashier tries handing him two dollars in change Stan waves him off and hefts the groceries back to the car.  Driving back to the Shack he tries his old relaxation techniques: counting his breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth.  He imagines sunlight pouring down in a stream into the top of his head and down through his body, down to his toes and starting to fill him up.  But really, his toes seem to be at war with him, pushing harder on the accelerator when in his heart he begins imagining a detour, a last minute trip to Portland, maybe a stop-off at that bar he likes where every so often a young stud will buy him a drink.

“No,” he says out loud to himself.  “I’m letting my depression take over.  I’m going to get home, and Ford will be on the porch waiting.  Or he’ll be in the kitchen mixing something for us to drink.  Or maybe he’ll already be stretched out on the bed.”  And with that, an aching throb begins in his lap.   His mind drifts quickly to imagining what Ford’s body will look like after all this time.  Stan thinks of how much better at sex he himself has become is in the forty years since their teenage fumbling after dark and behind school bleachers.  And Ford’s certainly learned some crazy things in his time away.  Tonight, he thinks, will be some of the wildest lovemaking the world has ever seen!  “To boldly go!” he shouts, as he hops from the car and brings the groceries to the Shack, “Where no man has gone before!”

The Shack is silent.  Everything is as they left it – no drinks or snacks or any indication of a night together.  Stan glances into the bedroom, hoping he’s wrong, but he’s not.  No one.

The place sure is quiet without the twins around.

“Fuck it,” he says.  “I’m gonna make this happen.”

What ensues is a whirlwind of domestic wizardry.  Stan preps dinner and puts it in the oven, arranges flowers, liberates the best table linens from a high cupboard for a thorough steam-ironing, and within two hours the place looks ready for a camera crew to show up and put him on the Home and Garden channel.

With a bit of trepidation he taps in the code on the vending machine, lets the candy machine swing open, and calls down the steps.  “Sixer?  Ready for dinner in an hour or so?”

“Uhh, yes Stanley.  I mean, I think I should be finished by then.  You don’t need help do you?”

How am I supposed to answer that, Stan wonders.  “No,” he lies.  “Everything’s under control.”

But as he looks around, he realizes that YES, he does have it all under control.  “I can do this,” he says.  “It all starts tonight.”

He starts peeling off his clothes, heading to the bathroom for a shower and shave and a general sprucing up.  Ford loved that aftershave Stan used when they were teenagers, and the stuff he’d found at the drugstore seemed pretty close in smell.  Stan undresses to his t-shirt and boxers when he realizes he should probably do a quick spin through the kids’ bedroom before starting his ablutions.  He grabs a clothes hamper and heads up the stairs two at a time, feeling better than he has in years, but he takes a deep breath when he sees the room.

So empty.

He shakes off the sadness and gets to work.  He pulls the cases off the pillows, folds the blankets, pulls off the sheets, and that’s when he sees it.  Dipper’s missing sock, lost for two weeks, the subject of an all-family “Sock Hunt,” falls to the floor as Stan yanks the flat sheet from the bed.

“Oh kids…” he whispers, and the room closes in around him.

Somehow he gets the linens downstairs and into the washing machine, but later when he thinks about it he won’t remember how.

From his bedroom, Stan checks his watch against the bus schedule. He wants to phone the very second the twins’ bus is due to arrive home in Piedmont, California, but that would be rude, right?  They’ll be happy to see their parents, they’ll be telling stories.  So he waits twenty minutes and finally can’t take it anymore and he calls.

“The bus was early?  Can I talk… oh, they’re already asleep?  Oh, they were exhausted when they arrived and collapsed the second they got to their bedrooms to unpack.”  Stan repeats everything he’s hearing, as if to let Ford know what’s being said on the phone, but Ford’s not there.  No one is there.  He’s alone.

“No, don’t wake them up.  I’ll call back in the morning.  Sure, yeah, they were fine.  No trouble at all.  Just … just tell them when they wake up that I, er, that we love them.”

Stan sits on his bed holding Dipper’s sock in his hands just like he used to hold Ford’s glasses.

And he loses it.

The kids are heading into puberty, he thinks, and they’re gonna get all moody and they’ll be embarrassed to think they ever loved a hairy old grump like Stan.

They’ll never come back, and if they do it’ll be a quick visit where they’re rolling their eyes at everything, the same way Wendy and her friends do.

And sure, Ford says they’ll hit the high seas together someday but will it ever happen?  And even if it does, what happens in the meantime?  Is he going to be downstairs 24/7 except to eat?

“Would I have been better off if I’d never fixed the portal, if the kids had never come to visit?”

The hot tears start rolling down his cheeks again.  "I’m too old to feel this way,“ he says to no one.

He takes the framed photo of Mabel and Dipper off the bureau and he hugs it to his chest.  He curls up on the bed and sobs.

Later, Ford hears the oven timer and he ascends the steps from the basement to the kitchen.  Dinner looks and smells amazing!  It’s some sort of casserole, but Stan’s nowhere to be found.

It looks like Stan has set the table for two.  He’s gone all out, with a bouquet of flowers, a bottle of red wine open and ready to pour, candles waiting to be lit, and linen napkins.  But where has Stan gone?  Out to the store for something he forgot?

When Ford shuts off the timer, shuts off the oven, and takes out the casserole, he hears crying coming from Stan’s bedroom.

Ford stands in the door.  He sees the photo clutched in Stan’s arms, and Dipper’s sock askew at the end of the bed.  He wants to speak, but doesn’t know what to say.  He wants to comfort Stan but he doesn’t know where to start.

He goes to the opposite side of the bed and sits down.  Stan’s weeping pauses, an acknowledgment of being joined on the bed, but he resumes, more softly now.

Ford has seen a lot in thirty years away, but he’s never felt so at a loss for the right thing to do.  He’d learned to trust his instincts, but his instincts offer him nothing in this situation.  He reaches out to touch his brother but he hesitates, his fingers not making contact with Stan’s shoulder, but close enough to feel the heat of his body.

He touches his shoulder.  "Don’t cry, Stanley.  I’m right here.”

Stan curls forward, away from his touch.  Through his tears he says, “No you aren’t, Ford.  Not for long.  You’re going to leave me just like everyone leaves me.  For Christ’s sake, if this is how I’m going to feel for the rest of my life I wish this summer had never happened.  I wish you’d find that gun and shoot me again, for good this time.”

Ford leans down to kiss him on the cheek.  He breathes in deeply through his nose, loving the smell of Stanley, thrilling at the thought that he’ll fall asleep to it every night, wake up to it every day, for the rest of his life.

“Stanley,” he whispers, “I need you to come downstairs.  I’ve been working on something for you – for both of us – and I need you to see it…”

[choco-chip-cookie]

SugarDaddy!Cal Pt.11

A/N: Hello, beautiful people. This chapter lowkey had me feeling dirty lmaoo, plus I could've ended it better. I do include racist actions I guess I can say into this chapter. Me and my friends have personally experienced situations like this so I decided to incorporate it into the story, so don't try to come for me. You all know I need 100 notes and feedback for the next chapter. Hope you enjoy💕

**WARNING**: smut; racist actions?

One/ Two/ Three/ Four/Five/Six/Seven/Eight/ Nine/Ten/Eleven/Twelve/Thirteen/Fourteen/Fifteen Sixteen/ Seventeen/ Eighteen/ Nineteen/Twenty{END}

"My name is Tammy and I'll be your waitress for today. What would you like to drink?"

"The best wine you have to offer." Calum smiled up at the young girl and she nodded her head.

"Would you like a salad with your rolls?"

"Want a salad, babe?" Calum turned to you with furrowed eyebrows. The boy had known you for nearly three months and had taken you on countless dates, yet he's not sure if you even like salad.

"Do you have Caesar dressing?"

"Yes, ma'am, we do."

"That'll be fine then." You agreed whilst Calum declined the offer, deciding to just eat the buttered rolls.

Your eyes were scanning over the spacious room, taking in every white table cloth and every fairy light in the building. You couldn't help but to notice  that most people here were middle aged and dressed as if they had millions of dollars without a clue on what to spend it on. The ladies had pinned updos or perfectly curled hair along with flashy diamonds and the men were balding and dressed in thousand dollar suits. A couple of the younger people were dressed the same way, most likely born into families that already had fortunes. Sadly, you also realized that you were the only person of color, other than Calum of course, in the fancy restaurant and you soon began to feel out of place. It was only when Tammy came back and slid your plate in front of you did you finally snap out of your trance.

"I'm going to give you a couple of minutes to look over the menu and I'll be right back."

"You okay?" Calum eyed you as he peered over his menu and you nodded your head.

"Mhmm."

"Y/N."

"I'm fine, Cal. I promise." You sent him a smile and he nodded his head and began to discuss what he would possibly want.

You weren't really listening to him while your insecurity chewed at you secretly. When you looked to the side of you, the couple quickly turned their heads away once they noticed they were caught staring and began to murmur amongst themselves. That simple action made you paranoid and you began to look around to see if anyone was staring as well and of course, there were a couple more.

"What are you going to get?"

"I think this pasta stuff. I don't know how to pronounce the full name, it's in French." You shrugged your shoulders and closed your menu.You could've sworn you heard the couple beside you laughing at your confession, but you decided to brush it off as your imagination.

"You know, I've never seen you eat a salad." Calum chuckled as he picked at the roll on his small saucer plate.

"I didn't get this thick from eating salad." You joked and stirred the vegetables around in your plate to blend the dressing."I have to be in the mood for a salad, though. It's not something I'd just get on the menu."

"Salad is amazing."

"Yeah, but why eat salad when you could eat pizza and be full longer?"

"It's healthy." He argued and you laughed.

"I don't like healthy if you haven't noticed ."

It didn't take long before Tammy came back to take your orders. After explaining to her what you both wanted and what sides you preferred along with it, she left you alone to your conversation. While Calum began to tell you about something crazy Michael had did before you left for London, you couldn't help but to let your mind wander again.

I can feel them staring. Why the fuck are they staring? I swear people see a black girl in a fancy restaurant and act like it's just so insane. What, they think just because I'm black I can't afford this? I mean...without Calum I wouldn't be able to though, huh?

Those last few thoughts are what really got to you. Calum noticed the sudden change in your demeanor, the sparkle in your chocolate brown eyes diminishing with every second.

"Seriously, Y/N, what's wrong?"

"It's nothing." You shook your head.

"Babe." He sighed, reaching across the table to rub your hand soothingly. Your heart usually fluttered every time he called you that, but this time it seemed to have no affect on you due to you being caught up in your own head." Tell me."

"It's just...people are staring." You whispered, too afraid that everyone would hear you.

"No they're no-"

"Look." You demanded and watched as his face fell when he looked around and noticed multiple people occasionally looking towards your table." They're giving us judgmental stares and I know it's because I'm black and they think that I can't afford to live life like this and-"

"Y/N, stop." Calum interrupted your rambling.

"They're right though." You shrugged your shoulders, reaching up to scratch your nose which mysteriously began to itch the minute you felt your emotions hit you.

You weren't an emotional person, but whenever you're out in situations such as this, you could never help it. It always made you feel like you didn't have a reason to be as confident as you were, as if you were less of these people because they were lighter in skin tone and rich.

"If it wasn't for you I wouldn't even be in here. Hell, fancy back home to us is Olive Garden and that's like nothing compared to this place."

"It doesn't matter if you can afford this place or not, you're here aren't you? I don't care what these people think of us being together here or whether or not they think you can only afford this place because of me, and I'm honestly surprised you do." Calum's voice raised slightly and you could sense the anger in his voice.

"I'm sorry."You were suddenly ashamed and your fingernails were the most interesting thing at the moment.

"No, don't apologize, baby. I'm not mad at you. I'm just upset that these people are ruining your night because this isn't why I brought you here. I want this night to be one to remember, and not because some people can't except that you're black and my girlfri- date."

You stared at Calum in shock at his little slip up, but chose to ignore it. You fought the smile off your face as you picked over your salad once more, forking some of it into your mouth every now and then. Did he really see you his girlfriend?

"Don't pay attention to them, alright?" He smiled and you nodded your head." You're beautiful and I'm happy with you, nothings going to change that. Just focus on just us and this amazing food and we'll be alright."

"Yes, daddy."

"Don't start with me in here." He whined and you laughed, taking a sip of your wine.

"Damn, this is good."

Within five minutes Tammy had taken your order and after another thirty your food finally arrived. You and Calum held a small conversation with short questions and replies, too focused on the amazing food to say something more than a couple of words. He was chowing down on the steak while you shoveled forkfuls of pasta and vegetables into your mouth.

"I refuse to leave this here." You groaned as you attempted to eat the last few bits of the pasta.

"Then get it to go."

"It's not enough to even take back."

Calum only stared at you in amusement as he watched you eat the food with a pout, knowing that you felt as if you were going to burst. He sighed and slid his plate closer to yours, forking some of it onto it, and then pulled it back to eat quietly.

"You're so nice."

"Shut up." He laughed and continued to eat.

It was then you realized that you had forgotten all about your initiative plan from when you first arrived. You mentally shrugged your shoulders and just decided to mess with him whenever you arrived back to the hotel.

"What do you mean we're not going back to the hotel, yet?" You groaned and held your newfound pudge. "I have a food baby and need to sleep it off."

Calum chuckled and reached down to interlace his fingers with yours. He leaned down for a quick kiss before continuing to walk you somewhere unknown.

"We're going on a bus tour."

"Calum, its ten thirty at night." You deadpanned."Who in the hell is giving a bus tour?"

"London is, my love." He faked a British accent and you rolled your eyes playfully."No, but seriously. They have night tours that last like two hours max."

"But I wanted to get you alone." You whined out.

You know you do a lot of complaining, Y/N. You're so damn ungrateful. You scolded yourself and tried to ignore the multiple self-hating thoughts that began to return. Who knew that a couple of stares in a restaurant would bring back your insecurities and bad thoughts?

"We've got all night to be alone, and I promise you can have me however you want."

"Pinky promise?" You smirked and held out your pinky, laughing lightly when Calum wrapped his larger one around it.

"Promise."

"Last call for the 10:30 bus tour!" You heard someone shout and watched as a couple of people jogged towards the big red bus." Last call for the 10:30 bus tour!"

Calum gripped your waist to keep you from falling as you ran as fast as you could in your heels. You were both panting loudly as he handed the frail man enough money for you to join and walked up some stairs to take a seat on the open top of the bus. The only seats available were further in the back and that's when you concluded that maybe you could mess with him in public after all. You paid attention for the most part, listening intently as the man spoke into the microphone enthusiastically about the history of London and a couple of the buildings you would pass by.

"It's so beautiful." You commented as you passed some garden that was lit up with colorful fluorescent lights.

"Not as beautiful as you, though."

"Look at you being all smooth." You joked and pressed your lips to his, leaning your head onto his shoulder.

The bus was now parked on the side of St.Paul's Cathedral and everyone seemed to be interested in the unknown history behind the huge building. You on the other hand were interested in something else. Calum paid no attention when you rested your hand on his thigh and drew small circles onto his knee. He seemed pretty calm as your hand slowly made its way closer to his bulge as well, and you were pretty sure that he was simply ignoring you. The Māori only tensed up when you finally gave him a slight squeeze, his head turning to look down at you as you smiled up at him from his shoulder.

"What?" You said innocently, batting your eyelashes at him.

"Be good, please."

"I'm always good."

He shook his head and continued to listen, praying to God that you'd leave him alone and do the same. His prayers went unanswered, however, when you began to unbuckle his belt and popped open the button on his slacks.

"Y/N, please, don't."

"What are you talking about?" You teased and pushed your hand underneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. He gripped your wrist when you went to stroke him lightly, his eyes holding both lust and anger.

"We're surrounded by people."

"That's never stopped you before." You reminded him of the multiple times he had made you orgasm in public, the limo just being the time to finally tip you over the edge." Why can't I have fun too?"

"Oh my God." He groaned and you licked your hand for lubrication.

Calum could handle himself at first, the only thing giving away your actions being his ragged breath and his slowly heating cheeks. Now he understood what it was like to be on the receiving end of the public teasing. He understood why you complained about possibly being caught, yet allowed the pleasure to take over you anyway since you knew you couldn't resist. And boy was it hard to do. He looked over at you and saw that you were acting as if nothing was happening while he was about to lose his cool beside you.

"Y/N." his eyes widened when you pulled him completely free of his constraints, his eyes flickering around to see if anyone was paying attention.

You continued to stroke him quickly, biting your lip to hold in your giggles when he let out a small moan, his hips bucking up slightly and his eyes fluttering closed.You spit in your hand once again and began to pump him faster, knowing Calum couldn't get off unless he had a lot of lubrication, sometimes having to be nearly sopping wet.

"Now, if anyone gets this question right, they earn two free passes for the next bus ride. Who was the architect of the cathedral?"

Calum looked at you bewildered when you raised your hand high in the air, drawing attention to the both of you. He was hoping nobody would notice how wrecked he was or the slight movement of your arm while you pumped him relentlessly.

"Ahh, yes. The pretty young lady in the red."

"Sir Christopher Wren?"

"You're correct." The old man congratulated you, clapping his hands together. "Pass these back to her, please ma'am and please sir."

Calum's anxiety levels spiked when he saw people turning to pass the tickets to the both of you. He knew you had no intentions of stopping anytime soon and was positive someone would spot you. When you leaned over to cover him with your body, smiling kindly at the lady who passed you the tickets, he was relieved that he had a couple of moments to catch his breath.

"You're fucking insane." He chuckled and you gave him a mischievous grin.

"You love it."

"Yeah, yeah, whate- fuck." He groaned when your mouth was suddenly around him.

You were bold. You were extremely bold.

"I think you should hurry up, Cal. I don't know how long you can keep moaning without someone noticing." You teased and his long fingers tangled themselves in your hair.

"Please just...shit."

You bobbed your head on his dick, making sure not make too much noise as you choked and slurped. Calum had his head titled back in pure bliss, his body filled with too much pleasure to even care if anyone else was looking at this point. His hips bucked up and his hand pushed your head further down on him, allowing his tip to hit your throat every time. Calum had small beads of sweat forming on his forehead and he was biting his lip so hard you thought it'd start to bleed.

"Fuck, Y/N." he moaned quietly." That's so good...so good, baby."

"Come on, Cal. Cum for me, daddy."

Calum nearly growled as he shot his load down your throat,squirming in his seat as you continued to suck him off after his high. You only removed yourself when he began to whimper from being overly stimulated. You tucked him back into his briefs and fixed his clothes for him, wiping your mouth clean and smiling up at the boy.

You gasped when he tugged your head back aggressively by your hair and kissed you roughly, mumbling against your lips,"You're in so much trouble, princess."

Biting your lip to hide your smile, he let you go and allowed you to sit up properly in your chair to listen to the man talk as if nothing happened. You knew you were in for a treat when you got back to the hotel, and to say you were excited was an understatement.

[lenixsocial]

Touched A Nerve...

Trump To Propose Medicare Cuts

Well, I haven't posted a long-form rant in awhile. But this hits far too close to home to ignore.

Let me say this: Beginning in 2007-08, I began experiencing a set of symptoms that felt like simple muscle fatigue, except that I was utterly depleted some days. I'd work 40-50 hours a week, sometimes more, selling electronics and later mattresses. I loved my job. Even after all those years, and all that crap I dealt with, I loved my job. They were always fair to me, and I gained the respect and admiration of everyone who worked there. I became known as a bit of a problem solver, a troubleshooter.

Everything seemed to be going well, then I started falling asleep on the sales floor, while speaking to customers. This happened ten, perhaps fifteen times, and then I also began to fall over, randomly. It was about this time that during sleep one night, I awoke unable to breathe. Thinking this was temporary, I tried propping myself up and all sorts of things. I finally just sat in a chair and slept. In fact, that was the only position I could breathe in (aside from standing).

Freaking out, my primary care doctor sent me to a specialist who ran two sleep studies and determined that I had obstructive sleep apnea. But that's not all... The apnea was the first diagnosis in a tree of diagnoses. Shortly after this, the specialist took X-rays of my chest and determined I had bilateral diaphragm paralysis (or for those who need a refresher: the muscle that stimulates your lungs to inhale and exhale) does not work on me, anymore. This means I have the appearance outwardly of "seething" or "in discomfort" as I use my pectoral and back muscles to compensate and force out deeper breaths (my normal resting ones are very shallow).

I continued to work. I'm a liberal, but I was brought up in a very conservative family, and in a very conservative area. My father taught me that you don't take welfare unless you need it. I felt I could still work, and didn't need it. Plus, I also figured that it'd take months to be approved, and my wife and I and our financial situation wasn't going to take any kind of hit like that. One person working is not easy to live off of. I continued going to doctors to treat these strange maladies that seemed to creep up overnight.

My specialist decided to send me to a neurologist who in turn sent me to two more, as they all had more experience than the one previous. Finally ending with who I see now. He took blood tests, ran them twice to make sure, sent them to two different labs, and came up with a conclusion. "You have Pompe Disease" he said to me. I had no idea what that was. Some vague inkling only from reading it on WebMD. I came home and did research. It's a form of muscular dystrophy, autosomal and recessive. My parents both gave me the mutated and deleted alleles that combined to give me this.

The disease (or rather the late onset variant I have) has a whole host of things that can occur such as: tongue enlargement, hearing loss, muscle wasting, limb-girdle muscle loss, paralyzed diaphragm, sleep apnea... you get the picture. Less than 60,000 people have it, and it's considered rare and an orphan disease.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here. When I first got diagnosed, I was still working 40+ hours a week, selling beds. By this point my fellow associates were plainly aware of my disability (as was management), and I was given a chair to rest on, and assistance putting stock away, and almost every other task. I felt I could still work. Then came July 31st 2016. A day I will always recall. On that day, like any other I stood at the cash register and my right leg burned like fire, then went numb. Not asleep. Numb. I couldn't feel it at all. It was in the middle of a sales rush and I couldn't move to help people. I managed to grab onto chairs, walls, doorframes -- whatever was around -- and pull myself on one good leg back to the office. I called management and had my direct manager and another one hoist me up and basically carry me out to the car, as my wife had come to get me.

Several weeks of therapy, and a EMP test (shoving needles into your body and shocking you ...yeah it's as fun as it sounds) and applying for short term disability through my employer yielded the recommendation that I be put on Lumizyme, the genetic replacement therapy that is used to treat Pompe. I felt lousy. Pretty much daily. Bored, alone, scared.

I applied for Social Security and got approved and quit my job of 14 years so I could fight this thing. There's no cure for it. It slowly turns every skeletal muscle in your body to sludge. It makes it so you lose the ability to move without aid of a wheelchair, and in a final act of terribleness, it suffocates you or drowns you in your own fluids. It's not pretty.

After three failed tests to get myself into a study (everything would've been free), I was told I needed to begin therapy ASAP. I did this. Lumizyme costs close to $220,000 a year without insurance. You also have to take the therapy for the rest of your life. Bi-Weekly. With my wife's plan it's taken down to $6,400. That's still out of my ability to pay off, so we're getting help for assistance programs. I can only imagine what this would be like for someone WITHOUT insurance.

Anyhow, the treatments are fine. 8 hour sessions sitting around making sure the genetic therapy (dispensed into the arm through an IV) doesn't randomly kill me. Then comes a week of ups and downs. The day after I feel exhausted and depleted, and don't want to exert myself much. The day after that I typically have a lot more energy, then the next four are a steady downturn. All sorts of weird pains and burning flushes, heat flashes, night sweats, cold chills, dizziness, nausea, weakness, migraines. So debilitating that I can't do anything and end up napping in my chair because it's literally all I can do.

Now, I have massive digestion issues. They thought they saw a gallstone but it disappeared and now, after seeing a GI doctor, he determined that a endoscopy would be best to see why my GERD is so bad. Nothing seems to control it despite me being on a fairly rigorous battery of control meds.

Yes, I have so much medical debt I can't keep on top of it. I'll likely have to file bankruptcy to clear all of it. My wife and I manage (if but barely) to live month to month off of SS and her checks from being a cashier 40+ hours a week. If I could go to work; trust me I would. I loved helping people. I loved fixing problems, I loved learning and selling. I loved my coworkers and customers. I miss the daily contact more than anything...but I'm wobbly on my legs, my center of balance is all off, I depend on the cane, but I can't stand without an object to lean into because I can't breathe adequately. I have strings of days where I get disgustingly sick, and some days I spend more time in the bathroom than I do in the living room. I'm a liability. I'm a fall risk, I get random sweats, my shoulders and back muscles ache so bad after washing dishes for ten minutes, there's no way I could stand up for an eight hour shift. It's piercing, gnashing, burning pain. It's muscles dying.

Ask yourself this, GOP: if you lump everyone in as "cheats", that the system is being taken advantage of, then what of us who depend on this? Who have cancer? Who are on death's doorstep? Take a step back and ask yourself: Do I have a right to take away access to affordable healthcare do I have the right to take away money that these people need to survive...to pay their massive debt they've incurred? Not everyone is a real estate magnate and owns eight golf courses and a fucking private island or a yacht.

And I'm not worthless because I'm not in that sect. You need to stop playing games with programs that don't cost you a damn thing in order to find pet projects like a xenophobic border wall or a multi million dollar arms deal. These programs are essential. Not everybody is faking, not everyone is taking advantage of it. And not every disability is the same, or is readily visible.

As for me? I will continue getting the treatments I need to continue living, despite all the side effects they're causing me and hope to all hell that I don't lose the income I'm getting that's keeping me afloat.

[anavoliselenu]

Manwhore chapter 11

“Rache!” Wynn scowls. “Physically denying him is only making you more obsessed. Just fuck the guy and get your head straight for the article, and he’ll move on, giving you plenty of fodder.”

“True,” I agree.

Wynn: “And you’ll think clearer.”

The thought of doing Justin is wreaking havoc in me. “It feels like danger zone to me.”

“It’s a fucking suicide mission. I don’t like it,” Gina says.

“More danger zone to keep prolonging the inevitable time when he moves in—just get it over with and get your piece written,” says Wynn.

Sex with Justin. I’m growing obsessed with it.

That’s what Gina strives for now, just sexual hookups. It’s strange how circumstances that burn the people around me, like Gina, could have such a profound effect on my love life. But they have. I have been reluctant to start anything with any man my entire life.

And now I choose to want to sleep with this one?

Really?

It’s like waking from a nap to find yourself dropping down into the world’s deepest chasm.

I have a job to do; I wanted to do it, and I didn’t plan to sleep with him to find out what makes the man tick.

My life has been all about studies, work, my mother, a great job, Gina and Wynn. With the girls? We’ve been friends since middle school, all through high school—we even managed to survive those college years when Wynn went away. Every Christmas and Thanksgiving and summer we’d meet up, catch up.

We all “lived” the Paul issue. He was so nice and so in love with Gina. I used to fantasize about meeting my own Paul. Paul was what Wynn and I aspired to. Until he did the Paul move, and our best friend was broken, not only brokenhearted, and we struggled to help her pull through. Wynn got over it, she still believes there are good men out there, like Emmett. I, on the other hand, developed a fear of guy love that has made me determined to avoid heartache and heartbreak at any cost. And it also, in a sense, made me avoid sex and focus on work.

Gina and I like men—but we don’t want them close enough to hurt us. And we feel lucky that we know. We’re in the smart girls’ closet, where all the girls who never want to be brokenhearted go. Right?

True, when Emmett proves us a little wrong and Wynn comes to brunch looking flushed and excited, it’s a bit of a downer. But all we need as a reminder that we’re right is another tale from a guy like Paul, and our goals are reinforced. Our careers, our moms, and our friends are what matters.

Now I’m not so sure.

Now I think about Justin’s anatomy all day. Maybe I chose the wrong career. I should’ve been a chemist. A doctor. Because I keep wondering why he has this pull on me. I keep wanting to go crazy, have my way with him, and watch him dump me and then write about it.

“Selena’s clammed up, I think a plan is forming,” Gina says worriedly.

I groan and shake my head.

“Don’t sleep with him, Selena, not him,” Gina murmurs.

I look at her and nod.

The thing about having such close friends like Wynn and Gina is that we are determined to fix each other’s lives. So now Gina and Wynn are determined to fix mine. And if they can’t, it seems they’re ready to fix me up with a guy.

“Okay, so not him. I know who. He’s Emmett’s cousin and he’s the complete package,” Wynn insists. “The reason you’re attracted to Justin right now—”

“Is because he’s Justin,” Gina groans.

“Well, true,” Wynn agrees. “But you’ve been focused on work too long. Every extreme is bad news, even in dieting, even in sex or abstinence.”

“Guys, stop. I don’t want to date, okay? I want to feel secure in my career first before I let some guy take me out for a spin. . . . Look, don’t worry,” I assure them. “It’s all work for me from now until I get this piece done,” I vow.

I imagine his flesh against mine, him sliding inside me, his mouth on me, his moan of ecstasy, and I wish things were different for me, that I could actually have him. But this, this story, is all I can really have. Isn’t it?

He’s not a man to give anyone more, and I’m not the kind of woman to change all of her life for the wild dream of love. But what if for one night, one night, I let myself spend it with him?

18

SPINNING

Later that night I’m feverish, gathering more data at 12 a.m. It suddenly seems imperative that I get the exposé done as soon as possible because, despite what I assured my friends, I’m afraid I’ve developed somewhat of a crush.

Mooning over his pictures on the internet.

What the hell is up with that?

I stumble across another YouTube video of his father. Justin isn’t in the video, but his father is ranting about his own son on television. “He’s had business luck, he has a shrewd mind and his mother’s inheritance, but my son has no idea of the responsibility it takes to run a billion-dollar company.”

“Well, he’s proved you wrong, hasn’t he?” I mumble to the man.

He’s a handsome man, maybe fifty-five years old. He looks nothing like Justin, except that he’s large and virile. Justin got that from his father, but he got his mother’s beauty and her dazzling smile.

When I research her and her death, I find out several things. Catherine H. Ulysses, one of Justin’s assistants, the one I’m sure is in love with him, seemed to be at the funeral, standing close to a young Justin, which confirms that she’s known him for a while. And second, I find out something surprising about his mother. Justin’s mother, Juliette, was apparently big on animals, and every year made huge donations to activist groups. The day Justin saved Rosie, it was the anniversary of his mother’s death—I track back in time and find out that every year since she died Justin has saved, or adopted, one animal. Every year he visits her gravesite afterward (his cars have been spotted in the cemetery parking lot yearly).

My heart tugs. I saw him that day, and maybe he was hurting the same way I do when it’s the anniversary of Dad’s death. I remember we dropped Justin off at M4 and his car was waiting, and I never expected that he’d be heading to the cemetery, but it makes me wish I’d known before. It makes me wish I knew what makes this man tick. I could’ve been with him tonight. I could’ve let him take me out to some fancy event and then . . . then what, Selena? Then do the most reckless thing you’ve ever done by sleeping with him, even with your most precious story on the line?

Utterly conflicted, I keep clicking links, especially the ones about him and his parents.

Gina’s chowing on cereal in her effort to get rid of the cocktail buzz she’s still harboring when we get a knock on the door, and all I hear, after she goes to answer it, are the words “. . . apartment 3C . . . dead . . .”

My blood freezes in my body as I watch Gina close the door, put her hands over her face, and burst into tears.

“Gina!” I gasp.

“Miss Sheppard,” she chokes out.

An image of her smiling, just the other day, with her pets outside, hits me. One second my face is dry, the next it’s wet with tears. This scene, this fear, of huge, unexpected loss, has haunted me my whole life. It’s been there since my father’s death, even before I had reason enough to know it was there. A feeling of complete vulnerability. Of having your world always spin and never be still for a minute for you to get your bearings.

It turns out that Lindsey Sheppard, our neighbor a few floors down, was shot and killed by a group of young men driving by in a vehicle only an hour ago.

Miss Sheppard didn’t make it to the hospital alive.

Gina and I are so shocked that, after crying passionately for ten minutes and hugging each other, we turn on the TV and watch the news. I snivel, she snivels, we both snivel. I call my mom and ask if she’s all right. She asks if I’m all right. I lie and say that I am.

“I swear I will die happy the day I don’t see all this in the news,” Gina sighs wearily, grabbing the remote and switching off the TV. She flips open my laptop and settles next to me so that we can search the news online.

When the information we find is a repeat of what we watched on the news, she gives up and pads over to the kitchen.

I’ve got a ton of new Google alerts, which I’d set with the keywords Justin Justin. Impulsively, I click on a few and am led to a popular news and gossip blog. I scan the heading and today’s date and play the video. After a fifteen-second advertisement, I see Justin’s face flash onto the screen, and a slow, dull ache begins to grow in my chest as several pictures of him pop up on the video screen. He’s in a black suit, black tie, his hair slicked back, walking through a throng of people. He looks untouchable and mentally elsewhere.

The clips are apparently from earlier tonight, where he was present at a business function—and the corporate shark was remarkably alone, says a background voice. Speculation regarding whether he’s in his first serious known involvement with a young reporter has been storming the Net. . . .

“Maybe he was alone at the function, but I bet he’s not alone now,” Gina offers as she pours herself some water and promptly takes one of her sleeping pills.

Since my little crush seems to be developing into a big one, her words don’t make me feel good at all. In fact, after what happened to Miss Sheppard tonight, I can’t feel anything but wretched now.

“Don’t gooooo,” I whine, grabbing her arm as she heads to bed. “Gina, stay, I won’t be able to sleep.”

“Ah, you poor wee baby.” She pats the top of my head and says, “Good night.”

I sniffle a little more and try to remember the last time I saw Miss Sheppard. I’d been heading out, ready for my tour of the Interface building. She’d been walking her dog . . . and she’d been kind to me, as always. I feel bad for her dog, her cat. I feel bad for the entire world for being without Miss Sheppard.

Then I keep watching the news and listen to them speak of M4 venturing into pharmaceuticals.

I realize he’s this sexy daredevil and I’m this safe, scared workaholic who lives with her heart on her sleeve and therefore is always vulnerable. When you come out of your box, I’ll be waiting.

Oh, Selena, what are you doing?

I charge to the bathroom and slip into the shower, tying my hair up so it doesn’t get wet. Guilt is such a volatile thing. I always feel guilt when somebody dies like this. Guilt for not doing more; guilt for being alive. We use so many defense mechanisms to cope. Anger, denial, tears, but my mechanism has always been action. Many of the actions I’ve taken in my life have been taken to combat my fears and numb the pain.

I never, ever expected they would lead me to a man. Much less this man. I pick out my lingerie with him in mind. White, because I know he’s experienced, but I’m not . . . and I want him to be careful. My dress? With him in mind. My black pumps too. Hell, I breathe right now with him in mind. And I comb my hair fast and hard until it gleams and falls behind me, and as I grab my keys from my vanity and look at my reflection in the mirror, I wonder who the sex-starved, desperate crazy person looking back at me is.

I’ve heard Justin has several places in Chicago, but the only one I know for certain that he’s been using lately is the huge penthouse crowning the top of a billion-dollar mirrored-glass skyscraper that overlooks both Lake Michigan and Michigan Avenue. I leave a note to Gina saying out tonight, just in case she wakes up and worries, then I head down to the lobby and outside to a taxi.

He may still be at the fund-raiser, Selena, I chide myself. He may be heading somewhere else after that—and not alone.

But nothing I can say is really filtering through enough to change my course as I climb into the taxi. I feel like I’ve been at the end of a rubber band stretched to its breaking point and now I’m flying in the air, not knowing where I’ll land.

I just want to see him.

I tell myself that is all I want.

I’m not drunk.

I’m in full possession of my senses, but at the same time, I’ve lost them all.

From the back of the cab, I peer out at the looming high-rises, the shiny windows, the bustling streets, and then, with the big ol’ knot I get with anything Justin-related, the luxury high-rise where Justin is supposed to live as he gets a “bigger” place renovated comes into view.

Unease accompanies every click of my heels on the pristine floors as I cross the lobby. “Hi.” I approach the concierge, wondering what Sin will do when he sees me here. “Selena Livingston to see Mr. Justin. He’s not expecting me.”

He assures me not to worry as he promptly dials a number.

Judging by how quickly he’s handling this, I assume this happens often.

He announces me, then instructs, “Please. Straight to the top.” A staff member by the elevators slides a key in, I suppose to secure top-level elevator access, and then he hops off and sends me on my way.

Oh wow, what am I doing?

Please god, don’t let him be with a floozy. . . .

Or let him be with a floozy so I can just go back home and forget I ever wanted this. . . .

Or if this is a super-bad idea then just let the elevator get stuck until I get my brain back, and I will never come back from the scare I’ll get and the claustrophobia. . . .

When the elevators open straight into his apartment, I hear music. Oh no, fuck, I didn’t mean it.

I should probably back out, but I feel an unnatural jealousy take over me. I don’t back out. Instead, I force my legs to work, the minimalist yet palace-like luxury of his apartment enveloping me so that I almost feel I’m in another world.

His jacket is on the back of a long modern L-shaped couch. I try to place the song playing in the background. Classical, I’ve heard it before. Chopin, I think. A single wineglass sits on the coffee table, its contents drained. I wonder if he’s entertaining. Maybe God answered your prayers and he’s not alone, Selena. Maybe he’s having a threesome, and the concierge thinks you’re going to be the fourth. For some reason that stings, and I really want to cry now. I’m wearing a lovely black dress but an awful cry face, and that’s not a good combo. Is it? Not a way to lure a womanizer. I’m seriously contemplating leaving when he steps out of the hall, buttoning a white shirt. Holy god. He is so beautiful. He appears distracted, his hair rumpled. He’s barefoot . . . and so hot. I see the open laptop on the coffee table finally—next to the wine. He was working?

Yes.

“Something wrong, Selena?” He scans me, head to toe.

I feel beyond vulnerable for being here, all of a sudden. I’m dressed to seduce a man, to seduce this man. This man who makes me achy and twisty and makes my heart work.

“Are you alone? Am I interrupting?” I’m dying from nerves. I’m dying to touch him. Kiss him.

His eyes narrow to slits. “What’s wrong?”

“One of my apartment-building neighbors died tonight.” I rub my hands over my arms, chilled to the bone. “She was divorced. She lived with a dog and a cat, and she was nice. You know? Lonely. Lonely and nice.”

He runs a hand through his hair in a sign of restlessness and drops it. “I’m sorry. Come here.”

God, I want those arms. One, two, three, four, five steps later, I slide into his arms and wrap mine around his waist as he pulls me close, pressing my cheek to his chest with a hand on the back of my head.

Oh god. Since when did I become this girl? This girl needing to be coddled by the guy she can’t stop thinking about? All the times I saw Wynn being hugged by her father, by her boyfriends, I really yearned for something like this. But I never knew how much until he moves his hands up and down my back in soothing motions. He held me like this the other day, at my place. But I had been too scared; I hadn’t really enjoyed it until now.

I press my nose into his chest, and it smells absolutely good.

“I am sorry,” he whispers gruffly in my ear.

He takes my face in his hands and looks truly sorry, his eyes tender and fierce. And something happens when he kisses the corner of my mouth. Almost a brotherly kiss. A feel-good, I’m sorry, I’m here kiss. One second my body is in sleep mode and the next it’s speeding in full-operation mode, recognizing these delicious ghost kisses only he gives me. My nerves tangle in my belly, and everything is gone save for this feeling of my heart pounding, my blood just gushing through my ears. This incredible, amazing feeling where one second everything is dull and the next it’s bright and fiery. One second I’m scared, the next I feel like I can do anything. Scream. Leap. Kiss him.

“Do you still want to have sex with me?” I whisper, tangling my fingers in a handful of his shirt.

His eyebrows pull low. “Right now? You’ve got to be kidding me,” he murmurs.

I grit my teeth, grab a fancy-looking suede pillow from the couch, and hit his arm as he steps back. “Do you?” I cry.

His jaw is absolute granite as he stalks to the corner of his apartment and presses some sort of alarm code at a receiver on the wall. Then he grabs a cordless phone, punches two numbers, and he whispers, “No visitors.”

He hangs up, and with purposeful strides heads back to me.

“I’m a bastard, Selena, but I’m not the bastard who’s taking advantage of you tonight.”

“You’re not taking advantage. You are so not taking advantage.”

“Yes, I am. Look at you. Look at your face, Selena. If you only saw yourself the way I see you right now, the last thing you need is a fuck.” He laughs at himself, curses under his breath, then gathers me in his arms and turns my face up to his. Our noses bump, and I gasp from the feel of his lips so close.

“Justin,” I whisper, grabbing his jaw. “Please.”

“Tell me why you came tonight.”

“You know why.”

“For sex?” he asks in a rough voice, rubbing his thumb along my cheek.

I swallow and press my face back to his chest. “Why don’t you do something?” I moan.

His arms feel amazing.

“You’re as close to a god as we have in this town,” I whisper. “So many people wake up one day to find their lives will forever be changed, that they’ll live trying to fill up this emptiness. . . . You have all this power—you can do something. Talk about it. Bring it to people’s attention?”

He’s quiet. Then he takes my hand.

“Come here.” We head down a hall past many doors, and then walk into a huge modern bedroom done mostly in dark woods and light fabrics. “Get comfortable.”

He hands me a men’s shirt from his closet and disappears into a spa-size bathroom, rolling an oversize mahogany pocket door closed behind him. My heart aches as I grip the shirt and impulsively smell it. I hear the shower water, and I wish I had the balls to just strip naked, walk in there, and join him.

Instead, after smelling his shirt to my heart’s content, I remove my dress and briefly wonder if I should remove my underwear. I keep it on, which I’m glad of seconds later, because nothing prepares me for the intimacy and panty-wetting sensation of slipping on his shirt.

I feel a strange tingling awareness when it envelops me. I hadn’t realized how much I missed his damn shirt. A part of me still hoping I can change his mind, I try to run my hands down my hair, wipe my tears, and slide prettily into his bed. His mattress is huge, the kind that feels like heaven beneath you.

When Justin steps out of the shower, my stomach’s gnarling with all kinds of warmth and need. He’s in slacks and bare-chested. His hair is wet, and he’s barefoot as he lowers himself and stretches out on the bed beside me. I press up to him, closer. The scent of his soap reaches me as he gathers me even more tightly to him. His skin has a scent and I’m addicted, pressing my nose to it. Suddenly I want to make him breathless and groan, feel his big body against me, feel him quiver for me.

He’s in bed with me.

God, it’s like a dream come true. All these nights dreaming.

I tip my head back.

He regards me quietly, his lips quirked. “Livingston, if you could read my mind, you would start feeling really shy around me.”

No. He can’t possibly know what I want. How crazy I feel. How much I want him. How I can’t stop thinking about him. But the intensity in his eyes mystifies me, and the air crackles with so much desire, it’s hard to lie here and do nothing but look at him and want him and feel crazed with desire for him. He doesn’t move closer, but he doesn’t move away, he keeps me in the bestest embrace that’s ever been around me. His lips are here, so very near, two inches from my mouth, as he studies me with an expression of utter determination.

“So tell me about these plans of yours,” he says, and though his voice is low with desire, I can hear the sincerity in his tone as well.

“We don’t have to talk, we can go for the other option,” I whisper. But when he only smiles ruefully down at me, I sigh and snuggle back against his chest. “I’ve never in my life managed to feel safe somehow. But you’re not afraid of movement, you always keep moving. . . .”

Silence.

“Why?” I ask pensively. “Why are you always after something?”

He chuckles. “I don’t know. Because I want to. I want everything.”

“Even women?”

He doesn’t flinch, answers with a soft press of his lips against my temple that makes me melt. “Sometimes women.”

Jealousy sneaks into my guts, but I try not to let it stay there. “You’re always surrounded, Justin, by so many people. I’m surprised I found you alone tonight.”

He hesitates. Again, his lips graze my temple. He shifts his body so that I’m almost spread out on top of him, my bare leg folded over one of his black-clad thighs, his hand splaying over my back—over his shirt I’m wearing. “The company I’ve been keeping doesn’t seem to satisfy me anymore,” he whispers in my ear.

If I keep turning into the consistency of honey like this, I don’t even know if there’ll be anything left by morning. Brushing my lips over his tiny brown nipple, I murmur, “Why do you surround yourself with so many people?”

“Because of the meningitis. Remember my father couldn’t stand that I got sick? At five, I was a kid in the hospital with meningitis. My mother stopped by for an hour every day before her tennis classes. The days went by so damn slow. So damn slow that I would look at the clock and one minute would trickle by. Then another. I waited for the last of my IV to drain so someone would come in and change it.”

He felt lonely. In a private room. Alone. Isolated.

I look at him, and he’s big and powerful. But still, there is always the sense of him being surrounded but alone.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I lick his nipple, suck it, kiss it, and when I feel him tense and lift his hand to my hair—ready to pull me back to stop me—I ease back, then gaze up at him with a fierce ache in my gut.

“With Stop the Violence, I sometimes visit family members of the victims, and some of them are so alone. People don’t realize that even if they don’t have money to donate, so many of us just want company.”

Another rueful smile, but there’s nothing rueful about the raw desire on his face as he looks at me. “Come here, Selena.” He pulls me back to his chest, where he caresses a hand down my hair and whispers against my temple. “I’m very sorry about your neighbor.”

My brain is muddled with his nearness, his unique aroma of male and soap and his shampoo and cologne and aftershave. It’s such a powerful combo, an aphrodisiac to my senses. I close my eyes and stroke my fingers over his chest—just a little. I don’t mean to be devious about it, but I can’t stop touching his skin and his muscles; I can’t stop my heart from beating fast, my chest from feeling knotted over what he just told me.

Want.

I want to run my fingers over the stubble on his jaw. I want to press my lips to the top bow and the bottom curve of his lips. I want, want, want.

Want is such a short word, and yet it can encompass so many infinite things.

Justin is momentum. Movement. He’s a man who’s always moving forward, pushing for more.

He will never stand still until he owns the world, and I just want to find my place in it.

It couldn’t be more wrong.

He’s a womanizer. No one woman will ever appease whatever thirst he has for more and more and more.

Love is for romantics; I’m a journalist.

Still, I lie in a man’s bed for the first time in my life and can’t help but want . . . for a night to be someone else.

19

MORNING

We wake up, his hair bed-mussed, his face fully rested, a scratchy beard on his jaw. He was watching me, and I feel myself blush because I slept so well. I feel loose and relaxed. “Hey.”

He touches me. And I edge closer and move my head closer to his hand. It’s a really tender gesture, and I worry I’m starting to crave them.

His shirt still hugs my body—the feel of the fabric brushing against my skin beneath, the same fabric that touches his bare torso too, warms me to my toes. It’s a struggle to hold my reactions under control. I’m in bed with him, my hair falling past my shoulders, our bodies only partly dressed, our stares equally restless and ravenous. All the ice inside his eyes is gone, replaced by a thermal heat that causes a pooling of volcanic matter inside me.

“I’ll get breakfast for us,” I murmur.

I head to his kitchen in his shirt and, after a bit of fumbling, I get his fancy coffeemaker to work. Then I make some toast.

He comes out fully dressed in slacks and a white shirt and hangs his jacket on the back of a chair. His hair gleams from his shower, wet, dark, slicked back from his smooth forehead, his features sharp and tan.

There’s intimacy between us as I curl up on the chair and have breakfast. Justin drops down and reads the news on his iPad. I don’t want to take his shirt off. I miss having it in my closet. I never realized how much I want it. “Is it okay if I take your shirt? I’ll dry-clean it and bring it back . . .”

“Don’t bring it back.” He sets his iPad aside. Leans forward, his business shirt all over his muscles the way I want to be. Justin spreads his large palm over my cheek as he pushes my hair aside and kisses me with painstaking gentleness. “Selena.”

That’s all he says. That one last word sounds frustrated, aroused, annoyed, confused—almost pained. Before I can get him to get into the kiss, Justin takes my face between his large hands and looks at me with ice-green eyes that carve into my soul. “I’m not the guy anyone comes to for comfort, Selena. But I like that you came to me.”

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