#evil foods like wheat

[greater-than-the-sword]

Something my mom mentioned to me when I brought up the proposed gf/df diet change was that for many people the ACTUAL impact to their health from such a change is negative, because before, they were getting all their minor nutrients/vitamins from enriched flours and by cutting gluten, end up vitamin deficient, especially in vitamin B12 among other things. What's more, the things people typically replace dairy with especially in products (soy, margarine, hydrogenated oils, seed oils) are more unhealthy for the average person than dairy. Not to mention that major and sudden diet changes are going to put the body through some amount of stress to adjust in pretty much all cases and you can see why so much dieting flops. It makes people feel horrible for real reasons, and what's more, they know that they feel horrible while they are doing it but are told that this is good for them and they're just supposed to believe that

[precious-little-scoundrel]

|| My fellow Colonel

Y’all asked for it and here it is. Whew, I wrote all of it today so here’s to hoping it is tolerably alright. Also, as an aside, I am just shy of 1k followers and that’s astounding to me. I had to rebuild this blog from scratch in December after two previous deactivations where I lost a similar amount collected over a far longer time. I’m truly so grateful for each of you who take an interest in sharing this little corner of the internet with me. Thank you, thank you!

Warnings: usual universe warnings apply, 18+ with additional chapter warnings for gore and violent character death, brief mention of racial discrimination and a very dark headspace for Ida at times including brief yet crassly recollected sexual assault

April 1945, escape spoilers ahead

“Bitte.” Ida kept her hands placating, outstretched and harmless by her side, the most open expression on her face that she could summon as she stared the woman down, “Bitte nicht!”

For eleven days she and Smith and Cleven had managed to scrounge their way westward, evading recapture or altercation. But eating from the dead horses on the side of the road was out of the question, agricultural fields were churned to sludge by Amtrak’s and the small amount of wheat berries they found in one abandoned supply truck had long since ceased to fuel their weakening bodies.

They had passed by a camp, one that they observed from the shelter of the woods to be abandoned or liquidated, once used for civilian labor, judging by the signs. After a careful reconnaissance it was agreed that Ida should go and act on her hope that the commandant's empty dwelling may not have been completely ransacked. That there might be some leftover provisions either there, or in the homes of the other personnel. She had had no luck at the commandant’s, it had been empty, no luck in the next idyllic little shack either, only the eerie knickknacks of some bygone person whose vocation it was to deal in pure evil.

In the third house she had found jars of spoiled milk, tubers of some sort gone to sprouts but she did not care, she grabbed a ratty towel lying on the floor and made a sling for them. She was in the process of prying a loose floorboard up, anticipating some root cellar below when the whining creak of a sneaking step sounded behind her in the still place.

She whirled around in a crouch, half expecting either one of her companions or else one of the many starving children they encountered on the road. Instead, silhouetted inside the bright doorway there was a woman, in the uniform of a guard and with a Lugar poised at the ready. Ida felt a cold spike of fear at the flashing recollection of her last encounter with such a female, at the horrid misery that was Ravensbruck, the complete and entire lack of respect shown to her or her girls by these indoctrinated tools.

Ida’s grasp of German had been sufficient enough to keep herself and her companions away from suspicion in their occasional interactions with passersby. While she wore the heavy overcoat of a military man, it had no markings, and it was just as likely for some freezing civilian to steal it off a carcass as it was for an American female officer to be on the loose. Ida knew this and she tried to play at being dumb, pointing to the food, explaining in unstudied desperation that she was starving.

The female guard observed her coldly, her impassive face showing a certain lack of curiosity or even remote interest in Ida’s narrative that made her heart quicken with a presentment of a swift and sudden execution. She has seen these guards lift a gun, squeeze the trigger, and move on boredly all in the matter of a second. What about her own features or story were so compelling to prevent it?

“Bitte nicht!” She repeated again, choosing to take a step forward, eyeing the woman’s grip and posture, professional, soldierly, the woman left little opening for Ida to capitalize on, but she would rather get a bullet in the gut while fighting than be shot hunkering over stolen potatoes.

There was a darkening in the doorway, it caught Ida’s eye right before she timed her launch. It was Cleven. His appearance made her hesitate a moment too long. He had his arm barred around the guard’s throat in an instant but the pistol was out of his reach and one stride too far away from Ida’s grasp. Unlike the hapless children in the forest that had attacked them days ago, this officer had bullets. Ida felt the searing tear of its bite smart her shoulder, blurring her vision in pain before she rushed in, clasping her own hands around the pale wrist.

Cleven had the woman’s eyes rolling back with his grip, her grapple at his forearm growing feeble as her oxygen ran low. Another shot rang out, a bullet embedding in the ceiling rafters as Ida managed to wrench it away at last. She turned it on the woman and fired, only to find her luck run out again, as well as the chamber.

There was a knife in the guard's boot, both women seemed to think of it at the same instant as the guard became possessed with a final animated struggle to reach for it, desperate to break out of Cleven’s strangle. But Ida wasn’t about to watch another friend die, or miss her chance to go home, to bear witness to what her girls, her men, her brother were yet enduring, not to spare herself a fleeting moment of misplaced mercy. She dove for the boot, wrenched the knife free from its sheath and drove the blade in under the sternum, carving it upwards as she herself rose to her feet. Her wrist was fully in the chest cavity, arm covered with warm still living blood, by the time she saw the guard’s head loll impassively against Cleven’s chest, the soul finally gone dim behind the eyes.

“Sweet Jesus.” He stepped back from the corpse, letting go. Ida felt the weight of the body in her wrist as her grip on the knife was all that kept it standing. She tore the weapon free with another sickly gush, and blearily observed it crumple to the floor.

“There are spuds.” she told Cleven as she braced her hands on her knees, nodding to her abandoned sack of potatoes. The edges of her vision were blurring from the exertion, her coat sleeve was soaked to the elbow, but she had a weapon now and a dead Nazi at her feet. Both sat well with her.

The potatoes bought them another days walk, with Smith using the ratty towel to wrap Ida’s shoulder, it was only a flesh wound. That evening they had another run in, but this time it was with the friendly faces of gum chewing yanks who were welcoming with their smokes and their K rations. Poor infantry boys, they were bamboozled by the existence of a female officer, the experiment of integration having only added to the flyboys somewhat derisive glamor. But it was mostly awe, and a healthy amount of respect, that they showed for the blood smeared lady Colonel.

“That make you one of Brady’s Banshees?” one bright corporal made conversation with Ida as he allowed her a seat beside himself on the hood of a tank, it was a hitched ride into Belgium.

“She is Brady.” Smith drawled for her, enjoying far more than Ida how gobsmacked the man was to be in the presence of feminine greatness.

They were welcomed warmly everywhere by their fellow allies, ferried like heroes on any conveyance possible. Smith was their cheery intercessor, knowing her superiors were of so torn a spirit and conflicted of conscience as to be half inclined to go back to where they came from. In truth, Ida could hardly bring herself to board the last plane -an unbelievable courtesy taking them from Paris straight to Thorpe- as all she could think on were what repercussions might have been exacted on the others for their escape. And what cruelties she had left her brother to endure without her.

Cleven was not much better; Egan, Maureen, all of them still left behind. As they took their seats on the benches, felt the old nostalgic rumble of the engines, not of a Fort but of a Gooneybird, what should have been a lightening of spirits as they soared over the channel was instead a dismal camaraderie of guilt.

That fateful night when they had all agreed to escape before crossing the Danube, the organization had been infuriatingly chaotic yet the groups were chosen with emphatic pragmatism. The guards were used to watching certain persons in company with their favorite fellows. The Bradys, the Buckys, Smith and Murph, each had some comrade the Germans expected to be their partner in any subversive endeavor. With this in mind, their agreed-upon groups were intentionally fractured to confuse their captors, each hoping to meet up somewhere on the road or in the forest.

Cleven and Ida had waited only a few hundred yards in the tree line for over an hour, hoping to be joined by their fellows. In the end only Smith came, with the word that the gig was up, Egan had been detained, John Brady never even began to saunter off before they closed the perimeter. No more were coming. It took all of Smith’s vicious logic to keep the officers from going back, she had to lean on reminders of reprisals and certain death, how they could in no way alleviate the suffering of the others by rejoining them.

What they could do was carry through, escape, go back to England, spread the word, liberate.

Despite this inner turmoil, Ida felt like kissing the ground when her feet landed on East Anglian soil. Or, rather, the cement of the old familiar runway. Instead she settled for Crosby‘s cheeks, the beaming fellow being so utterly honest in his welcome that some tiny part of her melted in momentary relief at having actually made it. That hadn’t really sunk in, not until there was an English mist pelting her face and Harry’s crinkled cheeks between her hands.

“A major?!” she repeated his rank and felt prouder than his mother in that moment while Harry blushed scarlet under the affirmation.

“A-and a father.” tumbled out of his mouth as a deflection except, that subject made a great hullabaloo too, with even Cleven growing exuberant in his congratulatory shoulder slapping. “What am I doing makin’ you stand out here, get in the jeep sirs, I’ll take you to a hut, or-or the club? Or the doctor?”

Both Ida and Cleven stiffened in their swing into the jeep at the last suggestion, a brittle defensiveness tightening their smiles, “Bed and board are all we need, thanks Crosby.” Gale gave him one of those devastatingly final little nods of his.

They kept him occupied and rambling on the ride, updates on new crews, new buildings, Jeffreys, Meatball, the improvement of rations, tales of bombing Berlin, the prospect of victory within reach. By the time he’d parked outside Cleven’s old barracks, Harry knew next to nothing about their own experiences, and he felt that somehow to have been quite calculated.

“There’s still a ladies sector, Colonel,” Harry assured Ida, much to her confusion as to why there wouldn’t be, “I’ll take you and Smith there.”

The old hut was as she remembered it, same as all the others, curved metal amplifying the patter of rain and the monotonous comfort of Air Force regulated bunking. It hit then, no more wooden combines or roadside shelters. She was really back.

“Where the hell is everyone?” Smith asked, the place eerily quiet, even for midday.

“There at- there at work.” Crosby offered haltingly.

Suspecting something dreadful, or as Bucky liked to say of her instincts -sniffing out bullshit- Ida slowly turned to Crosby and gave him a stare, one she recalled having once effectively shrank the man by a few literal inches. Perhaps because it was remarkably similar to her brother’s. Harry bore up under it better now, oak leaf cluster on his breast or a hard three years adding some spine to him, she didn’t know, but still his expression wavered guiltily.

“At work?” she repeated his phrasing, “That what the kids call war these days?”

“A few, a couple, -some,” he settled on, “are on missions. We’ve been uh, we’ve been running a lot of missions. Picking up prisoners -like you guys.”

“The rest?”

“At work.”

“Where’s this work?”

“Uh, well, various posts, you know how it is-“

“-grounded?” She supplied.

“Well, yeah. Just like Douglass and me and-“

“They badly hurt? Who’re we talking about?”

“Colonel,” Harry begged her, looking mildly close to drowning on dry land and sending a wet eyed sos at Smith, “dozens of them are posted here. Grounded yes, but, in good positions, required positions-“

“Did they get corresponding promotions?” Ida hit back, “Were they grounded because they were too valuable or were they hurt? Or did they just get squirreled away in some cupboard with a typewriter?”

“Look, uh, sir,” Harry chuckled nervously, “a lot of them are on missions, some of them are at their jobs -where I should be right now. But, it’s true, uh, the brass thought that, well they weren’t sure, Ida, when we got word you’d escaped we wanted to welcome you back right and uh, we didn’t know what to expect. We’ve had a lot of reports. Some reassuring and a lot…not. Not reassuring at all. And uh, we didn’t know what to expect, they didn’t know and uh, depending on how you were, it could affect the morale. So they thought, clear the place out a little, yeah? Make sure you were -you were…”

“Didn’t wanna scare the kids.” Ida supplied, tone softened, suspecting she probably did look half witch from all her trials.

“We didn’t know what to expect.” Harry repeated, a significant amount of relief bleeding into his voice, like he was going to get choked up on her mere continued existence.

“Well I need a change of clothes, and I need a shower.” Ida smiled at him until he gave her a fastidious look while glancing at her blood stained coat and she sent him a sour glare in return, “And a nap. And then I dare say nothing about me will be cause for alarm, not even for general LeMay.”

Harry was back to chuckling nervously as he walked his way backwards out the hut. “Of course, yeah, uh, we tried to supply uniforms, laid them out -best we could scrounge, for now.”

“Thanks Croz.” Smith offered, trying to soften the ending of this interaction.

“Before you go,” Ida stalled him, “tell me a little about the new ones? Who should I know? What should I know? Hate to wake up in here and have to start making acquaintances from scratch.”

“Colonel,” Harry answered her in the most mournful voice, “there aren’t any new ones.”

That old whiff of cold dread was back. “Crosby.”

“They uh, after you went down, colonel they, they scrapped the program.”

“You cannot be-“ Ida rubbed at her throat, trying to get it to open up, wondering what the hell it must be like to be Gale Cleven and get to come back to Thorpe Abotts and nothing be different, get to be home and get to find everything where it should be because your own higher ups aren’t fighting against you right along with the bastards with the flak and the barbed wire and the endless taunts about women being made for breeding. “Crosby what do you mean scrapped? They shut it down?” she wished she sounded angry, but she knew it was a cry, and to his credit he looked ready to cry for her.

“Colonel I’m so sorry, the reports were so alarming and the-“ he shook his head, “-they grounded all female servicemen right after. Cut the program, if it wasn’t for Kidd they might’ve sent them all back, discharged or moved to the WASPS. Well, they stayed, but, it’s not- it’s not what it was, colonel.”

Ida bit her lip, that old throbbing pain from the old injury of her cheek bloomed again, it felt like arriving at the stalag in one too many ways. “Y-you said something about, you said some were up on missions.” She wracked her brain for it and found it, that one bit of hope and she clung to it like a woman drowning.

“Yeah!” Crosby was over eager to soothe the pain with the modicum of good news he had, “They are! Rosenthal he uh, he’s over the squadrons now and uh, he’s seen to it they are allowed up. Mostly uh, mercy runs or behind allied lines, they don’t want anyone captured but, they’re up. They’re getting their thirty missions. They’ve uh, they’ve changed the number, since you were here.”

“Thirty.” she repeated numbly.

Harry’s footsteps had long ago receded along the gravel outside by the time Ida allowed herself enough movement to sink atop the pristinely made bed in her filthy clothes and just stare at the opposite bunk of equally pristine sheets and all of it so pristine and so rigorous and so proud and so pristine and so-

The echo of her own scream startled her, banging off the tin walls and circling back to her. Ida felt more than saw the implacable Tallulah Smith jump in fright beside her, but that level headed woman knew better than to soothe her officer. Not after what they’d just learned. She bit her tongue and busied herself sorting amongst the clothes and provisions for towels, combs, soap, toothbrushes. Ida watched this rich display of care on the part of their fellows with a snarl bending her lip, she could taste salt and knew she was also crying and all that she could hear amongst the cacophony in her head was a desperate wail -she didn’t want combs and towels, she wanted her squadron back.

Some aspect of this heartbroken petulance must’ve shown on her face as Smith extended both a comb and towel to her with forceful kindness, “LeMay didn’t lay these out.” was all she commented. “Think of it as Harry’s hospitality. You look a mess, and won’t get any respect for it.”

Smith had some vantage point from which to speak, Ida knew. Native American with bronzed skin just shy of being segregated twice over, getting screwed over was something Smith had made into an art form of cat and mouse. Ida had long admiringly observed it; she never thought she’d need to adopt a similar posture to this degree. Not when she felt like grabbing at the knife still in her trench coat pocket and making a charming scene and all it would get her was confirmation of the reports.

Whatever those were. Alarming reports, apparently. It was so very upper brass of them all to find the enemy’s methods unfortunate and so shoot themselves in the foot like it evened things out.

“I’ll be along in a minute.” Ida insisted to Smith from her bunk, refusing more than the towel and comb.

They’d all been through hell for daring to be combatants. But Ida, at this news of her loss, was beginning to recall particular parts of her own hell she had not dwelt on since they occurred.

Colonel -the way each had called her that, sneering at the mere concept of a colonel with a cunt, an officer so easily breached, a leader made by her Creator to be bent over and taken. She’d had a squadron then, and no amount of scorn or cruelty could take that from her; no, only her friends could take that away.

And they had.

Robert Rosenthal was giving himself a little pump up speech as he stalled outside with his hand on the door knob, knowing he needed to knock first and that knocking would buy him a little more time to ready himself, and so he really should go ahead and knock. The pattering drizzle on his hat brim should have been human incentive enough to get inside already, if duty and honor and admiration weren’t quite cutting it today. But he stalled, even went so far as to cast an indefensibly juvenile and furtive glance over his shoulder at the shrinking form of the accommodating lady who’d passed him on his march here. A Lieutenant Smith, who had told him she was glad to be back and that her famed superior was still inside-

“Angry as God after catching the Israelites worshiping cows at Mount Carmel.”

Rosenthal knew Ida Brady had every reason to be utterly furious, hell -he was furious for her, with her, about her. And he had no right to stand there and wish she wouldn’t take it out on him, to defend himself with shitty excuses like the fact a few of the girls got to see the top of clouds because he had put his shiny and promoted boot down and asked for it. He wasn’t exactly the problem, perhaps, but he was, by sheer implication of it being men like him unable to require better treatment, at fault. And so, Rosie stood in the drizzle and gave himself one last minute to think about Colonel Ida Brady as she had been the last time he’d seen her, terrifyingly formidable and utterly kind.

“It’s no worse than your dread of it, I swear.” she had told him and Nash that night before their first time up, “I was relieved to have seen it.”

What had she seen since? He stared at the little leather binder in his hand and scoffed at the administrative mission that carried him here. To hell with it. He knocked, he waited, he knocked once more, and he went in.

The stipple of rain on the roof of an empty Nissen hut was a calming background noise he himself savored whenever possible. Despite their bare aesthetic and extreme practicality, there was a serenity to them as well, and on spotting a seated figure a few bunks down from the entrance, he felt a pang of empathy for the desire to just decompress.

She looked up at the sound of his footfalls, not startled in the least. Not angry. In fact, she looked utterly dazed, like the men he’d helped out of their forts after a bad run of it. A face he’d seen in the mirror once or twice or a couple dozen. There was a docile listlessness in her gaze that he knew better than to be comforted by, despite the selfish feeling of relief at not immediately being eviscerated about her squadron. She was gaunt, understandably so, her strong jaw so pronounced he could cut his thumb on it, the pallor of her skin jarred unsettlingly with her dark brows, set off in stark relief by her tangled, jet black hair. Her overcoat was half muddy brown, half doleful rust. There was a bloody story there, a recent one, not washed away by a hard rain or bath. Rosenthal didn’t have any doubt how that struggle had ended for her assailant: she was here, wasn’t she?

He’d never seen anything more magnificent in all his life than this battered figure sat on a pristine cot with dawning recognition in her eyes.

“Welcome back, Colonel!” he ventured, keeping his tone soft as befitted the setting, yet unable to keep the creeping happiness at her return from showing in his voice.

“Mm, yes. Rosenthal.” Ida was straightening automatically, rising from her seat, shrugging off her clumsy overcoat and standing near to attention at sight of the brass on his lapel, “I remember you. A Colonel now, I see. Well done.”

Rosie felt his cheeks burn, another juvenile thing, her hand extended itself to his surprise and he clasped it warmly, maybe a little too firmly. “Well that’s kind of you, Ma’am. Very kind. Welcome back, Colonel.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Apologies.” he stumbled, releasing her hand in hopes of regaining his thoughts. She didn’t look angry yet, she looked wary, “Just glad to have you back. There was…a lotta concern.”

“It was touch and go but -here I am.”

“Right.” There was silence after that, it was so thick that the quirk of his kind lips and the gleam of his eager eyes slowly dimmed and fell as no small talk resumed. “Uh, colonel,” he ventured, “due to those aforementioned concerns, uh, I’ve been asked-“

“Aforementioned? What kind of talk is that?”

“Ha, well, lawyerly talk I’m afraid. I need to get a report from you, colonel.”

“For God’s sake man, I just got here, maybe with a shower and a nap and a cup of joe I might have a report for you but- I just got here.”

“Yes.” he refused to wince, he refused to. He was a colonel now, he had to require unpleasant things every day from his friends. Today it was required from a hero. Small difference in a war. “And if it were up to me I’d give you weeks to do all that before asking a thing from you. But I can’t, colonel. They wanted an immediate, preliminary report. It’s -it’s the same as an integration after a mission. Less interaction beforehand, less time to confuse the details- you get my drift.”

“You’re under orders.”

“I am.”

“Why didn’t you say? God’s sake Rosenthal.” she was close to angry now.

“Sorry, ok, Colonel I-“

“Why the whole welcoming committee schtik? Just say what you mean.”

“It’s not a schtick, Ma’am,” he insited, heatedly, “it’s a genuine honor to have you back with us and a relief to see you safe. And yes, I have orders to get a preliminary report.”

“In future you can save us both precious minutes of our lives by being this forthright, please?”

“Understood.”

“Right, well. What’s wanted? What kind of report?” He didn’t fail to notice the sudden and very studied nonchalance that took over her gait, the way she leaned against the railing of her footboard, almost a slouch that made the lean line of her look entirely unperturbed. He wasn’t a good lawyer out of naïveté about such posturing. She was braced like hell for this, probably worse than he was.

“On uh, on your general treatment. Ma’am.” he decided to summarize it thusly.

“Well Colonel,” he had forgotten what a nice voice she had, it wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t gruff, it was simply nice, “if Gale Cleven’s under eyes didn’t tell you the food was meager and hardly nutritious, I’ll go on record to say so. But they did try, I think I can give them that. Looked like everyone was starving by the end.”

“Conduct of your guards?” he had his stupid little leather case open on his forearm and the not quite soggy notepad in it was being dutifully filled with scribbles.

“I’ve little to say against the Luftwaffe, they were honorable for the most part. I think you’ll get that same report from the others. There were a few incidents, but we were enemies. To be expected.”

“Right, uh,” the pencil drug a little “this is a general report so I’ll spare an inquiry into those incidents.”

“Thanks.”

“Of course.”

“Anything else?” Ida tried to smooth her face, she really did.

“Colonel -yes.” she watched him as he deliberated for a moment before seeming to recall her scathing admonition of before, and carried on resolutely in the bluntest manner he could summon, “Regarding your prolonged detention before the stalag. It’s our understanding you were not always under Luftwaffe jurisdiction?”

“That’s correct. Combatant status was not recognized for four and a half weeks.” Ida gave a clipped nod. “We were even briefly detained at a concentration camp.”

“I can’t imagine what you must’ve seen there.”

Ida stared back with some slight emotion flitting over her mask-like face at long last and Rosie felt maybe his own showed it, too, “From what I’ve heard, we may be the only ones to have left alive.” she said at last.

“Your testimony, what you saw there, it could become-“ Rosie drew in breath, “-invaluable.”

“I’d do anything to see justice done, Colonel.” she agreed, “Sometimes I think I dreamed such mass cruelty. Seems too large to be real, too awful to be abetted for so long by so many.”

“I saw what was left of one of the smaller camps. In Poland.”

“Mm, so you can imagine.” she retorted, but it was a kind retort.

“I don’t see much else when I close my eyes.”

“Mm.”

“Right, back to this uh, report, the question is, how were you treated before civilian status was adhered to?”

“Is this a personal report or a general one?” Ida inquired suddenly.

“The assignment was to ask about your own observations as senior officer of the female contingent of-“

“-then in that case, the treatment was barbaric, Colonel Rosenthal.” Ida informed him forcefully, “The Luftwaffe used plenty of rough tactics and one officer was particularly cruel to Cleven. I was informed my brother was dying and that my obstinance in denying giving them information was prolonging his torment. All of that I was prepared for, it was one soldier’s attempt to break another. The gestapo, on the other hand, were beasts. And the SS -sadists. They dealt in cruelty for the pleasure of it and my girls went through hell. Once in the stalag there was a reprieve. Then the Luftwaffe were relieved of command and it began again- if you expect details, come back with a larger notepad.”

Rosie gave a curt nod of his own in understanding, his brow creased at the implication.

“No one wants to see justice done for them more than I.” Ida went on, “But they’re still out there, and I’m here. And I-I don’t know that those are my stories to tell, Colonel. What I saw is plenty enough to hang a village. And it wasn’t just toward my girls.”

“At…at a later point, you’d be willing then?” he ventured, softly, no longer professional, “To tell me what you saw?”

“Larger notebook, Rosenthal.”

“Yes ma’am.” he knew a dismissal when he heard one, he even felt a brief and heinous relief at the prospect of slipping away on a high note. The dreaded scrapping of the program still undiscussed. “I’ll uh, leave ya to that shower.”

“It’s good to be back, Colonel.” she called to him while he was still maneuvering through a somewhat meandering exit, she called out this concession as if it were meant only in regards to him, “Like what you’ve done with the place.”

Well now that was -that was kind and that was unexpected and Colonel Robert Rosenthal may have let the door hit him on the way out.

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Steve Harrington\Eddie Munson | Rated: M | cw: Blood, Death, Gore | Tags: Alternative Universe: Vampire, Horror, Dom/Sub undertones, Implied Mind Control, Dubious Consent, Vampire!Eddie, Hotelclerk!Steve | AO3

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The Graveyard Shift - Part 2

They are heading northwest from their last gig in Cincinnati. The highrise of the city center quickly makes way for long stretches of road until the city is nothing more than a bunch of lights in the rearview mirror.  

The guys are giddy, strung up from another good show��another good hunt. Eddie is happy to leave Ohio behind; to be returning to his home ground of Indiana. 

True, the state itself isn’t much to look at, but in the darkness of the night, he doesn’t care much for a scenic view. 

When was the last time he laid his eyes on the vast green fields, the rich yellow of dried wheat, or the cerulean sky? Eddie can hardly recall—it has been decades after all.

Compared to the first half of the 20th century, the 80s are a spectacle to behold. The morals are looser, the clothes more revealing, and hunting was never this easy—never this fun. Eddie likes the way he can walk around at night now, bathed in light and color like he’s living once more. 

And the music is something else. 

It’s hard to believe he might have missed out on this—on the leather and the smoke and the loudness of it all. The shrieking of guitars and voices that perfectly captures the chaos of the world; to instill darkness in mortals, not through death, but through music. 

What a splendid age indeed.

Indianapolis shines like a beacon of light in the distance and in this new age, this time of neon lights and secondary colors, it might as well be Eden itself. It shines in darkness much more than it ever did in the light of day.

When they arrive in the city, Gareth drops him off at some gaudy hotel, and it’s their usual spiel. They stay at separate hotels, avoid suspicion, and then once their show is over, they leave again. Ditch the city and trade it for another. 

Rinse and repeat, for centuries to come.

The hotel looks different from the last time Eddie stayed there a decade ago. New owners have tried to put their mark on history. Tearing down the old and replacing it with artificial plastics that seem so prevalent at this time. 

It’s cute, the way they try, but few are ever remembered. Most will disappear into obscurity—just another name on a tombstone until that erodes as well.

Most, but not Eddie. 

Not Corroded Coffin.  

The new marble floors are laid in a checkerboard pattern—polished to such an extent that they reflect anyone who walks on them. It’s a giveaway, but Eddie doesn’t worry about that. Humans are remarkably dim; remarkably easy to fool. 

Not that he minds. Eddie prefers his food a little dim.

Behind the front desk stands a boy. Eddie could smell him from outside—the smell of lifeblood and light. It matches his looks in every way. He has an easygoing charm to him. 

The boy doesn’t notice him as he massages his temples and Eddie feels like a fox stalking a rabbit unaware of its impending doom. 

After so many decades, it’s easy to move without sound—it’s thrilling, the way people jump, the way their eyes go wide as they grow uncomfortable. 

Unconsciously they are aware that something is wrong, but humans have grown out of touch with their instincts. They push the feeling down because in this age, evil can be found in board games, books, and the wrong kind of love. 

Evil comes in human form—it needs no horns or teeth or claws. It comes in clever tongues, greedy hands, and an insatiable hunger for more, m ore, m ore—

When Eddie sees the boy, he thinks goodness may persist in equal measure. It gnaws at him, the familiarity of it, but he can’t allow himself to go there—not again. It’s a specific kind of anguish. A yearning he can’t mute.

He yearns for Steve before he even learns his name. 

And it sounds like a melody, the way his heart rate spikes when Eddie grabs his wrist; his scent a perfect blend of nervous curiosity and excitement, unpolluted by the stench of fear.

Eddie feels his mouth water as his nails dig into his flesh. He pulls back. He has indulged himself too much already. 

Not this one. Not yet.

Around 4 AM, Eddie orders room service, and some kid with freckles shows up at his door. 

Tommy

He smells like trouble—it radiates off him like perfume as his cheeks flush with expensive wine and stuffs his face with the food Eddie provides. 

Call it his last supper. Eddie does have some humanity. 

Eddie watches him with a lazy swirl of untouched wine in his hand. Tommy doesn’t notice he doesn’t drink. Tommy doesn’t notice much of anything. 

Tommy talks. 

He talks a lot and it’s all bullshit. But, fuck, if that isn’t the type of person Eddie enjoys toying with most—cocky and a little rude. They break so beautifully.

The guys have given him shit before, called his tastes fancy. And maybe they are right, just a little, because Eddie has a type. 

Tommy isn’t it, but he’s close enough. 

He’s sure the guys are fine with this one. Someone unreliable, who oversleeps and skips out on work. Someone who won’t be missed—not until it’s too late.

Yes, Tommy will do , Eddie reminds himself as he sinks his teeth into the boy’s neck. Tommy whimpers helplessly, somewhere between pain and pleasure. The initial resistance wears off fast as the venom fills his veins. Eddie feels his heat seep into his body and he moans against his skin; grabs the back of Tommy’s neck to pull him closer.

There’s nothing quite like blood. Nothing quite like the overwhelming pleasure of life on his tongue as Tommy’s pulse grows weaker and his skin pales. 

When Eddie feels Tommy’s heart hitch he knows it’s time to stop. He pushes himself away and creates some distance as he watches. Pupils blown and white-faced, Tommy’s jaw moves helplessly for a minute or so before Eddie sees him fade.

Eddie stands up then. He hates the final spasms—hates the actual dying part, no matter how often he does it. It reminds him of himself, and how he skirted death before he became what he is now.

He moves to his window and stands in front of it. The city is alive with lights, regardless of the hour.

Reflected in the window he sees Tommy’s body give a singular violent jerk.

Death throes.

“It won’t be like last time,” Eddie whispers as he thinks of the boy named Steve.

—

It is morning and Robin is seated at their little breakfast table with a slice of half-eaten toast and a newspaper in front of her. The kitchen smells of bread and coffee and it instantly makes Steve relax. It’s the scent of coming home, especially now that he works night shifts. He makes himself a cup of tea and sits down next to her. 

Robin takes another bite of her toast and looks at him. “Alright, spill it.”

“What?”

“You have something to tell me. I can see it in your face.”

Steve sends her a playful frown before pulling the two backstage passes from his breast pocket and sliding them toward her like they’re business cards.

Robin studies them a moment before looking back at Steve. “Remember when I said they were weirdos? That definitely extends to them backstage.” She pushes the passes back to Steve. “How did you even get this?” 

Steve steals her toast and takes a bite. “Their lead singer—”

Robin snatches her toast back and pulls a face. “Dude, swallow before you talk.”

“Sorry.” Steve swallows heavily, “As I was saying, their lead singer is staying at the hotel. Tommy didn’t show up tonight so I had to pitch in on room service duty. Kinda sucked balls, but hey, I got something good out of it I guess.”

“And you were so good at pushing a cart this guy just happened to give you backstage passes?” Robin gulps her coffee and eyes him over her mug.

“So what if I was?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Okay, fine. He invited me into his room and made me have wine with him. Happy now?”

“Steve, that’s really weird.” She frowns into her mug.

Steve fiddles with the handle of his mug. Robin is eying him intensely and she’s probably right. It’s a little weird, but she’s also overly suspicious. “He was just being nice. It was nearly morning. Maybe he felt guilty about the food.”

“Food? He ordered food at what, 5 AM?”

“Hotel guests are always weird. You don’t know half of it. This actually only classifies as mildly unusual.”

“So, what say you? Will you join me tonight?”

“There’s no talking you out of this, is there?”

“No chance.”

Robin seems to be giving in and Steve feels strangely victorious. “Okay, I’m coming with you tonight, if only because I’m pretty sure this guy has some unbecoming intentions with my sweet Steve.”

Steve laughs and takes a sip of his tea. Robin smiles back at him, tentatively.

“Highly unlikely. I’m not a girl.”

“That means nothing, Steve. Believe me.” Robin flips the newspaper to the next page and they sit in silence for a moment.

It’s a rainy morning and Robin will have to leave for class soon. Steve hates how their schedules contradict each other now. He squeezes her hand affectionately and gives her a reassuring smile.

“It’ll be fun.”

Robin smiles back, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

—

“Are you really wearing that?” Robin asks him that evening.

Steve looks himself down. He’s wearing a polo and jeans. Hardly an offensive outfit. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Oh Steve, they’ll eat you alive,” she says affectionately. “Hold on.” 

Robin leaves the room and Steve moves to one of the mirrors to study himself. His outfit isn’t like Eddie’s on the pamphlet, nor like the people in the record shop, but he can’t see what’s wrong with it. 

“Catch.” Robin throws a black fabric ball at him and Steve turns around, just in time to get hit square in the face. He yanks it off his head and unfolds it. 

“ Heart ? Isn’t it a faux pas to wear shirts of other bands?”

“I didn’t know you spoke French, monsieur Steve. Did you pick that up at that fancy hotel of yours too?” Robin is smiling at him.

Steve rolls his eyes. “It’s the cross-words okay. Now answer the question.”

“It’s fine…ish. Besides, it’s the only thing I have close to your size. It’s better than your polo, believe me.”

Steve sighs. “Fine, I’ll be right back.” 

—

Robin is right, this isn’t his scene. Steve self-consciously tugs at the slightly too-tight shirt. He’s glad she made him change because people are indeed dressed differently here. 

Steve hasn’t attended many music events. Music has always been in the background, not something he consciously paid attention to.

Corroded Coffin hits differently.

It’s the darkness and heat of the small concert hall. People are dressed in black and leather, drenched in defiance and sweat. But the ambiance is magnetic and it lures Steve in. It makes him believe he can become one with this collection of misfits as the drums pound in his head with Robin at his side. Guitars cut through him and Eddie Munson’s voice stitches him back together.

Robin sticks to his side, hands on his arm. She’s wary and Steve doesn’t understand how she’s not taken by this, by the music that sounds so much like love feels.

Robin eyes him suspiciously. Her eyebrows are knit together as she holds his face and scans his eyes. “Did you slip in some alcohol while I wasn’t looking?”

Steve swats her hands away. “Of course not. Where would I even get that?” 

Steve isn’t drunk. He can’t be, but the atmosphere feels charged with it. “Just relax Rob, have fun,”

The music is loud and talking is hard. Bodies are squeezed against them from all sides as they make their way back into the crowd. 

When Eddie announces their last song his eyes briefly meet Steve’s in the darkness of the crowd. And surely Eddie can’t see him, not really—it’s too dark and the stage lights are too bright. But when he hits his guitar and runs his lips against the metal grid of his microphone, Steve thinks he looks like a god come to life. 

Steve is mesmerized by it. Can tear his eyes away from the way Eddie’s mouth moves over the microphone like a lover would. Steve hardly hears the music at this point. The world is faded at the edges and it feels like nothing exists except for Eddie and himself.

Eddie looks at him, and this time Steve is sure he sees him. Eddie’s eyes hold his, lips moving over the microphone as he sings his final note.

The crowd erupts in cheers and the spell is broken.

When the band moves off the podium, chaotic mumbling rises and fills the concert hall. The lights come back on and suddenly all intimacy seems gone.

Rob squeezes his arm, her eyes shooting towards the exit in signal for Steve. She pulls him along, making her way through the mass of bodies around him until she comes to a halt, so suddenly Steve almost crashes into her.

In front of her stands a bulky man dressed in a suit. 

“If you’ll follow me,” he says. He doesn’t wait for an answer, but briefly turns his back, walking towards the stage rather than the exit. 

Robin shoots Steve a wary look, but he ignores it, grabbing her by the wrist to pull her with him. She resists for a second before giving in.

The man leads them through the crowd to a door near the stage. He holds it open for them and beckons them to go through. The man steps past them until they arrive at another door. He holds it open again and when Steve walks through he is greeted by several other people lounging around. 

They’re all girls. 

Pretty girls with dark clothes and drinks in their hands—champagne flutes and elegant wine glasses. Some seem a little buzzed; somewhere between the softness of alcohol-induced relaxation and nervous anticipation.

The door falls shut behind them and the girls look up at the sound. They greet them, some with a soft ‘hi’, others with a wave. Some of them ignore them altogether.

Steve doesn’t really care. He isn’t there for them. The girls don’t seem to care either—mostly focusing on themselves or the friends they brought.

“Let's get out of here Steve,” Robin whispers in his ear. She’s glued to his side, antsy to get away, and Steve has to admit the situation feels strange. Now he’s not engulfed by the crowd the high is starting to wear off, and the atmosphere unsettles him a little.

The room is pretty barebones and all the girls are wearing VIP tags around their necks, just like them. 

“Let's just get one drink, then we’ll go.” Steve offers. He makes his way over to a table with various drinks—mostly alcohol. Steve decides to be responsible and grabs a soda for Robin and himself. Robin seems nervous enough as is, she doesn’t need Steve’s drunk ass on top of everything.

A little while later the man who led them earlier is back and asks them to follow him once again. Muffled music sounds throughout the hall until a door opens and suddenly music is blasting. 

The room is dark with a few lights scattered around casting warm light and dark shadows. The room is hazy with smoke, walls lined with brick, and Persian rugs scattered on the hardwood floor. It must be one of the rooms for performers to relax before and after the show, Steve realizes. 

Loud cheering erupts as one of the band members downs a glass of red liquid in one go. Some of it runs past his stubbled chin and he wipes at it with his sleeve.

The large man clears his throat and the band members look up towards the door opening. 

“Come in, come in!” A guy with blond curly hair motions. They disperse and the members seem to gravitate towards their respective guests.

“Steve!”

Eddie walks towards him with open arms and Steve feels that familiar pull again. It tugs at his mind and swirls in his gut with a sense of unfounded longing.

Before Steve can react, Eddie has him engulfed in a tight hug and Steve can feel the buttons of his denim vest dig into his chest and the skin of his cold bare arms stick to his own sweat-slick skin.

“And you must be his friend.” Eddie releases him and turns to Robin. He doesn’t hug her.  Instead, he takes her hand with a cordial bow and introduces himself as ‘Edward Munson, but call me Eddie’.

The tension in Robin’s posture seems to relax a little then. “Robin,” she says.

Eddie’s attention turns back to Steve and he eyes him up and down.

“Dig the shirt,” he says, clicking his tongue. Steve looks down at the tight fabric stretched over his chest and pats at it self-consciously.

“What did you think of the show?” Eddie looks at Robin, then at Steve.

“It—it was great. I’ve never seen anything like it,” Steve says. Next to him, he sees Robin’s eyebrow move ever so slightly. It’s a tell, but Eddie won’t know that. Robin thinks Steve’s full of shit. Is probably judging his life choices at this very second. That’s fair. Maybe Robin is just having a bad day. 

“Great show,” Robin echoes, but there is little passion behind her words. She looks at her watch, and honestly, Steve thinks it’s a little rude with Eddie right in front of them, but Eddie doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are glued to Steve. A handsome little smile growing on his face as he throws an arm around his shoulder.

“Say, we’re heading to a club after this. Afterparty kinda deal. Care to join us?”

Steve opens his mouth to answer, but Robin beats him to it.

“We have class tomorrow morning.”

We. Now that was a lie. Robin really wants to get him out of here.

“I don’t,” Steve corrects her, “An after-party sounds fun. Can’t sleep anyway—night shifts you know.” Steve shrugs.

Robin shoots him a desperate look. “Can I steal him for a moment?” She asks Eddie. He nods and releases his grip on Steve’s shoulder.

Robin leads him to one of the corners of the room. The music is loud, and the other band members are chattering with the girls. One of them has a girl on his lap as they engage in a very intimate conversation.

Once they’re out of earshot, Steve focuses his attention on Robin. “What the hell, Rob!”

“Steve, something about this is off. I swear.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Steve says, but it doesn’t sound convincing. Robin quirks a skeptical eyebrow as she folds her arms over her chest.

The thing is, Steve doesn’t really care. This is the most fun he’s had in a good while. Life has been boring these past few months. He is just finding his footing again after Nancy dumped him. He doesn’t understand why Robin can’t let him have this.

“Steve, I mean it. I’m going home. I really do have class in the morning. If you know what’s good for you, you will come as well.”

“I’m staying, Rob. I can take care of myself.” He crosses his arms over his chest and stares her down.

Finally, Robin relents. She sighs, pulls the VIP badge from her neck, and shoves it in his hand. 

“If you’re about to do something stupid, look at my name and maybe—don’t do that thing,” she says. She gives his arm an affectionate squeeze and makes her way to the door, looking back once with furrowed brows before closing it behind her.

Steve stares after her. His excitement tainted with a strange guilt as he stands there alone.

“You alright there?”

Steve turns around and sees Eddie looking at him with worried eyes.

“Yeah, I’m fine. My friend—” he looks at the door again and frowns, “she had to leave.”

“That’s too bad, man. Listen, we’re about to head out, yeah. I got us a taxi, we’re sharing with Gareth and his harem.” Eddie points a thumb over his shoulder towards the guy with curly blond hair. He’s surrounded by three girls.

Steve shoots him a smile, and when he stares into Eddie’s impossibly dark eyes, he feels all guilt wash off him and that strange sense of longing and anticipation return.

The taxi is a tight squeeze. One of the girls takes the passenger seat, which leaves Eddie, Gareth, and two additional girls in the backseat.

A blonde girl decides to share a seat with her friend by sitting on her lap and Gareth squeezes himself into the middle seat next to the girls. That only leaves one window seat.

“Not a bad idea,” Eddie says, staring at the girls, “you can sit on my lap,” he offers, sending him a little smile. Steve laughs sheepishly until he realizes Eddie meant what he said.

“Won’t you be uncomfortable? Maybe we should get another taxi—”

“It’s only ten minutes. It will be fine,” Eddie waves his hands. 

Steve relents and settles himself into Eddie’s lap. They’re both guys, it isn’t weird at all. He was on the basketball team in high school. He knows guys can be close without it having to mean something. Maybe if he were a girl, he would be worried.

Somewhere in the back of his head, he hears their morning conversation echo. 

‘That means nothing, Steve. Believe me.’

He shakes her off, even when he feels her VIP pass poke into his thigh from the pocket of his jeans.

The car ceiling is low, and he has to bend his neck a little with the added height of Eddie’s thighs beneath him. There’s no shifting or moving about. He sits planted firmly, full weight on Eddie’s lap. They can’t wear a seatbelt like this, which annoys him somewhat. It thrills him too, the edge of danger, however small.

Everything about tonight is strange and exciting.

The car ride is short indeed. He feels Eddie’s bones dig into the back of his legs, and Eddie holds him, arms wrapped around his waist, but it’s only to steady him. Steve tries not to move too much. He doesn’t want to make it more uncomfortable for Eddie than it has to be. It’s a tight squeeze as is, with all five of them on the backseat, and it doesn’t help that Gareth keeps messing with the girls on his side. His elbows poke into Steve’s side now and then, and it makes him shift in Eddie’s lap.

“We’re almost there,” Eddie breathes against his neck. Steve feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His will is soft and pliant and he feels like he’s drunk again. He wonders how Eddie’s doing that; wonders why Eddie even invited him along when he could be surrounded by a cohort of girls as well, although he loses that train of thought quickly.

Steve stumbles out of the taxi once they arrive, and Eddie steadies him when he steps out behind him. There’s a large line in front of the building—so long that it cuts around the corner— and Steve can only imagine how long it will go on from there.

The red neon sign spells out ‘Candlelight’ and it casts a warm hue on the concrete sidewalk. It makes Eddie’s hair look a deep auburn and fire-red reflect in his black eyes.

Steve hasn’t been to many nightclubs in Indianapolis. Before, when he was dating Nancy, there was little reason to, and now that he has his job at the hotel, his nights are often otherwise preoccupied. Robin indulged him once after he and Nance broke up, but after getting hit on by several guys, she quickly decided she never wanted to do it again. 

Not that it matters. Steve liked spending whatever free night he had watching movies with Robin just fine. And he would like to meet his next girlfriend organically anyway, not in nightclubs through beer goggles or whatever.

Their entourage is moving towards the double doors of the nightclub and Eddie lays a heavy hand on his lower back. He feels his fingers grace his skin where his shirt rides up; feels Eddie’s sharp nails rest on his skin like talons. It sends a shiver down his spine. 

Once one of the other guys talked to the bouncer, they’re allowed in, and Steve is a little starstruck by the way they get to skip the line. 

As they walk through the double doors, Steve is engulfed by light and moving bodies to music that thumps so loudly he can feel it in his bones.

A strange night indeed, he thinks as Eddie guides him in.

---

@shunna

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[eezdalf]

We should also consider if the inhabitants of the mega-sites consciously managed their ecosystem to avoid large-scale deforestation... Archaeological studies of their economy suggest a pattern of small-scale gardening, often taking place within the bounds of the settlement, combined with the keeping of livestock, cultivation of orchards, and a wide spectrum of hunting and foraging activities. The diversity is actually remarkable, as is its sustainability. As well as wheat, barley, and pulses, the citizens' plant diet included apples, pears, cherries, sloes, acorns, hazelnuts and apricots. Mega-site dwellers were hunters of red deer, roe deer, and wild boar as well as farmers and foresters. It was 'play farming' on a grand scale: an urban populous supporting itself through small-scale cultivation and herding, combined with an extraordinary array of wild foods. This way of life was by no means 'simple'. As well as managing orchards, gardens, livestock and woodlands, the inhabitants of these cities imported salt in bulk from springs in the eastern Carpathians and the Black Sea littoral. Flint extraction by the ton took place in the Dniestr valley, furnishing material for tools. A household potting industry flourished, its products considered among the finest ceramics of the prehistoric world; and regular supplies of copper flowed in from the Balkans. There is no firm consensus from archaeologists about what sort of social arrangements all this required, but most would agree the logistical challenges were daunting. A surplus was definitely produced, and with it ample potential for some to seize control of the stocks and supplies, to lord it over others or battle for the spoils; but over the eight centuries we find little evidence for warfare or the rise of social elites.

a description of talianki (located in modern day ukraine), a neolithic site from 5,700 years ago (inhabited from roughly 4100 to 3300 bc) from the dawn of everything by davids: graeber and wengrow

once again this book is fantastic - and one of its main theses is that "the agricultural revolution" and some of the conclusions we draw from it are, largely, not true.

the development of farming in human societies is a much much longer and more "playful" process than popular narratives would have us believe. 'agricultural revolution' suggests an on/off switch almost. and the way it's usually taught sees agriculture being "invented" and then spreading like wildfire to take over the globe - only then allowing for true cities and the "necessary evils" they entail. this simply isn't true. an urban, farming society is not automatically doomed to bureaucracy, inequality, and exploitation.

all across the world the archaeological evidence points to the domestication of plants taking literal thousands of years longer than it "ought to." and then, even when the domestication of a wild plant was complete there isn't an immediate rise of huge fields and class stratification (as the popular narrative goes). again - in the magnitude of multiple thousands of years. we have generations upon generations of humans with farming know-how who don't immediately begin a march of politics and inequality precipitated by farming.

agriculture isn't humanity's curse no matter what the memes and capitalists say. we are not doomed to our current ways - we can imagine, we can build, we can create new ways of being. the past is the present is the past. and fuck you capitalism and doomed "human nature" debates. and read the dawn of everything <3

[zvmz]

A few more Raven Queen HCs <3

ravens mom is a coffee addict, she would always have several cups a day

now the smell of coffee always makes raven nauseous

she cried to the barbie movie

her and dexter play minecraft together alot

she goes mining and handles the monsters while dexter builds pretty houses and tends to the crops (hes just like me fr)

she kept the "evil" decorations apple did for her when they first moved in to be polite

but has been slowly replacing them with things more her style, hoping apple doesnt notice

her phone screen is always super cracked

she has to set like 13 alarms 5 mins apart to wake up

she dyed her hair purple for the first time when she was 12 as a small act of defiance against her mom

she redyed it right before legacy day and it gave her a bit more courage to defy destiny

every morning she races apple to see who can get the daily wordle first

she has NEVER won but shes determined

she cant handle spicy food

meanwhile cerise puts like a tablespoon of hot sauce on anything

yk that scene from barbie life in a dreamhouse where midge says "whole wheat? you know i dont eat spicy foods"

yeah cerise once sent raven a tiktok of that scene and just said "you"

several of the professors will constantly be unfair towards raven

doing things like lowering her grade, giving her detention for stupid reasons

they do it to try and get her to "act out and be evil". per headmaster grimms request, of course

[razorsadness]

So you wanna be a punk? Read a zine. Drive around in your car with the windows rolled down, smoking cigarettes and screaming along with Clash songs. Or quit smoking, and get rid of your car, because those things are bad for you and the environment and they support evil corporations. Ride your bike everywhere, with Mischief Brew blaring through your headphones. Walk everywhere, listening to Against Me!, because walking is still honest. Shoplift from stores like Walmart and Barnes and Noble, then spend the little money you have supporting independent artists and small businesses. Sell your zines at a benefit party, give all the proceeds to Food Not Bombs or Planned Parenthood, even though you’re broke and can’t really afford to be giving zines away. Fuck it, scam copies from Office Max so you can keep giving copies away. Give one to the cute person with the mint-green mohawk you always see hangin’ downtown. Sew patches crookedly onto your hoodie, with dental floss, natch. Spend hours putting studs on your black denim jacket, even though half of them will wind up having the prongs bent to the point of being unusable and it feels like an exercise in futility. Wheat-paste posters or put up stickers or tag with Sharpie everywhere you go—political messages, song lyrics, surreal images, it doesn’t matter. Leave your mark. Go to a show and lose yourself in the music and the pit. Or stay out of the pit, ‘cause you’re just not into it; stand in the back clutching your beer and nodding your head and feeling like an asshole. Start a band, write some songs, never play any shows; figure out that no one in the band is as serious about it as you are and quit. Record a solo home demo of your songs, spend months getting it to sound just right—or at least as right as it can sound without a full band—and never let anyone hear it. Constantly say you’re dropping out of the punk scene, but never quite manage to do it. Tell people you’re so punk you hate punk. Say you’re gonna be a rude boy, like your dad. Watch punk films and read punk books and have them remind you of so much of your own life that you almost can’t breathe. Think about your life and your old friends, the ones who are dead, the ones you never talk to anymore, and the few that you’re still close to. Start to cry. Feel emo. Make a t-shirt that says: “Don’t call me emo. It makes me cry.” Call your friends, the ones who’ve stuck around. Go to the grocery store late at night. Make fun of articles in women’s magazines, because even though some of you are part of the right age group and gender to be their target demographic, their articles are so far outside of the realities of your lives that it’s hilarious. Write your own zine, about the reality of your life. Call your friends, the ones who’ve stuck around, get together at someone’s apartment. Make veggie nachos. Eat til you’re so full you can’t move. Talk about what you’re doing with your lives and feel like losers ‘cause none of you thought you’d still be so broke and pissed off when you reached this point. Feel shitty ‘cause being angry, old, and poor isn’t as cute as being angry, young, and poor. Be glad, despite it all, that you’re still alive, still hearing new music, still hanging out with friends. Flip off cops who are harassing teenagers for skateboarding or some other minor infraction. Realize that flipping off a cop won’t bring the system down, but doing it still feels pretty damn good. Throw an MDC record on your turntable when you get home; blast that shit. Go to a show, a party, a zine fest, a coffeeshop, see another punk. Go up and talk to them. They’ll turn out to be cool and you’ll have a new friend, or they’ll turn out to be assholes but hey, most punks are assholes. Still get crushes on every punk you see, despite that. Give no fucks about anything, except the things you really care about, like music and books and art and your friends and family and the state of the world and… Tattoo and pierce yourself and dye your hair and wear mismatched, dirty clothes because that’s how you feel comfortable, not because anyone else is telling you to. Try sometimes to look normal, in situations that call for it, and feel like a complete fraud the entire time, like everyone can tell you’re only pretending. Call other people posers, but don’t really mean it. Call yourself a poser, and claim the word with pride. Spend a night alone, tipsy from booze or jacked-up on caffeine—pick your poison—singing along to all the old songs and realizing that most of them still mean as much to you as they did half your life ago. Refuse to grow up. Realize that you’ve grown up despite your best efforts not to, and you have a job and bills and a family and/or other responsibilities, but that you’ve still got that spark, that match-struck, steel-toed, silver-studded, loud as fuck spark hanging out in your heart. Sometimes, that’s good enough.

—Jessie Lynn McMains, from “What We Talk About When We Talk About Punk” (c. 2012-2015)

[african-butterflies]

General Info Senshi Name: Sailor Butterfly Civilian Name: Bernadette Keita Name Meaning: Bernadette - As strong as a bear Keita - blessing Other Aliases: Super Sailor Butterfly, Supreme Sailor Butterfly, Africa's first Sailor Scout Titles: Sailor Butterfly Birthday: Dec. 3 Zodiac: Sagittarius Age: 17 Species: Human Nationality: African Ethnicity: Sudanese Gender Identity: female Sexual Orientation: bisexual

Physical Traits Body Type: Height: 6'0, or 1.8 meters Weight: 173 lbs. Skin Color: brown Hair Color: brown Hair Length: mid-neck Hair Style: afro Eye Color: pink Disabilities / Injuries: n/a Casual Clothing: toob General Physical Description: She is a bit chubby

Psychological Traits Ethical Alignment: neutral good

Positive Traits: understanding, friendly, uplifting, doesn't argue

Negative Traits: quiet, a bit withdrawn

Mental issues: n/a

Goals: complete school, defeat evil

Fears: controlling government

Spiritual Beliefs: Islam

How others perceive them: a bit insecure

How they see themselves: caring

Background Info Hometown: Khartoum, Sudan

Where they currently live: Khartoum, Sudan

Social Class: middle class

Education: just barely completing high school

Occupation: n/a

Favorite food: Aseeda (porridge made from wheat or corn)

Hobbies: listening to music

What they love: music, family, friends

What they hate: government

Family: Mother: Ayana Keita Father: Dakarai Keita Brother: Imari Keita Sister: Fumnaya Keita

Pets: cheetah named Kekoa

Friends: Kunto Bello, Nakato Okeke, Oni Ibori, Zula Mensah

Lovers: n/a

Enemies: Mera Empire

About the Sailor Senshi What they represent: rebirth

Colors: pink and green

Their mission: to stop the Mera Empire from taking over

How your character relates to Sailor Moon canon: have to fight off an empire to save the corresponding country

Senshi who are a part of their team: Kunto Bello (Sailor Adonis Blue), Nakato Okeke (Sailor Morpho Menelaus), Oni Ibori (Sailor Monarch), Zula Mensah (Sailor Swallowtail)

Animal Companions / Guardians: Kekoa

Other allies they affiliate with: n/a

Transformations

■ Basic Sailor Form Name: Sailor Butterfly Phrase: Butterfly Fly Free! Transformation Item: over the ear mic Wand / Weapon: ax Description / Image: green handled ax

■ Super Sailor Form Name: Super Sailor Butterfly Phrase: Butterfly Fly Free! Transformation Item: over the ear mic Wand / Weapon: ax Description / Image: green handled ax

■ Eternal Sailor Form Name: Supreme Sailor Butterfly Phrase: Butterfly Fly Free Forever! Transformation Item: over the ear mic Wand / Weapon: ax Description / Image: green handled ax

Attacks

Element N/A

■ Butterfly Breeze! Butterfly wings appear on her back and flap rapidly, blowing the enemy into the sky.

■ Butterfly Larvae Blitz! She shoots small pebbles at the enemy from her pointer fingers that attach to them and drain their energy.

■ Butterfly Pollen Onslaught! Raising a hand above her head, dust-like particles rain down and block the enemy's vision.

■ Moth Light Invasion! Both arms are extended sideways and a bright light shines from her tiara, blinding the enemy

Taboo N/A

Other Abilities: N/A

Items Armor: N/A

Technology: N/A

Other: N/A

Story Setting: 1992 Khartoum, Sudan

Summary: Mera Empire starts attacking and Kekoa must remind Bernadette of who she is and what she must do.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

John the Baptist Prepares the Way

1 In the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar—when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, Herod tetrarch of Galilee, his brother Philip tetrarch of Iturea and Traconitis, and Lysanias tetrarch of Abilene— 2 during the high-priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. 3 He went into all the country around the Jordan, preaching a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins. 4 As it is written in the book of the words of Isaiah the prophet:

“A voice of one calling in the wilderness, ‘Prepare the way for the Lord, make straight paths for him. 5 Every valley shall be filled in, every mountain and hill made low. The crooked roads shall become straight, the rough ways smooth. 6 And all people will see God’s salvation.’”

7 John said to the crowds coming out to be baptized by him, “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the coming wrath? 8 Produce fruit in keeping with repentance. And do not begin to say to yourselves, ‘We have Abraham as our father.’ For I tell you that out of these stones God can raise up children for Abraham. 9 The ax is already at the root of the trees, and every tree that does not produce good fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire.”

10 “What should we do then?” the crowd asked.

11 John answered, “Anyone who has two shirts should share with the one who has none, and anyone who has food should do the same.”

12 Even tax collectors came to be baptized. “Teacher,” they asked, “what should we do?”

13 “Don’t collect any more than you are required to,” he told them.

14 Then some soldiers asked him, “And what should we do?”

He replied, “Don’t extort money and don’t accuse people falsely—be content with your pay.”

15 The people were waiting expectantly and were all wondering in their hearts if John might possibly be the Messiah. 16 John answered them all, “I baptize you with water. But one who is more powerful than I will come, the straps of whose sandals I am not worthy to untie. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire. 17 His winnowing fork is in his hand to clear his threshing floor and to gather the wheat into his barn, but he will burn up the chaff with unquenchable fire.” 18 And with many other words John exhorted the people and proclaimed the good news to them.

19 But when John rebuked Herod the tetrarch because of his marriage to Herodias, his brother’s wife, and all the other evil things he had done, 20 Herod added this to them all: He locked John up in prison.

The Baptism and Genealogy of Jesus

21 When all the people were being baptized, Jesus was baptized too. And as he was praying, heaven was opened 22 and the Holy Spirit descended on him in bodily form like a dove. And a voice came from heaven: “You are my Son, whom I love; with you I am well pleased.”

23 Now Jesus himself was about thirty years old when he began his ministry. He was the son, so it was thought, of Joseph,

the son of Heli, 24 the son of Matthat,

the son of Levi, the son of Melki,

the son of Jannai, the son of Joseph,

25 the son of Mattathias, the son of Amos,

the son of Nahum, the son of Esli,

the son of Naggai,

26 the son of Maath,

the son of Mattathias, the son of Semein,

the son of Josek, the son of Joda,

27 the son of Joanan, the son of Rhesa,

the son of Zerubbabel, the son of Shealtiel,

the son of Neri,

28 the son of Melki,

the son of Addi, the son of Cosam,

the son of Elmadam, the son of Er,

29 the son of Joshua, the son of Eliezer,

the son of Jorim, the son of Matthat,

the son of Levi,

30 the son of Simeon,

the son of Judah, the son of Joseph,

the son of Jonam, the son of Eliakim,

31 the son of Melea, the son of Menna,

the son of Mattatha, the son of Nathan,

the son of David,

32 the son of Jesse,

the son of Obed, the son of Boaz,

the son of Salmon, the son of Nahshon,

33 the son of Amminadab, the son of Ram,

the son of Hezron, the son of Perez,

the son of Judah,

34 the son of Jacob,

the son of Isaac, the son of Abraham,

the son of Terah, the son of Nahor,

35 the son of Serug, the son of Reu,

the son of Peleg, the son of Eber,

the son of Shelah,

36 the son of Cainan,

the son of Arphaxad, the son of Shem,

the son of Noah, the son of Lamech,

37 the son of Methuselah, the son of Enoch,

the son of Jared, the son of Mahalalel,

the son of Kenan,

38 the son of Enosh,

the son of Seth, the son of Adam,

the son of God.

[songofmadness]

Alright, this was originally one massive post in which I screamed into the void about various things. In the interests of maintaining some clarity, I’ve decided to split it up into a few separate screaming fits. To begin: what the everloving f*ck is going on with worldbuilding in the Forgotten Realms??

Ok, so. Some group projects have enough overlap between each contributor that the final product is nice and cohesive. And sane. The Forgotten Realms timeline very much does not meet that lofty standard. It's a disastrous patchwork of well-intentioned (I'm assuming) madness. Someone in there definitely understood how ecological pressures work, and the resulting population boom/decline that follows on from that. With added monster migration! And racism/anti-refugee rhetoric! Kudos to whoever that was. Of course, that scrupulous attention to detail mostly didn’t continue but it was still a nice touch. Also mad props to whoever came up with Thayan wizards essentially sending a Mongol Horde to invade Rashemen, over and over again. And then running into the folly of invading Russia Rashemen in winter. With predictable results. That gave me a bit of a laugh as I went insane over everything else.

(That said, my horrible inner environmental sciences nerd lost it a bit at the idea of massed cavalry hastily retreating across a recently Red Sea-ified lakebed. Protip: This would not go well.) ((Ha, also, on my first readthrough, I had it in my head that Rashemen was predominantly mountainous -- so why the hell were they bringing in cavalry that specialised in hit and run tactics a la the Fursan Unit. Those tactics require some nice big open spaces, like say, a desert. Or the plains alongside Lake Mulsantir, which I'd completely forgotten about lol Still, that's a pretty small part of the entire country, if they'd even managed to capture the city there's still all those pissed off berserkers up in the mountains...)) I kind of want to write a pseudo-historical tract about the Thayan campaign against Rashemen now. From what I gather, it was a glorious comedy of errors. And yet they kept trying!

There was the odd nod to the importance of trade/economics in that every time Dragonspear is embroiled in fuckery taken over by yet another group of Super Evil Bad Things, Waterdeep ran into shortages. And presumably everyone else along the Trade Way suffers to varying degrees until someone raises an army to go clear out the Hellmouth once more.

((Seriously, what the hell is up with Dragonspear?? Why is it forever Like This? It was even consecrated as a temple at one point, but that still wasn’t enough to halt the demonic shenanigans for more than a couple decades.))

Overall, it’s all very handwavy – massive drought in 1322? Cool, ok, thanks for the heads up that there’s a huge dieback of flora and fauna in basically all of Faerun. Now what? 

Well, if we were being reasonable, the fallout would have been catastrophic:

Widespread drought means a failed harvest, a failed harvest means people are now eating their seed corn/wheat/whatever - assuming they even have that to spare. This does not bode well for the next harvest. A failed harvest means massive shortages of staple foods – bread, basically, for Westernized campaign settings, rice for whatever asian influenced countries Faerun undoubtedly has. Grain crops are very important.

In the cities that still have reserves of food, like all good medieval cities should, there would still be rationing and most likely massive price hikes on staples sold by third parties (merchants). What happens when the price of bread goes up? Historically, riots. A whole lot of riots.

In other news, mass flora dieback means that prey animals have nothing to eat, therefore a bigass population boom of predators is incoming – followed by a very messy drop off once the food supply runs out. Given that most of Faerun’s predators consider humanoids very much a part of their diet, that’s clearly gonna cause some problems down the line… 

All this is a massive oversimplification but the key issue here is that this is happening over ALL OF FAERUN. A drought in one area is gonna suck for those people, sure, but they could import food - at a massive cost, admittedly - or there could be a huge migration of people out of the afflicted region. Distressing, yes, a powerful motivator for worldwide upheaval, yes. But still not a huge deal. But this is ALL OF FAERUN. A continent wide drought, even one lasting for just a couple years, isn’t a problem. It’s an extinction event.

It’s like they went,” rocks fall, everyone dies!” on the entire world and then it is never talked about again. This is the sort of thing that is driving me to madness. :D

I’m not saying there weren’t glorious high points in my research. Discovering that a prominent Neverwinter sorceress once died because someone literally dropped a dead dragon on her house was frankly incredible. But overall it just ends up being a whole lot of – And then this happened! And this happened! This other thing happened over here! There’s very few, if any, long term consequences that follow on from major events. 

In the real world, things frequently happen because something else happened a hundred years before. Individual choice is just that, individual. One person choosing to do or not do a thing, while still influenced by cultural or societal pressures that have their roots in world events, is fundamentally an individual choice. When you start thinking in terms of wholeass countries, hell, a CONTINENT, things get a bit messier. And when you’re looking at an overall chronology of events in a specific region, there should be precedents having a greater impact on the course of history. You can't - or at least shouldn't - have an entire world where most, if not all, worldbuilding is treated as having happened in isolation.

At the very least, the world should have mostly ended in 1322. DUE TO DROUGHT.

((Of course then I wouldn’t have been able to write “1323 - Thay attempts widespread mind control, fails miserably.” in my official(ish) timeline, and that really would have been a loss.))

[eelhound]

"For it is God's love that warms me in the sun and God's love that sends the cold rain.

It is God's love that feeds me in the bread I eat and God that feeds me also by hunger and fasting.

It is the love of God that sends the winter days when I am cold and sick, and the hot summer when I labor and my clothes are full of sweat: but it is God Who breathes on me with light winds off the river and in the breezes out of the wood. His love spreads the shade of the sycamore over my head and sends the water-boy along the edge of the wheat field with a bucket from the spring, while the laborers are resting and the mules stand under the tree.

It is God's love that speaks to me in the birds and streams; but also behind the clamor of the city God speaks to me in His judgments, and all these things are seeds sent to me from His will. If these seeds would take root in my liberty, and if His will would grow from my freedom, I would become the love that He is, and my harvest would be His glory and my own joy. And I would grow together with thousands and millions of other freedoms into the gold of one huge field praising God, loaded with increase, loaded with wheat.

If in all things I consider only the heat and the cold, the food or the hunger, the sickness or labor, the beauty or pleasure, the success and failure or the material good or evil my works have won for my own will, I will find only emptiness and not happiness. I shall not be fed, I shall not be full. For my food is the will of Him Who made me and Who made all things in order to give Himself to me through them.

My chief care should not be to find pleasure or success, health or life or money or rest or even things like virtue and wisdom — still less their opposites, pain, failure, sickness, death. But in all that happens, my one desire and my one joy should be to know: 'Here is the thing that God has willed for me. In this His love is found, and in accepting this I can give back His love to Him and give myself with it to Him. For in giving myself I shall find Him and He is life everlasting.'

By consenting to His will with joy and doing it with gladness I have His love in my heart, because my will is now the same as His love and I am on the way to becoming what He is, Who is Love. And by accepting all things from Him I receive His joy into my soul, not because things are what they are but because God is Who He is, and His love has willed my joy in them all."

- Thomas Merton, from New Seeds of Contemplation, 1962.

[paging-possum]

Another thing about the wheat book is that he says not to see celiac as a burden and more as ‘liberation’ and like. Yeah you probably could find benefits to celiac disease were it not for the fact that we live in a world where it is made incredibly difficult to have a major dietary restriction like celiac? Like, yes it does make me more conscientious about what I eat and yes I eat a lot healthier because of it because most sugar-heavy foods aren’t an option for me. But it also means there are days I have to skip meals because there aren’t gluten free options wherever I’m eating! It means going out to eat with friends can be incredibly stressful! A single loaf of gluten free bread is $9 compared to $3 for a wheat loaf that’s twice the size. Restaurant servers have looked me dead in the eye and asked if wheat has gluten in it. It’s bullshit to say celiac is liberation because you’ll ‘be healthier’ (read: lose weight) because the reason you lose weight is because you are malnourished due to your body not being able to absorb necessary nutrients!! Weight gain is a good sign with celiac disease!!! Weight gain means you’re getting better!!!! There are also definitely things to be said about the weight loss aspect of this book but I am significantly less knowledgeable about that side but i also feel like labeling one specific food as basically the devil and cutting it out of your diet will get you to lose 30 pounds is an unnecessary bullshit diet that will make life more difficult for people with celiac because you’re now just taking the food they need to Literally Not Die and guess what. Making celiac more of a burden. Celiac is a burden because everyone else makes it a burden and even if the world magically became better about dietary restrictions IT WOULD STILL FUCKING SUCK!!!! HAVING TO CUT GLUTEN OUT OF YOUR DIET SUCKS ACCIDENTALLY EATING GLUTEN AND HAVING A REACTION SUCKS!!!! Can we please stop acting like autoimmune disease that drastically reduces what you can eat is a good thing because people think it might make you skinnier/less likely to eat evil toxins in wheat and understand that it just kind of sucks sometimes.

[magia-region]

Bakunezu, the Dream Mouse Pokémon

Astral Projection Form

Ghost/Psychic type

Bakunezu can appear as an astral projection during battles if it has to, with the added bonus of physical attacks being unable to hurt it 

It can also do this to keep an eye on its trainer while asleep, and even appear in their dreams to protect them from nightmares (or cause them)

Rabhare, the Antlered Rabbit Pokémon

Normal Type

Its small antlers deter any predators from attacking it head-on, so they need to be careful when they fall out in the spring 

They wear wheat stalks on their heads as a form of easy food in case they can’t find any

Based on the March Hare and the Jackalope.

It’s Shiny form makes it look like Rabbit from Winnie the Pooh.

Jadhare, the Jade Rabbit Pokémon

Normal/Fairy Type

Based on the jade moon rabbit, it’s antlers have shide (zigzag paper streamers) on them that are said to keep evil spirits away

A disc on its back changes with the phases of the moon, and the strength of its shide’s power fluctuates with it. It only looks like yin and yang on half-moon nights.

They are the most powerful on the full moon and ineffective on the new moon

Its shiny is white furred to represent the moon

[just-somedude]

Hey there hope you’re having a great day.

I actually needed some fitness advice.So I’m that anon who had PCOD.A couple weeks ago, I had an appointment and my doctor advised me to get an ultrasound.And we got to know that I’ve officially recovered.So I wanna loose the extra fat and some weight that I have in my body right now. So umm here’s the routine that I’m going for:I’ll go to bed at 10:30 and wake up at 5 in thé morning to go running and do some exercise after that for an hour or so. But I don’t know what to do with my diet.

Im gonna say if you've never gotten up at 5am to exercise, it will be hard to start, tho not impossible. Take it slow, one day at a time.

For the diet, try to eat as many whole foods as possible, limit the amount of processed foods you eat. Eat smaller meals throughout the day if you can, you'll feel more energetic because of it, and it helps boost your metabolism (constant fuel allows the body to burn it optimally, whereas eating one big meal a day does the opposite).

Try to eat 1 serving of protein with every meal, it doesn't have to be much, but something. Greek yogurt is a really good example, it's easy but really high in protein. Beans, lentils, legumes, and meat in general are all really good, healthy sources of proteins & nutrients.

It will be hard at the start, you might be unsure of what to do, but if you take it slowly you will find what works best for you and over time it'll become like second nature to just eat healthy foods. For weight loss, eating slightly less than you burn is the goal. Reduce your carb intake, but don't stop eating them entirely. Carbs are necessary to fuel your body, fruits, vegetables, whole wheat bread are all good choices (bread is heavy in carbs but it's not an evil thing). Eat lots of fibre as well (broccoli has lots,as are the beans/lentils I mentioned earlier)

I'm not a nutritionist, but I hope this general idea is enough to help you in some way, and I wish you luck on your journey <3

[parsnip-problems]

PLEASE HELP ME FIND WHO WROTE THIS STORY

ok so like 6 years ago I found a story on here and I can't find it anywhere on google or anything. I wanna know who wrote it so I can A) give them credit and B) find the origin of the story. AGAIN I DID NOT WRITE THIS STORY I AM TRYING TO FIND WHO DID

anyway it went something like:

rumors reached a king about a town run by devils so he sent holy men and knights to the town but none ever returned. Eventually the king said "I'll make the journey myself" and he went to the devil town. When he arrived he was stealthy creeping in the wheat fields when a devil suddenly saw him and said

"what are you doing you're going to ruin the crops we need make sure theres enough food for everyone!"

The king puzzled asked "why would you care if your victims are fed?"

The devil making some marks on a piece of paper said "we're devils we punish the evil and wicked, but if someone steals food out of hunger and desperation thats not evil nor is it who they truly are."

amazed the king stood up and inquired more "what about jobs, and housing?"

the devil leading the king into the city said "no one has jobs and they are all given houses and food and medical care. Again if you're rude or angry because you're overworked or in pain, thats not evil you're just trying to survive."

As the king walks through the town he's greeted by all the holy men and knights he once sent to 'vanquish' these devils.

The devil finished "In short we can only judge if someone's evil if they commit evil acts purely out of malice, so we have to make sure everyone is taken care of to the highest order. If you steal in this town you did solely to be evil because there nothing that wasn't also provided for you."

PLEASE HELP ME FIND WHO WROTE THE STORY PROBABLY MUCH BETTER THAN I DID

[rambleswhatsthepoint]

4/15/23

Just like that it’s shorts and tshirt weather.

It’s been a while since my last post. I decided to foster fail. Nugget is just the sweetest and gets along perfectly with the cats. They aren’t afraid of him at all and they can even sleep next to him. It’s been fun to see him integrate into the family. Last weekend we actually went to lake Katherine with him for the first time.

Easter choir performance went pretty well. The time flew and I’m hoping we sounded decent lol. It was nice to see the church packed for Easter services. I am happy that Lent has ended. It was just so much church time. Sooooooo much. But it was fun to sing and also to wear a dress. Wearing clothes that aren’t joggers or old tshirts is just so novel lol.

Haven’t landed any interviews and I feel like the job pool of places to apply at is drying up. I will keep trying.

So next week the base training for the marathon starts. Which means from Monday to October 8 I’ll be freaking training. It’s a little crazy to think that for the next 5.5 months I’ll be preparing for one singular event lol. Not gonna lie, I do think- wait why am I doing this again? lol

Did I ever journal about the smash boob? Fing mammogram, got one for the first time. Wasn’t bad then. But then I had to go for a second one cause something looked “questionable” and that was freaking painful. And then after that I had to get an ultrasound which didn’t really show anything but now I have to go back in 6 months for more torture for a recheck.

I got my tetanus booster, tdap? I dunno whatever it’s called and a few days later the muscle in my arm wouldn’t stop twitching. Got bad enough I reached out for my doctor, but then of course it started to subside. I guess the muscle in the arm that got the shot got inflamed or I dunno.

I also have a high amount of whatever thing in your blood that indicates inflammation. That’s two tests in a row with that. Everything else was fine. My doctor was saying she thinks if I actually changed my diet that it could go away.

But I don’t want to be gluten free lol. Dairy I already swap most out but leave me my damn bread and pastries. It was like wheat, gluten and soy and dairy that came up on my food sensitivity test. Meh. Meh ugh. She said i might even be able to get off my daily allergy pill. Bahhh

Haven’t really had any time or interest to try out the stupid dating scene. I’d rather get a new job. Then with marathon training I really won’t have any extra time anyways so 🤷🏻‍♀️

I have so much stuff and I want to get rid of it. I want a new desk. I need a new office chair.

Nugget sleeping on the same bed as evil cat. 🥰

[romancestual]

cass @ladyhouseoflove tagged me like ages ago and i only just saw it [goes insane] anyways hehe thank uuu for tagging me ily <3

relationship status: gay single 

favorite color: that pretty grassy green in van gogh's green wheat fields, shades of pale shimmery pink, lavender, baby blues, and black.

song(s) stuck in my head: funeral by phoebe bridgers & can't help falling in love covered by fleet foxes & can't take my eyes off you. i've been humming and singing nonstop. it's a disease.

last song i listened to: love you to death by street overchord. would kill myself listening to it.

three favorite foods: SOUP just yesterday i put together this lovely broccoli and carrot cream soup. love her. also, i don't know if this can be categorized as food but i adore grilled cheese (halloumi) sandwich and any good ol' turkey club sandwich.

last thing i googled: words with the prefix un-. im writing <3

dream trip: i've been planning a trip to calgary and banff with friends just because the landscape and the scenery there are to die for! i've also been hoping to travel to japan for soooo long (maybe during winter) and definitely a week-long stay in nyc in the fall. but most of all, i've been mentally planning my tour across the states (utah, wyoming, colorado, virginia, wisconsin, georgia, etc.) it's why i intend to quit my job in like three years to become a truck driver (cross fingers)

anything i want right now: hmm more time to write! and i'm also leaving my house soon to buy resident evil 4 remake mwah

tagging 5 people i want to know better: AH let's see! @mimires @calvinandhobbes and @parrishands