#hashtag my thirteenth reason

[chokehoe]

Evil Cheng xiaoshi be like "I hate basketball and lu guang!" idk lol

[writer59january13]

Watching upcoming toilet bowl lvii highlight of February 12th, 2023

Above title attests

how mine mundane mein kampf

insync as a veritable clogged drain oh:

flush with adventure overflowing excrement er... rather excitement.

Apt aforementioned accurate personal description

believe me not, but urination

and defecation née emergency evacuation,

where majority of human league

smell bound with fascination

triggered (reasonably rhyming) inspiration

culmination of requisite time

sitting atop porcelain goddess

devoid of hesitation and trepidation herewith follows mine poetic ululation hoop fully invites veneration.

Poetic embellishment doth belie

ever since garden variety generic guy

long since experienced being little boy

mean kids constantly teased and bullied me

on account yours truly being small fry

barely invisible to naked eye

bullied (most my entire boyhood)

as scapegoat, I did decry pleading lame feeble alibi,

especially when tawny punk

named Phil (actually a groundhog)

threw suckerpunch witnessing,

yours truly feigned falling

upon wounded knobby knee

to avoid me countenance being pummeled

courtesy knuckle sandwich

they threatened to apply.

One puny socially verily withdrawn lad

no surprise experienced suicidal ideation

throughout public school even as undergrad

never wagon figurative tail when fired

from one after another workstation.

Hence metaphorically hermetically sealed self

against incessant beastie boys squirreled away

amidst imaginative escapes courtesy bookshelf

isolates myself, viz remaining figuratively at bay

interestingly enough petrified livingsocial whereby

flesh and bone closely resembled hardened clay

hashtagged Matthew Scott Harris as pipsqueak

deadset to halt physical maturation without delay

anorexia nervosa (modus operandi) did buzzfeed

starved and emaciated lovely bones as main entree

unbeknownst then, but clear as a bell now

emotional state of parents unspooled and didst fray

father and mother aghast their pallor went ashen gray

grim reaper wielding large scythe intimating hooray

approximately half dozen years later

both parents relentlessly vilified verbally hammered

and especially didst inveigh

against their sole singular son

born thirteenth of January

hooded think those folks

who begot me more cruel fate

then being lynched courtesy triple "K."

Gambone builders bought property razed demesne

to escape vitriolic wrath atop roof at Glen Elm, I lay

nevertheless indelible memories emotional reprieve

spiritual succor delivered upon many a bygone May

when heat radiating off shingles served newgateway

passing time and wishing myself far as Norway adopting role of bachelor farmer,

or even time traveling back Catskills circa Borscht Belt,

also known as Jewish Alps oy vey.

Yours truly risk averse

which characteristic,

I declare constitutes curse

thus isolation found me sprawled out

upon wuthering heights

against regular diet of diatribes

delivered carte blanche

with expletive filled verse

toward solitary son ill fate

receiving nasty brutal abuse

considered dying far less worse.

Precious minutes and hours atop

seven gabled hideaway blithely did elapse

me gingerly scuttling out attic window

though agoraphobic and loathe to drop

distance and no longer courting death

no matter concluding life (during

early/mid twenties) total flop

merely wishing raging machinations against male offspring would stop.

Hurtful words yelled after papa

guzzled bottles of vermouth (not really, I admittedly prevaricate)

courtesy late father and mother

resoundingly, severely, terrifyingly,

wickedly, violently uncouth

subjected imbalanced earthling

(yours truly - me)

think venomous metaphorical

bloody blackened barbs,

viz inconveniently grossly, egregiously

one after another hurtful

figurative daggers antithesis of truth,

albeit synopsis regarding

second born (middle child - sole son)

begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce

upon their psychologically harried

flesh out the womb of young mother

(both parents now long since deceased)

now said heir long in the tooth

wordsmith here wonders why forsooth

he tolerated torturous abuse.

[floralguccistyles]

four: empty child

I had mixed feelings about it being February first.

Of course I was excited, because I got paid on the first and fifteenth of each month so I was ready to have money again. My refrigerator was getting horrifyingly low and I had run out of tampons. I also liked the first of each month because it meant no matter how shitty January was (and it had been decently shitty), February was a new month.

It was also Harry Styles’ birthday.

Surprisingly, I had already known this before his stardom. Even though he and his group of my tormentors had hardly been on my radar after secondary school had ended, I remembered them always making a big to-do of each others’ birthdays. Oliver and Emma’s birthdays were late August, right around when the school year would start. Emma’s boyfriend had a birthday in March. Nathan’s birthday was November thirteenth.

And Harry Styles’ was February first.

Contrary to popular belief, my world did not revolve around Harry Styles. I simply woke up on the morning of the first, checked my bank account and did a little happy dance when I realized I would be able to afford groceries, and then scrolled on Twitter. I didn’t even correlate the day to his birthday until I saw the hashtag trending. 

I hadn’t given Harry much thought since two weeks ago, when the bouquet of flowers had arrived on my doorstep. I didn’t want to know how he got my address (probably Bailey) and I didn’t want to think about the fact that he was the first guy to have ever gotten me flowers. I didn’t want Harry to be the first boy to have given me flowers. My first experience felt tainted now. I always dreamed that I would press the first flower someone gave to me in the thickest book I could find. With the bouquet from Harry, I didn’t bother. It made me sad that my plan had been spoiled. They had gone in the trash after a week, when they had started to wilt; even though I couldn’t bring myself to press a flower form Harry’s bouquet, it didn’t mean I was going to throw away perfectly good flowers until they were dying. 

Upon realizing it was his birthday, I stopped doing my happy dance and frowned down at my Twitter feed before shutting out of the app. It was highly unlikely I’d be interacting with Harry any time soon (if ever) so I didn’t feel that I had to see his face plastered on all my social media accounts. 

I dressed in some warmer clothes for my biweekly trek to the supermarket. Zach was out of town for the week with some uni friends, so Jeremiah was letting me borrow his car to run my errands. I appreciated the fact that I didn’t have to Uber to the market. There was a Spiceways about eight minutes from my flat, so I drove through the streets of Merton until I pulled up to the store, hopping out of Jeremiah’s car with a little bit of difficulty because it was so high up. 

Unlike some, I didn’t mind grocery shopping. Maybe it was because when I was younger and wanted to get junk food all the time, my mum wouldn’t let me. With the freedom to choose whatever I damn well pleased, grocery shopping wasn’t the horror that most people made it out to be.

I was debating between Jaffa Cakes and Aero bars when my phone rang.

“Hello?” I asked without really looking at the caller ID.

“Hey Petra,” Bailey’s happy voice said from the other side of the line.

Bailey had been diligent about checking in on me since the Peter incident. I appreciated her worry. She’d been texting me a little and asking how my days had been and stuff about the podcast that she easily could have asked Veronica. I liked that she was keeping an eye on me. 

“Hey,” I responded. “Quick question. Jaffa Cakes or Aero bars?”

“Aero all the way.”

“Got it.” I threw the box of Aero bars in my cart. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to invite you to a party tonight. Veronica and I are going and she suggested that we invite you. Jeremiah, too.” I heard rustling on the other side of the line and wondered what she was making.

Bailey made things for Etsy in her free time, when she wasn’t busy being a badass biochemist. I had actually gotten a knitted scarf from her a couple years ago and still had it. She was known for making little things like hair accessories or blankets, but sometimes she dabbled in clothes. Which was why she and Veronica’s flat was covered in fabrics. It was like walking into a craft store. 

“A party? For what?” Decided to screw my health, I threw in the box of jaffa cakes in the cart as well. I wouldn’t eat them all in one sitting, I reasoned with myself. One a day couldn’t be too terrible for my health.

“Some birthday party Jeff invited me to. It’s in Hampstead, so they’ll have the good alcohol. Veronica’s never met Jeff so she wanted us to go.”

Jeff Azoff had helped Harry with his first record. Bailey was friends with Jeff Azoff. Harry’s birthday, coincidentally, happened to be today. “Is it Harry Styles’ birthday party?”

“I didn’t actually ask Jeff, but if it’s his birthday today, then probably.”

I sighed. “Probably not a good idea for Harry Styles and I to be in the same vicinity. Last time I nearly bit his head off. Rightfully so, but…” I trailed off, shaking my head at the memory. And with the memory also came visions of my pretty pink tulips and white baby’s breath. “Thanks for the invite, though.”

“I know you and Harry have got a rocky relationship, but I imagine this party’s going to be huge. Chances are you won’t even see him there. I just want you to be able to get out and have some fun. If you want to leave, I’ll be the first one to pay for an Uber for you.”

I debated it for a moment. It would be nice to get out of the house. I had been holed up between my flat and Outset, working on AC and simultaneously feeling like a fool about my awful date with Peter. I was usually very observant of someone’s character and it had thrown me off that I had gotten Peter so wrong.  And Bailey was right. If the party was in Hampstead, Bailey was correct in assuming there would be good alcohol. No one in Hampstead would dare buy the cheap stuff. It would also be nice to hang out with Jeremiah and Veronica outside of AC.

“I don’t know, Bails. Can I get a couple hours to think about it?”

“Sure, no problem. It starts at seven. I’ll text you later and if you need a ride, Veronica and I can come grab you.”

I appreciated that she wasn’t pushing me to go, like my parents would have been. They would have demanded I show up and try to get to know the “new Harry.” We hung up the call after I promised to text her once I made a decision, and I stared at my shopping cart for a little while longer before I decided that he wasn’t going to consume my thoughts. I had once let him do that, when I was younger and more insecure. It wasn’t going to happen again.

I was usually done shopping in about thirty minutes because I didn’t dawdle around as I filled my basket with shitty food. Something this time, however, had me standing in the middle of the Mexican food isle, my brain still focused on Peter’s words. Though it had been racist of him to say it the way he did, I think it also bothered me because of how wrong he was. I didn’t know what foods from my culture were good because my parents had tried to conform to the English foods. 

My grandmother on my father’s side had come to visit us only once when she had gotten a bonus from her job in Santa Clara. She had scoured the isles of every market in town, trying to find acceptable ingredients for the meal she promised my father. That night, I had arroz con pollo, empanadas, flan, and a cake with dulce de leche poured on top. It had been the best meal of my entire life. 

No one in my family had made anything like that since.

I was holding a box of Spanish rice in my hand, trying to decide if I could make myself arroz con pollo like my grandmother did, when a little girl accidentally bumped into me. She looked to be about five years old, with a cute little gap tooth that I spotted when she smiled hesitantly at me. 

“Lo siento,” she said softly, hugging onto her mother’s leg. Her mother shot me an apologetic glance.

“It’s okay,” I managed, smiling at the little girl. “I like your bow.” I pointed to the glittery silver bow in her hair. It took up half of her head.

She glanced at her mother, her eyebrows furrowing together in confusion. Her mother stammered over a couple of words as she responded to me. “We...speak...no English,” she said, her voice heavily accented. 

I felt the shame flow through me. Shame that I hadn’t ever forced my parents to teach me Spanish. Shame that I couldn’t communicate with this little girl and her mother. Shame that I had gotten so lost in England that I hadn’t picked up Spanish myself.

“No se mucho español,” I said as a way of explaining, hoping the apologetic expression on my face was enough to convey to her that I was truly sorry I couldn’t compliment her little girl’s bow.

The mother just smiled at me and nodded politely before she and the little girl started off in the opposite direction of the isle. The little girl turned around and gave me a big wave, her little gap-toothed grin flashing before she faced in front of her once more. Their lives, just like that, unaffected by someone they ran into that couldn’t speak Spanish.

Meanwhile, I was frozen.

I felt like crying, as stupid as it sounded. But it wasn’t the first time someone had asked me something in Spanish and I hadn’t been able to respond. And even though I knew I shouldn’t, I always felt like a bad person. Like I should be more in-tune with my heritage. Like I wasn’t allowed to call myself Cuban because really, I hadn’t even ever been to Cuba. 

I put the box of rice back on the shelf, and stupidly, it felt like I was putting half of my soul back.

Maybe it would be a good idea to go to Harry’s party. Bailey was probably right about a ton of people being there. He was internationally known. There would have to be at least two hundred people at one of his parties, probably more. If I stayed with Jeremiah and Veronica, he wouldn’t even notice me. And after the emotional turmoil of the supermarket, I was ready for a drink or two. Or three. And even if he did notice me, that didn’t mean I couldn’t ignore him. Just because it was his birthday didn’t mean I had to be nice to him.

He could tell you that you need to get your head out of your ass and be a real person instead of living in fantasy books.

But hopefully, I reasoned, I would be too drunk to care if he did do that.

Which is the only reason why I texted Bailey an hour later, when my groceries were in my fridge and I was in the comfort of my own home.

I’ll be there tonight. But can I bring Melody?

~  

“Okay, but can I throat punch him?”

“You know, I’m gonna assume no.”

“Bummer.”

Melody and I were standing outside of the house in Hampstead. I didn’t know who it belonged to. When I had asked Bailey in the car she had shrugged her shoulders. At least that meant it wasn’t Jeff’s, since I would assume Bailey would know if it was his house.

Bailey, Jeremiah, and Veronica had already made their way inside. Melody and I, however, were still outside staring at the front of the house. It was obnoxiously grandiose. I couldn’t imagine having that much space and having to actually decorate it. We had stumbled out of the car and I found myself unable to go any further. 

“We can leave whenever you want,” Melody reminded me. It was the fourth time she had mentioned this fact. 

“I’m twenty-four. What does it say that I’m still terrified of someone I went to secondary school with?”

“That you’re a normal human being who doesn’t like to be made fun of and that he’s a dick?” Melody offered helpfully. I snorted.

“Reckon we should go in,” I said after a couple of moments. She nodded, patting my shoulder affectionately before we both trekked up the front porch. The door was open because the estate was surrounded by what I assumed were military-grade security cameras and a huge opaque fence. The only people who were getting inside the fence either had the gate code or were rock climbers.

As soon as we stepped inside, my body rattled with the bass of the song playing. I didn’t recognize it, but I probably didn’t listen to the same music Harry Styles did, so I wasn’t surprised. Melody had the extraordinary ability of finding alcohol wherever it was hidden, so it was only about ten seconds before she tugged me in the direction of the kitchen, where there was a wide array of drinks lining the kitchen counter. A kitchen counter, I might add, that was the size of a swimming pool. Melody grabbed a beer and handed it to me. I didn’t hesitate to take a swig.

I didn’t spot my other companions, which was good and bad news. Bad news because I wanted to spend time with them, good news because if finding them was hard, then certainly finding the birthday boy was going to be impossible. “I want to take a look around this house,” Melody mentioned to me after she had grabbed herself a drink. 

Fine with getting away from the crowd, I let her pull me into the left hallway. There were only two doors, and one of them was open. It was a bathroom, but it wasn’t a normal bathroom. It was probably the size of my bedroom and front room combined. There was a giant clawfoot tub and shower across from a marble countertop with black sink basins. Melody’s jaw dropped open as we stepped inside. 

“Fuck this is nice,” she commented, twirling around to take in the bathroom in its entirety. “Can you imagine owning a tub like that? I’d never leave.”

I agreed. I was a sucker for a good clawfoot tub. This one looked like it could easily fit four people. “I could live in that tub.”

“Wonder what this room is,” she said, casually walking out of the bathroom and opening up the other door. I was about to scold her for being rude, but most of the party guests were outside in the yard and barely took notice of us. 

This looked like a guest room of some kind. The walls were painted a dark navy blue and the room was accented with dark walnut and white colored woods, making the contrast sharp. The bed was king sized, decorated with other little navy pillowcases and navy sheets. There was a black and white blanket at the end of the bed that looked like it would be scratchy. I figured it was just there for decoration. There weren’t many pictures on the walls, but there was one of a giant black and white elephant next to a telly that was plastered to the wall.

“Holy shit. I could just stay in here and no one would know.” Then, in an action that absolutely horrified me, she jumped onto the bed, wiggling around in the sheets. “Oh Christ, you’ve got to get a load of this bed, Petra.”

“No,” I hissed out, crossing my arms over my chest. “Melody, this isn’t our house.”

“I guarantee whoever lives here doesn’t give a right fuck.”

“You aren’t wrong, I suppose.”

The new voice had me jumping in my skin. Melody didn’t even both to sit up, just waving away whoever the voice was, but I turned to see whose bedroom we were snooping in. The face that greeted me wasn’t one I expected to see. Obviously, she didn’t expect to see me either, since her amused expression dropped from her face and she glanced at me with wide eyes.

“Petra? Petra Gallego?” Gemma Styles asked with a slowly-forming smile on her face. “Holy shit.” And then her arms were around me, pulling me into a friendly hug. 

Unlike Harry, I had never had a problem with Gemma. Knowing that she was one of the kindest people I’d ever met, I knew it wasn’t likely she knew how her brother treated me. She always said hi to me when she saw me around Holmes Chapel and even offered to curl my hair for prom for year ten. I didn’t end up going until year eleven because of Harry and his friends, but I appreciated the offer. Since she was a little older than me, we never really kept in touch, but I kept up with her sometimes. 

“Oh good,” Melody mentioned from the bed. “You know the person who sleeps in this room. Meaning I can sleep here.”

Gemma pulled away from me. “Isn’t it magnificent? I’m glad he splurged on that mattress. Means I don’t sleep like shit when I come visit.”

“Wait, what? Is this… is this Harry’s house?” I asked. Gemma had already floated over to her bed and flopped down next to Melody like the two of them were best friends. 

“You didn’t know that? But you’re here.”

“I knew it was his party, I didn’t know it was his house.” And now I felt like an idiot. I was standing inside Harry Styles’ home. “Fuck, I’ve got to go.”

“Why?” Gemma asked, sitting up. “I’m not mad you’re in here.”

“No, I mean I have to leave the house.” I didn’t want to be in Harry’s house. I didn’t know why it made a difference whose house it was, but I knew it did. My skin was crawling. I had knowingly walked into the lion’s den. “Melody, we’ve got to leave.”

“Alright, but you’re going to have to peel me up.”

Gemma stood up easily enough and frowned at me. “Is Harry being a dick to you again? I’ll punch him in the nose, I swear.” At the expression on my face, her frown deepened. “He’s changed, Petra. I promise. If I thought for a second Harry was still acting like a shitty teenage boy, I’d drive you home myself. I’d just hate for you to feel like you have to leave.”

I appreciated her loyalty to her brother, I really did. But I didn’t want to be in here and I didn’t want to be around Gemma anymore, not when she would so blindly advocate for him. I was happy she’d punched him in the nose when she found out how he treated me when we were kids, but that didn’t mean she was going to support me telling her brother to go fuck himself. She loved him too much. I saw the way they were when we were younger, like they were two sides of the same coin. 

“She’s right, you know.”

“Oh Jesus fuck, of course you’re here,” Melody mentioned, still lying on the bed in Harry Styles’ guest room. Unlike Gemma, this voice wasn’t a surprise.

Harry gave me a hesitant smile. “I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want, but you should stay and enjoy the party. I’ll make myself scarce.”

“You shouldn’t have to in your own house,” I said regrettably, clenching my teeth so I wouldn’t add a “fucker” to my sentiments. “If I had known it was your place, I wouldn’t have come.”

He looked defeated, but also like he knew he deserved my harsh words. I felt a spike of pleasure at his sad expression. I knew it was vindictive and mean, but I didn’t care.

“Yeah, cause you’re a raging twat.”

I snickered at Melody’s deadpan tone and the surprised look on Harry’s face when he realized the other person in the room wasn’t someone he knew. Melody pulled herself up from the bed and lazily stood, giving Harry a once over and looking entirely unimpressed. 

“You must be Melody.”

“Damn straight I’m Melody,” she huffed, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “And you’re an arsehole.”

Gemma raised a brow but didn’t say much else. 

“I know,” Harry replied, and I was surprised by his admittance. Then, without thinking about it, he stepped aside and gestured out into the hall. “You want a tour of the rest of the house? I’ve got a Super Caeser in my room.”

Melody’s mouth dropped open. “Holy shit. Those are the beds that fit four people right?” At Harry’s nod, she grinned. “Lead the way, twat.”

It was my mouth’s turn to drop open. “Melody,” I hissed underneath my breath. Where was the solidarity? Where was the earlier promise that she’d leave with me if I decided I wanted to go home? 

“I know, I know,” she whispered to me as Harry left the room and started down the hallway. “But I’ve never seen a Super Caeser mattress before and I really want to.” She cast a glance at Gemma, who was still standing in the room. “You like her right? Stay with her. I’ll be right back.” And then she was out the door, leaving me glaring at her.

“I’ve caught Alien Crossing a couple of times,” Gemma said as a way to make conversation. I noticed that we were moving out of the guest room. Now that I knew Gemma was the one using it, I felt worse for snooping. “It’s fucking brilliant, Petra. Good for you making something so unique and fun.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I didn’t know what else to say. I wasn’t used to members of the Styles family praising me for what I did.

We were walking aimlessly in the same direction Harry and Melody had left in. I slowed my steps, but I felt rude if I didn’t follow Gemma and let our conversation randomly end. “The episode with Harry seemed to go well. When he called me and told me he was going to be on, I nearly had an aneurysm. I was sure you wouldn’t want him within five feet of you.”

“I didn’t. I asked him to be on because the guest we had lined up had a family emergency.”

Gemma suddenly stopped in her tracks. We were in the hallway to the right side of the front door now, where I could see three more doors that probably contained bathrooms and bedrooms bigger than my entire flat. “I never tried to get in touch to apologize, Petra.”

“Apologize?” I blinked in surprise. “Apologize for what?”

“For Harry being a prick,” she said softly, shrugging her shoulders and crossing her arms in front of her chest. “I know he’s not my responsibility, but… I just really wish he hadn’t been so nasty to you. It was really out of character for him. I’d like to say with confidence that he was just doing it to go along with his friends, but I don’t know. I’ve felt guilty about it ever since he told me.”

“Gemma, you’re right. He’s not your responsibility. He knew what he was doing and he chose to do it anyway. I’m not mad at you.”

“But you’re mad at him. And it sucks because he totally deserves it.”

He did. He deserved my anger, my wrath, my disdain. He deserved for me to tell him to stay the fuck out of my life and never contact me again. I should have told him that. But there was something about seeing Gemma’s defeated expression that had me keeping my comments to myself. 

So instead, I shrugged. “It is what it is, Gemma.”

And that, unfortunately, was the truth. It was too late for her apologies, and she wasn’t the one that was supposed to be giving them. Melody suddenly appeared as Gemma and I stood in the hallway, looking nothing short of enchanted. She all but floated to my side, a wistful expression on her face.

“I want one,” she said after a few moments. I snorted. Harry emerged from the room looking like he wanted to laugh and frown at the same time. It was a weird dichotomy. “But the fog of a Super Caesar mattress has cleared from my head, so I will happily leave with you if you’d like to leave.”

Though I had no patience for Harry, I did have patience for Gemma. And one look at her guilty face, though she had nothing to be guilty for, had me hesitating. “I’ll...stay for a bit,” I said quietly. Melody looked surprised, but nodded her head. Harry looked like someone had just told him the best news ever. It looked entirely too happy and fake to be an expression on the face of Harry Styles, but I wasn’t focused much on him. I was focused on his sister, who gave me a hopeful smile before she glared at her brother.

“Great! Melody and I will go get you another beer. Harry can give you a tour of the house.”

I didn’t have time to open my mouth and argue before Gemma was grabbing Melody’s arm in a vice like grip and pulling her in the direction of the kitchen. That left Harry and I alone, standing in his hallway. I crossed my arms over my chest. He put his hands in his pockets. 

It was all very, very awkward.

“I’m not gonna say happy birthday,” I suddenly burst out. I think I surprised him because he jumped a little.

“That’s okay,” he agreed softly. Another few moments of awkward silence. “Well, do you want the tour? It’s okay if you don’t.”

I didn’t really care much about Harry Styles’ house, but I had a feeling if I went to go find Gemma and Melody, Gemma would just find a way to bring me back to right where I was standing. “Whatever. Just start walking.”

He did as I said, turning on his heels and opening up the first door. It was another guest room, but it didn’t look like anyone stayed in it much. There was a desk and a computer in there as well, so I figured he used it for an office. “This is one of the guest rooms,” he said hesitantly, like he wasn‘t entirely sure I wouldn’t just turn around and leave him in the middle of speaking. “Gemma doesn’t like staying in here because she thinks the government is watching her from the webcam of the computer.”

I raised a brow. “Doesn’t she have an iPhone?”

He grinned. “Yep.”

I wanted to ask him to stop smiling because when he smiled I wanted to punch him, but I figured that would be weird, even for me. So instead, I hummed out a response before I turned and walked towards the door directly across from the office. It was another bathroom, this one without a claw-foot tub. I automatically liked it less because of that fact. But it was decorated nicely, in soft nudes and tans. Overall, it was very impersonal.

“Your place is a two story,” I mentioned offhandedly just as he was about to open the door to his room.

He furrowed his brows. “Yeah. Why?”

“Why’re you on the first floor then?”

He smiled. “I specifically renovated it a couple years ago so it’s a big open space up there. I’ve got a telly and some instruments. I record ideas for songs there.”

I didn’t know if he expected me to be impressed, but I just nodded my head, going along with what he was saying. He pushed open the door to his room walked in, gesturing to the giant mattress that even I could admit was impressive. There were guitars lining the walls. It would have looked tacky if I had tried to do the same thing in my flat, but it fit this room somehow. There was a giant flat screen against the wall closest to the door, on a stand that was filled to the brim with DVD cases. I didn’t think anyone even watched DVDs anymore. 

Harry walked around the room, pointing out the master bath and the record player he had in the furthest corner, along with stacks and rows of vinyls. His voice trailed off when he turned and realized I hadn’t followed him into the room. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

I wasn’t. Because he looked so comfortable in his room, his safe space that he obviously put love and time into. “This room,” I said, pausing to try and find the right words, “you look comfortable in it.”

“Yeah. It’s my safe space.”

I nodded. “That’s what Alien Crossing is to me.”

“I know.”

“No.” I shook my head, closing my eyes to try and fight back the headache growing. “No, you don’t know. Because I’ve never told you. I never told you because when I was fifteen, you told me I had to get my head out of my ass and live in the real world, instead of my little fantasy world.” He at least had the decency to look ashamed. “But you know what, I don’t even care about that. You sent me flowers because Bailey told you what Peter did. But Harry… what your friends said to me was much, much worse. And you didn’t do shit to stop it.”

“I know. I’m so sorry, Petra.”

“I don’t want a fucking apology!” I screamed, suddenly infuriated. I didn’t want to hear him say that he was sorry. It was too late. “I don’t care if that makes me stubborn or selfish or stuck in the past. I hated myself, hated the things I loved, because you and your friends made me feel like shit. Made me feel like less than a person. And then I put myself on the line, asking you to be on my podcast, and it was just a huge mistake because I’m tired of feeling less than. You make me feel less than, Harry. I can’t accept your apology, Harry. Not right now. Not when I still have to see a fucking therapist because Nathan told me to go back to where I came from even though I was born in fucking Cheshire like the rest of you.”

It was silent. If I breathed in the wrong way, he would hear it. But I was just so tired. I sighed and slumped against his door, leaning my body on it as though it would support me for the rest of my life. He stood on the other side of the room, feeling both like he was an ocean away and much, much too close.

“I won’t try and apologize again, because I know that’s not what you want to hear. I know I was awful, Petra. I feel like shit about it. And I’m not saying that to make you feel bad for me or make it all about myself, but because I want you to know that the asshole from Holmes Chapel doesn’t exist anymore. I know it’s going to be hard to get him out of your head, but he’s gone.”

“It doesn’t change what he did,” I replied, pinching the bridge of my nose. 

The two of us stood there for who knew how long. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours. He was letting me process and I appreciated that. Deep, deep in my mind, I knew my anger at him was overwhelming. He’d apologized three times now, each one sounding more and more sincere than the last. It didn’t mean I was ready to forgive him by any means, but I could at least acknowledge that he was trying.

“Did Gemma really punch you in the nose when she found out?” I asked after a few moments.

He nodded. “Had to cover it up with a shit ton of makeup because that was around the time we were touring with Big Time Rush.”

I let out a snort, shaking my head at the image of Harry sitting in a makeup chair while they smeared concealer over his nose. Then, I sighed. “Christ, Harry. I’m twenty-four and I don’t have the time or energy to be holding onto this feeling. But you’ve got to keep in mind that it’s going to take a while. I might never forgive you fully.”

“I completely understand.”

Pushing myself up from the door because I figured that was the end of the conversation, I steadied myself and went to walk out to the kitchen. I figured it had been an appropriate enough amount of time spent with Harry; confident that Gemma wouldn’t send me back, I started on my way. 

I don’t know what made me turn around to catch the expression on his face, to check and see if it was just a facade that fell away when I turned my back, but I did.

He looked genuinely remorseful. I hated it. Because I knew that if I stuck around long enough, I would start to fall for it and I wasn’t ready to do that quite yet. Which was why I was going to grab another beer for the road and order myself an Uber. Everyone would understand. Melody might even go with me, if Gemma wasn’t still holding her captive. 

“I liked the flowers.” My voice was almost silent, but of course he heard it.

“Yeah?”

I didn’t answer him, just left him standing in his room in search of Melody and more alcohol. 

~

“It’s one hundred percent considered literature. I agree with you.”

I was nodding my head at my own words as I smiled at Daisy Callahan. She was sitting across from me, also decked out in her pajamas which made me love her even more. Currently, we were discussing whether or not fanfiction should be considered literature, though it wasn’t much of an argument since we both agreed it did.

“I mean, look at how many fanfictions have been turned into huge adaptions. There’s Fifty Shades, which was originally Twilight fanfiction—”

Jeremiah cut Daisy off from his place in the soundbooth. “Are we really going to consider Fifty Shades a piece of literature though?”

“Actually,” Daisy started, turning to Jeremiah and giving him a smirk, “I wrote my thesis on a work that was considered fanfiction. Jean Rhys wrote her novel Wide Sargasso Sea in response to Jane Eyre, but from the perspective of Bertha, Rochester’s crazy first wife. I wrote about the racial difference between Rhys and Brontë and how that inspired the book. Got a nice master’s degree out of it.” Daisy shrugged happily when Jeremiah conceded, raising his hands as if to say fine, you win.

It was nice to be getting back into the swing of things. Harry’s party a few days ago had shaken me up. I hadn’t been expecting to run into one of the Styles siblings, let alone both of them. In all honesty, leaving when I had was probably the best decision I’d ever made in my life. If I had stayed, I would have downed every last beer bottle I could find and then did something regrettable, like actually forgive Harry Styles for all the shit he had put me through. Though I told Harry I was tired of being angry at him, it didn’t mean all that hatred just went away.

“There’s also the huge After phenomenon,” Daisy supplied as another example. I wanted to groan. Think of the devil and the devil shall appear. “Petra, do you still keep in touch with Harry? Do you know how he feels about the whole fanfiction thing?”

I blinked. “I, er, I’m not sure. I don’t really ask him about it.” I didn’t really talk to him at all, so it wasn’t surprising. “He doesn’t really seem like the type to mind it, I guess.”

“That’s exactly my point! Most celebrities feel flattered that audiences love them so much that they want to sit down and create a whole world for them...” 

Daisy was off on her tangent again, and I knew I could sit back and relax. She’d been on the show before, which was why she was so confident and comfortable sitting in her pajamas. I also knew she talked a lot. Which was perfectly fine with me because my mind was still on how stupid I had been at the party. I shouldn’t have even stepped through the doors, and I should have left the second I found out it was his place. 

Harry hadn’t tried to contact me since the party. Since it was only the week before, I hadn’t expected him to. But I was happy he seemed to be taking my words seriously. It would take time for me to stand being around him. Someone who had gotten in contact with me, however, was Gemma. She’d found me on Instagram and followed me. We’d been chatting back and forth about random and trivial things, never really bringing up her brother or the damage he’d done to me. Instead, she asked how work was going and if Veronica and Bailey were going to get engaged soon. 

Daisy and I finished up our conversation and Jeremiah cut the sound. We both stood, our joints popping and creaking from sitting down in one position for so long. “That was fun, Petra.”

“Always nice having you back, Daisy.”

Jeremiah and Veronica were chatting in the booth, yet to open up the door. Which was why Daisy leaned over to me and whispered, “Hey, can I ask you a question?” Without waiting for me to respond, she continued. “Is Jeremiah seeing anyone?”

I blinked at her, surprised by what she was asking me. In the years I’d known Jeremiah, he’d only had one serious girlfriend. They lasted six months, but Jeremiah was gutted when she broke up with him. He had been telling me that he thought she was the one he was going to marry. That had been nearly two years ago. “Not that I know of. Why, you thinking about going for it?”

Daisy was a pretty girl. She had short hair cut to her shoulders, in a dark brown that nearly looked black. Right now she was wearing pajamas, but I’d seen her enough to know she was about my size, despite the fact that she towered over me by at least six inches. She’d always been kind to me. Given my track record with people, this was a big factor. “I dunno. We always have nice chats when I’m here. And he always walks me to my car. He’s sweet.” We both looked back at the booth, where Jeremiah was sitting. He was clicking away at something on the computer, looking like he was arguing with Veronica. “And damn, Petra, he’s fit as hell.”

A laugh escaped my throat, unbidden, and Daisy giggled along with me. I’d never considered Jeremiah fit, but I supposed subjectively, he was. I had always just known him as my friend Jeremiah, so there was never any attraction between us. “I think if you want to, you should go for it.” It would be nice to see Jeremiah get out of his shell a bit.

“Yeah?” When I nodded, she let out a breath. “Oh good. I thought there might have been something going on between you two.”

Wrinkling my nose in distaste, I shook my head. “He’s like an annoying older brother.”

Daisy laughed. “Well, I think I’m gonna ask for his number then. Maybe when he walks me out.”

Veronica left with a smile and a promise to see me later. Jeremiah, true to Daisy’s word, offered to walk her out to her car before Zach got here to pick him up. Which left me alone in Outset, sitting in the sound booth and getting a pad and paper. I would start listening to see if it all sounded good and jot down anything if I heard it.

My phone lit up with an Instagram message notification. I assumed it was Gemma, continuing on our conversation about Veronica and Bailey, so I picked it up absentmindedly and slid my finger across the notification to open it. When I looked down, however, I realized it was from a completely different Styles sibling.

I wanted to follow you on Instagram, but I figured I’d better ask you first. 

I was trying really hard not to be mad at him, because I hadn’t lied when I said I was exhausted of it. But it was shit like this, him thinking that things were okay between us just because of one drunken lapse in judgement on my part by letting me know I liked the flowers, that made me mad. 

Do whatever you want, Harry. I don’t care.

But I did care. I didn’t want him seeing my personal life. There were pictures of me at Comic-Con, pictures of me holding up a new book with the biggest grin on my face, and a video of me dancing around in an alien costume for my twenty-third birthday. Giving him access to that, to see me at my most vulnerable, was a mistake. When I glanced back down to my phone, I saw that he had read my message. 

I waited for the notification that he followed me, but it never came.

[ambiguouslumberjack]

take a minute and listen up.

Sorry for taking over the Skam tag but I am trying to reach as many people as possible – and I have? Like? Twenty readers, so here I am. I won’t take much of your time anyway.

Skam and all of its remakes have been doing a wonderful, astonishing, almost unprecedented job in its true, demystified and realistic portrayal of European (and not – Skam Austin) youth and its struggles in the current society. I’m now addressing how crucial its representation of the LGBTQIA+ community is for all the Queer teenagers out there, who finally have a mirror of their reality to look up to: we are all more aware than ever that things do not always go well, but eventually we will be okay. We can find love and support, and we are not alone - dammit, maybe we will never be completely alone again!

To the international fans who might not be informed about this event, in a couple of weeks Verona will host the Thirteenth World Congress for Families. Some might optimistically believe that, spring of 2019, this event might as well hint the bare minimum of inclusivity, because things are concretely, finally getting better for our community. However, I am here to remind you that many relators who will take part to the event are OPENLY homophobic and won’t hesitate to spread hate and misconceptions concerning gay marriage and adoptions, not to mention medieval ideas about gender equality and abortion.

I will report here many of the terrible, gut-wrenching things I have read skimming (a.k.a. reading and rereading in a state of utter disbelief, if you will) some of the main Italian articles on the matter. I found many of the things these people said almost triggering, but I’d like to be thorough and honest as far as this event and its main subjects are concerned.

“The sexual act between two people of the same sex is an act of physical violence, also used as initiation ritual in satanic septs.” Silvana De Mari, fantasy novelist.

“Deviations of the natural sexual tendencies cannot really satisfy the human spirit.” Allan Carlson, founder of Howard Center for Family, Religion and Society.

Pastor Jim Garlow reportedly compared children who have parents of the same sex to the orphans of 9/11.

“I would rather put my own child in an orphanage than let homosexual people adopt him/her.” Zeljka Markic, founder of Croatian association “On behalf of the family / Per conto della famiglia”.

Brian Brown will also attend the event, and for what I know (not much, I must confess, this is what I’ve crammed up comparing multiple sites and articles) he has been quite active in the US in campaigns currently aiming at banning gay marriage in California and Transgender people from the Army.

“Homosexual lifestyle is not healthy: […] homosexual people are more likely to fall into mental diseases like depression or commit suicide, or drug abuse and their mortality rate is ten or twenty times higher.” Alexey Komonov, who also expressed is concern about gender theories and acceptance of homosexuality being new forms of western totalitarianism.

“We are currently distancing ourselves from them (the LGBT+ community) like we would distance ourselves from a plague: it is highly contagious.” Dmitri Smirnov.

CALL ME AN OVERREACTER, but:

ALL OF THIS IS to spread awareness in and OUTSIDE (reason why I’m writing in English, hewwo) of Italy about what is happening right now in my (our) country, which is still dangerously conservative and where many of us members of the LGBTQIA+ community still do not feel completely accepted and safe in their own households. I am here to say: you can be safe. Not all people are like that, and there are currently protest movements, demonstrations, rallies being organized in some other cities around the country. Get informed, spread the word, make sure members of the community close to you are aware that it might be a difficult handful of days, make sure to show support, be allies and companions. Look for inclusive spaces and events, take part – you DO NOT HAVE to be part of the community to give a hand. You can be straight, cis, whatever, and still show support and acceptance, look out for your peers who might live in conservative, traditionalist, homophobic households, make sure they are fine, take care of each other. This is a very BIG BIG BIG event and many people will take part. Here below I’ll put a list of hotlines and numbers you can call in case you need immediate help. Then, each region can provide its own service. Google is your best friend!

As far as protests and demonstrations are concerned, I cannot be of any help. I’ve looked up on the same sites I’ve been reading for the past two hours (Jane Austen exam can wait) and the most prominent event will take place (joke’s on them all) in Verona as well, were activists of the feminist movement “Non una di meno” have been setting up three days (29th -30th – 31st of March) of protest, assemblies, debates. I can’t find anything about other cities, but to give you an example, I knew that where I live, Trento, a rally against the congress is being organized. look for hashtags and instagram pages on the theme!

I will try to look into it deeper and I’ll post something else.

Hotlines and websites:

Gay Help Line 800 713 713

Telefono Azzurro (per adolescenti minorenni)

http://www.azzurro.it

Telefono Amico

·       http://www.telefonoamico.it

·       199 284 284

THIS is an English language article which thoroughly explains the whole matter. --> https://www.internazionale.it/reportage/annalisa-camilli/2018/12/13/far-right-against-abortion-verona

STAY SAFE, YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

[theblackpoets]

Purity: A Loss for Thesaurus Words, A Creative Nonfiction by Patrick J. Derilus

Heteronormative, Able-Bodied, White Male Terrorism", conjoined as a one term, is considered a sociolinguistic cue that has long been permeated throughout American society.

-Thursday evening-

I typed purity in the thesaurus search engine yesterday. One of the few synonyms that came up was,

Whiteness.

I regressed for a few seconds and had to glance at Whiteness again. I had been gullible and felt so used that I didn’t know I had been used. I think my whole life, I had been forced to glance at Whiteness — it was internalized White supremacist ideology; the toxin that it was, that virulently imbued White purity through the inside of my exhausted bones veiled by my Black flesh as a Black boy. This “blessed” perversion imbued within me disfigured my Black identity, but no—

This Whiteness was not the cleanliness of my teeth, the Whiteness of a void, the dribbling White paint on the walls of a house, or the off-Whiteness of my sclera.

This Whiteness was the Western world: America, the people of the Caucasus region who have long ago been conflated with Whiteness.

Whiteness is the systemic racism run over four-hundred years in America along with the rest of this World.

Whiteness is the voyeuristic condescension of many countries exploited by colonialist and imperialist practice.

Whiteness is habitual racist objectification, exploitation, and commodification of our Black bodies.

Whiteness … is the follow-up desensitization and hashtagging of Black existence.

Whiteness is Western civilization’s complicity in our commonplace Black nihilism, the Black nihilism I had not discerned with, within myself until I confronted my Blackness, acknowledged my Black identity and its significance to White America. It took me years to finally notice the racial cues and adjust to the fact that I was never considered human in this racist country.

Blackness is meaningless to White America unless it is possessed, fetishized, manipulated, and exploited. And part of all that it took, was a Thesaurus: a distant lexicon of the Dictionary, bearing all sorts of words, denotations, and associations we assign to them, a linguistic tradition we have pedagogically been coerced to follow since the 18th century and since then there have been many semantic evolutions to words yet…

today, purity still means,

Whiteness

.

We, among the rest of the colonized minds of our American society, have been conditioned with an unconscious predilection to favor, and show fallaciously invented justification and immediate repentance to White people, to heterosexual, able-bodied, White men above all else, disproportionately more than we value our Melanin, our Dark skin, our … Blackness.

No matter how heinous the actions of heterosexual White men were, the institutional systems they had already set in place had protected them from sound judgment. Historically, they sheathed themselves in their westernized connotations of Whiteness: untouchable innocence, irresistible sententiousness, and … purity, which also protected them from true justice—

like a parent who looks at their White cismale child, and submissively murmurs,

“how could I ever say no to that face?”

While White children never have to worry of their “purity”, we look at Black children and hold them to the same standards as White people. If they do not fit the mold of internalized White purity, they are distinguished as “inferior” Black people among Black people. We tell them to “keep doing good.” We tell ourselves to “keep doing good” as if reaching goodness is a means to an end … as if, Black children, Black you, Black me … are not intrinsically good. We are supposedly evil. The believability of our goodness is an implicitly habitual, racist practice; our goodness is impetuously defenestrated when we “resist arrest” from crooked police, “protest improperly”, or “act like niggas.” I did not see it before because of my own internalized racism, but I know, for some vague reason, that all Black people are good. Not “some” as most individuals say to patronizingly describe us as if there are a rare breed of us. All of us are intrinsically good although at first, our implicit biases of ourselves and them will not allow us to see goodness. No Black individual among us is patronizingly exceptional in the sense that they blindly deny their Blackness by claiming they have so-called “transcended” it.

A lot of us have helped by supporting the ongoing fight against social injustice while others have stood in solidarity with marginalized groups to ameliorate this World, let alone American society, our human values and the potential of our collective being. Nonetheless, we have not achieved egalitarian justice because our rights to assign ‘humanist consequences’ to Whiteness have been denied validity, and Whiteness has once again, shielded itself in its invented, westernized connotations to evade repercussion from true egalitarian justice.

True egalitarian justice is foreign to me. However, I am aware that it has been a utopian mirage. True egalitarian justice, nor democracy have ever existed in this police state of Whiteness: America, and we have always been victim to the life-depriving minutiae of illusions, having only experienced perceived equal rights. In actuality, we are still objects, slaves under the thirteenth amendment.

We have been ingrained with these White supremacist, capitalist, patriarchal ideologies, subjected to believe that the White savior complex, White male normativity and heteronormative White male homosocial sadomasochistic culture are inclusive traditions. A lot of us do not question when two or more people engage in a fight, fists are thrown, they are on the ground, bleeding, and like heteronormative White male homosocial sadomasochistic culture, which has indirect correlation to Black demise and nihilism during slavery, a time of gathering for White people, let alone White men when the slaves had been continuously been raped, murdered, mutilated, and lynched, was one way White people commemorated their Whiteness: by happily scrutinizing the decimation of Black life. We unconsciously gather around these bleeding persons, these persons who are fighting for their lives. In this regard, we, unfortunately, do not question our thoughts, ourselves, because this had been so-called “tradition” to us. Ourselves had not been ourselves when we were first brought into this World.

We had all been born into this World with a White-washed upbringing. Heteronormative White supremacist patriarchy prowled into our psyches before we knew it. Thus our Black pain, our collective pain…has never been our faults. We had never brought injustice upon ourselves as that has been White supremacy’s way of gaslighting us into believing what my ancestors and I have experienced at the puppeteering hands of heteronormative White supremacist patriarchy, was not real.

We, I reiterate, have been conditioned, unconsciously justifying the heinousness of White men: Christopher Columbus, King Leopold of Belgium the II, Roy Bryant, J. W. Milam, J. Edgar Hoover, Timothy McVeigh, Dylan Roof, Ryan Lochte, Brock Turner, and the list goes on.

Why?

Heteronormative White Male terrorism to American society is oxymoronic. We have yet to deem “Whiteness” as “terroristic”, though it has been for centuries.

The more an Abuser psychologically, emotionally, and physically assaults their victim, the victim’s reality becomes distorted. He cannot distinguish pain from living life, feeling unpunished. He will eventually believe the abuse that has been done onto him, is “normal.” The victim, victim-blames himself for the abuse, real and invented, and uncomfortably holds himself responsible for the pain his Abuser has caused him.

Abuse victims finally become aware of their abuse when they muster the strength to liberate themselves from it by practicing to speak out against their Abusers.

tumblr: http://heisp0etic.tumblr.com/

[lightscameramagicrp]

Congratulations, Isa Garcia! The role of Casey Dwyer for Desire Island is yours! We can’t wait to see what you do in your new endeavor!

Show: Desire Island

Role: Casey Dwyer

Audition:

Isa sat nervously in the hallway, fidgeting with the edge of her skirt as she watched blonde after blonde file into the audition room. Every single one of them looking nearly identical, except for her. She knew she had begged her agent to give her something different- something alike Alyssa during Tales of Terror. The role had been first big part and she thought afterwards, that would be it. She’d return to being just an extra, trying to claw her way to the top. But, it was like overnight her social media pages exploded. People had adored the character and even started a hashtag #justiceforalyssa. It was overwhelming and incredible. It was everything she had dreamed about for so long. To play a part that resonated with others. So, when scripts actually started flooding in, she didn’t want to be pigeoned hold into the voice of reason or girl next door parts. But, as the PA glanced her up and down when they called her name, a part of her wondered if the Latina southern belle would come across as too much of a reach?

She was definitely not what the casting directors or writers for that matter had probably been thinking and the chance that they would give the role to her was slim to none. But, having felt sick to her stomach all morning, the notion that this was her one chance- her one time performance at a role like this- was actually sort of comforting. She wasn’t stuttering when she said her name or trying to wipe her sweaty palms off on her jeans as she tried to guess when the right time to go would be. She didn’t even care that when she walked in, they barely even looked up. She wasn’t a shoe in. Far from it. So all the pressure seemed to be off.

“Isabel Garcia. Reading for the role of Casey Dwyer?” Isa said sweetly, giving the row of individuals a warm smile despite them barely even glancing up from the phones.

“When you’re ready…?” The person on the end began to say only to look up and take Isa in for the first time since she had stepped foot before them. “For Casey Dwyer, right?”

“That’s right,” Isa said, more confidently than she had said almost anything before in her life. “

“Oh… Okay? Very well then. Show us what you got,” They said, nudging the casting director with their elbow as if to say they’d want to see this.

But, it didn’t phase Isa as she let out a deep breath and let herself fall into the scene. The words were from Frozen. Hans actually. She was fully embracing the ‘out there’. Reproaching the scene in an entirely different light than it was intended. She was making it her own. And who knows. Just maybe, it would be enough.

“If anything happens to her, I swear,” Isa said breathlessly, the concern apparent in her eyes as she shook her head ever so slightly. Her eyes widened in shock as she looked over her shoulder and let out a sigh of relief. Her face warming as she moved forward. “Anna,” She exclaimed, the southern accent rolling lightly off the tip of her tongue as she smiled over at the other. Letting out a small gasp as she said, “Oh hun, you’re so cold.”

“You have to kiss me,” The reader spoke back.

“Wait- what?”

“Now. Now!”

“Whoa. Slow down,” Isa let out a little laugh, shaking her head ever so slightly as her smile brightened.

“We’ll give you two some privacy.”

“What- what happened out there?”

“Elsa stuck me with her powers.”

“No- but, but you said she’d never hurt ya?”

“I was wrong.”

“Anna,” The worried expression continued as she looked over at the other.

“She froze my heart and only an act of true love can save me.”

“A- a true love’s kiss,” Isa said softly, the concern filling her voice, but not quite touching her eyes. “Oh, Anna,” She said dreamily, the corner of her lips tilting up ever so slightly as she cocked her eyes ever so slightly to the side. “If only there was someone out there who loved ya.”

“What? What? You said you did?”

A little giggle spilled out of her lips as she shook her head in the other’s direction. It almost looked as if she was enjoying it. Her words becoming more drawn out as she said, “I was thirteenth in line of my own kingdom. I didn’t stand a rats ass. I knew I had to marry into the throne somewhere-“

“But what- what are you talking about?”

“-And as heir, Elsa would’ve been preferable course, but no one was gettin’ close with her. But, you? Adorably sweet little piece of wonder bread, you? You were so desperate for love that you were willin’ to marry me just like that,” Isa snapped her fingers and gave the other a simple shrug, as if it had just been that easy.  “I figured after we got married, I’d have to stage a little accident for Elsa or sometin- but, then, she doomed herself and you were dumb enough to go after her,” Isa shook her head in disbelief. She stood there practically beaming as if watching all of the pieces of her plan fall perfectly into place. “All that’s left now is to kill Elsa and bring back summer. Who would have thought?”

“You’re no match for Elsa,” The voice read back, the inclination in the voice growing tougher as the reader got more into the scene with Isa.

“No?” She asked, raising an eyebrow up at the other, as her voice dropped just a bit, her smile falling from her face, and a dark shadow seemed to pass across her gaze. “You’re no match for Elsa. I? On the other hand? I’m the hero whose gonna save Arendelle from destruction.” Her words leaving a promise in the air as the pretty little smile found is way back across her face.

“You won’t get away with this.”

“Awww, Sugar,” Isa shook her head back and forth once more, the charming smile of what she could only imagine a former pageant winner would have returned to her lips as she said, “Don’t you see? I already have.”

With the scene finished, Isa quickly came out of character, letting out a shaky breath as she told the room, “Thank you.” Returning back to her American accent with a slight hint of cuban in the mix as she told them, “I know you probably weren’t expecting all this,” She said, motioning to herself as she gave them an almost apologetic smile. “But, thank you for giving me a shot anyways?”

[chokehoe]

Without the swirly shit lol idk what I'm doing just enjoy Cheng xiaoshi with no shirt on in a cunty tomie position (づ￣ ³￣)づ(〃＞＿＜;〃)

[writer59january13]

Watching upcoming toilet bowl lvi highlight of February 13th, 2022

Above title attests how mine mundane mein kampf

insync as a veritable clogged drain oh:

flush with adventure overflowing excrement er... rather excitement.

Apt aforementioned accurate personal description

believe me not, but urination

and defecation née emergency evacuation

triggered (reasonably rhyming) inspiration

culmination of requisite time

sitting atop porcelain goddess

devoid of hesitation and trepidation herewith follows mine poetic ululation hoop fully invites veneration .

Ever since garden variety generic guy

long since experienced being little boy

mean kids constantly teased and bullied me

on account yours truly being small fry

barely invisible to naked eye

bullied (most my entire boyhood)

as scapegoat, I did decry pleading lame feeble alibi,

especially when punks

threw suckerpunch witnessing,

yours truly feigned falling

upon wounded knobby knee

to avoid me countenance being pummeled

courtesy knuckle sandwich

they threatened to apply.

One puny socially verily withdrawn lad

no surprise experienced suicidal ideation

throughout public school even as undergrad

never wagon figurative tail when fired

from one after another workstation.

Hence metaphorically hermetically sealed self

against incessant beastie boys squirreled away

amidst imaginative escapes courtesy bookshelf

isolates myself, viz remaining figuratively at bay

interestingly enough petrified livingsocial whereby

flesh and bone closely resembled hardened clay

hashtagged Matthew Scott Harris as pipsqueak

deadset to halt physical maturation without delay

anorexia nervosa (modus operandi) did buzzfeed

starved and emaciated lovely bones as main entree

unbeknownst then, but clear as a bell now

emotional state of parents unspooled and didst fray

father and mother aghast their pallor went ashen gray

grim reaper wielding large scythe intimating hooray

approximately half dozen years later

both parents relentlessly vilified verbally hammered

and especially didst inveigh

against their sole singular son

born thirteenth of January

hooded think those folks

who begot me more cruel fate

then being lynched courtesy triple "K."

Gambone builders bought property razed demesne

to escape vitriolic wrath atop roof at Glen Elm, I lay

nevertheless indelible memories emotional reprieve

spiritual succor delivered upon many a bygone May

when heat radiating off shingles served newgateway

passing time and wishing myself far as Norway

or even time traveling back Catskills circa Borscht Belt,

also known as Jewish Alps oy vey.

Yours truly risk averse

which characteristic,

I declare constitutes curse

thus isolation found me sprawled out

upon wuthering heights

against regular diet of diatribes

delivered carte blanche

with expletive filled verse

toward solitary son ill fate

receiving nasty brutal abuse

considered dying far less worse.

Precious minutes and hours atop

seven gabled hideaway blithely did elapse

me gingerly scuttling out attic window

though agoraphobic and loathe to drop

distance and no longer courting death

no matter concluding life (during

early/mid twenties) total flop

merely wishing rage against

male offspring would stop.

Hurtful words yelled after papa

guzzled bottles of vermouth (not really, I admittedly prevaricate)

courtesy late father and mother

resoundingly, severely, terrifyingly,

wickedly, violently uncouth

subjected imbalanced earthling

(yours truly - me)

think venomous metaphorical

bloody blackened barbs,

viz inconveniently grossly, egregiously

one after another hurtful

figurative daggers antithesis of truth,

albeit synopsis regarding

second born (middle child - sole son)

begat courtesy Harriet and Boyce

upon their psychologically harried

flesh out the womb of young mother

(both parents now long since deceased)

now said heir long in the tooth

wordsmith here wonders why forsooth

he tolerated torturous abuse.