#he knew the vocabulary he finally understood football

[saltyoaktree]

the way i can see ted following in his father's footsteps after that finale

Edit: ok I've had some sleep and took some time and I don't actually think that. I still agree with the tags though

[jenodunno]

Studying

a/n: aish i’m sorry i haven’t written in a while, i have no excuses for myself other that i had no inspiration to write. Anyways i hope you enjoy this cute little story of Jaemin tutoring you hehe

pairing: Jaemin x Reader

warnings: none ?

"How can you even get good grades in this class" You sigh looking at your boyfriend's test paper that the teacher just handed out.

"I don't know," He shrugs looking over at the grade on your paper "But I do know I'm better at it then you" He lets out a small laugh

"Instead of laughing you should be a good boyfriend and help me" You sulk, laying your head on your desk.

Let's just say Human Anatomy isn't the class you do best nor do you even like it, but the sadly you still need to pass the class to no disappoint your parents.

"Of course I'll help you out, love," He smiles looking at you before petting your head "I'll come over after school, like that we can get started"

"Wait, what ? Now ?" You asked in disbelief "I know I asked for help but not right away I want to rest my brain a little"

"Yah...no, the faster we study the faster you'll understand what's going on and anyways the next test is schedule for next week so it's best if you start now, love." He says letting out a small laugh at the end when you sighed once again for like the one hundredth time.

"Fine" You mumble burying your face in your hands.

-

Wednesday at your place, (A week till the test)

"Wait" Jaemin says trying to hold back his laughter while looking at the test you received back from your teacher yesterday because he's a great boyfriend and doesn't want to laugh at your failure "You're really going to tell me you don't know where the esophagus is,"

"No, I know where it is, It's just that-"

"Then why did you put throat instead,"

"Because technically-"

"No baby no, technically it isn't our throat"

“Well technically yes because when we eat food goes down in it-“

“I can tell this is going to be long” He sighs chuckling

“Heyy don’t laugh at me !” You huffed, pushing him lightly “can we take a break we've been reviewing for hours" You sighed

"It's only been 30 minutes, my love," Jaemin says and looks at you with an 'are you serious' face "And I pretty sure we'll need more than that if you don't know where the esophagus is" He chuckles

"You're really not going to let me go for that one" You say getting up off the floor

"Nope" He smiles at you, before kissing you on the nose.

-

Thursday at Jaemin's place, (6 days till the test)

"Maybe you'll focus more at my place" Jaemin mumbles opening the front door for the both of you.

"What's that suppose to mean" You say looking up at him

"I mean that, maybe studying in another environment that's not your usual one might help you focus more" He explains

"I practically live here with you, Jae" You looked at him laughing a little

“Yeah yeah whatever, come on” He laughs stepping a side a little letting you go in first before closing the door behind himself.

After getting settled on the kitchen counter with all the school work laid out in front of you guys and Jaemin to your left you try to pay attention. In the end you actually are paying attention to what Jaemin is showing and explaining to you, maybe he was right earlier....

"So as long as you can try to remember this graphic by heart you'll at least get a 10 out 35 on the test" He says trying to make you feel better

"Yah but that isn't enough," You blow out a breath

"I know it isn't, love, but that's still better than the grades you got yesterday, and anyways I'll try my best to help you" He says grabbing your hand into his own "Anyways let's focus on this chapter, most of the vocabulary and work that'll be on the test is in this chapter, okay ?" He says softly looking at you and when you nod at him he starts explaining.

After 2 hours of studying flying by, you both decide to take a break.

“You know I hope you focused more on what I was explaining to you and not my face.” He smirks before drink out of his water bottle

“W-what do you mean,?!” You answered back in a flustered state “I was paying attention to you.”

“Yeah to me or to what I was explaining,” He chuckles before raising an eyebrow at you “because to me it seemed like you were paying more to me, as in my face and not the work.”

"T-that's not true," You defended

"Come on just admit to it and I'll give you a kiss" He once again lifts the corner of his lips forming a smirk

"J-jaemin !"

-

Saturday at Jaemin's place, (4 days till the test)

You don't know if Jaemin is actually a really good tutor or he is a good tutor because suddenly you can understand things you didn't think you could or at least you think so. I guess you could say you were lucky to have him.

"Are you guys really studying on a Saturday ?" Jeno says walking in Jaemin's house as if it's his own with a basketball in his hands

"Hmm, Oh yeah I'm helping my princess over here not fail for our next test" Jaemin hums a response to Jeno barely acknowledging his presence "Anyways, do you understand the graphics over here, It's explaining how the fluids in-"

"What's up fuckers" Donghyuck says bursting into the living room with a football soccer ball in his hand "Jeez it's literally the weekend and you both are in here studying, tsk, you know it feels really good outside ?" He smirks at you, dropping his weight on the couch "I would say the weather is about 28 degrees with a few clouds and the wind is-"

"You know it's better to stay in here than to be outside with your presences," You playfully glare at him

"Oh come on, stop acting like you hate me when you don't" He laughs before throwing the ball his holding in the air before catching it again.

"Stop being lame Donghyuck," Jeno chimes in "Anyways come on Jaems, It won't kill to take a little break and have fun, right Y/N ?"

"Okay, okay fine how about about we take a small break," Jaemin says getting up before smiling at how happy you looked

Let's just say it wasn't a small break you both took.....

-

Tuesday afternoon in the library (The day before the test)

"I'll never understand why it's so important to learn this, I honestly don't care about the human anatomy and how it works," You whine pushing your folder away from you

"You know your only learning about this because you chose this course" Jaemin says letting out a small laugh at your defeat

"Yeah well I only chose the scientific course because I wanted to have Laboratory but even that is hard and boring, I should have chosen the literature course like that I would of gotten art and I'm pretty sure that is much more fun and less hard than this human body thing. And also I wouldn't be alone because Renjun is there" You ramble out.

Jaemin pauses looking at you, then looking at all the school work flared out in front of you both before letting out a small sigh with a light laugh at the end.

"Look baby, I'm going to be honest with you. I know we've been studying for this test since last week but going the way we are going and the fact that the test is tomorrow, you're going to fail this test, I love you, but there's nothing we can do about it now" Jaemin says looking over at you before you let your head fall on the table with a bang gaining peoples attention. Jaemin just smiles at them before bringing his attention back to you caressing your back

"I knew it, I'm going to fail again and like you said there's nothing we can do" You mumble out lowly with a sigh following at the end

Jaemin doesn't respond but just sits there and comforts you.

-

Wednesday, ( test day )

The moment the teacher handed out the test papers, you knew you were doomed. On the first page you barely understood anything and the second page even less, though on the third page there was the graph that you studied so hard to remember, which you shockingly did. While filling out the graph you started remembering a few things Jaemin had taught you a few days prior.

30 minutes passed by pretty fast before you heard your teacher's timer going off "Okay times up, everyone pens down" He then proceeded to collect everyone's papers before going back to his desk to grade them leaving the class to do whatever.

"So how do you think you did ?" Jaemin says looking over at you, who was staring at the bracelet you were wearing

"Hm ? Oh umm well honestly I'm pretty confident, after I completed the graph suddenly things you had explained came into my head and I feel like I got a lot of things correct !" You say cheerfully. You honestly do think you did pretty well, all the answers suddenly came into your head at one pointed so yeah you are confident in yourself.

"I'm glad to hear that you're confident, It puts me at ease knowing I tutored you well" He smile at you like always

"Of course you did, you're a pretty good tutor y'know now I understand why Jisung always comes to you for help" You laugh softly

-

"Good morning everyone, i hope that today has been a pretty decent day for you all" Your teacher speaks out to the class walking in front of his desk. "Now before you ask yes I've graded yesterdays test, I will now hand them out" Your teacher announces.

"Yay finally, I could barely sleep last night because of this." You giggled cheerfully

Your teacher finally reaches yours and Jaemin's desk handing out your papers. When giving Jaemin his paper, you didn't miss your teacher giving him a small pat on his shoulder before giving you your paper with a small smile on his face. Giving him a small smile back you checked out your grade on the top right of the paper. The moment your eyes landing on your grade, you practically had stars popping out out of them.

With a little squeal of happiness you turn your paper around to show it to your lover with a huge grin on your face.

"Look !" You beamed happily at your boyfriend "Ahh thank you so much" Leaning in giving him a hug

"You're welcome my love," He chuckles looking down at you on his chest, reaching to pat your head "But you do know that having a 14/30 doesn't exactly mean you passed"

But you were quick to look at him and shush him with a finger to your lips "Don't ruin it for me, it's the highest grade I've gotten in this class" As your face changed from having a playful pout on it to having a smile letting a few giggles escape from your lips.

[crescentharborrp]

BASICS

Name: Harlow Green.

Gender/Pronouns: cisfemale, (she/her).

Date of Birth: February 21st, 1994.

Age: 27.

Hometown: Crescent Harbor, WA.

Length of time in Crescent Harbor: A month.

Neighborhood: Sunstone Beach.

Occupation: Art Curator at the Crescent Art Gallery & Personal Art Dealer.

Faceclaim: Maia Mitchell.

BIOGRAPHY (trigger warnings: cancer, infidelity)

The idea of life being presented on a silver platter often seemed like a fallacy to some, but Harlow existed as its epitome. The idea of having a picture-perfect family and a quaint happy life certainly existed in Crescent Harbor, but not for the Green family. Harlow, falling last of the two children, often felt envious of those around her who seemed to have normalcy in their family unit. For as long as she could remember her parents were distant, almost non-existent. Her father the heir of a hotel empire always seemed to be traveling for work. Her mother who had no real responsibilities seemed too preoccupied to care for her children. When they were around they brought nothing but chaos and tension. The fights felt endless and constant – always muffled by a closed-door only to be brought to light by a bitter passive-aggressive comment.

Unlike other families with some sort of spotlight, the Greens never tried too hard to seem perfect. Her father was known for being a bit of a hard-ass. Her mother’s reputation wasn’t stellar either. Rumors always bounced around of her having affairs – sleeping with the pool boy or her tennis couch. It seemed the people her parents chose to be seeped into how people viewed her. From early as she could remember, she noticed the assumptions. Harlow decided it was simply easier to fall into the boxes people were placing her in rather than fight it. If teachers assumed she wasn’t going to make an effort, she didn’t. If her classmates assumed she was a spoiled brat, she would be. The young girl started constructing her image in this light – mostly in fear that if she tried to overcome it, ultimately they’d all be right.

She noticed the things that seemed to make those around her content. She leaned into those things. At a young age, Harlow associated positive affirmations with sexual favors or herself in a sexual image. Boys responded well when she appeased their wishes. Being smart didn’t seem to benefit her in any way. Teachers never spoke to her as long as she passed, handed in enough assignments while answering questions, and being studious brought along teasing or attention she’d rather avoid. Her parents didn’t fight if she behaved if she kept out of trouble. Pleasing people provided a certain control in her life she appreciated. No wasn’t apart of her vocabulary.

On her 16th birthday, Harlow overheard an argument between her parents. Her heart sunk. Her world shattered. Her father wasn’t her biological father. She was a product of an affair her mother had. For once, for their daughter’s sake, they both agreed to do everything to keep this element of their drama a secret. Now more than ever the young girl realized she had no idea who she was, having always felt more like her father than her mother. As summer came around, the girl begged to spend the time off with her grandmother – who wasn’t blood-related to her – in Italy. Anger drove her away, wanting nothing to do with her mother and now unsure how to feel about her father.  Spending the summer in Italy now became a tradition. Honestly, running away to Italy was her go-to when she’d fight with her mother.

As high school came to an end, Harlow realized she missed many deadlines for college applications. She knew there were cards to pull and privilege to rely on if she desired, but her apathy towards further education and her future, in general, lead her to Crescent College. In her first few years, she enjoyed some classes, found it entertaining to try new types and learn about different things. Many of the other students landed on a major by the middle of her sophomore year, but she never felt pressure to. First, she tried Pysch and then English lit. She even dipped her toes into performing arts.

Clubs and activities were really where her exploration continued. Sometime in her freshman year, her friends dragged her to try out for the cheer team – an activity she probably would have quit if it weren’t for the really cute assistant coach for the football team. It started as a harmless crush. She and her friends giggled and whispered about him while they stretched. She’d stare too long, only to catch his gaze. Harlow always did her very best to draw his attention to her, retrieving a ball that had been throw in their area, a flip of her skirt. A dare lead her to talk to him one night after practice. On a night out, Harlow saw him across a bar. Soon he was no longer the hot assistant coach and just Max.

Perhaps it was the way he looked at her. Perhaps it was how he allowed her to a blank slate. He felt like the first person in her life to want her to be her – whatever that was. She didn’t plan for it. She didn’t ask it of him. She would have understood if he’d pick his jobs over her. But, the summer between her junior and senior year he’d officially quit, which meant they were official. Harlow stayed in Crescent for the summer for the first time since she was 16. While she was no stranger to gossip, she’d never experienced it so intensely. It seemed all anyone in their realm could speak of was her and Max. So, when the news came of Culinary school, Harlow didn’t think twice before agreeing to move to Seattle. Her parents protested. Some of her friends protested. Even Max appeared unsure if she should drop out of school. Harlow framed it in a neat package – she’d transfer, she needed to get away from the gossip, she wasn’t simply following him there. She knew what to say, how to say it to make everyone happy. For the first time in her life, she even convinced herself she was doing something for herself.

In Seattle, she tried – not hard – but she tried to find a school to transfer to. Since she never really declared a major, Harlow’s credits weren’t applicable for a transfer. Every school offered her the chance to come in as a freshman. All of it felt like a waste of time. Three years in college still leaving her with no idea what she wanted to do with her life, why would she know now? At some point, she played with the idea of finding a job, but money wasn’t a problem. The conversation kept arising about what she was going to do and what she was doing. Harlow found it easy to keep writing it off as a task for the future. The night erupted into the only fight they ever had, probably because Harlow avoided conflict above anything else.

You’re not happy. Stop holding yourself back. You can’t just live for me. You need your things. All she did was cry. Nothing left her mouth. Harlow was unsure how she’d gotten here. As she watched him leave their apartment, she knew nothing would change if she didn’t. While he was gone, she applied for the art college – something always interested her about art, though she never thought she had the talent. He was right though because she needed to try and commit. Tears freshly dried on her cheeks, she heard the door open. Harlow, finally excited about something, eagerly awaited to tell him her good news. As the words slipped from his lips, informing her of his unfaithfulness, she sent him back out the door. One fight? All it took was one fight.

Harlow feared nothing more than becoming her parents… She packed her things from the apartment and ran off to Italy. One text told him to be gone when she got back – and that was the last thing she said. The heartbreak debilitated her for a while. She sunk into the cliché, not getting out of bed and eating ice cream. Her mother dragged her to a museum only a short ride from her villa. Harlow sat on a stone bench in front of a Monet and promised herself to start living life for herself.

When she arrived back in Seattle, she did just that. Applying herself came easier than expected when she found something that interested her. Art, while she was no Monet, fueled her. A realization hit her that there were other avenues she could take in the field besides being an artist. Her father and grandmother helped her find connections for internships. In a few short years, with lots of hard work, and working through summer, Harlow graduated, immediately being hired to work in a gallery to help curate. On the side, she began dealing art for her father’s hotels.

About a month ago, Harlow received a call. Her mother was sick – and hadn’t wanted to tell her. The cancer progressed farther than they originally thought. Everyone thought it was time Harlow came home.. to Crescent Harbor.

PERSONALITY

+ nurturing, agreeable, creative.

- insecure, indecisive, weak-willed.

[ryxbaby]

BASICS

Name: Harlow Green.

Gender/Pronouns: cisfemale, (she/her).

Date of Birth: February 21st, 1994.

Age: 27.

Hometown: Crescent Harbor, WA.

Length of time in Crescent Harbor: A month.

Neighborhood: Sunstone Beach.

Occupation: Art Curator at the Crescent Art Gallery & Personal Art Dealer.

Faceclaim: Maia Mitchell.

BIOGRAPHY (trigger warnings: cancer, infidelity)

The idea of life being presented on a silver platter often seemed like a fallacy to some, but Harlow existed as its epitome. The idea of having a picture-perfect family and a quaint happy life certainly existed in Crescent Harbor, but not for the Green family. Harlow, falling last of the two children, often felt envious of those around her who seemed to have normalcy in their family unit. For as long as she could remember her parents were distant, almost non-existent. Her father the heir of a hotel empire always seemed to be traveling for work. Her mother who had no real responsibilities seemed too preoccupied to care for her children. When they were around they brought nothing but chaos and tension. The fights felt endless and constant – always muffled by a closed-door only to be brought to light by a bitter passive-aggressive comment.

Unlike other families with some sort of spotlight, the Greens never tried too hard to seem perfect. Her father was known for being a bit of a hard-ass. Her mother’s reputation wasn’t stellar either. Rumors always bounced around of her having affairs – sleeping with the pool boy or her tennis couch. It seemed the people her parents chose to be seeped into how people viewed her. From early as she could remember, she noticed the assumptions. Harlow decided it was simply easier to fall into the boxes people were placing her in rather than fight it. If teachers assumed she wasn’t going to make an effort, she didn’t. If her classmates assumed she was a spoiled brat, she would be. The young girl started constructing her image in this light – mostly in fear that if she tried to overcome it, ultimately they’d all be right.

She noticed the things that seemed to make those around her content. She leaned into those things. At a young age, Harlow associated positive affirmations with sexual favors or herself in a sexual image. Boys responded well when she appeased their wishes. Being smart didn’t seem to benefit her in any way. Teachers never spoke to her as long as she passed, handed in enough assignments while answering questions, and being studious brought along teasing or attention she’d rather avoid. Her parents didn’t fight if she behaved if she kept out of trouble. Pleasing people provided a certain control in her life she appreciated. No wasn’t apart of her vocabulary.

On her 16th birthday, Harlow overheard an argument between her parents. Her heart sunk. Her world shattered. Her father wasn’t her biological father. She was a product of an affair her mother had. For once, for their daughter’s sake, they both agreed to do everything to keep this element of their drama a secret. Now more than ever the young girl realized she had no idea who she was, having always felt more like her father than her mother. As summer came around, the girl begged to spend the time off with her grandmother – who wasn’t blood-related to her – in Italy. Anger drove her away, wanting nothing to do with her mother and now unsure how to feel about her father.  Spending the summer in Italy now became a tradition. Honestly, running away to Italy was her go-to when she’d fight with her mother.

As high school came to an end, Harlow realized she missed many deadlines for college applications. She knew there were cards to pull and privilege to rely on if she desired, but her apathy towards further education and her future, in general, lead her to Crescent College. In her first few years, she enjoyed some classes, found it entertaining to try new types and learn about different things. Many of the other students landed on a major by the middle of her sophomore year, but she never felt pressure to. First, she tried Pysch and then English lit. She even dipped her toes into performing arts.

Clubs and activities were really where her exploration continued. Sometime in her freshman year, her friends dragged her to try out for the cheer team – an activity she probably would have quit if it weren’t for the really cute assistant coach for the football team. It started as a harmless crush. She and her friends giggled and whispered about him while they stretched. She’d stare too long, only to catch his gaze. Harlow always did her very best to draw his attention to her, retrieving a ball that had been throw in their area, a flip of her skirt. A dare lead her to talk to him one night after practice. On a night out, Harlow saw him across a bar. Soon he was no longer the hot assistant coach and just Max.

Perhaps it was the way he looked at her. Perhaps it was how he allowed her to a blank slate. He felt like the first person in her life to want her to be her – whatever that was. She didn’t plan for it. She didn’t ask it of him. She would have understood if he’d pick his jobs over her. But, the summer between her junior and senior year he’d officially quit, which meant they were official. Harlow stayed in Crescent for the summer for the first time since she was 16. While she was no stranger to gossip, she’d never experienced it so intensely. It seemed all anyone in their realm could speak of was her and Max. So, when the news came of Culinary school, Harlow didn’t think twice before agreeing to move to Seattle. Her parents protested. Some of her friends protested. Even Max appeared unsure if she should drop out of school. Harlow framed it in a neat package – she’d transfer, she needed to get away from the gossip, she wasn’t simply following him there. She knew what to say, how to say it to make everyone happy. For the first time in her life, she even convinced herself she was doing something for herself.

In Seattle, she tried – not hard – but she tried to find a school to transfer to. Since she never really declared a major, Harlow’s credits weren’t applicable for a transfer. Every school offered her the chance to come in as a freshman. All of it felt like a waste of time. Three years in college still leaving her with no idea what she wanted to do with her life, why would she know now? At some point, she played with the idea of finding a job, but money wasn’t a problem. The conversation kept arising about what she was going to do and what she was doing. Harlow found it easy to keep writing it off as a task for the future. The night erupted into the only fight they ever had, probably because Harlow avoided conflict above anything else.

You’re not happy. Stop holding yourself back. You can’t just live for me. You need your things. All she did was cry. Nothing left her mouth. Harlow was unsure how she’d gotten here. As she watched him leave their apartment, she knew nothing would change if she didn’t. While he was gone, she applied for the art college – something always interested her about art, though she never thought she had the talent. He was right though because she needed to try and commit. Tears freshly dried on her cheeks, she heard the door open. Harlow, finally excited about something, eagerly awaited to tell him her good news. As the words slipped from his lips, informing her of his unfaithfulness, she sent him back out the door. One fight? All it took was one fight.

Harlow feared nothing more than becoming her parents… She packed her things from the apartment and ran off to Italy. One text told him to be gone when she got back – and that was the last thing she said. The heartbreak debilitated her for a while. She sunk into the cliché, not getting out of bed and eating ice cream. Her mother dragged her to a museum only a short ride from her villa. Harlow sat on a stone bench in front of a Monet and promised herself to start living life for herself.

When she arrived back in Seattle, she did just that. Applying herself came easier than expected when she found something that interested her. Art, while she was no Monet, fueled her. A realization hit her that there were other avenues she could take in the field besides being an artist. Her father and grandmother helped her find connections for internships. In a few short years, with lots of hard work, and working through summer, Harlow graduated, immediately being hired to work in a gallery to help curate. On the side, she began dealing art for her father’s hotels.

About a month ago, Harlow received a call. Her mother was sick – and hadn’t wanted to tell her. The cancer progressed farther than they originally thought. Everyone thought it was time Harlow came home.. to Crescent Harbor.

PERSONALITY

+ nurturing, agreeable, creative.

- insecure, indecisive, weak-willed.

[theblovel]

The Blovel Season 3: Episode 3

As a young man, Buxton was a bit of a dreamer and loved fantastical ideals about life. He often would visualize and immerse himself in places and experiences. Most of the places he would visit in his mind were conjured through the books Buxton read. Buxton’s parents were both highly educated professionals. His dad was an engineer and his mother was a teacher. Both were proponents of an enriched vocabulary that could only be expanded through the exploration of literature. One of the most interesting things that peaked Buxton’s interest in the books he read was the idea of romance. He loved seeing the protagonist find ways to woo his love and whisk them away from the dangers or opposition they faced and lead them towards happiness and abundant Love for eternity. Buxton wanted to be that character in his own story; he wanted to be Prince Charming.

Though Buxton was not given the time of day by many of the girls he found attractive at his school’s throughout his childhood, he never lost hope of one day finding the true love he knew existed for him. Rejection would ordinarily diminish most people’s hopes of finding that which they seek, but because of the many stories Buxton read about a guy finding his true love against all the odds stacked against him, he never saw rejection as a final straw. It was more of a relief than a frustration; he knew who wasn’t the one which narrowed the possibilities of who could be. The biggest hold on Buxton that would encapsulate him every time he thought he found his counterpart was her beauty.

Buxton was in awe of how beautiful women are. He was fascinated with the female form. It wasn’t in a perverse, obsessive kind of captivation but rather an admiration for the simplistic yet flawless creation a beautiful woman is. When he found a girl he thought was beautiful he would assume the roll of her Prince Charming. Often times Buxton was met with rejection but when he met Amber she didn’t push him away. Buxton believed Amber could be his true Love!

After their initial interaction in the school cafeteria, Buxton and Amber were nearly inseparable. They didn’t have the same class schedule but had classes near each other’s because they were both seniors. They would wait for the other to get out of class at the other’s door if they left class early. The walked through the halls holding hands. Buxton didn’t sit with his friends at lunch; he sat in the middle of the cafeteria with Amber and everyone was able to see it and neither Amber nor Buxton cared about what anyone thought. It was a beautifully orchestrated middle finger to the expectations of others. On the outside Buxton and Amber were the ideal couple.

Buxton would do any and everything he could to make Amber aware of his devotion to her. He needed for Amber to know that he was genuine and there was nothing that could keep him from Loving her with every part of his being. Amber was however not as enthusiastic about Buxton’s devotion. Through the seven months they dated, Buxton never let a day go by without telling Amber she was beautiful. Amber never really accepted Buxton’s exclamations of her beauty. She didn’t see herself as beautiful; Amber was never told by her father she was beautiful or even pretty because he never got the chance to. Both of Amber’s parents were killed in a car crash when she was just a baby. She never knew her parents. Amber was adopted by a white family and was raised in a household vastly different than Buxton’s.

Amber endured quite a bit of ridicule from her brothers and sisters in the home she grew up in. Amber was not the only adopted child. She was one of six adopted children that were taken in by the older, rich, white couple. They were generous with their home and money but not as caring and loving as those children they adopted needed them to be. Amber was one of two girls that were adopted and the other was Asian. Amber and one other boy were the only Black kids in the home and they weren’t the best of friends. Amber often felt alone and like no one understood what it was like to be in her shoes. She became callous to kindness and saw her welcoming of new people into her life as a way of showing weakness. She had to be hard to endure the pains of being unlike everyone else and making it through such a difficult ordeal meant she couldn’t just attach herself to anyone. When it came to Buxton she felt a different energy. He wasn’t judgmental. He was honest and forthright about how he felt about her. He didn’t try to engage with her sexually in a selfish, egotistical manner. He never made her feel as if she wasn’t the most important thing in the world to him, but somehow that wasn’t enough.

Their seven month anniversary was approaching and Buxton had already planned to give Amber a poem he wrote for her and a bottle of perfume he bought from a department store. It was pretty expensive bottle that Buxton had saved his allowance and birthday money to purchase this bottle of perfume just for Amber. Buxton wanted to make a big deal out of this anniversary because it was the longest relationship he has ever had, it was the only relationship Buxton ever had, but still the longest nonetheless and he believed they were doing well and on the right path. Their anniversary was only one day away and Buxton couldn’t be more excited about surprising Amber with the gifts he would present to her.

On the morning of their seven month anniversary Buxton woke up before his alarm went off. He woke up nearly three hours before he needed to because he couldn’t sleep. He was too overwhelmed with joy and happiness and a bit of anxiety about how Amber would respond to the gifts he had to give to her. He got up and turned the alarm of. He rushed to shower and get dressed to meet Jeremy downstairs so that he could hop in Jeremy’s car to ride to school. Even though Buxton and Jeremy didn’t sit at lunch together anymore they were still the best of friends. Once they got to school Buxton hoped out of the car before Jeremy could turn off the ignition. He ran through the entrance to the school and jetted upstairs to his locker. He kept Amber’s gifts there so that he wouldn’t lose them or forget them somewhere else. Once he got to his locker he put his book bag, jacket and hat in his locker and grabbed the poem and gift-wrapped perfume for Amber and waited in the cafeteria for her to arrive. They always met in the cafeteria before school to see each other. Buxton waited for Amber. He waited and waited for Amber. Everyone else cleared the cafeteria to go to homeroom but Buxton sat their waiting for Amber. The bell rang for homeroom and there was no Amber. Buxton walked into the hallway believing he would see her once he turned the corner and Amber would be right there and he would run to her and hug her and present her with the gifts for their seven month anniversary and they would be so much in Love and kids passionately without any fear of whomever could see them; Amber wasn’t there when he turned the corner. Buxton didn’t know where she was. Buxton went to homeroom hoping he would see Amber soon after like always. Following the longest homeroom in Buxton’s life, he walked into the hallways and still no Amber. Buxton went to her homeroom teacher and asked her if she had seen Amber but she hadn’t. Amber was not at school. Buxton concluded that maybe she was late to school and that he would see Amber at some point throughout out the day.

Buxton ran immediately to the door at the end of each class and sped down the hall to wait outside each of Amber’s classes eagerly awaiting to see her. She wasn’t at any of her classes prior to lunch. Buxton couldn’t understand why Amber wasn’t where she would have normally been. Buxton walked over to the attendance office and asked if they saw Amber walk in today. The office attendant said that Amber was not in school but left a note specifically for Buxton. Buxton picked up the note and walked out towards the bleachers at the football field. He often sat there and contemplated things that required focus and sorting through. He opened the letter and began reading,

“Dear Buxton,

I’m not going to be at school today or any other day here after. Both of my adoptive parents have past away just like both of my biological parents passed away. It wasn’t in an accident but the both died from carbon monoxide poisoning. As a result, I’m being sent to live with their closet family member who is a niece that I’ve met before but lives in Chicago. It seems like it’s going to be a better living situation but it will require me to have to be apart from you. I didn’t know how to tell you and I wasn’t sure how to face you knowing I would have to leave you on our anniversary. I’m so sorry I have to leave but it’s out of my hands. Please know that you have shown me something that I never knew before; you showed me how to Love. I will forever be grateful for you. I Love You. Maybe one day our stars will align again. Peace My Love.”

[odyssey-of-a-human-being]

Konta vs Ostapenko - a Saga in Three Parts Lemonade, Two Parts Vodka, One Part Pimm’s

It’s June 29th at time of writing and I am sober. As an unemployed, unemployable man it always feels quite natural to watch the television. As circumstance would have it, I happened upon a tennis match on BBC2. “This will have to do,” I lamented to my warm can of comfort (beer). Fate had thrust me into a match between two female women’s-tennis players: the teenaged Latvian wunderkind Ostapenko, a spunky, highly aggressive player whose meteoric rise to tennis fame put me in mind of a meteor (ascending, rather than crumbling to nothing in the atmosphere), and whose endearing frustrations translate in sporting terms to not just personality, but a personality, the highest accolade any woman sportsman can hope to achieve. She was battling against her opponent, Konta, who was quite tall and wore pink.

It was obvious who the home favourite was, particularly after John Inverdale remarked that she was “the home favourite here at Eastbourne.” As it transpired, Konta – Jo Konta – was in fact the British number one women’s-tennis player and number five women’s-tennis female player worldwide. And then I pitied her – I could see the weight of expectation that had been imposed upon her. Every broken microwave, every smashed up toaster from every penalty shootout in the modern era dangled over her like the Sword of Damocles. Because it’s always been a source of deep shame and secret regret to the English that the greatest tennis player in the world - perhaps in the entire universe - our national hero, our homegrown British champion is not in fact English, and soon will cease even to be British. Moreover, Murray, busy with training, never developed his personality, let alone a personality.

Sponsors, event organisers, broadcasters, journalists, content distributors...they can make him juggle cantaloupes, trim his neckline, play instead with a squash racket for Sports Relief (for money); they can tee him up with softball questions desperate for some kind of humorous aside, but it’s symptomatic of our denial: not only is Andy Murray - our national Hero - a foreigner, he doesn’t even possess a personality. Off court, he may as well walk into his airing cupboard and power down until morning practice. Observe the relationship with his wife and you’ll see there’s about as much chemistry in it as a North Korean chemistry GCSE – which is to say there’s some but that it’s essentially false, with some rather telling errors and glaring omissions betraying a blatant misunderstanding of the basics of chemistry. Long have I wondered what she sees in Sir Andy Murray. I suppose I pity her, too. 

The days of Henmania – days of hope for our nation’s greatest semifinalist – are long over, and soon history shall forget him, as indeed it has forgotten multiple Doctor Who episodes, charity wristbands and custom ringtones. Or perhaps he shall instead be vilified? Which would he prefer? Shall we judge him for demoralising the British spirit, for that time he got disqualified in 1995 – thankfully in the doubles – for hitting a ballgirl in the face. Will we happily forget that it was with a tennis ball? Shall instead it be his racket, or his Scottish fists?

Jo Konta - the Heroine of the Hardcourt, The Queen of Clay, The Grass Goddess - is she doomed to a similar fate? Doomed to the mercy of our damaged hopes, a victim to our scorn, the goat to our damaged scapes, the nationally despised national hero, shall She die for our sins? We accept we cannot have an Englishman champion but we have a Scottish one, so who is to say we are not ready for a female woman one? Surely we’ve moved past all that. Can we not welcome her likewise into our needy arms, as we did indeed Mo Farah? Is this our new prime candidate…is this Henwomania?

And then, out of frenzied panic, I googled her: that was when my hope crumbled like so much vintage cheddar, for ‘Jo’ was a deception. Perhaps you thought it was short for Joanna? Nein. It’s Johanna. And Konta – Mr. Konta isn’t drinking Carling down at the Red Lion and moaning about the surnames of the senior England football squad. Mr. Konta isn’t tagging the Kontas of this world into anonymous hateposts. Yes, you’ve got it – her parents are South African and she played for Australia – quite naturally, having lived there until she was 14. I can understand a Scottish champion, but surely it is beyond our pale to root for a South African Austro-Anglian woman’s-tennis player. I pondered on all this, and having found it to be profoundly sobering I poured myself a Pimm’s (& vodka) and lemonade.

After the first set (Konta nudged out Ostapenko in a deciding game) I decided to invest fully and totally into the match - and it was only then that I noticed an ugly tension in the atmosphere. And I understood it immediately. The crowd…old, white, crusty Tories, they were not rooting for the South African Austro-Anglian, they were rather wishing failure upon the Latvian Latvian. And then it took on an altogether political tone. The Old Tory Brexiteers, upper middle class, upper middle-aged men, perving on women they despise – men mercifully unaware of private browsers, let alone Google Chrome. The top 2%, the only people worse than the 1%: in this sense, Eastbourne is considerably worse than Wimbledon – ask any self-respecting tennis-hating tennis fan. Look at them, in their brown brogues and authentic Ray Ban’s, enjoying a perv and a Pimm’s – “It’s Perv o’Clock!” I overhear one of them say, rubbing his hands together – wrinkled with time, not toil. Unwittingly rooting for their immigrant. An Australian, no less. But shall we forgive them for they know not what they do?

I poured myself another vodka (& Pimm’s) & lemonade, no ice or fruit or anything, and I knew then, for sure, what I thought I knew before. “This,” I said to myself, “is war. Plain and simple.” And it was that dreaded Brexit. Our minds have become enspoiled with its putrid filth, like a dangerous dangly dirty politoctopus, whose slimy tentacles invade the sanctity of our personal space, encroaching it, squirming through it, past through our eyes and our tears and our ears and into our tiny little brains, fidgeting down through to the small of our backs, its tendrils gathering like polyfiller through to our corpus callosa – the brain: an organ as predictable and as knowable as the spleen. Look at it: a great grey meaty bolus. And it was then that I vowed to be a soldier in this war: fighting the good fight. Henceforth, all my meals are to be made with non-locally sourced ingredients – my sausage shall be German, my mash shall be mashed up French fries (also German, Dr Oetker – oh yes, it will be complicated). I shall master every cuisine of the world, learn every other language, cram my brain full with enough knowledge of the vocabulary and grammatical nuance of every language, every dialect, every patois, in the hope that I will eventually expunge all existing knowledge of my mother tongue, expunge every pub-factoid, every pop-cultural frame of reference, all my slang, all my friends, my childhood memories, everything that ever happened to take place in this scuppered Isle, to get rid of all of it! Replace it with knowledge of Scandinavian politics, the etiquette of Japanese cuisine, re-learn how to cycle, but along the frigid canals of Amsterdam, spliff in hand - smoke and steam in the winter air - French cheese and Polish cold-cuts in my wicker basket, trring-trring!, with a great big massive baguette, and I’ll learn to love Finnish melodic death metal, appreciate German architecture, practice Persian poetry, study Chinese history, explore Norse Mythology and eat those little paprika crisps you sometimes find in Lidl. I consummated this noble decision - and to me it felt like a good start in the brain-damaging process – with yet another vodka & lemonade (and a dash of Pimm’s).

As I sobered up after a small nap and after a small period of time, my allegiance toward Europe and the promises I had splurted at a mirror I had mistaken for my own face, now moist with spittle, had somewhat waned. My unshakable hatred toward the wind-power couple – Murray and Murray wife – had now settled into amused bemusement. My anger towards the audience was now little more than a mild vexation – a mere frustration, a puzzling perturberance – nothing more, nothing less. And probably not even that. And the words ‘Ostapenko’ and ‘Konta’ suddenly evoked within me as much emotion as the words ‘limestone’ and ‘velcro’ do. The episode was finally over: I had drunk myself into contention and slept it off.  The match finished, Ostapenko having lost, and I was at peace. As an 18-24 year old educated to master’s degree level I am naturally quite accustomed to failure, and tennis. I lost in 2010. I lost in Brexit. I lost in 2015. I lost against Konta. As indeed we all did. But I did not lose Andy Murray. That’s right – I won the Independence referendum. Which is to say I didn’t lose it. Murray’s ours, for now at least. But we should be prepared. For we shall lose him. And that’s why we need, now, a man like Joe Konta, to step into his red, blue and white sneakers (except at Wimbledon where they’re not allowed) should he no longer need them. Because Murray won’t be here forever. Look at that stony-faced expression, gazing outward in press conferences waiting for his questions to be translated, desperate to think of nothing. Desperate not to be there. There is more in that glazed expression than Murray could express in a million words. Look at him. Dare to countenance him. 

Murray himself has begun to lose Murray. And losing is not an option. 

[whitelennykravitz-blog]

I guess Warsaw now has very high contrast memories for me. I’ve been there twice: once on a fickle weekend for sex, and now on a weekend that was dense with my life. This second time was a Friday through Tuesday that included everything: laughter, crying, broken teeth, and mental spaces that both seemed insignificant and insurmountably oppressive.

I’ve been seeing Katarzyna for about a year. Or I guess we met about a year ago, when I walked into the building that housed my new studio, and saw her alit on a balcony wearing a kimono. I say “alit”, because she seemed to be drifting around the concrete railings after having just landed from above, with ivy around her that clung with an air of casualness to walls that showed no signs of hand holds.

She introduced herself a few minutes later and I was smitten. Her face beautiful and turned towards mine, and eyes that held vast confidence that clearly masked severe self-doubt. Eyes like mine. I think that’s why we got along so well. And the sex. Which was amazing. Although, we had the worst first sex I’ve ever had in my life. About halfway through there was a moment where we both looked at each other and the unspoken was almost deafening as it reverberated around awkwardly entangled limbs, “Do we really want to keep doing this?” I would have never thought that sex so clumsy and awful could ever become what it did. Insatiable. Our sex life was the Brussels sprout of my sex life: intolerable at first, and now craved and lusted for.

She was not so keen on me at the start of things. In fact I think she didn’t like me. But something of me found hooks in her, and vice-versa, and a year of fucking in clubs, lead to long distant telephone calls across the world, to us finally landing in the same area of the world once again, where I decided I wanted to break up. It’s hard to tell if it was a flare up of the crushing depression I suffer from that is what caused me to pull the trigger, or the fact that two artists hanging out is basically a pingpong match of people starting sentences with “I”. All those “I”s and distance and it became a practice of spending time with someone while somehow still being completely alone. Either way, distance and the sensation that I was screaming behind my face made me call it quits.

I initially did this over Skype. Never break up with people on Skype, especially if they are prone to large swings of emotion. I now know this after a 4 hour session of being yelled at, being called a coward, and then being told how much I was loved.  This all ended with us planning on meeting in Warsaw to talk about things face-to-face. I know that doesn’t logically follow, but suspend disbelief in the details of this story.

We decided to put off Our Talk until Sunday, giving us 2 days of pretending like we were a real couple. We saw friends, went to exhibitions, fucked like we were trying to redecorate rooms through kinetic energy. I don’t think I’ve ever navigated the texture of so many surfaces with my balls before. This was due to a stage of the fucking that meandered through a foyer and kitchen, where different ledges and surfaces (each adorned with it’s own selection of free range objects, knobs, and finishes) meant a new terrain for my balls to high five like a drunk frat boy at homecoming. Oven knobs, keys, and a steak knife, I believe, were all involved at one point.

We spent some time with her friends: artists she knew and an ex-boyfriend. The ex, had always treated me sort of like shit telling me that weekend, in condescending tones, how to pronounce Katarzyna’s name correctly while we bought beer in a convenience store. Or maybe it wasn’t condescension, but just the protection of someone who knew I was a day or two away from really hurting her. It’s hard to tell. The first time I met him he walked into the room briskly and declared “tell me something about you.” Which is a dismissive and affronting command that I tried to laugh off, as I thought about the ways gorillas establish dominance. I also thought about how I really didn’t have anything to say about myself, but the first thing that came to mind was to tell him the last thing I had had to eat. After this first meeting, Katarzyna agreed something strange had happened. Feelings that still dwelled? Anger over their breakup?

Katarzyna loved to talk about how beautiful she was and I could see how certain men looked at her. When I look back at the group of characters that I was flung through, I’m trying to guess which one she’ll fuck now. I guess that’s pretty stupid and shallow, but it’s the truth. My money is on Dawid, a photographer/PhD in art, who clearly likes Katarzyna, and who she clearly likes the attention from. Maybe he’s the one.

We also had a dinner with her brother who I had never met before. His boyfriend and he met us at an Italian restaurant where I watched the dynamics of sibling order take over, as Katarzyna turned into a younger sister, with simplified vocabulary and school girl antics. I think the love between siblings has the potential to bring out their deepest insecurities. Maybe it’s because they can’t let their ego swell up in the face of someone that knows them so well.

The breakup talks started the next morning, Sunday, around 1pm after a night in a shitty club, doing some shitty drugs, and having some rough sex that ended up with Katarzyna chipping two teeth. She was into getting slapped and thrown around during sex, but with the teeth grinding invoked by this particular drug, one slap ended with a chipped bottom and top tooth. This now gives us one more thing in common, besides our narcissism and being lovers, as both of my front teeth are chipped due to a night that involved acid, cocaine, a flaccid penis, and a woman intent on fixing this with an extremely eager blowjob (which I could only look down at both with fright and awe while I bit down so hard, that I broke my teeth. This woman, Cleo, was actually someone that I dated after a particularly long relationship, and on this teeth breaking night I had randomly ran into her at a bar and somehow ended up walking back to her place as I explained, “I’m pretty fucked up and definitely can’t get hard.” And she nodded with a sly smile like she knew something I didn’t. But she didn’t know such things. It was like a mall cop standing outside an English football stadium in the throws of a riot and saying, “Don’t worry, I got this.” before bolting into an entrance with too much enthusiasm.)

It’s an interesting connection to notice, because Cleo was the first person to get me into rough sex. Ropes, gags, and pushing the limits of physicality. We met when I didn’t have a room of my own — I was floating around Seattle — and I asked to use my friend Jon’s room for a date night with her. After being tied spread eagle onto his bed, fucked, and hit with a belt, we took a break for drinks, only to have Jon and his girlfriend return to his room. I guess a pro tip here is: don’t leave a bunch of ropes tied to the bed of your friend, with a random belt and a heap of condoms presented almost like gifts at the foot of his bed, when this friend has a very jealous girlfriend. This girlfriend will never talk to you again.

But Katarzyna and I took all that to a whole new level. It’s not a place to unpack here, but she made me reframe what a physical relationship is: the celebration of the independence of two bodies that choose to spend a moment of time together.

Anyway.

The thing about breakups is that both people want to be understood. To be heard, and acknowledged. The problem always is that if you both understood each other perfectly there probably wouldn’t be an issue in the first place; the issue would have been fixed. So the Long Tail of relationships can happen where you mix arguments with breakup sex over and over in the hope of baking the perfect We Both Understand cookie. This cookie doesn’t exist.

An extra piece to the whole thing was that on Sunday around 2 or 3 hours into talking/yelling, Katarzyna’s mom called to say her grandpa had died. This wasn’t out of left-field, he had stopped eating and drinking fluids a week before, but the timing was somewhat absurd. Over drinks the following day Katarzyna jokingly retold the story of our breakup, as if talking to friends, saying “and then my mom called to say my grandpa had died, and he thought, ‘nah, I’ll still break up with her.’” There’s a lot I want to say about her grandfather. But there are only a few snippets that popped into my head when I heard he had passed: he was in the war, his wife was mean to him, he had seen too much. My sister remembered that he had an apartment that looked exactly the same since he moved into it after the war. It was like going back in time. I didn’t remember this, which made me feel very bad.

There was a lot of crying that weekend. From both of us. At a certain point I broke down and wailed like an animal. Katarzyna drew me a bath and lead me to it as I seemed to be overplaying the part of a lobotomized patient. There was a point right before where I thought, “this looks good if I seem to feel this bad.”, but then I realized I actually felt that bad; playing crazy and then realizing no game is actually happening. 

She soaked a scarf in the hot water and draped it on my head. Splashed water on my shoulders and back. She couldn’t help but flick my cock once. That’s one thing: she creeped on my body hard, all the time, and it was the sweetest thing. The next day I was able to return the ritual to her, making her a bath and caressing her as she wept and took deep breaths.

I think she performed the ritual better: my approach felt a bit like applying sunscreen to someones face using only the backs of my hands.

Such strong emotional engagements in bed made for some interesting conflicts between body and mind. Katarzyna would scream or cry, but this look would creep in her eye, and she would excuse herself in an emotional explosion, getting out of bed by pushing off of me, her hand placed fully on my chest, or resting precariously close to my cock. It was like subway creepers “accidently” brushing against strangers. Similarly, I would be talking and holding her, and suddenly be completely hard. We were in middle school, slow dancing; a lot going on with maybe only a 30% conscious understanding of what was happening.

I think as I get older and look at what I have failed to accomplish, it can be hard to hang out with younger people making something of their lives. The whole breakup conversation was made worse by it being lead by a young woman driven and dedicated to a certain path. If I had been coming to awareness of my poor basketball skills while talking to Lebron James, the sensation would be similar.

I cried, and laughed, and fucked, while thinking, “that could be me!” Which is actually a funny sentiment to have with her as the previous year she had thrown me a surprise party where everyone was wearing masks of my face, which I then asked if she could wear during sex. We cut a hole in the mouth and I watched my unblinking face as I blew myself. It felt a little like getting a blowjob from a character in Goldeneye. After I gave myself a facial, she put on one of my sweaters and jumped eagerly onto all fours on my bed, looking over her shoulder. My face peeking over the shoulder of a beautiful young woman’s body, which made me see my normal face as one begging for sex as I tried to put everything together in my head. I couldn’t finish fucking doggy style. It felt like a bit much.

Anyway, I had technically been her at one point in my life. And fucked myself. Which seems very similar to the current situation.

On Monday we woke up late and I think I ate the best pussy of my life. Katarzyna’s entire body became paralyzed and she retreated to a ball and started crying. She was terrified at not being able to move and described something that, to me, sounded like her pussy throwing up all over her body. I’m sure the intense emotional context had a lot to do with it, but I’m going to go ahead and give myself a gold star anyways.

We went out for one last date together. We drank Prossecco and got a seafood platter that reminded me of how I hated seafood platters. It’s a lot of work spread across suspicious flavors; all Mike and Ikes mixed with black licorice that is too salty. But the point is they’re fancy and it seemed like a thing people get on a first date, which maybe are also the perfect things to get on the last date.

I left early the next morning. We lay in bed those final moments and I told her I loved her.  It felt a little like saying hello to say goodbye; Hawaiian customs adapted to a failed relationship. She stood in the apartment’s entry in a kumano. Her body a stripe down the open front. Light switches and door bells seemed to hover around the walls. But the door wasn't a good place to say goodbye, because half of my mind was on the elevator arriving. It did. I entered, and it closed around her body, the building swallowing her up.

I’m still trying really hard to remember exactly the look in her eye. Probably over the years it will be many things.

I turned to look at the mirror in the elevator and my hair looked like shit — I looked like shit — and I thought about how this is exactly as she would remember me.

I thought about two nights before as we both entered the elevator and immediately did the preening checks that most are wont to do in elevator mirrors: the subtle turns of the face and drawing of facial muscles, as we quickly scan the imperfections that we are trying to hide.

I can see her pretty clearly in the mirror at that moment, as stacked layers of a woman seen on a balcony, in a doorway, and through some things in-between that seem hard to put my finger on.