#i love her. but i think its important to recognize that shes completely deranged and she/her pronouns wouldnt change that.

[cemeterything]

love the concept of transfem fitzjames not just because it's both fun to headcanon characters as trans and also thematically appropriate in her case but because i feel like she'd be so ideologically incoherent about it. she'd be like i should be allowed to fight and die in a war not because i'm a man or a woman but because i'm james fitzjames and i can do anything. diversity ??? this trans woman is defying traditional gender roles in a way that seemingly benefits absolutely no one.

[cockbiteproductions]

multiples of 8, except in the misc section. all even numbers for the misc section

200: My crush’s name is: well well well this question again. you’re not getting anything out of me!!! they fucking use this website!!!

192: I am allergic to: nothing. but i found out like yesterday not everyone gets dermatographia and im kinda annoyed. what do you mean your skin doesnt get red and puffy the moment you touch it......

184: Xbox or ps3: xbox solely because of ah

176: Last YouTube video watched: my watch history says this, which is a scene from a show called billions. this scene in particular is about my favorite character asking about their introduction scene with their former mentor figure that they quickly outranked and asking why they were picked for the internship that lead them down this [entire shitpath].

168: Luck: [long sigh]. [puts on clown makeup].

[obi wan voice] im my experience there’s no such thing as luck. 

[rian voice] luck? there’s probability plausibility and actuality. luck is superstition. luck is lazy math. [winston voice] that’s what i always say.

160: Soul mates: again souls arent real..... nor do i believe that people are “meant for each other” on any sort of cosmic/larger level. you are more compatible with people based on your upbringing and your interests and your values and those are adaptable over time though some people are so different that they will never get along and other people match/complement each other incredibly well.

152: Phone or Online: lmaoooo this questionnaire once again showing its age. throwback to when these things weren’t synonymous. online for sure. what am i gonna do with a phone? talk to someone with my fucking voice? i think not.

144: Oranges or Apples: to eat by themselves? probably apples since they are easier and less of a mess. and apples are more consistently better than oranges. oranges, it’s easy to get a batch that just sucks. juiced? probably orange. i love me some fuckin orange juice. but i like apple cider more than orange juice.

136: Hillary or Obama: lmaoooo again.. the age of this. 2008 or 2012. going to guess 2008. obama but not like. enthusiastically. while he was certainly better than [what we got going on now] he still bombed the hell outta some countries......

128: Manicure or Pedicure: ive never had either but i would probably be more comfortable with a manicure. people touching my feet would make me ticklish.

120: Gay Marriage: the only type that should be allowed. sorry straights youre no longer allowed to get married. /s obviously.

112: Facebook: oh BOY are you fucking ready. are you???? im starting the readmore NOW because this is going to be something. i doubt anyone except robots maybe will actually read my deranged pro-privacy anti-facebook/social media/surveillance rant but im angry every time i think about it and if i were a more important person than a rando on the internet with a keyboard im sure facebook would hire someone to kill me one day.

FUCK FACEBOOK. FUCK THAT SHITTY ASS WEBSITE THAT AT EVERY TURN HAS BEEN REVEALED TO HAVE HORRIFYING PRACTICES OF DATA COLLECTION.

but before that, they need to pay some goddamn fucking taxes. they are profiting off the data of billions of people and getting away with paying SO LITTLE back. 

you ever hear about deepface? no this is not the beginning of a prequel meme. deepface is facebook’s facial recognition technology and facial recognition is fucking terrifying. that shit is as good as humans at facial recognition at this point. does that not scare you? that a bunch of computers can figure out if this photo contains you or not? it’s one thing if humans recognize each other, but another thing when computers who can process data almost infinitely faster than humans can are able to do it. the scale and speed at which these fucking nightmares operates is hard for us to imagine and so we are all not scared enough of what they can do. this kind of technology is so deeply privacy violating it’s hard for me to stress it enough. every image of you ever uploaded on the internet could possibly be put through facial recognition tech. and with the fact that there are cameras literally everywhere at all times now at this point it’s so fucking possible that if desired, someone could find out where you are at all times. and that gets SO scary when used by governments. are you comfortable with your government knowing where YOU are at all times? yes? what about if tomorrow your government is overthrown by a group of radicals you completely disagree with? you still comfortable with that? facial recognition is kind of a fucking pandoras box that we are opening and now that we have the technology available to us, unless we actively take steps back from it, it WILL eventually/already is being used in malicious, intensely privacy invasive ways.

and everything in that above bullet point goes for ALL DATA COLLECTED ON YOU, EVER. everything you’ve ever said on facebook is probably put through some multi layered neural network fucking robot who is learning how to understand what humans say on your input and also cataloging things about you as a person. it is doing SO MUCH more than reading the exact text of what you are saying and then picking up on keywords. neural networks are an attempt to copy how humans think by making an artificial version of a brain basically. in simple terms it’s a map of points and connections and you feed it data for a while and tell it what the desired outcome should be. it will adjust those connections and the weight of those points based on your data and expected outcome. that change in connections and weights is how it learns. then after a while it has fed on enough data that it will begin to expect what your desired outcome is. now imagine millions and millions of connections and points. it’s fucking huge. you ever hear about how we don’t know how machine learning/deep learning/neural networks works? this is that. it’s because they are so large and they have changed their weights and points so much that we no longer understand how it makes its decisions. ml is on a deeper level starting to understand what you mean when you say words. like a human. and can pick up nuances humans cannot because of its perfect memory. do you understand how scary this is? do you? i really do not know how to express this better how absolutely buckshit wild and terrifying the idea that everything i say online can be scraped and put through a robot and a profile on me and who i am and my ideals can be gathered almost instantly. how hard would it be to write a scraper that goes to my blog and grabs the text of every post in my talk tag? and then there’s free and open source nlp software (or you can pay for it) and you can feed in everything ive said on this blog ever. you can go to my facebook. you can go to my twitter. you can find my profiles on every online platform ive ever used and take everything ive ever said and determine what kind of person i am based on that. and then you can then make further distinctions based on that data. (sidenote: facebook wouldnt have to scrape the data on my profile, it’s all in their databases already. they have everything ive ever posted on public or private, on my old profile i’ve deactivated, every photo ive posted or been tagged in, everything ive ever uploaded to their servers or have been associated with.) and someone or robot can make decisions about me based on that data. it could just be am i likely to buy [this product] or it could be something much more like am i a threat? am i dangerous to you, the person using this data about me? what are my politics? what are my views on [this topic]? are they too extreme? should i be denied [real life thing] based on what this machine has determined about me from my data online? not to sound fucking crazy, but you ever watch that episode of black mirror? nosedive? and its system where you can rate interactions with people? how this one girl was trying to increase her ranking so she would qualify for a cheaper price on housing? how we’re already starting to see things like this in real life with china’s social credit system?

call me a fucking wack job but i think it’s so deeply creepy that we have digitized so many aspects of our lives and leave machines we no longer understand how they make their decisions to analyze every bit of data about ourselves.

by the fucking way facebook tracks data on people WHO DO NOT USE FACEBOOK. FACEBOOK TRACKS DATA ON PEOPLE. WHO. DO. NOT. USE. FACEBOOK. are you scared? i am.

i’ve been thinking about this tweet from @/malwaretech on twitter from a few days ago. text: On a serious note, social media tracking is more extensive than you may think. For example: those Facebook 'like' buttons you see on every website? They call home. If you're logged into your FB account, it records that you visited that web page, even if you don't click 'like'. doesn’t that sound a lil fucked up to anyone else? that facebook knows that i visited that webpage even though i did not tell it? that it will use that data to build a better profile on what my interests are and that it will use that data to better sell ads to me? i’ll be honest i am unsure of if facebook sells that information to other vendors. i think that might be not allowed but i wouldn’t be surprised if that data somehow got into the hands of people who arent facebook.

the fact that for the longest time you could NOT get your data deleted from facebook? that even if you deactivated your account facebook would still keep all of that in their shit ass servers forever? as far as i know, that’s changed now, but i would not at all be surprised if the next day it was revealed that facebook was Actually Keeping all that info anyways

the fact that by default facebook’s privacy settings are set to allow anyone to see most info about you? just this whole opt out culture is so fucking wack. it should be opt in. your privacy settings should default on the MOST PRIVATE and it should be up to you to ACTIVELY SEARCH OUT how to change them to public. it is ON FACEBOOK to actively cultivate privacy but of fucking course they don’t.

lmao cambridge analytica politics russia brexit trump. i don’t have the energy to even open this fucking can of worms but i will say that again, another layer of deeply fucked up that political campaigns can use that data to try to coerce or influence elections.

do you remember when in 2019. yes twenty. fucking. nineteen. 2019. two thousand and nineteen. 2019. i dont know how more to stress how recent but late this is. 2019. facebook admitted that it and instagram were still. STILL. STILL. S T I L L. storing passwords as plaintext? meaning your password that is “password123ilovedogs” is stored AS “password123ilovedogs” in their database. it is STANDARD AND EXPECTED PRACTICE that websites store SECURE hashes of passwords (not like fucking. md5 or something) meaning you do a bunch of fucking “irreversible” math on the password and store that instead of the actual password itself. so the db would be storing “298!79v@w8W#R;3,f9jf” instead of your actual password. anyways face. fucking. book. was storing passwords as plain text. which means if they ever have a data breach on their passwords db then all that data inside will just be your actual goddamn password. your actual goddamn password. what the fuck? what the fuck? and we still use this website? we? me? i use this website daily? i use this website on a daily fucking basis and allow it to continue to collect information on me? im so goddamn angry.

the fact that now in this day and age you are considered weird for not having any social media? super fucked up. the fact that employers will check your social media and if you don’t have one that is somehow a red flag? weird as hell. why must we participate in the world’s largest data collection scandal ever just to be a member of society? i cannot choose to opt out. facebook collects data on me even if i do not have an account. society expects me to have some form of social media and if i do not then that i am the weird one for it. if you choose to live a life of trying not to be tracked it is almost impossible. can you live your life in modern society without an email address? without a smartphone or laptop? there is an expectation that every person is available to communicate with digitally and if you find the practice of data collection abhorrent and don’t want to use websites that do so, then you’re the weird one who has a LOT of society’s services unavailable to you.

im not going to even touch on the psychological effects that facebook and social media have on people other than to ONCE AGAIN, say they are very real and deeply fucked up.

by the way check out haveibeenpwned. enter your email and it’ll check against databases to see if your email has been on recent dumps. i have been. lately there have been a few older accounts of mine that have been breached and it’s terrifying.

fuck jesse eisenberg man he fucked over spiderman crazy

fuck faang. fuck big tech. fuck data collection. btw edward snowden is a hero. fuck all of this.

104: The future: man we’re in for it. i am not optimistic about it at all. too much tech progression / not enough foresight / expansion/globalization of the world / global warming / political and economic issues are all coming to a head to make the world a fucking disaster.

96: Changed a diaper: never done it! i am not around children often.

88: Something I will really miss when I leave home is: having a vague idea of where things are locally. im very bad with directions.

86: The thing that I’m looking forward to the most: answered already.

84: People call me: yeesa, apparently. i have a fair amount of nicknames but i just call myself teresa.

82: I have gotten a speeding ticket: sure haven’t though i deserve one

80: The first person i talked to today was: soph​ because she wakes up at a normal goddamn time so i’ll sometimes have a text from her from a few hrs ago

76: Right now I am talking to: milo and a discord server im in for a group of friends i made when i was applying to college. though i havent responded in quite a while since i went on my angry facebook rant.

74: I have/will get a job: well i HAD a job for the beginning of the summer when i was a TA but i do not any more as that was first summer semester only. hopefully in the fall i’ll have a job as a TA again but who knows. and then after that when i graduate i hope hope hope hope hope i will have a job lined up.

72: Today: woke up. made a plum smoothie. played minecraft. took a nap. here i am. it’s all very riveting.

70: Next Weekend: it’ll happen for sure. odds are i will be waking up and eating food and coming on the internet and chatting with friends and doing a bit of writing and trying to learn a bit more html.

68: The worst sound in the world: answered already.

66: People that make you happy: will roland lmao. 

64: My friends are: well it’s basically the same people i tagged in my last post on people who make me happy.

62: My School: you tryin to doxx me? it’s alright. not the best for my major. and also stupidly trying to reopen for the fall because theyre greedy and idiots. it was like my 5th choice school but it is what it is.....

60: I lose all respect for people who: already answered

58: Your hair color is: black as fuck. im east asian.

56: Favorite web site: controversial but archive of our own dot org i guess. i believe in their mission and like how they have advocated for fans and have created a fan-owned space on the internet. they’re not perfect but i overall support them.

54: The worst pain I was ever in was: answered already

52: My room is: a time capsule of what i liked in late middle school/early high school.

50: Where would you like to be: im fine where i am. maybe visiting friends though. i would like to Hang With Them and Do Fun Activities.

48: Ever been in love: who’s to say....... what is love? (baby don’t hurt me). but for real the concept of love is weird to me, especially romantic love. i don’t know. i’ve certainly obsessed over people. i’ve noticed i kind of “pick people” to have crushes on. i can’t really say why. but then it creates a feedback loop of i pay more attention to them -> i think more about them -> i like them more. so i’ve made conscious decisions that have lead to me obsessing over people.

46: More guy friends or girl friends: girl but that’s just because people in fandom spaces tend to be women and most of my friends ive made through fandom.

44: One person that you wish you could see right now: kaity is coming to my town but we cant see each other because of a pandemic so im kinda fucking miffed about that. i didn’t get to see maria before she left my state so i’m also miffed about that.

42: Have you made a list of things to do before you die: lmaooooo no. i would just like to be satisfied with my life. would like to see friends. do fun things with them. 

40: Last person I got mad at: idk im not generally a mad person. mark zuckerberg probably.

38: I wish I was a professional: as in i suddenly have all the skills and talent needed to be a professional? i think a director &|| writer tbh. i would love to have the Creative Vision necessary to come up with dope ideas AND translate what i have in mind into real life. i would love the ability to be able to tell compelling stories that mean a lot to people.

32: Athlete: lmao if it was 2008 or 2012 i would ahve said ryan lochte but nevermind. idk. maybe katie ledecky.

24: Movie: am not much one for movies...... star trek 2009.

16: Book: i don’t know how to read.

8: Yankee candle scent: idk about yankee candle specifically but i love the smell of apple. 

[monicalorandavis]

Let’s all quit fucking around and give Renee her Oscar for ‘Judy’ now

I am several months late to the ‘Judy’ party. But due to a trip getting cancelled last minute I’m having a staycation instead of a vacation. (Tomato, tomahto!) Needless to say, I’ve got time on my side and I’m watching movies, baby. Time for Judy Garland, baby. Because that’s showbiz, baby!!!

I regret even joking about the razzle dazzle of show business because for Judy Garland show business, the very business she adored, also destroyed her. And that whole journey through the dark, twisted roller coaster of entertainment is sort of the thesis statement of this whole thing.

“The biz” was a cruel bitch to the greatest entertainer of all time. Her nic-name was Miss Show Business for crying out loud and yet when we meet Zellweger, playing the title character in ‘Judy’, she’s in the final year of her life, struggling to keep a roof over her children’s heads. She’s gaunt, exhausted, addicted to pills, alcohol and can’t manage to meet a decent man to save her life.

And instead of nitpicking every wrong choice that led her there, director Rupert Goold allows us into the plodding sojourn that was Judy Garland’s final tour in England. She’d lost custody of her children to ex-husband no. 3 and finally went across the pond where her fans were still willing to pay top dollar for the Hollywood legend. 

But when she gets to England we peer into the sheer loneliness that encompasses the lives of the super famous. No friends to share dinner with, kids thousands of miles away, and vulturous men always lurking on the sidelines. It’s grim and bleak and you can’t imagine things ever getting so bad. And yet they were. But, again, and I have to stress this because some power of Judy Garland compels me to underline this as a fellow woman in the arts, this is not the story of how Judy Garland ended up broke. It’s the story of how she tried her damnedest to make enough money to get her kids back because we actors are tryers.

She was a relentless performer who tried. Over and over again. She tried and tried and tried. She tried to put on a good show every night and we watch Zellweger lose the battle to those cloying pills and that seductive martini until she quite literally falls on her face. No, she doesn’t pretend like it didn’t happen. She gets up and is booed off stage and she barks back. And then she gets fired and gets word that her children want to stay with their father in Los Angeles. The final twist of the knife. Zellweger delivers that final conversation to her youngest daughter with aplomb and grace. The Judy Garland we wanted to know - Judy Garland, the mother. Tortured, flawed, generous and loving. A sensitive, soulful singer who had to fight for every scrap of dignity she ever got.

And I kept finding myself wanting to change how things turned out. She was so, so good. So talented. So kind. So willing to give herself to the audience, to new friends. She deserved more.

In one scene, that gives me chills to even think about, she asks two male fans to dinner and they can’t believe their luck. Only after dragging Judy Garland around the streets of London all night in hopes of a meal do they agree to host her at their home just blocks away. She obliges graciously and, of course because a living legend is in your home, they totally ruin the meal. And she couldn’t be a more gracious guest. She eats the terrible, soggy eggs, then, sings while her new friend plays the piano and, then, comforts him when he crumples into a ball of tears, overcome by this grand situation he finds himself in. She knows, and we know, that these two men are gay and the point is not belabored or sentimentalized. Instead, Goold treats us, the audience, like grown-ups with enough context to understand how important Judy Garland was to the gay community. She was their patron saint. Be it all the struggle, the pain under the surface and the resolve to put one foot in front of the other and sing her heart out in spite of it all. A metaphor for being gay, perhaps. Her life and legacy meant something to the community and still does. (The Stonewall Riots occurred on the day Judy Garland died and I think it played no small part in pushing things over the edge that fateful day.)

What a fight it was to be Judy Garland. A star who’d been spit out by Hollywood. Any actress over 40 will tell you their version of the story. And maybe no one understands that today quite like the star of ‘Judy’, Miss Zellweger.

I don’t think Renee Zellweger’s ever been better. She fucking soars. She sings her ass off (and I didn’t know the bitch could sing, not like this). In some instances, the resemblance is so striking between Zellweger and Garland it baffles the mind to reconcile that you are not looking at the original Judy, herself. Somehow, Zellweger completely transforms even the expression in her eyes as if the thought process, or the experience, or perhaps even the torment, is the same between both starlets. How else can an actor arrive at the exact same place as the person they are imitating? How do you achieve not just a version of a person, but the person, themselves?

I do not know what spiritual voodoo Zellweger achieved (move over, Christian Bale!). But this performance is an achievement of the highest order. I imagine Garland herself, at times her toughest critic, would be thrilled to watch the film even in its hardest moments.

Because Judy, and I suspect Renee, are consummate performers. Completely engrossed. Not engrossed. Obsessed. No, not obsessed. Addicted...

Judy Garland was completely addicted to the stage. Yes, Lady Gaga coined “I live for the the applause” but that’s only because she did her homework. Any diva in training gives their respect to the o.g. Judy Garland devoted her entire heart and soul to her performances. Often to her detriment, and to the detriment of those around her.

To be so completely talented, I imagine, is a curse to the performer. And when you’re a mother, a curse to your children. The performer’s gift has the power to kill them. It can drive them to the brink of self-destruction. The pressure and the anxiety of not performing at the same level again and again, night after night, drove Judy to the brink. The pills and the booze became absolutely necessary.

Years ago, I recall news stories about Renee Zellweger suggesting addiction and anorexia. She had wasted away, rumors swirling of drug abuse chased her - she’d been branded with a scarlet letter.

And then, I saw her in person, in Santa Monica. I was inside a Barnes and Noble bookstore (a rare occurrence nowadays in the era of dwindling brick and mortar). She was skin and bones. I barely recognized her. She looked...deranged. Her eyes were bulging nearly as much as the veins in her neck. I didn’t know why she was so distraught but my eyes fixed on her like a cheetah staring down a gazelle. She was just on the other side of the glass, and then she locked in on me. Suddenly, she was the cheetah. She stared at me, then a sour look fell upon her and she dashed away. I was shaken. I had never felt so judged by a famous person before. I had never shared such a fraught moment with a star of her caliber. But then, I wondered, maybe she hadn’t been looking at me at all. What if the glass was opaque and she wasn’t staring at me at all? What if she was looking at her own reflection that whole time? Could it be that she stared at herself that way, with that loathsome look in her eyes?

And now my heart breaks because I do believe she saw herself. She saw something in herself that she couldn’t stand and she fled from the reflection. Just like Judy would’ve ran. Just like Judy.

I’ve asked so many questions and I apologize but I must ask a few more:

What if Renee Zellweger doesn’t win an Oscar for ‘Judy’? Oof. Yes, I remember that she won for ‘Cold Mountain’ in 2004 but it was sort of payback because she’d been nominated for ‘Chicago’ in 2003 and was a shoe-in (but lost) and even that had been a sort of a gimme nom since she’d been nominated in ‘02 for ‘Bridget Jones’ Diary’ and lost even after she stole the entire world’s heart.

In a parallel way, Garland was famously snubbed for a ‘Star is Born’ in 1955 when she gave the performance of her life and lost to the quintessential Hollywood beauty, Grace Kelly. After a lifetime of comparisons and cruel remarks about her looks, it had to feel like a stab to the heart to lose to the pretty girl, the princess. Poor Judy. She just wanted to be beautiful and thin. But instead she was talented and charming. And that’s not to say she wasn’t beautiful and thin, she just didn’t fit the stupid, totally arbitrary model of beauty. And she eventually wasted away to a skeleton. Why did we do that to her? Why do we do that still?

I don’t know. But I do know that Renee Zellweger should win this god damn Oscar.

[go-diane-winchester]

Misha Collins cant keep track of his own lies.

Misha ''I was a homeless kid' Collins was interviewed by an art magazine, because apparently he is very artsy fartsy.  Whilst given the opportunity to speak about his supposedly favoritist subject: himself, Misha couldn't  remember all the fallacies he had spouted over the years.  I guess Misha figured his mostly underage, deranged fanbase might be too busy, furiously fingering themselves to badly written fanfiction, to actually read something from an intellectual source.  Something tells me that, just like in the mugging case, this reporter wasn't quite buying his lies.  Here are some of the highlights, with Misha's self-indulgent rambling in italics, and with my running commentary in bold [the interviewer is in bold italics]:

''Like most kids, I liked making things with my hands, and my mother helped facilitate this when I was pretty young. But I followed that impulse to an apprentice-level devotion. I would seek out woodworkers when I was 10 or 11, going into shops and learning how to use a lathe or – just asking. I grew up in western Massachusetts, and by the time I got into high school I was fully into this – just talking to people and learning things from them in person.''

So his hippy, drug addict mom who stashed pot down her youngest child's underwear for fear of being arrested, and who, for a short time, raised poor Misha in a car, honed his artistic skills when he was pretty young?  When?  When they were living in the woods?  And using a bowl of ice as a refrigerator?  So either his story of his childhood is greatly exaggerated or....yeah, that's all I got.  How gullible does he think people are?

Then in high school, I needed a job, so I started doing some manual labor.

So whilst at his elite private school, where there are rich dads and moms dropping off their darlings every morning, Misha chooses manual labor.  He likes to talk to people but he didn't speak to Mr and Mrs Moneybags?  He could have been a petty gopher in one of their companies and fared better.  After all, he needed a job.  I wonder why he chose ''manual labor''?  And why he chose to word it like that, instead of saying ''I became a carpenter's apprentice''.  I guess it sounds honorable.  That's is nothing dramatic about  saying that you flip burgers at McDs.  Saying that you work in a menial, underpaid job for a multimillion dollar company, does have a more dramatic feel to it. 

I built that barn on my mother’s property. Our house had burned down, so with the insurance proceeds, we built that and...

Wait, wasn't Misha's mom a pothead who lived in a car for some time with her two children?  Now, not only does she have property but she has the money to pay for insurance.  When did you live in the car, Misha?  When the house burnt down?  Why didn't you live in that house you showed footage of, on twitter?  Its a nice house, complete with Christmas stockings.  It doesn't quite gel with your underprivileged childhood narrative, but nice nonetheless.   

I worked a lot when I was in college, probably 30 hours a week most of the time. I did some handyman stuff, some carpentry stuff. After sophomore year, I took a year off. I interned at the [Clinton] White House, worked at NPR, became an EMT, started a summer camp for kids. It was a great year.

What is he?  A career whore?  So he was artsy fartsy, but he worked everywhere doing jobs that were unrelated to each other, instead of staying in his field of carpentry, and making money from that.  He got EMT certification.  Was it free?  Did he pay for it with his tuition fees?  What was the purpose of it, if making money for fees was of paramount importance?  That doesn't make sense, because if he was working 30 hour weeks, when did he have time to study?  The average work day is a tad longer, about 40 hours a week.  And if he was studying and working, when was Superman sleeping?  Why was he working so hard?  To put himself to college, don'tcha know.  Even though colleges offer student loans and don't accept their fees in installments.  And yet, he took time off for one year after sophomore.  Was it to make a lot of money for his tuition fees?  Nope, it was to become an EMT and start a summer camp for kids.  I guess summer camps are big business and you can pay off great debts if you start one.  Good to know.  His internment at the Whitehouse only lasted four months, and yet he has acquired all the knowledge there is to acquire, to become a political knowitall on twitter.  Sidenote:  Is it normal for internships at the Whitehouse to last, such a short time.  I am genuinely curious, because it doesn't sound right. 

This is where I think the interviewer started to sound like she was side-eyeing the wood working maestro and his yarns of tall tales.

After graduation you got into acting, and in 1999, you moved with Victoria to Los Angeles for film and television work. There, in 2001, you bought your first house. Tell us about it. You were a starving actor?

Yeah. Right after we bought it, our realtor said, “There’s a TV show that would like to shoot your house.” They brought this [house-hunting] couple through, and when we saw the episode, they had surveyed the house and were like, “We don’t want to touch this piece of s---.” It was a real wreck, had been seriously neglected. It was built in the 1920s, and built by people who weren’t carpenters, didn’t know what they were doing. It was built so poorly, and everything was sagging – the window frames, the eaves.

Can you believe that?  The starving actor bought a house.  Let that sink in.  He recognized that the house was built by non-carpenters [how was this building standing.  Twas a miracle, I tell you.]  And despite being a starving actor with a small amount of money, and a knowledge of carpentry, he bought a house that was badly built by non-carpenters.  So he knew he was buying a liability.  Why?

The kitchen floor you put in is beautiful. Yes, that’s gunstock, from a gun manufacturer in Northern California.

Mr Gun Free supporting the Gun manufacturing industry.  Man, this guy is a hypocrite. 

You lived in that first house for 11 years. Do you still own it? We rent it out to some lovely people who love it, so it’s good.

Fun fact:  Mr Humble Pie has two pieces of property.  And he is making money off of one, but he chooses to attend cons with the same torn T-shirts from years ago, or has to fleece off of Jensen's wardrobe and generosity, otherwise he would be doing his panels naked, poor thing.  Why doesn't he stop his cruises for a year, and use that money to buy decent threads?  One shirt can last a few years.  The lies are  embarrassing, but miraculously his minions believe him. 

On the way to this house, you became very successful with this hugely popular TV series. Life changed. Do you still manage to make time for handwork? 

Yeah. I’ve discovered that I really like working. Work can be respite for me, and switching gears is really key. Going from working on scripts to working with my hands is therapeutic, for sure. I am still managing to work with my hands. I was just doing some woodworking yesterday. I do a lot of cooking. That’s a big part of my life, and also I think a barometer of emotional health. When I’m not cooking, it’s a sign that I’m too stressed out and I’ve got to dial things back a little bit. I do a lot of canning. I put up 120 jars of blackberry jam this fall.

What an irony!  One of the greatest instigators of stress for his co-workers and their fans, gets stressed out himself.  Yeah, guilt can do that.  Plus, he likes quantifying accomplishments.  That is why Gish exists.  Quantity over quality. 

Which artists inspire you? I love Christo and Jeanne Claude, because of the mind-bending scale on which they’ve created things, like they’re rethinking what’s possible. I’m somebody who kind of likes to break rules, to bend rules when appropriate.

I could write a whole big post, on Misha's rule breaking and bending.  From stealing Whitehouse property [and bragging about it] to telling fans about the scratched line in the Crypt which got Jensen a barrage of abuse on Twitter.  The one thing that he spoke about that doesn't make sense is his story about almost getting arrested for reading a book on a building rooftop.  It makes no sense.  There is a portion of the story that is missing, I'm sure.  Misha is a great exaggerator.

Have you turned any Supernatural castmates on to craft? On a set, there’s tons of downtime, a lot of sitting and knitting and crocheting. And I have occasionally been in the mix there. Last year Jensen [Ackles], my co-star, walked up and saw me knitting, and he just looked at me and said, “Really?” But I could tell there was jealousy behind it, more than criticism. So I’ll teach him to knit, and it’ll be fine. We’ll get through this.

Will you look at that?  There are around 70 people on set at any given time.  Many of them must have seen Misha knitting.  And look who Misha decided to mention.  Was that a ''just in case, a nutty heller is reading this'' insertion?  No mention is made of Jared, because who cares about him, right?  Got to give the crowd what they want.  I am side eyeing the knitting claim myself, because I do knit and having seen a photo of him knitting, I can safely say that, that is not how you grasp at the yarn.  You knit with loose fingers because yarn is abrasive. 

The first big project we did with Random Acts was we built an orphanage and community center in Haiti. I would not have thought that was a tackle-able enterprise if I didn’t have a background in building.  Our biggest fundraising driver for the projects that we do – like building a school or an orphanage – is we bring folks down in groups of 25 or so to Haiti or to Nicaragua, and they help in the building process. We roll up our sleeves and get our hands dirty.

Wow, he built the 500K orphanage with his own hands, but didn't think about lights for the children.  His response regarding the lights was ''it's Haiti and it takes three f*cking years to get an electrician''.  Wow, I am a third worlder too, but we have electricians.  How backwards is Haiti that he couldn't find a single electrician in the whole country, to light the place up for the poor orphans?  He couldn't squeeze in one electrician in the group of 25 or so.  Are there no philanthropic electricians in his circles?  My word, electricians are such selfish people, don't you think?  They don't want to roll up their sleeves and get their hands dirty.  Why couldn't he just pay for one instead of waiting three years?  Fun fact:  According to their website, the orphanage, aka, the Jacmel children's center houses only 15 children, but another page says there are 27 children living in the house.  They don't know how many children they are looking after.  But that is still a small amount.  So where did all these kids go?

Misha either staged this picture with school kids on an excursion or all those kids got adopted by the staggeringly high quantity of rich couples living in Haiti, right Misha?  SMH

This question made me smirk.  The interviewer had to know Misha has never been to public school.  Look how Mr Bleeding Heart answers the question.

As we know, art programs in K-12 public schools these days are in decline, especially shop class, manual arts. How can we nurture creativity in kids, and why is that important? When I was 9 years old, I had a paper route. One day my younger brother and I were collecting money, and Mr. Haigis answered the door. He started talking to us, and he discovered that our parents were separated, and we didn’t live with our father. In the 1960s, he had run a woodshop for little kids. He had stopped doing it because he got busy with his career. Now he was retired. These two boys show up delivering papers on his front stoop, and it just comes to him: “I’ve got to do the same thing for those kids.”

So Mr Haigis left all the poor, underprivileged children and decided to help these two boys who were going to an elite school?  Sounds legit.  What about public school children, Mr Haigis?  Don't you care about them?   

I was a starving actor for at least a decade.

Misha was a starving actor who worked on 24 projects before getting SPN, but he still managed to buy a house.  Fun fact:  he was an  associate producer on a docu-movie, ''Loot'' which won best documentary at the LA film festival.  His movie didn't need sock puppets to win this one.  Misha should produce more.  That way he wont be on screen, festering up the frame.  The less we see of him, the better. 

http://www.jacmelchildren.org/about/team/

http://www.jacmelchildren.org/

https://craftcouncil.org/magazine/article/builder-baker-angel-maker

[charliejrogers]

Paddington (2014)

Sometimes you watch a movie and want to be challenged. You want your head to explode. You want to get lost in a world of plot twists and double-crosses. Other times you don’t. TV more often than movies fills the role of comfort food for people looking for passive media, but let’s all take a moment to recognize the power of a good comfort movie. Sometimes your comfort movie is that dumb rom-com you’ve seen 1000 times, other times a mindless action movie of good vs. evil. Many comic book movies certainly can fall into this camp, but really any series like Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings can become comfort food whenever those fans begin to think of the characters more like old friends than avatars on a screen. And never is that more true than when a childhood friends makes their way onto the big screen.

I don’t believe I have ever read (or has someone read to me) a Paddington book. In fact, after writing that sentence I had to Google whether Paddington was a series or a single book. I’m not from the U.K. so please excuse my ignorance. It’s not that people in America don’t know Paddington he’s just not as popular here as he is across the pond. Therefore when this hit theater six years ago and I heard critics rave about it, I didn’t get it. Christ, it was even nominated for the best British film at the BAFTAs in 2015. There was Paddington, a family movie about a walking, talking bear, right next a serious drama about Stephen Hawking (The Theory of Everything) and the very adult ScarJo sci-fi film Under the Skin. Plus, think also I was at an age where I was “too cool” for kid’s stuff. I was in college, so why watch a movie that could make you happy when you could watch something that could project to others how smart you thought you were. All of this is to say that, I went into this movie without the advantage of nostalgia, something I suspected might have been boosting audiences’ and critics’ scores.

Paddington from director Paul King tells the story of one unnamed Peruvian bear who is among the last of his kind. What makes this particular species of bear so special is their uniquely high intelligence. The film starts with a black-and-white film reel documenting the journeys of the explorer who was the first among men to stumble upon this particular subset of bear, sometimes back in the early 1900s. The explorer first instinct is to hunt and kill the bear to bring back to a British museum, but he is eventually won over by the sheer intelligence of the bears. They are already master builders and have developed unique, modern-looking housing structures when the explorer first finds them, but quickly he discovers they can understand English,  can even reproduce it to some extent, and are adept at new technologies. The explorer leaves them with a phonograph and a record of him talking about how to be a proper gentleperson in London.

Fast forward some hundred years, and the original two bears the explorer essentially perfected their understanding of English based off the explorer’s record. They also know quite a bit about early 20th-century etiquette and about a hundred different ways to tell fellow Londoners that it is raining outside. And though now aged and frail, they have passed much of this knowledge onto their young nephew whose character can be summed up by the following four traits: 1) undying love for his aunt and uncle who raise him 2) utmost and strict adherence to etiquette 3) deep desire to belong to a home 4) obsession with marmelaide.

All four of those things turn out to be of vital importance when disaster strikes his home in Peru and he is forced by his aunt to seek a new home in the only other place they know: London! With only his uncle’s hat and a marmelaide sandwich on his head, the bear stows away on a freighter to London. He heads to the nearest train station as he has heard stories about how during WWI, orphaned children would show up to train stations wearing certain necklaces to signify their need for a home. The bear does just that, but the world of 1914 is very much different from the world of 2014. People don’t so much as look at the bear. If they do, they assume he’s a poor beggar, vendor of cheap goods, or just a plain con-artist. They’re too busy rushing this way and that. “In the age of technology, Britain has lost its way” the film seems to suggest. Or, more cynically, it seems to make a comment (albeit) on xenophobia and Britain’s lack of openness to immigrants, especially prominent given the distinctly colonial feel of the explorer’s documentary and his attitudes towards these “primitive” creatures.

Except, of course, this is a light-hearted family film. A fantasy film at that. For example, no one is freaked the fuck out like they would in real life by a talking bear roaming around a major metropolitan area, in some cases doing serios damage (albeit accidentally) to various property throughout town. E.T. this is not, so there’s no plotline of the government trying to snatch him up for research purposes, nor does this apparently talk place in our reality where the bear would become an instant viral internet star.

Instead, as a family film, the movie mostly focuses on the idea of “family.” The bear is eventually approached by Mary Brown (Sally Hawkins), the matriarch of the Brown family who are a well-off family who live in a cozy townhouse in a quaint London neighborhood. Mary is more empathetic to the bear’s plight than her ill-tempered husband Henry (Hugh Bonneville) who is a risk analyst who sees the bear for what he is: a risk! Still, he begrudgingly agrees to let the bear, who names himself Paddington, stay with them for one night, but then he’s off to the orphanage  institution for young souls whose parents have sadly passed on.

Mr. Brown’s not wrong about Paddington (voiced by Ben Whishaw) too. Despite his undeniably genuine nature and complete absence of my ill-will, he’s a natural klutz. His childlike innocence and curiosity finds him tinkering with things that just ought not to be tinkered leading to a movie defined by its many great misadventurous set pieces, such as when Paddington accidentally floods the Brown’s bathroom to when a pickpocket accidentally drops a wallet that he stole and Paddington begins chasing him around London in grand fashion, not understanding why the thief doesn’t want his wallet back.

More than anything, though, Mr. Brown’s hostility towards Paddington stems more from his concern for his children, specifically that his son Jonathan (Samuel Joslin) will end up being hurt either as a direct result of Paddington’s activities or will simply try more daring things inspired by Paddington’s free-wheeling and wild spirit.

What I love about the character of Mr. Brown, who truly seems to be the secondary character after the titular bear, is the way he is a true character and not a one-dimensional rule-follower. The way the film (comically) demonstrates that Henry Brown was not always Mr. Brown, but was a motorcycle-riding Wildman who was suddenly and permanently changed by fatherhood makes him an incredibly relatable character, and grounds this silly cartoon in something of a reality.

Less can be said about Mary Brown. Sally Hawkins does a wonderful job portraying her seemingly boundless kindness and love, but ultimately there’s not more to her character than just being nice and kind. Her only story arc revolves her relationship with the Browns’ daughter Judy (Madeleine Harris) who is a stereotypically moody teen who doesn’t want to introduce her boyfriend to her Mom because, as Paddington puts it, “she suffers from a terrible disease called embarrassment.”

But no one’s watching this movie to watch the Browns or learn about their characters. It’s nice that Mr.’s character is so well-established as it makes his little sacrifices and gestures to try to help Paddington so satisfying. One second he was pushing to get Paddington out of his home, the next he’s in a dress breaking into an archives to learn more about the explorer who originally visited Paddington’s aunt and uncle one hundred years prior.

This little detour to the archives relates to one of the two other sub-plots to the film. The first is how Paddington’s quest to find a new home (since Mr. Brown refuses to let him stay with his family forever) leads him to want to find the explorer (or at least the explorer’s family) since he figures they of all people would love to take in as family a bear whom their father had so loved. The second subplot (and the more hackneyed and boring plot) deals with Nicole Kidman’s Millicent, a deranged, taxidermist employee of London’s Natural History who has a nasty side hobby and collecting (and stuffing) rare animals. She hears rumors of a talking bear, she starts to hunt him. Kidman actually does a very good job leading a cartoonish seriousness to the role, but just the whole subplot feels very perfunctory, like the studio was afraid no one would want to watch a movie that didn’t have a clear bad guy. Add in a sub-plot to this sub-plot where the Browns’ sad-sack neighbor Mr. Curry (Peter Capaldi) teams up with Millicent in the hopes of being her lover, and you got my least favorite part of this movie.

Taking away the villain plot would deny the Browns the opportunity to rescue their little friend from the jaws of danger, and prevent me from seeing that tear-jerking display of love with which the film ends, so I suppose it’s worth it. With snow falling around them and love in the air, Paddington with its focus on the importance of family, is almost a Christmas movie, or at the least is a perfect movie for the holiday season.

It’s also funny for all ages. I can imagine sitting in a theater with children and hearing the little cackles of children as Paddington fights a shower head using a toilet seat lid as shield and toilet brush as sword. The film does not go for easy jokes. Its physical comedy is often elaborate, and there are plenty of jokes meant for the adults in the room that aren’t necessarily sexual in nature. For example, the Browns’ daughter is learning Chinese “for business,” which means she’s learning phrases such as “How do I get to the business center?” and “I’m being investigated for tax fraud.” But more than anything, it’s a distinctly British film in its humor, favoring throw-away lines and sight-gags over fart jokes. One of my favorites in the idea that Millicent’s office is full of taxidermied heads of exotic animals, and when she walks into her workshop on the other side of the wall, we see all the rear-ends of these same animals. Another pitch perfect moment is when a downtrodden Paddington finds himself at Buckingham Palace and having revealed the sandwich he keeps under his hat for emergencies, we find out what things the Queen’s Guard keeps under their Bearskins. It’s silly and ridiculous in a way perfect for a kid’s film.

I also love how the film gives us a view of the world through Paddington’s eyes, and I give much credit to the film’s director Paul King for translating for us through film Paddington’s essential innocence. Twice, once towards the beginning, and once at the end, the film presents us with a toy-house that is an exact replica of the Brown’s home and we can actually see the Browns walking about and interacting in this odd meta-moment as Paddington narrates their goings on and provides his interpretation of what is happening. It lends an air of frivolity to our lives. Yes, the world is sad an hard, but for those innocents, the children, it’s a world of wonder and curiosity, a dollhouse in which anything is possible.

In the end, this movie is damn near perfect comfort food. It’s family focus creates a heart-warming tale that helps tries to inspire us that, despite our splintered isolated world, the world can be a place of love and welcoming. I wish the villain weren’t such a drag, but I am happy to report that despite not having any contact with Mr. Paddington in my life previously, I fell in love with his character almost instantly and am very happy to count him among my cinematic friends and follow him on any of his next adventures.

*** 1/4 (Three and one fourth stars out of four)

[lavieenprose]

When the loss of romantic love no longer breaks your heart, life finds another way

Last week I heard from a friend who’s heartbroken. The details of her particular situation are incidental; it’s always the same story. As it happens, she’s much younger than I am, but I knew better than to tell her any of the perfectly true things — that she was a brilliant, beautiful young woman and would, without doubt, fall in love again, with someone more deserving of her, that this would pass, that she’d be happy again — that would’ve been of no use to her. I didn’t want to condescend to her as though she were some silly little girl head over heels with hormones, and also didn’t want to sound like some desiccated old person who’s forgotten what it’s like to be in love.

I myself am not unfamiliar with the etiology of heartbreak. Let’s not dwell on this: I’ve written about it at length elsewhere, and it’s frankly embarrassing. A typical scenario involved me curled up on the bathroom floor weeping piteously into a smelly old towel. (“Weeping into the towel” became verbal shorthand for the whole ordeal, one that I’m afraid got wearisomely familiar to my closest friends.) The particular strain of love my young friend was suffering — unrequited, or unavailable — is one of which I made rather a vocation for a couple of decades. In my own experience, a recurring attraction to people who are unavailable usually means you’re not ready to fall in love with someone who is. Some form of love that’s impeded or incomplete (illicit, unilateral, long-distance, epistolary) may be all you can take — or, more importantly, give — at that point in your life. It may be, despite your protestations, what you really want. My friend Margot likes to ask, of people in such situations: “If you weren’t thinking about [x person] all the time, what would you be thinking about instead?” — because the answer is usually what you’re trying to avoid by burying yourself alive in your romantic/sexual obsession.

It’s been over a decade since that last happened to me. I hesitate even to write those words, like a superstitious pitcher afraid to break a streak. My loves used to be operatic; my heartbreaks, Toscan; and my jealousy not just Othelloan but Medean — the kind where you send someone a poisoned dress, murder your own children, and drive off in a chariot drawn by dragons. But my last bout of insane jealousy and rage, which commandeered my brain like a parasite for the better part of a year and had to be extinguished with vipassana meditation, seems to have burned out the circuit in my head. Since then I’ve had whole relationships in which my partner and I saw each other only on weekends, I didn’t know or ask what she did during the week, and the question of whom else she might be sleeping with didn’t seem like any of my business.

Having had so many inconvenient, and frequently disastrous, crushes eventually affords you enough experience, enough of an emotional buffer, that you can learn to recognize them in the early stages and let them discreetly wither instead of cultivating them. If you’re lucky, eventually you get tired of your own pathology, exhausted by all the energy it takes to fall deliriously in love and get horribly heartbroken again and again. Like an addict driven into recovery, you get sick of the endless vacillation between euphoria and agony. In Seymour: An Introduction, Buddy Glass (Salinger’s alter ego) writes: “I can’t be running back and forth forever between grief and high delight.” Ideally, you learn to love in less volatile, precarious ways.

Though even this explanation gives me too much credit: mostly it’s just a matter of deranging chemicals gradually ebbing from my brain. (I tell my girlfriend that I only became datable within the last five years. I think she thinks I’m joking.) But my young friend is still at an age when love really is the most important thing in life — evolutionarily speaking, finding a mate is the most important mission of youth, besides survival — so it’s only natural that she’s deep in the summer storms of endorphins. It’d be facile for me to give her my dumb adult reassurances now that I’m no longer susceptible to those debilitating bouts of infatuation and heartbreak. Equanimity is a virtue of age, not youth. Youth’s virtue is passion — even my students’ angst and ennui are more intensely felt than my own dull depression and boredom.

But I mostly refrained from giving wise older-person advice because I don’t believe there is some state of wisdom we slowly mature toward and eventually attain. (When would that even be — the moment when our personalities are complete and our understanding at its peak? Sometime, presumably, between infantile and senile incontinence.) The problems I had at age seven were no less serious than the ones I have now — they were more serious, in fact, since my current problems do not include any likelihood of being sat on and having my hair pulled. Every age has its own truths, particular to the needs of that phase of life: childhood truths and teenage truths, young-adult and middle-aged ones, and, if we live long enough to learn them, the unwelcome truths of old age. They tend to arrive in the form of retrospect: you really get good at being a kid around age 11 or 12, on the idyllic eve of destruction; you finally feel like you might be getting the hang of adulthood right around the time you’re diagnosed with something that’s not going to go away. An optimistic projection would be that, on our deathbeds, maybe we’ll finally have figured out what life was all about.

These truths also don’t seem to be transferable, at least not backward. When I was a college freshman, we would mock upperclassmen who didn’t go out and get black-out drunk every night — we were never gonna turn into boring old stay-at-home 22-year-olds! There would have been no way for those sagacious juniors to explain to us why they no longer wanted to get drunk nightly, anymore than parents can explain to the childless why all the forfeitures they’ve chosen are worth it. If you were to ask me whether it makes me sad that I haven’t been heartbroken in over a decade (but no one ever asks questions like that), I’d say it makes me a little sad that it doesn’t make me sad. It’d be like missing going out and chugging Jägermeister on a Tuesday. I just don’t want my head to feel like that, ever again.

The other night I was talking with a friend about how relieved we both were to have outgrown the hopeless crushes, doomed affairs, and obliterating heartbreaks of our younger years. We’re no longer capable of hurling ourselves as heedlessly into love as we did back then; we instinctively hedge our affections, the same way you learn, if you survive your teens, not to drive 120 miles an hour on twisty backroads with the headlights off. Later, over a second or maybe third round, we segued into more somber and mature problems: the unbearable sadness of watching the slow dissolution of our parents’ personalities — their forgetfulness, hallucinations, delusions. As an adult, you try to meet this with as much equanimity, compassion, and humor as you can, but some little-kid part of you is enraged at seeing them so diminished, and panicked at being abandoned. After a glum pause, my friend said: “Remember those heartbreaks we said we were lucky to have left behind…?” You could almost hear the whanh-wah-whaaahh — that trombone mock-lament at the end of the sitcom as our heroes realize that the joke, once again, is on them. Punchline being, life’s just one goddamn heartbreak after another.

It’s a truism, post-Freud, that heartbreak feels so eviscerating — regardless of which incidental jerk or wacko it happens to attach to — because it’s really an abreaction, a reenactment of much earlier, more primal losses we’ve forgotten: Oedipal triangles and abandonments, bad breakups with your first loves, whom you never really got over. But causality is only one-way in human perception: you could also interpret them not as repressed memories but premonitions; distant, preliminary shivers of the arctic desolation that awaits us at the other end of life.

Anyway, soon enough I’ll be weeping as I eat this essay, sneering through my tears back at past me, Mr. Smart Guy, who postured as wise and imagined himself past silly afflictions of youth like love and sorrow. I’m about to discover what heartbreak at 52 feels like. The details are incidental; it’s always the same story. This one feels a little like death: I’ve always known it was coming, intellectually; I just didn’t think it would be yet. Now it’s looming like a meteor or tsunami, too late to outrun. Hopefully it won’t be as crippling an experience as it was in my twenties (though the adolescent fear that No One Will Ever Love You Again has a new shadow of plausibility the older you get). Maybe it’ll be like the difference between Tosca or Tchaikovsky’s Pathétique — wrenching, histrionic — and something more like Beethoven’s Cavatina, or Mahler’s Ninth — an exquisite melancholy. Probably it’ll just suck. But I don’t really know, any more than I can know what it’s like to see people who aren’t there, or confuse dreams with memories, or forget your children’s names. But I guess we’ll find out.

[smokefollowsbeauty]

Bitches I got my wish!

I had a dream last night that I was in my apartment and you just surprised me by coming in. It was the same apartment but slightly bigger, ipped around. Slightly bigger kitchen and damn near an actual backyard/padio.

You walked in just so fucking happy. I hadn't seen you like that, much less at all really, on a long time.

I had just gotten off work and it was sunset, the house was a mess so I was cleaning it up. I was really angry at first. I don't remember any small talk before you started getting violent about not living here anymore and you blamed me for your relapse you said dope, and I kept asking "you mean cocaine right? Please tell me you mean cocain!" Then you pulled out this little container that was bigger than the average bear. Something I've seen you have before irl

. You pulled it out still ecstatic, o my your face looks creepy now. Like things shifted. You weren't someone I recognized anymore. Although I recognized this scenario.

2 parts to this dream.

First, I kept trying to talk to you about the meth, even though it looked just like coke. Like a fucking powder, snow in a container. Something so harmless that has just destroyed us. I couldn't wrap my head around your reasoning and after a while everything went numb. You had this giant backpack like a homeless person would and you took out the tray to start doing lines of glass. I let you do it, but said no for myself. I then called the police and I was outright honest about what was happening. A previous roommate is intruding and has brought illegal substances into my home, my life. Its possible he is armed, and dangerous. The words echoed through my hears as I spoke into the flip phone, I feel like I may have been talking in my sleep. You just stared at me while I was on the phone. Then you flipped the table and I woke up.

Second, after a slight black out, the dream left back off me staring at the coke like door on my kitchen counter. The sun is going down. I get overly excited too. I couldn't help myself. It was right confront of me. You were there to walk me through it so I wouldn't go insane by myself. It was going to be another night, like so many we had shared before, strung out like junkies Stuck in a fucking apartment like birds in a cage. God knows the sex wasn't any good or worth trying when we're that high. Nothing really was.

Anyways so I try to justify doing it as I looked out the window. Like this was the last time, nothing changed, we were still broken up and it's not going to be a regular thing. You shouldn't have even been there. You couldmt come back anymore.

We start doing it in the smaller by the minute living room. Crazed and deranged looking.

Honestly I can't even explain after that was was really happening. We didn't talk. We just walked around, standing there like idiots, fucking looking at each other, chain smoking... then the fucking sun comes up. You leave. I cry. I call into work and get high again, only this time I stay on the meth. The cycle continued.

You still stayed at your moms but she had remarried. House completely different. You told me to comeover one night and I did. We had great sex, but no emotional connection after that. Nothing to talk about. That morning I made pot brownies, your mom walks in and gives me such a dirty look, I shrugged it off and talked to her like I suse to. With ease and respect, asking about her job and whatever else thst keeps her fucking talking. Because she never shuts up. Your stepdad was sleeping on the couch and your brother didn't look at me when he walked by. Your mom was polite back, until you left the room and then she mentioned that Wednesday night where you didn't answer your phone, asked if some bra was mine, then suggested it was some other girls to my face, casual. That bitch. I then started eating all the brownies I could until you walked in to stop me, we argued about the bra and the feelings that we both tried so hard Not to talk about anymore. And told me to get the fuck out and never come back. I remember being angry I didn't take all the leftover brownies before I went to a party a few blocks down.

That's another dream. More about sex than you. You don't deserve my love, much less my body. At that point, subconciously and irl, anyone else could have it before you, I didn't want anyone knowing you could even come close to having it. I got drunk with girls i didnt like and guys i didnt know like some sort of realitt tv show. I had sex with this guy who didn't like me enough to finish bc I was frozen underneath him. I got some girls sloppy seconds. Yay me. Again destroying myaelf and self confifence, for what? You? Fuck you.

When i started to go weak I reminded myself, in my sleep may I remind you, why I stopped in the first place. You have your reasons, I have mine. Let's not forget them.

Yesterday fucking sucked for multiple reasons. But fuck you for texting me. Making me feel like I was important to you for even a second. I stayed up almost as late as I'm staying up now, watching this notebook like movie that completely fucked me up. I wanted it. I wanted you. We destroyed each other, and a hope for a future together. I'm sorry. So much time and effort just thrown away. I got nothing out of it besides a broken heart and pictures of bruises. I'm still so bitter and angry. God please take this animosity away from me.

It's weird writing these dreams down and realizing what I think of you, and of myself.

[allthevoices]

Jarod Aeducan Interview

Jarod’s brows were raised with uncertainty as he settled on the stone bench in the remote location, still in disbelief that someone had tracked him down simply for an interview… he steadied his helm on the seat beside him, casting his unsure gaze on the formally clad man before he was set to bring his deep tenor forth.

State your name for the record please. “Jarod Aeducan…" 

And your title? "There are a few…” He couldn’t contain the amused chuckle that came with the answer. He sighed before dutifully listing them. “Hero of Ferelden… Commander of the Grey or… rather, Warden Commander of Ferelden… Paragon… that one… is still a little hard to get used to though.“ 

Age? "Your guess is as good as mine.” He chuckled again before picking at a stray fiber poking out from between an armor joint at his knee. “I was born in nine-oh-seven dragon… so, that makes me about thirty four and now I feel old, thanks for that.“ 

Relationship Status? A knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he glanced at the ground, his tone came a bit gentler as his thumb spun a ring on his left hand. “Married… though it took some convincing to get her to finally agree to it in its entirety.“ 

You’re married? To who? Again, that smile tugged at him. “She’ll pitch a fit if I say.. and I can already see her disapproving glare. But while I know her as mine… another thing I call her that she can’t stand… the world knows her as Morrigan.“ 

You married Morrigan?! Are you kidding me? Oh… sorry. Yes. Quite. So that would make Kieran….? Oh, he had glared at the interviewer. This man who dared speak out of turn… he reigned in his harsh stare and low brow to continue. “Yes, Kieran is my son and I couldn’t be more proud.” His words did indeed hold all the pride he felt, and the longing pulled at him like a mountain tethered to his heart, for he missed both of them… greatly. 

I see this topic is… sensitive. Perhaps it is best we move on. What are five words that best describe you? Now that… that had him give a bark of a laugh. “According to me or to Morrigan? Because those would be five very different words. Then if you were to ask King Alistair… those are five completely different words all together. But you’re asking me so…” He looked up at the overcast sky as if the answer were there, written in the low hanging clouds. “Short. Tired. Warden. Husband. Father.” He shrugged, his armor shifting with the action. “That about sums it up." 

All right. What are your three biggest character flaws? "By the void… just three?” Again, his words were bisected by a bit of laughter. “Well, this won’t be hard… For starters… my temper, it’s a problem, but I know it is so… knowing’s half the battle right?” He chuckled at himself before continuing. “I worry too much… over things I know I cannot change… doesn’t stop me from… obsessing over them sometimes.” He grew quiet on the last, as if he were almost ashamed. “And I’m too proud more often than not… and while pride’s a good thing, too much of it…” He shook his head. “Can blind you. I struggle with it… it’s better now than it used to be, which is saying a lot." 

Well… that kind of makes my next question awkward then. What are you most proud of? Jarod threw his head back with another bark of laughter. "Well, kind of yes. But this one is easy. For all my accomplishments, for all the… fancy titles and victories in battle… I’m most proud of my son. He’s…” He took a deep breath, feeling the warmth spread in his chest. “Everything I could have ever hoped for, everything I never dared to hope for. The very best part of me… a part I didn’t even know I had. He’s smart… kind… brave in ways that I will never understand. And this world is better for having him in it.” His words held all the conviction he could have given them and his tone held firm through them all. 

….. What is the biggest character turn-off for you? It took Jarod a moment to recover from the previous question but once he did, the Interviewer moved on. He blinked at the man and shook his head slightly. “Cowardice. There’s no excuse for it.” He said simply and to the point, not feeling the need to elaborate.

What do you dream about most often? Jarod smirked at that one. “Don’t dream. I’m a dwarf remember… I sleep as sound as the Stone and from what I understand, that’s a blessing.” He gave a high-browed nod. 

What are five things you want more of? “You mean besides for this world to stop trying to tear itself apart? Well, mark that down as number one.” He lifted a single finger off his knee as he started counting them down. “I want more…” His brow creased as he tried to riddle out the inner workings of his mind to come up with five things and found that… he couldn’t. He could only come up with one. “I… I just want more time.” His tenor had grown quiet, the words barely above a whisper. “That’s all.”

….. Okay. Let’s… go ahead and move on. What is the craziest thing you have ever done?  "I’d have to say… bumming around with a bastard prince, a witch of the wilds, a deranged chantry sister, a golem who was self aware, an assassin sent to kill me, a drunk dwarf, a circle mage, a freaking qunari, and a mabari warhound all so we could kill an archdemon… I think that qualifies as crazy.“ He couldn’t help the smirk that stayed upon his features as he listed off his nearest and dearest friends.. though it faltered when he got the warhound… for he missed him above all. 

What is the hardest thing you have ever done? "Leaving Morrigan and Kieran to come out here and track down this lead… but a close second was going back to Orzammar to beg for my own army. That… that was rough.” He nodded as he said the last. 

If you could visit any place in the world, where would it be? Would you consider living there? He blinked a few times as his mind went completely blank. “Uh…” Ah, there it was, his brain came back on line. “Honestly? Par Vallon… I know outsiders aren’t allowed but… Sten told a little bit about it and it sounds… pretty nice. I’d never consider living there but, it’d be amazing to see. Won’t ever happen, but it’d be amazing." 

If you could have any job, what would it be and why? Jarod leaned back slightly as he laid a hand on his helm. "Ah hell… truthfully… this one. Aside from the price we pay to be a Warden… I wouldn’t trade it for the world. I love being a Grey Warden. Yeah, things are crazy right now and I have no idea what the hell Clarel is doing but I know why she’s doing it. I feel… guilty… that I’m not there. But the mission I’m on… well, it overrides all. I can’t risk coming back, not when I’m so close. But ignoring all of that right now… Grey Wardens are… we’re not just thieves and murderers, we aren’t… what’s left over when society is done with us. We’re men and women… we fight for the world. But make no mistake, we aren’t heroes. We never were. We do the job that heroes won’t do. That heroes can’t do. We’re the ones that history is allowed to blame… that people are allowed to hate. And that’s all right. It’s a burden we bare willingly, because that’s part of the job. You’re still blight free… as are most. That is what is important at the end of the day. Many of us join because we have no other choice, no better options… but it changes us, we become more than we were. Brothers… sisters… In peace, Vigilance. In war, Victory.. and in death, Sacrifice. Those aren’t just poetic words. They mean something to us, whether Thedas recognizes that or not.” He held a hand out with a bit of a shrug. It is what it is.

All right, Warden, one last question. Is there anything you want to say to the people of Thedas? Jarod’s expression went blank for a moment before he picked up his helm and stood up, stretching out his stiff muscles from having sat so long. “Yeah.” He stuffed the helm on, his features disappearing from the world. “Stop trying to destroy yourselves for five fucking minutes." 

[netmaddy-blog]

A Difficult Woman To Know

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A Difficult Woman To Know

I admit it. I have a love/hate relationship with the Proverbs 31 Woman. At times she inspires me to no end. Yes, who can find a more virtuous, capable woman? She is an exquisite portrait of a truly remarkable and lovely woman, wife and mother. At other times I want to know where she lives so I can toilet paper her front lawn. Anyone who makes Martha Stewart look like a slacker has serious issues. I am sure she has never had a bad hair day. She probably doesn’t even know what cramps are. Her foot never finds its way into her mouth, repeatedly, like mine. The meticulous woman would almost certainly be aghast at my dusty floors then would give me pointers on housecleaning. I am sure she would then wash my floors herself like some deranged Mary Poppins. What a show-off!

I have often compared myself to this epic woman whom we will call Prov. She is like that tall, beautiful model trying on the exact same clothes as you. You compare your assets with hers and find yourself seriously lacking. As you gaze in the mirror, your reflection looks pitiful next to hers, like a speck of sand against the breathtaking superstar. According to the Bible, not only does Prov do everything perfectly, but all around her think the same. Plus she has the husband and children surrounding her. For us single ladies, we feel even more inept. We hope that our singledom gives us the blessed loophole from trying to be everything Prov is. Does my empty ring finger give me a Get-Out-of-Proverbs-31-Free card? As I read and study about Practically Perfect Prov (her formal name), I am inundated with questions. What is a woman’s worth? What is my value? Does a woman have merit if no one is there to acknowledge her capabilities? Why does she have to be so flawless? And why is God pressing on me to examine her?

A mother wrote this discourse on the most excellent of women in the hopes her son would recognize a Godly wife when he saw one. Generations later and these 22 verses have become a checklist for some and for others a carnival mirror that distorts perception. I read about Prov and grow tired as I remember the dirty dishes in the sink and the spider webs in the corners of the ceiling. I tell myself that I don’t want to be like her, but secretly I crave to have someone say those things about me. Someone determined she was of great importance and value. I think that is what I am most jealous of. The Bible says Prov has excelled over all other women. She has surpassed Deborah, Ruth and Esther. She has outdone Miriam. She outshined them all and she is the ideal that I am to live up to. Are you serious? “Susan?” “Yes, God?”

Obviously He was tired of me talking smack about Prov. “Do you even know what it means to be a virtuous woman?” “Pure, perfect, capable, high morals, quiet, and always polite.” On a good day, I am maybe two out of five. “That is what the dictionary says.” “Dig deeper, Susan. You might actually like her.” “Wait, God, I have so many questions.” “You usually do.” “God, what is my worth?” “You will figure it out. Susan, meet Prov.” And so began my character study of this exceptional and highly irritating woman that had taken up residence on a pedestal.

Like any difficult person, once you get to know them and what makes them tick, your opinion softens and you see something of yourself in them. Or in this case, you discover components that are missing in yourself. I have found myself housecleaning my soul and spirit and she is the tool God is forcing me to use. How convenient that this investigation started during the days of Omer. The second day of Passover is the beginning of Firstfruits and the counting of the Omer which lasts the next 49 days leading to Shavuot or Pentecost. The Israelites would take the omer or grain, and divide it before it was winnowed and sifted. Then it was parched over a fire. After the heat, came the refining and grinding followed by another thorough sifting. Eventually the best of the best grain was brought before the Lord and waved in His Presence as an offering. It was a declaration that everything came from God.

It was also a spiritual assessment of where each person needed to examine themselves. They took stock of their lives, emotions, choices and habits. Was their life a pleasing and sweet fragrance to God? The Israelites had left behind their physical and spiritual bondage in Egypt on Passover. Those first days in the wilderness were opportunities for them to improve and upgrade who they had been. They didn’t know the particulars, but they understood God was taking them where preparation was paramount. Those days of counting their lives and actions were the biblical version of a makeover show. God calls us to be a holy nation. Do we look holy? Do we act like we are set apart for His use? Being holy is about being separated and elevated from all that would pull us down and take our focus of the Lord.

Comparing myself to Prov, I know my habits and actions need to be examined. Where do I fall short? The omer of my life needs to be sifted and refined. So I am choosing to take stock of me. Am I a pleasing aroma to the Lord or with one good whiff do I clear out the heavenly realms? Have I concealed areas of my life that stink with air freshener in order to disguise them? I’m pretty sure I will find things that I don’t like about myself, but this house needs a transformation. Like the grain offering, I will be sifted and ground then toasted on a relentless fire. I want to present myself as a new offering to God. As I look in the spiritual mirror before me, I am seeing the ways I don’t measure up. There are a few blemishes in my heart that have been covered. Sometimes the hardest person to study is the one in the mirror. Maybe Prov isn’t as a difficult woman to know as myself. “This is me, God. For better or worse, I am Yours. I am nothing like Prov. Maybe that is why she gets on my nerves. I want to be like her, but don’t know how. There is a lot of distillation and mending to do, but this is my start. Have Your way, Jesus. Make me over.”

The Israelites were safely situated in the unfamiliar wilderness. God had confirmed His covenant with Moses. The commandments had been given. The golden calf incident was still a smarting sting in their minds and Moses had seen God’s glory through a cleft in the rock. Now the building of the tabernacle, God’s dwelling place, had begun. God had given specific instructions for each piece and the blueprints were divine. God even anointed the people to do the work. Once it was completed, the temple work began. The priests would come to the bronze laver. They washed their hands and feet in the basin in preparation to meet God. The washing bowl was made with the mirrors of the women who served the tabernacle. They weren’t pretty, clear mirrors made of glass, but were polished brass. The imperfect surface did not give a smooth likeness Give Us Life.

As a tabernacle priest would wash, he saw two reflections. One was in the stand and one in the cleansing water. The laver is where they truly looked at themselves with all the bumps, bruises and imperfections in plain sight. Then they looked into the water that washed them. This is where they became the reflection of Jesus and left the old likeness at the door. Like the women who gave up their mirrors so a priestly nation could see who they really were, God asks us to do the same. He says, “Give up what you think you look like to the world and focus on what I look at.” So often we concentrate on the inadequate image that we forget there is a sanctified figure in the Living Water.

How hard it must have been for those women to give up their mirrors. Let’s face it; mirrors are sacred properly to us females! Women have always been described and categorized by how they look. All women, no matter the era, have some degree of vanity within them. God moved them to surrender their airs by giving up control of their pride. Looking at ourselves in the mirror can be one of the hardest things to do. Mornings can be especially difficult since we more than likely have gunk in our eyes, smeared makeup and unkempt hair that has a mind of its own. Once we see what is amiss, we begin to put it back together again. How many times do we check our appearance throughout the day? Every potty break includes inspecting the mirror. We walk past department store windows and cast a sideways glance at the image just to ensure that we haven’t left the house with our skirts tucked into our underwear.

There is one woman who would be more than happy to give up her mirror. I can only imagine how hard it was for her to look at the face staring back at her. She didn’t need to be reminded of what the world saw; she had been hearing it her whole life. Look at how she is depicted in the Bible: “Leah had weak eyes, but Rachel was lovely in form, and beautiful.” Can you imagine the wound to a woman’s heart if she knew that her less than attractive appearance was still being talked about a few millennia after she walked on the earth? Ouch! I freak out when people talk about me the next day not to mention the next millennium.

What did it mean that Leah’s eyes were weak? Some Jewish scholars say her eyes were pathetic because she cried so often about her circumstances. Perhaps she was ill, or maybe she was just plain ugly. The word used for “weak” means to be liable to give way under pressure. It comes from a Hebrew word meaning to faint, to have a dismal and weak appearance. There was no sparkle or breathtaking quality to Leah. She was less than average. Saying she had “weak eyes” was the polite way of saying she had a good personality. No man would choose her. Her father Laban was probably very vocal about his burden to offload his first born daughter.

Leah might have already accepted her fate as a spinster when in walks Jacob. Everyone knew he was head over heels in love with the striking Rachel. It was no secret that he had been working for the past seven years to marry her. Finally the day had come that would pay off for Jacob. All the back-breaking work in the hot sun was a distant memory as the thought of his bride filled his heart and mind. Laban threw a wedding feast for the big event. One can’t help but wonder how long he had been plotting the next events. Laban lead his new son-in-law to the bridal chamber. Jacob was probably skipping with anticipation and nervousness. Seven years of daydreams were coming true.

Who knows where Rachel was kept or if she was even made aware of the dastardly plan. Leah had taken her younger sister’s place either by choice or by a father’s forceful hand. Maybe Leah felt guilt for stealing her sister’s moment, but then again a lifetime of being jailed in someone’s shadow may have helped her overcome any momentary remorse. Rachel captured every gaze as she entered a room while Leah was inconspicuous and unremarkable. She was not easily seen; someone had to choose to see her and no one had. This was her moment to be noticed even if it was stolen attention. Feelings of pitiful sadness had to be flowing in her heart. “The only way I can get a man to choose me is by my father tricking him.” A bride is to feel so beautiful on her wedding day, but this was probably the ugliest she had ever felt.

Jacob did not detect the switch. Maybe it was the veil covering Leah’s face, the amount of wine in his system, or a combination of both that made him unaware of the true identity of the bride lying in his bed. Not realizing it wasn’t the love of his life, Jacob treated Leah like beautiful, stunning Rachel. For one night the unsightly woman was deemed remarkably exquisite. Perhaps in the course of the night, Jacob called out the name of Rachel in ecstasy, but Leah chose to ignore it. Leah was finally touched by hands that coveted her. She was whispered to by lips that craved her. Leah was beautiful that night. She was no longer invisible, but the totality of one man’s attention. She didn’t want the truth that comes with the dreaded morning light to ever show its repulsive face. If only time could be stopped.

Jacob woke to find the weak eyes of Leah and not the remarkable face of Rachel lovingly gazing upon him. He was anything but tactful. With shock and anger he shouted, “What have you done to me? I served for Rachel, not Leah! Why did you deceive me? I have been cheated!” The pleasure and acceptance she embezzled in the night was replaced with the reality of her worth to Jacob. She was unsolicited and undesired. She was once again the ugly woman who only looked good after enough wine and a veil. Leah knew she was the raw end of the deal. His love was so great for Rachel, Jacob chose to work another seven years for her. He was willing to work a total of 14 years for her sister. No one had even offered to work a single day to win Leah. A week after her momentary joy, she witnessed Jacob marry Rachel.

Leah was not the one who was loved most. She held on to a brief ray of hope within her because Jacob still came to her bed. Leah was probably the backup when Rachel was considered unclean every month. God saw that she was unloved and opened her womb. With the birth of her first son Reuben, she was sure her husband would love her, but nothing had changed. With the next two sons Leah continued to hold onto the fantasy of being treasured. By the fourth son something in her had changed. She gave birth to Judah and cried out, “Now I will praise the Lord.” It stopped being about a man’s love and about loving God. Sarah, Rebekah, and Rachel were barren until their prayers succeeded in changing their nature. Leah’s barren heart was altered after her praises unto the Lord succeeded in transforming her soul. She still battled Rachel in the offspring race, but her heart was settled.

She didn’t know her worth, but God blessed Leah more than she would ever know. Rachel might have been the wife of Jacob, but Leah was the wife of Israel. From her son Levi came a tribe of priests that would man the tabernacle and temple. Israel was built in the house of Judah. Through Judah came the line of David and eventually Jesus. Through all the pain, toil, and heartbreak, God was planning to redeem her. God loved her where Jacob failed. In God’s eyes, Leah was precious and had value.

As women, we have worth. It might be hidden, but it is there. The Bible says the price for Prov was far above rubies. Everything in this world has a price tag. An amount has been determined and set. From towels to people, everything has a decided fee. In Uganda, a bride’s price is set by the number of cows a family thinks their daughter is equal to. In some cultures it is the number of children a woman bears for her husband that decides her estimation. Jacob’s price for Rachel was 14 years, but God’s value of Leah was priceless. She became the mother of God’s chosen people. If God uncovered Leah’s inestimable value, He will also expose ours. What is our value and worth? What is God seeing that we miss? What did Jesus see in us as He was on the cross? So much of our value is assessed by how we look. Some men also look at our housekeeping and cooking skills to accurately price us, but let’s be honest. A man will marry the world’s sexiest and most beautiful woman if given the chance even if she keeps a messy house and can’t cook soup from a can.

As women, beauty can control our life. It did for Leah. It determined her marital status for years before Jacob came in the picture. What happens when we are not a physically beautiful woman or we don’t fit the world’s definition of good-looking? How do we get past the world’s ruling on our significance and focus on the importance God places on us? I struggled for the majority of my life about my appearance. Somewhere about the age of 15, I encountered the world’s snobbery when it came to beauty. For the next few years, well into college, I was truly a geek. I was overweight, self-conscious, and completely believing the enemy’s lies. At school I heard boys tell me I was ugly, but then my Mom would tell me I was beautiful. I stopped trusting my Mom’s opinion because she obviously was either blind or lying to me. On days when I knew pictures would be taken, I would get dressed up and do my hair and makeup. When I looked in the mirror I felt somewhat self-assured, but when the pictures came back I cringed, “This is how I look?” So many mornings were spent in front of the mirror in hopes that something would change. I excelled in school subjects while my sisters surpassed in attractiveness. I would have traded my A’s for just one day of prettiness. The mirror became my prison and my perceived value was worthlessness. Then I became Born Again and had to confront my feelings of inadequacy.

First of all, who do we belong to – the world or God? The world didn’t create us; it merely influenced the opinion of ourselves. God fashioned us and it is His estimation that matters and should define ours. God doesn’t make mistakes and He doesn’t make ugly. Yes, some of us are not the picture of a model. We do not have the hourglass figure and the flawlessly proportioned face and flowing long hair not to mention that come hither look, but we have something better. God will make beautiful the humble with His salvation (Psalm 149:4, KJV). That kind of beauty transcends time. The world’s version of loveliness is conditional and can fly away at any moment. Imagine the most beautiful model in the world. Every magazine wants her ideal image on the cover. Men all over the world desire her. What if she was in a disfiguring accident? The covers would be gone and the men’s attention would gravitate to her successor. That kind of beauty lost its conditions.

In describing Prov, Proverbs 31:29 says that outward beauty has no real significance or value. It is fleeting at best. Godly beauty has no conditions to be met or lost. When Psalm 149:4 says God will beautify us, picture the opening of a seed to reveal the magnificent interior. Inside a seed is potential for greatness. Inside of us, no matter the outward appearance, there is magnificent promise and capability that God has planned to reveal through Jesus Christ.

Inside of us is Godly beauty. I know, I know. We all want, at least once, to feel like the most beautiful woman in a room. My fantasy is walking into a ballroom in a splendid dress. I imagine every eye turned towards me, this breathtaking creature, and I hear over the chords of music, “Who is that?” That is my Cinderella fantasy that gets me through the last 10 minutes of every workout. What I truly want is to be the stunning woman that enters heaven to worship my Creator. The world’s opinion only lasts for a moment, but Jesus’ estimation lasts for eternity. That is where I try to keep my focus.