#i need complex stories with twists turns and relations that make my brain run around in circles on the cieling

[tepidjasminetea]

A nostalgia retrospective at Frozen

I was of the generation that grew up with frozen as the defining childhood event, I think that says a lot about my age, I remember watching the movie in the theatre with my mom and having my little popcorn in one hand and my little cup of fizzy drink in another and being amazed by our lord and savior Elsa of Arendelle. Saying that this movie changed my little barely developed frontal lobe is an understatement, it fucking penetrated it and all I could think about for months on end was Frozen. While writing the script for this I listened to Let it Go and inexplicably I had flashbacks of little petite me compulsively almost replaying that song. Remembering the hold of that movie on me and people of my age during that time feels unreal, it honestly seems like Disney sprinkled in a bit of crack into that song. My general thoughts when I watched it in theatres was that this film was perfect in every sense and Elsa was the hottest woman alive.

Recap

Before I dive into the video, I will give a brief background or refresh of the film for the three people who haven’t seen it and those who haven’t seen it in like seven years since its release. Frozen is a 2013 animated movie made by Disney, there’s Anna the cute and clumsy ginger sister, Elsa the sister that Disney made approximately half a million dollars off of merchandise, Kristoff the furry that talks to reindeer, Olaf a snowman, and Hans the evil ginger. The story centers on Anna and Elsa; as a child, Elsa accidentally hit Anna in the head with her ice magic while playing with her. To fix Anna’s brain essentially she had to have all her memories of Elsa’s magic removed. So from that incident onward, Anna doesn’t know about Elsa’s powers, and because of the incident, Elsa started to distance herself. So the sisters barely have any contact for the fifteen or so odd years. The sisters are reunited on Elsa’s coronation day and Anna sings a song about open doors and finally getting to meet people again that hits different in 2021.  Anna pisses Elsa off because she wants to marry a ginger man with sideburns. They fight and in the heat of the moment Elsa shoots ice at her sister. The secret is out and Elsa is overwhelmed so she runs away to the mountains to build her ice castle and we get the song that won Disney ‘Best Original Song’ at the Oscars. Anna gets on a horse and goes to search for her sister in the northern mountains. Then her horse fucks off and she finds her way to a convenience store? Is that what you would call it? And she meets our lovely golden retriever boy Kristoff and for a pickaxe, some rope, and some carrots for his reindeer, he agrees to take our cute little ginger north. On the way, they find Olaf who is a sentient snowman that Elsa created with her magic. They go to Elsa’s castle and Anna tries to convince Elsa to return to their home and to make it summer again. I don’t know why she would want that since winter is the superior season. Anyways Elsa is unconvinced and still wants to be a hermit. Anna pushes a little too hard, we get a lovely duet between the sisters and then Elsa blasts Anna’s heart. Oh no Anna’s poor heart is starting to freeze as her hair slowly turns white. Kristoff brings Anna to the trolls that treated Anna’s head all those years ago, coincidentally those trolls also were the ones that raised Kristoff. Then we get the cutest musical number ever to exist, fucking fight me. Granddaddy troll tells Anna and Kristoff that she needs an act of true love to thaw her frozen heart. So Kristoff delivers Anna back to the ginger with the sideburns because they think that the little ginger boy is Anna’s, true love. So while that happens Hans and a couple of people are at Elsa’s ice castle trying to capture her, but she doesn’t want that so she almost commits a double homicide. This is the point where I thought she’d make a great video game character. Some random dude tries to fire an arrow at the distracted Elsa but Hans stops him and the arrow, unfortunately, fires into the ice chandelier above and that thing crashes down on Elsa knocking her out. She then is carted back to Arendelle and put in chains, she pleads for her freedom and Hans is like I’ll see what I can do. Anna arrives at the castle and asks Hans to kiss her, but low and behold the ginger is evil and never loved Anna and just wanted the throne so he doesn’t kiss her and leaves her to die. In the meantime, Elsa escapes from her dungeon and Hans is chasing her down. Anna is rescued by Olaf and they decide to run towards Kristoff because he must love her and then he can reverse the frozen heart. So Elsa is running, Anna is running, Hans is running and so is Kristoff. Hans catches up to Elsa and tells her that Anna died because of her and that it’s all her fault, Elsa is devastated and Hans takes the chance to try and kill her. Anna who is running towards Kristoff sees this happening and instead of running towards her true love she decides to go and save Elsa. Her body turns into ice fully as she blocks the sword from slicing Elsa in half like a piece of white tuna. Elsa sees this and she cries over Anna’s icy figure and her tears thaw Anna’s frozen heart since it is an act of true love because the sisters love eachother. Elsa realizes that love is what she needs to reverse winter and bring back summer, and so she waves her hand a bit and takes back all the snow. Kristoff and Anna kiss, Olaf gets to experience summer, and Elsa’s crippling social anxiety is solved. The end. 

The Music

When I was watching frozen I found it so strange that I pretty much remembered the lyrics to everything. I’ve never been much of a musical person I never liked musicals that much but I found that in this movie the music was one of the main enjoyment of it. Perhaps it’s just me in my old age but I honestly felt like these songs aged like fine wine, even the ones that I didn’t like as much or wasn’t musically ambitious I still found them extremely enjoyable. I also liked the score how they incorporated some kind of Scandinavian music in it and it just made the world-building better. Let it Go was just as ear-wormy as I remembered and it was just as powerful as I remember because we’re just coming off of Elsa running away scared and this song is essentially her owning her socially awkward ass and saying yes I want to be a hermit and there’s nothing wrong about it. Which my now more developed frontal lobe resonated deeply with. Now I know this video isn’t about comparing Frozen and its sequel but I will have to mention how I realized how much simpler and more or less conventional pop song-y the first movie’s songs are. I also listened to into the unknown and show yourself on youtube prior and those two songs feel more ingrained in the world and the lore. Which does make sense since the second movie is a bit world-building. But for Let it Go and Do you wanna build a snowman the mystical and magical feel that songs in Frozen 2 have isn’t present. I understand since into the unknown and show yourself are all sorta about a spirit, but I just wished that the main songs in Frozen incorporated some form of Scandinavian music that’s present in the opening song and the score. 

The Characters

Kristoff

Recently it has been pointed out to me that I might just have an inclination towards big blonde himbo characters, I simped for Matthias in Six of Crows, and I positively melted at the sight of Kristoff the big blonde boy with a fetish for reindeer. Kristoff was probably my favourite character upon this second viewing. There’s absolutely no concrete or sound reason for it that I can defend with words. Literally, I just have a gene in my DNA that just makes me extremely biased towards that type of character. I love his grounded personality in comparison with Anna’s slightly airheaded disposition. I love that he’s raised by trolls it just makes me feel happy. 

Anna

Anna is often looked upon as the lesser sister by Disney’s merchandising and in turn by the little girls who were the primary audience of this movie. One this second viewing with my more mature and refined taste I actually respected Anna as a character and I thought it was good that she was so ordinary because it was refreshing almost and it made her much more endearing. The takeaway I had from the movie was that Anna was kinda a self-insert character, she’s just like the audience going on an adventure and only just learning about her sister’s powers, she’s relatable to the audience. She’s the perfect ordinary relatable gal that everyone loves. The one thing I wish she had was a proper character arc, granted she doesn’t need one, but Disney almost tries to shoehorn in one with the inclusion of Hans and how he wasn’t her true love. Her arc is almost like discovering that true love doesn’t come from someone that she met just two days ago. Because Disney wants to do meta-commentary on their own material but Anna doesn’t even really learn that lesson? Because Hans not loving Anna isn’t a product of them only knowing eachother for two days but instead a product of him being evil, so the thesis that Disney so badly wants to prove was undermined by their own twist villain. And then even worse they imply that Kristoff instead is Anna’s true love even though Kristoff has known Anna for roughly the same amount of time as Hans. So if you are trying to make a point that true love doesn’t happen in a couple of days then sorry Disney you failed…? 

Elsa

She’s the main character the story centers around her and she has the most complex emotions, character arc and personality. Her arc is one about her overcoming her fear of her own powers and it fulfills that change in the character somewhat. Near the end of the movie, we see her distraught more than ever because she believes her powers killed her own sister and she is positively depressed. But then she’s able to save her sister with the power of love. And she uses the same power of love to reverse her power, and we assume with the power of love she learns to control it. Which is a bit of a cop-out just having all her internal issues be solved with love, Elsa doesn’t really learn anything she learns that i guess Anna loves her? Which I thought she knew from the beginning. And it would be strange if she didn’t love Anna since the beginning or if she didn’t know that Anna loved her. Elsa’s issue was that no one understood her, and that issue still isn’t solved by the end and Anna’s love certainly didn’t solve that issue so I don’t really think that ending fits with her character. It would have made more sense if Elsa was a villain who didn’t understand love or who shitted on the idea of love then this ending would have been better. 

Hans

Out of all the characters, Hans is done the dirtiest. I know I make fun of him for being a dirty little ginger but i think he had so much potential in being a good character and a good subversion of the prince charming trope and they squandered every bit of it for a twist villain. We could have had them sing the same love is an open door song but have them over the course of the movie slowly realize that they don’t really love each other and it finally culminates in the supposedly true love’s kiss not working. Then Anna would have learned her lesson and Hans wouldn’t be a terrible twist villain with motivations that don’t make sense. I felt so strongly after this viewing that Hans should have been redeemed in the second movie somehow. 

Olaf

I’m not going to count him as a character because he’s a snowman and his personality starts with comic relief and ends with merchandise sales. 

Sven

I love Sven and the relationship he has with Kristoff, it’s cute it establishes Kristoff as a good well-meaning furry so the audience instantly is able to connect with him and trust him. 

The Plot

I found in retrospect the movie was so much more complex than I remembered, as a little petite child I didn’t understand that there was so much political intrigue? I’ve been recently rewatching Game of Thrones the good seasons and watching Frozen I thought like wow this feels so game of thrones esque (mostly just Hans’s elaborate but completely ridiculous plan) and I was just thinking how it would have played out differently if Frozen was a Game of Thrones political fantasy movie. Anyways the plot of Frozen is singlehandedly fucked by Disney’s compulsive twitch to make a twist villain. In the beginning, we meet Hans and he’s charming and cute and positively enamoured with Anna. We even get this little scene of him smiling to himself once he met Anna that just doesn’t make sense at all when you watch it a second time and realize this bitch was never meant to love Anna at all. In a much earlier version of Frozen, where Elsa was more of a classic Disney villain (she would eventually become good), Prince Hans in that version was also established as a twist villain. But Disney decided that Elsa as a villain didn’t really connect with the audience so they decided to change the story and make Elsa more sympathetic but they still had to keep the element of Prince Hans being a villain to provide drama and twists. So ok Hans had to be evil, no negotiation let’s assume Daddy Disney said we have to have evil ginger or I will eat ur firstborns, or whatever. But that still doesn’t explain why the setup had to be so bad. The main reason why Hans is such a bad twist villain is that there was never a setup for him to be evil, a lot of his earlier scenes don’t make sense in retrospect when you know that he was scheming for the throne all along. The scene where he and a few of the castle men are in Elsa’s palace and one of the men is about to shoot Elsa and kill her, but Hans stops it even though he admits out loud to Anna later that he needed an accident to happen to Elsa so he could get the throne. Well, Hans, there’s your accident, did you have a sudden stroke of kindness to spare her or are you playing some sort of 4D chess us mere mortals are too stupid to understand? Because clearly having her being shot by someone else would absolve him of any guilt., and he’d definitely look less guilty than if he was going to slash Elsa in half on a frozen ocean in plain view of the castle. I know this criticism is a relatively dead horse so there’s no reason to go too in-depth with it. Hans doesn’t make sense and very easily you could have written Hans to be just a regular guy that serves the purpose of teaching Anna the lesson that true love isn’t found but is instead built over years. Who would be the villain then? Well, it’s simple, we already had the townspeople being generally scared of Elsa’s powers so it’s very easy for Disney to have just made them the antagonists. Elsa can still be captured and brought back to Arendelle with Hans not really wanting to kill her but the townspeople are sick and tired of this winter and they want her dead (this also coincidentally aligns with papa troll’s vision of Elsa’s power inspiring fear and people turning on her). Elsa could escape the prison just the same in the original movie only this time she goes outside and finds an angry mob waiting for her who try to chase her down. Anna sees this and can run to protect Elsa like she does in the original, she blocks a blade and that sends a powerful force that sends the townspeople backward. Anna turns into ice, Elsa cries, bada bing bada boom I just wrote you the last 7 minutes of Frozen but actually making sense without changing anything in the first hour and a half. I liked that the movie focuses on sisterly love and I think that’s ultimately the strength of Frozen and what differentiates it from other previous Disney princess movies. 

Meta-commentary

This movie also continues the meta-commentary on Disney’s family-friendly brand image that started with Tangled in this new era of animated movies, or perhaps with Enchanted if we count that as an animated film. I remember not noticing as much when my stupid little child brain was watching the movie for the first time but this time around I found it a bit annoying, especially given that the criticism they ‘address’ is extremely shallow, like ohh instead of marrying after three days Anna and Kristoff wait a few years until they marry, congrats Disney you have earned the progressive animation studios plaque. This is a bit nit-picky for this movie since this one isn’t egregious with the ‘subtle’ commentary, I feel like they’re particularly annoying in the live actions but generally passable in Frozen. 

The Plot that never

I think I have to mention in this video that originally Elsa was going to be a stone-cold villain who is redeemed at the end of the movie after learning how to love. This is the same version I mentioned previously where Hans was the twist villain who would try and set an avalanche on arendelle. Elsa and Anna weren’t going to be sisters so....can I just say that the plot as it is...it could have been an enemies-to-lovers story, featuring our first lesbian couple in a Disney movie. It feels like such wasted potential. I’m sure someone can write fanfiction with this idea to satisfy my...needs.  #i need this very very badly

The Animation

Arguably the best quality about any animated film is the animation. Even after 7 years I still feel awe and wonder when I watch Elsa raise her ice palace from snow and the animation of the ice is just jaw-dropping every single time I watch it. There’s one specific detail I love seeing and it’s Elsa’s shoes, like everything her skirt lifts up slightly when she’s running you get a peek at her shoes and they’re fucking gorgeous like she’s wearing glass slippers! Holy fuck her feet look so graceful and dainty and Elsa just single-handedly gave me a feet fetish. That’s what I took away from Frozen, sisterly love can conqueror all and feet are hot. Reading articles about the process of making Frozen really shows how dedicated the animators were to this project because they brought a real fucking reindeer in into the studios (allegedly according to this website I read). They studied the way cloth moves when it’s frozen by water and the way snow falls from a tree. It’s incredible and watching the movie you can really tell how dedicated the animators were to this project. 

The Legacy

Many believe that the release of Frozen and the earlier animated film Tangled started another renaissance period for Disney, which I think on some level is true since Disney has released quite a few of those ‘princess’ movies that feel like a return to form for the company in the past decade. In a more cynical view, I also feel like Frozen’s success was where Disney realized that merchandise was perhaps the most profitable thing under the sun. If anything the aggressive merchandising of the characters and the songs are what lingers in people’s minds after all these years. The toddlers shouting the lyrics to let it go at the top of their lungs, Frozen theme birthday parties, everyone wanting to dress up as Elsa for Halloween. I feel like the push to make as much money as possible off of Frozen’s success kind of diminishes the film itself. To the general public it isn’t remembered for its beautiful animation or its characters even to a certain extent, but instead, Frozen is remembered for its merchandise being absolutely everywhere which subsequently ended up with a lot of people being fed up with the property. I feel like we can definitely see the merchandising tactic Disney learned with Frozen with the new Star Wars trilogy where new droids were created en masse for merchandising purposes. 

Frozen also birthed a sequel that was largely forgettable in comparison to the first movie, which I feel very disappointed about since even more effort was clearly put into the animation on the second movie. I won’t get into the arduous rewrites and script overhauls that Frozen 2 experienced in this movie but I will say that the success of Frozen probably had something to do with the hyper management of the sequel that led it to be so mediocre and forgettable. 

The End

The overall feeling I have with this movie is nostalgia and fondness. Obviously, it isn’t a perfect movie and its themes and plot aren’t really that novel or perfectly executed either. I feel like a lot of people have forgotten that Frozen was an enjoyable movie and the reason for why it was so popular was because it was a heartfelt movie that was just pretty good. It’s by no means a perfect movie but I think it was a decent movie that will always have a place in my heart. 

[maxparkhurst]

How did you create your characters? What was your process?

TMI Tuesday:  How did you create your characters? What was your process?

// <offers out a chair> You’re going to want to sit for this. It’s going to be a LONG story. For those who’re looking for a short answer: I’m actually in the middle of creating these two. Edits and tweaks are always being made to make them appear real and true. And it’s thanks to everyone on here and in-game that they’ve progressed so much. 

Now for the long version. 

<buckles seat belt> 

Evolving as an Author:

Maxinora and Augustine Parkhurst are a culmination of ideas inspired by a myriad of things. The process of creating them isn’t linear. It has a lot of pit falls, unexpected twists and turns, and a ton of hills. To understand how we got the current versions of these two, we need to go back a couple years ago. 

It’s the summer of 2012. In efforts to get me off of his account, my Dad gifted me my own. This was when I made my first ever serious roleplay character- a hunter named Evelon Holmwood. Well, at the time I spelled it like Evavllyn but...Yeah. We’re going to gloss over that fact. Now, Eve was my pride and joy for the last several years. I played this character nonstop, refusing to play or write about anyone else. In retrospect, I used this character more as therapy than anything of creative merit. 

Eve’s story was basic at best. But I got better with story-telling the older I got. Unfortunately, her story got so convoluted that I had hard time salvaging anything from it. Now, you’re probably asking: How does this relate to Max? Fear not. I’m getting there. It was around this existential crisis that a mutual friend of my boyfriend and I convinced us to leave WoW and hop on SWTOR. My boyfriend was more than eager to make the switch but I was skeptical. Leaving WoW meant leaving Eve. And was I ready for that? 

He assured me I was and helped me make a character on SWTOR. This was the first iteration of Max. A bounty hunter from Nar’Shadda named Maxinora Fenrik. My intentions was to make her a lowkey copy of Eve. At this time, I wasn’t very confident in my writing abilities and liked to stay in my lane. But, the more I roleplayed this character the more she took on a life of her own. She evolved past Eve and exceeded my expectations. Playing a new character bolstered my confidence and while I no longer play SWTOR -due to OOC reasons- I still have fond memories with this character. I enjoyed this character so much that I reused several components of her design when making Max. Some which include her name and being blind in one eye. 

I flipped between the MMOs when Legion dropped. Expenses started to pile up and between the two subscriptions I didn’t have the time to play both. In the end, WoW won my affection and I made a Blood Elf because I had friends on Horde Side. Rorien Hawkthorne was her name. A drunk artist and master assassin. She’d be the second iteration of Max. She had an older sister complex, an affinity for being melancholy, and it was my first experience with playing a character who could kept secrets- or tried to at least. Another new character under the belt and I was feeling a little more confident in my story telling abilities. I’d probably would’ve kept playing that character if not for OOC drama happening in a guild I was in. The fallout had me jump back to the Alliance where I indulged in creature comforts. It was back to Eve. 

Tumblr made an entrance in my life around then as I ventured forth with a refreshed look on my hunter. I salvaged what I could and made a half-decent story. A lot of her misadventures are still posted up on her blog @evelonholmwood​ On the side I made the third iteration of Max. A fire mage and blacksmith combo by the name of Rowan Celwick with her younger brother Thomas Celwick.  They were just two orphaned kids trying to make a life in Stormwind. Rowan was an arcane drop-out and blacksmith wannabe and Thomas...Was...Well? Thomas? A glorified side-piece? A way to garner pity for Rowan. I didn’t place a lot of emphasis on them or their characters. My main focus was Eve. But these two would be the underlying foundation of Max and Auggie’s characters. 

I eventually took a hiatus from WoW and focused on more personal writing. The details are boring so I’ll gloss over it by saying that creating a character completely from scratch was the final push in the right direction for me. Fast forward several months to a year aaaaaand BOOM! Pandemic. 

Writing is an escape for me. It’s one of my best coping mechanisms during trying times. And when nothing else works, I over indulge in some Warcraft. So, I resubbed. There was hesitance when re-entering the RP scene. I didn’t leave Eve’s story off on an convenient note. For lack of better phrasing, I wrote myself into a hole I couldn’t get out of. So, with the help of my boyfriend, I decided it was time to give Eve her happy ending and shelf her for good. 

Which put me in a dilemma! Who was I going to RP? Well, you remember the Celwicks? They became my newest project. 

The Creative Process: 

I knew the Celwick story was weak and read much like a middle-school fanfiction. Revising was a must. But there were integral pieces to their story which I enjoyed: 

Familial Sacrifice 

Juxtaposing concepts

Intertwined Fates

These were themes I could work with and evolve. Keeping these in mind, I started to deconstruct the Celwick story line. They were no longer Gilnean but Kul’tiran. This prompted a name change from Celwick to Parkhurst. And I won’t lie, I like the sound of Parkhurst better than Celwick. Thomas became Augustine and Rowan became Maxinora (Mainly because I actually HAD the name Maxinora and not Rowan). The little changes got me hyped for the characters. 

Next, I started to trim away the unnecessary details that bogged down the narrative. Things that either didn’t fit or made the timeline too convoluted were replaced. Pyromancy was a great example. The age I wanted Max to be wouldn’t yield to her understanding of Pyromancy. At least, not to the level I WANTED it to be. SO, I turned it into lament’s magic. Alchemy. (I also always wanted to play an alchemist since watching FMA) 

A girl with two professions seemed excessive as well. I had to look at why I wanted her to be both an Alchemist and a Blacksmith. The answer was simple. I just liked the juxtaposition of an intelligent woman being rough and tumble. Which made me ask: Was Blacksmithing necessary to achieve that imagine? The answer was no. To pay respect to her previous iteration, I made their parents blacksmiths. It also let me keep themes of fire in her concept. The change in profession brought on a change in her appearance. I made her a little more slender to fit with the alchemist appeal. 

Max’s aesthetic was brought on by my previous characters.  Rorien inspired more internal facets of Max while Fenrik inspired outward appearances. Max’s auburn was strictly a decision made on the fact that I had one too many character’s with black hair. There wasn’t any other reason for it. 

Designing Max was easy. The real challenge was with Augustine. Up until that point, all I had to go on for his character was Tommy Celwick and...Well. There wasn’t a lot there. He wasn’t much more than a poorly used trope and I considered doing away with him all together. But I realized that I REALLY liked the trope and I liked what he did for Max’s character.  So, I buckled down and made myself think through all the reasons why Thomas Celwick -AKA Augustine Parkhust- needed to exist. 

I decided that I needed him in order to present themes in Max’s story. He was the foil to her character. Cynic older sister? Meet optimistic brother. He also appealed to not only the three themes listed above, but also the newest one I wanted to explore: two sides of the same coin. Max and Augustine are simultaneously the same, having similar traumas, and yet different. If for nothing else, Augustine could help propel Max in the right direction. Be her moral compass, you know? With a bit of half-assing here and there, I managed to get a decent character out of Augustine. Took the cliche nerdy brother idea, physical design and all, and ran with it. Shortly after I  made their Tumblr account. In no way did I expect this BOY to take on a life of his own. Like, Auggie knocked on my brain’s door and was like, “Yeah. No. I’m not a side character. Give me my own story...” 

Which will bring me into my final point! 

The Characters Write Their Own Story: 

I’ve never been able to sit down and plan a story. My mind doesn’t work in such a structured fashion. It wanders and explores. When I’m creating, I’m watching. Watching the scenes play out before my eyes as these characters take what I’ve given them and grow into something almost independent of me. The basic pieces of Max and Auggie’s back story, along with character design, were purposeful. Yes. But everything that came after was THEM.

It’s cliche, I know, but I can’t describe this experience any other way. These two grew outside of my influence and now dominate a space in my brain. They talk, work, and interact without me. I mean...Not REALLY. But...It feels like that. It feels I’m watching through a keyhole and just recording what I see as their story plays out. 

I guess a better analogy is me being the director. I’m watching the movie in the stands as two actors improv. On good days, I’m in control and rework scenes until I’m satisfied with the results. Try this. Move here. Say this. On bad days, I don’t see anything. My actors went home. The lights are off. Show’s cancelled for the day. These days make me sad...But they’re worth it because on the BEST days...The best days Max and Auggie run the whole show, and I am watching through the keyhole as their story unfolds little by little. 

It’s truly magical. 

The last part of their creation was the voice. Character voice, for me, is like building muscle. You need to work out. Start small and work your way up in weight. Every little piece I wrote made their voices stronger; and that’s including asks and threads. Interacting with other characters helped to flesh them out as people. And while it was hard and intimidating at first, it’s started to become easier. 

Wrap-Up

My method is messy and untrained. I don’t claim to have any secrets. My knowledge of writing is mediocre at best. But I’m having fun. And that’s were the real magic of any character comes in. Fun. Because if you aren’t writing about something that sparks your soul- either with love, happiness, hatred, etc- then it’s nothing more than a forced, hollow husk. Writing is meant to evoke emotion. At least in mind. And want to express complex emotions and share them. In a perfect world? My characters -any of my characters- resonates with someone. They become the escape someone needed. That’s the ultimate goal. 

It’s thanks to all of you that Max and Auggie have come this far. It’s from their interactions with others that they’ve managed to evolve into something incredible- especially Augustine. He just kept shining brighter and brighter until I felt obligated to make him an in-game character. So, you all are just as much a part in the creative process as me. Thank you! 

And a special thanks to my boyfriend for always being a sound board for my rambling ass <3 

THANK YOU FOR THE ASK, ANON! Sorry I posted an essay...<3 

[it-might-be-wordless-blog]

Goner + migraine?

goner: have tøp helped you with your mental health at all?

Absolutely. A long time ago, I wrote a letter about this very thing. It was never really meant for anyone, it was just something that I needed to release. It’s very long. It’s very personal. However, I’ve made a promise to myself and others to always be true; there is healing in speaking your truth (in responsible transparency,) for both the speaker and the listener. Maybe some of you can relate. Maybe relatability is one of many doors to understanding and growth.

So here you go: ‘I’ve spent a majority of my life feeling lost. Evensurrounded by a family who loves me, I’ve felt completely alone, isolated, andmisunderstood. I struggle to put my thoughts and feelings into words that myloved ones will understand; that anyone will understand. Why do I feel the waythat I do about the world? About myself? Why am I only ever temporarily happy?Fleeting moments of joy, but always coming to an abrupt end; sometimes soquickly, into such a deep, dark, and toxic despair, the emotional whiplashleaving me exhausted. Always soexhausted; more than physically, but deeply, my soul itself drained.

As a teenager, I absolutely hated myself. There was nothingthat I could do that was enough to make me love myself or my appearance. Itdidn’t matter what anyone had to say. People always have something to say. Iwas bullied because I was a little different, looked a little different, but nomore so than anyone else. (Doesn’t everyone look a little different? Aren’t wesupposed to?) Kids can be mean. I don’t think that anyone escapes childhoodwithout a little verbal nastiness from their peers; so I’m not going to blamechildren. I was a child myself. In many ways, I’m still a child; always willbe, I think. I don’t blame them anymore than I blame my grandfather formolesting me. Or for the men who harassed me. They were sick, too. Do thesethings affect me? Of course. Of course.

But I think, maybe, my brain has alwaysbeen a little sick. Or maybe I was predisposed to illness? Is it intelligence?Or lack of? Maybe all of these things.

If I had understood why, then perhaps I wouldn’thave done what I did to myself. I remember the first time that I purged, andhow ashamed I was of myself; how can anyone be so petty, pathetic, so vain? There are people with ACTUALproblems, and look at you; hugging a toilet, fingers down your throat, wastingfood, wasting good tissue; that burn can’t be good.

Oh, but it was.

That burntook away the other in my brain, and for the rest of that day, in this sick,twisted nonsensical way,  I felt a littlebetter about myself; now I have control over this; a button, a switch that Ican flip at any time to make this dark thing cower, for just a little. Thatturned into six years of binging, purging, starving myself, constantlyexercising, not sleeping, crying, feeling horrible; but it was aboutcontrolling that dark thing, right? (I see now that on that day, I gave ITcontrol.)

Art has always been the constant. Creative expression alwayshelped me work through whatever this was. Drawing, writing, piddling around on a keyboard or a guitar; somethingto distract myself long enough to get out from under that dark thing. I’ll show you that I’m worth something; Ican make things, beautiful things with these fingers. You can ruin things with them too. 

I remember the first time a song really touched me on alevel so deeply that it literally knocked the purging right out of me. When Itell people, I feel ridiculous. “I listened to a song on repeat, and suddenly Ididn’t need to purge or starve myself anymore.” What?

‘No, you can’t keep lettingit get you down, and you can’t keep dragging that dead weight around. Cause ifyour mind don’t move, then your knees don’t bend. When the morning comes: letit go, this too shall pass.’

Justsome letters thrown together to form a few simple words, but they were theright ones.  I’m not telling you that myeating disorder was cured, just like that; the thoughts didn’t go away, theySTILL haven’t, but it gave me the strength necessary to control my urge topurge. No more self-harm. At least, not physically. (But then, isn’t it ALLphysical?) It’s almost comical, really, to think that almost as soon asI defeated that particular bit of nastiness, that demon, if you will, I becameaware of a much larger, much more draining gaggle of demons. I spent so muchtime worrying about what other people thought of what I looked like, (as if I could have helped that AT ALL; as ifthat should even be an issue for ANYONE,) what others thought of how I acted andwhat I thought, that I had completely neglected my internal self, and what Iwanted, who I wanted to be. I found myself already married. I had already givenup the one thing that I had always turned to; I had been accepted into arenowned art school, but turned that down for the sake of ‘practicality,’ andpartially because, unsurprisingly, I let the opinions of others control my ownthoughts. The death of that dream hurt so badly, but more because I let ithappen without fighting for it. Complacency can be a killer. I didn’t pick up apencil for two years.

The world itself is incredibly disheartening. The people init, the truly bad ones, make it so hard to have faith in anyone, in anything;to trust. Why should I ever make myself vulnerable to anyone? Keep to yourself,kid. Don’t let anyone in, and no one can hurt you the way they hurt others. Butthat hurts too. What is the point, if not to connect? What is the point of thisif there is only ugliness all over the world. Selfishness, waste, violence,ignorance, and hurt; so much hurt. Everywhere. Children, men, women, animals,the planet itself. Constantly bombarded with images and stories of pain. Not only that, but to be a young adult in this society (youknow, the one we created for ourselves,) is almost impossible. Finish highschool, go to college, get married, buy a house, have 2.5 kids, retire, anddie. Get up, get dressed, go to work, go to bed, sleep; maybe, and repeat. It’simpossible to make enough money to complete this checklist, and even if you do,it feels so hollow. I’m alive, but I’m not living.

Empty. Heavy. I’mnot alive.

This isn’t what I wanted for myself. How can this be what anyonewants for themselves? Why can’t I spend my whole day outside with the treesinstead of looking at them through a dirty window? When do I get some space?When does anyone? Why is no one else screaming these things? This isn’t right.Who am I? This world isn’t right. It’s sick. What do I want? I’m sick. What doI do? What do I say, and to who? I can’t even tell anyone what this is, becausewe’re selfish by nature. It’s only natural, right? What is right?

“How are you?” “Good, and you?” “Good.” Keep to yourself,and no one can hurt you. But that’s not true. You’re hurting yourself, kid.

I wrote this big long, drawn out piece of cerebral vomit totell you that I am once again being saved by music. My brother shared a songwith me not too long ago that sucker punched me right in the brain; becauseamidst all of the stupid pop songs about how great it is to be alive, this onewas true; and it was on the radio. ‘I wastold when I get older all my fears would shrink, but now I’m insecure, and Icare what people think. My name’s Blurryface and I care what you think.’ ‘Outof student loans and tree house homes, we all would take the ladder/latter.’‘Used to dream of outer space, but now they’re laughing in our face saying:wake up you need to make money.’ Holy shit, someone gets it. Someoneunderstands. This is on the radio? More letters turned to simple words, but, wow, did they hit me.

Immediately I went home and looked for more. I was notdisappointed. Never have I listened to an artist and loved every single song,every word, for every meaning. It was literally as if I was listening to thatpart of my brain that runs on repeat. All of those letters turned into words,into poetry, into art, into feeling and emotion.Understanding. It didn’t matter thatI couldn’t run to these guys and spill everything, to have a conversation,because we were already conversing. Excusethe pun, but that burn in my brain, that deep ache that had ached for so long, had been washed with water; soothed, calmed. I’m not the only one who feels this way. I’m not the only who sees. Withevery word, every line the relief grew; a heaviness that I hadn’t even takenthe time to acknowledge began to lift from my soul.

What is life really, but toconnect? Words have so much power.

Let me just say, I’ve never wanted to kill myself. I’ve beenin a horrible place within, so many times, and in so many differentways. I’ve thought of death. I’ve thought about what the world would be likehere without me (I always came to the conclusion that while it might not make adifference to the world, it most definitely would to the people who love me. ) MaybeI’m too big a coward; or maybe the things that I do recognize in life asbeautiful are too valuable, too dear, too in need of cherishing, but I dounderstand depression, anxiety, and hurt.

Twenty One Pilots has re-awoken that creative part of methat I had given up on. Made me aware of how much my intentional creativeconstipation was actually hurting me. Itfeels so good to just do something constructive with my brain. I’m drawingand writing again. I’ve even gotten into playing the drums. (Can I just saythat literally beating your brain into submission while creating something;especially something that physically alters the air around you and producessuch a variety of complex sounds is exhilarating.)‘Are you searching forpurpose? Write something, and it might be worthless. Paint something, then itmight be wordless. No one else is dealing with your demons; meaning: maybedefeating them is the beginning of your meaning, friend.’

Tyler Joseph and Josh Dun have saved my light. Thank you. Ican’t say that I won’t ever get the chance to thank you in person, but here,now, I am nudging your consciousness with my own. I respect you. I see you. Thankyou.

‘I know where youstand, silent, in the trees. I want to know you, I want to see, I want to say:hello.’

migraine: what’s your favourite lyric?

‘Please don’t be afraid of what your soul is really thinking.’

Here is where I want to just say thank you for being there. All of you. Us. ||-//

[cowbroughcommunications]

Good spokespeople don’t need the answer to every question

In a previous life I had a boss who insisted on producing media briefings of biblical proportions.

If the CEO was being interviewed or taking part in a media conference, teams of people would sit around brain storming for days on end, endlessly trying to think of every possible fence to fall over or ditch to stumble in.

These tomes would run to dozens and dozens of pages with categories divided and subdivided for quick reference.

They were masterclasses in self generating paper pushing with every new question opening a pandora’s box of new potential pot holes. It was self perpetuating, on and on the treadmill would go until his appearance day arrived.

Of course the whole exercise was a complete waste of everyone’s time.

I and every member of the media team knew that the said CEO wouldn’t read a briefing of more than three paragraphs.  But of course the very idea of trying to second guess every question a journalist is likely to ask is utterly ludicrous.

It is not the questions that spokespeople should be preparing for, but the types of question that might be asked and the techniques for answering them.

For purposes of example let’s put the questions into the context of a real situation. Primark were the main UK company mentioned in the aftermath of the tragic building collapse in Bangladesh recently. For purely illustration purposes let’s imagine their spokespeople under scrutiny.

You don’t know the answer

As I said, it is impossible to know the answer to every single question you will be asked. You will invariably be asked something at some point that you don’t know the answer to. So what do you do?

This can be particularly distracting if the interview is live.

A Primark spokesman might have been asked in the immediate aftermath of the collapse: ‘How many t shirts did your company have made in that factory last year?’

It is highly unlikely he would know the answer but saying ‘I don’t know’ doesn’t look or sound too good.

Better to tell the reporter what you do know related to the story. He may well know who their contractor there is, for how long the company has worked with them, what they make for Primark etc

If the worst comes to worst it is ok to say ‘I don’t know’ if its is supported with ‘but I’ll find out and get back to you.’

Social media is a great platform for disseminating supplementary information after a mainstream media interview. You can talk directly to your audience without the potential distortion of the message by a third party journalist. So don’t just go back to the journalist who did the original interview with the answer to the question. Tell everyone.

You’re asked to speculate

A Primark spokeswoman might have been asked in a live interview:

‘Is the company going to pay compensation to the families of the dead and injured?’

If she answers wrongly, then it could come back to bite in the future. Don’t take the bait. Stick to the facts, if compensation is being looked at, say so.

If it hasn’t been discussed yet, say you can’t speculate until the the facts of the accident have been established.

Answering a speculative question either affirmatively or negatively could damage reputation if the standpoint needs to be changed later on in the crisis.

Asking for personal opinion

‘Do you personally think it is the Bangladeshi government’s lax building control rules that is ultimately responsible for this accident?”

As a spokesman or women you are always the representative of the company. Never give personal opinion, even if you predicate the statement with ‘this is my view only’ it never is. In the eyes of the viewing, listening or reading public you are the company or organisation.

A simple yes or no

“I’m looking for a simple yes or no answer here?”

How many times have you heard interviewers use this technique when they know fine well they will not get a simple yes or no answer. It is designed to knock the interviewee off guard and make them look shifty. And how it works.

They are so effective because they almost always have an obvious answer and the viewer or listener knows it.

But if the interviewee does answer yes or no it can come across really badly as there is no room to manoeuvre from this position.

“Is it true that Primark knows that its Bangladeshi suppliers pay workers less than £1 a day?”

To answer ‘yes’ is to admit that you condone the payment of what amounts to slave wages. To answer ‘no’ is to admit your company either doesn’t know or doesn’t care what goes on in its supply chain.

This is where the great phrases of obfuscation come into their own. Don’t answer on the reporters term.

> You know, it’s not that simple.

> There are instances when things are never black and white

> This is a very grey area.

> To give such a definitive answer would be unfair on those involved in the case at this stage.

> If we want to encourage true understanding of what happened here then it is far more complicated than a one word answer can justify.

> This would not be a dignified answer to the complexities of this case.

> It would be insulting to the intelligence of your viewers to treat such a complex matter with such simplicity.

Sometimes though it can get out of hand.  For instance the BBC’s Jeremy Paxman once asked the then Home Secretary, Michael Howard, the same yes or no question 12 times about the dismissal of a prisons’ chief.

But most interviewers are not as tenacious and will move on, if the question is dealt with skilfully.

Bringing in third parties

Promoting conflict always helps make a story more interesting. For example a Primark spokeswoman might be asked.

‘Marks and Spencers today said that they always personally inspect their suppliers, no matter where they are in the world.  Will you be following their best practise?’

Again don’t take the bait, talk about the positive aspects of your own company’s performance or experiences.

No one ever won any bonus points by getting into a public spat criticising competitors without them there to give their right of reply.

Repeat, repeat, repeat

Reporters will often ask the same question several times over but slightly altering the words to make sound like a different question.

Don’t lose patience. Stick to the key messages you want to get over. But it is fair enough to play the same game and slightly alter the words to make it seem like you’re giving a different answer.

It is the reporter’s job to give you a hard time. He or she needs to be seen to be painfully extracting the truth from a cornered corporate giant twisting and turning to avoid the consequences of their company’s actions

It is a spokesman or woman’s job to be seen as a willing participant offering the truth openly, confidently and honestly. But remember you don’t need to know the exact answer to every question to successfully achieve this.

[lewyn-martell]

This article contains spoilers for the final season of BoJack Horseman

From the beginning, BoJack was always drowning. Even though the BoJack Horseman credit sequence was tweaked from season to season, the coda remained the same. At the end of the day, BoJack stumbles, backwards and expressionless, into his pool. He sinks to the bottom as his friends gawk in wonder at his predicament. What initially seemed to be a comedic pratfall was actually a meditation on the universal struggle to change and grow.

As an addiction therapist, I have long been a fan of comedy as a delivery device for complex issues. There’s so much misconception, judgment, and shame surrounding mental health issues—especially addiction—in today’s society, and opening a discussion about those topics without deploying a heavy hand helps to break down preconceived notions. In 2014, BoJack debuted alongside CBS’s Mom and FX’s You’re the Worst, all of which used humor as way to encourage frank and honest discussions about mental health and addiction issues as a relatable part of the human condition. BoJack soon became the stealthiest Trojan (talking) horse of them all. As both a comedy and a cartoon—two formats that hadn’t generally tackled such topics before—the series made its mark as the most delightfully unexpected place to find connection, understanding, and catharsis on TV.

Over the course of six seasons, BoJack used animation to stretch the boundaries of reality and cram the screen with freeze-frame gags, but the medium also made it surprisingly easy for viewers to find themselves in the show’s characters. Instead of a human man at the center, there was BoJack, a talking, depressed horse, and the supreme weirdness of that contrast invited viewers to make personal connections to the series in ways that would prove to be both meaningful and lasting.

However, even though the series sympathized with psychic pain, it never let its characters—and, by extension, us—off the hook. Where most TV cartoons use giddy resets to undo dramatic plot twists (Homer doesn’t age; Kenny never stays dead), BoJack forced its characters to deal with the ongoing ramifications of their actions, in ways both large and small. In the first season, a drug-tripping BoJack set fire to an ottoman, and it stayed crispy until he replaced it. In Season 2, the stakes were raised when BoJack was caught in bed with the teenage daughter of an old crush. BoJack, and the show, seemed to have put that experience behind him, but it became a key part of the series’ final arc, in which decades’ worth of bad deeds finally catch up with him. Actions have consequences, even in cartoon form.

For six seasons, viewers witnessed BoJack flirt with real change, only to backpedal when it came time to truly confront the painful memories and experiences that fueled his maladaptive behaviors. In the first half of Season 6, which Netflix released last fall, BoJack finally seemed ready. He went to rehab, worked at making amends, and embarked on a new career as an acting teacher. But as he made his way back into the world in the show’s final eight episodes, BoJack made one of the cardinal sins of recovery. While he faithfully continued to attend 12-step meetings after he completed inpatient rehab, he neglected to fully contend with all his past traumas, both those that he had created for others and those foisted upon him in childhood by his damaged parents. “Acting,” he tells his students, “is about leaving everything behind and becoming something new.” But he was running from his past, not reckoning with it.

BoJack’s long-simmering traumas came to a head in the penultimate episode of the series, “The View From Halfway Down.” In a surreal sequence that plays like This is Your Life meets Intervention, he attends a dinner party at which all the guests are dead, and who have either wronged or been wronged by him. Eventually, it’s revealed that this deranged fever dream is BoJack’s version of life flashing before his eyes. While he was metaphorically drowning for so long, now he’s physically drowning. As BoJack floats, passed-out and nearing death in his own pool, a mishmash of memory and oxygen-starved hallucination brings all of his history to bear in a way that underscores his conflicting feelings of guilt, confusion, and sorrow.

It’s of note that BoJack doesn’t make a conscious decision to confront his past; it’s just as the former mentor he betrayed tells him, “your brain going through what it needs to go through.” A supervisor once told me that clients must rip out the roots of trauma, otherwise the weeds will continue to sprout and choke any progress a person is attempting to make. However, in my experience, often clients have set up barriers to prevent them from accessing their traumas, because they’re just too much, man. The only way they have survived is to compartmentalize and numb whenever the feelings got too big. And while this may seem to be an effective coping skill, it is also one that is not sustainable. The way out is painful, but it’s a different kind of pain. It’s an unfamiliar pain. Most choose to stick with the devil they know rather than confront the source of their continued substance abuse. Who can blame them? Change is hard.

Yet, within his rapidly darkening mind, forced to confront his demons, BoJack does indicate willingness to change. He expresses sincere regret about his damaged relationships with both Sarah Lynn and Herb Kazzaz, and he actually experiences a genuine connection with his father. (That the latter is also Secretariat “for some reason” doesn’t make the moment less touching.) BoJack Horseman illustrates that harboring unresolved trauma can be deadly and, in doing so, brings viewers to that dark yet somehow hopeful place that’s long been a hallmark of the series. As long as we’re breathing, meaningful change is always possible.

In contrast to the immersive trauma of “The View From Halfway Down”, the series finale, “Nice While It Lasted,” reunites BoJack with the four people who made the most impact on him during this transitional period of his life. In turn, he gets a chance to reconnect with Mr. Peanutbutter, Todd, Princess Carolyn, and Diane. And, shocker, they’re all processing their own issues as well. Change can’t happen in a bubble. We all help one another. The series works to drive that point home as BoJack shares a final emotional moment with each member of his support system.

Despite the horrific things he’s done, BoJack is not beyond redemption. He returns, time and time again, to Diane Nguyen, the woman who he first felt comfortable sharing his childhood trauma with. At times, Diane and BoJack have been each other’s worst enablers, but at other times they have connected in deep, personal ways. They share a complex relationship, and the end of the series concludes on a picture-perfect note, leaving us to contemplate the wide-open future. Will they stay friends? Will BoJack relapse? The emotional generosity of the series extends right up until that final, lovely, lingering moment. It’s one in which we can imprint our greatest hopes for these two characters, but also consider the potential pitfalls that may line the road ahead. In allowing viewers this latitude, the series drives home the idea that recovery, like life, is an ongoing process in which the future is never quite clear.

In reaching out so personally and daring to tell such raw, human stories, BoJack Horseman has generously provided years of much-needed catharsis for viewers around the globe. For that, I’d like to echo Diane’s words by saying: Thank you, BoJack. Thank you for choosing to tell this story, for seeing us, and for letting us know that it’s always possible to try for a better tomorrow.

[theclaravoyant]

High school AU: popular Bobbi has a crush on adorkable Jemma. Only problem is that Jemma hasn't realized she's gay yet.

AN ~ This was so much fun! I hope you like it.

Rated T for some sexual references, but it’s mostly fluff & mutual (& eventually resolved) pining

Currently accepting Pride prompts! here’s my askbox.

Read on AO3 (~3500wd)

Suddenly I See

“Shh – it’s Jemma’s turn.”

At Stanley High, the word of Bobbi Morse was law, so the students around her hushed. Bobbi leaned forward a little in her seat as Jemma Simmons, in jeans and an unassuming pale-pink t-shirt, stood and stepped up to perform. She laid a copy of the play from which she was reciting at the front of the stage, but of course, she didn’t need to double-check it. Katherine’s monologue from The Taming of the Shrew spilled from her lips in a lilting chant, word-perfect and faithfully emphatic. When she ended it on her knees with her hands raised up to an imaginary Petruchio, a murmur went around the room and the class halfheartedly applauded, as they had done for everyone else.

Well, most of the class applauded. Bobbi didn’t even clap once, though one hand absently drifted in an attempt to do so. The other one was too busy digging into the material of the seat, reminding her to be cool.

Lincoln elbowed Bobbi.

“Shut up, Campbell,” she muttered.

“Mr Campbell,” called the teacher in a crisp tone. “Perhaps you have something you’d like to share with the class?”

Raising his eyebrows at Bobbi mockingly, Lincoln obediently got out of his seat and jogged down the stairs, turning to bow up at her just as mockingly, before nodding a noncommittal apology toward the teacher and taking to the stage for his rendition of Mercutio from Romeo and Juliet. His monologue was a bit more bumbling than Jemma’s, in terms of word-perfection, but it was delivered emotively nonetheless, and Lincoln was her friend, so Bobbi applauded properly at the end of it - even if her eyes did keep drifting down to Jemma all the while.

While Bobbi was thus distracted, the gangly form of Antoine Triplett climbed over the row of seats that had separated them, and dropped down into Lincoln’s now-empty place.

“Hey now, what’s that face?” he wondered, prodding Bobbi with a finger.

“I’m going to do it,” Bobbi swore, her eyes fixed on Jemma. The bell rang – she was running out of time – she twisted in her seat. “I’m going to tell her how good she was.”

“Was she good though,” Trip mused, “or just English?”

“I don’t know,” Bobbi retorted. “Was your Othello good, or just Black?”

“Damn, jumping out of the gate fast with that one!” Trip exclaimed. “I’m just looking out for my girl! What’s the first rule, Bobbi? Your first rule? Never fall for the straight ones.”

“She’s not –“

Bobbi cut herself off. Her heart sunk. It was all well and good to imagine, but Jemma wasn’t out and in fact, as far as Bobbi could tell, hadn’t even thought to question the idea that she could be anything other than straight. In terms of her actual sexuality, that didn’t mean much, but in terms of Bobbi’s dating prospects, it meant a lot. It was an elephant in the room that would be incredibly poor form for her to point out. She’d helped many a fledgling gain their little gay wings, but the beginning of the journey was a path Jemma’s own feet would have to find.

Bobbi told herself this whenever she was overcome with the desire to grab Jemma and make out with her against a locker.

It was becoming less and less effective.

In fact, Bobbi was even starting to weave a story in her own head of a queer Jemma, based on their interactions, and the things that Bobbi had seen and imagined; nebulous possibilities fuelled by subtext. She was, more and more, getting her hopes up, and her first rule was collapsing under the weight of a crush with such potential that she had not even realised how far she had taken it until now. Until this moment. Until she watched Jemma, laughing and content with Fitz and Daisy down the front of class, utterly unburdened by this crush, or by the tumultuous self-inspection that came with questioning oneself intimately. She was happy, and Bobbi was happy, but also frustrated, because she couldn’t tell Trip that she hadn’t broken her first rule after all.

(Well. She couldn’t tell him yet.)

-

They hurried to next period in their own groups, and sat apart, like they always had, until the teacher rearranged them.

“Jemma Simmons – Bobbi Morse.”

Jemma squirmed with glee, and packed to change desks so hurriedly she almost dropped everything before she pulled her head in. Of course, in that moment, even she was not sure why she was so excited to be partnered with Bobbi. It was not as if they had not worked together before. It was not as if there were not half a dozen people of comparable ability in their class (though, she would argue, none on the same par of neatness or commitment as the two of them were). It was not as though Bobbi would consider it a memorable experience, either; in fact, Jemma found herself rather nervous that it would go badly. For all her intelligence and general likeability, she had a penchant for being blunt and, when she tried to steer away from that, “off-putting” or “suffocating.” It was a balance she had always struggled with but one that, for some reason, seemed especially important today. She must refrain from putting her foot in her mouth for the course of this two-week assignment. She could manage that, right? Yes. She and Bobbi would be friends, if it killed her.

(Friends. Later, she’d laugh about that.)

Friends could admire the way Bobbi seemed to look like a professional in the school-issue lab coats, right? It was purely aspirational. The rest of their class tended to look like bumbling children in oversized, overly generic white jackets. Bobbi looked like a proper Doctor, and one that Jemma would trust with her life. In a totally platonic, professional-admiration-based kind of way.

Friends could admire Bobbi’s handwriting too, of course, and smile at the little loops it made, right? Jemma wondered: how did she have time to write like that? Had it been bred into her? Genetically engineered? It wasn’t as if Jemma had the most chicken-scratchiest penmanship, of course, but when Bobbi wrote, she oozed perfection and Jemma couldn’t entirely quantify what it was. It just felt like anyone who could write both that level of content quality, and aesthetic quality, was worth mooning over.

Friends could admire the way Bobbi’s eyes looked, too. Couldn’t they? Of course they could. It was a matter of objectivity. Not only were they bright and intelligent, but they were an unusual and pleasant shade of blue: it was only natural to find them attractive. Bobbi’s face was made of bold shapes, with a strong jaw-line and cheekbones, and her eyes stood out. Her face was aesthetically pleasing. That was just a fact.

Right?

Not for the first time, Jemma’s eyes trailed down to the rainbow Pride flag pin that Bobbi kept on her pencil case. She herself had always admired Bobbi’s – well, her pride, Jemma supposed. Her out-ness, her confidence with it, and the way the school seemed not to mind about it all that much. No doubt she’d faced her fair share of demons, probably, but Bobbi was one of the popular girls here – even amongst guys, which Jemma found fascinating… had found fascinating… now was starting to find fascinating in a whole new light. Bobbi, everything Bobbi, had seemed unattainable just a few days before, but unattainable in a conceptual, personality-trait kind of way. Like the kind of person who had her life way too together to be real. But now, once it had entered her mind, another thought lodged in Jemma’s brain that maybe, her fascination had been related to the fact that Bobbi had been unattainable in other ways, too. Surrounded by her clique, and so high-achieving and beloved and athletic at the same time, and a social butterfly on top of that – Bobbi was enviable in her own right. But smart, fit, charming? Were those not all desirable traits too?

Jemma shook her head and twirled her pencil between her fingers, trying to draw herself back to the task at hand with a few rapid-fire conclusions. She had dated boys. Quite liked a few of them, and quite liked their advances too. She had never dated girls, or looked at one sexually really, except for objectively, but everyone did that, probably. She had a few female celebrity crushes, but didn’t everybody? So she wasn’t gay. Ipso facto, she didn’t have a crush on Bobbi and never had and never would and all that unattainability rubbish was just her getting up in her own head again. Damn psychology.

(Fortunately for her, Jemma would later recount, it is not that easy to kill an idea.)

-

Jemma shoved her eyes back to the board somewhat forcefully and Bobbi lowered her own, twirling a pencil absently as she stared. She sighed. She had been hoping, always hoping, and though somewhat prepared to be let down, it still hurt a little each time it happened. Each time Jemma looked, and then looked away; each time it seemed like there was a question, or even just a breath, on the tip of her tongue, and she did not let it fall. Bobbi was frustratingly sure now, that she was not imagining things, but Jemma seemed just as frustratingly sure to keep said things to herself. Sometimes, Bobbi daydreamed up a collection of haphazard, farcical scenarios designed to trigger in Jemma a rom-com-like revelation, but the thought of forcing it – whether she was imagining things or not – made Bobbi feel predatory and wrong. There was nothing to do but wait it out and see how things developed. Her crush was her own problem, not Jemma’s. And besides, Jemma clearly had enough of her own stuff to sort out.

Even if she was taking so long about it, and dancing so painstaking close to the truth, that Bobbi wanted to snap a pencil.

It wasn’t all frustrations though. Bobbi did allow herself some pleasantries in her own head, and complex bundle of attractions aside, Jemma was great to hang out with. She was smart, in lots of ways and on lots of topics, and she was energetic and kind for the most part, and she loved to talk. She was honest, about the good and the bad, and sometimes she was blunt to the point of rudeness to which Bobbi, though she’d struggle to admit it, could relate. Bobbi loved her, in ways that could not clearly be divided into friendship and romance. She loved the way Jemma’s eyes lit up when she got excited, because it was beautiful, but also because it meant she was happy. She loved the way Jemma tucked her hair behind her ears, both at the same time, whenever she was nervous or needed to concentrate. It just felt very her. Bobbi loved the care and enthusiasm with which Jemma distributed cupcakes to Bobbi’s group one lunchtime. Half of them were made with applesauce instead of butter, Jemma told her. Fitz had bet her they wouldn’t taste as good, so she wanted a blind test. Scientifically rigorous; fluffy and adorable. The eternal dichotomy of Jemma Simmons.

(The cupcake test was definitely not, Jemma maintained, an excuse to spend more of the day with Bobbi. And she definitely did not, she insisted, spend the rest of the day thinking about the way Bobbi had licked the soft pink icing off her lips, or how much Jemma wished those lips had been her own.)

Bobbi, of course, swiftly resigned herself to daydreaming alone about that icing and how good it would taste on Jemma’s lips. She dreamed about how Jemma’s pupils had dilated at the sight of it, and how much more it would���ve taken – not much more - to make her weak at the knees. She dreamed about spending a lazy morning baking with Jemma, dancing around in their pyjamas and making a mess of a fantasy kitchen she must have pulled from a movie or advertisement she’d since forgotten. Sometimes they had a dog, for some reason. She didn’t question it. It was only a daydream, after all. A stockpile of fuel for her unquenchable crush - not that she was trying that hard to quench it: if she only had two weeks, she was going to make it count.

But as those two weeks came to an end, Bobbi gathered her dreams and fantasies to one side, and committed herself to enjoying their last few days together for the fun and challenging assignment and vibrant friendship that it was. When the night of the science fair came at last, and it was time to present their project, it all flew by, flawless and fast. Too fast. Afterward, when the gravel crunched under her tyres as she pulled into Jemma’s drive to drop her home, Bobbi held her breath.

“Well… thanks for the lift,” Jemma said.

Her voice sounded a little shaky and wistful, but maybe that was just an effect of the silence, and Bobbi’s own mind. Or maybe she could feel it too – that slight ache that was now making a home in Bobbi’s chest. An ache full of the knowledge that they could have had so much more and that they were about to watch it slip away. Tomorrow, they’d return to their normal seats in biology. They’d return to their regular groups at lunch, and to sitting on opposite sides of the theatre in drama, and to their pre-This patterns of after school lives and extra curriculars. They’d return to how it was, which had been fine, but hadn’t been all it could be.

Still, Bobbi smiled.

“No problem,” she said, but the words left her lips just as Jemma took in a rush of air and blurted:

“How did you know?”

-

Jemma startled herself when the question came out, but her fingers refused to reach for the door handle and her body seemed determined to hold her here until she’d got some kind of response. First, Bobbi took a moment of silence to turn the car’s engine off (and to lock away her crush; it was not the time or the place for it). Then she looked back at Jemma with more longing than she meant to, and with a smile.

“Know about what?” she asked, because know about me, or know about you? felt like it would send Jemma running.

“Know about –“ Jemma stumbled through it. “You know, that you liked girls. How did you know? And, when? Why? What does it feel like?”

Not the questions of somebody curious, or looking for a thread to pull. No. These were questions Bobbi herself had asked, on more than one occasion, and they made her smile deepen.

“It feels amazing, first of all,” she said. “Although, there’s a lot of doubt involved too. I’m working on it, but sometimes it feels like there’s something to prove.”

Jemma felt her heart swell and shrink again, in a moment. Bobbi had answered a question she hadn’t thought to ask, and Jemma knew in that moment that Bobbi had seen through her. Strangely enough, though, it didn’t make her want to run. Rather, she felt like reaching down into herself and pulling out more of herself, of her soul, to show Bobbi. She listened instead.

“I guess I’d say I knew,” Bobbi continued, “a long time ago. Well, not that long. Middle school. My first kiss was a girl, even though my prom date was a guy. He dumped me the day before the dance, and my friend found me alone outside ‘coz I’d still gone for some reason, and we ended up kissing. Just a little peck on the lips, really, but it was a kiss. I was twelve. It opened up a door for me, I guess, and I went exploring through it, and here I am. But not everybody knows that young. And not everybody knows with a kiss. Sometimes it’s a lot more conceptual and harder to figure out. It’s like, you think you want that girl’s dress, you know, but then actually it’s more like… you want that girl’s dress on your bedroom floor.”

She laughed, and Jemma found herself laughing too. She’d been expecting this conversation to be a lot heavier, and while it certainly felt significant, with every piece of advice Bobbi offered, her heart felt lighter and lighter. Bobbi didn’t ask her to share her own feelings and talk through them – for which Jemma was grateful, although she did offer the occasional tidbit – but they talked for a long time about the nature of different forms of attraction and the complexity of figuring it all out. It seemed simple and complex both at once, Jemma thought to herself, and as Bobbi talked her through some of the labels – the complexities - she felt the acceptance – the simplicity – settle in the back of her heart and her mind.

I like girls.  

I like Bobbi.

I like girls.  

I like Bobbi.

Does she like me?  

“…and – oh, shit,” Bobbi cursed. “I’ve got to be home by midnight. Sorry to kick you out, but I’ve gotta go.”

“It’s no problem,” Jemma assured her. “I should be getting inside too. Thanks for the talk.”

“Anytime.”

“But- um, don’t tell anyone at school about it, okay? I’m still thinking through it.”

“Sure thing. Take your time.”

Jemma sighed, relieved and satisfied, and got out of the car, gathered her books, and strode up the drive with a spring in her step and a grin on her face. Bobbi grinned after her as she started up the car, and tried not to fist-pump the air as she drove away.

-

It didn’t go back to the way it was before – not quite. How could it, why would it, after that? Jemma did go back to spending more time with Fitz and Daisy, but she smiled at Bobbi when they passed in the hall, or sat across the room from each other. Bobbi put in the Good Word of a Popular Girl on Jemma’s behalf when she wanted something, and helped pull sway in the Student Council elections – in return, she jested, for some more of those applesauce cupcakes, which Jemma was happy to provide. They danced around each other for a while, a pleasant equilibrium of mutual crushing, while Jemma sorted herself out. Bobbi slipped her resources and kept her secrets. Jemma told Fitz and Daisy, and when she was ready, came to school with three little star badges in a row on her pencil case: one pink, one purple, one blue.

At a gesture from Jemma, Bobbi took the seat beside her instead of her usual in biology. Their partners swapped without a word, if perhaps a bit of a grin. Nobody questioned the ways of Bobbi Morse, but the rumour mill was in full swing by now. This bit of gossip was one of the juicier ones in the saga so far. Watching the other students murmur excitedly, Jemma tucked a lock of hair behind her ears. Bobbi shook her head.

“Ignore them,” she said, and nodded at the stars. “You figured something out?”

Jemma beamed, and felt her chest expand a little.

“I’m still tossing up between yellow and purple,” she said, “but it’s early days, so I’m happy.”

“Well, that’s good.” Bobbi found herself blushing, cheeks burning with the question she’d been hanging onto for so long. Instead, she asked: “What’d you get for production? Happy with that too?”

“Lead.” Jemma grinned smugly.

“Of course,” Bobbi agreed. “I’m stage manager.”

“Well, you know what that means.”

Jemma’s tone was laden with possibilities that captured Bobbi’s attention like the smell of freshly baked goods on a windowsill. She almost laughed at Bobbi’s expression as she expanded on her offer:

“Lots of after-school stays… Long rehearsal hours together - I’ll be called a lot, after all. And I might need a ride. A few rides, in fact.”

Jemma raised an eyebrow, and Bobbi caught on.

“Some of those rehearsals go to six, seven o’clock,” Bobbi mused. “We might have to get dinner together sometime.”

“That we might.”

“I guess it’s settled, then, isn’t it?”

“I guess it is.”

“How are you feeling?”

Bobbi laughed a little, watching the blush creep up Jemma’s cheeks instead of a verbal answer. That dizzying validation: Bobbi remembered it well, so instead of probing Jemma further, she intertwined their fingers together below the desk. Their hands hung together until the teacher walked in, when they reluctantly crept apart and back to work. A few of the students behind them snickered with laughter, but this time Jemma didn’t seem bothered. She sat taller, as attentive as ever, and the class launched onward, with the pleasant pressure of Bobbi’s grasp still tingling in her fingertips.

[welp-here-i-write]

Wickling Shenanigans Chapter 2 ~ Firsts

It’s today! Holy shit I can’t believe it! Teddy texted me like ten minutes after he dropped me off, inquiring as to whether or not I would be interested in going to a local comic store that he’s been going to for ages.I’m so excited! It took us a solid hour to plan out our schedules so that neither of us would get into too much trouble with our parents (or, in my case, make my parents suspicious). So, we decided on the Wednesday two weeks from then at 6, which would be a comic release day. Fresh comics would be arriving at the store and everyone would go to read something, buy it and then sit down and just debate anything and everything. There’s only one problem. I’m not too positive on how I feel about going to a different store.

I don’t feel like I’m ‘betraying’ my local store or anything, in fact I don’t even have a local store. It’s just anxiety I guess. I mean, I’m already going to be with Teddy, who I’ve still technically only known for seven hours or so, but I’m also going to be in a different area of town, different people who may not react to well and who knows what else. Just this once I want to be confident. I want to be able to just relax and go out on a date with a cute, nerdy boy.

Alas, anxiety never listens to reason anyway. So now the harder question. What the hell am I going to wear? I normally just wear my hoodie and a pair of jeans, but is that really good enough for a date? It is only to a comic shop and by no means is it formal, but I don’t want to disrespect or act like an idiot in front of Teddy. I begin to look through all of my clean clothes, looking for anything that doesn’t look stupid or too casual. No solid colour shirts, that would ruin the comic vibe. So maybe a proper hero shirt? He said that he likes Captain America… right? God, if this works out at all, I’m really going to be a sucky boyfriend. I look for any Captain America merchandise I may have and find… nothing. I do find an Avengers shirt, however, and quickly decide that it’s my best bet.

Finding a loose, yet nice looking pair of jeans to go along with the outfit, I put any finishing touches together and try to fix myself up. Trying to shower as quickly as possible, I hurry through and out, starting on my hair as soon as I can at least mildly dry the rest of my body. It takes five minutes of fumbling through drawers for combs and a hair gel that doesn’t look fake as shit for me to finally begin on hair. I try to do anything that would make it the same nice sideways part that it was when he last saw me, yet I can’t manage it in the slightest. I throw the comb down in frustration some time later, collapsing to the porcelain tiles of the bathroom.

“Why can’t you just get one fucking thing right? You fucking idiot.” I whisper, head in hands, tears welling up in my eyes.

“Maybe you shouldn’t even waste his time. Just cancel. You said it yourself, you aren’t going to be of any use to him, merely a sucky boyfriend.” The small, nagging voice from within my head coos. A voice I’ve come to accept as a part of me, yes, but also a dark thing that I can’t tolerate. The voice of my depression and anxiety all rolled into one. And no matter what I tell myself, I can’t help but feel like that tiny voice is right.

Gingerly, I reach for the phone that I had left on the counter, readying my excuse in my head. There goes another one, I suppose. As I absentmindedly go to the text thread between me and Teddy, I notice that a new text is there.

“Hey, um, I don’t exactly know what you may want from this date or anything, and honestly, I’m really scared to fuck this up. I just wanted to ask if it was ok if we didn’t try and overdo this or anything. I know that this may turn you away, but I just want to make sure I don’t overstep at all or… I don’t even know. I’m sorry. Anxiety is weird. Anyway, I hope that you’re still cool with Jansen’s at 6?”

I can’t stop the tears from pouring out. He is so amazing. He knows exactly what it’s like and is actually confident enough to talk about it. He is everything that I’m not and may never be. I text back, slowly weighing each of my words so that I don’t make a stupid mistake.

“Yeah! Of course. I actually understand exactly what you’re talking about. I was going to do something really brash and ignorant, but you stopped me. I also have anxiety, fun fact, I guess. But yeah, I can’t wait to see you there.” After sending the text I look at the time. 5:00. And Jensen’s is 20 minutes away. Damnit. I sigh, looking at my hair with resignation. No need for false images. I wash out the gel and just simply run a comb through it again. It’s messy, but not in a bad way. I quickly change into the outfit I chose earlier, but after a moment of pause decide to throw on that familiar gray hoodie.

I grab my wallet and keys to the house, saying goodbye to my younger brothers and telling my parents that “Daniel”, my “lab partner”, wanted to meet up for a study session. They accepted it, readily agreeing to any sort of studious activity, and gave me money for the cab ride. As I walk outside into the cold, fall New York air, I search for a taxi, finally hailing one down. I give my destination and soon enough, we reach the comic shop, where I thank the woman and hand her an extra five dollars for getting me here in 15 minutes. I look at the store sign above the door and the extraordinary combination of merchandise, comics and apparel that line the walls and center of the store. Taking a deep breath and trying to steady myself, I walk into the door.

As I walk in, the familiar and comforting scent of fresh comics and posters hit my nose. It feels like a second home by now, and every comic shop has a similar enough smell to feel that way, yet a small difference to make themselves unique. I also hear a surprising lack of conversation when I enter the store, surprised that there are no raging debates on whether the Hulk or the Thing would win in a fight. I look around the small store, obtaining a greeting from the main cashier and obvious manager, but only finding a few others.

Finally, I find a small outcropping filled with comfortable chairs and  group of six people all silently reading issues of the new Scarlet Witch that I had been super excited to get tonight. One of them, a guy probably in his late twenties, with brown, wavy hair and a small stubble, looks up to me. “Oh hey!” He says in a quiet tone. “You here for the Scarlet Witch discussion?”

I look at him with vague confusion. “Um, no, I was invited here by someone I met. He should be here soo-”

“Ah! You’re the guy Teddy won’t shut up about! What is it, Billy, Dilly? I’m sorry, I’m shit with names.” He interrupts, quickly smiling at me after his apparent fumble.

“Yeah, my name’s Billy, nice to meet you.”

“Trent, nice to meet you.” He puts his hand forward and I readily accept it. At least I have one guy who I can now relate to. I continue with a simple train of thought before a question hits my mind.

“Hey, Trent. Did you say ‘the Scarlet Witch discussion’?” I inquire, suddenly reminded of the short phrase he said earlier.

“Yeah! To honour her new comic, we decided that she would be a great subject for this week’s discussion!” Trent’s explanation is then cut off by the sound of yet another voice, this one from behind me and much more familiar.

“Damnit!” Teddy whines, looking slightly red-faced with embarrassment. “It was supposed to be a surprise! I remembered that you said that you loved Scarlet Witch and when I was here later I was reminded about the fact that the discussion was today and I thought immediately that you would love to talk about her and the new issue, which I also bought for you so here.” He says in one rapid sentence, his face growing ever-more cherry as he continues. After the last phrase, he looks through his bag before pulling out a very nice looking Scarlet Witch #9.

At that moment I realize two things. I am the shittiest boyfriend of all time. And. Teddy Altman is the best and most thoughtful boyfriend ever. I accept the comic, silent and slightly open-mouthed. I can’t help but just stare, words failing me. Finally, Teddy speaks up again.

“It’s not what you would’ve preferred is it? I overstepped didn’t I? God damnit I’m sorry Billy, I thought you would like it and clearly I was wrong. Do you want me to take it back? It’ll save you the trouble.” Teddy says. Finally, words connect to my brain again just as he is about to reach and grab the book.

“No! Oh my God Teddy, no one has even done that or anything even remotely similar for me. Holy shit, it’s amazing. I was going to buy one tonight, but… wow. Just… wow. Thank you so much.” I continue to stammer, trying to talk to him, when he leans in and simply hugs me. It’s a nice way to say shut up.

“Hey, it’s ok. So you weren’t horribly disappointed by the present?” He asks, concern still fresh in his face.

“Damnit Teddy, I love it and I can’t wait to talk to everyone here about the obviously greatest person. Well, besides you. Thank you.”

“Yeah, of course. You deserve it. You’re outstanding.” He says, eyes watery and still concerned. I got so lucky to find him. For the next few minutes I begin to flip through the pages of the comic, reveling in the art style that had been revolutionary back in Scarlet Witch #1 and still were just gorgeous. The story was excellently unfolding and about 5/7 of the way through, a large plot twist came into play and made the story exponentially larger, more complex and just flat out better. An hour has passed by the time I finally finish it.

We stay another few hours and discuss how the new arc seems to be coming into play with everyone else, Teddy showing off his new knowledge that he had been working on apparently. And despite my enjoyment of everything and Teddy’s kindness, I can’t help but feel like something is wrong. When we both step outside into the cold, night air, I turn to him.

“This isn’t your thing, is it? Scarlet Witch and everything else that was discussed tonight?” Teddy’s face falls as he looks at me.

“Was it that obvious? I’m just not that big on Scarlet Witch, I mean, I tried but I’m not sure what it is. I just couldn’t get behind it.” His voice cracks a bit and he looks almost as crestfallen as I am that he wasn’t honest with me.

“Not really, I guess I just picked up on it. You know I don’t care right? I completely understand. What kind of geek could I call myself if I were to shame someone for their preferences? That’s the whole job of being a geek!” I say, incredulously. I can’t understand why he wouldn’t be able to just tell me the truth.

“Yeah, I guess. I’m sorry. I guess I thoroughly ruined your night. Goodnight Billy.” He turns away and begins walking. My heart stops for a second. While I am typically ok with letting go of a boy, suddenly everything in me just screams out. And I know that I can’t let him get away. So I run after him.

“Teddy! Wait! No! Come back, please!” I continue running after him, eyes watering. Never before have I felt so strongly about someone. He turns around as I finally catch up and grab his arm. There are tears in his eyes as well. “Please don’t go. I’ve never felt like this before for anyone and the last thing I want to do is ruin this because you really are someone special that no one should ever let go and I just ----”

I’m cut off by a sudden pressure on my lips as Teddy leans forward and silences me. And there are no fireworks, no loud explosions. In fact quite the opposite. Everything just short circuits in my head and my legs soon turn to jelly. I would fall if not for his arms around my waist. His lips are soft or something I’m not quite sure. All I know is that Teddy Altman is kissing me. His hair lightly brushes against my face and his breath smells like strawberry milkshakes. Yet the kiss is so much shorter than I wanted it to be. Pressure and then a slight brush and pull away. He stands there with his forehead against mine, our breath vapour mixing in front of us. He smiles a small, sad smile.

“Sorry, I didn’t even ask. But I’ve kinda wanted to do that for a while. You just… you’re kinda amazing and really attractive and super swe-” It’s my turn to stop him. I lean up and forward again, kissing him with just a little more fervor than before. He responds by pressing into it and returning with his own slight fervor. Finally, we pull away again.

“Guess we’re even then.” I say with a small wink. He gives a small chuckle.

“Damn Billy, I don’t even know what to say. You’re amazing. And God, I am so fucking sorry.” He whispers, arms wrapping around me even tighter.

“Don’t be sorry. You just gave me my first kiss. And there’s no one I would rather give that too. Just promise that we can do something that you love next time.” His eyes widen at that.

“Wait, you-you’re still ok with being with me, even after everything else?” He says.

“God, you are so thick Teddy. Why else would I willingly kiss you? Why would I ask? Just to fuck with you? No! You’re amazing and sweet. How many times do I have to say it? You’ve said it to me and yet won’t accept the reciprocation. Deal with it. You’re stuck with me, Theodore.” I smile, backing up with my hands firmly placed on my hips. He returns the smile, significantly more happy.

After we discuss it for a few minutes, we decide to just relax at his place next week after school. And if it’s anything like the first, I can’t wait for my second date.

[drink-n-watch]

  Genre : Action, romance, violence, Bottle Royal

Episodes: 11

Studio: Nexus

  Mobile games are turning into a real bane. You think it’s all lighthearted casual fun, free to play easy to install and them before you know it they hit you with the small print. You’re just minding your own business and somehow you now owe 60$ in microtransactions for some game that isn’t even that fun or you know, or maybe you only had two hours sleep because you spent hours mindlessly tapping on a screen and letting your brain melt slowly, or somebody is trying to murder you. Any one of these things can just put a damper on your day. For Kaname it’s mostly the latter that has him down, especially since a couple of his good friends are dead now and he accidentally got roped into this whole thing without even knowing the rules. So how do you quit a real life free for all PvP? Not easily…

That’s kind of a weird title for my post… In case some of you don’t know King’s Game is an anime with an extremely similar premise which I watched a while ago and reviewed here: King’s Game – A Modern Transcendentalist Rallying Cry. I stand by that title! Grated the plot of both Darwin’s Game and King’s Game is sort of basic horror fodder right now so it’s not weird to find two similar animes but the second I started watching Darwin’s Game I was struck by just how many elements were pretty much identical. Even the title is almost the same. And since I didn’t enjoy King’s Game much, I was just about to drop Darwin’s Game when something made me stick around…

what could that thing be?

Now visually speaking Darwin’s Game is what I would qualify as competent. It’s not bad. The ladies are very pretty and have very pretty eyes. The boys are much less interesting in design and for me, less attractive, but they get the point across. The backgrounds are similarly forgettable but functional and a lot of attention is given to floor plans and layouts to really coordinate the virtual space with the action which I thought was a very nice touch.

I don’t have much to say about sound design and apart from a few classic tropes the non verbal storytelling was rather minimal. It’s an o.k. looking show which most people are not likely to remember for its production unless you happen to particularly like a specific character design or something.

Oddly though, this may have played in Darwin’s Game’s favour. This is a convoluted sentence but I really wanted to keep it…

You know what else I kept? Dozens of eye close ups!

Like I said, I almost dropped this show at the first episode, which is a double episode by the way so that 11 episode count is really 12 like most other shows. First the production is not bad in any way but for me didn’t have any particular element that would keep me watching. And the set up is so full of worn out horror tropes that I felt like I had seen this show before.

The basic premise is that there’s a mysterious mobile game that sort of appears on your phone and if you happen to open the app you automatically become a player in Darwin’s Game. It’s a sort of Battle Royal in which players kill each other for fabulous prizes and indecent sums of money. There is a lot of techno-magic going on that ensures non players are never in the way and players can have supernatural abilities called sigils. When every man nice guy (standard protagonist) Kaname finds the app on his own phone he suddenly gets sucked into a never ending fight for survival and manages to collect both allies and foes along the way.

Now King’s Game does differ in the fact that the mobile app gives you random and increasingly gruesome tasks to accomplish in order to survive (or else you are supernaturally killed) instead of sucking you into battles to the death, but the tone and effects are very similar. The character archetypes are pretty much the same as well and the early story was progressing along the same narrative beats and plot points.You have to understand, I really didn’t like King’s Game much and found it a chore to finish so these commonalities were giving me very serious pause.

I have a bad feeling about this

However, after seeing that Darwin’s Game had a much better rating than King’s Game I decided to stick around only out of curiosity. I find that sometimes two very similar shows can have very different ratings and it’s always fascinating to me. However, after episode 2, it became very apparent that these were wildly different shows and one was clearly better.

I know merely comparing two shows is not much of a review but I really did enjoy the exercise of figuring out why one worked for me while the other didn’t and I think sharing that with you will help you get an idea of what type of show Darwin’s Game is.

First thing that I think really helped Darwin’s Game is the shift from Horror to Action. Now Darwin’s Game is a very violent anime and occasionally quite gruesome about it. A lot of the deaths are bloody, onscreen and the victims are often very young or more or less innocent. It has just as much gore and suspense as any horror series I have seen but that’s not what the plot chooses to emphasize. Instead of slow moody scenes meant to built up tension we have quick moving action that rarely broods on the tragedy and dread of the situation.

no hard feelings

This in turn changes the character archetypes and the way the story treats them. People in Darwin’s Game get over things pretty easily and quickly. They have to, they don’t have time to be all gloomy. Which means the overall tone is a lot more happy go lucky in spite of everything that is going on. The story also becomes much more plot driven with the appeal being trying to figure out who is behind the game and why it exists rather than character driven with the audience breathlessly hoping our heroes will survive.

This means a bit less development for the cast in favour of more daredevil plans and twists along the way. And I think that this is what works best in this type of story. It also means the characters don,t have to be as helpless or sympathetic since their deaths aren’t the focus of the narrative. They can survive, and kick some behind along the way. They can also be kind of ruthless in their own right with a lot of the essentially innocent character deaths being of their doing. Hey, it’s a kill or be killed world out there. For me this meant that despite having less time devoted to character backstory, motivation or development, they seemed more complex and well rounded (if rather unhinged).

Finally, the fact that the story relies on a lot of well established tropes and fairly basic production also served in efficiently getting me quickly hooked into the action. We all know the basic concept of a Battle Royal, all these people suddenly rapped into this kill to survive situation. It’s a familiar premise that doesn’t really need much explanation or justification at this point. And motivation becomes inherent as well. All these characters are acting this way because they don’t want to die. Great, I get it, I relate, I also would probably not want to die!

getting pixelated seems bad

Smartly Darwin’s Game doesn’t waste any time reexplaining concepts that are by now well known by most of the audience and instead just concentrates and the few tidbits of information that are unique to the show giving the series a more individual feel than it would have otherwise and makes the characters fun and fun to watch instead of bothering with explaining their thought process. The visuals and sound design are the type of stuff anime fans have seen so often that they don’t interfere in any way. There is no overload and no distractions. You get thrown right into the story and then it just never stops for the entire run. And that more or less nonstop action is done very well.

Every time an episode ended I really wanted to know what happens next. Darwin’s Game didn’t affect me in any deep way or stir up my emotions or anything, personally I liked all the characters but didn’t really care anyone specifically. My favourite is chosen mostly on character design. But I was really entertained for the entire run. I should say I finished the series in 3 days and even without being able to directly compare I’m rather confident that Darwin’s Game is the type of show that is really at it’s best when taken in in consecutive more or less uninterrupted viewings. The momentum is really what it has going for it and I have a feeling that if you break it, the series becomes considerably less interesting.

So what I’m saying in short if that Darwin’s Game wasn’t the same as King’s Game…

Favourite character: Rein – obviously

What this anime taught me: nothing – I already knew butterflies are evil

If you don’t drink, how will your friends know you love them at 2 a.m.?

Suggested drink: Game Set Match

Every time we see a butterfly – shiver

Every time anyone says “sigil” – take a sip

Every time the game sends a push notification – go to the settings

Every time Kaname dodes – take a sip

Every time Shuka is merciless – think about your priorities

Every time Kaname is considered outstanding – be confused

Every time Kaname hears his inner voice – take a sip

Every time Sui and Sota switch – take a sip

Every time someone makes a noble sacrifice – get a snack

Every time Rein figures it out – cheer

Every time we see Wang – take a sip

Like I said the lady character designs are very cute, let me show you what I mean:

Darwin’s Game is not the same as King’s Game Genre : Action, romance, violence, Bottle Royal Episodes: 11 Studio: Nexus Mobile games are turning into a real bane.

[tonightontv]

"He's at the very beginning of a very long road that is going to last the rest of his life. … He literally just backed out of the driveway, but at least he's in the car," the actor says of the complicated road ahead for his character on the NBC hit drama.

Though NBC’s This is Us spent two years leading up to what caused the imminent death of Jack Pearson (Milo Ventimiglia), it was how Pearson’s death truly affected the characters that was the focal point of the recently-wrapped second season. While each member of the Pearson family varied with their personal struggles, it was Justin Hartley’s Kevin Pearson who endured the darkest hurdles. Whether battling alcoholism, a strained relationship with his family or an identity crisis, Hartley’s Kevin journeyed through a dark tunnel throughout the second season only to find a dim light upon the show’s recent finale.

Looking ahead to season three, the star spoke with The Hollywood Reporter on taking on a darker role, the complicated journey his character is about to embark on and why he was “relieved” everything came crumbling down for the series’ misunderstood character.

How have the dynamics among the cast changed from the first to the second season?

I remember coming back to season two and we had a photoshoot… and it was the first time that we had gotten back together and seen each other in a long time. I remember there was a feeling out period. Everyone was nice and kind. We all loved this script, you know we had this thing in common. We’re all obviously trying to get to know each other...It was almost like that time when you go back to visit your high school or college friends...it was that kind of thing. Even on set, we have a kind of short-hand now. I can look at Sterling (Knight)’s face or Chrissy (Metz)’s face or Mandy (Moore) or Susan (Kelechi Watson) and I can already tell what they’re thinking, what their head space is and they can probably do the same thing for me. There’s also less pressure in a way, because we already are what we are but there’s more pressure in a way because we are what we are. There’s a standard now.

This season, the characters were explored more in-depth, in particular with your character, Kevin, who endures a darker period more so than the others. How did you feel when you learned what was in store for Kevin in season two?

Not to sound twisted, but I was a little relieved, because the whole [of] season one was building up to something; A crescendo like, ‘What’s going to happen to this guy?’ He just keeps doing the same thing over and over again and it’s interesting, but it’s like where’s the growth? When is he going to grow up? He’s a grown man. Then finally when the season happened, and I was sort of privy to where the story was going pretty early, I was a little relieved. I was like ‘Good, I’m glad that this is happening and everything comes crumbling down.' He’s sort of rebuilding his entire life and being held accountable and learning what his deficiencies are. [Also], this disease he has and how he’s going to deal with that going forward and kind of reinvent himself as a man, be the person that he always thought he could be and the person that maybe he thought his father could be, but he never had a chance to be.

It seems as if Kevin has given himself a responsibility to essentially be another Jack, or someone his father would be proud of, but the pressure has ultimately led him to this journey of darkness and identity loss. What do you think is his biggest hurdle to just be the true Kevin? Does he even know who that is yet?

I think that’s his journey in season three, to figure out who that is and be happy with that. And understand that you don’t have to be perfect in every moment and there are actually going to be people that don’t like you and that’s OK. If you think that every single person out there is going to like you, then you’re wrong. I think he’s trying to balance that, and his insecurities, with also doing good and being a good person and not just saying, "Well, I’m going to do what I want and everyone’s going to love me." Now he’s kinda looking at it as, "I’m going to do the right thing and be good and be honest and be kind, and there’s still going to be people out there that still don’t like me, and I need to figure out a way to be OK with that." That’s a way more complex thing to sort of wrap your brain around.

What would you say is the biggest misconception of Kevin?

The misconception was at the beginning of the series and quite frankly, three quarters of the first season, up until you saw Kevin leave the play and run to Randall’s aide and just grab him and hold him and let him know ‘You can lean on me. Everything’s going to be okay…. I’ll be your release. I’ll be your extra heart.’ I think up until that moment, the misconception was that he’s just sort of this empty, voided out narcissist and not really going anywhere. Then he had to deal with this identity crisis with not [just] figuring out who he was, but facing who he was. He chose to do it alone, because he doesn’t ask for help. I think one of the biggest misconceptions is that he can handle things on his own and he’s not vulnerable. I think out of everyone you see on that show, he feels the most. I think he’s the most emotional. He’s scared. He’s the bravest. People sell him short.

In the first season, it’s known that Kevin has a strong bond with Kate, but this season viewers got to see him work on his complicated relationships with Randall and Rebecca. Is this something that you think Kevin will strive to make a priority going forward?

Absolutely. I think he’s realizing a little later than you would hope. I think he’s understanding the nuances with his relationship with Randall [and] his relationship with his mom. With Kate, even though they’re close, that was a co-dependent relationship. It is an unhealthy relationship, and I think he’s understanding all of that and sort of trying to figure out how to make not only him better, but his relationships better, other people better, and try to be a better man. When you talk to people who have gone through this kind of thing, the first thing they do is try to figure out who they are, where they come from and what makes them happy. Not in a selfish way, but in a way that allows them to actually care about other people. [In the season two finale], we see him flying to Vietnam with this woman and everything seems to be going well, but make no mistake, he’s at the very, very, very beginning of a very long road that is going to last the rest of his life, and it’s going to have left turns, right turns. He’s going to run off the road a couple of times, probably. He’s going to take wrong turns. He literally just backed out of the driveway, but at least he’s in the car.

So, has Kevin truly gotten his act together?

I think he does have his act together and I think something like this isn’t something that you get over, it’s something that you deal with. Someone said something the other day... it was a quote from a TV show…one of the characters said, ‘A good day is when everything goes my way and I don’t drink. A great day is when nothing goes my way and I don’t drink.’ I remember thinking when I saw that, ‘Oh that’s Kevin.’ This is part of the fabric of his being. It lives inside him and this is a part of him and it’s not just something you never stop dealing with.

What do you hope for Kevin next season? Maybe a glimpse at an older Kevin as we have now seen with the flash forwards of Randall and Rebecca?

I think that would be cool just to see where he ends up. Like does he have kids? Is he doing well? Is he divorced? Who’s he with? Is he even alive? Personally, as an actor, I’d like to see a 60-year old Kevin, because that means I make it to like season 4 or 5. Beyond going older with him, I want to see what he does next. I’m intrigued. I want to know what the next year has in store for Kevin and I mean what a year he had! He was almost suicidal. He had a total mental breakdown and then a total breakthrough but now he’s got this whole set of information that he’s gotta download and go forward with. So, he’s kinda like a new man and I’m curious to see how he handles that and how he walks around.

What would you say was your proudest moment this season, whether personally or for your character?

Our writers give us so many moments that you hope you get once in a lifetime, and I feel like we get one every day. I remember getting the script — which was amazing — and I remember thinking, "Gosh, I hope I can do this." I was really proud of the way that we told Kevin’s story in a way that looked real and true and honest, and we weren’t afraid to show someone that didn’t have any of the answers and could very easily wind up in jail or hurting someone. He was a complete out-of-control mess! I like that we didn’t shy away from that and that we were able to tell a real depiction of this horrible thing that people go through.

This season welcomed some special guests, with Ron Howard and Sylvestor Stallone making appearances. Who would you want to welcome as a guest star for future seasons?

I’m going to go real easy here, like real easy to get. You’ve probably never have even heard of him: Um Tom Hanks? Have you heard of him? Look him up. If you look up Tom Hanks and you see who he is... I really want to get Wilson. How great would that be that Kevin makes it that big? I mean, Tom Hanks does Ron Howard movies! How cool would that be if they did a Ron Howard, Tom Hanks, Kevin Pearson movie? (laughs) We could do a Splash 2! There’s a life goal for you.

Being that the title of the show is This Is Us, what would be your response for “Kevin Pearson is …”?

All of us. I think anybody can relate to him. No matter socioeconomically, your sex, your race, your creed, where you come from, what language you speak, I think everybody can relate to him. Which is interesting, because when we found him, he was so unrelatable, and now he’s like, "Wow. I can really relate to some part of that."

A version of this story first appeared in a June stand-alone issue of The Hollywood Reporter magazine. To receive the magazine, click here to subscribe.

[visiblepersonification]

19/10/17. Me, Too

I was initially weary to join the Me, Too movement when I first saw it and I wasn’t sure why. The thought made me feel tired, made me feel false, made me feel like I was jumping on a bandwagon. When have I been assaulted? I can’t remember a time, save from one, which I can remember, which I don’t want to remember and which I won’t talk about. So never, then. And when have I been harassed? I suppose that’s a different story, because I don’t remember a time where I didn’t feel harassed. I thought. I joined the movement anyway, because how could I not? That would have been dishonest. But I joined it without properly wanting to sit and think about the specific moment I realised that I was one of those women; it feels in the same vein as those who experience a trauma, and at the precise moment of impact, the brain erases the memory in order to keep you sane, keep you surviving.

Today I did sit and think about it. Well, actually, I read a note written by a girl I once acted in a play with, where I played (funnily enough) a murdered starlet. I didn’t so much as sit and think about it as I was bombarded in my own mind by those things that I had, in the state of exhaustion from merely contemplating what it means to be a woman in the 21st century that I believe all females are familiar with, boxed away.

In 2015, returning from Dublin, I lay myself under a scalpel in Ross Hall hospital and had my breasts reduced in size. Even today, in 2017, I still contemplate the magnitude of my decision and the impact that it has had on not just my body, but my life, my femininity, my mental health. I remember after the surgery, when all was cut and done, returning back to university life as normal after a Christmas booze-free (hard) and dihydrocodeined up (easy), and the first night that I realised what I had done. I sat alone in my room, and felt the scars that indicated lacerated skin, and I cried. It was so massively emotional, but I had no idea what the emotions meant. Was I sad? No. Was I happy? No. I simply felt, the same way that many people who have large scars and endure large surgeries, like I had been through a sort of battle, and it was in that moment that I realised I was gloriously, disfiguredly, me. I have never felt more like a woman than I did holding those numbed, jagged, stitched-up breasts.

“Why did you do it?” Is the question that those who are brave enough ask. “I used to have massive tits and I hated them” is usually my reply. But why did I do it? What made me resent my own body enough to deface what some believe God had given me? To assault – permanently - my own self?

On holiday with some friends, a boy who I had never met grabbed one of my boobs in the pool. I stared at him, he stared at me, I left the pool, he stayed in. I said nothing. Running around a hockey pitch, a female teacher advised me, “maybe you should invest in some new trainers”, and in the hushed tones of a woman looking another woman in the eyes and kicking what she knows to be her Achilles heel, “a more appropriate -less distracting- bra?”. I used to pray that the bus to sports would crash: as I ran around Millerston pitch, the boys would sit on the hill, separated from the girls, and there would be silence and craned necks as I ran past. Once, my friend texted me to ask ‘were you okay? I saw you running’. The same friend parked his car at the side of a road when we went for a drive to catch up and kissed me, saying “you don’t know how long I’ve waited for this”, grappling one of those puppies out of its cage. Me? You’ve waited for me? Or for this handful of skin and tissue? Safe to say that was the end of that, I never heard from him, nor did I want to. What about the notorious scandal of pictures, texts and stolen kisses and stories that are passed about from tongue to tongue like those ones that twisted in the dark rooms of “I can’t wait to tell the boys this one”; what about the teacher who lets you know that even in regulation swimwear you are deemed “too inappropriate” to swim (my sister, albeit, but I like to imagine that I know and feel and share her pain in that moment). Let’s not forget the man sitting next to your family at dinner who only breaks his stare after a few growled words from your father. And finally, what about the older boy who stands in the doorframe of your maths class and whispers “chebkins”, a name that unbeknownst to you was a name that you had been branded with quietly, viciously, when it was all “just a laugh”.

The torrent was unleashed, and it washed over me like a current. In 2015, the time had come to stop laughing it off. “Chebkins” printed on the back of your own leavers hoodie – and thereby you securing your own ownership of the word – was too small. More needed to be done. Why?

It isn’t singular to the tit; for every globule of breast-related humiliation, there are more globules of instances that by being a woman, I am simply privy to. It takes all forms. It is ubiquitous, veiled, silent, and sometimes we can be complicit without realising or wanting to be. It is the boy who kissed me then went for my younger sister in front of me instead, like we were, are, collectors items that can be added to score boards. It is the man I kissed in a club who showed me a picture of his penis – I was a virginal 16 year old – and I can’t unsee that no matter how much I wish I could. It is the ex-boyfriend, accusing you of lying about your sexual history, you making him feel like he’d “pressured you”. Because how can being pressured be a single occurrence? Everyone knows it only happens once, the first time, and after that you are forever ready and complicit and never, ever pressured, you are a woman. Apparently. It is the boys who were friends, yet who, unbeknownst to them, perpetrate these endless cycles of harassment, of violence, of self-hatred strong enough to make you mutilate your own body; it is the keeping watch behind you on the bus; it is the keys through your fingers; it is the taxi instead of walking home through Drumcondra at night; it is the terror in traveling to countries where you know that women are second class citizens and thereby so are you, you are a target; it is my mother not being able to sit on the same side of the bus as her homosexual male work-buddy whist flying; it is the incandescent rage at the bus driver who won’t take you the full journey home because it’s the last stop and he wants to get home early and he doesn’t understand his implication in the fact that you might not get home at all; it is the “get home safe” and the “text me when you’re in”; it is the fact that my cousin went off her most recent date because he didn’t walk her home to her door and the fact that I understood and I stood by her on that decision; it is the freak-out you have on the street at the man sitting in the window of Café Nero who photographs you, and you challenging him, and him only stopping denying it when another man – a gay man – came to my aid, and even though that homosexual man is no sexual challenge for the heterosexual one to defeat or overcome or overpower, and you could see on his face that he was equally as fascinated by him as by me, that the gay man was still more valid in opposition than I was because he was a man. It was my friend who was with me at that time and who was just too scared to say anything at all.

Is it bad to admit that there have been so many instances that they turn into droplets amidst a sea? I cannot even remember them all. It is the being born with breasts and a vagina that will result in you being covered in a tapestry of minor assaults and harassments and humiliation. In my thinking, I couldn’t single out one concrete instance. Does that make it valid? Or does that make me seem like a liar? Just like all the assault victims who stand in court to find their verdict thrown out because of lack of evidence, does that make them liars too? Do we all swim in the same blackened ocean? Because I can’t – I won’t - forget the stories. The awful, terrible stories that other women tell you, quietly and calmly, when they know that they can trust you and that you will understand, and then the black words flow between you like water from cup to cup in an experience that is gruesome but which forges an inevitable and unforgettable bond. You realise you haven’t got it bad because you haven’t HAD it as bad as others. But – won’t you? One day?

I did not just achieve smaller breasts. I achieved long scars across my body. They really are what I define as a battle-scar; signifying the deep and complex answer of what it means to be a woman in the 21st century. My long white, silver and lilac carnations that thread across my body remind me what this body is. This body will get paid 70p to a man’s £1. It will be scrutinised as it ages, it will maybe be an obstacle to being hired in middle age in case of pregnancy pay outs and now that we’re on pregnancy – GOD! BABIES! – this body better decide if it wants one because they will not be sticking around forever, ho no. This body is taxed for the blood that spills out of it.

These long lines that I cherish and adore – because I do cherish and adore my long jagged scars – remind me that this body is mine: not my future husbands’, or ex-boyfriends’ or future-boyfriends’, or employers’, or even my beloved fathers’ (and with his financial help only was I allowed to make the decision that granted me these wonderful scars). It is not a gift from a God I don’t believe in. It is mine: it belongs to a thinking being, a woman who when walking home in the darkness of night feels hunted.

So this is my Me, Too. I am a woman, and I felt harassed by my own body. What a sad story, if I hadn’t had the agency to do what I did. I reduced my breasts. I love my scars, because they allow me to forget the reasons why it is my body that allows me to say Me, too. You too. Us all too. We are all drowning in this blackened ocean.

[dyscopian]

A Year on My Own

I’m terrible about blogging, or journal keeping in general. I’ve tried them all: previous tumblrs (agentslander which is now just a mess of SPN memes and gifs; the other is brendonurie, given to me by a friend years ago that kind of just turned into reblogging fan art because I feel obligated to post something when I have over 75k followers), word presses, bound books, composition notebooks and ugh, I wish that I could keep up with my bullet journal as well as I’d like, because I’m always coming across new spreads for it but I never stick to it.

It’s doubtful that this will be any different, but I’m into my third glass of wine and instead of working on any of my novels like I should be, I’m tinkering around with all the thoughts about my own life.

A blog has to start somewhere, and while I hope to use this more to run around with ideas for novels, character development and short stories, I also want to use it as a place to just work through my own thought processes.

My lease is almost up, which means it’s been almost a year now since I started out on this little venture that feels like true adulthood. I’ve been reflecting on that a lot over the last few weeks and just processing everything that’s happened in a year and what I’ve learned.

It’s funny how I have a ten year old daughter and had been married for several years but this last year has been the first year since 2008 that I’ve been on my own without living with roommates, friends, family or lovers. It’s given me a chance to really explore myself and find my identity in solitude. The last time I lived alone it was about finding my identity outside of my broken marriage, but this time around it’s had a more positive spin even if there’s been trials and tribulations.

I can sage my house without religious judgement, light incense and sit in a lowly lit room with a glass of wine or a bowl of weed and write, listen to music, read, mess around with tarot cards all while listening to music loudly or letting repeat episodes of Doctor Who play, or just enjoy the silence with the faint sound of my cat purring next to me or my chickens clucking around at my feet with their happy little trills.

That’s me, curled up on the couch watching documentaries on things that will kill in the Victorian home or watching Outlander and wishing the Weeping Angels from Doctor Who were real, because how awesome I think it would be to be sent back in time. I get to be weird and I get to be myself.

In the last year, I’ve graduated from college, learned how to take care of chickens of all things, found what I will and won’t tolerate in a job, friends and partner. I’ve met some of the most incredible people who have helped me discover things about myself. I’ve gotten out of a dead end relationship. I’ve learned the struggle of balancing bills on a low income, which has been a greater struggle than when I had been balancing them in a marriage.

I’ve been to a protest and experienced the rage of knowing the way the media twists events in favor of the system, in order to protect what’s broken rather than stand with the truth to fix it. I can stay out if I want to stay out and come home when I want without having to check in with someone.

These all seem like simple things and maybe I’m experiencing them later in life than a lot of other people but I met my ex husband when I was nineteen and from there never got to experience the independence that so many other people I know had before they settled down. And you never really know independence until you’re truly on your own.

I found out I can still break my own heart by falling for the wrong person. That may not seem like a beautiful thing, but it is. It’s been almost eight years since my divorce and nearly a decade since I let myself feel anything even close to relating to passion. People can’t hurt you if you don’t let them in and despite all my desires to let others in and trying my hand at a few relationships, I could never bring down my walls enough to give them any vulnerable part of me.

It threw me into this whole idea that I might be asexual, but I’m not. If anything, over the last year I’ve begun to embrace the fact that I am bisexual more than any other box that I might be shoved in and I’m standing up for that now, speaking louder about it rather than just shrugging it off and trying to figure out what’s so wrong with me that I can’t open up to the men that I thought I should be able to.

I chose relationships with people who I was better off being friends with and because of such the relationships lacked passion and chemistry because I tried to force myself to feel something that wasn’t there for me, like I was trying to fill a role I was supposed to fill;  but, I know now that I am fully capable of feeling passion and taking risks in being vulnerable. That, regardless of the circumstances that make it impossible for anything to develop, says I’m not as dead inside after my divorce as I thought I was after nearly a decade of being shut down towards others. Which is incredibly beautiful. It’s the latest lesson I’ve learned and I almost didn’t get that chance.

I tried to commit suicide back in July. I downed an entire prescription of Amitriptyline days before Chester Bennington committed suicide and ended up in the hospital two days after I took the pills. It wasn’t rational or thought out. I was just exhausted. Every paycheck coming short for rent and my other bills. Starving myself for days to make sure my child got fed and utilities stayed on. Unhappy and unheard in my relationship.

I had gotten into a fight with my psychiatrist the day of the overdose because I had gone off a medication that was interfering with the Amitriptyline I had been given for my migraines by the neurologist that she had recommended I see. She took me entirely off my anxiety meds because I wasn’t “compliant”, when those were the pills I needed more than the ones I had been told to go off of by the neurologist. It was just a catalyst after trying for over a year to work with her to get into TALK therapy, only to be thrown on all these medications that were making me sick and making my mental state worse.

Just a few months prior I had lost my circle of supposed friends over childish drama with some girls whose popularity on the internet trumped rational thought and whose mindset hadn’t moved past the he said she said of high school. After my overdose, I lost the last one in that circle because my attempt was inconvenient for her and she put my business on the internet and the circumstances for over 1,500 strangers to see on her Facebook on how people shouldn’t talk about suicide to her because it upset her; almost within the same breath of having told me to always come to her when things get to how they were.

My attempt and Chester’s suicide so soon after was a wake up call. I hadn’t been that low since my ex husband and I had separated before the divorce. Even my miserable experience in Pennsylvania hadn’t gotten my mind that bad. I’m not a suicidal person by nature. I fear death, because there’s too much left in this world to experience and I thrive off learning. Can’t do that if you’re dead. I went off all the medications entirely and I’m myself again, able to cope better with my ups and downs without the chemicals in my head being thrown off by all these artificial replacements.

Not that I’m an advocate for that as it does help some people function better depending on their condition. It’s just I’ve never had a condition that anyone’s ever been able to pinpoint as one thing, so they never could figure out what medications I might actually need. Ask one doctor and they’ll tell you I’m bipolar. Ask another, they’ll tell you I suffer from PTSD from my childhood. Another tried to diagnose me with summer seasonal disorder. My old boss thought I was a mix of OCD, anxiety disorders and cyclothymia. As a teenager, they tried to diagnose me as borderline personality disorder, which has NEVER fit me and came with a stigma I never earned or deserved.

They don’t know anything and they don’t take the time to talk to me to find out anything, they just throw labels of diagnosis around. Psychiatry isn’t an exact science because we still don’t fully understand the brain. Pills don’t fix me, getting me to focus on my proper coping skills fixes me. I can only rely on myself for that. That’s why I art in any form I can, but most importantly, it’s why I write and I couldn’t write while so sick and drugged up.

The cocktail of medications I was on was what was killing me, not the stress, as I’ve been able to manage it better since my system’s been clean of anything but weed, my mini pill birth control (so no estrogen) for my endometriosis and B complex. But it’s another lesson I’ve had to relearn while balancing adulthood on my own and I’m thankful for that too, that I’m even still here. I shouldn’t be. Not after that much Amitriptyline. I’m not a religious person, but clearly I’m not done learning and experiencing. Chalk it up to whatever you believe in. I just think my story isn’t finished.

Being on my own has helped me escape. I grew up an only child, so I need space. I’m an empath by nature. My dad used to tell me I was too sensitive and I had to learn to quit, but I never did. It’s why I hate religion because I see how it hurts others and I feel that. I feel the political situation in this country and all the damage it’s causing to humanity. I’m a sponge for information, but I also take in all those emotions of everything and everyone around me. Animals, peoples, things. I feed off energy. It’s draining. I have a certain allotment of what I can handle socially and then I need my space from all human contact.

The independence I have now gives me that and I get the chance to detox from the world. I haven’t had the ability to do that in a long time, but I’ve had the chance this year to recognize how badly I needed that opportunity and to do so again, without judgement or people jumping to conclusions as to why I might not have any interest in socializing. It’s not a lack of interest, it’s too much interest. Now I know that it’s okay that I do that, that I step back sometimes, and I recognize that when I couldn’t before because I was always surrounded by people. It’s just me, who I am and I get to embrace it and that’s been eye opening. Everything this last year has been.

There’s no rhyme or reason for any of this. Consider these all just wine thoughts and reflection. I like to ramble. If anyone even read all this, kudos to you.