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equestrianwritingsstuff · 4 years ago

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Drowning 6 pretttttry please. Your writing is amazing, honest to god. Wish I had your talent. Keep writing!!!!

Thank you for the ask and lovely message ❤

Drowning Part 6

Masterlist

This one is a tad different that the other parts, some segments are in from Supervillain's POV which are very vague because they are meant have an altered state feel to them. You also learn a lot about Villain and Hero's past in this one.

@shydragonrider @asrasmysoulmate

Warnings: unreality, wheelchair, schizophrenia, elecric shocking, hallucinations, hate towards another, possessiveness, restraints, drugged whumpee, sick whumpee

Supervillain emerged from whatever fluid contraption held him in place. His body went numb, pins and needles filling every limb, every muscle like wildfire.

But, nearly as quick as he broke the surface, he fell back in...

Falling...

His body seized up, a ringing in his ears... then he hit solid ground, his body going slack. Nearly immediately, he felt conscious of the tubes and moniters embellishing him like ornaments and garland on a Christmas tree.

His lead-filled mouth yanked open on its own free will, trying to force a scream out, but his tongue only managed a hoarse whimper.

He jerked his head about, finding it laid nearly on a pillow, but another trap locked his head in. He clenched his hands, but his body was already falling back into the sea- all feeling washed away by the waves.

Sand. He felt sand in his body, dehydrating and numbing, as consciousness was snatched away from him once again. The tubes faded, as did the traps- leaving Supervillain with an empty void.

He had a sense, but couldn't remember what happened in brief moments of waking like this. He hardly recognized the difference between unconsciousness and consciousness and if he did, it wouldn't matter. He never could escape. Never could escape the agonizing water in and around his body.

All he could do was fall.

Fall back into the water.

《~~》

"Mistakes are always forgivable, if one has the courage to admit them," a voice spoke. Hero had given up on trying to tell apart the various differences between the countless heroes and doctors that spoke to her on a daily basis. Trying to just intoxicated her mind with a weird feeling of displeasure and annoyance that couldn't be placed. It was right in between her eyebrows, where she would have a unibrow if she didn't wax it all the time in highschool.

"Do you know who wrote that quote, Hero? Hmm?"

Hero didn't respond. Why would she? It gave her no clearance, no escape, no epic prison break that one may expect from such a person of stengths and wits. She just sat there, limbs tied to the ground by unrelenting steel, her head angled to watch the suffering man on the bed slowly fade away with persistent illness and everyday drugs.

"Bruce Lee," the speaker answered the question after quickly realizing that Hero wasn't going to.

Hero tuned out of the conversation, leaving it as background noise as she studied the scene in front of her. Supervillain was hooked up so many moniters, it was as if he was in a coma. Hero twitched her jaw. Maybe he was. The ventilation and feeding tube stuck all the way down his nose and mouth, opening it forcibly, definitely made that thought come alive.

Hero did this a lot, zoning out whenever someone tried to talk to her. Her once vibrant personality and optimism was dampered, replaced by a dull depression. Even Villain, who watched Hero daily, was getting nervous of this rapid decline in attitude- not that Hero knew of her betrayer's thoughts and emotions. To her, in this foggy hole of misery, Villain was an outcasted shadow, adding depth to the painting, but never a main topic. Heck, if she didn't concentrate, she didn't even see the light shade on the white surface.

There was only Supervillain.

But even that has changed, and not just in the extra moniters and tubes, but her whole aspect of him. He was the cause of her pain, he was the cause of the insufferable cloud that ascended over her.

There was no fondness in the way she viewed him anymore, just resentment. The deepest kind of resentment that could also be described as despising.

But even that was an understatement.

One day, a movement drew Hero out of her hate-filled thoughts and back into reality. It was Villain, playing with something by her wrist.

"Back off," she snarled, her voice sounding unnaturally deep and cracky.

"And so she speaks." The glint in his eyes revealed the sarcasm that his monotonous voice hid. "How are you Hero?"

Hero snarled, raising her lips in an animalistic manner, but didn't reply. Once her wrist was let go, the unused muscles allowed it to flop aimlessly against her equally thining thigh. She was fed yes, a vile piece of bland, moist garbage that gave her body its much needed vitamins, minerals, and nutrients, but lack of use degraded the once hefty muscle.

Villain worked on each of the restraints. Each arm fell limp as her legs splayed out, thankful for the break from the locked position they were kept in. When her head was let free, it flopped, her neck unable to keep it up.

Villain steadied her, putting his hand unceremoniously against the base of her neck. Hero squirmed, aware of her vulnerability.

"The door with the exit sign is unlocked," he whispered, so close to her ear that Hero cringed.

At first, her brain using its old habit, began to block out his words, but suddenly stopped and rewinded, shoving them back to the front of her mind.

Unlocked...

She could get out.

Villain helped her into a nearby wheelchair and was about to wheel her away when a strand of her empathetic nature fought against the newfound distant demeanor.

"What 'bout Supervillain?" She asked, her voice a weak whisper.

"This is for you," Villain replied casually grinning down at Hero, happy that she was back to somewhat normal.

Hero sunk into the plushy cushioning of the seat and looked at Supervillain's still figure and snarled. Ha, he didn't get to leave. She did. She got to escape the inhumane confines that kept her bound up like a trapped goat.

He didn't. He could now pay for his crimes.

Yet, as stubborn as this thoughts of retribution sounded, they weren't. That sympathizing portion of her protested against the new arrangement. And, being the stronger of the two opposites, it left her tongue in forms of coherent words.

"I won't leave him," she said, her heart bursting. Whether the internal explosion was due to anticipation or exaltation, it don't matter. It felt natural, like herself.

"You really don't have a choice."

"Why do you want me free?" Hero asked.

"This place is the definition of boring."

Hero was silent and contemplated Villain's statement. He really didn't care about her levels of bore and joy, never did. Any interaction or any relationship that the two once cherished was borne of platonic care of the other's well-being. Nothing too deep, and barely held any real intent. Are you alive? Are you dead? Were the only two questions that brought along any vowels of conversing.

It was weird, abnormal. Hero might've even went as far as to say suspicious.

But it was also promising. Very, very promising. It held the possibility of freedom that the chair did not.

But he was Villain. He did not have one ounce of good will or honesty in his cold veins. He was a liar, a cheat, and as much as she would've loved to call them friends, it was close to impossible. They couldn't build a relationship off of trickery as much as the two once wanted to.

This was a scheme, a lie, to get to Hero and make her mess up. Mess up and then she gets hurt.

Or worse, Supervillain does.

That thought stood out from the rush of others in her brain for it held an interesting style to it. As close as she was to the old Hero and away from the shadow that "choosing who gets hurt" made her into, she wasn't it yet.

Not yet.

"Boring, but I am alive," Hero retorted, rolling her eyes as well as the stiff rectus muscles in her eyes allowed.

"That is otherwise obvious." Villain placed a hand on the barred door that only purpose served as an aesthetic.

"Yeah, in a way I suppose, but Supervillain isn't."

"He's breathing."

"He sleeps all day and when he does manage to wake, he passes out almost immediately. I need to stay with him!"

"You do nothing but glare daggers at him. You are released dear."

"No, you are not helping me escape from this damn place!"

Villain was silent, paused in the motion of pushing the door open.

"Amidst your utter hate for him, you still have the decency to protect him; Hero there is nothing to protect. With one simple flick of a switch, he is dead," Villain pointed out, turning to Hero with tears in his icy blue eyes that Hero once found gloriously gorgeous. Ones that she used to gaze into as they fought, unable to tear herself away. She lost many fights that way by being too distracted to actually land a punch.

But the innocence of that gaze was really just hiding the fact that Villain was a scandalous bastard- only giving half-truths and fake emotions about everything.

"Then why do you give him the serum. You guys know that I won't hurt those civilians," Hero pointed out with a shrug.

Villaim remained silent and wheeled Hero out of the room.

《~~》

Supervillain seemed to always arouse when the nurses swarmed him to administer the vile liquid that plagued his veins with nauseating adrenaline. He felt the hot- not warm, but scorching hot- drug enter his veins.

But it wasn't the beginning, the actual pain of the procedure, that caused Supervillain his horrifying misery. It was afterwards and he wasn't thinking of the dizzying fatigue that usually pushed him into another deep sleep, but the memories it brought.

Some were nostalgic, others taut with grief. Others held regret while some even had remnants of agonizing torture he once endured.

Or gave.

But they were never happy, nor comforting to any degree.

So, when a reverie of kind touch swarmed Supervillain's sensations, his lethargic heart started to pump in rocket speed, motorizing the boat to accelerate...

"Go to sleep."

Hero's voice. One that brought him so much comfort. Hands scratched at his scalp and he felt his heavy eyelids drop.

"I'll be hear when you wake up," Hero lulled, humming softly as the sweet scent of vanilla hit Supervillain's scent receptors. He smiled, the tiniest of grins and nuzzled his nose into her warm, fleece sweater.

But, even delirous as he was, in the back of his head, Supervillain knew this was a vision. A hallucination. The model of schizophrenia that the drug brought upon his mind.

But it was just so real.

So he gave in, purposely allowing himself to be washed away by the unreality of the dream.

Because he loved it. He loved the touch as if it was actually real.

A warm figure slid next to his body wrapping its- her- arms around his shivering body. Phony yes, it gave stability as the fatigue pushed itself to its maximum.

As consciousness dripped away, Supervillain hummed slightly, happy with the feeling.

《~~》

Hero's hand buzzed over the door, considering the possibilities of opening it, but in the end, she blatantly refused.

"No," she said, her old self returning. "I am not going to leave Supervillain."

Villain's eyes widened, chin shaking.

"You care for him?" He asked, voice slightly elevated like a flute's pitch. Such a change from the droning audibles that usually slugged off his tongue. "Like actually."

Hero's brows crunched together as she read Villain's new face expressions. Blond hair draped down to his pointed eyebrows where it slightly curled. Tears seemed to well in his azure eyes.

"Are you crying?" Hero asked, scoffing, but in reality, she cared.

Cared a whole bunch.

"It's just," Villain stepped forward, leaning down and resting his hand on Hero's shoulder. His other hand balanced delicately against the holster of whatever weapon he carried.

Suddenly, without warning, his hand shot up and an bolt of electricity flashed through her body. Hero fell forward, screaming and withering on the floor.

Villain leaned forward, breath warm against her sweaty cheek. "You are mine Hero. I won't ever let you hold, or care for Supervillain again," he growled, bringing thr taser back to Hero's neck. "Goodnight, my love."

The electric shock came again, and the world descended into blackness.

#supervillain whumpee #hero whumpee #villain whumper #retrained #hero x supervillain #hero whumper #heros and villains #delirious whumpee #drugged whumpee #shizophrenia

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memecucker · 5 years ago

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discoursedrome

replied to your post

“the reason anime characters have disproportionately large eyes is the...”

there's something to this but it seems like it doesn't account for the stylistic variation in eye size within different cartoon styles and often within a single series, which is not just arbitrary but signifies something!

Well, this is an interesting topic, it depends on the work in question as to what is being signified. Differing eyeshapes within the same series can also be used not just for emoting but also accompany the narrative roles various characters express. And not just in obvious ways like “babies have cute eyes” either but they can denote for example what role a given character plays in comedic dynamics. As an example lets focus our attention to The Flintstones and specifically the facial designs of the four main adult characters.

So something thats present in basically all designs of The Flintstones that keep to the original style is that Fred’s eyes are always drawn in what can be considered a classic cartoons style having large pupils surrounded by the sclera (white of the eye) while Wilma has the “old newspaper strip” style of Peanuts or Popeye where she simply has plain black ovals or circles. Barney and Betty are similar but in reverse, with Barny having just a black circle (though more round than Wilma since he has a rounder design) and Betty having pupils inlaid within a sclera (though there’s some inconsistency with her as she sometimes has an ‘implied’ flesh-colored sclera). There are moments of inconsistency with Barney sometimes having a flesh-colored pupil and Betty sometimes having flesh-colored sclera but generally speaking thats how their eyes work if animators were staying on-model.

Now whats interesting about this is if you look at Flintstones episodes the members of the main adult cast will most frequently be interacting with the other members who have different eye shapes. So Fred and Wilma are married of course as are Barney and Betty and also Fred and Barnie are best friends as are Wilma and Betty. This means that there is a feeling of visual variety when the plot splits characters off into pairs whatever they may be. It also helps make it clear that none of them are blood relatives which could be a source of confusion especially in the case of Fred and Barney who really would sorta look like brothers if they had similar eyes since they share many similarities in the rest of their designs especially the perpetual five-oclock-shadow (not something thats really a sign of genetic relation but aesthetic logic doesnt have to mirror the real world).

In addition to that, Fred has the largest eyes of all the characters. This makes sense because he is the overall main character of the show and him having the largest eyes means he will be the first face the audience will naturally focus on in a scene. Its also relevant for Fred’s comic role because he tends to be the active agent in the comedy either peforming actions which frustrate Wilma or which are commented on by Barney and when you have a comedic reversal where Fred ends a scene feeling very different from when he started

As an example we can look at this particular clip from the original series

So in what ends up being a very common premise for episodes or sequences in the series, an upset Fred wishes to end his friendship with Barney. Fred has a thick furrowed brows meeting downward facing eyes showing clear aggression. Barney (who as I said earlier is being drawn off model in that his eyes are not colored in during this scene) simply stares at Fred, his eyes being just ovals but with his eyebrows being raised in a way to show that he is meeting Fred’s anger in a light-hearted way. You’ll notice that Barney has much thinner eyebrows located much further away from his eyes than Fred, this is because since he doesnt actually have pupils, the way his eyes express emotion is by showing their relationship to other parts of his face specifically eyebrows. Having thin eyebrows allows for more flexibility for their placement, in thise case they even touch his hairline.

Fred accuses Barney of mooching or stealing his stuff including his favorite drink Cactus Coolah (funfact the actual soda Cactus Cooler was created to ride off the popularity of the Flintstones and its fictional soda brand). His eyes are basically in the same position as they were in the previous still with the shift from plain aggression to a smug aggression (setting up the comedic reversal) being conveyed by the rest of his face.

Barney tries to warn Fred the bottle he’s holding isnt Cactus Coolah. Unlike Fred Barney is expressing a strong shift in emotion from bemusedly teasing Fred to being actively concerned for him. Barney’s actual eyes havent moved at all other than being proportionately larger than earlier but whats being used to convey Barney’s emotions in this still are his eyebrows. They go high-up and far from his eyes and curved to being much closer to his eyes and straight.

Fred realizes he just drank car polish. His eyes are not incredibly different, conveying both stress and sickness. Not only does he have lines surrounding his eye conveying stress and anxiety but they even go inside his eyes nearly touching his pupil. His eyelids have descended partially. His eyebrows also show the change of his emotional state no longer being a furrowed unibrow though their importance is secondary to the visual changes pertaining his actual eyes.

After throwing the heavy stone bottle into the air and bonking his own head combined with the implied effects of drinking car polish, Fred’s eyes become asymmetric showing disharmony and showing he is about to pass out. Interestingly he suddenly now has (white colored) irises, the purpose of this being to show widened dilating pupils that relate to a state of excitedness or stress while at the same time not contradicting that he is on the verge of losing cosciousness which is conveyed by his eyelids being pulled down asymmetrically.

Throughout that short scene Fred having the largest most expressive (for a Hanna-Barbara TV production anyway) eyes of the cast are used to show how he is both the active agent in the story driving the narrative forward as his emotion carry him but he is also the object of things being done to him and with his eyes showing his emotional state in those cases. Barney, being an observer of Fred’s antics emotes not so much with his eyes but the raising and lowering of his eyebrows. Essentially, Fred’s narrative role in the series requires him to be drawn with a much wider emotional range when compared to Barney. This is on top of the other role the eyes of the characters play in this particular show being another way to physically distinguish between the four main adult members of the cast.

#discoursedrome

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ckcker · 5 years ago

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Fear of Being There

The scientists put 3D glasses on a cuttlefish I read in an article, which I pair with the unread email from a friend of twelve years sitting one tab away, it appears to partly be a link to some video. Feeling brave, I gather speed and push to the open email, purposefully ignoring all of the friend’s written message to zoom into the thumbnail of the video link they shared with me, which shows on one side of the thumbnail the shocked open mouth of a drag queen reacting to what I assume to be the most heinous transgression. On the other side, a porcupine’s needles blasting from inside the mid-section of what appears to be a burmese python. “How could this scenario have ever happened,” I ask myself as I don’t click, then scan the message written above the link:

“are you still in Kansas City??”

“I saw our high school English teacher walking in the park with a huge clump of moss stuck on her ass, I’ve been wanting to tell you that for a long time”

“Carrie is in NA now and I never see her. also I adopted a dog”

“I’m sad I haven’t heard from you in a long time but I respect that you are just doing your thing, doing what you think is best for you, I love you. enjoy this video of a drag queen screaming as she watches a porcupine impale a boa constrictor from the inside, it really made me laugh. It’s not real”

“I would love to visit some time if you’d have me, I would love a long road trip, no pressure.”

All I ever felt towards this person was worry; they were frequently to be found painfully descending the valley of some knotty, unlubed parabola. Suicide often seemed on the table though it was never openly discussed, and what was discussed and unburdened between us never seemed to offer this person any relief. But, I had not seen them in almost two years — still, I worried. The gristle of sympathy. Though now I could only think this person a bit stupid for not electing revenge as the only compatible solution. They wallowed, tried to make inroads on the community around them, multi-tasker, all I did was worry, wonder if there was no chance for them. On my better days I in fact stopped worrying because I resolved to believe that there was no chance for them. On worse days I used to encourage them to online date, to take classes in some technical craft and escape minimum wage, incredibly coming from me who has yet to escape minimum wage, I bloated them with the most despicable general advice most likely invented by some phantom community and popularized by rotating day time talk show cryptids. I surprised myself, the self-help industry deluge came spilling readily from my own mouth, I had no other advice to give. No effect. I had no idea what could help someone, I did not respond to the e-mail, the scientists put 3D glasses on the cuttlefish to study if it uses stereoscopic vision to hunt, love that.

I responded to the email by going out for a long walk. The walk proceeded as planned. And then, in front of my eyes, the glistening juice of a misdirected frappé bronzed itself on the sunlit sidewalk. It was June. The person who bought then dropped it when attempting to give their companion a lil sip seemed one or two involuntary grunts away from the most amateur keening. We did not know each other and passing by I said nothing, in another hour and a half it would be sunset and that was the daily alarm for my worst and most stupid memories.

Walking without a plan for a couple miles had led me to nothing specific: a popular cafe with drive-thru option, and the entrance to some truncated nature preserve with an ample parking lot, that I barely observed. The humiliated and frappé-less melody of the forlorn customer began to spread over my shoulder, I averted my gaze from the nature preserve to treat it as if an attractive face I was intimidated by. The only use for such a pathetic nod to wilderness in an urban area should be frequent alien abduction. I knew better than to hope for that, I was not a good multi-tasker and did best with a single plan of attack. And I already had a good plan, through subtle make-up I was looking older by the day (more like the month). Pretty soon I would dye my hair grey. I considered it was something the young people of the era liked to do and not for the reason of appearing aged. In fact, more than anything this coalition of young and old visual signifiers increased the proof of their wrinkle-free faces and accentuated the domineering stylistic awareness inherent to youth in a, unnaturally long energy-sucking sigh, capitalist country. I continued to high step forward like a finickety markhor in a fugly mood. Then, finding myself facing a hard-to-cross state highway I concluded, “oh, haha…ok, ah……that’s fine” and turned back towards the unused nature preserve parking lot, “I am almost too far away from home anyway.” I sat on a curb on the side farthest away from the road. Looking across the street I saw that the customer and friend had started to kiss. A simple solution to the loss of the drink. His body turned awkwardly, I allowed myself to espy the torque of the male’s twisted cargo short pocket and felt very little. I was turned away from the forest preserve entrance, at sunset I would have the executioner’s urge to once again survey and prepare my Doha nights.

The arrival of sunset did not derail my day, but it always succeeded in sequestering my concentration so as to remember that, perhaps, time — I felt fully sick of telling myself about it. I would prefer an obsession more traditionally fun, there was something about the way the eyebrows (with near-unibrow between) met the sharp lines at the top of the hyrax-like nose of Q.C.’s gradually-hot-to-me face. I did not spend too much time thinking on him, I had little control over my eyes when in his presence. Worse, attempting to appeal to him would mean calling off the whole ambitious deterioration project, which was fully under my control/the best path forward. I did not spend much time thinking of him when not in his presence and the collective shimmy of maple tree leaves in the breeze appealed to my left side as it carried on through the row of trees behind me. A sparrow bopped around the swath of thick grass to my right and was not interesting at all. I knew I felt this about the sparrow because I turned away from it quickly. Finally I rotated towards the nature preserve entrance. Was this an opportunity for me to snag a poesis? I wanted to be home in my bed alone. I also wanted to pretend to be thriving, inspired and free. I wanted to try to see the world for the first time again.

I got up and started towards the forest path with the confidence and direction of the professional managerial class. To appeal to Q.C. would involve a gravitational u-turn, I would have to cut my hair better, with more style and intention, I would have to once again attempt to wear clothes that mostly fit my body, with careful monitoring of the area where jeans could be hit firm with zested glute. I would have to invest much mental analysis into determining how to embody his desire. I would have to keep emphatic track of my body language and reactionary expressions when near him so as to appear at least some low level of confident and laid back. The antithesis of an angry errant stump, sucking vengeance through an ancient straw lined with obsidian spikes that clacked ominously against dentures I did not need. I could not appear as “depressed for two.” Again, and worst of all, I would have to deselect the only source of direction for the future, my only true idea for satisfaction: the pursuit of my literally new age. My only chance to repair my original timeline, by controlling my own time. The old tension between wanting badly to be noticed and desired by others, and wanting that definition of freedom which is the refusal of all external attention, both approval and disapproval, in order to bring about the most contained stability — of course that tension ran me ragged once again. That wan zit, it really seemed scripted at this point, I worked very hard to send it to the background. My body clearly sensed this when it activated the release of an ear wax ball the shape and weight of a gently used cheek piercing stud. The feeling associated with its premiere and gruesome launch was similar to just catching the last concrete appearance and subsequent fadeout of a semi-interesting-but-ultimately-unremarkable ghost of a 52 year old coffee mug.

I entered the forest, which began with a layer of joyless mulch. The opening of the trail had dimensions so wide even the most sexually depraved plant had little chance to gak its repressed gropeage on a passing body. I looked up as I walked, realizing the only animal likely to be spotted here, at this time of day, would be a bird. Perhaps I might see a hawk or turkey vulture. My survey resulted only in the very soft swaying of stacked green branches in front of striated and unremarkable clouds. After watching this gentle tableaux for about thirty seconds, I wanted to more than violently shake an in-his-prime Ansel Adams, ask him what in the unconscionably labyrinthine fauxhawk I’d just seen. Would he have looked twice at this sky — my glance still directed upwards, I heard its scabrous chirp before I saw it, and then I saw it and immediately hated its presence: a sparrow had landed on an oak branch forty feet above my head and wanted to stay there. I refused to let it observe me, turning to it I suddenly screamed in the timbre of an aggressive synth orchestra hit. Continuing my walk after compartmentalizing its non-reaction, I wondered how I might make these natural surroundings matter to me. They made no inherent argument that profoundly engorged the fun bags, perhaps because I was generally hooked into things by chaos, aggression and arguments, not by continuity or bucolia. I could identify the simpler trees at least. Of course pines and maples were easy, birch too. I could usually confirm oak and cherry through guesswork. Otherwise I wandered through a forest in a skein of unskilled silence, in some beta-level abyss that was never fact-checked. I didn’t know if having the names of mosses and wildflowers and mushrooms made it easier to appreciate the woods I forced myself into. That I recognized and questioned such absences in myself was part proof that I felt a large component missing in the ongoing construction of respect for humble surroundings, and part recall of an inherent tendency to not care much about my own construction. Against the spirit of the times, I spurned the concept of “personal development,” both in the thought directives I gave myself, and in the level of base inertia and hatred of fitness that exposed me as down-low sirenia. “Personal development” — I did not trust the idea. But moderate walking was acceptable to me and I continued to walk. All trees beside me were suddenly activated by a quite beefy breeze from inside the forest. Mood was present. And along the audio effects of the wind in heavy leaf-covered branches, I thought I heard a rustling in a different tempo one-hundred feet further along the path. A clench shuttered my body. Once, I was reckless. I entered badly lit hotel rooms brimming with silhouettes of animatronic movements. I took pills handed to me, only asking after I swallowed them what they were (bottom tier migraine medication). These days nearly any situation outside my apartment brought the inflamed trance of cautious thoughts. Where I seemed to hear the sound I saw nothing but the continuation of breeze, and felt fully the irregular welts of my prey mentality.

But I did not turn to exit. The introduction of humidity into early summer pumped a new game in me anyway, the godforsaken thirst for some swell of “possibility.” Against my addiction to titanium cowardice, flicked this vague and acidic proposition for adventure — that most rancid word of careerist travel influencers and successful stunt doubles. Heavy hot air seemed to ferment a perennial wildness of feeling that, in other weather conditions, remained neatly veiled in self-suck. I hated that I could still be easily infiltrated by this hormonal illusion of “anything can happen,” despite all my malevolent associations with the phrase. It was important to make a list of all the things that are possible. “Anything can happen” was a sloppy mantra full of menace and probably popularized at some point in the late 20th century to sell mini frozen bagels with pizza toppings. The list of all the things that are possible is the list of most crucial truth, it is a list that serves as sublime prep for someone who has been through the full consummation of “anything can happen,” when the thing that happened was a mind-shedding, unmentionable thing. I knew the culture at large was heavily against such a distrust of possibility, as the concept suggested monumental change and always for the better — the potential of fortune. I also knew it was against the cosmetic grafting of extra skin to make what I suddenly decided to refer to as ‘my boys’ look especially wrinkled and saggy. I stood still and surveyed the way partial sunlight glazed on and off the nearest bush of presumably poisonous berries. I briefly turned around and took in the forest entrance in the distance, and beyond it the suggestion of abridged midwestern meadow, now also washing in and out of sunlight with an unpunished laze, that I felt very unused to. Nowhere else in my life, to which I paid attention, obeyed that kind of rhythm. This statement was immediately wrong and a direct contradiction of my slow motion lifestyle. I allowed the statement to stand because its wistful gush was enjoyable, roughly spiritual, and juicy.

It brought thoughts of a nightmare I once had that eventually, through sustained lack of action, curdled into just a dream, a dream that had a trolled atmosphere of never-ending. A dream that felt three years long. A nightmare-incubated dream that appeared seven months after that moment of apex possibility and only the second dream after.

There was a group of us. We were in a house, we didn’t know we were in a slasher movie, we had thought it was a self-liberation biopic. We were pursued by a presence we did not expect. But every time there was a shot of the killer, the killer had been deleted in post. Only a tense and expectant camera followed us around, and we screamed at empty spaces at the top of the staircase and in corners of rooms. Dissonant music accompanied us, which, now knowing we were in a horror movie, we expected and rolled our eyes at. But we never saw the killer and nobody ever died.

I also remembered the first dream I had after the event, it was very short and involved me waking up at 7am to give a dog one cup of dry food. The density of hanging leaves in the forest began to inch a feeling of haunch and ceiling overhead, the light landing on the settled foliage only in splatters of rhapsodic dag. The inevitable feeling of being alone in the woods, despite the steady wash of faraway highway motors, is intimacy with something. You believe you are not being seen, when small and mundane animals see you, it means absolutely nothing. With a bear or mountain lion in the mix, at last you will truly feel “seen.” I was in a freely neglected and shrunken nature preserve on the edge of a midwestern city, I did not think it was possible to be seen by a bear and so I did not feel like I could be noticed. Thus I felt intimacy.

The content of that intimacy had zero intellectual value. It was only the comfort of being fully hidden, safe and alone. I was impressed by how much thick cover the trees supplied since the preserve itself was state park theater. The trees hid me from the sky, repressed my existence from something that could watch me. I basked. I thought of the substantial bulge of an older male in tight-fitting jean shorts. In this context of feeling unseen, it seemed the thru line of my consciousness in bringing up such an image was the keyphrase, “something hidden.” The intimacy began to retreat as a counter. Again, my head disenrolled me from a healing terrestrial feeling; it looked at nature with vast inexperience, it pursued a perspective of mountainscape print out. I tried to recover the hypnotic sap of that momentary solitude and continued walking. Of course the interruption of erotica in mind is one of the more iconic nature moves. And yet for some reason it seemed to unravel the hallmark atmospherics of a more investigative mystery. Such a divide was proven by watching my pivots of attention between two tickles. For instance, on one side, direct observation of a boner. The other side, fog covering an empty island highway at night. I thought I knew well the narrative arc of a priapism, and I thought I did not yet know much about the carnage in my seeping memories. It seemed obvious — of the things that controlled me, I prioritized with meaning the one I did not know much about. And instinctively, being alone under thick canopy felt like good setup for that kind of self-irrigation. I thought of the bulge again then saw another sparrow and after it reasonably bopped about for a skoach I suggested to it, “get away from me fuckface.” Again it did not move.

I walked several paces off the path and leaned against a definite oak trunk, wondering if my old person stage makeup was still intact, glancing towards the voyeuristic rays of sun slipping through the trees, well diffused and beginning their noticeable descent. I listened. After approx. twenty seconds of listening I heard the long-churning spew of a motorcycle gunning down the road about a quarter mile away, somehow powerful enough to overwhelm the peaks of forest ambience with its quite rascally discharge, hunh, the streaks of horrific classic rock revival spraying after it. I thought, “stop subverting me,” then felt the newly introduced stance of someone in my peripheral vision. They did not advance or retreat but did fidget. Probably, I could not be sure without glancing directly, pretending to look up something on their phone. They seemed about fifteen feet away from me, I considered if I would have to kill them in self-defense.

“How’s it going?” a man’s voice directed at me from the trail, giving me permission to look at him directly. A balding but well-maintained buzz of greying black hair, glasses, a thin white-yellow-green-black button down tartan print department store shirt tucked into leather belt and loose fitting blue jeans, the eye eventually and uncontrollably being led down to the neon pink, orange and yellow running shoes with white laces low-key dusted in a sampling of diaphanous schmutz. My “hi” was squeezed out with full defenses. The man did not say anything back but immediately enacted some plan of his, made obvious in his eyes that pressed on my face with an unmistakable singularity. He pursued unbroken eye contact to evaluate the potentiality of the interaction. I responded by looking away, remembering it was a powerful move in the game. I also refused to believe he thought me attractive enough for whatever in-development future passed through his turgescent nethers. As a mature adult, I was no longer available to rawk out with my cawk out but clearly the cast of desperation on the man made it possible for me to appear sexually acceptable, as evidenced by his not leaving. Nor did I imagine that he produced much foregrounded desire in an m4m community; lastly he probably stayed because he was closeted. I tried to maintain an appearance of clueless indifference, comparable in chillness to deciding to write ‘U R’ in a text message the same moment you observe a plastic bag fly in the wind towards a sleeping stray cat. Since the man did not leave or say anything, I also waited another 7-10 seconds in silence and downward glance. Yet this tactic, usually so effective in social settings, had failed, and so I looked at him again. And again the charged stare of non-verbal magic. The humid air was beginning to slightly cool as the wind filled the space between my collar and neck, suggesting it might rain soon. But behind the man’s head the sun, flanked by fleshy lard-swept clouds in various indigo exposures, was still visible. I hoped if the increase in gusts continued that they might produce a temporary bald spot on the crown of my head as I said, “why are you looking at me?”

He did not immediately respond, but severed all links with my eyes. I watched his glance minutely dart from one close location on my face to the next, “do you have makeup on?”

Each generation, freer than the last. The man did not know the answer for sure, but that he had noticed something was confirmed. Very exciting, I beamed internally. I controlled the beam. There was still so much work to be done.

Towards the man I projected breathtaking displeasure. I assumed the keyed up tone of someone wanting to be regularly shared on the internet: “I’m just trying to enjoy the forest on my day off sis so don’t—” and shut off inexplicably, though recognizing as the system recoiled that the implication of this man’s advances had lightly cracked some automated timecode in my lower lefthand corner of frame. My body — I had only felt it all of a sudden. Shoulders were arched forward to protect my underbelly, chest was swollen and stuffed with the debris of a delayed reaction of terror, single inconsistent tingle in left leg suggested the tiniest strobing marquee aimed at the brain, suggesting “run.” I had thought, this is not a dangerous situation at all. A little unusual but not something I haven’t experienced before. Something I could refuse and easily walk away from.

The body had behaved differently. Sunset mounted. The body had believed it was going to die. I hadn’t even noticed. Internal monologue always suggested much to investigate when looking for a solution, it presented long interconnected hallways and sliding doors, considerations of escape and tactical movement. It berated the body for not reading the situation correctly or at all, it hated the body’s spontaneous and inept mechanisms. It relished any reference to the phrase “bassackwards” but in this case the body was right. If I was to be killed by this person was still up in the air, I leaned towards no, but the body had not been reacting to my imminent death, only suggesting how relaxedly I pretended to advance through commercial district sidewalks, gas station candy aisles, cruisy chip bag-strewn forest preserves as if I’d never been reorganized by some sort of adaptation of death in which you survive. There was much work to be done, much work, to make the hair of my eyebrows more profuse and unkempt. My nose hair, which was way too thin and manageable, samesies. It was with the failure of a deep breath that the gauze of that summer sunset coaxed me back into the scene, despite the marquee now reading “Run II: Darkest Before Dawn.” The man had not known how to respond to my ejection from the clapback. I took stock, the forest appeared momentarily still and squirrelless. His energy seemed as if grappling with the possible realities of what I was. If crazy, at least in the way that interferes with verbal communication, I was no longer an option in his “mmm………damn”-ridden design. If crazy but able to continue clear conversation, or if so shy as to appear only intermittently awkward in conversation with strangers, I was still a highly available mark.

“Do you like it here?” he asked. It seemed that micro makeup and abandoned sentences were not considered dealbreakers for someone in his position. My body continued to want to leave and I stayed, he took a few steps forward, staring again with that binary intensity where the recipient must commit to its endgame or flash exit.

A strap broke in me: I suggested, “I hate it here.” The comment reached him. He looked as if to be re-processing me under a blank face but maintained his slow approach. I was answering his questions coherently and so I was incredibly sexy, perhaps. “I’m not doing well,” I followed up, using a long-acting smile-to-smirk succession in an attempt to muffle it.

This was ignored, “I’ve got a pretty big one,” silence, breeze, sunset, wow — squirrel, “what are you looking for out here, alone?”

Silence, squirrel, “you know where you are, right?”

Breeze, trees, sunset, reggaeton in the distance, instinct erupted — I stepped forward. “It’s not yet time for my annual anal,” my voice cracked. “In fact, it won’t happen this year, or ever again.”

A pause was produced, though it was clear he didn’t quite grasp my meaning. I stood still, now staring at him in order to properly knead the info. Finally a look of understanding on his face — “oh, I’m sorry” and he exited back up the trail, all spells dismantled.

I remained in the woods. I looked at the squirrel. I even yearned to see a sparrow, uninterested in knowing why. I allowed the intellectual regulations to rest, I listened to the joyous pump of prancing squirrel feet on twig-bedazzled forest floor. I looked at the sunset, while blocking the word “beautiful,” and liked it. I walked to the path, turning away from the exit with the rush of a recently liberated preteen spray-painting an anarchy symbol on the door of a rusty abandoned sedan next to discontinued freight train tracks that are overgrown with weeds and yellow wildflowers. I wanted to walk deeper into the woods, I wanted to be in the woods when it got dark. I wanted to be alone and without a mind. Knowing it was untrue, I nevertheless proposed to myself, “I think I could cum just from being alone for 3 weeks.” After a feisty fifty or sixty steps around the curving path, I met chain link fence separating the forest from a row of backyards and their respective single family homes. I thought of the cliche of an evil character in a kid’s movie laughing maniacally for some time then very suddenly stopping to present a severe and unamused face. It surfaced as a whimper.

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jennadorn · 5 years ago

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Old Navy Denim

I’m 24 years old and I’ve just slept with a woman for the first time — and though it was by no means the sex of my dreams, so much so that I nauseously declined the morning after sex, I think about it regularly with fondness and a desperate sense of nostalgia. Because in my mind, it officially confirmed my physical and romantic attraction to my own gender. Or anyone with a vagina for that matter.

If I had to guess when my first “gay” thought occurred — (as if all thoughts aren’t inherently gay to some degree) it was likely during my childhood friendship with my next door neighbor, Jolie. During the five years that I lived across the street from Jolie, we were glued at the hip. Every day after elementary school, we’d run through the neighborhood together on a sour candy-induced high, pushing one another down the Doral Avenue hill on skateboards, ding-dong ditching the old prunes on our street. We’d celebrate Pesach and Hanukkah together; we’d swim in her pool until the warm hours of each summer day cooled into bittersweet evenings; we’d pretend to be grownups with British accents and lollipop stem cigarettes — we’d play house together (which I realize now is a fucked up game centered around internalized domesticity and the American idealization of the nuclear family, but that’s beside the point). During our bourgeois family shenanigans, I’d insist that we were married (fuck you patriarchy). And as innocent as this sounds — there was a feeling brewing within me that I couldn’t articulate then — but that I can finally characterize as a pure, but tragic crush.

As we grew older, Jolie, with her striking green eyes, flushed olive skin, and golden locks, blossomed and classically found popularity every direction she turned. Boys ogled at her, girls fought over their ranking friendship with her. And I, in my baggy, torn denim from the boys’ department of Old Navy, absolutely crushing it (not) with an endearing unibrow, and overcome with social anxiety, slowly faded into her peripherals, eventually becoming the shy, weird girl dressed in boys’ clothing — Gameboy Color or Judy Blume book always in hand — who she avoided eye contact with at all times.

This continued until high school, when I grew into my body, traded in my swim trunks for shorts that hardly covered my coochie, my books and journals for friends whom I had nothing in common with other than raging hormones and body image issues, and invitations to parties.

I tried to differentiate my feelings for boys and for girls: I liked boys, whereas I just experienced a strange combination of admiration and deep envy for some of the girls I hung out around. I hopelessly wanted to be them, maybe, not be with them. It was the sole explanation that I could rationalize.

And sometimes when I’d look longingly at women holding hands and kissing in public, I’d force myself not to look. But then I couldn’t look away. And sometimes I’d just change my dating app preferences to women because I was only curious. If I were gay, I would have already come out, right? It would have been obvious to me. I would have had a relationship with a woman… I would have already slept with one. If I told anyone that I liked women now, I’d just look like a fraud. And maybe I was. And what if my friends became weird around me when I told them? So I buried. I buried myself inside my own discomfort and denied this mystifying void expanding faster than my own universe.

It wasn’t until I found some semblance of queer community with new roommates post-college, who I could gush about crushes to, who I could open up about my experiences to…and lack thereof, that I could acknowledge my sexuality. I was not doubted by them like I’d feared. My roommates were the only ones who knew initially, and with enough validation, I found the courage to go on dates with women.

Enter: Cameron

A baby-faced butch writer I met on Hinge. She mirrored me in passions and personality, mostly — until she quickly revealed a superiority complex bigger than her own head. She evoked in me waves of embarrassment and shame that I hadn’t even known existed, only within hours of meeting. It had been my fourth date with a woman.

We quickly descended into heated conversations about film and politics, our families, our dreams. Like the gays we were, we unpacked our birth charts — both of us scorpios — which could only explain the ensuing events. Our chemistry was so palpable that I had to physically placate the butterflies in my stomach with my hand. We flirted, teased one another about potentially making out later that night, and before leaving the bar, exchanged coming out stories (which was initiated by her because mine was clearly still TBD). She shamed me for not telling my parents, for not having a “story”. She didn’t understand my fear as a bisexual/queer person that others would think I was experiencing “just a phase”. She made me feel like an imposter for not having already coming out to everyone. Lastly, she was incredulous that I was interested in men. She’d responded with such inflated disbelief that it rendered me paralyzed and defenseless. And she made sure that I was aware of these facts about myself every succeeding hour.

Several spellbinding drinks deep, we wandered back to my apartment. We pushed each others’ buttons so precisely that it felt like we’d known each other for years. It wasn’t until I later re-assessed her digs, that I realized every cutting word seemed to refract a cruel, blinding shard of truth. She wasn’t teasing, but criticizing me. I’d brushed it off in the moment, much like one does with rose-saturated glasses. And then the shock of a verbal attack is finally processed, let alone absorbed, when you’re wide awake in bed that night, tossing and turning over the painful remarks etched into your memory. And you can only think of what you’d have said, reliving the moment over and over again, grasping for the missed, gratifying opportunity at calling someone out on the shit they gift you, adorned in a glittery bow and rainbow-themed wrapping paper.

Sprawled along my couch, I made the first move after she insisted that the ball was in my court. I either made the move or the night was over. So after enough nerve-numbing alcohol, I took her in my hands and brushed her lips. And we kissed some more. And some more. And suddenly she’s on top of me. We entreated to my room as the blanket of steam around us thickened. Under my satiny covers, I told her that I was unsure if I wanted to have sex. I prefer not to on the first date, or until I feel comfortable with someone inside of me. She willfully dismissed my explanation. She said that she might understand if it was a man I was in bed with, but this wasn’t the same. And it was clear I was comfortable with her. And wasn’t I having a good time? Why shouldn’t we have sex? I froze in shock. To placate her, I said that I’d let her know when I wanted to stop.

So we had sex. I was simultaneously enthralled…swooning…exhilarated that I was literally pussy deep in the reality that I’d denied for so long, and also heartbroken that it ensued over a crushing pressure that I’d experienced endlessly from men, and never expected to confront from another woman.

We fell asleep baby cheek to baby cheek and she spooned me all night. It was all so newly wonderful that I was nearly ready to look over each problematic chapter of our evening together. So when she was offended upon my asking her to leave the next day, and when she gaslit me after our second date which she assumed was ending with sex, I reluctantly cut all the ties with which she’d suffocated me (in a non-horny way). They say you never forget your first love, but hell hath no fury on your first lesbian romance.

#prose #gay love #queer

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marypsue · 6 years ago

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hormone hell

Have a few headcanons for a lady!Stanchez AU disguised as a fic. Content warning for homophobic slurs. Many thanks to the illustrious @ancientouroboros for the title!

I’m also on AO3 as MaryPSue!

...

Constance “Stan” Filomena Pines is seventeen years old, in love with her best friend, and failing grade twelve math. And biology. And chemistry.

Honestly, she can’t really be blamed. Her sister Ford (”there’s six Bonnies in our grade, I can’t -” “well, you can’t go by Buford either!”) got all the family brains, and apparently their older sister Shermaine got both the talent and the common sense, since she blew Glass Shard Beach off years ago. Last Stan heard, she was living in New York and she was gonna break into Broadway any day now. So that just leaves Stan with the brawn, and, as she likes to tease Ford, the looks. (”We’re identical, Constance.”)

And, obviously, she can’t know anything about biology or chemistry, because if she did, she wouldn’t be head over heels for another girl.

Again, Stan really can’t be blamed. It would be impossible to get to know Carla McCorkle at all and not fall a little bit in love with her. Which is probably why Carla has had a string of useless boyfriends and Stan hasn’t had one. It probably has nothing to do with the fact that Stan is fascinated with Carla’s dimples and the way she moves like part of the music when she dances and the smell of fresh-cut flowers that seems to follow her everywhere and her amazing legs. Definitely not.

It might have something to do with the fact that Stan is technically a boy’s name, but there are no fewer than twelve Connies in their grade, which is double the number of Bonnies, which means she has twice the right Ford has to pick another nickname. Besides, nobody who laid eyes on her would ever mistake her for a boy. Stan makes damn sure of that. Maybe she’s not pretty, but nobody’s gonna look straight through a girl whose frankly fantastic tits are right out on display. Nobody’s gonna tell a girl who wears false eyelashes to gym class that she ‘just isn’t trying’.

Stan could have a boyfriend. Probably. If she wanted one. She just doesn’t want one right now.

(Because she’s in love with her best friend, and everything about that makes her want to burst into tears, because doesn’t it just fucking figure.)

...

Erika Sofia Ramirez Sanchez is seventeen years old, a high-school dropout, and living at the YWCA, and it’s none of anybody’s damn business why.

Just like the enormous spikes in electricity usage at the Y since she got there are none of anybody's business. Or where she gets the money for her room. Or what happened to the rest of her family. People are so fucking nosy in small towns. Glass Shard Beach is a hole, and she’s not planning on staying long. Just long enough to get another patent proposal together, sell that shit, scrape up a damage deposit. Get out of the fucking Y.

Living at the YWCA does have its perks, though. For one thing, nobody cares about when she comes and goes, or where she's going, or who she's with. Nobody cares what she's doing, so long as the noise and flashing lights don't wake the neighbours at odd hours. And she doesn't brown out the whole floor again.

For another thing, there's a gym. Erika's never cared much about bodybuilding or whatever, but there's a punching bag. She doesn't know anything about boxing and doesn't care enough to learn, but there's something she really likes about having something around to kick the crap out of that can't hit back.

Which is why, when she stumbles into the gym at about four in the afternoon and there's already somebody using the punching bag, her first impulse is to storm over and make that fucker give it back.

...

Stan doesn’t notice the other girl until she has to stop to catch her breath. That’s when she realizes she’s being watched. She steps back from the punching bag, breathing hard, too hard to say anything when she locks eyes with the tall girl who’s staring at her like Stan’s a riddle she’s trying to figure out.

She’s not pretty. But there’s something about her that catches Stan’s eye and keeps it there. She’s tall, and rawboned, long-faced and scowling. Her clothes are clean and in good repair, but worn at the hems and anywhere her stickman limbs bend, stretched shapeless by too many washes. Obviously secondhand. Stan should know, all of her clothes are the same.

At least Stan has style, though. This girl looks like she’s actually trying to avoid being noticed. If she has any curves, the straight, square cut of her plain grey t-shirt and bluejeans are hiding them, her mousy hair is scraped back in a utilitarian, messy ponytail, and she’s not wearing any makeup. She hasn’t even groomed the bush of ash-blond eyebrow crossing over her long, narrow nose.

She looks like she’s never spent a second on her appearance in her life. Not like the girls Stan knows who work really hard to look like they don’t care what they look like. She looks like she actually doesn’t give a damn what other people see when they look at her, and there’s something about it that’s…

Well. That’s hot as hell.

She's still standing there staring, though, like some kind of creep. Stan rubs the back of one wrapped hand across her forehead, catching a few rivulets of sweat before they run into her eyes. "Hey, take a picture, it'll last longer."

Unibrow girl doesn't look away. There's something almost challenging in her stare. Stan doesn't want to be the first to blink.

"What, what's with the staring? You some kinda dyke?" Stan blurts, feeling shaken, feeling brave. The word comes out like a slap, stings the inside of her mouth. She says it again, just because she finally has an excuse to. "You look like a dyke."

This finally pulls a reaction out of unibrow girl, though not the one Stan was expecting. The side of her narrow mouth quirks up into a smile, and she says, "T-takes one to know one."

Stan knows better than to mistake the stutter for fear.

Almost without her input, her hands ball back into fists. Stan throws a left hook at the punching bag, feigning nonchalance.

"You're still staring," she says, after a few more punches.

Unibrow girl puts her head to one side. "You d-didn't tell me to stop."

Stan doesn't actually have a good response to that, so she goes back to doing what she does best: punching.

By the time she's run through her repertoire two times more, the burn in her arms and shoulders has started to turn into leaden exhaustion, and unibrow girl's starting to look bored. Stan steps back from the punching bag, sweeping the stray hairs that had escaped her messy topknot back out of her face.

"All yours," she says to unibrow girl, as she steps off the mat. She can see the curious look unibrow girl gives her, but forces herself to keep walking, pretend she's not there.

Still, Stan can feel the other girl's eyes on her back all the way into the locker room.

#gravity falls #rick and morty #this is mary's fic tag #stanchez #this was gonna be longer but then it was. bad.

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nancydrew65 · 6 years ago

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SKAM Austin Season 2 Episode 1 Recap

Faking a boyfriend means one thing, guys. A girl is not into you.

Basically Seniors

Great song to open up the season. ‘Lipgloss’ is very upbeat and catchy.

But I‘ll be honest. I seriously thought I was watching an ad for about 30 seconds before I realized it was the opening to the clip.

Tyler is gay! SKAM Austin finally confirmed our suspicions and I am so happy. Nice twist in having Tyler being the one kissing someone instead of Shay. Really highlights how they are both kind of the Isak character of this show (though I’m pretty sure it will be Shay who has the next season).

Aww. Zoya helping Jo with her sweater head scarf. They are so cute together.

So, Kelsey finally became a Kitten. Good for her, I guess. She actually looks really good; longer hair suits her.

I really like how they are introducing Grace (Noora) being on the newspaper early on. That will definitely add depth later in the season when she is asked to write the article.

It has been a whole year since the Daniel debacle instead of just a few months like it was in OG. I wonder how that will affect the story line. I can understand more how Kelsey might have developed another crush on Daniel seeing as him shaming her happened so much longer ago.

Grace invented a boyfriend to get Daniel off her case. Daniel, if a girl has to invent a boyfriend in order to avoid you, you should take a hint and leave her alone.

Damn, he just stares at Grace for an uncomfortably long time while taking the selfie with Kelsey.

Not A Good Person

I love how Grace is dancing while she cooks. Great continuation of that moment when she danced to cheer Megan up last season.

Wow, Marlon actually says something worthwhile and accurate!

And then Megan ruins it. I’m sorry, but I am going to off on a bit of a tangent here: Saying things like “He keeps on pursuing her because she doesn’t want to be left alone” is so dangerous. Because how does a guy know if the girl is secretly into him? He doesn’t. And assuming things like that is not right. It basically gives men permission to do whatever they want to a woman under the guise of her secretly wanting it. I’m not an idiot; I know SKAM Austin is trying to set up how Grace actually does secretly like Daniel, but that is not the case for every situation. And saying things like “Maybe she doesn’t want to be left alone” as a broad generalization is very problematic. It promotes a male centered rape culture. It is a less harsh way of saying “She deserved to get raped because she was wearing revealing clothes” or saying “She wanted it, so it is OK.” And it is very much not OK. Whew, sorry. Just had to get that off my chest. I know SKAM Austin probably didn’t mean it like that, but putting that line into a season that will most likely deal with sexual assault was a poor choice on their part.

I got so excited that Grace might actually tell Kelsey what has been going on. Yeah, it would be a harsh blow, but it is way better than continuing to lie and deceive her. WHY did Megan advise Grace to not tell Kelsey about Daniel texting her????? It feels like Megan is giving some pretty shitty advice this season.

Ahhhh, Eskild’s a woman! I think her name is Eve. I don’t know why I didn’t realize this before. I mean, Shay is Isak. And Eskild was basically a fellow gay man mentor to Isak, so it makes sense they would change him into a lesbian in this remake.

Oh, and Grace was smiling when she saw those texts from Daniel. I honestly don’t know why. He was still a dick when we last saw him. Were they texting for the whole year, though?

Mostly Naked

Well, I really liked how they included a St. Patrick’s Day parade/festival into the show as that is most definitely a big thing in the U.S.

I kind of feel that Megan is way more into Marlon than previous Evas have been towards their respective Jonas’s. What with that tongue line in Clip 1 and her barging in on Marlon and that girl talking, that’s the vibe I get.

I know people are finding Kelsey really annoying this season and while I do agree some of her lines are outrageous (accusing Grace of not caring about her friends, really?), I can’t help but like her. She is just so cute!

Thank you, Zoya! She tried to shut Kelsey’s crush down so fast. If only she were successful. Sigh. On that note, I am already liking Zoya way more. Last season I thought she came off as rather abrasive without as much of Sana’s soft side. I hope they explore this soft side of Zoya more this season. I could find myself really enjoying a season of her.

Know-It-All

More Poonam! Yay!!! I love her so much. Her deadpan line about not wanting to associate with Grace was EVERYTHING.

Oh, Kelsey, why do you have these hopeless fantasies about Daniel. I feel so bad for her already.

David already seems cool. The brief moment when you thought he could be a potential love interest for Kelsey, and the crushing disappointment when you realized he was with Shay. Noooo! Though since next season, Shay will most likely come out as lesbian, we might see David become a love interest for Kelsey. Wasn’t the actor who played Magnus in OG named David? Please let this happen. Kelsey deserves a nice guy in her life who shares her love of ‘Hamilton’.

Who Is He?

I am literally Eve when anyone is baking cookies. I am really digging Eve so far. She seems way more calm and chill than other versions of Eskild. (I am looking at you, Mika from SKAM France).

‘Daniel Williamson’. Could you get a boy’s name that sound whiter?

Hmm, I think it is interesting how they introduced Daniel’s sister so early. I hope they dig into his backstory a bit more, you know, how he was affected by her death instead of just glossing over it like they did in OG. I think in OG they actually mentioned that his sister died in a car accident. I hope SKAM Austin isn’t as explicit, that way it comes as more of a shock later on.

Messed Up

Jo talking lovingly about her unibrow is all I want in life.

Oh, no. Kelsey exercising and refusing food? Not a good sign. I guess they are going to go into the eating disorder storyline. Also, how are beans bad for you?

Aw, Grace made the nachos with gluten-free chips specifically for Kelsey. And then offered to cook something else for Kelsey. If only Kelsey had taken her up on that offer.

Daniel calls Kelsey to get to Grace. Grace using the pre-calc excuse is way more believable than saying he needed someone’s number. Also, plenty of seniors take pre-calc. And not because they are bad at math.

I like that Daniel admitted his actions were messed up. BUT, dude, if you know what you are doing is messed up, then don’t do it. LEAVE GRACE ALONE! Hopefully, this admission of his points to him being less of a dick than William was, but we’ll see how the rest of the season plays out.

General Thoughts

This is the first season of any version of SKAM that I have watched live and it is a wild experience. I am on the edge of my seat, constantly checking to see if a new clip has come out. I now definitely understand how SKAM got so popular and addictive when it first aired. I thought this was a pretty strong start to the season. They were a few tweaks that really worked well, like Tyler’s confirmation of being gay (or bi, who knows?) and Eskild’s character being a woman. All in all, I think this remake has a very different vibe from OG Skam and I am excited to see where it heads.

#Skam #skam remakes #skam austin

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gellavonhamster · 6 years ago

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charles remembers

gen || Charles | Kit Snicket || pre-canon, Charles/Sir mentioned

ao3 link || originally posted in Russian

“Do you smoke?” asks the girl seated in the armchair opposite to him. Men’s trousers, a men’s shirt, and men’s cigarettes in a cigarette case. Charles’s eye catches the emblem at the latter: the same eye-shaped insignia is depicted on the stained-glass windows of the club they’re presently in, and the same insignia – he know that for sure – is tattooed on the ankle of his interlocutress. Suddenly back to his senses, he hastily shakes his head:

“No, thank you.”

“Would you mind if I ruin my health a little?”

“Of course not, go ahead. Oh. I mean…”

He must be looking absolutely helpless at the moment, because the girl offers him an encouraging smile and does not hesitate to assure him that everything’s alright. Charles watches her light a cigarette with a glistening metal lighter, which then disappears down her sleeve. With one hand, the girl puts the cigarette to her lips, while using the other one to readjust the pencil she’s pinned her hair with into a messy bun on the back of the head.

“Good thing you do not mind. Your future boss,” she lets out a wisp of smoke and watches it float up and dissolve in the half-light, “smokes all the time. Sometimes it’s difficult to make out his face behind those puffs of smoke, seriously. So you’d better get used to it.”

“Oh,” Charles says again because he has to react somehow, doesn’t he.

“On the other hand, I am still not able to prepare you fully. He smokes not even cigarettes, but cigars. The kind that’s like…” she puts two fingers together to demonstrate how thick, at a rough estimate, those cigars are. “Quite a luxury. That’s why he, to quote my brother – not Jacques, but our youngest – smells like corruption. Those writers,” she throws her hand up with a wry smile. Charles remembers it two days later, having first met his new employer. He doesn’t know what corruption smells like, but soon he comes to terms with the fact that the scent that follows Sir around, that of expensive cigars and equally expensive cologne, is the one he’d love to bottle up and breathe in when no one’s watching.

A little over half a year ago, Charles was kicked out of his house with a scandal, and found himself on the streets, having in his possession only a briefcase hurriedly stuffed with shirts and underwear, and some pocket money, in an amount that was much larger than in the pockets of many other young men his age but still not enough to rent a decent lodging at least for a month. Crushed not so much by his banishment as by the scandal that preceded it, and even more by the fact that a certain person, implicated in what led to him being kicked out and promised to be written out of the will, broke all ties with him, he was wandering the streets aimlessly when a taxi suddenly drove up to him. The girl in the front seat – the very girl currently smoking in the armchair opposite to him – introduced herself as Kit Snicket, introduced the driver – a young man looking remarkably similar to her, and good-looking even despite the mild case of unibrow – as her brother Jacques, and offered her help. Charles had nowhere to go and nothing to lose, so he got into the taxi.

From then on, Charles has pondered time after time on what he signed up for, having let the Snicket siblings take him to the other end of the city and fix him up for a job at an insurance company – and having agreed to return the favour when needed. The favours he has had occasion to do for the Snickets and their associates – that was the word they used – over the last half a year included giving some strangers the envelopes he was strictly forbidden to open, and sending a telegram under someone else’s name. Never mind that time when he was tasked with taking a seat at the cinema next to some woman and putting into her bag a parcel (Charles still hopes it was just a trick of his senses) that was moving a little. And now they want him to leave his job at the insurance company and take up a position as a secretary at the lumber mill called…

“Lucky Smells,” Kit repeats, flipping the ash off her cigarette into a bronze ash tray on the table. “It’s in Paltryville, have you been there?”

“Haven’t had the pleasure.”

“Well, you’ll have it.”

“Miss Snicket… Kit… I actually don’t know anything about the lumber industry. I have never ever held an axe in my hands.”

“It’ll be other people who shall hold axes. What you shall be required to do is to use a typewriter, answer the phone, make coffee – all the things you can do perfectly well. As well as…” Kit puts the cigarette into the ash tray, turns to Charles, and looks into his eyes closely, “to make sure that Sir – your boss – accepts the orders of our organization and declines those of… some undesirable persons and entities. You shall receive a list of those who there should be no business dealings with.”

“To make sure,” Charles repeats with a frown. Throughout their conversation he has kept rocking his teacup in his hands anxiously, but presently he puts it on the table, having nearly spilled the tea on his trousers. “But you’ve said it yourself that he’s got a difficult disposition. That he’s stubborn and incompliant and used to relying on himself only.”

Charles remembers it two days later, having first met his new employer, and a month later and a year later and fifteen years later, when the arrival of three children to the lumber mill makes him try again to hold sway over Sir – what if after all this time he’d still be able to do this?

“You got that right,” Kit affirms. “That’s why you’ll have to become irreplaceable, Charles. A model employee. You have to make him arrive at the conclusion that your opinion should be reckoned with.”

“In other words, I have to bring him to heel.”

“He won’t let you. You’ll have to… guide him gently in the right direction. Ideally so that he would be sure he’s making all the decisions on his own.”

The members of VFD (that’s the name of the organization that Kit and Jacques and their younger brother and many other strange people Charles has made acquaintance with over the last half a year belong to) receive special training since childhood. Charles does not know exactly what kind of training it is but he’s positive that people who can shoot and spy and identify the cup with the poisoned drink by smell – the latter was done for entertainment at a private party he once had a chance to attend – are much more skilled in everything related to manipulating others than he is. He’s… ordinary. He doesn’t feel comfortable in the limelight, and he’s not good at debates. He’s not endowed with the looks of Gustav Sebald or the charm of Doctor Montgomery or the bravado of Captain Widdershins, yet perhaps the matter at hand requires something the VFD members do not possess – such as the skill of being ordinary.

“All right,” he agrees. Granted, this conversation could not have ended in a different way, because deep down in his heart, Charles is afraid. He’s afraid of Kit and her brothers and each and every VFD member, their intellectual refinement and handsome manners notwithstanding. He still doesn’t understand completely the nature of activities of their organization, and he isn’t sure he wants to, but he owes them his job and money and the roof over his head. Besides, he’s got no one else: he has lost touch with his few college friends; he was betrayed by the person he trusted more than anyone else in the world; his father died in a fire a couple of months after kicking Charles out of the house. Charles remembers it years later, having suddenly realized how many people he knew, VFD and non-VFD alike, have died in fires lately.

What else is there for him to do, anyway?

“All right,” he repeats. “I’ll do everything I possibly can.”

Kit nods amicably.

“I’ve never doubted you, Charles. Some more tea?”

“I still have some, thank you.”

“There’s still plenty in the pot, just so you know. And as to bringing him to heel …” Kit gives him another attentive look, and Charles gets uneasy because he realizes she knows much more about him than he knows about her. “He likes women – hasn’t stopped ogling my cleavage all the while we talked – but he likes handsome young men no less. Use this information as you may think fit.”

Kit Snicket knows much more about him than he knows about her – including the reason his father banished him. Charles shrinks under her gaze.

“I don’t think that shall be necessary,” he says crisply. He certainly wouldn’t make much of a seducer, of all things. Charles remembers it three months later, down on his knees for Sir in his study, after locking the door himself. Then again, it’s up for debate which one of them was the seducer in that case.

“That’s up to you,” Kit shrugs her shoulders and takes her cup. “Well, let’s drink to success, shall we? It’s not champagne, of course, but I am convinced that good tea is just as appropriate for such purpose as alcohol.”

“Yes, sure,” Charles forces a smile and raises his cup. His hand is trembling slightly, and a dark stain ends up spreading on his light-grey trousers. “Ah, damn it…”

“Don’t you fret so,” Kit says friendly, offering him a napkin. “You’ll make it.”

Charles remembers it many, many times over the following years – every time he finds anew that he hasn’t made it, not anywhere near.

#asoue #a series of unfortunate events #charles #kit snicket #snicketverse #my fic #gella talks snicketverse #i don't see kit as such a menacing person it's poor charles who does

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upperstories · 8 years ago

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WELP since my body refuses to go back to bed at this ungodly hour and I don't have to work today, here are some neat things I noticed from watching Coco (Pixar, 2017) multiple times:

Warning, spoilers!

-Miguel makes a point of noting that Mama Coco has trouble remembering anything, let alone the important memories that come later in the film. It's possible this could either be because her family, especially Imelda, enforced that they should all forget about her father, but it could also be in reference to elderly people experiencing Alzheimer's.

-Miguel's family outed all of his De La Cruz mechanize from his hidey hole fanboy ofrenda (hidden behind the family business sign, right under their noses/shoes. Nice visual storytelling there). Mama Elena/Abuelita probably planned on destroying all of it after the family found Miguel. Considering what happened in the story, Miguel probably destroyed all of that merchandise himself (or at least tried to pawn it off).

-When Hector does his quick changes between his Frida costume back into his usual outfit, he is shown ripping off his own hair and soul patch. I guess it would make sense, considering that hair decomposes at roughly the same rate as skin, that he would be bald and need a wig. You'll notice that in another scene, Tia Rosita pulls her hair down as well, like a hat, to cover her eyes in shame when she cannot give Miguel a blessing. And an officer even says outright, falsifying a unibrow (facial hair in general) is an offense! All of the skeletons are bald! Wigs and fake hair must be a booming business in the land of the dead. It's a nice detail, seeing that even in death humans can be very self conscious about losing their hair.

-Hector somehow manages to "borrow" a Frida Kaloh dancer dress from Cecilia the dressmaker, meaning he either works there or has been working there. He knows most of the other employees there, meaning he's worked there long enough to know at least most of his coworkers by name. From his poor appearance, it's hard to determine if he's kept a steady job during his whole afterlife, but it looks like he's worked at Frida's studio long enough to earn (and burn) some work relationships (as well as be spurned endlessly for his Chorizo reputation)

-After Hector is heckled as "Chorizo", he says, and I quote, "This is why I hate musicians. Bunch of self-important jerks!" This made me feel so sad, to realize that he'd grown to spite music so much, after learning he'd been so talented and loved to play music for his loved ones. It's rather obvious why he does though, as it could tie into his bitterness with Ernesto stealing his music, or even outright blaming his talent for music being the root of what killed him in the first place (if he didn't travel to play with Ernesto, he would've never left home and "eaten that rotten chorizo"). It's possible he even spurns it in general because music reminds him too much of his memories of Coco and cause him too much heartache.

-And later on, on their way to Chicharron, Hector questions why Miguel would follow the same path he and he best friend did, showing outright disgust for the lifestyle. "Perform like a monkey in front of complete strangers?! Bleugh!" The thought of playing music might depress him, but playing music for anyone aside from loved ones leaves a sour taste in Hector's mouth. It's a rather common orrurance among creative folks to feel this way, as their works can have a lot of personal meaning and when broadcasting on bigger media or doing what they love for profit takes a lot of mental stamina as well as alternate ways of doing your work. Hector did what he loved because it made his loved ones happy and that, in the end, won out over fame in his mind. He chose happiness over notoriety, which isn't very smart in a lot of ways, but also very noble.

-Also, like... Hector and Imelda both hate musicians for pretty much the same reason which is both sad, sweet, and kinda funny. But mostly sad.

-For what could possibly be the past century, Hector has pretty much been a lost soul in limbo, fated to be forgotten and denied by the one thing he treasures more than his sorry tailbone, his beloved daughter and a chance to be in a family again. Miguel, in turn, has been in limbo emotionally throughout his whole life because he's been denied music by the people who are supposed to love and support him most, denied music, the only thing that speaks to his soul and brings him happiness. They've been been denied joy. More than that, they've both been denied Pride in that joy. No ones been proud of Miguel's playing. No ones been proud to call Hector a part of their family.

"Hey, you did good! I'm proud of you!" Is what Hector says to Miguel after he plays his heart out at Plaza de la Cruz.

"My whole life, I feel like I've been missing something. And now I know what it is, it comes from You! I'm proud we're family! I'm Proud To Be His Family!!!" Is what Miguel tells Hector and screams to the heavens after he learns the truth.

At the beginning of the film, Miguel mentions that he thinks he's cursed because of something that happened before he was born. Abuelita Helena calls Miguel's Great Great Grandfather'a music a curse. Then Miguel is truly cursed when he steals De La Cruz (actually Hector's) guitar.

I think, in a way the Rivera family is cursed, not by Hector's music, but by abandoning him, giving up hope and not stopping Ernesto when they could have, but instead shutting out music from their lives completely. They were able to protect each other, but they also were Irrevocably emotionally damaged young Coco so much that she eventually developed a minor case of Alzheimer's in order to cope with losing her family, as well as pushed Miguel over the edge to Almost Get Himself Killed to follow his dream.

Choosing Not Understanding Their Past was the curse. Not Supporting Family in Need was the curse.

And the minute that Miguel and Hector were given the chance to find their kindred familial spirit, when Miguel was finally given the chance to bring Hector and music back into Mama Coco's life before it was too late. THAT was when the curse was truly broken. Not just when Miguel received Imelda and Hector's blessing.

#coco #coco spoilers #pixar #miguel rivera #hector rivera #imelda rivera

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theelvenreader-blog · 7 years ago

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Character Profiles

Today, and for the past few weeks, I have been working on my character profiles, world-building, and thought dumping my fantasy novel. Since I could write books about all three topics, I’ve decided to talk about them in different posts as a series. Today will be character profiles, Wednesday will be thought dumping, and Friday will be world-building. As you’ve noticed, Monday’s post is late (that would be today’s). I was busy yesterday and didn’t get around to finishing the post so it’ll just be today.

When I first started writing I thought you had to know everything about your world and characters right off the bat. I thought you were somehow a “bad writer” if you had to sit and think at all about your character’s personalities or your world’s government. Over time, however, I’ve realized it’s totally normal to have to sit and think about characters or worlds.

Now, one of my favorite parts of writing are world building and outlining. I love researching themes and the insertion of “easter eggs” for readers to find. In order to do this, I have to do tons of research and thinking. They don’t just come to me as I’m character or world building.

More of my favorite parts of the outlining phase are building complex characters (mainly going through my character profile template) and building rich cultures and parts of it like religions, politics, and since my college degree is in history, histories.

Today’s post is in character profiles. I’ve built myself a pretty good process for myself (it’s nothing special but it get’s the job done):

First thing I do is make a list of all my characters in my cast so far. If as I’m outlining or brain dumping I realize another character that is necessary for the plot I add them in immediately and do a character profile of them. Since I write fantasy I tend to sort this list into races of beings such as elves, dwarves, merpeople, humans, etc. I have a template on my computer that I can just open a copy of any time I need. This makes the process a lot easier for me.

The goal is to get to know your characters like they’re people you know in real life, so you want to ask yourself a variety of questions to help you in that process. Try to think of as many questions as you can that you might ask someone you were trying to get to know. You can also look at other blogs or just online and get some ideas from other writers’ character profiles. Keep in mind many can get pretty detailed and pretty long. Some questions I ask myself are:

o “What was their childhood like?”

o “What is their romantic history?”

o “What is their sexual history?”

o “What Is their sexual orientation?”

o “What is their sex?” Meaning their biology, not their gender.

o “What is their gender?” This means what do they identify as. For instance, one of my character’s biology is male, but they identify as female or feminine.

o “What are their hobbies. This involves something they enjoy doing outside the main plot of the story. For instance, they could be a warrior, but really like to knit in their free time.

o If the story involves magical or supernatural elements, I ask myself what these powers entail and what their limits are (power’s limits are very important, but we’ll talk about this in another post)

o I also ask myself what they look like, and either try to draw them myself or find an image on google for reference. I also do a drawing of a few pieces of clothing they would wear and some of their favorite objects

It’s also important that you aren’t afraid to make your characters quirky or enjoy strange activities. You want your characters memorable and original to themselves so if a quirky or different hobby is what makes sense for the character, go for it. Brown eyes and hair are common, so you might want to include a bit in your story. Especially amongst fantasy writers, it’s really popular for many characters to have lavender eyes, blue eyes, green eyes, ANYTHING but brown eyes. Be realistic here.

As an example, here is an example of one of my own character profiles. This is for my protagonist in my current WIP, which used to be called Freedom Bringer but is now unnamed because I didn’t think the name suit the fantasy genre or story the way I wanted it to. I’ve omitted/deleted some parts that are spoilers for the book.

You’ll notice that I based this character profile closely on Jenna Moreci’s on her blog. You should check both her and her blog and youtube channel out and definitely her character profile. Her writing is great and a great deal of what I know I learned from her.

Character Profile: Fäel (pronounced like fay-EL)

Based on the example given by Jenna Moreci on her blog: count blogula

CATEGORY #1: BASIC STATISTICS

Sex: Male

Gender: He identifies as masculine, but he’s not an alpha male. He’s actually quite small. If he was in public school in our world, he would probably be teased for being “puny”.

Age: 250 years old, but if I had to compare this to a human age it would be somewhere between 19 and 21 years old.

Race, Ethnicity, Culture: Feräan (a race of elves that usually has brown hair and the ability to control fire. The most common race of elves)

Height: 5’ 7”

Body Type: Thin build. Think adolescent boy. You would never guess that he is fully grown if you took a good look at him. Though this is probably mostly due to malnutrition.

Appearance: Short, Straight as a board Almond colored hair

He is fairly short for an elf. Around 5’7” in American human measurements. Slightly darker tan complexion. Elves do not normally get acne, so his skin is very clear. Narrow face with defined rounded jawline, cheekbones not high but not super low eitherSmall hands with narrow, feminine fingers, which have been hardened and callused from heavy slave labor. Though he is normally given very demanding labor, he still isn’t muscular. He can definitely lift a bit more than before, but elves don’t grow muscle or muscle mass very easily, so he stays relatively small in stature.Thin build, not much muscle mass but fairly strong as well.Lips a light coral color, nothing special. Shape of lips resemble a heart at the cupid’s bow.Fairly large round forehead.Full eyebrows with a few strands in the middle where a unibrow would be (not a full unibrow, just a couple of hairs)

Where are they from? Fael was born in the elven realm but since he was 50 years old (a toddler) he has been in the Kingdom of Türmé because of the elven slavery. Because of this, he doesn’t remember the elven realm at all.

Describe their Childhood: His parents, the king and queen of the elven people (and therefore all magical creatures) died in battle during the first Elven-Mankind war 235 years ago. Since then, his people have been enslaved by the humans. The human king has a way of making sure he is completely miserable. For example, he gives him the hardest labor and insists he stands in the front of every whipping and execution.

CATEGORY #2: RELATIONSHIPS

Family: Fäel’s biological family is dead. However, he has many elves he considers family, and therefore so do I. Baelym, for instance, is his caretaker. Fäel sees him as an older brother. Not quite a father, even though Baelym does tend to act like his father at times.

Friends: Mäikash is Fael’s best friend. You could say these two are so close they are like brothers, but the extent of their relationship is that of a friendship, not family. Fäel doesn’t have any other friends at the beginning of the book but gains more as he grows as an individual and gains knowledge of the outside world.

CATEGORY #3: THE SEXY STUFF

Sexual Orientation: Bisexual

What are they Attracted to? Fäel is attracted to both men and women who have their own sense of responsibility. They know what they must do and do it. Even if this means they give up what they want. Normally the physical aspects he is attracted to is strength. He also tends to be attracted to lighter colored hair and chiseled facial features. He likes the look of facial hair, but doesn’t like the feeling when he kisses someone with it. In terms of women, he’s attracted to women with medium sized breasts and strong shoulders.

Sexual Experience: Fael is a complete virgin. He hadn’t even thought of the idea of sex until he and Mäikash had their conversation about sexuality.

Romantic Experience: Like his sexual experience, Fael hadn’t thought much about romance until later in the book. He had thought about having a wife and he in the beginning of the book has a dream about his future with a wife and son. He never really becomes completely in tune with the sexual side of him like Mäikash, but becomes much more comfortable. CATEGORY #4: SKILLS

Skills: Fäel is really good at working with his Magic. He can handle it with more stress than others can and it is more powerful than usual. He’s also not bad at all in sword fighting (though not as good as his Magic). He takes this from his grandfather, Sälavel. Who died in battle thousands of years ago.

Occupation/Schooling: Elven Prince, Slave to the Royal Kingdom of the Türmé. Later King of Ferä. Elves are forbidden from learning the elven language, though they learn to speak it anyway, very few know how to write or read. Fael can write a little, but he definitely couldn’t write an academic paper or even full sentences.

Hobbies: Practicing sword fighting and magic is one of his favorite things to do. He hides himself in the forest from anyone else and will practice setting things on fire and hitting trees with a sword. Türmé will go out to the forest and wonder why everything looks burnt and slashed, but they have never been able to find out who it was. Even after many searches of elves and tents. If he had access to books or even literature he would be a very avid reader.

Magical/Supernatural Abilities: Like any other Ferä, he has the ability to manifest fire. This means he can do anything from lighting a fireplace to making fire appear in thin air (if it’s directly above his hand or protruding from it like a flamethrower). He cannot, however, do this if he feels pressured or over stressed, or if his magic is taken away from him

CATEGORY #5: PERSONALITY & CHARACTER

Introvert or Extrovert? Though he is an introvert, he’s very good at hiding this when he is around other elves that don’t know him as anything other than a prince. He doesn’t have anxiety toward crowds or company, he just prefers to be alone or with a very small amount of people at once.

Right-Brained or Left-Brained? Fael is very, very left brained. He thinks about everything very logically and doesn’t cling to his emotions. He has been trained by his caretaker to follow his duties as a prince and he refuses to rebel from this, rather following his path and accepting anything that is given to him. He thinks through every problem as if it is a puzzle with one correct, logical solution he needs to follow.

Strengths: Fael can easily separate emotions from duties or actions. Even if he feels emotional or vulnerable he can completely hide that until it is completely safe to show it. He can hide his weaknesses very well to the point that everyone thinks he has no weaknesses. Because of this, he comes across as very charismatic, which isn’t completely wrong. He just prefers not to be around large groups. Weaknesses:Fael can, however, have problems finding when he needs help and asking when he needs it. He is in the mindset at first that he needs to do everything on his own, which he later learns isn’t necessarily the case. He also has quite a bit of physical weaknesses but these are more obvious because of his small stature. He’s still stronger than a human adult. But compared to an elven adult of his age he is fairly weak.

Goals/Dreams/Aspirations: As a child he would dream of becoming a king and freeing the elves. As he became older these dreams would fade and he would seek to accept the hard lifestyle he leads as an elven slave. By the inciting incident he starts to grow a new goal.

Beliefs/Affiliations: Most elven races follow a polytheistic religious belief that believes that there are 8 gods that control each element of the universe that establishes balance. These elements are Light, Fire, Earth (for instance dirt, trees, rocks), Water, Darkness, Beauty, Power, and Knowledge.

Fears: He has an extreme fear of death. He does learn to deal with this fear over time, but he initially does have panic attacks over the idea of dying and this drives his motivation to make the decision to run away with Mäikash and convince Baelym to come with. Fael also has some other fears, such as his obscure fear of chickens.

Insecurities: He knows he is very small for his age and race, but this doesn’t bother him until someone says that they would be worried if he were the Ferä king because he wouldn’t be very powerful. After this he starts to pay attention to how small he is and this continues to be an insecurity of his throughout his adventure. What would he Die for? His best friend and caretaker. Eventually his wife and child.

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turtle-burgler · 7 years ago

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If you’re interested in animation, you’ve probably seen Disney-Pixar’s latest hit, Coco. The beautifully-portrayed story of a young musician named Miguel and his journey to the Land of the Dead took the world by storm since its original debut in Mexico on Día de los Muertos, eventually making over 700 million dollars worldwide. If you’re watching this, you’ve probably heard some of the hidden-Pixar-characters trivia, but there’s so much more to the movie than that! The movie’s emotional connection, memorable music, and rich depiction of the land of the dead are full of details you missed the first time you watched, and there’s tons of behind-the-scenes info you ought to know!

As I’ve been preparing this video, I’ve been involved with the Coco fandom on Tumblr. Lots of other smart people on there have noticed things I didn’t or given insight I couldn’t! I’ll share these with you too and credit the fan who noticed it.

Without further ado, here’s 122 things you missed in Coco. This is a given, but SPOILERS AHEAD!

The directors had the mariachi Disney intro made just for fun, but loved it so much that they kept it in the film.

You can hear bells like the one that killed Ernesto throughout Coco: The opening and closing

The first line in the movie (“sometimes I think I’m cursed”) is already foreshadowing the plot.

The beginning sequence where we learn Imelda’s backstory through cut-paper, or papel picado, was originally a musical number set in the middle of the film.

Some of the papel picado is stylized and couldn’t exist if you tried to recreate them without the paper falling out!

“And never returned” Notice these skulls? A hint that Héctor didn’t just abandon his family, but was murdered.

Why did Imelda choose shoe-making out of all her possible professions? According to the papel picado, Coco’s shoes were falling apart. Imelda had to fix them herself. And it turns out she had a knack for it!

Miguel went through a few different redesigns, originally being named “Sam,” then “Marco.”

That big fat guitar isn’t off-model; it’s a guitarrón mexicano, a staple of mariachi music.

We see various Pixar characters as piñatas, which was inspired by real handmade merchandise that the animators saw on research trips to Mexico.

In this collection of alebrijes, you can see a few more Pixar characters, true--but it’s also the audience’s first look at Imelda’s alebrije, Pepita!

(Via prismasandtoonpies) Dante popping up next to the alebrijes foreshadows his future role as a spirit guide.

Coco’s background characters have their own stories and amusing reactions. As Miguel messes around, see the weird look this character gives him!

Pixar fans usually know that the movies often hide references to an animation classroom from Calarts, “A113”--even though the department was rearranged by the time some Coco artists attended. Other fans have spotted A113 on the door of the department of family grievances. But did you see A113 on De la Cruz’s album covers as well?

The set that De la Cruz performs on looks similar to the graveyard entrance to Santa Cecilia.

Speaking of Santa Cecilia, Miguel’s hometown: Santa Cecilia is the name of a real town near Mexico City, but the name was chosen because Santa Cecilia is the Catholic patron saint of musicians.

De la cruz hands off the guitar to make a fancy gesture while performing. It’s lucky he did, saving the guitar, or we wouldn’t have had a movie!

Those drunk guys were singing “La Llorona!”

The mariachi in the plaza also plays a couple chords of “la llorona”

The mariachi and Gustavo were both played by the same voice actor, Lombardo Boyar. The co-director has joked that Gustavo is the mariachi’s great-great-grandfather and it’s “all in the family”

Although Coco’s director, Lee Unkrich, has confirmed multiple times that the movie takes place in present day, here’s some in-movie proof: The 2016 calendar in the background of the Riveras’ zapateria, though it’s outdated--as seen in the up-to-date 2017 calendar in this (anything to declare) scene. https://twitter.com/leeunkrich/status/941382162355453952

You see multiple posters for “bolero expres” in the background of the land of the living throughout the movie--although “bolero” is a kind of dance, a “bolero” in Mexico is a shoeshine boy!

Lee Unkrich slipped in several references to his favourite movie, the Shining. (truck leather scene) You can see an ax in a stump here beside a red barrel, or a “red drum.” A third shining reference is hidden later in the film, where you can see the creepy twins from the movie in De la Cruz’s rehearsal hall.

Miguel’s guitar isn’t just beat up, it’s homemade with supplies Miguel took from the zapateria. It’s held together by shoe leather, and it has nails for frets.

Here’s a partial list of De la Cruz merch on Miguel’s ofrenda:

Album covers

News article clippings

Papel picado

Signs, both professional and homemade

An academic book

Photos

A handdrawn picture

Posters

Figurines (wooden, ceramic, bobblehead)

Coffee mug

Buttons

Collectible cards

Soda bottles

The video tape

According to the directors’ commentary, the De la Cruz poster was placed in this shot to make it feel like “De la Cruz was looking over him like a guardian angel,” at least from Miguel’s point of view.

“If it kills me” More foreshadowing about Miguel’s future curse!

Dante eating mole off the ofrenda was inspired by a real basset hound the directors met in Oaxaca.

The ofrenda already has a frame on the floor before dante starts inhaling mole. Sucks to be that person!

When Miguel says he’s gonna be a musician, he throws off his leather apron to symbolize his rejection of being a shoemaker.

Elena didn’t just destroy miguel’s guitar. She made the sign of the cross. She sent its spirit to the afterlife!

Even more foreshadowing as to where Miguel’s going when he runs away: he’s following the cempasuchil path that’s supposed to guide his ancestors from the land of the dead.

Similarly, the land of the living is (excepting this scene) portrayed in the daytime while it’s always night in the land of the dead for the duration of the film. It’s fitting that as Miguel runs to the cemetery and enters the land of the dead, it’s dusk.

Whenever Miguel tries to ignore Dante, his spirit guide, it’s automatically a bad decision, even if he doesn’t realize until later.

Conversely, any time Miguel follows De la Cruz’s advice to “seize his moment,” he winds up making a mistake.

The man saying “The guitar! It’s gone!” is co-director Adrian Molina.

When in the land of the living, the skeletons are glowing through their clothes. You can see faint outlines of their bones.

See the other cempasuchil bridges? They lead to the land of the dead from other cemeteries.

The architecture of the land of the dead was meticulously laid out so that old, mesoamerican buildings can be seen at the bottom with newer, modern architecture being built on top. There’s not much concern for safety regulations either, since the inhabitants are all already dead.

The reception areas for the returning dead are all shaped like Aztec style pyramids like those in Teotihuacan.

Via ashleyketchumall on tumblr: The land of the dead is partially based on the colorful architecture in the Mexican city of Guanajuato.

A costuming detail: The dead Rivera family members wear leather aprons to remind us if their role as shoemakers.

“Caquitas” If you don’t speak spanish, you might have missed the film’s one poop joke.

This guy’s grumpy because all he got for an offering was a single lousy muffin.

Meanwhile, look at these two guys who seem to be making a trade for something illicit in a bottle.

The original plot had Miguel bringing the guitar with him to the land of the dead, needing to return it to its rightful owner, and have that person strum it in order to break the curse.

The guitar isn’t where miguel left it--why? Because the cemetery worker put it back!

Because some people prefer to call the holiday “Dia de los muertos” while others know it as “dia de muertos,” the movie included both versions depending on the speaker. Miguel, his abuela, and the clerk use “Dia de los muertos.” A couple background characters and Hector use “Dia de muertos.”

There are no living plants in the land of the dead. Just metal ones.

Alebrijes are partially a reflection of the characters who own them, which is why Imelda’s spirit guide, Pepita, is strong and intimidating, while De la Cruz’s alebrijes are more for display than anything practical.

In the original script, the Riveras weren’t able to talk regularly. They had to sing. And they hated it.

Unibrow faking may be illegal because it’s so rare for skeletons to have eyebrows at all in this world, making it a privilege for certain cultural heroes like Frida Kahlo.

The inspiration for the department of family reunions was the post office building in Mexico City, the Palacio de Correos de Mexico.

There’s a physical comedy moment in the background when the twins accidentally switch heads and don’t realize right away.

Another background character moment: Dante sniffing at this background skeleton, who gets a little surprised to feel it!

Ceci was listening to “Remember Me.”

This scene was evidently inspired by a real monkey riding a dog at a rodeo that the creators attended.

“Bunch of self important jerks!” This line is probably hinting at Ernesto's villainy, but it's also evidence of hector’s self hatred.

“Pronated” means “slightly bow legged.”

You can tell that they’re going down the towers because the architecture is looking more and more ancient

Chicharron was a musician, though it may only have been a hobby. He has multiple instruments in his shack: the guitar, but also a drum and trumpet.

It makes sense that Chicharron, who collects odds and ends, wouldn’t have a matching set of shot glasses. But interestingly, the one Hector drinks from is the same design as the shot glass he was originally poisoned with.

Chicharron’s guitar has writing inside it, probably the brand name: “El Leon.”

Hector’s reaction makes more sense when we find out the true history of “Remember Me.”

Dante’s job is to bring miguel and hector together. Any time they’re together, Dante’s happy and content. If they split up, Dante gets anxious.

People have noticed this character’s shirt resembles Sid's from Toy Story. Is Sid in the land of the dead? No, director Lee Unkrich says this guy resembles Sid but isn't really him. https://twitter.com/leeunkrich/status/941386078585589760

Chicharron’s line “You gotta earn it” might be influencing Miguel to try so hard to earn De la Cruz’s blessing.

Dante has a hilariously concerned reaction to Miguel's grito.

The “Chachalacos” are named after a bird called the “chachalaca,” which is also a word for a chatty person.

Hector looks not just happy but surprised when it turns out Miguel can actually perform.

Hector’s percussive dancing is inspired by the tarima “stomp box,” a wooden platform with holes cut out of the sides so that a dancer can stomp on it to create a rhythm.

Real bones were used to record parts of Poco Loco!

Via prismasandtoonpies: Un Poco Loco mentions counting your blessings, the same phrase earlier in the movie when describing Hector and Imelda’s marriage!

Hector calls Miguel Gordito, or “chubby,” since unlike skeletons, Miguel has flesh on his bones.

Is this choreographed? No, Hector guides Miguel in his little spin onstage.

The statue in De la Cruz plaza is similar to the one in the land of the living, including the “Seize Your Moment” quote, but it’s the skeletal version of De la Cruz.

It's implied that Miguel and Hector would have won the battle of the bands if Miguel hadn't run off before the encore.

The ad here is for “cerveza de raiz,” or root beer.

You can see the famous La Catrina, the day of the dead political cartoon earlier referenced in the cemetery, after Miguel meets Pepita for the first time.

The directors confirmed that the stripe on Miguel’s hoodie was added to give viewers a sense of Miguel’s arm bones, even when his gradual skeletonization was covered by clothing.

Miguel’s calavera face paint has four streaks at the top, though it’s hard to see in most shots.

At De la Cruz’s party, you can see some characters in what might be Aztec regalia--Montezuma specifically is mentioned in a deleted scene as someone who will “live on forever” in the land of the dead due to his fame.

Ernesto’s tower has a marigold-orange carpet instead of a red carpet to mimic the color of the cempasuchiles.

Though Dante's name is of course a reference to Dante's divine comedy, a literary classic in which the main character journeys through the afterlife, Dante is in-universe named after the horse in a De la Cruz movie.

The dj is wearing a “give cumbia a chance” t-shirt, advertising the mexican electronica project “mexican institute of sound.”

There are many celebrity cameos in the land of the dead, including: musicians Pedro Infante and Jorge Negrete, wrestler El Santo, actors Cantinflas and Maria Felix, and revolutionary Emiliano Zapata beside a soldadera. http://radiobuap.com/2017/11/10-curiosidades-sobre-coco/

Cantinflas is only wearing chaps on his lower half!

Ernesto’s skull is designed with f-holes, emphasizing his legacy as a musician.

Ernesto never gets to finish his blessing, which is why the petal didn’t start glowing. It’s possible he may have been considered “family” enough to bless Miguel after all. https://twitter.com/leeunkrich/status/941362375596429312

The murder being committed wasn’t shown on screen, just implied--we never see a bottle of poison. It’s ambiguous because Miguel is put in a position of choosing who to trust more: his idol or Hector.

Lee Unkrich has said that the guitar was a gift to Hector from Imelda. https://twitter.com/leeunkrich/status/935724236668272641

Hector’s songbook has both “Remember Me” and “The World is Mi Familia” in it.

Hector and ernesto’s charro suits aren’t the same--Ernesto has a Greek-fret style design, which he also has on his belt and in his pool in the land of the dead. His suit is a darker colour while Hector’s is lighter, and has some of the same flourishes his mandible markings do

As Hector falls, he grabs his stomach! Like he did when he died!

Via karlofflugosi: In the flashback, Ernesto slyly moves Hector’s guitar away under the guise of helping him as he chokes. He steals the guitar AS HECTOR’S DYING!

Real cenotes are natural sinkholes with spiritual significance. This one is manmade, though still used to make a metaphorical sacrifice to send someone to the land of the dead: Miguel. You can see sculptures in the background that is meant to portray the king and queen of the land of the dead, Mictlantecuhtli and Mictecacihuatl.

The voice actor for Hector, Gael García Bernal, had his young daughter Libertad sing this part of Remember Me.

Emilio Fuentes, the original voice actor for Miguel, had to be replaced after his voice dropped, but he has a single line in the movie: “Places senor, you’re on in 30 seconds!”

“La Lllorona” is a recurring theme when Imelda is part of a scene.

Many viewers may not be aware that La Llorona is a traditional song and wasn’t composed for this movie. In fact, the movie has a shortened version of the original lyrics. “La Llorona” also famously featured in the 2002 film Frida, about--you guessed it!--Frida Kahlo.

Miguel’s gesture encouraging Imelda to “sing” is the same one that Hector gave him at the battle of the bands.

The guitar player and the conductor look at each other here, wondering who’s playing, before joining in.

The conductor is a cameo of the movie’s score composer Michael Giacchino (said ja-keen-oh).

Via miquelrivera: Another funny background character reaction as Ernesto’s revealed as the villain.

A quote from co-director Adrian Molina about this scene: “People give me grief about why all of these people would have fruit at a concert. And it’s because they’re coming back from Dia de Muertos, and their families leave them all these offerings!”

This character (what did i miss) was voiced by Lee Unkrich.

At this point (“it’s ok mijo/ we’re both out of time mijo”), Hector switches from calling Miguel “chamaco,” meaning “kid,” to “mijo,” meaning “my son.”

...Just like Miguel has switched to calling him “Papa Hector,” emphasizing their newfound bond as family.

Miguel did get a musician’s blessing after all!

The family members sleeping outside on the bench were probably out all night looking for Miguel.

This is an accurate portrayal of how music affects memory in patients with dementia.

Coco describes Hector’s songs as ‘poems he wrote for me.’ She may not have known that some of the lyrics were for songs!

The frames on the wall contain lyrics for three songs: Remember Me, Un Poco Loco, and The World is Mi Familia.

Besides lyrics, there are letters from Hector to Coco saying things like “Sorry I can’t be there” and “Dear Coco, I love you with all my heart.” They’re always signed “Papa Hector.”

Most of the letters have drawings on them--hearts, a picture of Coco, a star, a dog, and a little church with some cacti. Hector was a doodler!

As many have noticed, in the ending scene, Hector is more put-together and well-remembered. His bones are whiter and less loose, his clothes are nicer, and he even has a new pair of shoes!

He gives coco the B I G G E S T H U G

Pepita’s shadow at the end is similar to when she was seen in this previous scene.

Twins realistically run in the family

Miguel gets lifted up at the end like in poco loco :)

According to the songwriters, there were at least 17 different genres of music that Remember Me was performed in throughout the movie..

The original message of the film when it was pitched was about letting go of dead loved ones, getting closure, and moving on. But after doing research on the meaning of Dia de los Muertos, the message was reworked into a more culturally aware idea that dead people will always be a part of their loved ones’ lives.

And that’s 122 things you missed in Coco! Did I forget any good ones? Tell me in the comments below! Hasta luego!

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morethanjustmediocremusings · 6 years ago

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Hidden In an OOO: Re-defining a Modern Woman

Can the modern woman have it all? Put simply, no. But to elaborate on that immediate shut down, I say no because it is unrealistic to expect so much from a singular person. The idea of a “modern woman” defies the caveman expectations of a “super mom” and plays into the 2019 progressive ideals of a woman who can do exactly what she wants. It is through the use of various rhetorical appeals that Leandra Medine’s “MR’s Out-of-Office Reply Is Chock-Full of Feelings” is able to imply a shift towards a liberated modern woman.

Located within the depths of the fashion blog, Man Repeller, a search of “Leandra Medine” will provide you with the following description: “Leandra Medine is the founder of Man Repeller, which she likes to call a nudist colony, and author of Man Repeller: Seeking Love, Finding Overalls. She just started making her own chia pudding,” (About Leandra Medine 2012). But to further grasp the power of her ethos, one must look beyond the brief description provided by the sentence above. She attended The New School for Liberal Arts in New York, and then took a fact-checking job at New York Magazine (BoF Contributors 2018). Man Repeller was birthed in 2010 out of a semester abroad in Paris, previously under the pseudonym “Boogers + Bagles” (Wallace 2014). As reiterated in The Cut’s article, “its [Man Repeller’s] slangy language (‘this amazeballs Vena Cava safety pin blouse’), and its youthful, bloggy self-disclosure…” that make the site the perfect medium to discuss the underlying sources of self-reflection that are hidden in our everyday consumption of various forms of media (Wallace 2014).

Leandra Medine has a lot going for her: a newly updated Manhattan apartment with custom elephant wallpaper (Ross 2018), a blooming podcast, a Man Repeller Buffet brand complete with “unibrow sunglasses” and rooster earrings (Medine 2018b), and not to mention two beautifully expressive twin girls, all of this often documented via Instagram post. Yet, despite her bountiful achievements Leandra cannot be described as arrogant. She is not without her struggles, in her article “I Have a Complicated Relationship With Happiness” she discusses the struggle of losing relatability once achieving a state of happiness (Medine 2018a). She has also been open with discussing her struggles with infertility on Monocycle, her podcast. Her achievements are discrete, and by showing the good alongside the bad, our humble author is able to create an astounding ethos through which her message can be subjectively interpreted.

An understanding of Man Repeller’s tone is needed to fully discuss the flexibility of a modern woman as implied through the article at hand: “MR’s Out-of-Office Reply Is Chock-Full of Feelings.” Leandra’s quirky writing style is exemplified within the first thirty seconds of her Alexa Chung Interview in Man Repeller’s Chatroom, in which she discusses her contemplation of the word literally. One must first literally discuss the literal meaning of the word “literally,” which Leandra concludes literally connote be taken literally (Man Repeller 2016). Beyond the tangent implied above with the colloquialized interpretation of “literally,” the out of office (OOO) notice up for discussion today is anything but traditional. Yes, it has all the makings of a bounce-back, reply email, generated from a robot behind a screen, but the article has something a typical automated response lacks: heart.

Simply, the letter provides her audience with a personal update from the home front. Directly stated: there will be a lack of content over the holidays as people will be spending time with their families, but when viewed under a metaphorical “black light” the true message of a woman’s free will becomes visible. This declaration of work-place alleviation is paired (or maybe juxtaposed) with a call to action “Go out and do something you love, just for the sake of doing something you love! Go on! Right now!” (Medine 2018c) which rings with a hedonism acceptable only during the holidays. Leandra also uses this time to recap and reflect on the recent changes within Man Repeller HQ.

She opens the article by informing us on her whereabouts: Australia, which is strange for the holidays as traditionally people like to be close to home, but she insists she is still getting some much-needed R & R. By mentioning her own whereabouts Leandra challenges typical ideas of the holidays. She is on a tropical vacation in Australia, without her family, without her children, and without regret for doing so. The unapologetic nature of disregarding tradition shows an aloofness that proves a modern woman can do whatever the heck she wants, even if that thing is going to Australia for Christmas.

After a subtle anecdote about tomato paste, she reiterates Amelia Diamond’s leaving of Man Repeller. Now, for the first-time reader it may not mean much, but for us members of this girl cult, Amelia’s decision to leave came as a shock. Amelia Diamond has been with Man Repeller since the beginning. Her second-to-last post, “Why I’m Finally Letting Go of the Pressure to Be Something I’m Not,” hinted at a dissatisfaction, but never did I expect to read her informal, coded resignation notice to readers at home: “Amelia and Leandra on Working With Your Best Friend (and Saying Goodbye)” (Diamond & Medine 2018). Amelia’s departure was filled with emotion and by even briefly mentioning it, Leandra is able to pull pathos from other posts back into the OOO reply. By addressing the importance of memories, she indirectly touches on nostalgia. Similarly, in his piece “Instagram’s Instant Nostalgia,” Ian Crouch does an amazing job exploring new-wave perceptions of nostalgia (Crouch 2017). Humans have a desire to narrate their lives, and in the booming age of social media, self-documentation has never been easier. A curated sense of nostalgia can now be rendered in seconds with the help of apps such as Leap Second, Instagram, and Snapchat, all of which provide year-long recaps of your posted life. This empathetic sense of nostalgia can be seen through Leandra’s mention of reflecting on old photographs as a way to mark the passing of time. It is in contemplation that we find nostalgia and become more susceptible to empathetic approaches to rhetoric. By emphasizing words such as “memories” and “story” through repetition, an ongoing sense of passing time further adds to the nostalgic pathos appeals within the OOO announcement.

Digressing from Amelia’s departure, Leandra succumbs to the expected momentary self-reflection tied to the New Year. She discusses the notion that as one grows up, you begin to find answers to the great unknowns. You find who you are, what you want, and (almost) exactly how to get there. You become an active participant in your life, whether you realize it of not. Noting the insignificance of numbers on a page, Leandra struggles to accept the duality of human perceptions of time. We struggle to quantify it and therefore struggle to understand it. She uses a page break as an extended metaphor, aiding her attempted comprehension of necessary nostalgia. Moments of reflection, like those that surround the holidays, are not unlike pages breaks. They allow for moments of peace and time to gather our thoughts or, in her case, our miniskirts.

… other times I can’t believe that we don’t always see the significance of adding page breaks to the sequence of time. It’s an opportunity, more than anything, to sit with yourself and acknowledge the mental camera roll of a year passed. You can probably do this with your de facto camera roll but real pictures are distracting in that the memories you glue to them might get obscured by a cool skirt you wore, or how shiny your hair looked — any number of visible variables that tap at your shoulder as if to divert your attention from the grand scheme of the roll… (Medine 2018c).

It is logical for a page break to mark the place to take a breath and reflect. By having moments of reflection throughout the year we are better able to understand ourselves. Especially during points of high-stress, such as the holiday season, taking a meditative moment to re-focus on what really matters has the potential to allow for a more objective approach to life and a centered view of one’s personal desires.

To close the memo, Leandra leaves her audience with generalized advice. “It’s not as bad as you think it was. I guess the thing is that it never is.” (Medine 2018c). Maybe it’s my inner cynic but isn’t it a little cliché to end with generalized, feel-good statements? Similar to how zodiac readings are often less prescriptive and more imprecise than we think, the final paragraph, upon the first read, comes across as superficially airy. However, when further pondered, her words hold value. We must reflect on ourselves, the good and the bad; even within this post we must observe the OOO post’s true significance. Although a thesis is not directly stated, the implied notion of a change in what it means to be a woman in modern society, can be gathered in between the comedic interjections and sappy farewells. The modern woman is many things, but most importantly she is as she wishes to be.

Man Repeller’s brilliant combination of elevated diction and comedic jargon allows for a balance between work and play. This verbal co-op can be further modeled to a modern woman’s balancing act. No longer forced into scratchy pantsuits, and sexist The Office-esque meetings, Leandra exemplifies a sense of balance. She is able to work remotely, spend time with her husband, and still have a life and family back in New York. This duality of highly educated language paired alongside her casual voice shows that the modern woman is multi-faceted. Her articles read as an email from an old friend, and this OOO article is no exception. Whereas traditional scholarly writing is very standoffish, Man Repeller runs a fine-tuned balance, ideal for today’s world. Some critics of Man Repeller may say it is too informal, pulling from fragments such as “begging you to stop, look and unclench your butt cheeks,” (Medine 2018c). However, by choosing to focus on the more childish moments of the piece, one forgets the underlying sophistication of challenging the modern perception of women. No longer seen as chess pieces for society, but rather as their own entities.

Leandra Medine’s “MR’s Out-of-Office Reply Is Chock-Full of Feelings” serves as the perfect monocle through which we can examine the changing ideals of women’s societal expectations. No longer must we follow pre-historic, gendered rules by which women ought to live their lives; instead a movement towards creating our own lives has begun to take root, if only in the niche community of forward-thinking fashion enthusiasts. This hidden essence of the ideal modern-woman might be so elusive because it is different for everyone. Not all women want to live in Manhattan, just as not all women want to spend Christmas in Australia. The modern woman is recognizable by her options and the freedom to choose her own path. And in our own moment of reflection, is that really such a radical idea?

Works Cited

“About Leandra Medine, Author at Man Repeller.” Man Repeller, 2012, www.manrepeller.com/author/manrepeller.

BoF Contributors. “Leandra Medineis One of the 500 People Shaping the Global Fashion Industry in 2018.” The Business of Fashion, The Business of Fashion, 26 Aug. 2018, www.businessoffashion.com/community/people/leandra-medine.

Crouch, Ian. “Instagram's Instant Nostalgia.” The New Yorker, The New Yorker, 19 June 2017, www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/instagrams-instant-nostalgia.

Diamond, Amelia, and Leandra Medine. “Amelia and Leandra on Working With Your Best Friend (and Saying Goodbye).” Man Repeller, 21 Dec. 2018, www.manrepeller.com/2018/12/amelia-and-leandra-say-goodbye.html.

Man Repeller, director. Alexa Chung & Leandra Medine: The Chatroom. YouTube, 12 May 2016, www.youtube.com/watch?v=YIDy9VBu1uY&t=197s.

Medine, Leandra. “The Brand New Man Repeller Holiday Buffet Is Here!” Man Repeller, 21 Nov. 2018b, www.manrepeller.com/2018/11/man-repeller-holiday-buffet-launch-2018.html.

Medine, Leandra. “I Have a Complicated Relationship With Happiness.” Man Repeller, 8 June 2018a, www.manrepeller.com/2018/06/relationship-with-feeling-happy.html.

Medine, Leandra. “MR’s Out-of-Office Reply Is Chock-Full of Feelings.” Man Repeller, 24 Dec. 2018c, www.manrepeller.com/2018/12/man-repeller-out-of-office-holidays-2018.html.

Ross, Harling. “Take a Look Inside Leandra Medine's Updated Manhattan Apartment.” Man Repeller, 11 Sept. 2018, www.manrepeller.com/2018/09/leandra-medine-apartment-tour.html.

Wallace, Benjamin. “What's So Alluring About a Woman Known As Man Repeller?” The Cut, The Cut, 8 Feb. 2014, www.thecut.com/2014/02/man-repeller-leandra-medine-profile.html.

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findlocalonlinedating-com · 7 years ago

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5 Ways Men Overcomplicate Game

Are You Making Meeting Women Harder Than It Needs to Be? Like any art form, the true beauty and power of a project lies underneath complexity, and is revealed by stripping away the excess. In seduction it’s the art of Spezzatura, or simplicity. Rather than trying to “add” to your identity by learning 97 new techniques and tactics, focus on minimizing mistakes, and simplifying your game. Find your strengths, and build on them. Discover your weaknesses, and minimize them. 5 Ways Men Over Complicate Their Game 1) Over-Gaming There was a girl I used to like. She worked in a cafe. Every day I’d go in there for coffee and chat her up. I’d practice my teasing, push-pull, DHV stories, negs, and every other game concept I’d learnt. One day she asked “Why do you act so weird around me? Why don’t you just be real?” So I stopped gaming her, and never did ask her out. Assume Attraction Then one night at a bar, she arrived with some of her friends and sat next to me. Since I didn’t over-game her, she eventually reached out and pinched my cheek. Later on as we left the bar, I kissed her, and took her home for amazing, sweaty, sex. It was simple. I just accepted that she liked me, and rather than trying to “create attraction,” I assumed it. Trying to hard to be witty is over-gaming. So many guys don’t realize they’re attractive. They spend too much energy trying to game a girl that they won’t consider she might just find them attractive—the way they are. Sounds gay and self-helpy, but it’s true. It’s like that scene from Swingers: “You’re so money, and you don’t even know it.” 2) They Focus On Verbal Game Rather Than Body Language On my training programs I always hear the same thing: “I just don’t know what to say!” When I first got into pickup I mostly followed Mystery Method. It had long ass scripts that I tried to memorize but always forgot as soon as I approached someone. And even if I did remember the story about how my friend’s ex girlfriend burned all her boyfriends pictures, the girls would get bored an ignore me. After a few years I realized it wasn’t that my scripted routines were boring, it was that I lacked fundamentals. Game Fundamentals * Body language: Standing up straight, and owning your space. * Eye Contact: Looking the girl straight in the eyes. Not darting around the environment. * Vocal Tonality: Speaking in a loud, clear, even tone. Not in squeaky, shaky, quiet, uptalk. * Emotional Control: Being cool, calm, happy and collected. Not nervous, shy, frightened and insecure. When you approach a girl and feel happy, calm and collected, look her straight in the eyes, own your space, and speak in a calm, even, easy to hear tone, “what to say,” becomes almost a non-issue. The girl senses that you have confidence, and charisma, and will be much more willing to engage you in flirtation if you don’t come across as a weird, anxious, goofy wreck. 3) Their Fashion and Grooming Sucks I’m always amazed when men pay me thousands of dollars to learn pickup, then show up to bootcamp looking like homeless bums. Some are wearing jogging pants and gym shoes, dirty T-Shirts, and cheap jeans three sizes too large for them. Their nails are untrimmed, they have neckbeards, unibrows, and long dark nose hairs jutting out of their nostrils. I walk them to the drug store, make them buy a grooming kit, go to the bathroom and clean themselves up. Then we go to Zara and drop $150 on new pants, a shirt and shoes. The transformation is miraculous. These guys go up a notch in appearance, just by changing their look. This also affects their inner-game. They start to walk differently, talk differently, feel differently about themselves. And because of this change in how they perceive themselves, the women notice, and react far more positively to their approaches and flirtations. 4) They obsess over one girl Clients always message me: “This one girl is so amazing. What do I text her? How come she isn’t texting me back? What should I say? How do I get her?” I feel like slapping them. The only thing that differentiates a pro pickup artist from a newbie, is the pro is able to deal with 100X more rejection than him. Never get overly excited about one girl, because you’re not hypnotist, you’re a salesman. A salesman relies not only on his skill at closing, but at attracting leads. They rely on wide and vast sales funnels, then filter out the cheapskates and time wasters. Newbies will go on on a Saturday, do three approaches, get a phone number then spend all week trying to get her to meet them. The pro will go out five times a week, get two dozen leads, and then get two dozen the next week. (That or they’ll just try to close on the spot). If one girl isn’t replying, or playing hard to get, who cares? He has two dozen more girls, and many of them will be likely to meet up. Rather than relying on luck, or the whims of some flakey woman, your work ethic dictates your success. By having a many romantic leads, you not only increase your odds of getting laid, but create in yourself a sense of abundance, rather than scarcity. The women you interact with will sense your “I like you, but don’t need you” attitude, and this makes you even more attractive. 5) They try to game over text I have a simple rule for texting: Don’t try to create attraction over text. Now, I’m not an online seductionist. I prefer to meet women IRL. My job is to make a first impression that is so attractive, that gaming over text is unnecessary. I’ve lost more women by over texting than I care to count. My objective with texting is simple: To get her to meet me. My first text is only my name. “Tony.” If she replies with a long text like “Oh hey Tony! It was great to meet you!” then she’s already more invested than I am. She’s working for me. My next text will be: “Hey, there’s this great thing xyz. Want to meet up at 7pm on Tuesday?” If she doesn’t give me a solid “Yes,” then I text: “What day is good for you?” That’s it. Simple. “But what if she doesn’t reply Tony?” So what? I have a dozen more girls to ask out. Not just one. I know different coaches have different theories about texting. I’m old. I don’t have the energy to chase women who aren’t interested. So this is my texting method. Conclusion: Pickup is an amazing art form. It’s both incredibly complex, and amazingly simple. With all the information on the Internet it’s easy to become lost in complex theories, and forget that it really comes down to taking action. Make a great first impression, approach a lot of women, don’t over game, and close. Inside of that framework there are limitless variables that are beyond the scope of one blog post. But I’m a firm believer that personal experience is the best teacher. Good luck. http://dlvr.it/QrpTRz

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lovvie · 8 years ago

Text

Declaration of Difference

I was maybe in 3rd/4th grade. An arrogant and innocent kid, I was teaching my then best friend/neighbor the letters of the keys on a piano.

“Look for the blue one, and that one is a C. All the blue one are C’s.”

“Wait, what?”

“This one. This one is a C.”

“What do you mean blue though?”

“It’s blue! This one is green, and ... it’s an ... E.”

I remember the conversation to go something like this. Me firing back quick, So. Sure. that my friend would understand my helpful tips that there was no thought that I wouldn’t make sense. There was no possibility for confusion. Why would. whuuut. And then the understanding of misunderstanding’s occurrence. An oozing realization. And I remember spiraling into my head for a little while. I left the world. I left the feeling of confusion. I came back to the world, but I didn’t address the confusion then. I don’t know when it was when I pieced the puzzle together, but I remember that it wasn’t then.

I don’t believe that I was ever brainwashed. I just naturally found thick eyebrows to be soo attractive. Ryan Higa. Kevjumba. Danny Phantom haha. Jake Long. Joe Jonas. Greg from Everybody Hates Chris. Ned from Pushing Daisies. That vampire from Twilight. Every single crush I had in high school and college, lmao. But! This fact about myself wasn’t known to me the child or me the teenager.

One day, during a club meeting, a board member made fun of Frida Kahlo’s eyebrows. Don’t get me wrong. Iii definitely laughed at her portraits when I was a child. But I definitely delighted in her image - delighted in a different way - when I had seen photos of her. Her eyebrows, like beautiful scenery, made me speechless, plunged me deep in awe. (And they still do.) In rebuttal to this anti-unibrow person, I spoke back, and I was headed somewhere with my argument, but then it came out that we were thinking about slightly different things.

“I believe that people should try to look pretty or handsome. You may not get close, but at least try, man. If you don’t try, that, to me, is unattractive.”

And so it was that I felt extremely shocked, unsettled, almost offended. The-th-they are-are beautiful already! She didn’t need to try.. And what the fuck?There is already so much pressure from within ourselves, our bodies!, to look attractive. And now we have to look beautiful simply for society’s respect? Not only that, but we have to figure out how to be beautiful by this fool’s standards?! Thick eyebrows are beautiful!

The anger simmered in me for days. But I didn’t know what to make of it then.

Finding many levels of intimacy, but only rarely finding ones where I’m almost never surprised by the other’s actions. A feeling of 99.9% synchronization. I seek out the kinds of relationships where I could feel this way, feel as if we share identical minds. As if my distinct “superior” mind is in two different bodies. My automatic response to relationships where I’m misunderstood is to arm, fortify, protect. Shut down all means of travel to my heart of hearts. No one can get truly get in ... and no me can truly get out. This was a problem for me. It hurt, and it hurts.

I reallylize now that people are different. Yeah, yeah.., we were all told this long ago... in a distant future on a distant planet. But it was only in recent years that I stretched my arms out wide and named the depth of this Different. I had heard of it. I had even felt it. I had heard all the names others had given it. But I, by myself, for myself, had never named it.

Like is comfortable. It’s never frightening, and it always makes Perfect sense. I want to see Like in you. I want you to be like me in some anysome way, so that we can begin to like each other. Once I wake up to how unexpectedly different we are, the reality of it, I freak out. It’s scary. You start to make no sense. Different is repulsive.

They didn’t know that I saw things in a different way. I didn’t know that they saw things in a different way. I assume that we assumed that we were Alike or that the other was Flawed or that the other was simply different. This is where I make the mistake of trying to turn a person into pieces. We probably are, all at once, alike, flawed, different, and more.

I’m hoping that it’s not by managing these highly trained assumptioners within me that’ll bring about peace and understanding. It could help, maybe, but either I’m losing the ability to control them or I’m losing faith in myself that I can keep them in check. Also, it’s not like I’ve bumped into everydifferent in the world.

Dear Loie,

I want to understand, and I want to be understood.

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mybrowngirlstories-blog · 8 years ago

Photo

Your Hair Looks So Good Straight!

Hair has always been an interesting topic for me. I’ve got naturally wavy, frizzy hair, which occasionally carries the perfect ringlet curl. Growing up, I always wanted to straighten it—all of the (white) girls in my high school seemed to have straight hair and they were the ones who were beautiful and popular. Instead, I grew up with thick Indian hair that was often drenched in coconut oil (a habit my mother got me into doing every week). When I got my hair straightener, though, and applied heat over 200 degrees to my hair, I couldn’t help but to feel more beautiful. Looking back now, it seems bizarre. I remember getting compliments like “Wow, your hair looks so much better straight!” or “You look really nice today!”. Interestingly enough, I rarely got any kind of affirmation when I wore my natural hair down. Recently, I’ve realized how political hair really is. In the book Hair Matters: Beauty, Power and Black Women's Consciousness, Ingrid Banks talks about how hair, specifically for women of colour can affect their lives a lot. For instance, a lot of black women are judged on their curly, kinky hair, and this allows them to fall into stereotypes of being uncivilized (which is total crap). She also notes that what’s considered desirable is measured against white standards of beauty, which includes long, straight hair (and usually blonde). Even though her article is specifically about Black women, I couldn’t help but relate because my hair also doesn’t fit the norms of beauty. It’s almost like a weird double edge sword: when I wear my hair straight, I’m told it looks prettier, but when it’s straight I’m also told that I have such nice thick Indian hair, as if it’s not they aren’t the exact same strands before applying heat. The politics of hair doesn’t just stop at the hair that’s on my head. For a lot of people, women specifically, having body hair can be an issue. Due to stereotypes, it’s pretty common to assume that Indian girls are ‘hairy’—arm hair, upper lip hair, and unibrows. Most of the women in my family have had to deal with unwanted hair, so there might be truth to that stereotype based simply on genetics. Regardless, it can’t be assumed that all brown females have ‘excessive hair’. Anyway, I always remembered seeing white girls in high school with ‘clean’ arms and bleached upper lips. I felt like a freak. I felt like I was an animal in the jungle (actually). For that reason, from a young age, I’ve been doing things like threading and waxing and shaving so that I could fit the white beauty standards that have been established for females: hairless. As well, when I would go to Indian women to ask them to wax parts of my body like my armpits, they would always say that waxing is better because it makes the skin appear lighter as well.

So why does this matter?

I never thought that hair could have such a huge impact on the way that people move through life. Reflecting back on my own experiences, I’m really saddened by the fact that I tend to not embrace my natural hair. Instead, I succumbed to these normative beauty standards that completely denoted any sense of my cultural identity, or individuality, for that matter. I even sometimes made up excuses, too. For instance, I would say that I would straighten my hair because it was easier to deal with and manage. That might be true for some people, but for myself it led to the recognition that a lot of stores don’t even sell products to help me manage my natural hair. If they do, it’s not that great. It’s almost as if all the products in the hair aisle are meant for people with straight hair, or hair that’s been styled with the help of a heating device, altering its natural look somehow. In a sense, hair is political, and also a big part of capitalism. According to Banks, people with curly hair are taken less seriously, are seen as uneducated and even unclean. The women in my family all have incredibly, lush, thick hair. They’re all very beautiful. More of the older women in my family leave it natural, and the younger women tend to straighten it or curl it so the waves look smoother. Whenever I straighten my hair now, a part of me gets really sad, mostly because I start to look less like the powerful women in my family. For me, my hair has always been a big part of my identity, and as a Hindu woman with ancestors in Fiji and India, the women in my family have been known for having amazing hair. That being said, it’s like hair is the only physical trait that can be appreciated. Even though most of the comments I get on my hair come from when it’s straight, I sometimes get them when it’s curly, but it often sounds like a fetishization. For instance, people will say things like “I wish I had brown hair” or “Brown girls have the nicest hair”. While these are technically compliments that I won’t argue, there’s more to us than hair. As well with the body hair, it seems as though from a young age I’ve been training to fit into the white standard of beauty for women. As a result, this made me feel less attached to my cultural identity, and even ashamed for being a ‘brown woman’, because a brown woman was associated with excessive hair, which was frowned upon (and still is). For me, the politics of hair intersects with a lot of things: race, gender, and class. Due to my skin colour and culture, it’s assumed that I look a certain and different way and because I am a woman I need to change the way I look to fit in. At the same time, it’s pretty hard to keep up with these beauty standards, and I’ve never critically thought about the money and time spent in ‘fixing what’s wrong with me’. In a way, it makes me realize my privilege for being able access these services, but it also makes me feel less privileged because I am being forced by society to look a certain way.

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