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meso-mijali · 2 years

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What to expect when you're expecting (a hysterectomy)

I wrote about my experience with a hysterectomy, and if its something you're considering you may want to give it a read so you can have an idea about what its like. Reddit post transcribed below:

Hello, all! I just had my Hysterectomy on Friday and I am here to discuss the process so far! Feel free to reach out if you have any questions about it!

My surgery was a Total Laparoscopic Vaginal Hysterectomy. They took my uterus, my cervix, Fallopian tubes and right ovary. They cleaned up half my left ovary. They cleaned up/removed scar tissue and endo throughout my abdomen

Thursday (the day before the surgery): I was allowed to eat breakfast, but was told to do clear liquids from that point until midnight. After that, I was not allowed any liquids or pills at all. I was allowed to take a benadryl as a sleep aid, and that's it

Friday (pre-surgery):

* I arrived at the hospital at 8:15am, and got checked in by the nicest nurse in the entire world. She set up my IV, asked me health questions, did my blood and urine work, etc. Eventually, the anesthesiologist came in (he was the same as the exploratory lap I'd had done, which was a relief) and asked me questions about allergies and if I had eaten etc. I mentioned that last time I was put under my throat hurt a lot from the tube, and he was more gentle this time, because it didn't hurt at all when I woke.

* My surgeon came in and we discussed the procedure again; at this point if I was given the option to back out; I declined and signed a form that my insurance required stating that I was aware I would be sterile after this.

* The operating room nurse came in, asked me about my allergies (if you have allergies, this will happen like 12 times) and she wheeled me to the OR

* In the OR, I got myself lined up on the surgical table, was informed I would be in stirrups for 3+ hours, and then was put under with medicine through the IV (no counting down from 10 like in the movies)

Friday (post surgery):

* I woke up at about 2pm, in the OR recovery area. I was tired and a little groggy, but mentally aware. I was asked how my pain level was, and said about a 5 (it felt like period cramps) and she nurse gave me a pain med in the IV and also a pill. After a little while, she wheeled me into a recovery room and asked if I wanted my mom (my driver and caretaker during this) to come. I said yes

* The pain meds made me very nauseous, and they had to give me an IV with anti-nausea meds or I would have thrown up my coffee

* I drank three cups of water, a cup of coffee, and ate a small package of graham crackers (which, thanks to how dry my mouth was, was like eating handfuls of sand; I had to drink water with each bite)

* I was not allowed to leave until I peed, which I was expecting; however it took over an hour to make that happen. After trying a few times, I eventually managed it, however it was pure blue when I did. When I went back to the nurse to say I did it, I mentioned that and she was startled until she remembered that I had had a Hysto, and the surgeon dyes the bladder blue to see if there's any nicks/leaking

* I left the hospital at around 5pm and was on my couch lying down immediately after.

* I was able to make it up the flight of stairs to my apartment no problem, and was mobile, but a little slow. The pain was about a 3

Saturday:

* I had slept mostly upright on the couch, but had slipped down the pillows a bit and woke with some mild pain in my shoulder from the gas. This is a warning: **The Gas Pain Is Not A Joke.** You'll see later how much pain it caused me.

* I mostly lounged around the house all day; I was able to get up and down to use the bathroom, mom helped me up from the couch.

* I had very little appetite still, and got full very quickly.

* I attempted to lie down a little more horizontal, and the gas pain was insane. It felt like someone was slicing through all my shoulder muscle strands with a knife, one by one. It was the most pain I had ever felt in my life. I would just devolve into sobbing, completely unable to speak from the pain. The thought of lying down caused me to sob, from remembering the pain. **DO NOT TRY TO LIE DOWN AFTER A LAPAROSCOPIC SURGERY. THE GAS WILL MOVE TO THE SHOULDERS AND YOU WILL BE IN SO MUCH PAIN YOU WILL HONESTLY THINK YOU'RE DYING**

* Seriously, compared to the gas pain, the surgery is nothing

Sunday:

* The gas pain continued, and I left my house and walked around a store to try and work some of it out. I walked very slowly, and could only manage about half an hour before I had to go home. I slept sitting up again.

* I read that a TENS unit could help, so I hooked it up and turned it on. Slept with it on all night.

Monday:

* The gas pain seemed to have mostly dissipated, but I slept at an angle again. Walked around a larger store and did really well! Sat when I had to, but was out of the house for about 2 hours.

* Pain in remaining ovary (it was cut in half, so it's healing) and right groin ligament (it was damaged by scar tissue)

* Took Hydrocodine to sleep, was on advil otherwise

Tuesday:

* Stopped taking the Hydrocodine, was on Advil alone.

* Went out to a few different stores and walked them. Groin ligament hurt the most, followed by left ovary

* Slept in bed! Took advil PM

Wednesday:

* Went to a cute little seaside town to show mom (who is visiting from a different state)

* Got lunch, walked around

* Went to a different town, walked around

* Groin ligament was the worst part, hard to walk

* Advil PM for bed

Thursday (today)

* Sitting up at a desktop writing this

* no real pain except stiff when I woke/incisions healing and stiff

* Going to be bringing car for an oil change, then taking it easy today

And that's that! The surgery itself was mild compared to the gas. I swear to god, I don't know if I could go trough that again. Get a TENS unit, get a heating pad, walk and rotate your shoulders and DON'T LIE DOWN.

#hysterectomy #female health #trans healthcare #trans issues #bottom surgery

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watchtheblog · 2 years

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mourning sickness

mourning thoughts

when my dad called to tell me my brother had died, the last thing he said before he hung up was “it’s just you and me now, sadie.” it was valentine’s day 17 years ago.

when my dad died, it was just me and him. i was asleep on the floor at the side of his hospital bed. it was a thursday one month ago.

i called a few people; only one picked up.

it is just me now.

mourning panic

i had been playing music continuously for my dad on one of my phones for weeks. one day in the hospital he mentioned beethoven string quartets, so i played an album of string quartets for 12 hours a day.

days later, his closest friend suggested a few of his favorite albums - schumann lieder, fauré melodies, goldberg variations, beethoven symphonies - so i played those for 12 hours a day.

then we moved to hospice, and i played these albums for 58 hours.

the evening before he died he developed what is called the “death rattle” - it’s a way of breathing that indicates death is near. people prepared me for it by telling me it sounds like “gurgling”. it doesn’t. imagine the cranking of a rollercoaster as it’s ascending the incline, but muffled by a blanket.

a beethoven symphony accompanying the death rattle perfectly scored the last few hours of my dad’s life. i wanted to remember this musical accordance so i used my other phone to record audio in the room, and i went to sleep.

the music had become pathological. i knew it was what was keeping him alive, so when i woke up that morning to silence i knew he was gone before even looking for the rise and fall of his sheet.

the paper i signed said time of death 6:50am because that’s when the nurse practitioner came in after i called for her, but i know it was 6:15am because i played the recording back to listen for his last breath.

mourning routine

i’d been with my dad every day for three weeks. after a few days, i’d established a routine for us. i’d arrive when visiting began, and i’d say something like hi dad, it’s april 12th and it’s a beautiful day outside. we’re safe and everything is good. maybe later we’ll go outside. or hi dad, it’s the morning and we have so much to look forward to. let’s relax now. i’d tell him i loved him - i love him - and we’d begin the day.

the days were the same. my dad slept, i worked from a chair with my back turned to the east river, nurses and doctors came in to disturb us, i read chapters of books on grief, my dad would wake up and we’d talk for a bit and i’d tell him to rest when he started to get agitated, and again we’d find our peace, and we’d exist for the rest of the day until visiting was over.

on the fourth day, i started keeping a journal of thoughts and notes from the day. this is the first one i wrote:

“can we have this conversation outside?” im always whispering to someone who has intruded on the space i share with my dying father to talk about my dying father’s impending death. none of these people seem to understand that talking about a dying person’s impending death in front of the dying person while the dying person is very much alive and potentially unaware of the fact that they are dying is - at best - uncourteous, and - at worst - fucking traumatic. “if they know, they let go”!!! someone told me that. selfish / selfless. i’m doing my best. i don’t want him to be scared / know that i know. i have to protect him.

**(i don’t think it’s advisable - legally or by my own anger - to talk about the nature of my dad’s “illness” but for the sake of giving some insight: he died of a preventable medical event due to an inexcusable act of negligence that occurred before he arrived to the hospital)**

my dad was in and out of cognition during the first few weeks but when he first arrived to the hospital he was unintelligible. this meant that when i arrived i had to make decisions.

i made decisions with my dad’s best interest in mind. on bad days, these decisions made sense. on “good days” - days when my dad asked about my new home or work or my boyfriend or how weird it would be to want to live on roosevelt island - the choices i’d made on behalf of his physical body and the ones i’d made to mentally protect him from reality seemed to negate or even usurp his autonomy, so i asked my dad’s sister to have a conversation with him about “what was going on”.

she flew in the next day, and i stayed home. i did not want him to know that i knew he was dying. my aunt is brave in ways i’ll never be, so she told him.

she told me he was very angry at her. i scream cried for an hour reading and rereading the text she sent summarizing the conversation.

there were few “good days” after this.

mourning lessons, mourning strength

my dad lived for me.

i don’t say that flippantly. everyone he knew told me that - nurses who had just met him told me that. he told everyone.

i lived for him, too. i wanted to have life for him. i lived on his behalf. i wanted to see and do things just to tell him about them. i took photos i’ll never look at again to show him. i did things i never thought i’d do to impress him or make him proud of me— i don’t know how to swim but i jumped into a lake just to hear him say “WOW, sadie!!” (and he did).

he saw every event in my life as a success, and he lived to see me succeed. he celebrated me every day of my life. the last thing of consequence he said to me was “i hope all of your projects are successful” after i said goodbye to him at the end of one of our long days. i had not discussed any “projects” with him.

my dad taught me to be kind, and to seek justice. he taught me to do for others, but always put myself first. he taught me to be generous, and grateful, and say thank you, and to appreciate everything i have.

he taught me how to make sigara boregi, and baklava, and to keep traditions. he taught me diction, and how to argue, and be incisive. he taught me how to play the piano, and chess, and that being smart was power, and a responsibility.

he was sensitive and artistic, and - like me - had few friends, but one of them described him like this: “one of the most memorable people I have ever met, in real life or in fiction. He was not someone you forget. He was a person who thought big, a person with great imagination, a kindred spirit to the great composers and poets.”

my father was deeply enamored with the parts of himself that he saw in me, and in turn i became dedicated to making those parts whole.

i woke up one morning in hospice and wrote down that i felt like an icicle. i was losing parts of myself every day, but the comparison was less about that which i was losing than that which was still hanging on.

every day there were parts of me that were begging for the privilege of relief, for the privilege to sink into the puddle of yesterday and every moment passed - to let go - and every day i chose to carry on as an act of strength.

“i’m losing myself but i can’t let go. i am whole here otherwise i am broken at the bottom.” i wrote.

i am strong because of my father, but he didn’t teach me that.

there’s a difference between being taught something, and learning it. teaching comes with intention, and i learned a few things from my dad that he didn’t intend to teach me - like how to play the lotto, or curse, or be trenchantly insulting at the smallest provocation. that’s mirroring behavior.

learning strength from my father was not like this. my dad was not an example of strength but he was not weak; he was resilient. what my dad had was an unshakable resistance to adversity -- even in death.

learning something from someone who wasn’t quite equipped to teach it was a survival technique, and i am surviving because of it.

mourning gratitude, memories

my brother died when i was a kid so i am used to loss, and it was sudden and unexpected, so i am used to grief. having three weeks to say goodbye to my dad felt like - was - a privilege.

i feel grateful for every minute i got to spend with him, from the first time i saw him register that he was not alone when i arrived off my red eye hours after he’d been admitted to the ER, to the last time i laid my body across his chest to improvise a hug.

i will cry every day for a long time. i will cry thinking about how my dad will not walk me down the aisle, or meet my child, or ever again call to tell me there’s a program on pbs that i “must” watch.

but i will smile thinking of us casually strolling into an auction at sotheby’s… and staying. i will laugh thinking about my dad ordering a steak “medium rare, but charred - CHARRED, ok? - on the outside and pink on the inside” at every single restaurant we ever went as if anyone would ever write those words down, let alone pass them along to someone in a kitchen. i will laugh thinking about him describing a woman by telling me “she has a contemporary haircut” or telling me he needed an iphone 12 (he had the 11) because his phone was too “slippery” and it “slips out of my hand like a FISH, mercedes” (yes, he needed a case).

great memories.

i have always thought i’ve known what it is to be “alone”. i live in a state of “alone” by choice, but when my dad died i realized what that actually meant.

you leave me behind to fight this fight that i have always thought i fought alone, only to realize in this very moment how wrong i was, i wrote.

this is loss. this is the feeling of being without.

it is a gift to have HAD, to have known love and warmth and compassion like this, and to have been able to reciprocate. but still i wanted one more day… and one more day… and one more day.

yes, it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. but by how much?

something i thought was invincible has been shattered… i’ll know once i rebuild.

mourning dawn

i have been reluctant to expose my father to the indignity of the internet because the moment we share an experience it becomes part of the collective whole, and i have long felt that my father belongs only to me.

that’s the story we created when my brother died so we could survive… but now that my dad is gone, i have to create a new story.

#death #and life

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timextoxhajima · 3 years

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hi dana.. if it’s possible can i request some angsty wangsty based on niki la la lost you with eric🥺 and ughh i really love your writing like crazyyyyy

♥ title: la la lost you in april [also part of @sunlightwoo ‘s 12 Months I Loved You collaboration project]

♥ member: tbz eric

♥ genre: f2l, ex! eric x fem! reader, model! eric [SFW!]

♥ warnings: swearing, some mentions of sex [like, once i think]

♥ wc: 3.4k

♥ a/n: sis when i first heard the song I absolutely loved how you used 'angsty wangsty' so I hope this one does it for you the way you imagined it <3 [fyi i wrote it in like, a camcorder recording audio format which is something i’m trying out so please hmu on whether it’s difficult to read/understand!]

[REC: APRIL 2, 2019 - 6:39PM] SOLO LOG #1

Are you seeing this? This is the most beautiful sunset I’ve seen. I gotta get a shot of this-

Hey! Hey! I could help you take a picture with the sunset if you want to!

Oh! Would- Would you? That’d be great!

Of course!

...

Here. Is it alright?

Yeah, yeah, it’s cool! Thank you so much!

Are you recording something? Is it a- Are you vlogging? Are you a vlogger?

Yeah, no... I’m actually on a solo trip for a bit.

Oh, where are you from?

Just the next state.

Ah! You’re taking a break off... life then? I assume? Sorry if that came out weird.

No! No no! It’s alright! Yeah, I just needed a short break from... y’know, school and everything. My semester ended pretty early on so I took the chance to come out here and... see some new sights, meet some new people.

I get that. Well, for a start, what’s your name?

Oh, I’m y/n. Nice to meet you! And you?

I’m Eric.

[REC: APRIL 4, 2019 - 10:34PM] SOLO LOG #2

It is the 4th of April, 2019. I know, I know, I’m meant to do a daily vlog for all the 50 days I’m here but... it’s been... wow. Um... so I met Eric, the first day I touched down. The beach is just, about a 10 minute walk down and the sunsets are absolutely gorgeous. But uh... call me a fool and say that I’m living in the clouds but- what are the chances?

He’s funny, he’s such a great person to be around with y’know? Never a moment of like, awkwardness or stress and my God, look at me talking about a boy like that, though I met him 2 days ago.

...

Um, he’s a freelance model. For those freelance shoots by UNIQLO or Target or something and he complains about the pay sometimes, but he looks good infront of a camera, so he’s... actually the one who won at life, really.

I’m not seeing him soon because he’s got a shoot out of town and he’ll be back next week. But I did get his number and he’s been texting me since.

...

Wouldn’t it be funny if we end up together and then I have this whackass of a reel to show him? Jesus... I need to stop getting ahead of myself here. Freakin’ living in the clouds, aren’t I?

...

Anyway, I’m gonna go and see if I can get my weird projector shit up and working. See you.

[REC: APRIL 7, 2019 - 5:14AM] SOLO LOG #3

It is... 5am... uh, April 7th- and I was just binging FRIENDS through the night, waiting for the sunrise before I get some shut eye and then... Eric just asked me out. Oh my God! Um, he’s coming back this Thursday and I’ll go see him at the airport before we go get dinner.

It was really funny ‘cause he had to wake up early for a shoot today and so his day has just begun but mine’s coming to an end and I just- I’m rambling so much, it’s kinda- it’s kinda sad, isn’t it?

I think I’m too happy to sleep right now so I’m just gonna text him some more before the sun rises- oh! He replied!

...

Anyway, I’m gonna go and finish up this last episode before sleeping. Hopeful I can sleep. Bye!

[REC: APRIL 11, 2019 - 4:28PM] SOLO LOG #4

I am on my way out right now to go meet Eric at the airport, and I’m... it’d be an understatement to say that I’m excited. I know I’ve only known him for like, 2 days before he left but... I miss him. Is that possible? Missing someone despite knowing them for 2 days?

Anyway, I gotta go. Don’t wanna be late to see him.

[REC: APRIL 13, 2019 - 10:23AM] SOLO LOG #5

Oh! Is that what you had-

Yeah! It’s the same camera!

What are you vlogging for, actually? Like-

Nothing, really. It’s just for my own usage-

Wait, you didn’t like set that up last night while we-

Oh, God, no! Who do you think I am?

I don’t know, I mean, we’ve known each other for... is it two weeks-

Just under two weeks-

Jeez-

I know, I know, oh my God.

...

I don’t regret it though. Yeah, like- I don’t really go down to the beach that often in the first place and it just- it just so happened that you were there that day and I saw you struggling with this old thing-

I was not struggling!

Yeah you were!

I wasn’t-

I’m kidding! Gosh, you’re so cute.

...

Are you gonna have the camera recording while this carries on?

I forgot it was on-

One day we’re gonna accidentally make a sex tape-

Eric!

[REC: APRIL 17, 2019 - 1:15AM] SOLO LOG #6

-ould you pass me the hot water?

Mm? What?

The kettle over on the counter. Careful, it’s hot. Yeah, thanks.

Do you need help with-

It’s just instant noodles, sweet. Doubt I need a diploma for this. You’re recording again?

Yeah, does it bother you?

No, no, ‘course not. Though that means I can’t really do whatever I want to now.

What does that mea-

...

I can... still taste that bit of milk tea you had just now-

Could you tell it’s zero sugar?

I don’t think that matters, it’s still sweet and not great for your health to have that so much.

Aw, and yet you’re the one who suggested noodles at this timing, yeah?

You were hungry too!

...

Here, it’s done. Help me get the bowls?

Did you even wash these?

Yeah, I did. If you don’t trust me, you can run them under the water for a bit.

Mhm. Here.

If it’s not enough, we can call for Macs.

Y’know, I’ve never had Macs past midnight back at home.

What? Really? Well, when you get back in May, would you try?

Yeah, why not? Maybe I’ll do that when I’m back in school.

...

What date is it today?

April... hold on, um, 17. Careful, that’s hot.

...

When are you leaving again?

May 22.

Are you planning on coming back anytime soon after?

I don’t know. I have school to worry about and the only other time I can come back’s probably during winter break in November.

...

I won’t be around in November.

Mm? Why not?

I’m moving.

To where?

I’m not sure yet, but I need to move depending on whether I get it and where the shoot’s at.

Shoot? It’s a big project, huh?

Yeah, it’s- it’s a pretty big deal.

...

I’ll- Let me just go and...

[REC: APRIL 20, 2019 - 7:49PM] SOLO LOG #7

-idn’t have to!

No, c’mon! It’s such a great time to get this on camera! Come on, tell us what just happened!

Well, I just scored a huge model contract with Calvin Klein - in Manhattan.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! I’m so fucking proud of you, oh my God! Can you believe it-

No, fuck off, I can’t either!

Oh! Calvin Klein!

...

I swear, you’re an angel sent to me-

Fuck off!

I’m serious! it’s so timely- I just can’t- I’m just so happy to have met you.

...

Well, you heard it first here, ladies and gentlemen. Eric Sohn is a new model for Calvin Klein - Manhattan.

[REC: APRIL 21, 2019 - 12:40PM] SOLO LOG #8

It is 12.40pm... April 21st, 2019. I’m finally back in my apartment after crashing at Eric’s for the last... 10 days? I think it was 10 days. My clothes were running out and I didn’t want to hike up his water bills so I just came back and- y’know did my own laundry.

...

Well, it’s- it’s been an absolute dream. The last thing I expected to... have, or meet? Here, is Eric. Um, but I know I’m probably going to regret this. Especially when May 22 comes. Uh... this is... it’s real bad. I mean, we’re great, y’know? But... it’s bad, because I know it’ll hurt. Like a bitch. When my time here is up, and I gotta go back to my reality, and Eric’s gotta stick to his.

We haven’t really talked about it. May. I don’t think he wants to, and I don’t think I want to either. 50 days is too short. Either that, or I shouldn’t have come here in the first place. I shouldn’t have gone to the beach that day, in that hour.

...

I just wish we had more time. I wish 24 hours were... maybe about 100 seconds more per minute. Does that make sense? 160 seconds per minute. Then again, I don’t think that’d solve my problem. I’ll still be on a ticking... time bomb.

...

I know I shouldn’t say this. I know I can’t. I know I can’t afford to. But... I... I love him. I love Eric. With every... bit of me. It’s so... disgustingly cliché, but I feel so... comfortable with him. There’s really nothing we’d fight about, and even if we disagreed on something, we’d play it off like a debate, then forget about it the next day.

...

I love him. I do. And I’m going to regret this later. Without a doubt.

...

[REC: APRIL 27, 2019 - 2:02AM] SOLO LOG #9

-ou can see the stars?

I don’t know, that’s why I’m trying, sweet.

...

Can you see them?

Yeah, maybe if I just turn this ISO- Oh! I can kinda see the North Star-

Oh! Yeah, you can! It’s really feint though.

Right.

It’s okay, we can just lay it down here-

On the grass? Will your camera be fine?

Yeah, yeah, or else you can just put in on top of my bag- here.

...

Here, can you see me? Am I in frame?

Yeah, you’re in frame.

Okay, great. Now get over here!

...

I can taste the smoothie you had just now.

Too sweet?

A little.

...

Oh my God! Put me down! Oh- not there! It’s ticklish- AHHHHH!

...

y/n, I have something to tell you.

Mm? What is it?

...

Hello? Earth to Eric?

I... I love you. So much... and I can’t bear to see you go in May.

Oh, Eric...

No, I- I don’t want you to stay- or even think about it, ‘cause, you have your priorities and I have mine y’know...

Mhm.

I just... I just wished we had more time.

I do too. I really do.

...

Eric?

Hm?

I love you too.

...

[REC: MAY 1, 2019 - 4:23AM] SOLO LOG #10

1st May. 4...30? Am? I believe. Um, Eric’s sound asleep in his bed and I couldn’t sleep so I decided to do a log.

...

I have... 3 weeks left. 4 weeks have gone past just like that, and I don’t know what to think about it. I came for a 50-day retreat. No stress, just myself and peace and quiet and tranquility and yet-

...

I- I don’t know if I can do this.

...

[REC: MAY 7, 2019 - 3:58PM] SOLO LOG #11

So, Eric’s in shoot right now and I’m on the way into the studio with some donuts and coffee to surprise him. I called his manager and asked if it was okay so- I’m pretty psyched to see his workspace.

...

Hi, I’m y/n, I’m here to visit Eric?

Ah, okay! Hold on, let me just get you signed in with the pass-

Count me in!

You sure? This Saturday at the prep-party?

Yeah- Oh!

Eric!

y/n! What are you doing here?

I wanted to surprise you. Am I... interrupting anything?

Oh, not at all!

You must be y/n! Eric’s told me so much about you!

Did he? And you are...?

I’m Chelsea! I’ve been attached to the same Calvin Klein contract he recently got, so you could say we’re colleagues!

Well, nice to meet you! Oh, right, these donuts and coffee are meant for you guys actually!

Oh! You’re too kind! Eric, you’re such a lucky man.

I know, she’s just... everything.

Anyway, thank you so much for these. I’ll bring them back down to the studio for the crew to share. But Eric’s pretty much done for the day actually, so you guys can leave if you want to!

Are you sure? Don’t you need help downstairs with the equipment?

No, no! It’s fine, there’re more than enough people downstairs. Go have your date, and maybe you can bring her along with you for the prep-party this weekend!

What’s the prep-party... preparing for?

Oh, you’re so adorable! It’s a prep-party for the end-of-May shoot we’re gonna have. it’s a collab with DAZED so it’s a pretty big project.

You never told me you were involved in a collab with DAZED.

I was gonna tell you today.

He has been pretty busy recently, maybe slipped his mind. Anyway, thank you so much for the donuts and I’ll hope to see you at the pier this Saturday, mm?

Yeah, sure. Thanks Chels.

No problem! It was so nice to meet you, y/n, I’ll see you Saturday!

Okay, bye!

Bye, Chelsea! It was nice to meet you!

Bye!

...

Sweet, why didn’t you tell me you were coming?

I wanted it to be a surprise. I thought you said you’d end pretty late?

The filming was cut short because the shots were better than expected so we ended early.

Oh, I wanted to film you while you were at work.

You have that on?

Yeah- why?

No, just wondering.

Are you uncomfortable?

No, no, it’s just... I really didn’t expect you to come to the studio.

...

[REC: MAY 11, 2019 - 11:12PM] SOLO LOG #12

It’s 11:12pm, 11th May, 2019. 11 days to departure.

...

I... saw... Chelsea and Eric... um, out by the garage-

...

Well, I guess... it looked like they were just... having a really good talk. Or something.

...

I left. I couldn’t watch it. So, I left without telling Eric. I did tell his boss that I wasn’t feeling well and I had to leave first.

...

I guess this is the part where I regret it, isn’t it? Um... I don’t know... how... I’m gonna explain this to him when I see him again. Which is supposed to be- um- the rest of the night. I was supposed to go back to his place with him and I’ll stay for the weekend before I come back to pack my things, so-

...

y/n, are you home?

...

shit.

y/n, I know you’re home. I heard you talking. Open the door, I need to talk to you.

...

[REC: MAY 12, 2019 - 2:00AM] SOLO LOG #13

...

I look like shit, don’t I? God, my eyes hurt like a bitch.

...

I don’t think I need to say what just happened for you to guess what just happened, right? This... says it all.

...

Fuck.

...

I shouldn’t have come here. How did- How did my retreat turn out- turn out like this?

...

This is- This is too much. Too much in too short... of a time.

...

I don’t think... I don’t think I can do it. Not anymore.

...

[REC: MAY 19, 2019 - 9:59AM] SOLO LOG #14

It’s May 19th, 2019, almost 10am. I just came back from a morning walk by the beach just to... reminisce a little before I leave on Wednesday.

...

I... haven’t seen Eric since the prep-party. I blocked him and I told him not to come over, though I think he has, like, a few times. I thought I heard someone come up to my door, but he never knocked.

...

So, this is how it ends, huh? A 50-day romance cut short like that. Into about, 40?

...

It’s crazy to think that I had... the experience of a whole relationship in 40 days. I definitely did not sign up for that when I booked this 50-day retreat.

...

It was fun while it lasted, though. It was. I don’t think I’d find anybody else like Eric, and I guess it just sucks that it had to end like that. Things happen, right? That aren’t... in our control.

...

[REC: MAY 21, 2019 - 8:07PM] SOLO LOG #15

May 21st. About 8pm. I leave in about 15 hours.

...

All my stuff’s packed. Definitely more things to bring home than I brought here. Half of these things were bought by Eric and given to me. I’m... actually not sure if I should bring them back.

...

I don’t- I just don’t think I’d have the heart to throw them away.

...

Nor look at them when I’m home.

...

Should I even bring this camera home? Maybe I should wipe your memory before I bring you home, hmm?

...

It feels like a dream, doesn’t it? Everything that’s happened. It feels like a fever dream. Maybe when I’m finally home, I’d wake up and it’d be the day I come here.

...

Maybe.

...

[REC: MAY 22, 2019 - 10:03AM] SOLO LOG #16

-ny more luggage?

Nope.

Alright then, I think you’re all set. You still have about an hour’s time before the gates are open so you can get a cup of coffee or something, yeah?

Okay, thank you!

Have a nice flight ma’am.

Thanks.

...

Good evening ma’am, can I check your boarding pass?

Yeah, sure.

...

Okay, you’re good to go. Have a safe flight.

Thank you!

...

[REC: MAY 22, 2019 - 11:34AM] SOLO LOG #17

It is about 11.30am and I’m on the flight, and here’s the view outside. Sky’s pretty clear and this thing says that the weather’s great so, it should be a smooth flight without turbulence.

...

This is it. This is really it.

...

Um-

Hi, ma’am, I’m gonna need you to keep your camcorder.

Oh! Yeah, sure, sure, sorry!

[REC: APRIL 2, 2020 - 12:48AM] ERIC LOG #1

Wow, this is... weird. How did you do this last year?

...

Um, hi. y/n. If you’re watching this then I’ve somehow managed to get this synced into your camera by some weird... bluetooth, iCloud shit that Felix helped me figure out.

...

It’s been a year. And... I just thought you should... see this, or hear me out, at least. I know we didn’t end on the best terms... and I’m sorry. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have yelled at you for being unreasonable for something that was... suspicious. I should’ve understood.

...

I should’ve been there. To see you off. And I’m sorry I didn’t. I... was scared, that I wouldn’t be able to let you go if I went to send you off. I was a coward. I still am.

...

But I do want you to know that... those 50 days were the best days of my life. Albeit it ended horribly, but nothing could... nothing- nothing will ever replace what happened last April.

...

I said I love you and... I still do. Every day I think about you and your smile and your voice and- and I cry to sleep... worrying that I’d forget how you sound like, or how you laugh and how... how you smell like. My bed smelt like you even after you left.

...

I just- I love you. And I miss you. And I’d do anything to go back to what we had. I’d do anything to get- to get you back.

...

I’m sorry.

...

the clip comes to an automatic stop. the white triangle slapped onto the screen, begging you to play it again. you look up from the screen, watching the famous calvin klein ad that hasn’t stopped playing in the last month.

he hasn’t changed one bit. not his hair, not his smile, not his voice.

it’s a bittersweet pot of memory stashed in the back of your head when the memories flood back. looking back down at the camera, you count back the days - it was synced just last night.

the pile of tissues by your thighs are carelessly huddled into the bin next to your feet, mentally berating yourself for going through the memory instead of formatting it.

you stand, fingers shutting the screen back onto its body with a soft click. the tv blacks out when you press the red button on its remote.

you’re halfway into your kitchen when there’s a knock at your door, and you immediately gasp, blinking rapidly.

“oh, it’s my fucking projector!”

rushing to the door, you don’t hesitate to get the door open.

and yet, like the heavens were providing you with all the light to stop you from doubting yourself, your lungs empty themselves like vacuums.

your heart stops.

your breathing stops.

“eric... what are you doing here?”

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fayesrossua · 3 years

Text

I wrote a spicy Reiner fic and it’s 12:15am rn. Let’s see if it’s legible in the morning

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #reiner braun fan fiction #reiner is my husband #Reiner braun #Reiner braun smut #attack on Titan smut

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vcg73 · 3 years

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FIC: Kurt Birthday Drabbles

Earlier this week @elledelajoie left a comment on something I wrote all the way back in 2014. I had genuinely forgotten I ever started it, but the original idea was to write 21 Kurt Hummel birthday drabbles. I had written just 7 of them, but after we chatted about it, I decided to go ahead and finish.

If you’re not familiar, a drabble is a scene of exactly 100 words, not counting title headers. Since Chris Colfer and Kurt Hummel’s co-birthday (May 27) is coming up this Thursday, here they are. This goes definite AU at Birthday #19. Because you know I would never sentence my beloved Kurt to a life of being a doormat to people who did not appreciate and value him.

Never underestimate the power of feedback!

~*~*~*~*~

Birthday #1

Kurt’s blue eyes went wide as a frosted cupcake was set upon his high-chair tray, a single candle ablaze on its surface.

When Mommy, Daddy, Uncle Andy, Grandpa Curtis and Grandma Eileen started singing to him, he smiled and clapped both hands hard around the tempting pile of frosting.

Kurt laughed when the sugary topping went flying and a big splatter of white abruptly decorated Daddy’s surprised face.

Everyone else started laughed too, including the startled father, who retaliated by giving his birthday boy a sticky peck on the cheek and then helped him to blow out a new candle.

Birthday #2

Kurt looked between his presents, confused.

Mommy had given him the pretty dolly he had begged for at the store. Daddy had given him a truck, not big enough to ride but too big to live with the little cars Daddy gave him at Christmas.

His parents seemed to be mad at each other.

Kurt looked at the doll, then at the truck. He smiled and placed Dolly inside the truck and began to drive her around the carpet.

Mommy and Daddy seemed surprised by his actions, but then they laughed, and Kurt knew he had figured out the puzzle.

Birthday #3

His shoes were black and shiny, buckles on the sides and 1-inch heels on the base. He clomped over the hardwood floors, listening to the click-tap-click-tap in delight. They went perfectly with his dove gray coveralls with “Kurt” sewn on the pocket in black sequins. Mommy had made the outfit for him.

Spotting Daddy watching him, Kurt threw himself into waiting arms. Daddy’s smile looked like he had an owie but was trying to be a big boy and not cry.

Kurt hugged him. “It’s okay, Daddy.”

Burt looked surprised but hugged him back. “Yeah, buddy. I think it is.”

Birthday #4

Ballet girls were nice. When they heard it was his birthday today, they threw him a party. Kurt puffed up with pleasure when presented with cookies, a sparkly wand and a tiara that read ‘Happy Birthday’ in shiny letters. He was not as fond of the kisses they gave, but four was very grown up, so he screwed up his face and allowed it. The teacher even let him wear the special puffy pink tutu over his little black leotard!

He saw Mommy and Daddy up in the gallery taking pictures, so he waved.

Kurt hoped today would last forever.

Birthday #5

“Can I have cupcakes?”

Kurt’s mother looked up from her book. “I don’t think we have any, sweetheart.”

“Can we have some Thursday? My birthday is the last day of preschool.”

“It is?” she said, looking surprised. “Is it your birthday already?”

He nodded seriously. “Don’t you remember, Mommy? You were there.”

She laughed. “Well, you have me there. What kind of cupcakes would you like, sweetie? And don’t say cheesecake. Those are two completely different kinds of dessert.”

Kurt’s hopeful expression fell. “Oh,” he said, clearly disappointed. Then his face brightened again. “Chocolate?”

She nodded. “That we can do.”

Birthday #6

“Daddy!”

Burt sat up just in time to catch the little body that launched at him. “What’s wrong, slugger?”

“It’s my birthday!”

Grinning despite the way his heart was hammering at the abrupt awakening, Burt asked, “Yeah? I like birthdays. Do I get a present?”

“No,” the boy scoffed. “I get presents!”

Burt squinted at the clock. 3:15am. “Not until morning, you don’t.”

Kurt pouted and tried, “It’s almost morning.”

“Not close enough, kid. C’mere,” Burt pulled him into the warm bed between himself and his wife.

Kurt snuggled down and went right back to sleep.

Burt was less lucky.

Birthday #7

Kids had started treating him funny this year. He was too fancy, too girly, holding hands was weird.

Nobody was coming.

“I’m sorry, sweetie.”

“Am I too late?”

They jumped as a little black girl with pom-pom hair popped out of nowhere.

“I’m Mercedes,” she greeted. “We just moved here. Mom said you would have invited me if you’d known.”

“I’m Kurt.” He smiled. “Do you like tea parties?”

“Is there cake?”

Mrs. Hummel beamed. “Cake, ice cream, and Kool-Aid.”

Kurt shrugged. “Nobody else came.”

She grabbed his hand like she’d known him forever. “More for us! Happy Birthday, Kurt.”

Birthday #8

Kurt took a deep breath, thought for a moment, and carefully blew out the candles. All but the extra one that his parents always put on his cake.

“Aren’t you gonna finish, bud?”

He looked from Daddy over to his mother, home again, but so frail he was sometimes afraid to hug her, worried she might pop like a fragile soap bubble. He offered her the candle. “Here, Mommy. Blow it out. Maybe you’ll get another year to grow on.”

The eyes of the two adults met, then Mommy nodded. The three of them blew out the final candle together.

Birthday #9

Barely daring to hope, Kurt came down the stairs. Birthday cakes and presents had been Mommy’s specialty. Daddy had forgotten his own birthday and had nearly forgotten Christmas.

Kurt gasped when he saw it, waiting, shining and spectacular against the front door.

“A bike!”

Bright green, sissy bars with foil streamers, and a banana seat. Perfect!

Burt smiled. He had scoffed a such a “girly” bike when Kurt spotted it at the toy store. But now, looking at the all-too-rare joy in his son’s eyes and feeling the approving smile his wife would have given, he nodded. It was perfect.

Birthday #10

Buying gifts was tough when your kid always clammed up on you. A dad had to be observant.

Ten years old. A landmark like that needed something special, but the only thing Kurt seemed into was clothes. He had enough of those for ten kids.

He’d probably like a Barbie he could change in and out of different outfits, but Burt cringed at the thought.

He did doodle pretty good though. Sure, it was mostly pictures of clothes, but that was a start.

A fancy sketchpad with a case and a hundred different colored pencils. Yeah, that was the ticket.

Birthday #11

“Dad, where are we going?”

“You’ll see.”

Kurt sighed with exaggerated impatience. He had come home from school to find Dad waiting at the truck, ordering him to get in, then not saying another word. The suspense was killing him.

“Ta-Dahhhh!”

They had pulled up in front of a nondescript brick building. “Columbus Culinary Arts?”

“You like to cook right? Well, we’re gonna fix your birthday dinner this year with the help of a real chef. Lessons are once a week for the next couple months.”

Gourmet cooking lessons!

“Oh wow. Dad, this is amazing!”

Burt grinned. “Happy Birthday, kid.”

Birthday #12

Last year’s surprise had gone so well that Burt had decided on a repeat. But when he saw the excitement on Kurt’s face at finding a pair of tickets inside his birthday card turn to disappointment and horror, quickly masked with a fake smile, he knew he’d goofed.

“I know baseball isn’t your thing,” he said, almost pleading. “But you’ve never seen a live game before. It’s a whole different experience. It’s a home game. We can yell and scream, and cheer our team on with thousands of other fans.”

The stiff not-smile never wavered. “Sounds . . . fun.”

Birthday #13

Dad had bought out one of the partners at the garage this spring and now owned a majority share of the renamed “Hummel Tires & Lube”. Kurt wanted to snicker at that name, but he was proud too.

His birthday this year coincided with Friday Night Dinner. Dad had invited all the mechanics over for a potluck. They’d had Mary’s special fried chicken, Cassius’s homemade cornbread, and Davy’s mac’n’cheese. Now Dad brought out the cake.

Kurt laughed. A sheet-cake with a tow-truck and two little plastic mechanics for decoration.

“You and me kid. Partners.”

The mechanics cheered and everybody dug in.

Birthday #14

Kurt froze when he saw tickets peeping out of his card. Not again. Noise, sunburn, unhealthy food, tacky uniforms, and Dad trying so hard to make a boring sport seem like fun.

He sighed and pasted on a smile, which quickly transformed into shock.

“Wicked?” he squeaked, staring hard at the little papers as if the printing might change if he dared to look away.

“Embassy Theater is giving regional business owners a discount this year,” Burt said apologetically. “It’s just a traveling production, not real Broadway, but I …”

His apology was cut off by a joyful teenaged hug.

Birthday #15

“Don’t worry, son, you got this. Just remember everything I taught you. You got a whole year to get ready for the practical test.”

“I know.”

“And it’s okay if you don’t get it right the first time. Not everybody does.”

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“I’ll be right here waiting for you when you’re through.”

“I know that, Dad. I’ll be okay, really.”

At that moment, Kurt’s name was called and he sprang from his hard green plastic chair. His dad’s repeated reassurances were making him jumpy.

Twenty minutes later, a brightly grinning Kurt was waving his freshly minted driver’s permit.

Birthday #16

Burt patted the giant blue bow the dealership had provided over the hood of the shining black Lincoln Navigator.

Kurt was gonna flip! He’d passed his DMV test with flying colors and was no doubt showing off his shiny new license to all his friends at school.

He paused. Did Kurt have any friends to share this accomplishment with? He always seemed so alone.

Maybe that’s why he had decided to spoil his son with a huge birthday gift.

It wasn’t right for such a good kid to be all alone. Maybe having his own ride would help change that.

Birthday #17

A dozen teens gathered in Kurt’s basement to celebrate the end-of-school, non-disbanding of Glee, and Kurt’s birthday, all in one.

“Not like ten years ago,” Mercedes said to Kurt, as they watched Mike and Brittany dance.

“Ten years?”

“Your seventh? It was just you, me, your mom, and lots of chocolate cake.”

Kurt was astounded. “That was you?”

“You forgot?”

“I remember a little girl who showed up and invited herself to my party.”

“And I remember a little boy who needed a friend as much as I did.”

He squeezed her hand. “Thanks for coming.”

She squeezed back. “Always.”

Birthday #18

Kurt stared at his birthday cake, unable to think of anything to wish for.

He was 18-years-old today, a legal adult. He had new family in Carole and Finn, his dad was on the mend, he would be back at McKinley for senior year, he had made his first visit to New York City, and he had a boyfriend! One who had just told Kurt that he loved him for the very first time.

‘I wish for next year to be as good as this,” he thought, taking a deep breath and blowing.

The flames flickered out, all except one.

Birthday #19

Senior year had been a disaster, and now he had not gotten into NYADA, despite his well-praised audition.

“Blaine wants me to spend another year here,” he whispered. “I just can’t.”

Burt’s callused hand squeezed his neck. “Then don’t. You’re 19 now, a man. You got talents galore, work experience from the garage, enough drive for ten kids, and your mom’s life insurance money to give you a start.”

“But…”

“No buts,” Burt said firmly. “You go on to New York and grab life by the balls.”

Kurt felt his optimism rise. “Help me look for apartments?”

“You got it.”

Birthday #20

What a difference a year made.

He’d dumped Blaine after being cheated on less than a month after leaving Lima. He was enrolled at FIT and sharing a shoebox apartment with a fellow design student and a Broadway hopeful, but both were young gay men from small towns, and they had a lot in common.

“Happy Birthday!” Elliott shouted, tossing a handful of glittery sequins at him.

Adam came in playing the birthday song on a kazoo he had gotten from who-knows-where. “Ready for Callbacks? $20 on who gets the first hot guy’s number!”

“I already have yours. I win!”

Birthday #21

“I have the honor of presenting your first official grown-up drink,” Adam said, smiling lovingly at his grinning boyfriend of nearly a year. He set down a martini glass with a cherry floating on top. “A Manhattan seemed appropriate.”

Kurt beamed and gave him a kiss, then took an experimental sip. “I’ve had alcohol before,” he admitted. “Mostly wine, though. Mm, this is good!”

“I thought you’d like it. Happy Birthday, my love. May the future bring every good thing you wish for, and never more heartache than you can handle.”

Kurt could not have asked for a better sentiment.

THE END

#birthday drabbles #Kurt and Burt #Kurt and Mercedes #Kurt and Adam

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adultswim2021 · 8 months

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Xavier: Renegade Angel #20: “Braingea’s Final Cranny” | April 17, 2009 - 12:15AM | S02E10

The final episode of Xavier is here and boy, what a show. I don’t think I ever watched this one, either, so I can’t pad this out with barely-relevant tangents about how I was working on a commercial fishing boat at the time of it’s airing or whatever it was I was doing. I miss the sea.

Xavier yearns for his mother so hard that he cries for 9 months, creating a fertile beach with it’s own ocean (ah, there she is! How I’ve missed her so!). Xavier inadvertently harms a young man with his first job, dressing like a dolphin and handing out free samples or some shit. Xavier mistakes him for the real thing and tosses him into the ocean. He gets out alive, but then Xavier mistakes his scuffed up Dolphin dress as a carcass, and forces him to eat it in front of him, an ethical thing to do if you kill a living creature. Later, when he finds the guy trying to commit suicide he orders him to eat himself.

That guy winds up getting taken to an asylum, and Xavier sneaks in with him, believing his mother is there. He then has to “pretend” to be insane. He is psychoanalyzed using a Rorschach test, which anthropomorphizes into a guy that talks to Xavier and explains that he can take any form Xavier wants. The inkblot can’t take Xavier and eventually materializes on the psychiatrist’s couch, and is committed.

Later, Xavier finally finds his mother in the lobotomy room. He digs through a pile of brain and finds the missing chunk from her head and crams it back into her head. When she comes back to full sentience, she tells Xavier that she faked her death to get away from him, and that she doesn’t want to see him ever again. She ensures this happens by gouging her own eyes out.

Xavier meets Nurse Escher and you KNOW they gonna bone. They bone, then the psychiatrist reveals that the nurse is Xavier’s real mother, and he was trying to prove a scientific theory that lobotomies remove oedipal taboo from the brain.

The inkblot comes back and runs off with Xavier’s mother, taking them back to the beach. Xavier travels to the beach by jamming together all the lobotomy pieces into one big brain, which sorta functions like a hot air balloon. He gets the blot to turn into an ice cream cone and consumes it. 9 months later, he, his mom, and his fake mom all give a tandem birth to Xavier’s incest baby, which becomes that weird symbol that’s in every episode. We pull out of the symbol on a Rorschach test being administered to Xavier back in the psychiatrist’s office. There, Xavier finds out that he’s beautiful by looking into a hand mirror and seeing a conventionally handsome man looking back at him. The psychiatrist now looks like Xavier. THE END?

This one is ultimately sort of a middling episode, but it has some great laughs. The run where Xavier is trying different brain chunks on his supposed lobotomized mother had three great gags in a row. I assume I laughed at them, because I wrote them down, and that’s usually the reason I write specific jokes down. When he shoves in a piece, his mother begins talking in the voice of whatever brain it actually is. He tries a young man’s voice who is confessing to his father that he forgot all of his pizza knowledge. “Dumb (DISGUSTING AND OFFENSIVE anti-Italian slur) coulda used a Goombotomy.” Then he tries one where the voice is a sports announcer calling the winner of some game. “Damn it, I had money on that game.” The next one causes chicken noises to come out of his mother. “Oh, chicken, Yum!” Xavier says before chomping the brain bit. That said, I think I prefer Damnesia Me, meaning You, as my head-canon finale.

Okay, I usually like to do a top ten (in chronological order) of each show when they end. This one was tough for me, but I tried. I bet if I went through the show again I’d come up with a slightly different list. HERE IT IS:

S01E01: “What Life D-D-Doth”

S01E03: “Weapons Grade Life”

S01E05: “Pet Siouxicide”

S01E07: “Bloodcorn”

S01E09: “Signs from Godrilla”

S01E10: “Shakashuri Blowdown”

S02E05: “Vibracaust”

S02E05: “Free Range Manibalism”

S02E06: “Damnesia Vu”

S02E09: “Damnesia You”

#adultswim2021 #adult swim #xavier renegade angel

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malereader-inserts · 4 years

Text

broken crown | i.

Your mother tried to keep you disciplined. But, it was hard to control a kid who was using magic as if it didn’t take time and skill - in which, to you it was. By the time you were seven, the funny old man told you that your family was Merlin.

Word Count: 1,727

A/n: HERE WE GOOO, REMUS SON SERIES IS OUT Yes, this is like the majority of characters live AU. Think we’re going with movies and there will be a lot of hindsight and flashbacks - The title was inspired by the song Broken Crown by Mumford and Sons. Anyone wanting to be on the tag list, message me! Scheduled for every Friday; 12:15am (BST). Also, feedback is appreciated!

Next >

You were in bed, early morning with the sun beaming down upon you. You lay there still, it was the day that you were moving Harry from his home to the burrow. You could hear your dad clatter about in the kitchen whilst your step mum fiddled with the radio, hopefully finding suitable music to relax to. You got up to look out your window, sighing as you got up from the bed. Taking a quick shower and dressing for the day.

Just like Hermione had told you to, you had packed a back for the group, promising to join them in the hunt for Horcruxes. You cleaned your room, the night before. Remus could hear a lot of shuffling in your room, he thought better to leave you alone. You put your bag on your neatly made bed with your wand next to it. You hadn’t told your dad you were joining, but you think he knows by now as you descend down the stairs.

“You’re up earlier than usual,” Remus says, surprised as he cooks up breakfast whilst Tonks smirks at you, “Are you alright? Having a fever?”

You rolled your eyes, you wished, but the truth is nerves were setting. Allowing for little sleep for you to get. You shake your head as you sit at the table, whilst Tonks ruffles your hair. Breakfast was almost silent, you didn’t say much as you finished your food.

“Got something on your mind?” Remus asked, finally, as Tonks does the cleaning up - waving her wand as Remus rolls his eyes at his wife.

You smiled softly, thinking you’re going to miss mornings like that, and mornings when it is loud with your parents, you look at your dad, “No.”

Remus narrows his eyes, he knows you and can see right through your lies, but leaves you be, “Alright, we’ll be leaving soon. You’ll see Sirius again!”

You smiled to yourself, you like Sirius, he teased you relentlessly during the summer before the fifth year - he did live up to being family, he was your father’s best friend after all. You also get to see your friends again, after a month of no to little contact, missing Ron and Hermione dearly. You went back upstairs, slowly this time, taking time to process your surroundings.

Your father kept a lot of pictures of you growing up. You stayed with your mother life before Hogwarts. In fact, you were Harry’s first friend, and your barely ever saw him when you were a child. Your mother sent pictures to your dad, stills and moving. Your dad kept a photo album of your growing, despite not being in your life as much as he liked.

Your mum always sent him a batch of pictures at the end of the month. Little drawings you made for your dad, creations and such. As said before, you were friends with Harry. But, you promised to your mother that you wouldn’t say anything. Harry would see you once or twice a month, your mother played it off like you were a sickly child that couldn’t leave the house and you knew of Harry’s situation.

From a young age, you had excelled in magic at a young age. Which is why you were frequently visited by Dumbledore as you grew up. At the age of seven that is when you found out your true meaning, your true purpose. A lot of responsibility for a child.

You and your mother were descendants of Merlin, and rumours had spiralled that someone just as powerful as Merlin would lead the way, to make an example of the wizardry world. Your mother was as average as one could be, as did your uncles, aunts, cousins from that side as well. But, the moment you were born, with the eyes of your father, you had shown ability surpassing your age.

Dumbledore would observe you when you were five, often coming around, you named him a funny old man as you played tea with him. Filling the cups up with chocolate milk without a wand and it was no accident, with the twinkle in your eye - Dumbledore knew you were something different.

You knew of Merlin, your mother told tales of him before you went to sleep. The funny old man told you that you would do so many great things in life. At the age of seven, you just wanted to be a kid, and they let you. But, when you turn nine, it seemed like you were always indoors to read, to learn. You figured out you were dyslexic, and yet, you were the only one who was able to read the book of Merlin, he had written centuries ago.

His work, his spells he had created for himself, all passed down with unknown translation, and you found yourself understanding it. Whilst you sometimes struggle with English, you had excelled in runes, both Merlin’s and ancient, and Latin. Your mother died in the summer just before your first year, you were distraught.

Death Eaters had invaded your home, you hid in the chest where Merlin’s work was kept. You came out of the chest to see Dumbledore, saying you’ll be living with your father. You never wanted to leave Harry, but there was a comforting feeling that you would see him on the Hogwarts train.

So, here you were in your small room. Your single bed that was positioned under the window, it was cleared and neatly done up. Your wardrobe, chest of drawers and desk was cleared. Your bookshelves neatly presenting your books, your notebooks that you had been filling out since you were nine of your own spells, your own creations, following in the footsteps of Merlin.

Notebooks you wrote in the unknown runes as well, drawings of diagrams. Notebooks you had written about the years in Hogwarts, neatly in order of what year. How you had unlocked all Merlin’s cursed vaults, also, your adventures with Harry and the other two. Some of your notebooks kept clean, others were battered. You sighed, looking in the mirror one last time, a picture of you and your father taped onto it.

“(Y/n)!” Remus called you from downstairs, “We have to go!”

You pulled on your jacket, grabbing your bag and wand. Headed downstairs, closing your bedroom door for the very last time in a long while, to see your dad and step-mum with a small bag. You smiled tightly at them, taking a deep breath and apparating to the Burrow.

You had kept your stuff in Ron’s room, the night was slowly setting in, so everyone was going to get ready to meet at Harry’s home. You stood outside, Hermione gripping your hand.

“Ready for one last adventure?” You asked your two best friends.

Remus, Tonks, Sirius, Mad-Eye, Hagrid and Kingsley also exit the house and wait outside with you and your two best friends. They looked at you, giving you a tight smile. You found comfort within them, they had your back like you had Harry’s back with them. Arthur, the twins, Bill and Fleur all came out last.

Mad-Eye looked at the group, counting everyone, before saying everyone was present in the movement of Harry Potter. There were going to meet more aurors at Harry’s, to accompany them in the great flight. You had given Mad-Eye your broom as you looked at the people surrounding you.

After, in a hypothetical good situation, Harry defeats Voldemort. The country, perhaps the world would have to turn to look up at you. A young adult, still finding his way. You looked at the faces, faces you won’t see for many months. You often wonder if that’s what Ron and Hermione were thinking. You looked at Sirius, still the joker he ever was. He gives you a tight smile, his eyes glimmering.

Then you looked at Tonks, your step-mum. You weren’t bothered at the age gap between you and her, many were surprised at the fact. Some were not, after all, if you weren’t prioritising Gryffindor traits, your friends would vouch for you for Hufflepuff before you could even find yourself in Slytherin like Merlin. You welcomed Tonks with open arms, she even lets you call her Dora. Despite the age difference, she does hope one day you can call her mum - even if yours had passed many years before.

Then, you turn to look at your dad. The kind and gentle soul he’ll always be. And yet, he is full of rage as well. Your father was loving, he had wanted to spend your childhood with you. But, your father could not let your mother provide for him and he wanted to keep you safe from the monster he was, though you never had seen him as a monster. He was your father, and that’s all you’ll ever see him as. You’ll miss him when you leave, you won’t be able to write him letters or such. You see him look at you.

There’s pride in his eyes.

You hate it because you see a lot of pride in many people’s eyes. Whilst his pride is that you are his miracle boy, his son, the man he has raised you to be. The other look of pride had scorn you, often at times, the pride in their eyes was because you were following some powerful wizard that they expected you to act and be like.

You want to make a name for yourself, but it’s hard when no one knows that you have a name to follow.

Responsibilities, why must they tear down the youth of some child, some teenager?

Perhaps, that’s why you and Harry had fallen in love.

“Everyone knows the plan?” Mad-Eye asked, once more for confirmation, as many answers back with a murmur.

The plan, who didn’t know the plan? It was frustrating as all hell with all the reruns of the damn plan. You sighed as you watched everyone apparated away, you looked at your father with a smile - see you on the other side.

#Harry Potter #harry potter imagine #harry potter x male reader #Remus Lupin #remus lupin imagine #remus x reader #remus lupin x male reader #broken crown #x male reader

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bradwillshawn · 4 years

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cherry blossom reaction/review

it is about 12:15am in Toronto, ON, Canada, and that means it’s officially album release day (FINALLY), so here’s my first reactions!

TRACK 1: GLORY DAYS (INTRO) this sounds like opening a door to a new world and i'm so here for it TRACK 2: GLORY DAYS honesty what a great song to start the album. it def feels like an intro song to their new vibe. also the chorus?? FAVE LYRIC: can we connect and communicate? TRACK 3: BETTER out of all the songs that were released before the album, this was by far my fave lyrically & musically. it's just so good!!!!! (remember when i asked who claimed these lyrics? it's me. i claim them) FAVE LYRIC: did things get better or did we get used to it?//i won't settle for less than best, i say it so i don't forget TRACK 4: MARRIED IN VEGAS the first intro to this new vamps era. this really will be a banger when they play it on tour and i can't wait to see how they choose to perform it during their shows. that piano riff post chorus is literally iconic. FAVE LYRIC: a pretty little thing could wreck me at 25

TRACK 5: CHEMICALS tbh, my least fave from the pre-album releases. it just seemed too dark and i was scared to hear the rest of the album but then they released better and i felt better (no pun intended). FAVE LYRIC: swimming in a pool of people, the only one i see is you

TRACK 6: WOULD YOU first seconds: SOUNDS SEXY. the passive aggressive lyrics and the beat? honestly this song is hot. FAVE LYRIC: and i wonder how you talk about us, do you light up when you start to speak?

TRACK 7: BITTER ANOTHER HOT SONG??? damn is right bradley. this reminds me of a grown up version of kiss from night edition? is that just me?? ooh love that outro. FAVE LYRIC: bit of this and a bit of that, it's bittersweet how you bring me back

TRACK 8: PART OF ME i have no words. this song is good. the chorus? love. the beat? love. the lyrics? relatable. wow. FAVE LYRIC: wonderin' where i lost you, now i can't find myself in anybody else

TRACK 9: PROTOCOL i was lucky enough to be part of a mini listening party this morning, and my eyes went wide when the song started bc i truly wasn't expecting it. i didn't really expect any ballads on this album, but i'm SO glad this song exists. i would like this to be a single bc i would love to see this story play out in a music video. FAVE LYRIC: a future of stories, kiss you good mornings; gone and it's what i deserve TRACK 10: NOTHING BUT YOU A BOP!! i can def see this song used in a rom-com. FAVE LYRIC: i'm overdosin' over emotions. i know you know this, so can we skip to the good bit?

TRACK 11: TREADING WATER wasn't ready for this song bc i know brad was saying he wasn't in his best place mentally when he wrote it. but going through the lyrics, i just wanna cry. I'LL LOVE YOU FOREVER BRADDY. FAVE LYRIC: patiently, i waited patiently to share all of my insecurities, but first i really gotta work on me

VERDICT: manager joe was right, this album is full of hit singles. this album is fully the vamps from songwriting to production, and that makes listening to it even more enjoyable. they took their time with this album until they thought it was absolutely perfect, and it is. this is such a new sound for them, but it also just works. album #5 and each album is different from each other?? that's insane. these songs are literally all hits, and this album can really gain a new audience for them, and that's so exciting. this album is so deserving of a #1 and i really hope it happens for them. 5 stars all around.

#myposts #the vamps #cherry blossom #cherry blossom album review #james mcvey #tristan evans #connor ball #brad simpson #bradley will simpson #tp

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burkymakar · 5 years

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Hi! OMG I just saw you Crosby and Travis ones and now I reallyyyyy want one lol so I was wondering (fingers crossed) that if you could find time to do a Nolan Patrick one with like 65 on you “I love You” list of prompts 🥰

thank you so much for reading and requesting!!

65. “I’ll help you study.”

You are about to lose your goddamn marbles.

You have a big test in your Classic Lit class and it’s driving you nuts. Your professor is a big fan of the literary terms. You understand the themes, the plots, and the characters of three books your exam is on, but you’d completely forgotten all the terms.

It was exhausting. All the practice questions were using the terms, and they were getting jumbled in your brain. How the hell was alliteration different than consonance?

You’re about to start screaming, fuck the rules, when your phone buzzes.

Nols: help i tried to get into your library but they wouldn’t let me :(

You perk up and immediately ditch your stuff at the table. There’s no one around you since you’re on the third floor.

Booking it down two flights of stairs, you race outside and leap at your boyfriend Nolan Patrick.

He catches you easily, and nuzzles into you, spinning you around tenderly. You kiss him deeply.

“You said you weren’t getting back ‘til late!” You say, shoving his shoulder with no real force once he sets you down. The Flyers were on a road trip.

“Y/N, it’s midnight.”

“No way,” You pull out your phone and look at the time. Wow. 12:15am. Thank god your library was 24/7.

“What are you doing up so late?”

You make a face, “Prof Keller’s stupid exam. All his questions are bogged down in the terms, and I’m losing track.”

“C’mon, I’ll help you study.” He says, pulling you close. You beam up at him, eternally grateful.

“Wait, you’re probably exhausted,” You say, frowning. Plus, you’d been hoping to jump his bones the instant he got home.

“This is more important,” He says, but he’s fighting a yawn.

Desperate for the help, and knowing he’s a stubborn bastard who wouldn’t let you turn him down, you sign him into the library as your guest and take him to your little study sanctuary.

He spreads out next to you, one leg kicked up on another chair. He shuffles the papers of all the terms, and starts quizzing you.

He calls out terms, and you define them. Well, you mis-define them until you get it right.

As the words slowly start to gain their meaning, you notice him more. His voice is deep and soothing, and every once in a while he’ll lick his lips. You can’t stop staring at him mouth.

“You’ve had a big road trip, and you’re staying up another hour to help me study?” You ask, studying him.

He looks up at you, tearing his eyes off the term sheet. “Of course.”

You smile, “I love you.”

It’s not the first time you’ve said it, but the phrase still feels so precious and new. You hope that feeling never goes away.

He leans over and kisses you. “I love you too.”

You kiss him back immediately, harder and hotter than his. “I think I’ve earned a break,” You say, and climb into his lap.

I almost wrote this really smutty but I wanted this to be wholesome since it’s the i love you prompts series. but hey if you wanna send me smut prompts, I will do my BEST to write it.

#philadelphia flyers imagine #nolan patrick imagine #mywriting #iloveyouseries

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edenamador · 4 years

Text

100 Things about My Father

I forgot I was a poet. Skip down for the poem that came to me as clear as a crystal last night. Trigger warning - Suicide.

I mean I have an inclination toward having dreams at night,

thinking they have deeper meaning, and waking up with music in my head at 1:15am in the morning.

There is something about 1:15 in the morning which has a razor sharp precision to it. Even though I’m more of a disconnected abstraction. Some constellation of stars nobody has given meaning to. Dreaming about that straight crush in college twice in one night. All this after in real life, oh and he was a poet too, now in grad school, who knows if he is the happy academic he craved to be. Who knows if he is still writing poetry or writing technical sentences with so much jargon nobody can understand. . .

Its all rambly. I know it is annoying but that is how it comes to me. He asked me if I had followed the spirit and I told him I wrote the poem I was suppose to write. He was proud of me, like a dead ghost now, I loved him then but he is a stranger in a distant land now.

Yes, I was at Target, a place I worked so long ago and a previous co-worker said to me, “You look poetic, like you could be a poet.”

I didn’t know what to say but now I am dreaming of my poetic college muse and he is telling me to follow the spirit just as Beauvoir so now I’m on tumblr again because of that Target co-worker who said I should have a blog and get a following. An idea I laugh at because my poetry is well, I am poetic, I am not exactly a poet if I’m not writing poetry. So I guess I will share what came to me last night. At least a draft.

My mother always says, “You have choices to make.”

So when my boyfriend says, “You never talk about your father,” and then asks, “Why is that?”

I pause and my mother’s voice repeats, “You have choices to make.”

I could say a hundred things about the same thing. Like a simple fact about the color of a chair, “My father is dead.”

It sounds like, “The chair is red.”

1. My father died.

My boyfriend might ask how he passed away which means I have to say more. This leaves me with more choices but I haven’t even jumped the first hurdle. I don’t even run track but the baton has been given to me, “How did he die?” I could have anticipated the next question and already answered it more bluntly.

2. My father blew his brains out.

If I want to keep my boyfriend I should frame things particular to his way of life. That would be too precise and come off as indifferent like my father never mattered to me. He didn’t.

3. He died when I was four.

Again, if I put it this way he might ask, “How?” and I would get to say

4. He loaded a pistol. I think it was a .45 pistol or a glock, and took the weapon to rat lake where he blew his brains out.

If I present it with “when I was four” the cold way in which I say, “He blew his responsibilities away,” pops like a childhood bubble.

5. He’s pushing up daisies.

6. He’s seven feet under.

7. He croaked.

Before the gun fire went off out in the country where only the frogs and flora of the boreal northern forests would hear it the American toads reed. When the gunfire went off silence consumed the forest for a few minutes before returning to normal a few minutes later. A few hours later, with the loons calling, a friend of my father’s came across his body and reported it to the authorities.

8. My father was a mail carrier.

I could have said this as it would have delayed revealing the information about the death of my father, and how he died, the conversation about the long term effect it had on my psychology and the psychological impact on the rest of my family. Though, according to my mother everything turned out fine. Which is why as I approach 30 years old I am waking up in the middle of the night because I’m having dreams about people in graduate school programs saying, “He doesn’t even talk about his father! He talks about Black Lives Matter, Marxism, Gender Theory and all this crap, but he hasn’t even mentioned his father.”

9. My father is out of the picture.

10. I would rather not talk about my father.

11. I didn’t know much about my father.

12. I don’t remember much about my father.

13. My father left me with dry skin and a proclivity toward depression.

14. My mother was a single mother.

15. I guess I don’t talk about my father. Hugh, I wonder why that is.

I like this because I can act like I’m just as dumbfounded by it as my boyfriend is. Creative writer circles often told me I am not concrete enough. So I guess we were sitting at a park in Hutchinson Minnesota when my boyfriend at the time asked this question. A few years later when the relationship had faded and I asked to be dating again he told me, “Some gay men have issues.” While I cried about it and refused to speak to him ever again he was right. I was a gay man with issues, daddy issues to be exact.

16. My father had a beard.

17. My father was an alcoholic and when my mother said she had enough he couldn’t handle it and blew his brains out.

This one is the worst of them. It sounds like my mother caused my father to commit suicide. Nobody but my father took a gun to his head and blew his brains out.

18. My mother never remarried after my father was out of the picture.

Again, I could say this but it remains vague enough to lead to other questions any intimate partner would have the right to know. Or perhaps nobody has the right to know about my father and that I have the right not to talk about him to anyone. “Did they get a divorce?”

19. Do we have to talk about this. I’d rather not talk about this because I am not ready to reveal that story and its long term effects on me. Look, it’s a nice day and I’m happy talking about a million other things.

This might indicate I lack the trust necessary to share that story. He may take it personally and think that our relationship should be more open. Or he might respect that answer and remain curious. Most people would talk about both their parents openly and in positive ways.

20. All the options in my life have been formed by my father’s decision to kill himself.

21. He killed himself.

22. He offed himself.

23. He decided he no longer wished to live.

24. When given the option between suicide and coffee he chose suicide.

25. I need counseling to answer that question.

My mother was right. The choices were really endless. I could even use the same word presented in a different way. There were a lot of strategies for answering this question. Even after the question was asked I kept gathering new academic methodologies to answer the question, “Why don’t you talk about your father?”

26. If I open up about him I’m afraid I will scare you away because if I talk about my father I am admitting that I am a flawed human being with an abnormal childhood upbringing.

Again, more options appear even if I avoid the subject of my father all together. It seems that certain events have greater effect on the long term psychology of the individual than others. But was my childhood “abnormal” or was my mother “doing the best she could” in situations which were out of her control? But it couldn’t of been out of her control. . . “Everybody has choices to make. . .”

27. “My father died when I was four.”

28. “I was four when my father died.”

I cannot remember which of these I used but it was one of the two. So I said what I thought in the moment. I paused. I know I paused and my boyfriend said, “Only if you are comfortable talking about it.”

29. I might cry if I talk about my father. But I don’t think I will. I usually don’t but its sad. Don’t be sorry, you didn’t do anything. Why do people say sorry when I say this? What personal responsibility did they have for it? Why do I have to answer this question? Why will this question always come up when in relationships?

30. His death effect me because I was too young.

That’s a lie because I know it impacted the whole trajectory of my life. There were material consequences. For example his life was attached to the union. This left my mother with a small financial cushion to fall back on when she was left to raise three children. While it may have been small it was enough for her to go to college for ten years and get a bachelor’s degree in education.

31. I never talk about my father because then I have to talk about my mother. My mother looks like an American hero for the choices she didn’t make but talking about my mother also reveals the hidden demons I am not suppose to talk about as it might make her look bad.

32. I never talk about my father because it usually becomes a really long essay about masculinity, the effects of neo-liberal feminism, and requires a master’s degree in sociology and a Ph.D. in philosophy to get to the bottom of it. It requires skill, tact, intelligence, emotional strength, and persistence to answer with any certainty. It’s a philosophical question at heart and I am not a philosopher, I am merely a subject exposed to systems of power which shape my experience in a world I did not create.

“Why don’t you talk about your father?”

33. Why did he commit suicide? Why did my brother point a gun to my head? Why did my mother trust a teenager to get me to and from school going ninety miles an hour down icy unplowed country roads at seven in the morning? Why did the chicken cross the road? Why is the sky blue?

34. He’s sinking in the swamps.

35. The worms are feeding on his body.

36. He’s dead.

37. He’s gone.

38. He’s no longer with us.

If at this point the possibilities seem pointless, redundant, or obnoxious, imagine being at work when a co-worker flippantly says, “I’m ready to blow my brains out.”

39. My father hurt his back and wouldn’t go to see the doctor. It was severe pain and he couldn’t really talk about it. He drank his physical and mental pains away. Sometimes he would come home drunk and punch walls in. I do remember waking up to the sound of shattering glass. The stove glass broke because my father kicked it in during one of his masculine temper tantrums.

40. I didn’t know it when it was first asked but I now think my father died because of hyper-masculinity. I don’t think he was allowed to express any of the emotional or physical hardships he had. He likely had depression and was obviously having thoughts of suicide. Other’s in the family had committed suicide and had mental issues. When I go to the psychologist they show me genetic connections but as a sociology major I am thinking more about the limits on men expressing emotions. My father couldn’t express his emotions, that’s for sure, so he likely imploded, quite literally.

41. I don’t mean to come off as cold hearted or disconnected, it’s just that the death of my father strikes me more as an abstraction than a concrete reality. When it does come up I am reminded of my differences, my class upbringing, the social values that played out in my childhood.

42. For my brother my father was a something which became a nothing. For me my father is a nothing who, when asked about his existence, becomes a something that should have been, but wasn’t.

43. By opening up about my father I cannot really say who he is without explaining who he was not and for me he was more of a not than a was.

44. “Your father loved you,” my aunt says.

45. My father bought two stuffed monkeys. The monkey was Abu from the Disney show Aladdin. He did this a few months before he killed myself. In addition to that he also bought me a small baseball glove. My uncle on my mother’s side went with my dad to the store to pick these up. My uncle says he was likely planning his suicide during this time and asked my mother that we hide these items when my uncle was around so he wouldn’t be reminded of my father’s suicide.

How could my father have loved me if he blew his brains out? It hardly seems like an act of love to abandon your child at the age of four.

46. “God has a plan for everyone and even though it may not make sense to us down here there is a plan and there is nothing we can do about it.” Likely something my pastor said or something my grandmother said or something someone said along the way. When on a date with an attractive suitable man one doesn’t want to delve into religious theology and questions about the existence of God, determinism versus free will, the meaning of life, and deeper levels of spiritual enlightenment, or lack there of. One wants to eat ice cream, giggle about some superfluous thing, and see if one can see some concrete shape in the clouds: its a duck, a bird, a dinosaur, a giraffe. What do you see when you look at the sky? Is there something more out there?

When asked about my father I am asked about a whole series of causal effects. When asked about my father I am asked to see myself as an object in the world formed by what the existentialists refer to as facticity. At this moment I free myself from the container which shaped me and am allowed to reconstruct the object that I am as I choose.

I also begin to ask myself, “what if things had played out differently,” as I am prone to ask the questions I was told weren’t worth asking. I was told there were no answers to them but the questions which don’t have answers are the questions I like the most. So being asked about my father is really asking me who I am and how I became who I am. I am inclined to answer if one has the time for it. Most people don’t have the time, the intellect, the patience, the attention span, or the emotional capacity for such things. So I prefer to say,

47. “Shh, daddy is sleeping. We must not wake him. He’s a terrible ghost. Let’s play hide and seek with death! Can you count to one hundred?”

48. “In any case, that little boy didn’t want to grow up for fear of becoming serious.” pg. 327 Jean Paul Sartre War Diaries

49. “But as soon as man grasps himself as free, and wishes to use his freedom, all his activity is a game: he’s its first principle; he escapes the world by his nature; he himself ordains the value and rules of his acts, and agrees to pay up only according the the rules he has himself ordained and defined.” 326 Jean Paul Sartre

50. “And man is serious when he forgets himself; when he makes the subject into an object; when he takes himself for a radiation derived from the world: engineers, doctors, physicists, biologists are serious.” 326 Jean Paul Sartre The War Diaries

51. When my father died my mother was left to raise three boys. He was a step father to one of my brothers so one of my brothers still had a father. So my father is really three people: a dad who was then wasn’t, a dad who wasn’t then was, and a step dad.

I could have never explained all this that day I was asked. There in a rural town in the middle of a corn-field playing out the waves of one of my first gay relationships I simply said, “My dad is dead.” Reality is bleak like that. It restricts possibilities. Reality is only here in the field of “you have choices to make”. Reality are the options available. I am free to make choices in relation to concrete possibilities. For example I used covid stimulus money to pay for my rent so I could I have time to write this. I could have used it to buy copious amounts of liquor to subdue my existential angst. I could have used it to put it to my loans. I quit my job to give myself the time necessary to heal the wounds of the past. I refuse to conform to the pressure to buy a vehicle and get a license because I would have to buy car insurance which would mean I need a job to pay for the cars insurance. I would need gas to go back and forth to work where I would only continue to suppress my authenticity. Authenticity can never be achieved. It can only be something which is consistently reproduced. I reproduce myself as a writer only in the act of writing. Even the short pause between characters I realize other possibilities. Writing must be a consistent act I partake in everyday as a way of pursuing my own projects with the material conditions given to me.

52. My father is four people or five people because he was a co-worker to my middle school friend’s father, also a wife, a brother, an uncle. Six or seven people. He was never a grandfather though and could never be a grandfather. He could never have the possibility of being a grandfather so when my nephew says he doesn’t have a grandfather, his great uncle says he would be happy to fill the role. So my uncle, married to my mother’s blood sister, is my nephew’s grandfather.

The more I think about choices the more I start to confirm that choices are in relation to particular material conditions given to a situation which show the constricting impact of choices.

53. My mother, because of my father’s death, often found jimmy-rigged options for babysitters when family members were not available. When she realized my brother and I weren’t mature enough to handle being at home alone by ourselves, she looked into other options such as having me stay at the library until it closed. Later I learned that urban libraries have a phrase for this condition called, “Library latchkey kids,” which are children who’s parents are busy because of social economic conditions they end up going to the library after school for free baby-sitting.

https://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=16451347

I would stay in the library until it closed. My mother would slip the librarian a twenty dollar bill. I asked about it once and I learned in one way or another not to ask about such things.

When I took the Myers Briggs test in high school I scored nearly a hundred percent INFP which to me meant I was destined to be a genius like Shakespeare, taught in English classes all around the world for centuries to come. It meant I was introverted, intuitive, feeling, and perceptive. It meant that my room was messy but that my bookshelves were ordered perfectly with the Dewey decimal system. In high school I read Waiting for Godot with no idea it belonged to existential literature. On the question of why I don’t talk about my father, I am still Waiting for Godot.

54. My father’s suicide, in the long-term, meant I got to be alone with books. I often tired of reading and would chat with the librarian. She would ask me if I had a girlfriend and show me the things she wanted on craigslist. Sometimes she had to rapidly click her computer screen to hide some areas of the internet that should not be looked at while a minor sat reading Dr. Seuss, books about nature, or how volcanoes worked. I loved reading. I could never get enough. One of the librarians never believed I read as many books as I did and often discredited some of the books she believed were above my level. I was smart and there’s nothing worse to rural people than a smart, effeminate, boy with a love of reading.

I was always told that my mother was good and was always asked if she was still in college. For ten years I said yes she is in college. For twenty years I never told anyone my brother pointed a gun to my head because she left us unattended with the gun case unlocked. When I brought it up to her in my late twenties she said it wasn’t possible because my twenty year old cousin was there in the camper. When I asked I thought I was testing whether or not she could have subdued her ego enough to admit to the possibility that it may have not been the best choice to leave minors unattended with an unlocked gun case at home. That’s the way things were with her growing up so why would it be any different with us? All of a sudden she gets away with making the right choices because, “She pulled herself up by the bootstraps and got a degree in education.”

Anytime I try to explain my experiences of these circumstances I am caught in a social trap by which the liberal value of women choosing careers over a life of drunkenness and whoreish behavior to capture the love of a man my mother’s story overrides. My experience of having a gun pointed at my head by my own brother is over-ridden by another set of values.

55. I had a shot gun pointed to my head by my own brother because I was singing too loudly and he was hungover because he was drinking alcohol.

56. I didn’t know if the shot gun was loaded.

57. I stopped singing, fell backwards, and made a snow angel.

“Well, you’re mother could have brought over a bunch of rotten men. You could have been sexually abused.”

58. My brother used to chase me around the house naked and dry hump me. These are the effects of leaving minors unattended after school out in the country. And you know it which is why you started getting babysitters for us. It was after too many nights coming house to a destroyed house that my mother decided to have some family members watch over us and make sure we did our homework.

59. “Stop being a victim you liberal snowflake.”

60. But I’m actually criticizing the effects of applied feminism in the 21st century.

61. “You’re mother is a good person.”

63. “It could have been worse.”

64. “Everything turned out fine.”

65. “Everyone has trauma to deal with. Everyone has baggage.”

My boyfriend told me of growing up. His father was a chemist at Kellogg’s and his mother was an instructor at a community college. He was a potter, a knitter, and a banjo player. He became an English teacher. He told me that one time his dad brought home bags of Lucky Charm marshmallows for him and his sister to eat. His father recorded their responses to the marshmallows and adjusted the ratios of sugar based on those tests. That doesn’t sound like trauma to me. That sounds like a healthy childhood which leads one to have self confidence, self esteem, and the emotional stability necessary to face the mixed messages of life. In the meantime I seek out people who tell me I’m dumb, ugly, stupid, and will never amount to anything because I think that’s a normal relationship. If I am not doing that I am hiding in my room wondering what the point of being alive is wondering if there is any hope for me to heal and get better.

66. My father’s suicide is a traumatic past which shapes my entire experience. It’s a past that I have the right to represent by writing it. It’s a past which is not, “Everything turned out fine,” and no my mother did not, “Pull herself up by her bootstraps,” she had choices to make and one of those choices was to leave minors home alone with a gun case full of weapons and to trust that nothing bad could have happened in that circumstance. I will not limit myself to the blindness feminist discourse encouraged when I told my story to an existential philosophy professor at a liberal university. Yes, she could have chosen worse, but it could have turned out much better. I will not sit here silently submitting to my brother’s words, “Don’t tell anyone or I will kill you!”

“Why don’t you talk about your father?”

67. Well kill me. I’d be better off anyway. I am willing to die for the truth in the same way an American soldier is willing to die for his country. I am willing to stand for something even if I am alone. Pull the trigger. If it makes you feel like a man to point a gun at your brother you might as well pull the trigger.

“It wasn’t loaded. Do you think I would actually put a shot gun shell in it. I love you, I’m your brother. Do you think I’m an idiot? I wouldn’t actually do that. . .”

“Why don’t you talk about your father?”

68. It’s exhausting. It’s a threat to my existence. It reminds me that blowing my brains out is a real possibility whereas for most people its a thing you say when life sucks. The following is an example of that.

When I was working as an English as a Second Language instructor I thought I had made it. I thought that teaching immigrants and refugees English meant I had established myself as a concrete being in the world permanently enmeshed as a career oriented man. My degree in Sociology was justified and my graduate certificate was no longer a waste of time, energy, and effort. I quickly learned that my masculinity was always under question and that the few men in that field were perfectly miserable beings. The whole notion that people became teachers because they were heart filled beings with a passion for helping others vanished when my co-worker, a professional teacher who taught abroad in Japan, made the shape of a gun with his finger, lifted it to his head, and pulled the trigger. I had simply asked him how he was doing and it was apparently not well. I was feeling rather dismal and would like to think I responded like this.

69. It’s a great position to be in. A cock loaded full of cum in my mouth and my cock loaded full of cum in his mouth. The tension was rising. Would we ever get to the desired result of all of our efforts? Would we ever achieve orgasm? Would we ever blow? Rest assured we exploded and were perfectly satisfied. There’s just something about holes and filling them which none of us can resist. Yet, even when the hole is filled to the brim with hot cum we feel so empty that we can no longer go on and so we pause. It’s okay to have long periods of stagnation so long as we can pull out at the right time and forgive ourselves for our responses to the past. The future may not appear to hold much but there is so much time and so many holes to fill.

70. They covered my father’s hole with makeup. They closeted the cause of his death. At the funeral they closed the bottom half of the casket which made me think that someone cut my father’s legs off with giant scissors. I screamed. I was convinced that his legs were cut off with giant scissors and that someone had caused his death.

71. How is a four year old suppose to understand this when adults are unable to tell the truth when the child asks questions about his dead father. He isn’t going to understand these things if adults themselves still don’t understand them. Adults go to great lengths to omit the grievances and effects of such events. “Everything turned out fine,” and “You’ve got choices to make.”

A four year old’s brain is not ready to understand such things because adults don’t understand them. His memories are barely forming and he is still fascinated by blowing bubbles. Adults have lost their imaginations. He smiles at the sound of popcorn popping while adults drench popcorn in so much salt and butter that they die of heart attacks and call it death by natural causes. A child laughs when he sees a frozen lake swarmed by a hundred seagulls as teenage boys stuff frogs down the barrels of shot guns and laugh when American toad guts go spiraling into the sky like fireworks.

The events surrounding my father’s death are my first memories. There are many of them like the pastor holding me trying to give me comfort. I press my stomach for comfort. My first memories are the feeling of anxiety, that weird pang in the stomach which goes unexplained by doctors and still causes ulcers. There’s my cousin saying my father is away for a very long time and that he is in heaven. These memories attach themselves to future interactions when all compiled leave one wishing there were no choices to make at all. It leaves one wishing that there was one defined path meant for everyone which would eliminate all angst and all decisions. In fact it often feels better if there was no free will at all and that God really did have a plan for each individual.

There is another pastor, who many years later, told me my father was in hell. This leaves me with one of those ridiculous choices and questions, “Is my father in heaven or in hell?” There is my aunt who tells me that my pastor is wrong and the Bible never mentions. There is my uncle who says people who don’t believe in God are not allowed in his home. There is the ice cream I ate after I was taken out of the funeral home to ease the emotional burden a screaming four year old must have placed on my father’s friends and family members. The ice cream was a temporary cure which taught me that negative emotions could be easily drowned with chocolate sauce and colorful sprinkles.

72. My father is in heaven.

73. My father is in hell.

74. My father is in purgatory.

75. I don’t know where the fuck my father is.

76. Do souls exist?

78. What is the difference between agnostic theism and agnostic atheism?

79. It’s ok to think about dying now and again. I think everyone has thought about it now and again but I’m not sure. I’m only one person with so many heartbeats.

80. I don’t think I will commit suicide because it doesn’t solve anything. Living doesn’t solve much either but at least I can say I tried to count to one hundred.

81. I might cry if I talk about my father.

82. It’s ok to cry.

83. It’s ok to cry.

84. It’s ok to cry.

85. It’s ok to cry.

86. It’s ok to cry.

87. If you cannot sleep count the sheep or cry.

88. It’s ok to cry.

89. Real men cry.

90. Real men cry.

91. Real men cry.

92. Real men cry like big men.

93. Real men cry like grown men.

94. Real men cry like real men.

95. It’s ok to cry.

96. It’s ok to cry.

97. Facts may not care about feelings but feelings are always seeking out facts to justify themselves. One must be careful about the facts used to represent their feelings.

98. Over intellectualization isn’t crying. It’s a defense mechanism.

99. It’s okay to cry.

100. Everything turned out fine.

#spilled ink #spilled words #masculinity #manhood #lgbtq #free will #existentialism #Sartre #jean paul sartre #lyrical #lyrical poem #lyrical prose

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