#it's 1.2k but its again... still pretty rich with important points

[forgenotes-archived]

part two of my meta meltdown begins NOW!

part one can be found here! 

last time, i talked about ronnie’s canon interactions with her parents, and how that points to a childhood of neglect. NOW, i’m gonna extrapolate on that data and fill out her experiences growing up; how her parents’ ideals imprinted on her, and how they essentially doomed her to never have an easy time being in a non-toxic relationship. 

tw for child abuse through neglect under the cut ! be safe .

THE PARENTS .

henry sawyer owns a telecommunications company; he didn’t start as a ceo, and in all reality, shouldn’t have ever become the chief executive officer. he quietly climbed the ladder by stepping on his colleagues, not making a huge scene of anything until he was close to being next in line for the job, when the sitting ceo was planning on retiring. henry couldn’t fathom the thought of defeat; he physically couldn’t think of not becoming the most powerful singular man in the company. 

he then decided that blackmail was the best way to tie up his opponents; he wasn’t even third in line to be considered, but he was close enough that if he could get the other candidates out of the way, he would be promoted. the knew enough around the office to know who was having an affair, who was insider trading, who was double crossing who. a couple of carefully placed emails, and fragile egos crumbled and resigned; citing “pressures of the changing industry” as the reasoning. thus, henry sawyer was promoted, and has remained the ceo ever since (now fifteen years of service, specifically due to his quiet manipulation of the board above him). 

barbara sawyer was the assistant to a big city architect; half secretary, half errand girl, always there to cater to his every need (yes, every need), before she retired. however, she had her own fair share of malicious takedowns, perhaps even more brutal than henry’s, because her adversaries often hadn’t done anything wrong to weaponize against them. 

a young graduate threatened barbara’s position; barbara couldn’t let that happen. during the day, while the office was cleared out for a meeting, she’d slipped important plans for a highly expensive project into the bag of the woman who had threatened her position. later during the day, there was a search- the plans were found, and the poor, innocent, framed woman was fired on the spot. 

henry and barbara sawyer grew up in circumstances as upper-society children to always expect the best- of the world, and of themselves. this perspective translated into how they’d raised their daughter as well; veronica was expected to excel even further than they had. 

THE CHILD .

as a child, veronica mostly absorbed the attributes of her parents from afar; they were so often working, leaving her with a babysitter that would change often, that she rarely had any time to spend with them specifically. but being a child, she wanted to be like her parents- and as she grew older, recognizing that she was being ignored, she realized she had a fork in the road. either she could act out to get their attention (bad is better than nothing), or she could try to be just like them so they would finally like her enough to spend free time with her. 

she decided to take the second route, mostly because she’d heard the fights that henry and barbara would have after coming home from work cocktail parties (one of them would be making eyes at a younger victim) and she definitely didn’t want to be on the receiving end of those shouting matches. veronica was lucky that she was born with a natural aptitude to excel in her studies, but even constantly being at the top of her class in every subject in every year didn’t seem to rouse them to pay much attention to her. 

once barbara retired, though, the dynamic shifted slightly- she began asking about veronica’s school more often, about her friends, and veronica believed she had finally grabbed the attention of her mother. however, she soon discovered that the questions were hollow; as barbara never absorbed any of the information she was told (a particularly perturbed ronnie once told her mother that she’d clawed out the principal’s eyes and the police were after her, granting nothing more than a “that’s nice, dear, now finish your homework”). the elation started to collapse, suffocating her, and turning her to grow into cynicism. 

in grade 6, she was analyzed and determined to be gifted by an exceptional margin- an iq of 162. of course, she didn’t know what this meant, but she hoped it was a high enough number to impress her parents- and briefly, it did. but the councillors who had administered the test suggested that they move her up to high school immediately, skipping two grades, maybe a third; it would be essentially useless to keep her in seventh and eighth grades, since she already firmly grasped concepts above the ones taught in those years. 

her parents became... uncomfortable with the idea. they said it was because they were worried about her socializing with people her own age, but even young veronica knew there was a secondary reason. a few years later, she would learn that they didn’t want to put in the effort to help her through such a huge change- “she’s fine working on her own like this, and it’ll be easy for her. if we move her up, she’s going to need a lot more help. are you prepared to take time off work to deal with all that? i didn’t think so, henry.” 

CONCLUSION .

with a history of her interactions established, veronica’s unhealthy traits absorbed by the little interaction she’s had with her parents can be summed up to:

1. an obsession with success, climbing the ladder, being the best at whatever it is she’s told to do. that success is the only thing that gives her value as a person; she believes her worth to be a collection of her talents and achievements, not her own personality and character. this causes her to get easily used for said credits, and removes her ability to create a sense of self. 

2. a lack of ability to show affection. due to not having contact with her parents in any deep, meaningful way (if at all), she did not learn at a young age how to care or be cared for in a healthy way that did not rely on her worth, as mentioned above. veronica is closed off, guarded, and cold at the exterior; she isn’t cruel, but she doesn’t know how to express emotions in a safe manner. 

3. a suspicion of anybody who can do either of the above, be it care for her in any manner, or befriend her without wanting something from her. 

these three inherited traits compound on top of her own, leaving her to become much more cynical and bitter as she grows older- and the worst decision she ever made in terms of solidifying these negative traits was ditching betty finn to befriend the heathers, but that will be in part three, god help me, i don’t know if ANY of this made any sense!! 

[justsomeoneunordinary]

Wonderwall

T, 1.2k, WinterIron, Fluff & Humor, Idiots in Love | AO3

―

Tony walks into a wall.

It sounds like the beginning of a joke, but unfortunately, it’s not. He walks into a wall quite literally.

Which shouldn’t have happened, because he was aiming straight for the door. And contrary to popular belief Tony knows how to walk straight as long as he’s not drunk, which he hasn’t been since Pepper broke up with him two years ago or so (Tony’s only good with numbers when he needs them for science, otherwise they’re just annoying trivialities). He grew up in a rich society, he had to learn how to walk straight since he’d started to pull himself up on immovable (and movable) objects as a toddler, until he was bathing in his sweat.

So, the math doesn’t add up here. Because he is sober and he was aiming straight for the door ― and here he is, head hurting after the impact with the wall and his shirt soaked in his freshly brewed coffee. Good thing he makes his coffee always in the perfect temperature for immediate drinking, otherwise he could’ve burnt himself. And that just would’ve hurt like a bitch, so hurray for his brilliant inventions.

“You all right there, doll?”, he hears Bucky’s worried voice behind him, which is kind of rude, considering this is all Bucky’s fault in first place. It was him who had thought it might be a good idea to take off his shirt in exact the same moment Tony decided to steal a glance at him.

In the middle of the communal kitchen, mind you.

And, well, Tony is only human ― he had to take a look at those deliciously looking abs. (Not stare, though. Tony Stark does not stare. He knows how to be subtle, thank you very much. (Shush Pepper, no one asked you.)) Thinking about the whipped cream in the fridge in combination with Bucky’s abs might’ve been a reason for his distraction while taking his path to the door.

Also, he’s been awake for more or less 257 hours. (To be honest, this does sound like a wrong number. Humans shouldn’t be able to survive this long without sleep, right? And Tony is pretty sure he is a human. (But he wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t either. Nowadays nothing surprises him anymore. It’s both a curse and a blessing.))

A low chuckle pulls him out of his deep thoughts about his existential crisis and suddenly Bucky is in front of him, all in his muscly glory. Whatever Bucky’s reason is behind his sudden upper body freedom ― Tony’s dick approves. Ten out of ten, he would definitively lick that, please and thank you.

“Dunno ‘bout that, doll, you look pretty human to me,” he says smoothly in his dark, rough, Very Dick Approving voice, though the words don’t make much sense, unless… unless Bucky can read minds. Which would be rather unfortunate, especially after Tony’s mental movie starring the whipped cream and Buck’s abs. And that metal arm. And those cherry red lips. And everything further down he hasn’t seen yet (but his imagination has never let him down, so that’s not really an issue).

Suddenly, Bucky sounds like he’s choking on his own spit. Tony quickly looks up in concern, when ― wow. Would you look at that? Bucky is blushing. Blushing. Holy Newton, Tony has never seen Bucky blush. He didn’t even know that Bucky could blush. This is a Nobel Prize worthy discovery right there.

Tony is so going to jerk off to the memory of that blush.

There’s a glint in Bucky’s grey-blue eyes that makes his knees all wobbly and the insides of his belly sending into a spiral. “I’d say,” Bucky continues that one-sided conversation, “that we should go on a date first and afterwards we can talk about pouring whipped cream all over myself. Whatcha think, doll?” And there is that cocksure smirk, that Tony loves and hates equally.

Tony is hit with the sudden realization that he might’ve been saying all those things out lout. But that can’t be true. Tony knows how talking out loud works, in fact, he does that quite often. You have to move your lips in first place for that. You also have to let out sounds that create actual words. And then you have to put those words together, so you get real sentences out of them. Tony sure as fuck would remember if he did any of those things.

“Well, that pretty mouth of yours is moving rather fast. Admittedly, I didn’t understand everything you’ve been muttering, but I got the most important parts.”

Yeah, okay, that would’ve been totally embarrassing if Tony wasn’t too tired to feel stuff like embarrassment. Which is why he is not dying inside right now. No, siree, not at all.

He thinks about walking into that wall again, when Bucky interrupts his thoughts with an amused tone in his voice, “Maybe you should go to bed an’ tomorrow we can talk ‘bout that date, hm?”

Bed? Sounds boring. Unless there’s a certain super-soldier naked under him, then he is all in, baby. He licks his lips at that mental image.

Bucky’s blush deepens.

Damn, this is like all holidays at once. Tony is going to print a picture from the cameras and frame it. In HD resolution. And put it on his nightstand. Best. Day. Ever.

But before he can voice his very nice ideas (maybe he already did, who knows?), he finds himself in Bucky’s arms, all bridal carry style. Tony would complain, if he wasn’t concentrating so hard on not licking that beautiful chest and those very inviting nipples ― he’s aware enough to remember that this goes under sexual harassment. Also, it’s rather comfortable in Bucky’s arms. All warm and safe and nice smelling.

He hears something about “laying on the couch”, but before he knows it, he just falls asleep.

―

When Tony wakes up the next morning (midday? Afternoon? The sun is shining through the windows so it can’t be evening), it takes him approximately zero point five seconds to remember what had happened in the kitchen with Bucky. The embarrassment hits him like a truck on the highway.

This time he walks deliberately against the wall. Head first and with force. Multiple times.

“Oi, no damaging the merchandise! I still need ya for our date this evening, doll.” Sure enough, there Bucky leans against the doorframe, a cheeky grin on his face and still without a shirt. (This is not California; the fuck is wrong with this man?)

He feels his mouth watering, until Bucky’s words find its way to his brain, which wakes him up better than any coffee in the world. “Date”, he states warily, because he isn’t sure he understood that right.

“Thought we already established that yesterday.” Bucky sounds mocking, and Tony won’t let that pass, no matter how embarrassing yesterday’s conversation has been.

“J.A.R.V.I.S.?”

“Sir?”

Tony grins and looks directly without a hint of hesitation into Bucky’s beautiful eyes, before he lets his gaze wander from head to toe and biting his lips seductively. “Put thirty cans of whipped cream on the shopping list for today, will you?”

Bucky blushes. Tony’s grin widens. He is definitely going to lick that. 

―

(Three days later a framed picture of Bucky blushing appears on the same wall.)

―

(Five days later a picture of Tony walking into that wall appears underneath it. Rude.)

[thephantomofthe-internet]

Rock You Like A Hurricane

Stripper!Billy Hargrove x Reader

Summary: On the whims of a drunk group of bridesmaids and the bride to be, you went to Studz and found your own Romeo...too bad you already knew him.

Word Count: 2,772

Warnings: swearing, drinking, sexy dancing (is that a warning? idk), minor sexual implications it’s not graphic and i’m a little baby at this so be gentle with me

Author’s note: so did I reach 1.2k? No, but Tumblr is trying to censor safe sexuality and I want to see how far I can go writing wise before I start making plans. If this gets flagged, I will make an AO3 and give y’all the user so we can keep getting weird, ya know? Anyway, hope you like this mess! I tried 😫😫😫

Permanent Tag: @hotstuffhargrove @hargrovesgoldilocks @denimjacketkisses @lilmissperfectlyimperfect @casaharrington @moonstruckhargrove (you ain’t usually on this tag but...I LOVE YOU AND WANT YOUR LOVE) @thechickvic @alex--awesome--22

FEEDBACK APPRECIATED AND ENCOURAGED!!!

Your cousin Elizabeth was getting married. Twenty-three years old, barely out of college, and engaged to the richest guy you knew. Your mother was never going to let you hear the end of it. You and her were the same age and practically grew up together and your mother believed that she was the standard every girl should live to. She was pretty, decently smart, and popular. She was a high school cheerleader, an honour roll student; she volunteered at animal shelters and had just graduated from college with a degree social work. You were a mediocre student, a college dropout, and, thus far, a failed actress. You were a failure of a daughter and your mother had seemingly given up on you.

So when Elizabeth asked you to be one of her bridesmaids, your mother wouldn’t hear the end of it unless you said yes. You agreed, begrudgingly, dropping too much money on a magenta taffeta nightmare to wear once and answered every upset phone call from the anxious bride to be. You had been given the highly important role of planning the bachelorette party. Naturally, the large hoard of rich North-eastern girls were only coming to you for this because you lived in LA and they were ready to bask in the glitz and glamour of Hollywood, refusing to believe that you didn’t actually live at its centre. And so Elizabeth dragged Vivian, Olivia, Kimmy, Maria, and Amber to your shit hole apartment and tried to not complain about it or your plans, although they were already over it and you before the clock struck eight.

You had decided on one thing and one thing only-you would not take them to a strip club. You’d go anywhere else-tourist traps, filthy clubs and bars- you’d even sneak them onto a movie set if it meant the whole thing would be over sooner. Just no strip clubs.

And you didn’t take them to one. Elizabeth’s maid of honour, Vivian, dragged you all out to the nearest club, advertising the hottest guys in town. You were forced into what was perceived as the hottest dress you owned, a short neon nightmare you bought in college, and pushed out the door despite your pleas. You didn’t want to be in a grimy strip club, certainly not with your cousin and her bridesmaids, all various degrees of drunk.

And Studz was not a nice club. If you had wanted to take them to a club, you would’ve taken them to a Chippendale’s, it would have at least been cleaner and a bit busier. Inside the dingy club, with its sticky tables and tiny stage, you were one of three occupied tables. Vivian had chosen a table at the front of the stage, a prime location for viewing the milk crates the club was calling a stage, but the other two parties seemed intriguing.

One was filled with what you could only assume were regulars, an intriguing mix of tough looking women with buzz cuts and sour expressions guarding a trio of grinning, excited boys each with their own sense of style, all of which your mother would’ve called feminine or, as politely as she could, queer, and your father would’ve called…well, you wouldn’t use that word.

The other table was a group of nervous looking women, all old enough to have children old enough to at least in middle school and surrounded by tall orange drinks, which you’d guess were ‘Sex on the Beach’es, knowing the fruity gradient well enough from the drunk barely-legals who came to your bar. They all seemed awkward and embarrassed, the same feeling you felt sitting in the dark room where drinks were twice as expensive and the music blared in your ears. You might’ve been able to handle it if you weren’t forcefully decked out in bachelorette party gear bought angrily by Olivia, peeved that you hadn’t bought any for the group. You had on a white sash which read in glittery pink text ‘I’m the single one’, advertising you like a prime piece of real-estate and not a broke loser. You felt silly and sad, you wished you had just put your foot down and said no. But still you stayed, nursing an insanely overpriced jack and coke through a penis shaped straw, listening as the girls chattered on.

“So anyway, Y/N, this is how you throw a bachelorette party! We want Lizzie to be surrounded by insanely hot dudes for one more night before she ties Stevie down forever. One last night of sexy adventures for our gorgeous bride to be!” Vivian declared cockily, pointing at the giggling Elizabeth, already drunk from the giant Cosmo in front of her and the five jello shots she’d taken at your apartment, the one thing you’d done right so it seemed.

“Whatever you say…” you muttered, rolling your eyes as you spun the melting ice around in your glass. Suddenly, the lights in the bar dimmed impossibly further and the stage lights flashed on, first in a spinning disco ball of bright rainbow coloured lights.

“Alright ladies, let’s give a big welcome to Armando!” the announcer slash bartender called from the microphone on the rail, barely looking up from his copy of Proust. You clapped politely as the bridesmaids cheered, though not as loud as the mismatched table, where the boys of the group lit up like Christmas trees and hollered loudly. The sultry, sticky sounds of Def Leopard’s Pour Some Sugar on Me blasted from the speakers. A larger man with a beautiful tan stepped on stage. He wasn’t exactly rippling in muscles, but he was fit and his fade was lined up nicely. He was dressed as a construction worker, complete with a hard hat. He looked confident, but you could see the Vaseline he’d used to define and brighten his abs caking in between the muscles; most men would’ve used baby oil, but he was trying to appear fitter than he actual was and the trick seemed to work, Kimmy, Elizabeth’s childhood best friend was already openly drooling over him.

His set was awkward and jerky, you were certain it was one of his first shows, and he tended to rely on pelvic thrusts instead of a variety of moves. When the bar cut the song, you were able to count the money he’d earned sitting sadly on the stage floor.

The rest of the numbers were about the same. Next came Carlos, who the back table seemed to be a big fan of. One of the boys, decked in a bedazzled muscle tank, screamed out “I love you Carlos!” in a feminine voice with a slight Puerto Rican accent, clapping above his head. Then Julian, Stefan, Emilio, and Cole all decked out in various ‘sexy’ outfits; poor Emilio was stuck in a weak Native American costume as though he was a member of The Village People.  The whole thing was embarrassing and awkward but as Elizabeth and her friends got drunker and drunker, they seemed to enjoy it more and more. Poor Maria had seemingly fallen in love with Stefan and, after running a shaky hand over his greasy, hairless chest, declared that she wanted to have his baby and spent all her cash on him. When he didn’t come around after his set, she pouted and drank more to fill the void.

Then, everything got improbably darker. At one point, Vivian had snuck off to talk to the emcee and returned with a smug, proud smile, which worried you. You were the only sober person left in the group and thus the babysitter of the girls, watching drinks and keeping hold of those drunk enough to pounce on a dancer.

“There’s a bachelorette party in the house!” the emcee called, earning polite claps from the other tables and hoots and hollers from the girls surrounding you. “Well, we have a treat for you! Welcome to the stage, Romeo!”

First, in the darkness, someone brought out a chair and when the lights came up again, The Divinyl’s I Touch Myself began to blast out of the speakers and out from the sparkling red curtains came a man dressed in leather chaps, the most attractive of the group. His back was to the audience, his muscular legs and butt on full display, his right hand reaching up to the microphone descending from the ceiling, taking it easily.

“I’d like to invite the lovely bride to be up for a dance.” He said huskily and your heart stopped. You knew that voice, it stuck in your brain like a thorn. Billy Hargrove. You should’ve recognized him from the still present mullet. But how could you? Why on earth would you believe him to be anywhere near you, in the Valley of all places? Elizabeth was being forced to her feet by Vivian; this was obviously her master plan from the start to give her dear friend one last thrill.

But this thrill was unwanted, as it seemed. Elizabeth was trying very hard to force her thin wrsit out of Vivian’s grasp and begging anyone nearby to help. Naturally, you jumped into action, pulling Vivian away from her.

“Y/N! Y/N I can’t do it! I don’t wanna cheat on Stevie! I don’t wanna do this!” she cried, tears welling in her bright green eyes. You nodded, taking her hand, and squeezing it in your own.

“Okay, okay sit down you don’t have to. We’ll go home, okay? We’ll go, just calm down.” You said sternly as she nodded, teary eyed.

“Don’t ruin the fun, Y/N.” Vivian said crossly, scoffing at Elizabeth’s tears. “Here, if you’re so hell bent on being the centre of attention, you go.” Before you could even try to retort her idea, you were being pushed to the stage the girls were screaming with delight. Billy was looking down at you with a smirk and a hand extended to you. When your nervous expression met his confident leer, his smirk dropped away.

He recognized you.

You and Billy weren’t exactly friends in high school. He’d come to Hawkins, Indiana in your second last year of high school and joined your graduating class with all the anger and hatred of a boy forced out of his home. He took that anger out on anyone who didn’t play his games and you weren’t one to play along. It was all because you wouldn’t do the entire English project you’d been assigned his partner for. You wanted to split the work even, he wanted to do nothing and get a great grade. In the end, he got a shit grade and tormented you for the rest of high school. It wasn’t as bad as what he did to nerdier kids, who’d get pushed around and the shit kicked out of them for the entire year while he was there. Your torment matched Steve Harrington’s; sure he mostly left you alone, but he definitely made his mark on your mind. He called you Blow Pop for a whole year, based on the baseless rumour that you’d sucked off your gym teacher, Mr. Carlson, who while being a young, hot man was a notoriously easy marker and not worth sleeping with to get a good grade. Although in retrospect, that was probably the kicker of the whole rumour.  Your reputation was ruined for the rest of school and even now the kids of Hawkins, now adults, still knew you as Blow Pop.

And you hated him for it, the whole thing left a sour taste in your mouth. He was so hot, you noted it the second he arrived, but his attitude was so awful that it ruined the rest of him. And once you were Blow Pop, you lost all interest in him, no matter how tight his jeans were.

You wanted to run, but you couldn’t abandon the drunken girls cheering you on, so you used his hand to pull yourself onstage and saunter over to the chair. “Well, come on Romeo, give me a show.” You said through a gritted smile, taking your seat in the chair. Billy nodded, matching your uncomfortable expression.

He started into his number, pulling off his ridiculous leather vest, throwing it offstage and revealing more of his well oiled chest. He rolled his body, running a hand up his chest and through his hair, running his tongue over his lips with a smirk. You watched the girls as they hollered, sticking dollar bills into the waistband of his chaps, lapping up his attention. This continued for most of the song, thrusting and grinding into the open air, ripping off the legs of this chaps, revealing his black jockstrap and earning whoops from the whole bar. You wanted to laugh at the whole scene, to find it awful and gross, and it kind of was; here was this guy who ruled your high school dancing in front of you for cash. But mostly, it was hot. Like, really, really hot. He was honestly too good at this, it made the back of your neck sweat and your nerves burst into flames. You mind ran wildly with dirty images and thoughts you couldn’t get away from if you tried; rationale wasn’t quelling the fire he’d lit in your stomach. He only turned back to you when the coda hit, lip-syncing along with the words. He rolled his lips over yours, straddling you gently and running his hands over your arms, bringing your hands to touch his chest and abs.

“This is really weird…” you muttered, more to yourself than him, letting your smile drop away into a look you hoped didn’t come off as completely lustful and desperate, hoping he’d either stop or finally touch you. Of course, he did neither.

“It’ll be over soon, just till the last chorus, then you’re free.” He replied softly, thrusting into you gently. “Just touch my abs, it’ll give your friends something to laugh about and earn me better tips.”

You obeyed, running a hand over him as he got up, coming behind you to give this look of longing in your reach. You let out a heated sigh, which was mostly fake, letting your head lull to the side as you sighed, earning a scream from Elizabeth, who’d long stopped crying.

“You’re really sticky.” You whispered and you swore for a brief moment, Billy broke, his smirk turning into a tiny smile he was working hard to hold back. He came back around, pulling your hands to rest on his hips as he went back to thrusting and wriggling. You chuckled “And you’re wearing glittery eyeliner, what a treat I’m getting today.” Just as he was about to stand, the song coming to an end, you ran your ring finger up his spine. He shivered involuntarily, his gaze coming back down to you, quirking his eyebrow.

Billy didn’t like that you were here. He didn’t like that he was dancing on you. And he certainly didn’t like how absolutely gorgeous you’d become. Sure, he remembered you well enough from high school, but if he hadn’t? He probably would’ve taken you home and screwed your brains out. It left this uneasy tension for the whole dance. Usually, he’d focus on the bride to be, but with you being so…different and obviously not being the bride herself, he found himself keeping a distance to keep him professional. But he couldn’t stop the shiver when you touched him on your own. And you noticed, you smirked at him liked you’d found some secret trick. He wanted so badly to wipe that smirk off your lips.

You shrugged easily as he looked at you curiously, standing as the song ended and pulling the wad of dollar bills Amber had given you from your bra, handing it to him easily as you walked off. You jumped off the stage, grinning as your fellow bridesmaids screamed, coming to hug you and grab your arm, declaring that he was so hot.

“Come on girls, my hands are all sticky now, let’s get out of here.” You said, pulling your purse off the back of the chair, walking off towards the exit. For a brief moment, you looked back, desperate for another look.

Billy was already gone, much to your disappointment, it was as though you’d dreamt him and you’d wake up at home drenched in sweat and soaked. He might as well have puffed into a cloud of smoke and glitter and vanished, the chair was gone too. But you knew it happened. And you felt so stupid-you’d just been played by a stripper.