#ive had this photo set as a draft for so long

[icbmil]

🚬

Bonus bad low quality gifs of the only performance I’ve seen him smoke during (x)

[xoxitgirl]

⊹₊ ⋆ seasons results! ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⟡ part one ⟡

so usually I try to write it down from the day i start and document the results from then but I literally forgot lmaoo so heres it broken down into every couple days/every week! ima keep this method tho ngl because its so useful but this is probably gonna be a long post bc i wanna be as raw as possible w ya’ll.

season one: jdnavsthewrld ⋆𐙚 ₊ ˚ ⊹ ♡

overview

so first and foremost—my season is going to be filled with all of my designs blowing up, making hundreds of dollars a week, improving my relationship with my boyfriend, and getting a new charger. I wrote out everything in detail so that way it was easier for me to understand exactly what I want like shipping out orders and stuff in my new car, taking a trip to NY, collaborating with some designers that I really like + meeting some designers as well, having hella photo shoots, etc! so it starts off with me getting a new car, it’s easier for me to process all of my orders and get yarn/make clothing just because I have a more efficient car.

dec 3-10

this week was full of me reminding myself im living in my season and my whole idea is about my buisness blowing up and a new carr so ngl its already blown up a little cause someone posted my skirt but it slowed down and now its picking back up. one thing that I’m trying to remember is that I’m not going to know how good it is to have a lot of sales unless I know what it’s like to have lower sales like understanding the duality of owning a business that not every single day you’re going to have the most ideal amount of sales, but that time to be creative and breathe will definitely lead you to that outcome in the long run. I made 4 sales this week so its definitely making me feel a little like imposter syndrome like this cant be happening blah blah blah but I quickly redirected my thoughts to, “what happens in my season? my business was meant to blow up, this is what I’m meant to be doing.”

dec 11-18

okay I made 6 more sales, when I started I had 25 now I’m at 35 so I feel hella confident because I’m constantly falling asleep doing SATS. I can literally feel all the excitement and anxiety and nerves that come with an abundance of success. I sold my biggest custom order to a new client, this two piece set and a fur skirt so I’m like damn. its only bigger and better from here. another thing I added was me and my boyfriend are getting better and connecting more and I feel like our relationship is definitely growing in a healthier way. I made around $300 this week from my pieces so I cant even be upset if I wanted to (,:

dec 19-25

so okay new updateee I sold another 3 item set so I made another $100 this week, mind you im writing this the 21st so the week’s not even over yet, and I feel hella confident in my season. I finally finished drafting everything thats happening. im also having a lot of fun maintaining that it’s already mine. I literally spend so much time vaunting. I was meant to be a designer. of course I have sales, im that bitch. people loovee my clothes cause who else is doing it like me? literally nobodyy. this is what gets me to feel more confident too, if you’re not reassuring yourself who is yk? and my relationship is sooo goodd 🥺 like its been so peaceful and my bf has been surprising me with pinterest dates and shit like what is my lifee!!

ima come back and update after my moms bday, I always have a routine for the new year which is expelling all old energy. like cleaning my room, donating clothes, i also sage everything, make new sigils, wash my hair and alll my clothes so yeah lol i have a feeling the new energy will be beautiful.

dec 26-jan 2

okay I’ve been learning how to sew and I’ve been getting really really good at it. like making my own pieces by myself—before I used to have my mom help me, but now I actually know how to sew fr. I wanna show y’all so ill insert some things ive made/been making. ngl tho I think ima give it like a week or so more to really saturate my mind because I been listening to this sub by slade and its really been helping but I gotta focus on consistency! so thats really what im focusing on through the 15th so more updates around then!! my goal is to have more posts and get ready for a mini photoshoot.

jan 3-jan 12

jan 4th.. coming up with designs that are exactly what I envision/things that ive never seen knit or done in this style. made my collab post but skeptical about when I should make my collab collection so well see but I feel like the things im making rn are multimillion dollar designs like I can feel it in my core. also about to clean my car out soon to trade my car in for the charger of my dreams, apparently my parents were looking for chargers for monthsss and didn’t tell me cause they wanted to surprise me.. for reference y’all I literally have a charger sub i made 5 months ago and was so in my head about it but now i feel like my mind is fully saturated. every time I drive, it feels like im already in a new car, I imagine it in the driveway. I already have it in the 4d so its beyond mine in the 3d.

jan 7.. omg so update, I literally cleaned my car out today and I’m trading it in on friday like what the fuck is my lifee I knew it would happen but this was the first time where I realy put my foot down and envisioned myself driving the car literally everywhere. I race ppl like im in a charger already lmaoo the planes were bound to align sooner or later!! ill insert how it looks when it gets here yall we might have to order it but this is the first step in my journey—I get my charger, my design acc blows up, and so forth. (;

okay hi guys I made 2 sales recently and I just got my charger, everything literally feels like it’s falling into place and it’s kind of surreal. I think I’m gonna make a part two for my results because this post is getting helllla long but I GOT A 2023 CHARGER STX and tbh I wanted an R/T but the only one I could get was 2015 so im just hella happy I got a brand new car and it looks EXACTLY HOW I WANT—black rims, spoiler, it looks so mean!!! ugh im in love. peep my noface air freshener from my last car (,: and it only has 10 miles yall… I love using seasons so much

next post coming by valentines day! 💋

itgirl ⊹ ࣪ ˖

[skulkingfoxes]

hi, i bought your comic "twigs" and loved it, i was wondering if you had any willingness to share the process of making it?

im an artist whos trying to start doing comics but i find the idea of starting a larger scale comic (such as kingfisher) wildly intimidating in terms of art direction. im trying to start small, such as a 30 page comic (ive done 5-10 page comics before) but i still find the art direction so scary lol

(Oh god this sent is was much longer ago than I thought I'm so sorry I took so long)

First off, thank you so much! I'm glad you liked Twigs, it's a project that still holds special place in my heart.

Okay, SO- the Twigs you know today was made originally for Shortbox, a digital comic fair for debuting short comics.

The concept of what would become Twigs was one developing in my brain for a while. Or, rather, the concept of a changeling trying to figure out where they belong after the person they were meant to replace comes home. At that point though, the changeling was just a cute fairy boy, because who wouldn’t want that. It was playing with the idea of choosing your own family and where you belong. But it was only a vague half idea, I didn’t really have a good sense of how long it could be or even what the point was. I remember musing that it was a story that I would probably never make. These are the only sketches I made for it.

It wasn’t till I remembered another variant of the changeling, one where the creature was just an enchanted bale of hay or twigs and thrown into the fire once they’re discovered. I wondered what it was like to realize that you are in fact completely disposable, destined to fall apart and be forgotten. I thought this was far too depressing of a concept and that I would never use it.

If you’ve read the story, then you know that I changed my mind. The idea just stuck around in my brain too much, it gave such a bittersweetness to the story. It was then the story began to come together. I ended up writing the whole first draft of the outline in a phone-tapping frenzy at 1 am. It's almost stream of conscious prose, where I write out how I imagine the scene going. I'm a very visual thinker.

You mostly asked this in terms of how I figured things out visually. Something that helped me out when I first started was making a pinterest board. It was very useful to put together a visual library to help gestate my ideas and vision for the story.

The inspiration of the witch was the folk tale character Baba Yaga, so that was a starting place for her and, since her home is an extension of her, figuring out the cottage. Down to earth, practical, with an agelessness to them. The Witch doesn't share her home with others so everything in it is suited to her. But it's also warm and cozy, since the cottage serves as a safe space for the characters to talk and rest. Getting reference photos helped a lot in imagining the home and making it feel lived-in.

You can also see me finding a couple of photos that helped my picture the character Tristan and his big feather cloak and other illustrations/photos reflect the world I wanted to create. A dark ancient setting with strangeness and sense of whimsy. Like a sad fairytale.

Don't be afraid to look at movies, books, paintings, etc when finding visual inspiration! For another project, a colored comic based in the Salem Witch trials, I was taking screenshots from the movie VVitch to copy the palette lol. Be a scavenger! Do studies! Take pieces of everything around you to make something unique!

After that, I admit, a lot of it was a lot of sketching, Drawing out ideas, figuring out vibes, I took a pen to cheap sketchbook and just brainstormed. This is how I often bang out design- just keep drawing them until it feels right. It feels a bit like carving away at clay to find the statue underneath. I like designing with a pen because it keeps me from getting too precious with the drawings. These sketches are meant for exploring, not for drawing anything nice yet.

(I know there was a lot more than this but I can't find those files now rip)

I also say- you don't have to figure everything out before you start drawing. It's great to get used to drawing your characters and maybe a blue layout of certain rooms, but it's not 100% needed.

I've seen comic artists obsess over perfecting character sheets and concept art and never actually starting the comic. I've never made a character sheet unless a job demanded I did.

I'm sure there is some pithy quote here I could use, but I find so much of comics to be improv based on what a scene needs lol. If the characters go to the other side of a room that I didn't design, I will probably just find a decent reference (thank you pinterest) sketch it out, and use that.

This really is a great representation of my process 80% of the time.

Whew that ended up being long lol. Sorry about that. But I hope it was helpful at all!

[tjemegames]

HSR: 2.4.1 AS, 2.4.1 PF, & 2.4.2 MoC Recaps

Another patch has come and gone which means it is once again time for me, your resident yapper, to talk about my endgame experience.

As previously mentioned in my last EGC recap post, the format for these has changed; I’ll be walking you through my thoughts and feelings for the last cycle of all three modes in this post. The sections were drafted out on the days that I completed the challenges (unlike past recaps), so you’re getting a better insight this time around.

I’ve also started filming my clears for the highest level of each mode because it seemed like a fun thing to include: the videos are meant to be a visual representation of my struggles/triumphs within the hardest parts of endgame. These videos are not guides; they’re just the raw footage of my completion runs, and solely intended for the enjoyment of anyone who might be interested in that type of thing. The videos are hosted on my YouTube so I’ll embed all three of them here (the section headings will also lead to them just in case something glitches out) for quick access.

As always, apologies for the image distortion: long photos and Tumblr do not mix well.

Alright, with all that out of the way, the yapping begins under the cut!

2.4.1 Apocalyptic Shadow

Dominated Evils was a very fitting name for this cycle of AS. Overall, it wasn’t very difficult to complete; I got my twelve stars within a total of three challenge waves!

I probably could’ve finished with two waves, but I decided to try the follow-up buff; relying on Aventurine was not the way to go here, I should've changed to the basic atk + additional dmg to weakness broken enemies buff. I won’t lie to you, DHIL dying (I wasn’t paying attention to my shield duration) and Hanya being slower than Tingyun during my initial attempt were also large factors in needing to reset. Once my relics were adjusted accordingly, I was able to put in a decent attempt.

Aventurine was very helpful for resisting Kafka’s domination and avoiding being frozen by the elites. I'm glad that the eff res buff from his shields worked in my favor on this side; if DHIL had gotten cc’d it would've set me back even more than I already was with the bad plays I was making. I should've reset when I messed up my rotation at 1655 AV, but I was being stubborn, so it is what it is.

Here are the builds I used for IV-I:

The Doomsday Beast felt much easier to deal with. Not sure if it’s because the team was better or simply because I was able to dispel any cc that happened with Gallager. The ease could also have been attributed to the fact that I didn’t have to think about skill points (thanks to Boothill’s e1) and knew exactly how my rotation was going to go regardless of how things played out. At the end of the day, this side carried the overall run and, ultimately, got me 27 points over the score that I needed to get. I could always try again to see if a better score is attainable, but I’ve already gotten the rewards so there’s no incentive left to make that worthwhile.

These are the builds I used for IV-II:

800 jades down, and two more endgame modes left for this cycle. Hopefully we’re in for another queen sweep!

Oh hey, look who’s back. Aha. So, there may not have been any incentive to try for a better score, but that didn't stop me from being motivated into doing so by the DHIL clear one of my discord friends did. Since I'm not usually one for “casual gaming” (which is not causal in the slightest), I only gave myself 12 reset attempts to achieve as high of a score as possible on IV-I:

First three resets: +203 points, bringing me up to 3198

Next three: +97 more points, taking me up to a grand total of 3295 (yippee!)

Last six: absolutely abysmal, I got endlessly cc’d and DHIL/Tingyun got obliterated every other run

Sadly, I couldn’t get to 7K points like I had been hoping, but I’m still pumped to have gotten as close as I did. And, on top of that, taking a second crack at IV-I allowed me to get new (shorter, far less embarrassing) footage of my DHIL clear. Doing so meant that I had to re-edit and re-upload the video for it; that was probably for the better though, nobody needed to watch me poorly battle Kafka for twelve minutes...

Anyway, that’s officially a wrap on AS for this patch!

Um, hey again. When I was reviewing the challenge data for the last set of attempts, I realized that I never changed my chosen buff for the first side (please hold for the internalized screaming at my unintentional self-sabotage.) Naturally, I gave AS one more shot with the correct buff equipped:

First reset: +46 points, bringing me up to 6973

Final reset: +153 points, making a grand total of 7126 (yippee! but with more excitement)

Over 7K points achieved! I'm free, for real this time. Can't believe I let the casual gaming demons get to me for Apocalyptic Shadow of all things. I think it's safe to say that I've sufficiently played though this mode for this patch. I'm interested to see what they do with the next one. My money is currently on having to fight Yanqing. We'll see if I was right about that in the next one of these.

What’s poppin’? It’s been two weeks, and I found myself back in AS because I rolled a great new piece for my resident dragon boy, Mr. Daniel Heng, the cuntiest dragon on the silver rails. I can’t add the build showcase here—I’ll hit my image limit early if I do—but trust me when I say it was a solid upgrade: the head rolled well enough to bump me up by 51 places on the SeeleLand leaderboards. I’m currently ranking in the top 1% of DHIL players (in my area) using the same build—number 26 to be exact! The new ranking motivated another set of runs out of me and I was able to increase my overall AS score by 102 points:

IV-I: Kafka vs e2 DHIL, e2 Hanya, e6 Tingyun, e0s1 Aventurine (3515 points)

IV-II: Doomsday Beast vs e2s1 Boothill, e1s1 Ruan Mei, e1 Bronya, e6 Gallagher (3713 points)

Totaling out for a final grand score of 7228 points with 25 cumulative challenge attempts! Great stuff, a genuinely fun time: Apocalyptic Shadow is quickly working its way towards being my favorite of the endgame modes. Since I’m quite satisfied with how everything played out, that’s a wrap on this section!

I also recorded a Honkai: Support Rail bonus run of IV-I with E4 Dan Heng (4-star) if you’re interested in seeing that!

2.4.1 Pure Fiction

Words of Deceit was [redacted colorful complaining]. I didn't think it was possible for my hatred towards PF to increase, but here we are. I’ll admit that it was partially my fault for being both sleepy and hangry. I’d argue that it was mostly the whimsicality's fault for being rather ineffective overall, felt like sabotage to me. It's fine though, I managed to obtain all twelve stars within ten attempts (yippee!)

Clearing this time around would've been a lot worse without team suggestions from discord—big shoutout and thanks to the folks there for their encouragement and assistance!

So, this PF was the fastest I've ever cleared. It was also the most frustrated I've been whilst playing this mode. Usually, the struggle only applies to stage IV; this time around, stage III was the reason for my infuriation. I sincerely don't know what came over me, but I was malding enough to have to force myself to go back to sleep. I tried four different teams and couldn't hit 60K points: the closest I came was just over 59K and that was with all of my focus and Frankensteining together better builds for every character that I tried to use. It was tragic to say the least. Ultimately, sleep, food, fresh eyes, and the 8th attempt were the saving graces that allowed me to move on to the true challenge, stage IV.

Stage IV took significantly less tries; I only ended up taking two attempts to get the three-star clear! Aside from having to change my buffs and making sure that my speed tuning was right for IV-II, I didn't have to put in all that much effort. Still a bit baffled by that if I'm being honest: I thought I was in for a very tumultuous experience considering how the previous stage had gone. Thankfully, that was not the case, and I can move on from this for the time being.

These are the builds I used for IV-I:

Some of Herta’s stat information is incorrect because she was actually lvl 60 at the time of this run; Fribbels only generates maxed out showcases and I wanted the pictures to match. :)

These are the builds I used for IV-II:

Not the best, not the worst. I got it done and that's really all that matters. Another 800 jades added to the Sparkle funds!

Well, well, well, look how the turn tables. Hello again, it's been a few weeks since wrapping up my clear. I pulled Sparkle, motivating me to go back into PF for some casual gaming (I know, two endgame modes in a row—I've stumbled down a dark path this patch.) This third round of attempts went much worse than I was hoping for. I did manage to get a better clear, so I decided to have that be my representational video instead. It took so many tries that I'm afraid to go look at the updated info on Hoyolab. I think it's better for my overall happiness and sanity if I let that remain a mystery—high score chasing at its finest (I have so many regrets. Why did I do this to myself?)

In the end, I was able to increase my score by 4129 points:

IV-I: Kafka vs e1s1 Ruan Mei, e0 Seele, e0s1 Aventurine, e6 Herta (40000 points)

IV-II: Cocolia vs e1 Bronya, e6 Asta, e6 Gallagher, e6 Serval (27805 points)

I went through a good amount of team lineups, relic swapping, buff changing, and character upgrading to make this happen. Desperate times called for desperate measures, I was so hung up on getting a better clear that I leveled Herta to 80 and 6/10/10/11'd her traces. I had not planned on doing that for at least a couple more patches since her relics are still a bit trash, but it was the most effective option that I had at the time. Doing so made getting to 40K points on IV-I possible, which was most of the point increase, so I'd say it was worth it.

Now, IV-II was painful. I can't explain my thought process here because there wasn't really one to begin with. Serval gaming is fine for what it is. I genuinely do not think that it was possible for me to hit 30K on this side at all. Don't doubt that I tried every sensible double dps comp that I could, because I did, and failed miserably. Swapping Aventurine and Gallagher didn't work; using Sparkle didn't work; hell, even stealing the entirety of Seele's team didn't work! I don't know what else I could've done… and I'm over it, so we're moving on.

At the end of this excursion, I don't have anything good to say about PF. It does not spark joy for me. Hopefully that changes some day; Himeko will save me once she decides to grace me with her presence, she is the vital unit that I am missing to achieve greatness. Until then, I'll just have to ride with it. I'll keep working on my characters and, eventually, clearing will go better for me.

That's a wrap on this section. I'm 1000% burnt out on PF after this whole ordeal. I don't want to think about it anymore.

2.4.2 Memory of Chaos

The Big Sleep was a snoozefest: I got all twelve stars without any resets this time around! And I four-cycled floor XII for the first time! You absolutely love to see it. I can't believe that just nine months ago I couldn't even get through floor VIII without wanting to cry from frustration. Oh, how the times have changed.

Since this challenge flew by with ease, I don’t have much to say about it. I was a big fan of the buff this time around; I love it when the buff is universal and aligns with pretty much anyone I want to play with. I foresee a lot of casual gaming in my future.

With the help of my newest addition, Sparkle, I was able to clear the first half with renewed efficiency. Daniel and Hanya have been separated after nine months of partnership, it feels so good to no longer have to hyperactively think about my skill point usage. I knew that Sparkle was going to be a large upgrade for my DHIL team, but I didn’t think she would shave off four cycles worth of turns (and I haven’t even finished her build yet! Like huh??? She’s great, I’m a big fan.)

Here are the builds I used for XII-I:

The second side faired just about as well as the first. Boothill shredded Aventurine down before he even got the chance to take me into a showdown. As much as I love Aven, I hate his boss form, so it felt incredibly satisfying to enact my revenge on him after struggling so much against him the first time he was introduced into endgame. No more are the days of having to make Jingliu brute force her way through the dice rolls (thank the Aeons!)

These are the builds I used for XII-II:

Another one for the books! Got the final 800 jades for this patch, this time to be added to the Feixiao funds (yes, I’m pulling for her now. You may call me a hypocrite this once. I will be betraying Danny boy by going for a new and improved wind hunt unit. This is a stain on my pride as a four-star Dan stan; unfortunately for him, Feixiao’s hot, clever, strong, one hell of a badass General with dope animations and a back tattoo that fucking glows, brother. What kind of gay would I be if I didn’t at least throw a solid 50 or so pulls in her direction? Have you seen the lesbian kryptonite of a banner lineup that’s coming in 2.5?? It’ll be a miracle if I go into 2.6 with any savings at all!)

Surprise, surprise, the prodigal gamer returns. Did you really think I was going to one and done this mode after casual gaming all patch long? Not much to report aside from going back in with my original teams to try for a cleaner run. My efforts were well worth it, I managed to shave off a cycle from my original clear, netting me with my first ever three-cycle in MoC 12 (yippee!)

The buff this patch is way too good to pass up on doing some other experimentational runs—I'll be doing them in a separate post sometime in the next week or so, be on the lookout!

Whoop whoop! We're officially wrapped on all the endgame modes for 2.4! What a yapfest this was, I cannot believe I prattled on for this long. If you made it all the way here, thanks for sticking with me until the end. I'll catch y'all in about six weeks for the next recap.

[preciadosbass]

15/8/24 [1 DIY/2, if you concider the jacket diy due to the custom aspects + got 2 CDS!! key & significant photos at end]

reguarding the end of yesterdays journal, the update for when i actually went to sleep was 3:40-50. i woke up today at 8, fed boris and briefly said goodmorning to him, checked my socials, and got to adding a new addition to the things i post. i’ve decided to do weekly recaps/highlights to focus on the cool things i’ve done because i can imagine most people dont want to read the long journals i write and find out if there’s anything interesting hidden in there. i therefore started screenshotting parts of my previous journals to write it down and make a draft/drafts. at 9:20 i started making just random drafts, like unposted pictures ive taken at reptile experience, things like that.

AND saw the new gerard way sighting via my tumblr feed!! apparently he was at the cinema again XD — at 9:30 i started downloading drawing references of my fav musicians and got to drawing my killjoy oc again at the same sort of time. i finished at 10:30 and had to keep on redrawing stuff before uploading it to my phone because i couldn’t find a layer id drawn scribbles on so i could delete it lmaoo // i’m not really happy with how it came out, look for more than a quarter of a millisecond and you notice everything wrong with it. hopefully if i keep up drawing everyday i’ll improve.

i cant expect much from a second time drawing since like 4 years ago but i’m just disappointed. everyone else on here is so talented *cries /hj* i scrolled on scenemo-related posts on my tiktok feed until getting ready to go out. i didn’t plan on going out today, mostly because i thought i’d be sleeping all day, but i didn’t have the urge to go back to sleep so i tagged along to see some family with my parents. i got dressed into my dark cargo jorts [told you i’d be wearing these a lot] and my skinless shirt, as that and my silent hill shirt are the only ones that go with the cargos. i also accidentally forgot all of my bracelets, so i felt naked the entire time i was out. 11:20, i went outside with boris.

he was SO affectionate and spent the whole time i was out there circling around me while pressing his-self onto my back and then going over to my hand to nudge it, and prompt me to stroke him. he’s like this almost all the time but something about it today just made me more happy than usual. i literally couldnt stop smiling. like he was propped up on me that’s so adorable 😭. i must’ve looked crazy to all the people driving past though. i stayed out until 12:10 when i had to leave.

i went out to see my grandad at his assisted living facility, his daughter [my distant aunt], and my other grandad, of whom i didn’t know was coming until we got there. i listened to underoath and paramore during the car ride and we got there at 12:30. i was greeted by the care home’s cat and with my grandad [the one who lives independently] WITH LITERALLY JUST HIS FRONT TEETH AND NO OTHER ONES APART FROM HIS BOTTOM SET 😭 he talked about something to do with this when i came round his house not too long ago but i thought he’d have more than two?? just joking, he found it funny i was surprised too.

the care home had this outside music thingy on so me, my mum, and my mums dad sat in the garden while my aunt and dad wheeled my grandad down to our table. he wasn’t as unresponsive as he sometimes is today. it was clear he tried to make conversation and said a few things which were just so - him. [he has dementia and dosent usually speak/has little to no mobility to an extent/has been this way since i can remember etc. just tryna give you an idea of why this was amazing.] a few times he came out with like, full sentences, which was nice to hear. my aunt also gave me the can tabs shes been collecting for me. me and my dad left to go charity shopping [thrifting] at 2, while the others stayed. we went into at least seven/eight and in the third i found an evanescence cd RAA - such a good find. not even a minute later my dad pointed out an avril lavigne cd which i also took and bought.

i cant wait to play them both, i just need to find something to do while listening. i’m bad at just listening to music without another task, i end up focusing on my thoughts and not taking in or processing any of the lyrics etc. me and dad walked back to the home and sat with the others for a bit before my dad and aunt took my grandad back up to the living room area. to be fair it was getting colder and we had to head off anyways. he didn’t like the lift very much but they eventually got him into his signature chair around all of his housemates and i said goodbye to him. i gave him a hug and he kissed me on the top of my head without any prompt whatsoever, which was heartwarming. we starting driving back at 3 and i listened to gerard way on the way home before having not even a minute long nap.

we got home at 3:10 and boris was so happy to see me. he ran up to the car once we’d parked and meowed at me while lifting up his head for me to stroke it. i stayed outside with him and added the new can tabs to my tab bracelet. it was enough to finish it so i tied it off and it’s a perfect fit. its big enough to go down my arm a bit, but not big enough to fall off my wrist. at 4:50 i randomly sparked an idea to make an upcycled necklace with one of my favourite musicians on it. i didn’t have any pictures of jaime or chi that were small enough to fit on a bottlecap, so i resorted to a print of kellin quinn. my dad drilled holes through a corona bottlecap and once he was done i used mod-podge to still the picture onto it. i left it to dry on a book and went back outside with boris.

he came inside to sit on the table so i also sat there with him until around 7:20 as my phone ran out. while i was sitting with him however, i attempted to draw my killjoy oc again. its honestly embarrassing so i’m never letting anyone see it and i hope i neevr do again — but it’s a shame because i genuinely thought it’d turn out alright. in my room i checked to see if my necklace had dried [it had], doomscrolled on tiktok, and saved outfit inspo. this lasted up until 8:30 and at this time i got dressed again to try on one of the outfits in question, just so i knew how it looked on me so i can wear it the next time i do something.

the outfit was: [there’s a photo at the end but you can’t see a few things because of the lighting] a sleeping with sirens shirt, with a long sleeved burgundy shirt underneath it rolled up to just above my elbows. with my can tab bracelet, a studded single rowed cuff, a wooden bracelet, a string bracelet consisting of lots of shades of blue, an earth colour schemed crystal ball bracelet, ripped skinny jeans, and a sleeping with sirens band bracelet. after taking photos for journal reference and so i don’t forget anything when i wear it, i found a plain black zip up jacket. i took a few pins off my backpack and added them to the pockets and neck piece/line.

they consisted of: a saw pin, a paper clip with the gay flag on [again, not even really because i’m gay - i just love the colours, a paper clip with a black stone/crystal sphere attatched, a pin implying taxidermy, a kellin quinn pin, and a pentagram pin. i tried it on, and maybe it’s just because of the general heat [although i tried it on at night and my room dosent have a working radiator or anything] but it warms me up almost immediately. which is great because i haven’t worn a coat since i started dressing alt and im always cold. i did all of the above while listening to my new evanescence cd — my favourite song from the album hasnt changed, its imaginary. afterwards i went out to the kitchen table and sat with boris.

my sister suddenly [i say suddenly, she’s always like this - which is why it’s so draining.] started screaming at the top of her lungs and jumping and punching the floor [the ceiling above the kitchen] and it was terrifying boris and archie. boris was already panicking, and then it set off the dog because he must’ve thought someone was dying. it was deafening. i went upstairs, frustrated, because she genuinely acts like she dosent share a house with anyone else and screams while gaming everyday; despite also being told to quiet down everyday. she also knows how loud she’s being, and how sound sensitive me and the animals are. anyway, i asked her to be quiet because she’s scaring boris [in an slight angry tone, because it was angering. but not like, anywhere near shouting.] and she replied with something along the lines of ‘no im not, and i don’t care.’

i told her to stop again and she shook her head and continued speaking to whoever she was playing a game with. i just said her name, again, implying for her to stop and she smirked and started waving at me. i said ‘what is wrong with you?’, she told me she hates me, and i walked off. then i cried for like 30mins because i felt guilty about saying that. i’m just really sick and tired of my cat, who lives here, feeling scared in his own home because of her. aswell as me, i also feel on edge here because of the whole screaming thing, and how angry she gets over it when she’s told to shut her door or quiet down. [shutting doors dosent make a difference though, as our house is from the 1800s and the walls are paper thin.] i carried on accompanying boris and made a couple of gerard way gifs at 11.

i went into my room for a split second and when i came back i saw that boris was sitting in corner beside the doorway of the kitchen. which i immediately thought was really weird, and then i saw that he’d been sick. i called my dad because i don’t know how to clean stuff like that up from our old floors and tried my best to comfort him. he wasn’t really having it, which makes sense because he obviously couldn’t have been feeling good. it was a hairball, thankfully [and unkthankfully, of course], most likely due to him licking/biting out lots of his hair because of the bugs from outside getting on him. my mum will be giving him treatment for it soon, it’s just always trouble when its applied, because he gets very agitated and one he runs away, your not getting another chance. and if you do get through to him and apply the treatment, you can’t really fuss him for over a day.

which is such an obstacle for me because i try my best to spend a lot, if not all, of my free time with him. he kept on wanting to go outside afterwards, so i left him to his own devices as he was still quite skittish over being around anyone. at 12:20 i was in my room after checking if he wanted to come in, when i decided i was gunna nap. i slept on and off for 10 minutes before my mum came back from being out with her friend. i napped again, this time on and off for 15-20 minutes. she came back once id woken up and let boris in with her. he straight away had something to eat at the bowls outside my room’s door and was purring. my mum told me that it was raining outside so i felt terrible that id accidentally left him out there while i slept. hopefully he managed to get under my dads car/the bit over the front door but he was clearly wet.

i attempted to fuss him and apologise. i spoke to my mum about why i think he’s not okay and then got the yes to coming up and doing the questions. on the way upstairs, boris followed me round the living room and onto the living room table. he put his head back for me to stroke it and purred again. which sort of gave me the idea that he was/is feeling better, which i hope with every part of me is the case. upon going up to ask the questions, my sister got into a huge heated argument with my parents over some update that’s coming to one of the game she plays tomorrow. she said that it’s being released at 4am our [UK] time.

my mum said my sister could put an alarm on her phone, but she said that it won’t wake her up and started begging my parents to wake up at 4 to get her up. they said no and she started screaming and everything. she finally went into her room after my dad looked it up and found out it’s allegedly happening at 9, so she got her phone back for 10 minutes to put on another alarm and tell her friend that the original time is most likely wrong. i started doing my questions after my sister agreed she wouldn’t disrupt them and everything would still be okay, even though she’s not supposed to be awake when i do things like this. mainly because of change in routine.

i started doing my questions and she came into my parents room and i had to stop. she eventually left after kind of verifying that didn’t mess everything up and i finished doing my questions. i actually managed to get downstairs at 2:25, so that’s also when i finished them. it took longer that it should’ve because of the really long argument and after boris being sick, i had even more reasons to believe he isn’t okay. and, my parents didn’t ask me to do them until quite late. i went on to pour myself some icy water, feed boris, do my teeth, and then say goodnight to boris.

i showed him what i’d done today and fed him his treats like always. he was purring like crazy throughout the whole time i was speaking to him which made me feel really relaxed. i finished at an unknown time [i thought i logged it but apparently not] and went to sleep at 4:10.

🗝️ — boris/my cat, archie/immediate family’s dog, questions [about boris]/i ask my parents questions about my cat to verify he’s okay + will be okay in the morning. its a compulsive thing and i’m hopefully going to be tested for OCD in the future.

have a good day/night O_o

[goose-books]

goose-books productions: a 2020 review

view the image in higher quality here! (open the image in a new tab to zoom in.) thank you to my dearest @yvesdot for the template

transcripts and month-by-month details under the cut! for reference, you can find my projects here :-) overall, new and old followers, thank you for another good year over here! [holds your hand] [holds your hand] [holds your hand] [holds your h

january

i spent late 2019-early 2020 working on 2019’s nano project, quark, aka the speculative fiction thing about new york city and prophets and dissections of the chosen one trope and gay people. quark is my second-oldest project (five years!), but it’s also probably the most ambitious, so it’s been... difficult to wrangle into place, and i didn’t end up finishing a first draft. oh, well.

enjoy a snippet that is devastatingly emblematic of everything about quark. the tone. the homoerotic tension. the ensemble cast all talking over each other. the fact that caelum has spent pretty much this entire scene crying. fun autopsy report meeting.

Marble stares at the notebook in Shade’s hands. Or maybe he’s staring at Shade’s hands. Dawn feels a little voyeuristic, so she does what she does and says a dumb and unrelated thing: “Augustus, I think this pizza-on-the-floor thing is hurting my ass.”

Augustus flutters his hands. “Sometimes nonconformity is painful.”

“At least we’re originals,” Caelum mumbles into his sleeve.

“Exactly,” Augustus says.

“True originality doesn’t exist,” Marble says.

“Oh,” Shade deadpans, “it’s going to be a fun autopsy report meeting.”

It isn’t.

february

in january i stressed myself out trying to make the plot of quark work. so in february, i decided to take some time and write something Entirely For Fun. like, entirely for fun, no rules. and. my god. how do i explain the project i started calling “third eye for the bad guy.”

it was an unholy mashup of many of my past hyperfixations, including the gone series, a tale of two cities, warrior cats, and the left hand of darkness. one of the characters was a canon scalie and one was a canon fictionkinnie. it centered around a polycule of wannabe-evil-overlord high schoolers. i only wrote like three chapters but i was lost in the sauce for all of february and then i just… like… wiped it from my mind and moved on? somehow??? one character was a werewolf and that literally wasn’t relevant at ALL

I.

Someone was going to die on these steps.

This had been Ivy Lee Palomo’s thought last year during the all-school photo, and it rose in her mind again now. The one hundred marble stairs leading up to the great double doors of Saint Constantine Academy were the school’s pride and glory, steep as the mountain, sharp as the blade under Ivy Lee’s skirt. With the cutting wind and snow glazing the stone more often than not, with the freshmen wild and wired on their first day of their first year, it was really only a matter of time before someone slipped and cracked their fucking head open.

It wasn’t going to be her. Not when she had Doc Martens and reflexes like an electric coil. Still. Ivy Lee didn’t want to watch someone die. She didn’t get along with dead people.

march

in march, i got back to the project i’d started in 2019 - AMT, my podcast! it’s a shakespeare retelling set in a modern high school; this excerpt is funnier and also more unnerving in context. (double, double, toil and trouble...)

INDRAJIT: What the hell are you doing?

[PAUSE.]

DEE (like she’s lying): Making pasta.

[ALL THREE OF THEM LAUGH.]

NONA: That’s right.

MORA: We have the keys to Mab’s office.

DEE: We’re using her stove.

NONA: To make pasta.

DEE: Do you want some?

[A TENSE PAUSE.]

INDRAJIT: No.

april

and darkling rears its head! all of my other projects have existed for at least a year; darkling (specfic king lear retelling) is... special. it was conceived in april, when i started hyperfixating on king lear, and i still managed to write an absolutely ridiculous amount of content for it. it was like the power of hyperfixation let me speedrun the entire process. which. okay.

iv: control

They say Cressida Stayer was nine years old when she turned her hair to gold. They laid her down in bed blonde, and the next morning, the waves cascading down her shoulders were solid metal, glinting harshly in the sunlight, weighing her down, creating that odd head-cocked expression she still wears now. Nine years old. Two or three years before most people develop enough magic skills to dye a single curl. Much less transfigure their hair into precious metal.

People also say Leovald Stayer’s immediate reaction was to hack it off her head and melt it down for cash. But generally they say that part a lot quieter.

may

in may i wrote AMT episode 15, by which i mean that in may there was a day when i sat in my room with the door shut for literally five straight hours listening to the same three songs on loop as i wrote the climax of one of the plotlines of AMT. so. that sure was… a day.

ISAAC: Do you want… do you want someone to drive you home? Hawk, you’re worrying me -

HAWK (almost cutting him off): Don’t. Don’t say that. I’m here to help. With your… thing.

ISAAC (quietly): I… don’t know if you should be here to see this.

HAWK (a little louder, more audibly upset): Well - what else am I going to do? Go home and - and have my dads talk at me and - and not be able to answer them? Because I can’t? I can’t. I don’t know what to say.

[PAUSE.]

ISAAC (V.O.): I wonder if this is what he feels like, on the outside, looking in at me. Watching someone else hurting. Helpless and afraid.

He still fits perfectly in my arms. I rest my chin on top of his head and pull him close to me, like I can stop him from shaking, like I can stop anything from happening the way I know it’s going to. I bury my face in his hair. He smells so familiar. He’s so warm.

God, Hawk. I love you so much. You shouldn’t be here to see this. Something bad’s gonna happen. And you’re not the kind of person who belongs in a tragedy.

june

okay, honestly, i should talk about “night shift” here, because in june i wrote a whole short story in one night (and then foamed over it for a week), but i am still in the process of submitting it places! so i am terrified to put even a sentence of it online. instead: the other thing i did this month was to finish AMT! (sixteen episodes and somewhere around 175k, iirc, but don’t quote me.) these lines are the opener to the final episode!

RAHMA (V.O.): The combined series of sophomore year disasters stretched through November. It’s June now. It’s taken me… a long time to get this all put together. I was going to make a vlog about it, initially - well, calling it a vlog sounds frivolous. I was going to make a video recounting the whole deal. All of it. From when I kissed Avery Fairchilde to the very last night. I scripted dozens of drafts; I put together dozens of bullet-pointed lists of what to cover… and it was never enough. Because Avery and I weren’t the only ones involved. Even if I was only focused on the two of us, it wasn’t just the two of us.

So… I gathered up everyone else. The whole town of Ellisburg is still talking about the week the town went crazy, but it wasn’t just a week. There was a lot leading up to it. And I think if anyone’s going to talk about it, it should be us. The people who lived it. So here we are. The most ambitious Rahma Ashiq production of all time - at least so far.

july

every july i pause whatever else i’m doing to celebrate the birthday of aurum & argentate, twins from my oldest and dearest WIP The Mortal Realm. july fifteenth! mark your calendars. they’re princes, though argentate would really rather not be; you can read the full birthday piece here.

“Do you… plan to get dressed?” A bit of the usual humor crept back into Aurum’s voice. “Although if you want to speak to the kingdom in your underthings, by all means, you have my full support.”

Argentate scrubbed at his face. He wasn’t dressed, no, but the usual malaise hung over his shoulders like a cloak. Guilt. Nerves. The sick sense that he hadn’t done something he was supposed to. The numb knowledge that it was too late to change a thing.

“I meant to,” he said. “Get dressed, I mean.” The rest went unsaid: I have just been sitting here. On the floor. Thinking about how I should get dressed.

“Ah,” Aurum said, extending his hand. “The traditional route. We’ll save the nude speeches for the future, then.”

Argentate took his hand, stumbling a little as Aurum pulled him to his feet. He steadied himself on the closest wall, taking a few deep breaths. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. His hands found their way to the cross, again and again.

august

this summer, i wrote an entire draft of Valentine Van Velt is Dead, AKA “holden caulfield goes to exposure therapy,” AKA the weird little personal side project i keep tucked into my coat. interesting features include second-person narration from a narrator who doesn’t like the main character all that much. so reading it is kind of like the book wants to kill you? with an added dash of general melancholy.

You used to live here. That’s the thing that’s got you feeling so off.

You didn’t recognize your old house. I mean, you kind of did. You remembered that the road was on a hill. That hill felt like a goddamn forty-five degree angle when you were a kid. But if you didn’t have the address written down you wouldn’t have known it at all. It would have been just another little suburban house in rows of perfect little towns that make your skin crawl.

So now you’re in this diner looking out a gross smudgy window trying to block out the elevator music pumping through the speakers in the ceiling or whatever. I don’t know how speakers work. You’re trying to tune that shit out. The waitress comes over and catches you by surprise so you just point at some coffee thing on the menu so she’ll go away. For the record: you don’t drink coffee.

There’s a public library across the street. A little square building. You probably used to go there. The lady comes over and thunks your coffee on the table and gives you a kind of look, like she wants to know what in the goddamn hell you think you’re doing here and not at school. You sip your coffee and look out the window until she leaves you alone again. And then you spit it back into the cup because, for the record: you don’t drink coffee.

september

i spent september and october prepping for nano, so i was mostly working on darkling...

It’s late spring; still, at this time of night, on a rooftop, there’s a chill. The wind plays with the end of Ruby’s coat, with her hair. She hands the bottle off to Jasper, stares up at the fogged-over sky, wishes she were lying in Dany’s arms in Dany’s bed instead of here. Wishes, even, that Dany were the one on the roof with her. At least then they’d be cold together. At least then she wouldn’t have to imagine what Dany would say; she could just listen, and watch Dany’s flashing smile and her flinty eyes.

(She cuddles. This is another thing Dany does that Dany probably shouldn’t do, based on everything about Dany; it’s not like rattlesnakes cuddle. But Dany likes to nuzzle into Ruby’s side and rest her head on Ruby’s collarbones and toss an arm over Ruby’s chest, and hold her down like she’s worried she’ll float off somewhere. She’ll card her fingers through Ruby’s hair and hum. Even though they could get caught, even though she’s probably got better places to be - Dany cuddles.)

Ruby imagines it, momentarily, both of them on the roof together, sprawled like horrifyingly beautiful gargoyles, sharp teeth flashing, blood running hot. Up here - it’d be like they ruled the world.

But whatever. Jasper’s fun. He’s hot. He’s got a sharp tongue in a lot more ways than one. And she likes when he lets the mask down. She likes seeing the soft bits underneath. She wants to sink her teeth and nails into them so hard she draws blood. Masks don’t bleed. Ruby would know; that’s why she is what she is.

october

...though i was also in creative writing class in school, and thus ended up writing a bunch of poems of varying quality (my teacher had a real thing for poetry) and also one darklingverse short story where rory and cressida hold hands! which you can find here.

Lorelai Rory Flowers is afraid of thunder.

This is a bit of an embarrassing thing to admit, as they’re seventeen (“at least seventeen,” they like to tell people, “maybe two hundred, who’s to say?”) and generally wise beyond their years, or whatever it is that adults say about kids with too much psychological baggage. Being afraid of thunder is not a very wise-beyond-one’s-years trait. And yet the state of affairs remains: loud noises make Rory want to melt into the earth. Back when they still went to school, even the fire alarm sent them scuttling under their desk to hide.

Right now, in the elevator, all they can do is shrink into their sweater.

They haven’t let go of Cressida’s hand yet.

november

and then november of course was nano which was an adventure all the way through. (opening tumblr on the fifth day of nano to find out about d*stiel... was something.)

“Apologize to me. Or get out of my house.”

Gracen’s voice is very, very low. For a moment she thinks he hasn’t heard her at all. Then he spins, eyes blazing. “What did you say?”

Gracen watches her own chest heave. She pushes herself up off the desk, stands with the effort of pushing a mountain off of her back. Leovald is six-foot-four. Gracen is six-foot-two. In her heels, in the heels she must wear to be a professional woman, to be a lady - they are the same height.

Gracen wipes her nose. When she lowers her arm, there’s a streak of blood across the back of her hand. Fire shivers in her chest; her heart rings in her ears; her voice could cut steel.

“I said,” she says, low, slow, volume building, “apologize to me. Or get. Out. Of. My. House.”

december

and finally, the poem i posted this year! it’s called the beast sonnet, and you can find it in its own post over here (with commentary! how sexy.)

i kill the beast and drop down to my knees, my blade stained dark with blood of stygian hue, and for a moment these scarred hands shake free, and hold a world unfurled for me anew. but once-mourned victims, victors, vices find; fear winged me; now its absence strips me bare. my sword now dulls, my legs, my voice, my mind; the beast, pried from my throat, leaves no skill there. and still i hear it laugh, O DEVOTEE— O CHILD DEAR, NO GLORY WITHOUT ME.

i was quite productive this year; i have to think it was because i was avoiding things... the peak of my productivity happened over the summer and in november, AKA, college app hell. (almost done with the last applications! pray for me.)

a general breakdown of what occupied me this year:

(no, i don’t know why the “various other things” category ended up so large... i blame all the one-off projects i wrote a single page for, and also whatever the fuck happened in february. yes, i do know why it looks hideous; it’s because each of my WIPs has a theme color

thank you once again for spending some time at goose-books dot gov this year! what to expect for next year: well, i very much hope i can produce AMT... also hoping to get darkling ready for beta readers, so keep your eyes out!

[bangtans-peaceful-piegon]

My Cup of Tea: Prologue

My Cup Of Tea: Prologue | YoongixReader

Warnings for this Chapter: none, just a post-breakup suffering OC who is saved by a whole Min Yoongi

“Coffee is bitter, so people add a little bit of sugar or creamer until it suits their taste. However, once it’s added it can’t be separated. It’s also addictive, it’s your choice to keep it as your poison or to control how much you take. Some people need it, some people don’t...In that case, it really isn’t their cup of tea.”

A/N: im finally deciding to post this after who knows how long sajkdfhd,, tysm for beta reading this for me @jtrbluv !!! again u were a huge help because the tag game you tagged me in gave me the final push to actually post this fic thats been collecting dust in my drafts. ily boo !!! <3 it also took a while because i wanted to do more research for this fic. i dont think ive read about or drank so much tea in my life for the past few months. pls enjoy the prologue everyone!

Word Count: 1,600+

You sat in the worn out leather booth, eyes trained on the steaming mug in front of you.

What just happened?

Something that took five years to grow ended in mere seconds.

Five years of dedication.

Five years of convincing yourself it would work out, that it could be fixed.

Five years spent on a relationship that should’ve ended before it began.

You mindlessly took a sip of your coffee hissing as the hot brew burnt your tongue, mind drifting back to the argument that occurred hours ago...

“You’re never here!”

“Was I not enough for you?”

“Where’s the old Y/N that I knew and loved?”

You weren’t sure about what was said after that except for... “I’m seeing someone else.”

The bruising pain on your tongue began to throb and you couldn’t help the tears that formed.

You never liked coffee, but the café was your favorite place. 

Perhaps it was the enticing aroma that attracted you every time you walked in, or maybe it was the cleverly thought out name that was in the form of childlike puns: Bearly Awake Brew.

Either way, you couldn’t despise coffee any more than you already did in this moment.

“Are you alright?”

You whipped your head up to see a man standing above you.

Through your bleary eyes you could make out a set of kind brown ones shielded by black frames which rested atop a boopable nose. On his head, a black mop of neatly trimmed hair along with soft cheeks paired with a soft jawline.

The man was dressed in a black turtle-neck and long-coat as if returning from a meeting discussing the newest stocks and bonds of business.

After a small, possibly noticeable, ogling of the stranger, you shook your head ‘no.’

He motioned to the seat across from you raising his brows inquisitively, “May I?” 

This time you slowly nodded.

He seemed harmless enough, and even if he tried anything there was pepper spray in your purse.

You sniffled as he took a seat.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“No y-you wouldn���t understand.” He leaned forward onto his elbows—a determined furrow in his brow.        

“Try me.”

Who was this guy? He didn’t come off as threatening but somewhat… familiar.

You couldn’t quite place his face or remember his name.

“Not yet, right now I just need a good cry,” you replied sinking further into your seat.

“Alright.” He said, shrugging and not saying much, or really, nothing.

He sat across from you— not making eye contact but quietly observing the café.

Several questions raised in your mind: Where did he come from? Why is he here of all places? Did someone send him with the intention to make you feel even more like a fool than you already did?

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” you asked when the silence became a little too long.

“No, not really...” he replied slowly. “Would you like me to leave?”

“No, I mean, it’s just-“ you hesitated, “You’re fine,”

“Ok then.”

Silence.

One look at him and it’d be hard to believe women find him approachable, but the man came up to you.

Much less, while you were on the verge of outright bawling in the middle of a café.

“What’s your name?” you asked, initiating conversation. You might as well since he was there.

“Yoongi. Yours?” You hesitated knowing it wasn’t fair to not give him your name.

“I’ll reassure you I’m not a stalker, at least not the bad kind.”

You let out an amused scoff, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He chuckles and you couldn’t help but enjoy the sound.

Were you really that joy deprived?

“Ok then, I’m Min Yoongi, and I’m a stocker. As in I distribute and track merchandise in stores.” he reaches a hand out to shake and you can’t help but stare at it.

“Well go on I won’t bite,” you huffed a laugh, taking his hand and shaking it.

He smiles and you can’t help but return it.

Who is this guy?

“Why don’t we go for a walk?”

You contemplate his offer.

You had just met him but you hadn’t had casual conversation in a while… or hung out with friends for that matter. So maybe it’d be good for you after-

“Sure let’s go,” You replied immediately while standing up, maybe a little too quickly— your chair scratching the wooden floors and making a startling sound as you headed to the door.

He raised his brows in surprise at the sudden burst of energy before trailing behind you, ignoring the stares of café patrons.

“Hey wait up!”

-

This was another reason why you visited the quaint coffee shop often.

The park outside was always bustling with life and energy.

There was a little pond where ducks would glide across its surface diving from time to time, scavenging for the weeds at the bottom, maybe even getting sustenance from people who were ignorant of the ‘Do not feed the ducks’ sign.

It also had an open field where locals and families would enjoy the hot summer days by setting up little camps with blankets and food or even play small games of football or soccer.

While children played in the vast expanse of green, parents would sit back and converse with strangers forming new friendships. It was a place of change and growth and you loved it.

“So,” Yoongi continued as you both walked down the dirt path, “other than your name, and why you were crying in my café, is there anything about you I have yet to know?” Your cheeks flushed red as you shifted your sight to the ground.

“There’s nothing much really,” you replied with a shrug before backtracking his sentence, “Wait, your café?”

“Don’t change the subject. There’s got to be one thing about you… how about your favorite color?”

You purse your lips at the dodging of the question, albeit a basic one, but it was a start. “I guess Rainbow,”

He nodded with a hum, “Wise choice,”

You let out a huff of amusement, “Alright wise guy, what’s yours?”

He pondered for a moment before affirmatively replying, “Black,”

You hummed. “Kind of... dark, isn’t it?”

He turned around and shrugged, “I’d say the rainbow but you took it already,”

You scoffed, resuming your place beside him.

He continued asking basic questions to which you replied and vice versa.

You liked dogs, but him on the other hand didn’t have a favorite animal, at least until he adopted a poodle which made him keen on the creatures, more specifically one named Holly.

You were allergic to bees and he was allergic to cats.

You both enjoyed a variation of music from rap to classical piano music, but the question also led to a debate on what artist is the most superior to all.

Neither of you won, and concluded neither lost with valid points made during said argument.

It only felt like minutes had gone by but wasn’t until you looked at the time that you realized how late it was.

The crowd at the park had begun to thin out while shops surrounding the area were beginning to close for the day.

The once bright sunlight began to fade behind clouds as it began its descent to the horizon.

“I should probably be heading home,” you cut in politely before he could delve into the topic of what they would do in a post-apocalyptic world.

“Oh,” he replied, obviously disappointed.

He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Well could I ask you one more thing?”

You nodded expecting it to be another ‘get to know you’ question or something along the lines of ‘if you had to would cut your arm or leg off?’ but it was something much more complicated.

“Can I get your number?”

You stiffened, unsure how to respond.

You weren’t sure if he was asking as a friend or a man with an ulterior motive.

Could you really do it?

Especially after you had just-

“I’m sorry that came out wrong,” He quickly mended, fumbling his words, realizing your distress.

“I think you’re really great, and I’d like us to continue talking. Just two people who enjoy each other’s company, you know?”

You looked up at him and saw he was offering to be friends that would be nothing more.

You couldn’t deny: you had fun.

For the first time in a long time.

Maybe it wasn’t a relationship you needed, but a friendship.

You smiled, “I’d like that,”

You reached into your pocket pulling out your phone, “Here.”

You both swapped devices, putting in the respective numbers. Once the contact was added, you returned each device to the rightful owner.

He grinned, holding up his phone, “How about a contact photo?” 

You smiled, nodding as you  stood beside him while  he took a selfie of you side-by-side. Once the picture was taken he slid his phone into his pocket. “Thanks,” he glanced down at the phone, that darn smile growing on his face, “Y/N. I’ll talk to you soon?” 

You nodded and finally split ways.

As you began the trek toward your apartment a dopey smile remained plastered on your face.

Maybe everything would be alright.

[artificialqueens]

Sweet like Sugar (Branjie) - Delia

AN: Hey lovelies! This is my first time writing fic, so please be gentle but also let me know what you think…a little Branjie sugar mommy for your nerves x ps: if you have any questions, comments or concerns feel free to hit me up on @thvnderfuckz pps: tw for some, very minor, implied daddy kink

BLH

25/F/New York City

I’m a 25 year old dancer from Toronto, working to start my career. I like fashion, nights out, and travelling. Seeking a partner who is fun, adventurous, and willing to support me in pursuit of my dream.

Brooke Lynn read over her bio for what must have been the seventh time in as many minutes and let out a sigh. Each draft that she’d written had sounded more robotic than the last. It’d been a long time since she had to write anything like this, having deleted Tinder, Bumble, and HER off her phone not long after she left Toronto. Since moving to New York, she’d discovered that she much preferred going out and finding women to hook up with in person. With her long blonde hair, dancer’s physique, and innate flirtiness, it was easy enough to find someone willing to take her home for the night. Easier, at least, than talking to a girl on an app for weeks, only to find out that she was interested in a long term commitment, and having to deal with their messy emotions after Brooke told them that she wasn’t interested. If there was one thing that she did not do, it was relationships.

And now, she was trying to get paid to be in one.

She’d be lying if she said that she never thought she’d be in a position like this. From the time Brooke had told her friends and family that she’d wanted to pursue dance as a full time career, she’d been given the “wouldn’t you rather something more secure” speech more times, and by more people than she could be bothered to count. Even her older sister Katya, who’d chosen to make abstract semi-sacrilegious art her vocation in life, had tried to suggest to her that she do something with a future that was less uncertain. But Brooke knew that she was born to dance, no matter what anyone tried to tell her to the contrary. If anything, their doubt fuelled her drive, and made it all the sweeter when she’d been offered a role in ensemble of the Broadway production of Moulin Rouge! upon her graduation from Ryerson. The moment that she’d stepped off the plane at JFK and stepped into the apartment that she would be sharing with another ensemble member from the show, Scarlet, she felt as though she was living her wildest dreams come true.

In all of her excitement at the time, Brooke forgot that the most wonderful dreams often lead to the harshest wake ups.

Four months into her run, the cast began to notice a dwindling number of fans at the stage door after each performance. Five months into her run, cast and crew alike began whispering about finding new jobs soon. Six months into her run, on a particularly humid Sunday in July, the cast and crew were gathered by the production team before everyone left the theatre and were told that the show would be closing at the beginning of September, after the Labour Day weekend. Brooke immediately started panicking at the prospect of being out of a job in one of the most expensive cities in the world. There was nothing she wanted less than to have to move back home to Toronto with her tail between her legs.

It had been two years since Moulin Rouge! closed, and although Brooke had managed to avoid making the move back home, she hadn’t been able to get a job performing since. She was always too tall, or too technical, or didn’t have enough personality. She’d been able to find a job in the meantime, teaching classes at a dance studio in Tribeca, but the money she made from that was barely enough to cover her necessities. It certainly didn’t cover luxuries such as brunch with your ex-roommate, as Brooke found out after her credit card was declined at her and Scarlet’s bi-weekly date. She barely had time to try and form an apology before she witnessed Scarlet reaching into her purse and placing a crisp one hundred dollar bill on the table, telling the waitress to keep the sixty dollars in change. Her embarrassed expression transformed into one of jaw-dropped shock as the redhead pulled her from the restaurant.

On the walk back to the subway, Scarlet revealed to Brooke that she’d been various “mutually beneficial relationships” with different men since she’d first moved to the city when she was 19, and that it had been her main source of income even while she was performing.

“It’s easy money, plus it’s kind of empowering,” explained Scarlet in her low voice, which still held a hint of the drawl indicative of her Southern upbringing. “It’s like, they have the money but I have all the emotional power. Without me generously donating my time to them, all these men have are their frigid marriages, or soul sucking jobs. A lot of the time the only thing standing between these powerful, rich men and a complete nervous break is me. And if that’s not power, I don’t know what is. So if I have to laugh at a few bad jokes and kiss a couple of CEOs to be able to live the kind of life I want, all while knowing that I could end any of these men at any given moment, then so be it.”

Oddly inspired by her friend’s speech, Brooke downloaded the sugar dating app onto her phone later that day.

And now here she was, sitting in front of her laptop at 11:00 pm on a Saturday night, drinking a bottle of wine and stress reading her three sentence bio for at least the tenth time. Fuck it, she thought, this is as good as it’s gonna get.

After clicking the “submit” button, Brooke was redirected to a page showing all of the potential sugar daddies in her area. As she scrolled through pages upon pages of photos of headless torsos, she became increasingly regretful of her decision to not filter out men immediately.

CEToEs

Disgusting.

KinkyExec

Nope.

DominantDaddy

Absolutely not.

Brooke was a lesbian, and had known that since she was 14. However, Scarlet told her that there were far more sugar daddies than sugar mommies in the New York area, and that a lot of the time the men didn’t necessarily even want sex. But as she clocked the usernames of several of the daddies on the app, it was clear that the redhead had either lied to her or was somehow the most blissfully oblivious girl in the city.

The blonde promptly returned to her settings page and deselected men as an interest. When she returned to the home page, she was delighted to see the profiles of fifty-or-so women pop up. She began scrolling again, hoping that someone would catch her eye.

WorldsMostPunkRockMoms

Meh. The two blonde women in the thumbnail picture were definitely beautiful, but Brooke didn’t know how she felt about getting involved with a couple who had a child.

Detoxicant

The woman in this picture looked like she’d had a lot of plastic surgery. Still, she was hot. Brooke tapped the little heart icon next to the photo and continued scrolling.

Toward the bottom of the page there was one profile that had a little green dot next to the thumbnail. Brooke took a little comfort in the fact that she wasn’t the only one on this app at this time on a weekend night. She clicked on the profile and two pictures filled her screen. The first was a headless torso shot of a woman wearing an oversized Versace t-shirt as a dress. Although her face was out of frame, Brooke could tell that the woman’s hair was a caramel brown, at least at the tips, and went to just below her collarbone. The second image was another faceless picture, but in this one the woman was wearing a spaghetti strapped red dress, showing off her deeply tanned skin and an, in Brooke’s opinion, weirdly specific chest tattoo of a hairless cat atop a red rose. The bio beneath the pictures read:

V 23/F/New York City

no face pics because i gotta stay lowkey. promise i’m not gonna kill you or anything like that, just lookin for a cute girl i can take out and trEat right.

Brooke rolled her eyes at the innuendo and let out a small huff of a laugh. The girl obviously had some sort of sense of humour, which she supposed was important. And it was pretty impressive that someone so young was in a position where they could support someone else financially.

The green dot was still displayed next to V’s username. She was still online. Brooke took a deep breath and clicked the chat icon at the bottom of the screen, typing out a quick, hopefully flirty-but-without-coming-on-too-strong, message.

BLH: I hate to break it to you, but saying ‘I’m not gonna kill you’ sounds exactly like what someone who would kill me would say ;)

Brooke quickly exited out of the app and opened up Instagram to check and see if Katya or her wife had added any new photos of their cats or dog. Before she could even begin typing her sister’s name into the search bar, her phone dinged, letting her know that V had responded.

V: hate to break it to you babe but saying youre looking for a partner sounds like youre tryna open up a lawyers office

Brooke swore under her breathe. She knew she sounded too robotic.

BLH: Oh god, I’m sorry. I’ve never done anything

V: lol relax mami, youre cute with all your worrying

She bit down on her lower lip, half in frustration and half trying to suppress a smile. V was already teasing her about her worrying, and they hadn’t even met yet.

BLH: Aren’t you more of the mommy in this situation though ;)

V: i mean i usually prefer daddy ;)

Brooke felt a quick rush of heat to her center at the word “daddy”. She closed her eyes trying to stave away memories of various nights in the alleyways behind various bars with various women.

BLH: I think I can make that work ;)

V: listen, not to be too upfront but youre gorgeous and id love to take you out sometime if youd want?

V: we could meet and figure out an allowance or something if thats what you want! ive done this once before and it was a really good experience for both of us…i gave her around $8000 a month for rent and stuff but we could figure out something specially for you if you need somethin different

Brooke could’ve sworn she felt her heart stop when she read the word “month”. She’d never been with one single person for more than three nights, much less on a month to month basis. But V seemed nice at least. And if not nice, she was at least experienced at this kind of arrangement, and was apparently quite generous to boot. Eight thousand dollars a month would cover her rent and utilities almost four times over. Eight thousand dollars a month would mean that she wouldn’t have to worry about getting her card declined at brunch. Eight thousand dollars a month meant that she wouldn’t have to pick up every possible shift at the studio, and could spend more time going to auditions.

Eight thousand dollars a month meant that she was definitely not turning V down right off the bat.

BLH: I’d love that. Name the time and place, I’m free when you are.

BLH: Daddy ;)

Brooke Lynn Hayhoe doesn’t do relationships — but for eight thousand dollars a month, she was willing to fake it.

[serveandfolly]

Be still my beating heart: My longtime partner, Brian Libby, wrote this OR Arts Watch article twinning the stories of two of my favorite artists, actor River Phoenix and musician Elliott Smith, and relating them through their time in our hometown of Portland, Oregon. The original story (link above) shows photos of some of Elliott’s Portland homes and the road with “the fucked-up face” from My Own Private Idaho, but I’ve pasted all the copy below. Hope some of my fellow River and Elliott fans enjoy this as much as I did.

River and Elliott: Remembering two troubled princes of 1990s Portland

River Phoenix and Elliott Smith brushed Portland and maybe Portland brushed them

NOVEMBER 27, 2018 // CULTURE, FILM, MUSIC // BRIAN LIBBY

There’s a name you keep repeating You’ve got nothing better to do

— Elliott Smith, “Alphabet Town”

From James Dean to Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain to Heath Ledger, we have immortalized a constellation of famous artists—especially musicians and actors—who died young and, then, through a combination of their talent and the public’s grief, lived on. Robbed of the futures we imagined for them, yet frozen in time and thus never to suffer the indignities of aging or late-career artistic mediocrity, their luminosity—and our love for them—intensifies as if in proportion to the tragedy.

Portland and Oregon haven’t traditionally produced a lot of bold-type names that have endured in the international pop zeitgeist. Far from America’s entertainment capitols, this is arguably a place where talents are nurtured, not where one becomes a full-fledged star. The most high-profile artists, such as the great abstract expressionist painter Mark Rothko or Simpsons creator Matt Groening, have tended to move on and live their career-defining creative moments elsewhere. Yet even if their time here is fleeting, sometimes these artists don’t just remain culturally relevant long after their deaths but also come to represent something essential about a particular time in the city.

Last month brought reminders of two such one-time Oregonians and what they left behind. October 21 was the 15th anniversary of musician Elliott Smith’s death, at the age of 34 in 2003, while Halloween brought the 25th anniversary of actor River Phoenix’s death, at the age of 23 in 1993. They died a decade apart, but each moment of mortality came in Los Angeles, and the two sites are less than nine miles away from each other: Phoenix outside West Hollywood’s Viper Room club after an accidental overdose, and Smith by stabbing at his home in Silver Lake (a presumed suicide but never officially determined).

The coincidences don’t end there. River Phoenix and Elliott Smith were born within a year of each other: Smith in Nebraska (he was raised until age 14 in Texas) and Phoenix in Madras, Oregon (raised mostly in Florida). Each arguably made his most famous work in collaboration with director Gus Van Sant. Phoenix co-starred (along with Keanu Reeves) in Van Sant’s 1991 film My Own Private Idaho and Smith was nominated for an Academy Award for the song “Miss Misery,” on the soundtrack to Van Sant’s 1998 film Good Will Hunting. Each struggled with drug abuse, which in different ways led to each artist’s untimely death. River Phoenix and Elliott Smith presumably never met, yet each is a kind of fleeting prince of ’90s Portland, and their work acts as time capsule and talisman for the days many locals now look to longingly: a grittier, more affordable and off-the-radar city that predated Portlandia, a succession of swooning New York Times stories, and an ensuing wave of tourism and gentrification.

Like Rothko, neither stayed here for good. But also like Rothko and many of the city’s other most famous sons and daughters, Phoenix and Smith were transplants to the city who saw Portland with fresh eyes. Like rain clouds that give way to bright sunlight almost daily for much of the year, each artist’s Portland-based work is personal and often deeply melancholic, yet also joyful, lyrical and instinctual. It’s not always pretty, yet we are drawn to their work again and again.

By the time Phoenix signed on to star in My Own Private Idaho, he had long since become a star, thanks to such minor Hollywood classics as 1986’s Oregon-filmed Stand by Me and 1988’s Running on Empty, the latter of which brought him an Academy Award nomination for Best Supporting Actor. But Idaho, the third in Van Sant’s trilogy of Portland-set films (preceded by 1986’s Mala Noche and 1989’s Drugstore Cowboy), would become the role of Phoenix’s career and the standout classic in its director’s now decades-long portfolio.

While Drugstore was initially a greater critical success for Van Sant, winning Best Film and Best Director from the National Society of Film Critics in 1989, Idaho is somehow the film that endures in public imagination and as a lasting artistic achievement. Besides being a landmark of gay cinema, casting two young Hollywood heartthrobs as lovers, it also turned out to be Van Sant’s most cinematically ambitious effort.

The premise of My Own Private Idaho is audacious if not a little crazy. The film is a loose interpretation of Shakespeare’s Henry IV, Part I and Part II—the story of a delinquent, debauchery-loving prince planning to shed his skin and embrace his more virtuous monarchical destiny—transposed to the realm of contemporary Portland street hustlers. As legend has it, Phoenix and Reeves spent nights on the streets of Old Town researching their roles by hanging out with the city’s young street denizens, some of whom would enjoy supporting roles in the film.

Phoenix plays a hustler named Mike with a handicap—narcolepsy drops him off to sleep in any moment of stress. We first watch him collapse in sleep by the side of a rural highway, his possessions and even his shoes stripped from him as he slumbers; then he collapses in the middle of turning a trick, carried out of a rich woman’s house by his fellow hustlers and left slumped against a tree. Reeves’s young Prince Hal figure, Scott (in this case a Portland mayor’s son), is along for the ride as part brotherly companion, part lover. Yet this quirky Shakespearean tale is also bookended by and interwoven with a larger quest, played out under the limitless skies and golden hues of the eastern Oregon landscape, as Phoenix’s Mike searches fruitlessly for his long-lost mother: to the Idaho of his youth, to Italy, and finally back to Portland.

Part of what makes My Own Private Idaho so great is how Van Sant conjures indelible cinematic moments: time-lapse footage of clouds rolling over the Oregon landscape; symbolic slow-motion shots of salmon (Mike’s spirit-animal; Phoenix even wears a salmon-colored jacket) fighting their way upstream; and even an entire house falling from the sky onto the highway. It’s dazzling cinema that makes both rural and urban Oregon its muse like perhaps no other movie. That Van Sant has gone on to make several Hollywood movies that overdose on schmaltz and are short on cinematic eye candy, and few if any great works of art (the Cannes winner Elephant and the Matt Damon/Casey Affleck vehicle Gerry perhaps being exceptions) only makes Idaho all the more special in his oeuvre. In fact, it’s as if Van Sant refuses to enter Idaho-like territory. Consider, for example, that his last film, Don’t Worry, He Won’t Get Far On Foot—a profile of cartoonist John Callahan starring River Phoenix’s brother, Joaquin, which is set in Portland and another story of a lonely man’s longing for his mother—was shot in Los Angeles. Suffice to say, there are no houses falling onto the highway.

At least unofficially, My Own Private Idaho owes as much to Phoenix as Van Sant—and not just as it relates to the acting. After all, River Phoenix didn’t just act in Idaho; he reportedly was able to alter the script and his character. The draft that Van Sant brought to the actors didn’t include romance between their two lead characters, but by the time production was complete, Idaho’s most touching moment was a campfire embrace wherein Mike declares his love for Reeves’s Scott. Phoenix is at his zenith here as an actor, a marvel of delicacy, communicating a blend of easy cool and endearing vulnerability.

Both Phoenix and Reeves came to the Idaho cast with something to prove: that they could be serious dramatic actors. To a large extent it worked for both. While Reeves has never been considered a master thespian, his roles in blockbuster franchises like The Matrix and even the more recent John Wick movies have cemented his place in movie history. And for Phoenix, post-Idaho there was no longer any doubt that the child actor we’d seen in Explorers and the angst-ridden teen of The Mosquito Coast (not to mention a memorable “Family Ties” guest-starring turn) had graduated to leading roles with the charisma, looks and vulnerability of a budding superstar. Would it be going too far to say he was the James Dean of his time? Maybe. But the comparison is not ludicrous.

Of course longevity was not to be for Phoenix. Within 25 months of Idaho’s release, his story ended, just like Mike’s, collapsed on the pavement—in this case on a Hollywood sidewalk rather than Highway 216, and sadly, not simply asleep for a few minutes. The brother with him that night, Joachin Phoenix, would go on to enjoy the long acting career River never got.

The year of Idaho’s release was also a turning point for Elliott Smith. In 1991 he had just returned to Portland after four years at Hampshire College in Massachusetts, and promptly formed the band Heatmiser with three musician friends. Over the ensuing years, Heatmiser would become a fixture at celebrated indie-rock clubs like the X-Ray Café and La Luna, while also recording albums like 1993’s Dead Air and 1994’s Cop and Speeder that infused punk energy with melodicism. The band was part of a broader indie rock scene that included Pond, Crackerbash, The Spinanes, The Dandy Warhols and Quasi.

After Nirvana’s breakout success, both indie and major labels began combing Portland clubs looking for the next grunge sensation. And what was grunge but punk with a little more melody and a flannel shirt? Heatmiser received enough attention that a major label, Virgin Records, eventually came calling. But by that time Smith was ready to venture out on his own, breaking up Heatmiser just as they’d made the big time. As the singer-songwriter explained in a later interview, he had grown tired of screaming all the time as a member of a loud rock band. And besides, by that time Smith was gaining notice for a series of stripped-down solo albums with little more than voice and an acoustic guitar. To the astonishment of many, they sounded less like punk or grunge and more like Simon & Garfunkel or Nick Drake. Smith’s solo debut, 1994’s Roman Candle, was released at the height of the grunge era but also just nine months before Kurt Cobain’s suicide, essentially prefiguring (and perhaps even giving birth to) the emo-core wave that would in time follow grunge.

In the four years between Roman Candle’s release and Smith’s leap to international fame with the Oscar nomination for “Miss Misery,” local audiences who had feasted on loud guitars and pounding punk rhythms filled Portland clubs for his solo acoustic shows, trading chaotic mosh pits for stillness and pin-drop quiet. Not only was there the wistful simplicity of Smith’s voice and acoustic guitar. It was also how the singer-songwriter bared his soul in his lyrics. Though some songs were inspired by others’ lives, it was clear that for the sensitive, often-depressed Smith, music was a confessional and a lifeline. Yet in his almost Lennon-McCartney like gift for melody, even his sad songs feel uplifting.

In those early Elliott Smith albums recorded here, through his 1997 masterwork Either/Or (his last for indie label Kill Rock Stars before signing with the mammoth Dreamworks and leaving Portland for New York), the singer-songwriter also painted a cinematic if melancholy picture of the city. You can almost feel the gray wintertime skies in songs like “Alameda,” as he sings:

You walk down Alameda Looking at the cracks in the sidewalk Thinking about your friends How you maintain all them in A constant state of suspense

For your own protection Over their affection Nobody broke your heart You broke your own because you can’t Finish what you start

When the Oscar nomination for “Miss Misery” came, Smith’s life changed overnight. If that new audience and international media attention meant exponentially greater album sales and the end of his penny-pinching way of life—staying in nice hotels on tour instead of sleeping in the van or on some stranger’s floor, not to mention no longer moonlighting as a drywall contractor by day—it also isolated Elliott from his community of not-so-affluent friends and musicians still sleeping on those floors. This time in his life was also accompanied by increasing drug abuse and greater depressions. Perhaps Smith new that despite overwhelmingly positive reviews for albums like XO and Figure 8 as well as a worldwide audience of admirers (he was particularly smitten when a musical hero, Elvis Costello, attended a London show), DreamWorks saw its Smith signing as essentially an investment that didn’t quite pay off because he wasn’t the megastar they envisioned.

Like Cobain, Smith also retained that nagging Gen X rocker’s worry that he’d sold out. Maybe today a young fan who falls in love with Figure 8 doesn’t care that it was recorded for DreamWorks instead of Kill Rock Stars. After all, going to a major label gave Smith a bigger palette of instruments and fellow musicians to work and record with. Yet for Smith, the decision wasn’t without impact. In “King’s Crossing,” one of Smith’s best posthumously-released songs, he sings, “The method acting that pays my bills/keeps the fat man feeding in Beverly Hills.”

Particularly in the couple of years before his 2003 death, Smith was a shell of his former self, consuming cocktails of heroin, crack and prescription drugs. At times onstage, he even had to abort songs halfway through because he couldn’t remember his own lyrics. Yet Smith was also in those final months showing signs of recovery and renewal, which enabled the superlative album he was working on when he died. Songs on the magnificent From a Basement on the Hill (including “King’s Crossing”) exhibit a layered richness of sound that goes beyond what he recorded in Portland a few years earlier. Yet it all screeched to a halt in Silver Lake—whether inevitably, as some observers maintained, or out of the blue.

Today I can’t look at certain places in Portland and Oregon without thinking of them.

For River Phoenix and My Own Private Idaho, there is the Elk statue downtown on Southwest Main Street between Chapman and Lownsdale squares, where early in the film Scott cradles a sleeping Mike in his arms. There is also the stretch of Broadway downtown near the Benson Hotel where the duo cruise the street on Scott’s motorcycle, handsomely and heroically, like cinema’s sunglasses-masked successors to The Wild One and Easy Rider. And perhaps most of all, there is a lonely stretch of Highway 216, east of the Cascades and not far from the tiny town of Tygh Valley, where River Phoenix begins and ends the movie, succumbing to narcoleptic seizure. Last year my partner and I found the coordinates online and made a pilgrimage. To get there you drive white-knuckled through a series of hairpin turns through a small Deschutes River gorge, and then suddenly you come onto a plateau where the road seems to unfold forever.

If one seeks vestiges of Elliott Smith’s Portland, it’s not just the venues where he took the stage (one of which, La Luna, is now a café of the same name), but also, if you know where to look, one of the many Southeast Portland houses where he lived and recorded. Roman Candle, for instance, was recorded in a home on Southeast Taylor Street that recently was listed for rent. (And yes, I admittedly took a tour.) Smith also lived in another Southeast Portland house, off Division Street, that prompted him to sometimes spend late nights hanging out on a bench in the rose gardens of Ladd’s Addition; the documentary Heaven Adores You includes a long shot looking down over the neighborhood. In “St. Ides Heaven,” he writes

Everything is exactly right When I walk around here drunk every night With an open container from 7-11

Division Street itself also wound up inspiring a lyric in “Punch and Judy” (on Either/Or), albeit not exactly an ideal marketing tagline:

Driving around up and down Division Street I used to like it here It just bums me out to remember

Every time I listen to “Punch and Judy,” that line makes me wonder what Smith would have made of gentrified Division Street now, with its canyon of condos and string of popular restaurants. It’s a phenomenon that has swept most close-in east side neighborhoods—precisely the formerly cheap old houses he and his friends used to inhabit.

Even so, to absorb the work of Smith (especially his early records) and Phoenix (particularly My Own Private Idaho) is to make a nostalgic return to ‘90s Portland. And yet, through the power of these works and these two princes’ immense talent, their work also transcends that time capsule. Even if their tragically early deaths don’t guarantee them true artistic immortality, the more Portland changes, the more their works resonate.

[smugglerofsass]

now you'll be missing (from the photographs)

So I've been having some thoughts on photographic documentation and how that would relate to the Rebellion during the war... (This has been sitting in my drafts for so long I’m not entirely sure when I started it but it influenced me when I mentioned that I would want to document the Rebellion if I were to live in-universe. Title from Bastille’s Good Grief.)

There's definatley someone on base who loves to take photos, to document life on base or in battle. This means there are tons of holos ranging from the view from the trenches to the empty mess hall after midnight

After the war, someone sets out to show the general public "trench life" by collecting and displaying hundreds of personal holos from Rebellion personnel. Among the holos donated and submitted they find:

The mess hall on Home One, the lights slightly dimmed for the night cycle, empty save for Mon Mothma, head bowed over a cup of caffe she's clutching

The cold, barren plains of Hoth

3 holos of Han and Leia in various stages of argument

The memorial hall aboard Home One filled with names and photos and belongings of those lost

Han, Leia and Luke right after the destruction of the first Death Star

Leia during the celebration, right as her smile drops

A Rogue party where a small mess hall is filled with people dancing

The hangar on Hoth, almost completely empty before most everyone arrives

An aerial shot of a base during an evacuation

The return from Bespin

Leia standing on a create, briefing a group of pilots 

The view from the trenches on Hoth as walkers approach

Han atop the Falcon laughing at something out of sight

Chewie and Han, heads together, plotting

A "biannual birthday party" for everyone who's had a birthday within the previous half a standard year, all the birthday beings are clustered around a slightly mushed cake wearing party hats, Leia is in the center, between Wedge and Luke, trying not to smile 

Han spinning Leia around after the fall of Courscant

2 Rogue Squadron holiday cards featuring as many people as they could get from around base perched on or around an X-Wing. In one from Hoth, Han and Leia are in the center, looking decidedly unhappy. In another from after Endor, Leia and Winter perch on the nose of an X-wing holding a sign wishing happy holidays to the remaining Imperial hierarchy. They're surrounded by dozens of grinning rebels. 

Wes Janson posing with visual evidence of his pranks, including the High Command Hopscotch Hallway

Han and Wedge replacing an Imperial Standard with a Corellian flag over East Cornet

A group of wookies grinning after retaking Kashyyyk 

People laughing and sobbing at the party on Endor

Baby Poe Dameron in the cockpit of an X-wing

The Alderaanian memorial on Yavin IV

Han flipping off the photographer while in the medcenter after returning from Tatooine

The Falcon, from across a crowded hanger on Home One

High Command, it’s members looking exhausted and defeated

The crowded and busy Command Center on Hoth

A base-wide party celebrating a rare shipment of fresh food

Han and Leia walking down the halls of Home One, arm in arm

Hobbie’s shocked face as he flees an accidental fire started by X-wing repairs

The only photo of the Rogue One crew, shortly before leaving Yavin IV

Bail Organa laughing with a group of pilots 

Leia’s wanted poster next to a graffiti portrait of her 

Various photos of people posing with their own wanted posters 

A group of people gathered around Luke as he tells stories about Tatooine

Leia beating Han and the Rogues at Sabacc 

Han, head in his hands, in the empty mess hall, two caffe mugs in front of him

A pilot kneeling in the locker room, hand pressed to their forehead in prayer

Lando, with a hand raised to touch the underside of the Falcon

Han with a group of street kids after Corellia is reclaimed

Mon Mothma dressed causally and leading a toast at an informal party after the fall of Courscant 

Mon, the same night, hugging Leia 

Chewie, carrying Leia on his shoulders after the defeat of Imperial forces on Kashyyyk

C-3PO holding a piece of scrap metal that’s painted with the words “Fuck the Empire”

[malcolmreeds]

malcolmreeds’ creepy story masterlist!

ive been reading scary stories for as long as i can remember and have read many great entries. since it is currently the spooky season, i have decided to compile this list of stories i love for you all to enjoy - click through on the story title to read the entries! feel free to reblog and add your recommendations to the list!

Personal Favourites

The Showers - "Tim fuckin', he didn't make it, Jack," he laughed; his laugh turned suddenly to tears. "Fucking took him, they did. I don't even know. Cops told us we were just drunk, that he wandered off and got taken by the wildlife. He didn't know. He didn't see it, Jack."

The Visitor (J. Ford) -  Did he deserve the burial and not the bonfire because he proved his humanity unlike those poor creatures? And if they too were human, what were their names?

Ted the Caver (Original web page, beware of popups! Can also be read here) - Just as I started into the squeeze I felt the wind in the passage increase, and with it the most nauseating stench I have ever experienced. It smelled like damp, rotting, rancid, putrid, DEATH.

The Penpal Series - I was in every photo. None of them were close shots. None of them were only of me. But I was in every single one of them—off to the side, in the back, bottom of the frame. Some of them only had the tiniest part of my face captured at the very edge of the photo, but nevertheless, I was there. I was always there.

I Watched Video Footage of a Camping Trip That My Friends Never Actually Went On -  There's a strange, howling noise from the outside, but it's not a coyote, not an animal--it sounds like two or three people mocking wolves, but warped. Something hits the window with a hard thud and I wince--there's blood spattered across it and through the smears, I can see somebody with oddly-shaped limbs standing by the fire.

Uncle Gerry’s Family Fun Zone -  I’ll never forget it. Seeing her car pull up. She should have been forty miles away. But here she was. And that’s when I knew. There was something wrong about her, something wrong about that old man, something wrong about that place ...  it exists because she believes it exists.

Runners Up

Candle Cove - Oh God. Yes. The little girl, Janice, I remember seeing her shake. And the Skin-Taker screaming through his gnashing teeth, his jaw careening so wildly I thought it would come off its wire hinges.

The Search and Rescue Officer Series - It's a staircase. In the middle of the fucking woods ...  'Get used to it, rookie. You're gonna see a lot of them.' I start to move closer, but she grabs my arm. Hard. 'I wouldn't do that.' She says. Her voice is casual, but her grip is tight, and I just stand there looking at her. 'You're gonna see them all the time, but don't go near them. Don't touch them, don't go up them. Just ignore them.’

Captain’s Log (Elliot Avery) - What have we become? Or is it becoming? Is it simply revealing? Has the boredom and isolation made us like this or is this what we all are deep down? Savage beasts camouflaged in clothes and words and gadgets just biding their time until they have the opportunity to pounce?

The Disappearance of Ashley, Kansas -  When state law enforcement arrived at what should have been the outskirts of the farming community, they found a smouldering, burning fissure in the earth measuring 1,000 yards in length and approximately 500 yards in width. The depth of the fissure was never determined.

Huntsville Camping Trip -  When I was leaving to go home I turned to wave. He had black eyes and an open mouth like he was in pain. When I started to walk back he shut the door and bolted it. I stayed there knocking and knocking. Nothing. I called him, his phone was disconnected.

Rocking Horse Creek -  Teddy broke through as soon as he hit the ice and the rope and tree branch followed him down into the darkness below. I felt my feet moving under me as I slipped and slid my way out to where he’d gone in, sheer panic crushing my chest like a vice. 

Additional

The Story of Her Holding an Orange Series -  Rose started rocking back and forth. Every time she’d rock back, she’d reveal red shoes hidden underneath her white dress. Her teeth were grinding. Then she pulled out an orange.

Mayhem Mountain -  But in the dull, yellow edges of the light I saw something that registered in me a horror beyond death. Far away from us, in a section of shadowy track, I saw the high crest of a peak hill which reached almost the ceiling of the giant room. And then the track just…ended.

The Lost Town of Deepwood, Pennsylvania -  The police report says we were found at 4am – by our sense of time about 3 hours after the sun had set. We had spent less than an hour in the chapel and yet we seemed to have lost 10 hours there.

Psychosis -  I screamed in uncontrollable terror. I stomped on the old webcam on the floor. The door shook, and the doorknob tried to turn, but I didn't hear Amy's voice through the door. Was the basement door, made to keep out drafts, too thick? Or was Amy not outside? What could have been trying to get in, if not her? What the hell is out there?!

The Strangest Security Tape I’ve Ever Seen -  At exactly 12:03, out of nowhere, Jeremy's face pops up on camera. I don't mean he moved his head into view, I mean that one second the store was empty, the next second his face was all I could see. He wasn't looking at the camera, he was looking at me, I was sure of it.

Ten Years Ago, I Taught Sophomore Creative Writing - I spoke with the school administration, they contacted the authorities, and the police had conversations with Jake and Kate. It went nowhere. It didn’t matter that Abby had lived across the street from Jake. It didn’t matter that we had words on paper. They were just stories, the kids said.

On A Hill: Part I, Part II - It circled slowly, coming closer then retreating as if searching the ground meticulously. Then finally, the sound of its cumbersome footsteps grew distant, and then ceased. John breathed a sigh of relief. Then a hand touched his face.

My Son Brought Something Home From the Woods -  ... my hand ran straight into a mess of tangled, greasy hair. My eyes opened in shock. It stared back at me for only a millisecond. In that millisecond, it spoke. Not with words. But in my head. ‘Do you know how the clock ticks? It is fed by death.’

Notes -  On a square piece of paper I found at the bottom of a box I was moving out of my basement, it read, “HELLO? PLEASE RESPOND”. I had no idea how long the paper had been there, those boxes had sat in my basement since I moved in.

I Found a Hidden Door in My Cellar -  He held his foot still in the air, before slowly moving it a step backwards. His movements were unnatural and jerky, like someone who didn’t fully understand how to walk. He stayed like that for a moment, completely still, one foot placed back.

[fourthlinefic]

Diversions IV

It’s been 84 years,,,

Sid should have known that something was up when Kris invited him round for lunch straight after practise. Usually, he gave Sid at least a day’s notice of any social engagement. If Sid had taken time to think about it in the sudden recalibration of his day, he would have realised that it was one of the places that Kris knew that they wouldn’t be interrupted by cameras or any of the five guys who had ‘emergency’ keys to Sid’s back door.

He was halfway through a ham and salad sandwich (on rye, no mayo) when Kris sprung his trap. But by then, he already had an Alexander in his lap and nowhere to run.

“So,” Kris started, spearing a cherry tomato with his fork. “How are things with you and Jamie these days?”

“Is this- is this is an appropriate topic for little ears?” Sid said, nodding at Alex's dark head. He didn't appear to be listening, instead straining across the kitchen counter to try and reach his juice cup. Sid handed it to him and got a broad smile in return.

“Who's Jamie?” Alex asked, after he'd taken a long pull of juice.

“Just a friend of Sid's. You met him at the rink remember?” Kris said. Alex shrugged. “Hey, why don't you go find mama, eh? See what she's up to.”

“Why?”

“Because me and Sid need to have a chat about some grown up things.”

“What sort of things?” Alex asked.

“Things for grown ups,” Sid said, hoisting him under his arms and depositing him gently on the floor. He and Kris watched as he toddled off, though at nearly five years old, you couldn’t really call him a toddler anymore. Kris found he never felt older than when he noticed how big the kids were getting. He turned back to Sid.

“So. Jamie.”

“I told you before,” Sid sighed, taking another bite of sandwich. “We’re just messing around. It’s just fun. And none of your business.”

Kris wrinkled his nose at Sid. He would have thought that at thirty years old, someone would have taught him not to talk with his mouth full. “I mean, it kind of is my business since you started up with a teammate. And no offence, Sid, but,” he paused, because Sid was right. This was not a conversation he wanted being overheard by little ears. He cast a quick eye around and dropped his voice anyway, because you never knew. “But you're kind of a slut, and not everyone is used to the Sidney Crosby Treatment.”

“That’s not fair,” Sid frowned. “It’s not like I’ve had much of a chance at dating long term, y’know?”

And maybe Sid had a point, except Kris knew his friend, and he knew that Sid felt no remorse at his perpetual single-hood. Kris sighed. “I’m just trying to look out for you, Sid.”

“I know, bud,” Sid smiled. “And in my defence, you were there when I swore off Seguin. And the thing with Giroux doesn't count, we were in Prague.”

“I was there the last time you swore off Seguin, but you say that after every Dallas game,” Kris pointed out. Sid glared at him, and Kris stared back. He should be glad he wasn't bringing up his history with Ovechkin, or Weber, and he was pretty sure Taylor Hall was involved at one point. Sid sighed resignedly and shrugged.

“It’s different now. He’s got this regular thing going on with Benn,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the thought of exclusivity.

“You know, most people would call that a healthy, monogamous relationship, Sidney.”

“No, because then that would mean me and Jamie are in a relationship.”

Kris blinked. “I'm sorry, What?”

“Having sex exclusively with one person doesn't mean you're in a relationship,” Sid said with a shrug, and maybe if it was anyone else saying that, Kris would have been inclined to agree with them. Except.

“No no no, wait. No. You're sleeping only with Jamie?”

“I mean, it's not like I have many options these days. Most guys are either too young or married,” Sid shrugged. Kris sighed, rubbed his fingers against his temples. He had long ago come to the realisation that Sid was a special kind of emotionally emancipated. He had accepted that. It was just a Sid Thing, like so many other Sid Things. But Jesus, did he worry about him sometimes.

“That is so far from the point I'm trying to make here, Sid. When was the last time you were seeing only one guy?”

The long pause before Sid could answer would be enough to make his mother weep. It nearly made Kris weep. Just when he thought he was going to have to spell it out for him, Sid’s eyes suddenly flashed with realisation. He put his sandwich down on his plate, and blinked at Kris.

“Fuck. We’re dating.”

Sid eyed his phone as it started buzzing along his kitchen counter. Flower's grinning face beamed up at him, the top of Estelle’s head just visible in the frame of the photo. The ache of Flower’s drafting wasn’t as painful as when it was fresh, not since Flower had found a decent phone plan, but Sid couldn’t help the half sigh that escaped him before picking up his mobile.

“Whatever Kris told you, it's a lie,” he said as he put him on speaker, and Flower's laugh crackled down the line. Sid felt his own mouth twitch upwards in response. It was still so easy to fall into the familiar patterns of chirper and chirpee, the distance doing little to diminish Flower’s ability to verbally destroy Sid any chance he got.

“Hello to you too, Sidney.” Flower said. “I hear I should congratulate you? That you're finally growing up?”

“Don't you guys have better things to do than gossip about my love life?” Sid asked, going back to stirring the chili on the stove. He'd remembered to leave out the bell pepper this time, how Jamie had picked all the pieces out and left them on the side of his plate. And okay, yeah. He could see how maybe this whole thing had turned into dating.

“Sid, you know you're the most interesting part of all of our lives,” Flower said, and Sid could still pick out the teasing edge in his voice.

“Duper’s maybe,” Sid allowed, smiling at Flower's snort of laughter. “You and Kris should still be thinking about hockey.”

“Well the thing is, Sidney, we actually do have interests outside of hockey unlike-”

“How am I an interest outside of hockey?” Sid demanded. “I am about as hockey as you can get. I am literally dating a hockey player.”

“Aw, you said the D word!” Flower cooed and Sid seriously considered just hanging up on him. “We only gossip because we care. I’m just mad I’ve had to hear about all this second hand from Tanger. What’s he like?”

“Tanger? Uh, he’s about six foot, very pretty, great ass. Spills all my secrets to the French-Canadian mafia.”

“Sid…”

“Oh, you mean Jamie. Yeah, he also has a great ass.”

“Is he good to you?” Flower asked, and he sounded so concerned and exasperated and fond, all at the same time that Sid couldn’t help but feel a little bad for being such a dick about the whole thing. He turned the heat down on the chilli so that he could turn his full attention to Flower.

“He’s great, Flower. He’s very sweet and thoughtful. And he gave me his instagram password.”

“I’m sensing a ‘but’ here. What’s up?”

And this is what Sid loved about Flower. Kris and Olli treated this whole thing like something with an expiry date, something that Sid was going to get bored of and drop as quickly as he had picked it up. And Sid couldn’t blame them really. A precedent had been set years ago, a pattern that had been traced over and over. So he couldn’t blame them for being more concerned with Jamie’s heart than his own. But Flower had never put up with Sid’s love ‘em and leave ‘em outlook on life. As much as Sid claimed he hated it, hated the judging eyes of his friend, he knew that Flower just wanted him to be better. It mattered to him what Sid’s heart was going through.

“I dunno,” Sid sighed. “He’s just young, and probably way better to me than I deserve. I just can’t help feeling like it’s going to fall apart. And I don’t even know if we have enough of something to fall apart. Sometimes I feel like it’s just sex, but then I look at him and I just feel. I don’t even know what I feel. It’s just, it feels good. And I’m probably gonna fuck it up.”

“I think you need to talk to Jamie,” Flower said after a second. “I know how much you hate that, but you need to figure out what you have here. I'm just glad you're moving on, you know?”

“Uh, no I don't know,” Sid said, caught off guard. “Moving on from what?”

“You and Geno. You had that whole thing-” Flower suddenly stopped, as if the line had been cut. There was a pause before, “you know what, it doesn't matter. Forget I said anything. What are you up to tonight?”

“I've got some guys coming over for food and PS4, but what do you mean me and Geno?”

“I just mean you were both really into each other for a while and nothing really happened and I don’t think you ever got over that. But now you’ve got Jamie, so it’s all good, right?”

“Wait, do you think I’ve never dated because I was waiting for Geno? Flower, me and Geno were always just friends.” Sid said, torn between laughter and horror. “He’s beautiful and he plays beautiful hockey, and yeah maybe I was a little bit in love with him once, but no. I sleep around because I enjoy it, not because I’m hung up on Geno. Which is some backwards fucking logic by the way.”

“Okay, okay!” Flower cried. “Crisse, sorry for thinking you have human emotions. So you're not in love with Geno, that's cool.”

Sid went back to stirring the chilli, pursing his lips when he felt it starting to stick to the bottom of the pan. Like his mother before him, Sid kept a bottle of cheap(ish) red wine open for cooking, and he slopped another half a cup into the pan.

“If I burn this chilli because of you, I'm flying down to Vegas to beat you up myself.”

“I'd like to see you try, Croz. You wouldn't be able to get past Reaver.”

“I think I could take him,” Sid hummed as he fished a tablespoon of out the cutlery draw to taste the chilli with. “I’ve seen him fight, could probably get in his head a bit.”

“And I’ve seen you fight,” Flower said, his tone of voice telling Sid exactly what he thought of his attempts at dropping gloves. “So, you’re not in love with G. Are you in love with Jamie?”

Sid almost choked on a mouthful of chilli. “Oh for-”

“Joking, I'm joking!” Flower cackled. “Man, I wish I could have seen your face.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” Sid muttered, and swore when he noticed that he’d spilled chilli down his shirt. That Flower had made him spill chilli down his shirt. “I’ve gotta go change, and the boys are gonna be here soon. Can we talk later? Properly?”

“You just want to get out of talking about feelings,” Flower said, and then steamrolled over Sid’s protests. “No, I get it, you don’t want to talk to your best friend about the things that are most important to you. You’d rather talk to Mr Degrassi. Yeah, talk to Tanger about that.”

“Okay, I’m hanging up now,” Sid warned, his finger hovering over his phone’s screen. “If you have anything nice to say, now’s the time to get it in.”

“Have a good night, Sid. Be good to your man, eh?”

“I’ll try. And I’ll see you around.”

“See you in the fourth round, baby,” Flower laughed, and Sid hung up on him with a smile.

[honeyboyfelix]

bias selfie tag

how do you make photo sets look nice on this evil website??? 

anyway i really liked how these pictures came out ive been stalling this post for almost a whole week now thanj you for tagging me @hao-is-life @1longassride   @strayedtoofar @jaeminswifey (who tagged me like twice lol) @hyucksmay i hadnt realized this had been sitting in my drafts so long sorry

im tagging: @jaeren @firstandlast-winwin @eeny-meeny-miny-minho @itshardbeingablackkpopfan and @honeyflutterr

(i hope some of yall are ready to get tagged in multiple things today im really backed up on tag posts rn, i think i might just queue things to space them out)

[fitnesshealthyoga-blog]

New Post has been published on https://fitnesshealthyoga.com/its-a-fentanyl-crisis-stupid-national-pain-report/

It’s a Fentanyl Crisis, Stupid! – National Pain Report

By Kaatje “Gotcha” van der Gaarden, PA-C, MPAS. 

Editor’s Note: This story was originally published on Dec 17, 2018 on Medium Health.

Featured Image: TEDxABQ 2018 “A Working Parachute: spinal cord injuries, ketamine & comedy” which turned into a 9 min stand-up set! Photo credit Allen Winston Photography

In 2012, life was great: I proudly wore a white coat with a stethoscope around my neck and finally felt useful to humanity. Two decades earlier, as a stuntwoman, my parachute did not quite open, and I landed on my sacrum (tailbone) at 70 mph, crushing the sacral nerves. I had lost two inches of my spine, fractured several vertabrae, and would spend a year in ICU, hospitals, and a spinal cord clinic. I was left with traumatic cauda equina syndrome,¹ suffered from residual pain, and was left with a “sitting disability.” For my atrophied lower leg and foot muscles, I used leg braces, a cane or scooter and I sat on a padded office chair. I’ve schlepped pillows and camping mats with me ever since my skydiving accident. Frequently, lying down for a few minutes was the only way to deal with my disability.

Kaatje “Gotcha” van der Gaarden

As a Physician Assistant in primary care, I loved my job and providing a true provider-patient collaboration. I had ample opportunity to prescribe opioid medications. Responsibly, of course. In my toolbox, I had excellent interview skills, the State’s Prescription Monitoring Program (PMP), and a urine test. The PMP would let me know me if patients were doctor or pharmacy shopping, although it couldn’t take into account other states. A urinalysis would tell me if the patient was taking the opioids as prescribed, or diverting, or using other, illegal drugs, or medications that were not prescribed. Heck yeah, I even had my patients sign an Opioid Use Contract.

One patient’s husband worked for the Drug Enforcement Agency (DEA), and he told me one that opioids went for about 70 cents per milligram on the street, in 2012. However, I never assumed someone was gaming the system and tried to keep an open mind. Some patients did want me to refill their emergency room (ER) hydrocodone prescription, for complaints like a mildly strained knee. At that point, I would print out knee exercises instead. I always tried to understand my patients’ emotional and physical health and encouraged exercise and healthy habits (even if most days, I couldn’t prepare food so I ate LAY’S® Limón Potato Chips and gummi worms).

Another patient had just moved from Arizona, with a history of using 30 mg of MS-Contin, a long-acting morphine tablet, three times a day, plus another opioid, Percocet 10 mg instant relief (IR), one tablet every four to six hours for breakthrough pain. The patient was full-time employed, doing fairly intense labor, and was incensed when I wanted evidence of his “bad back.” The patient did not bring any records during his first visit, but he later returned with a lengthy health record — his pain deriving from five back surgeries, three of them revisions for the original surgeries.

I had never heard of “ultra-rapid” or “slow” opioid metabolizers² which affect adequate treatment, and still believed the Center for Disease Control (CDC) had society’s best interest at heart. The opioid crisis seemed far away, and I believed that did not affect my patients, or myself. Mistakenly, I thought there hardly would have been an “opioid epidemic” had medical providers only accompanied any opioid prescription with this warning: “Use your IR (instand relief) opioid medication when you truly have breakthrough pain, a 7–8 or higher, or it will no longer be as effective.”

Perhaps. But complicating matters was that opioid medications did seem to be prescribed for relatively mild to moderate pain, or in situations where acute pain would soon resolve. For example, to my patient with that strained knee, seen in a Colorado ER. In 1991, I’d fractured my lower leg above the ankle, after a car stunt gone awry, and wasn’t prescribed any opioid medication. The ER doc in Florida who applied the hot pink cast, from my toes to my knee, pointed me to a Walgreens to buy Tylenol (acetaminophen) for the simple, uncomplicated fracture.

Although I was in tremendous pain myself from the sky diving accident and crushed sacral nerves, I denied suffering from intractable pain. Yet I was battling worsening neuropathic (nerve) pain, as well as residual musculoskeletal pain from the sacral and vertebral fractures, on a daily basis. I made it through each workday by lying down on the exam table during lunch. Work gave me great happiness, but physically I had no energy left to cook, maintain friendships or even have a hobby.

That year I recall having to do five mandatory continuing medical education credits by the State on “responsible opioid prescribing.” This seemed ludicrous since I always looked at the PMP before going into the exam room. Especially with a patient that was on medications that fell under the Controlled Substances Act.³ As a non-contract employee, I also paid my own DEA license at $780 every three years for the privilege of writing controlled substance prescriptions. I was ticked off with the cost, but also with what I perceived as government encroachment on my medical decision making.

Sure enough, over the years, after the CDC Opioid Guidelines came out (which are voluntary, and not legally binding), I began to realize that there is no true opioid epidemic. There’s an epidemic alright, of people taking opioids with multiple medications and then adding alcohol and other illegal drugs on top. What we most certainly have is an alcohol epidemic, with 88,000 deaths⁴ annually, and this epidemic is starting to effect millennials. I blame those hipster beers with ridiculously high alcohol percentages, as millennials are dying of liver cirrhosis in record-breaking numbers.

Despite the ongoing alcohol epidemic, from 2012 to 2016, using opioid medication became synonymous with being a “drug seeker.” The “opioid crisis” narrative was perpetuated and fueled by mainstream media, whose culpability lies in using labels like “opioid overdose deaths” instead of the more appropriate “mixed drug intoxication.” True opioid deaths (opioid medications alone) range around five thousand deaths annually, according to Josh Bloom, writing for the American Council on Science and Health.⁵ New York City’s medical examiner’s office is unsurpassed when it comes to accurately determining cause of death: in 2016, 71 percent of all drug-related deaths involved heroin and/or fentanyl.⁶

Looking at the numbers, most of the so-called “opioid deaths” seemed to be people who did not take their medication as instructed, if opioids were legally prescribed in the first place. Seriously, because who cooks their Fentanyl patch and injects it? Not chronic pain patients, who need slowly titrated medication to bathe, cook, work, take care of kids, or go to school. Patients were indeed dying from respiratory depression, caused by taking legal or illegal opiates. But how many of those deaths are suicides? If patients with severe pain, on a stable regimen, are denied access, they may turn to suicide, or illegal opioids like heroin, now tainted by illegal fentanyl. That is not an opioid crisis, but another iatrogenic consequence of the “guidelines.” The Law of Unintended Consequences never fails.

How was it that the CDC took advice from an anti-opioid advocacy group, Physicians for Responsible Opioid Prescribing (PROP)⁸ in constructing the Opioid Guidelines? PROP had lobbied Federal officials and the FDA for years, to change opioid labels. When they were (mostly) rebutted, PROP got involved with the CDC, behind closed doors. The Washington Legal Foundation⁷ notified the CDC in 2015, as in their opinion, the CDC broke the 1972 Federal Advisory Committee Act (FACA) law. Washington Legal Foundation states that a Core Expert Group, advising the CDC, conducted their “research” and “Draft for Opioid Guidelines” in secret, without input from pain experts, pharmocologists, or patient groups.

Dr. Jane Ballantyne (current PROP President) was part of that Core Expert Group and is notorious for her anti-opioid stance. Another Core Expert Group member is PROP executive director, and founder, Dr. Andrew Kolodny, who refers to opiate medication as “heroin” pills and proclaimed that “oxycodone and heroin have indistinguishable effects.”⁹ Yet you oughtn’t compare a 5 mg tablet of oxycodone to IV heroin, without qualifiers on potency. Dr. Kolodny, an addiction expert, doesn’t even distinguish between “plain” heroin, and heroin cut with fentanyl, which is 100 times stronger than morphine. About 80 percent of fatal overdoses are now due to illegal fentanyl. By muddying the issues of opioid dependence, opioid addiction, and heroin use with either false or incomplete statements, PROP also does a disservice to people who are addicted to heroin or illegal fentanyl.

Research has found that 75% of heroin addicts have a mental health illness, and 50% have trauma from (sexual) abuse before age 16, something that gets drowned in Dr. Ballantyne’s simplified narrative of “continuous or increasing doses of opioids [… ] can worsen a person’s ability to function and his or her quality of life. It may also lead to opioid abuse, addiction, or even death.”¹⁰ Like many others, I argue that (illegal) fentanyl, and indirectly, profound loss of hope, is the main driver behind the current “mixed use overdose” deaths.

Dr. Kolodny was Chief Medical Officer of The Phoenix House, an addiction center, at the time he helped draft the CDC Guidelines. PROP also avoids mentioning the Millennium saliva,¹¹ or other DNA tests, to identify how individual patients metabolize opiate medication and that some are “ultrafast” metabolizers. PROP fails to mention opioid blood concentration measurements, no matter how imperfect.¹² However, no one doubts the conflict of interest: PROP Board members are involved with grants from the CDC, addiction centers, medical device companies to develop an opioid tapering mechanism, and even consulted with law firms investigating lawsuits against opiate pharmaceutical companies.

PROP was originally funded by Phoenix House, one of many addiction centers that prescribes buprenorphine. PROP is currently funded by the Steve Rummler HOPE Network,¹³ another anti-opioid group that lists Dr. Ballantyne and Dr. Kolodny on the medical advisory committee. Dr. Kolodny admitted in a 2013 New York Times article titled “Addiction Treatment with a Dark Side” that as a New York City Health official, he lobbied on behalf of the buprenorphine pharmaceutical industry. He was quoted as saying, “We had New York City staff out there acting like drug reps [with $10,000 incentives -KG].”¹⁴

Buprenorphine was the supposed miracle drug after methadone, but its known side effects include serious diversion, addiction, and possibly, lifelong treatment. Dr. Kolodny publicly promoted buprenorphine in various media outlets, despite evidence of buprenorphine overprescribing, pill mills, and overdoses. The true scale is not known, as most ERs and medical examiners do not test for the presence of buprenorphine. The CDC does not track buprenorphine deaths, despite a 2013 study¹⁵ that found a tenfold increase in buprenorphine-related ED visits, according to the Federally funded Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA). As “bupe” availability increased, so did diversion and overdose deaths.

Interestingly, that Dr. Kolodny promotes the idea that heroin and opioid medications are the same molecular compound. Actually, buprenorphine has a molecular profile¹⁶ that more closely resembles heroin, than hydrocodone. Dr. Kolodny indirectly claims that CDC “Guidelines” are effective, when the truth is that by the time PROP advised the CDC, prescriptions had already tapered off. This is evidenced in his statement as chief medical officer from a Phoenix House Q&A,¹⁷ dated December 2015: “It will take some time, but we’re already beginning to see a plateau in opioid prescribing.” Dr. Kolodny appears to take credit for a trend that had nothing to do with PROP, and he omits the fact that prescriptions are down since 2011, and yet overdoses are up.

Mainstream media occasionally, and accidentally, reveals the truth. CNN¹⁸ in 2018: “Fentanyl-related deaths double in six months; US government takes some action.” Then again, the echo of Dr. Kolodny’s statements, as reported by CNN: “The recent rise in popularity of these synthetics has been called the third wave of the opioid epidemic; the first wave was attributed to the overprescribing of painkillers like oxycodone and hydrocodone and the second to heroin. The drugs are all chemically similar and act on the same receptors in the brain.” Again, not one word about potency.

Few realize that when the CDC issued the Opioid Guidelines in 2016, there was inadequate research done ahead of time to determine the true cause of the rise in opioid-related deaths. There are no long-term studies on the effects of chronic opiate therapy. Very few, if any, pain management experts or pharmacologists were consulted to determine potential impacts on their practice. Neither veterans nor chronic pain patients were given a true opportunity to issue public comments to the CDC or any other Federal authority prior to the implementation of these new prescribing mandates. The CDC ended up targeting one of the most vulnerable groups, patients with intractable pain.

The CDC’s Guidelines also affect patients with cancer and patients who no longer receive cancer treatment because, unfortunately, both groups report similar pain levels. The guidelines allow the use of opioids during cancer treatment, but they are confusing when it comes to equally severe, post-cancer treatment pain. I fear this “opioid” crisis is far from over, and yet, trust me, this will go down as “reefer madness” in another hundred years. It is a manufactured tragedy that does real harm to patients with intractable pain. The “opioid” crisis also hurts human beings who suffer from heroin, opioids or other addictions by siphoning money, goodwill, and energy.

Few people realize that the CDC hired a PR agency to help sell the American people myths on the “opioid epidemic.” The agency, PRR, designed graphics to “educate” primary care providers that “one in four patients on opioids will develop addiction.” Even the National Institute of Health,¹⁹ another federal entity, estimates this to be 5 percent, not 25 percent. Another research team²⁰ concluded in Pain Medicine that opioid therapy for chronic pain patients (note: in absence of prior or current drug abuse) resulted in a 0.19 percent incidence of abuse.

The language used by the media as well as PROP contributes to misunderstanding; using words like addiction, tolerance, dependence, abuse or opioid use disorder as if they mean the same, directs the casual observer to bias. It’s clear that PROP never was an independent, neutral entity advising the CDC, yet they ended up dictating federal policy, based on flawed evidence. Dr. Ballantyne, Dr. Franklin, and Dr. Kolodny in Politico.com²¹ in March 2018: “We agree with Satel that the answer is not to force millions of chronic pain patients to rapidly taper off medications they are now dependent on (Italics mine). But then, neither is the answer to absolve overprescribing for pain.”

I’m not a linguist, but in that essay, PROP uses the word “addiction/addicted” 16 times, and “dependence” twice. The CDC could have ensured that patients with severe to intractable pain (no such distinction is made) would not lose access to their medications. And yet, that is exactly what happened. Stable patients on long-term opioids were tapered against their will, as the CDC “Guidelines” state it is undesirable to titrate above or equal to 90 morphine milligram equivalent²² daily (aka MME/day). But this was meant for opioid-naive patients, not those on long-term opiate therapy. Primary care providers, who were forced to follow these “Guidelines,” either stopped prescribing opioids altogether or forced patients to rapidly taper to below 90 MME.

Dr. Ballantyne is correct in her remarks that it isn’t realistic to expect zero pain levels, especially for acute pain that is expected to resolve quickly, like a sprain or an uncomplicated fracture. But people with severe to intractable pain are condemned to a world of suffering. Recall my patient with the five back surgeries? I wonder about him. He was working full time, on 180 MME a day, but in his mid-fifties, arthritis would worsen soon. My own story did not end well; I ended up with yet another spinal cord lesion, a benign hemangioma at chest level, which causes “central neuropathic pain syndrome.” My old cauda equina syndrome morphed into “severe, chronic adhesive arachnoiditis.” This is an incurable, intractable, progressive neuroinflammatory disorder whose pain is considered on par with having terminal cancer pain. Still, I try to make the best of it, see my essay, On Being Bedbound.

The CDC and PROP came for me: after using opioids exactly as prescribed, and less than 30 MME daily, my primary care clinic was forced to stop my opioid prescription, and that of all patients. I was not accepted in any pain management clinic, in an urban area of almost one million. Pain clinics here no longer provide “medical management,” yet perform epidural steroid injections ($3000 a pop), which may have contributed to, or worsened my adhesive arachnoiditis syndrome. I’m lucky to live in an urban area, where the academic hospital’s pain team took over my prescription.

But what about elderly and impoverished patients, or those in rural areas? PROP and the CDC claim primary care providers “overprescribe” and are responsible for most of the opioid prescriptions. But they fail to publicly acknowledge that pain management clinics no longer accept patients. This epidemic of undertreated patients will become known as one of the cruelest moves by a Federal agency on an already compromised population. I do feel for teenagers and adults who become addicted. Yet there ought to be a different, more sensible approach towards legitimate, chronic pain patients who need opioid medications, as well as people who develop a substance use disorder, who deserve our help and sympathy.

It is a conundrum of extraordinary proportions. At a time when managed care and Electronic Health Records dictate the length and quality of an office visit, there is less and less time to sit down and connect with a patient. Not just with chronic pain patients. Medicine and society would benefit greatly from the extra time clinicians deserve, to encourage exercise, eat healthier, lose weight, stop smoking and assess if a patient needs other support, like therapy.

In my opinion, it is loneliness, the feeling of not being connected to humanity in a meaningful way, combined with economic hardship, that leads to unhealthy lifestyle choices, as witnessed by the Rustbelt being hit hardest. Research shows that rats who were offered spring water or water laced with heroin, choose heroin. When those same rats were given ample toys, space, and other rats to play and have sex with, they did not choose the heroin laced water. That’s right, happy rats don’t need no heroin!

It cannot be denied that in previous decades, pain was both undertreated, and opioid medications prescribed for relatively minor, self-resolving aches and pains. Forget for a moment, the narrative that places blame on overprescribing, the opioid manufacturers, or the pharmaceutical distributors that, for example, flooded impoverished communities like those in West Virginia.²³ Forget all that, and focus on what is going on. Ultimately, patients with intractable pain pay the price of ignorance by scientists, journalists, politicians, and laypeople alike.

For this humanitarian crisis, there are no perfect answers. For example, as Red Lawhern, Ph.D. and prominent pain advocate²⁴ recently communicated with me (12/3/2018): “there is promise in genetic testing but hasn’t yet been fully reduced to routine practice and may not be covered by insurance.” Luckily my DNA testing was covered, on the condition it tested for depression. I also discovered that ketamine infusions help me most, but will leave that topic for my upcoming book, The Queen of Ketamine. Sadly, amidst the opioid paranoia, non-invasive alternatives like ketamine infusions aren’t mentioned for neuropathic or intractable backpain, which often has a neuropathic component. Research also shows that adding an anti-seizure medication to an opiate mediation provides better neuropathic pain contral, with less morphine²⁵.

In the end, I don’t think Tai Chi, Tylenol and Cognitive Behavioral Therapy is going to cut it for meningeal inflammation or other (neuropathic) pain syndromes. I believe the tide is turning. It will take time, and in that time, patients with intractable pain will choose to end their lives. But we are not alone, and it helps to know that courageous voices, notably the Alliance for Treatment of Intractable Pain, are speaking up for us. The print and online magazine Reason²⁶ has long been a voice of, well, reason. As Red Lawhern stated in a must-listen November 2018 radio interview,²⁷ “We must address underemployment, socioeconomic despair and hopelessness which are a vector for addiction. And end the War on Pain patients.”

Love, Kaatje

Kaatje Gotcha, model and stuntwoman-turned-Physician Assistant, found comedy, writing and advocacy after developing Adhesive Arachnoiditis. This spinal cord disease causes intractable neuropathic pain and leaves her mostly bedridden. Prior to that diagnosis, she’d survived a nighttime skydiving accident, landing at 70 mph. This caused Cauda Equina Syndrome; a subsequent lumbar puncture and epidural steroidal injections may have exacerbated her previous injuries.

Kaatje’s courageous spirit led to writing “The Queen of Ketamine,” available on Kindle in February. This is a comedic yet pragmatic memoir  on adhesive arachnoiditis, the opioid “epidemic,” neuropathic pain, dating with a disability, while offering hope and practical advice. Kaatje’s 2018 TEDx talk and book publication will be posted on her Facebook page, at www.kaatjegotcha.com and Instagram @kaatjegotchacomedy. Find her essays on Medium, and follow her on twitter.

Cauda Equina Syndrome https://emedicine.medscape.com/article/1148690-overview

Opioid Metabolism https://www.medscape.com/viewarticle/771480

Controlled Substance Act https://www.dea.gov/controlled-substances-act

Alcohol Epidemic https://www.niaaa.nih.gov/alcohol-health/overview-alcohol-consumption/alcohol-facts-and-statistics

Opioid Epidemic Deception https://www.acsh.org/news/2017/10/12/opioid-epidemic-6-charts-designed-deceive-you-11935

Overdose Deaths by Heroin/Fentanyl 71percent https://www1.nyc.gov/assets/doh/downloads/pdf/epi/databrief89.pdf

Washington Legal Foundation and PROP https://www.forbes.com/sites/wlf/2015/12/15/cdc-bows-to-demands-for-transparency-and-public-input-on-draft-opioid-prescribing-guidelines/#c82eda135bc3

Physicians for Responsible Opioid Prescribing http://www.supportprop.org/

Dr Kolodny refers to “Heroin” Pills https://www.healthline.com/health-news/secondary-drug-industry-booming-amid-opioid-epidemic#2

Dr Ballantyne’s Narrative https://www.statnews.com/2015/11/30/chronic-pain-intensity-scale/

Millennium Opioid Metabolite DNA Test https://www.millenniumhealth.com/services/test-offerings/

Opioid Serum Measurements http://paindr.com/serum-opioid-monitoring-wheres-the-evidence/

Medical Advisory Committee https://steverummlerhopenetwork.org/our-team/

NYT: Addiction Treatment with a Dark Side https://www.nytimes.com/2013/11/17/health/in-demand-in-clinics-and-on-the-street-bupe-can-be-savior-or-menace.html

Sharp Rise in Buprenorphine ER Visits https://www.samhsa.gov/data/sites/default/files/DAWN106/DAWN106/sr106-buprenorphine.htm

Heroin and Buprenorphine Molecular Profile http://paindr.com/heroin-hydrocodone-buprenorphine-prop-aganda/#comment-334500]

Q&A with Dr. Kolodny, Phoenix House https://www.kolmac.com/2015/12/qa-dr-andrew-kolodny-chief-medical-officer-phoenix-house/

Fentanyl, as Reported by CNN https://www.cnn.com/2018/07/12/health/fentanyl-opioid-deaths/index.html

NIH Estimates Pain Patient “Addiction” 5 Percent https://medlineplus.gov/magazine/issues/spring11/articles/spring11pg9.html

Pain Patient “Opioid Use Disorder” without Risk Factors 0.19 percent https://academic.oup.com/painmedicine/article/9/4/444/1824073

Rebuttal by Dr. Kolodny and Dr. Ballantyne https://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2018/03/13/opioid-overprescribing-is-not-a-myth-217338

Morphine Equivalent Dosing https://www.wolterskluwercdi.com/sites/default/files/documents/ebooks/morphine-equivalent-dosing-ebook.pdf?v3

https://www.wvgazettemail.com/news/cops_and_courts/drug-firms-poured-m-painkillers-into-wv-amid-rise-of/article_99026dad-8ed5-5075-90fa-adb906a36214.html

Red Lawhern, PhD and nationally known Pain Patient Advocate http://face-facts.org/lawhern/

Combining epilepsy drug, morphine can result in less pain, lower opioid dose. https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2014/09/140915153613.htm

Jacob Sullum, Reason journalist and syndicated writer https://reason.com/archives/2018/03/08/americas-war-on-pain-pills-is#comment

“Unleashed” Matt Connarton Interviews Red Lawhern 11/28/18 https://www.spreaker.com/user/ipmnation/matt-connarton-unleashed-11-28-18

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[sapphyrelily]

people were never meant to be alone

Inspired by a love song/non-love song by Jon Cozart and Dodie Clark

i. Semi

It’s beautiful tonight.

It seems odd, that I can still think this, even after all that’s happened, even after being left behind, like this.

But maybe that’s not quite true.

We've made our choices, and though circumstance has had a part in it too, the end result is the same.

I am here, and he isn’t.

The lights dancing across the water are captivating, breaking apart and coming back together, jolted sideways by the waves. Above the harbour, the streetlamps and lights of the buildings shine, bright and welcoming, even though it is close to nine.

I laugh a little, and the sound that escapes surprises even me – it sounds so bitter. But maybe that’s true. I do feel kind of bitter.

It’s lucky that everyone else is too caught up in each other to notice me.

It’s an odd habit, but I pat the railing before I step away, casting a last look at the small bit of sea invading the harbour, at the ships bobbing on it.

Tomorrow, one of those will set sail, a cruise bound for Thailand before looping around and returning here.

Here. That’s a funny thought.

Here, where I am, where we were supposed to be, together.

I’m rambling again.

But hey, at least I’m not like every other sappy couple here.

I am alone, a tourist, even though I am visiting all these sites populated with couples.

-----

My room is a small one – large enough for just me, maybe a squeeze if I were to share it.

The bottle of wine on the table seems to mock me – as does the single glass beside it. I do not look at them, but open the balcony door, leaning on the railing to regard the pool below.

I should put it out of mind and enjoy my stay here – my mini vacation, in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

Definitely not the most romantic, said to be the busiest and the least happy.

It doesn’t seem all that different from Japan, to me, except that the malls are more crowded, the weather decidedly more humid, and the people are louder.

It is probably a cultural thing, but it’s…peaceful.

It’s nice, I suppose, to be able to hide in a crowd like this, where the bustle drowns out your thoughts.

Where I don’t have to think about what others think of us, where I don’t have to pretend that it’s something it’s not.

“You are together? Congratulations.”

Ha.

Maybe once, Wakatoshi. But no longer.

I don’t quite know how to describe us, anymore. It’s a sort of limbo, and neither wants to make the first move to unbalance the equation.

So we keep pretending, I guess. We haven’t slept in the same bed in months, nor have we spoken of anything past usual pleasantries and maybe a joke or two.

It’s like we regressed back to being friends, or perhaps, distant acquaintances.

No, that’s not it. Still friends, but nothing close to what we shared before.

It’s sad.

I sigh and retreat back into the room, turning out the lights, the lightest click the only sound in the following darkness.

The covers are thick, still cool from the air-conditioning, and his voice follows me, a complaint replayed at the slightest touch of coolness.

I tuck myself in and shut his voice out, willing my brain to stop talking.

(I wonder, is this what it’s like, to grow apart?)

 ii. Shirabu

“Okay, and again!”

You smile for the camera, tilting your head in the angle he likes best, letting the artificial wind push the hair back across your face. The camera clicks in quick succession, the director calls a halt, and you step out of the blinding lights.

Another day, another job done.

You hate the long hours and the lights, the fussing and twittering, but modelling is a job that pays well, despite all that it takes from you.

You feel your mind begin to drift, skipping down the forbidden path, and you force it back, slapping it back on track.

You thank the director, the photographer, the make-up artists… Everyone that you must greet gets their share of thanks before you can excuse yourself to the luxurious room they prepared for you.

Luxurious, but empty.

Your mind wanders again, to the thought of companionship in a sun-drenched place, of warm hearts and elbows rubbing, and easy conversations.

You have but one of those, when you took up this job, and left behind a chance at perhaps, something more.

You are alone, in the taxi, and you decide that maybe, it would be alright to entertain these thoughts. This notion, that you could have had a full bloom, when you already have a half-open bud.

Your phone buzzes, interrupting your foolish thinking, and you pull it out.

It’s funny, that the name on the screen matches the face you were just thinking about.

Typing back a quick reply, you hit Send before you realise what a plain, generic answer that was. The same kind of answer you are used to giving, the one that never merits a bigger response than that.

Something small, that you noticed only recently, that is probably why you are growing apart.

Huh. You were growing apart. From the one person who never stopped pursuing you in the past – yet it seems otherwise, now.

(When did he stop? When did he stop running, slowing past walking, coming to a crawl?)

(Will he decide to turn back?)

(Is it worth trying to salvage it?)

Your phone buzzes again, and you see bright photos, lovely scenery, coupled with a smile you know all too well.

Wish you were here! The caption reads, but you shake your head and smother a laugh.

He doesn’t, not really. He admitted so when he was drunk once, though he was quick to re-affirm that he adores you.

(Maybe not so soon, but someday, someday, surely.)

(Surely, he will leave.)

Sometimes you wish you could have returned that affection in the way that he wanted, but yours is a friendship turned relationship of convenience. There is no love lost between you, especially after so many years.

(Sometimes, you wish there was.)

But looking at the photo, you let yourself dream a little.

What would it have been like, if you had followed him?

 iii. Semi

The streets are always so busy, no matter where I turn. Maybe it’s because I don’t know any non-tourist areas, but where would be the fun in pretending I was anything but a tourist?

My phone’s​ camera is awful, but good enough, and I manage to get shots of buildings with not too much sky in them – Satori never lets me live it down if there’s too much sky in a photo.

“Are you taking picture of the thing or of the sky?”

I turn my face down, hoping everyone else is minding their own business. It wouldn’t do for a tourist to be upset on a holiday, now, would it?

Except that I still am upset. By something found and lost, but mostly by the what-if of it all.

It would be easier, perhaps, to pretend. As I always do – as we always do, did.

And it’s not so hard, to pretend, when I can practically hear his voice yammering inside my head.

It’s only hard because I know it’ll never happen again.

And I can’t help it, I can’t help the thought that forms automatically, despite knowing that it would benefit me to not think about it.

I miss you.

 iv. Shirabu

It’s quiet, but still a little busy – this is, after all, a city that hardly sleeps. The lights weaving together on the arches of the bridge are bright, but not blinding, the glow enough to set a mood.

You try not to glance around – left and right are couples strolling hand in hand, though there is the occasional single or a small family. It matters not who they are, but what they have – relationships, bonds, people they care about and to whom they can return after a long day.

You cannot say that you have the same luxury now.

You left your base, your home ground – the metaphorical nest. You stepped out and spread your wings, hoping the downdraft would lift and help you glide to the ground.

You have glided this far, and the winds are failing, the current dying away. You have not looked down – have never looked down, have been too trusting, too confident – and now, you are uncertain where you’d land.

Your phone is silent in your pocket, despite usually being the opposite – and that is answer enough.

You’ve landed somewhere unfamiliar, somewhere hostile, and you do not have a single person at your back to fall back on, to trust in.

(A barren land, desert and unforgiving sand, with neither water nor sustenance. A place where one will perish, for sure.)

Maybe…

Maybe you should’ve held on.

(The memory of an empty inbox, unsent drafts, cutting words tears at your heart.)

(A figure turned away, without a since glance back.)

(Dismissal.)

You look ahead and exhale through your mouth, trying not to crumple.

(Pretty pictures fold themselves away inside your mind, hiding in a box, sliding into a dark and dusty corner.)

 v. Semi

I’m back.

Back here, at the waterfront, with the lights shining over the water, but this time, no boat in the harbour.

I can hear the soft murmuring of the couples at my back, and for the umpteenth time, I wonder, why am I doing this to myself?

(I’m not sure I’ll ever find an answer.)

But watching them, even the slightest glance, brings back floods of memories, remnants of times past, and it’s like they are happening anew.

A hearty laugh, a shock of red hair, hands pushing at mine, until his hands are on the controls instead. “Eita-kun, you suck so much at this. Let me get it.”

Within a minute, a large plush is in my arms, blocking my vision.

But I can hear his laugh from over it, and the unbridled joy in it makes me smile.

I can see an arcade from where I stand, and have to turn away, bite my lip, keep the emotion back.

“Aisle seat?”

“Nooo. Oh my goodness, you never watch movies from the side! There, we’re taking H-10 and 11. Right in the centre.”

“Satori–”

“Shh. It’ll be better, trust me.”

The movie theatre is on the opposite side of the mall. I start towards it, trying to keep my face blank, but I’m failing, falling.

“You’ve got a choice. Pick one.”

I look at both shirts, but neither of them impress me. He shoves one at me anyway, pushing me into the changing room, and I have to catch myself on the wall, but I’m laughing.

They were good times. That is for sure.

Hands swinging by each other, until finally one gives up and grabs a hold of the other, pinkies loosely intertwined.

“Eita?”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

I have to cover my face for a moment, the memory is so strong.

A chaste kiss, lips lifted in a smile.

“Forever?”

“Always.”

But forever is shattered, like powdered glass, and there’s not enough of it left to fit in a stained-glass window.

Forever spins away on a breeze, and I watch it go, left behind with a half-hearted lie.

 vi. Shirabu

Your fingers hover over the blackened screen, the train’s lights reflecting off of it.

You are hesitating.

You are reluctant.

It’s for good reason, you tell yourself, fingers clenching around the device, turning it over so you can’t see​ the screen.

But in the next moment, you have flipped it over again, unlocked it, and you stare at a background that only heightens your conflict.

A picture of the two of you, smiling broadly for the camera.

You still remember how it was taken, a giant cliché.

You are laughing, hard enough that he has to support you, because you are bent over, wheezing.

“Shirabu-san.”

There’s a lilt of happiness in his voice, a tad more than usual, and you look up, only for the camera shutter to go off.

You don’t bother to make him delete it, because your good mood remains – and also because you like the way he tries to preserve memories like this, sometimes.

His arm around your waist is warm, as is the sun reflecting off your smiles in the photo.

You bite your lip as you stare at the screen, chest aching horribly.

You open your messaging app, stare at the latest message, and once again, exit without sending anything new.

Your home screen wallpaper mocks you, and you have a sudden urge to change it.

Don’t, a voice inside you whispers, but you shake it off and open your photo gallery.

It is so difficult to pick something, anything, but you settle on a patch of blooming flowers, lit by the setting sun, even though you are breaking apart.

You know better.

This is the way to redemption, and to salvaging what’s left of your…friendship.

You are better, smarter than this. You should know, you should know that the only way to get over this is to leave it alone.

You do know.

And that is why you slip your phone into your bag, watching the flashing lights for the upcoming train station instead of trying to reply, because you only make things worse when you speak.

 vii. Meeting

Two figures headed in the same direction, paths bifurcating at the casino. They almost don’t notice each other, both caught up in their own world, in their haze of distraction.

Neither of them really knows who notices the other first – but they agree that it started with the fireworks.

The fireworks, that go off in the amusement park at eight thirty, a light show that most people stop to stare at.

It is in the aftermath – or perhaps, even the middle of it, the glow lighting the faces beneath – that they stop, and their eyes meet.

They promptly look away, neither of them acknowledging the other, still half in a daze, still hoping, dreaming, on their own.

But the fireworks die away, and the world begins moving again, except for the two stationary figures, both waiting for the other to make the first move.

One of them does move – a shake of his head, a wry smile – turning away. Everything he does screams his belief that he is seeing things, and he will not entertain it.

And the other – it is his turn, his move, and he takes the first step.

The first lifting and dropping of a foot, and then another, and another, before his shoes are clicking rapidly across the concrete, catching up, and a hand placed on a shoulder.

A whisper of a name – in disbelief, questioning, and the one who turned away first – he blinks slowly, as if waking from a dream.

A curious, wondrous smile lifts his lips, and he greets the other in a sighing cadence.

Hello.

 viii. Catching up

They go back to his room, because it is smaller, quieter, more private.

Small pleasantries, an exchange of information – what they are doing on a small island, so far from their homeland, their jobs, their lives, what they have done since graduation and losing touch.

Neither of them speak about the golden band resting on the table, or the silver one hanging around a neck. It’s as if they recognise the pain in each other’s eyes, and there is a mutual understanding, though they have never agreed on much, before.

The hour is late when their mouths are dry, and one of them stands to leave. The other is just as quick to catch his sleeve, gently asking him to stay.

It’s late. I’ll lend you some clothes.

It is odd, but he has no reason to refuse, not when he doesn’t have to work the next day. And maybe…

Maybe he does need some form of companionship, if only in the form of someone he used to dislike so much.

Maybe, it would be alright to stay.

(Just for a bit.)

 ix. Quiet moments

The bed is large enough for the two of them, and they lie on opposing sides, facing away from each other.

But sleep does not come easily, and in the midst of tossing and turning, they begin to bicker.

It’s almost nostalgic, the jibes and insults thrown, but neither let up, and they end up poking and kicking each other under the blanket as if they were still in high school.

Nobody knows who won, but lying there in the relative quiet, with the air-conditioning as white noise, it’s almost easy to pretend that they are both okay.

But silence is a tricky thing, like the molten glass that glassblowers mould.

Who are you engaged to?

Is that a promise ring?

They laugh at their overlapping words. They’ve always been too similar, in some ways.

 x. Secrets

They argue over who would start first, until one caves.

It was Satori.

Was?

I don’t know, but I don’t think we are together any more. Not in that sense, at least.

A low hum, understanding, accepting.

Non-judgemental.

You’re right, you know.

What?

This. It’s sort of like a promise ring. He lets the ring fall from jointless fingers; it clinks against the chain, falling silent against the bed. But promises are always broken.

A beat of silence – he takes that as agreement, but then the other begins speaking again.

Not true. Promises are what you make them.

He snorts. Maybe so, but not this one. This was always in a limbo and ready to be broken.

Oh?

Yeah.

A lengthier silence, and he stares at the ceiling, waiting, waiting, for him to ask.

He doesn’t.

You’re not curious? He can’t help himself – he can’t imagine anyone not wanting to pry. About who the other ring belongs to?

You’d tell me, if you wanted. His voice is so trusting – it’s not fair.

(It’s plain to see who has matured more over the years.)

(He doesn’t like it.)

Tsutomu has the other ring.

It feels like an admission, a soft, whispered thing, yet also a loud, shouted thing – a gunshot in the darkness, a secret that he doesn’t want to bring to light.

And?

He huffs. I thought you weren’t going to pry.

I know you, and you want to tell me. You just need a push.

He gets a kick for his troubles, but hears a sigh, and eventually, the other starts talking.

 xi. Moving on

The funny thing about people, is how they pretend they can survive alone, when really, they need support at least some of the time.

That is how humans work, as does the beautiful-ridiculous thing called companionship.

They talk through the night, till the sun peeks through the bottom of the curtains, and that is when they decide to sleep.

When they wake, another day is gone, but the burden on their hearts has eased.

It feels like they are going to go back to pretending they hate each other, go back to pretending the other doesn’t exist.

But one of them makes a tiny offer, and the other accepts, and then they are wandering the mall until closing time, trading banter as they walk back along the bridge.

It’s almost friendly, and they trade numbers, a teasing parting of ways.

Call me.

You sound desperate.

I mean when you need to talk, brat.

Hmm, no.

You are ridiculous.

You are absurd.

Pain-in-the-ass.

Naggy.

I’m trying to be nice.

Don’t.

Fine.

Fine.

They turn away, but glance back, and burst out laughing.

They are broken, and patched up, their repairs messy but feasible for the moment.

They are flightless birds, but they have learnt to walk, and maybe, run.

They smile at each other a last time and part ways, hearts lighter than they were before.

Romance is a lie, but you can find companionship in the oddest places.

[5hfanfiction]

mean girls pt.4

IV.

Camila is never late. You can’t get far in life without planning ahead and therefore she always makes a point of arriving at least five minutes early to wherever she needs to be. It’s not her fault that Sofi had decided to throw a temper tantrum this morning and, by the time Camila had managed to calm her down, they only had ten minutes to get to school. She always needs to drop Sofi off first, which is why she’s now running through the hallways, trying to make it to AP Government on time.

She somehow manages to walk inside the classroom as the second bell is ringing, so there are no consequences for her tardiness and she just gives the teacher a quick apology before taking her seat on the row by the window. Pulling out her notebook and her pencil case, she places her phone between her legs to let the girls know she’s alive and is surprised to see she has more texts than she’d expected. Both Normani and Dinah have blown up her Whatsapp notifications.

China Jane [8:16] are u here yet??

Mani [8:21] Where are you?

Mani [8:22] Did something happen?

China Jane [8:24] ok bish we headin inside c u after 1st period

Mani [8:25] Is everything okay? You should be at school by now

China Jane [8:26] where tf r u walz

China Jane [8:26] GURL U NEVER GONNA BELIEVE THIS SHIT

China Jane [8:27] YOU GOTTA SEE THIS

China Jane [8:28] get yo ass to the lockers rn!!!!!

Mani [8:29] Shit. Did you see it?

China Jane [8:29] DA FUQ U AT

Camila stares at the screen in disbelief. Of course the girls couldn’t have been kind enough to drop a photo or a snap of whatever they wanted her to see and now she’ll have to wait until class is over to catch up on the latest gossip.

With an annoyed sigh, she grabs a pen and starts copying the notes on the board.

Camila doesn’t notice anything out of the ordinary as she leaves AP Government, sending a quick message to the Clique’s group chat so they’ll meet at her locker. She’s vaguely aware that there are people watching her and pointing and muttering under their breaths, but there are always people doing that and she’s learned not to care about it.

After all, it’s much better to be the one people talk about than to have nothing better to do but talk about someone else.

She saunters up to her locker and opens it to pull out her Psychology textbook. A folded paper falls to her feet and she lowers down to pick it up, keeping it between her index and middle finger as she finishes what she has to do. It isn’t the first time, nor will it be the last, that someone leaves random messages through the slit of her locker. She shuts the door and leans against the wall of lockers, hoping the girls won’t take too long.

Camila isn’t quite prepared for what she sees as she unfolds the paper and her chin drops before she can regain control of her muscles and facial expressions. What she has in her hands is a very poor excuse for a student president campaign poster, limited to a printed out color photograph on A4 photocopy paper with a slogan underneath in what looks like a bland Arial font. She would be appalled at the unprofessionalism of it all if it weren’t for the shocking content.

It’s a photograph of Lauren fucking Jauregui. And sure, the photograph is flattering, but Camila couldn’t care less if Lauren had plastered her face all over school or decided to hand out nudes at the cafeteria. No, what really gets to her is the slogan:

No cliques: for a fair high school experience

Camila sees red in that moment. She’s gritting her teeth so hard, middle-school Camila would be worried those two years wearing braces had been for naught.

She knew Lauren would come for her, but there is a difference between coming for her and attacking her friends. This is personal.

“There you are!”

She snaps her eyes up to face Dinah walking towards her with Normani in tow.

“I see the hottest news has found its way to you,” Normani says, wincing. She places a hand on Camila’s shoulder and softly allows it to travel down to her wrist. Camila feels some of the tension inside her fade at the gesture and tries to give Normani a smile. She fails.

“That bitch,” she breathes out instead. “I’ll fucking kill her.”

“I’m kind of impressed, actually,” Dinah says, prying Camila’s fingers open to grab the poster and check it out. “Girl legit pulled this outta her ass from one day to the other.”

Camila glares at her, not wanting to hear anything even remotely positive about Lauren. “Did you even read the stupid slogan, Dinah? This is not just about me, she’s coming after us!”

“Yeah?” Dinah shrugs. “I’m 100% Team Mila but I can’t say it isn’t exciting to have someone challenging us.”

Normani snickers at that and Camila struggles with her instinct to stomp her foot like a spoiled toddler.

“You have to admit this school isn’t exactly home of the brave material,” Normani prods, hand moving to entwine their fingers. “I don’t think this is a big deal, it’ll be just like in freshman year when Richard Baker tried to run against you for class president. It was more of a formality to pretend there was some sort of race going on when, lol no.”

Camila squeezes Normani’s hand, grateful for her words and for how her presence helps relax her.

“I’m still going to kill her,” Camila announces after a long moment of silence, lips quirking up in a dangerous smirk.

“I can’t wait for that.” Dinah grins triumphantly, putting her hand up for Camila to high-five.

“And I’ll be right there to step over the bitch’s dead body.” Normani’s eyes are glinting, bright with mischief.

On second thought, Camila says to herself, this could turn out to be a lot of fun.

Camila spends most of her Psychology class obsessing over the poster. She can feel the weight of it inside her blazer’s pocket, even though it’s just a piece of paper folded in four.

This is an affront she can’t let slide, and while she wants to confront Lauren about the whole thing, she doesn’t want to come across as angry and hysterical. Lauren doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of feeling like she has affected her in any way.

She tears out a page of her notebook and starts listing possible scenarios so she can both calm herself down and come up with a viable action plan. She scribbles several brilliant lines of monologue and memorizes them right away, feeling quite pleased with herself. She doesn’t know how Lauren will react but she trusts her quick wit to present her with some decent retorts. As long as she keeps her cool, everything should be okay. The idea is to make Lauren lose her cool.

Now she only needs to think of the perfect setting to enact her little speech. A confrontation in the hallways is out of question because she doesn’t need any more attention placed on the two of them together. There’s already plenty of that to go around. Checking her schedule, she realizes she has AP Lit next and smirks.

That’s something she can work with.

Camila enters room A012 three minutes before the bell rings and is satisfied to see Lauren is already there. Unfortunately, so is her table partner, which forces Camila into a less smooth approach.

Standing next to him, she offers a saccharine smile. “Scram.”

The boy looks up at her, eyes open wide, and hurries away, finding another seat. It’s a good thing Mr. Keating doesn’t care about fixed placements - never a time when that hadn’t been convenient.

Camila beams at Lauren and sits next to her without asking for permission, ignoring the incredulous stare Lauren is throwing her way. She removes the poster from her pocket and unfolds it, placing it on the middle of the table. “It has come to my attention that this is a thing that is happening.”

Lauren just raises one eyebrow, not bothering to reply.

“I’m actually glad you’ve decided to run against me” Camila continues, counting a victory point when confusion flashes across Lauren’s features. “It does get a bit tiresome to have the world bow at your feet without question.”

“Oh please,” Lauren huffs, with an eye-roll.

“But, Jauregui, if you’re going to run against me, at least give me the pleasure of a challenge?” Camila tilts her head to the side, smiling lazily and enjoying the turmoil behind Lauren’s eyes. “Here.” She points at the poster, her finger falling between the photograph and the slogan. She thinks it’s very kind of her. She could’ve easily just tapped one of Lauren’s eyes with her fingernail, which is closer to what she would like to do to the girl. “Photocopy paper, seriously? How cheap.”

“I would like to see you bringing a campaign to life overnight, Cabello,” Lauren counters, swatting Camila’s hand away from the poster. “In the last twenty-four hours, I’ve signed up for student body president, studied the students’ council regulations and policies of the past three years, wrote down a draft of the plan for my presidency and created a campaign from scratch. All by myself.”

“Photocopy paper makes the photographs look pixelated and scrunched up, so unpleasant,” Camila carries on, disregarding her in spite of the somewhat impressive list of achievements. “And Arial for the slogan’s font? What is this? The first group project for middle school?”

Lauren is seething at this point and Camila’s chest swells with pride. She’s doing this. She’s the one aggravating Lauren and she’s loving the hell out of it. “I’ll give you kudos for the slogan though. That was… brave. It will get you attention, for sure, which will last you for today and maybe until the end of the week. But it isn’t memorable.

"I mean, if you’re this bad at posters alone, how do you expect to hold up against me when it’s time to present your campaign video in homeroom? Or for the debate before the election?”

Mr. Keating arrives in that moment and Lauren fixes her with a glare that would probably be considered intimidating if Camila were someone else. “Are you done with the lecture? Can you go now?”

“No,” Camila answers, surprising them both. “You smell nice. I think I’ll stay here for today.” She grins, delighted by Lauren’s startled expression and her obvious loss for words as she shifts her attention back to the lesson.

Camila didn’t think it would be possible, but if she enjoyed messing with Lauren’s head over her subpar poster, she’s now overcome with glee, arguing against every single interpretation Lauren has for the poems they’re studying today.

Mr. Keating notices it but doesn’t stop them. The man has strange ways and he seems to value intelligent discussion over appeasing the belligerent tension in the room. Camila appreciates it.

She’s on a winning streak anyway.

When Camila finally makes it home that evening, after spending two hours in the library finishing her History essay, she falls face first on her bed with a groan. Her phone beeps from somewhere in her bag and she shoves her hand inside to try and find it without having to change position. She succeeds after a very frustrating minute and looks at the screen to see Normani had texted her.

Mani [6:33pm] I have a feeling this presidential race is gonna be more interesting than we thought

Camila blinks and then frowns, unsure of what Normani is trying to convey.

Mila [6:34pm] what do you mean?

Normani sends her a link to a tweet and Camila opens it, a feeling of dread coursing through her veins. 

Her first reaction is relief because she was expecting much worse, but then she clicks on the twitter account, realizes it’s been created earlier that day, sees a tweet with a picture of her campaign poster side by side with Lauren’s and a few other incendiary tweets, and she lets out an undignified wailing sound.

Great. This is just what she needed in her life.

* * *

Camila doesn’t think too much about Lauren for the next two days. Or rather, she doesn’t allow herself to, forcing her mind to drift somewhere else as soon as the obnoxious girl pops up in her thoughts. She smiles inwardly when she notices that most posters have been replaced with classier versions of the original, taking her suggestions into account. The slogan is still the same but Camila doesn’t believe that will stick for long.

For all her effort to remain collected about the events of the past week, Camila’s also aware that, for the first time in her high school experience, a person that she’d condemned to ostracism had bounced back from it like it had been nothing.

Social media had played a big part in that, what with the stupid @sipthegreentea twitter that keeps people obsessing over the campaign and that rat Zayn Malik interviewing Lauren for the school blog. She thought no one followed that thing, but apparently a six-minute video of Lauren being charming and eloquent, and making sense in a few of her points, had been enough to gather it some attention. Lauren Jauregui had gone from persona non grata, from the absolute bottom of the social hierarchy to somewhere… slightly above that.

Camila would be lying if she said that didn’t unnerve her a little bit.

In all fairness, most of the school is still avoiding Lauren like she has the plague and she knows some of the popular kids have fun throwing insults at her every now and then - which, kind of makes her uncomfortable but she has done nothing to prevent. However, Lauren’s become a champion of sorts for the underdogs and the wallflowers, the kids too weak to make a name for themselves, and so she isn’t alone by any means, as had been Camila’s original intention. And if Lauren isn’t alone, if she’s defied the school’s natural order and survived, Lauren is dangerous.

That’s why Camila is keeping track of what’s going on with Lauren by ensuring some underdogs remain loyal to her. She may be willing to act as if Lauren is beneath her and nothing she does phases her, because that both irritates Lauren and allows her to be perceived as the still reigning president, influential and untouchable. But smart people keep their friends close, and their enemies closer. Being two steps ahead is not enough of a waypoint as far as Camila is concerned.

And thus, she weaves a web of nerds and drama kids and almost pretty girls, people she’s always been nice to and who’ve always liked her. One should never underestimate people’s willingness to betray their own in exchange for the approval of the powerful majority.

It’s Friday and Camila’s lost in thought in one of the bathrooms of the second floor when she’s approached by a girl with long, copper-colored hair.

“C-Camila?” she stutters.

Camila fights the urge to roll her eyes because in these times of political need, she can’t afford to act however she wants. “Hi,” she says, turning to give her attention to the girl with a smile on her face. Camila knows she’s the current sophomore class president until election day but can’t remember her name even though she should. This girl is one of those who would sell her soul for popularity. “Can I help you, hum - what’s your name again?”

“Katie,” the girl replies, not at all offended that Camila didn’t know that. She checks the stalls before she speaks again. “I thought you should know that Lauren is planning a campaign event.”

“Oh, is she?”

“Yeah. I don’t know when it will happen but there’s been talk of getting a catering service so they can give away cupcakes while handing out flyers and buttons.”

Camila narrows her eyes, studying the girl. “Catering service?”

“Some kid’s mom owns a bakery and he said he could get a few batches of cupcakes for free. To help with the campaign, I mean.” Katie keeps shifting on her feet, nervous energy coming off of her in waves.

“What kid?”

“Jacob Sartorius.”

“Jacob Sartorius?” Camila shakes her head. “Who even is that?”

“He’s a freshman,” Katie says, shrugging. “Skinny, wears those thick-framed type of glasses, hair makes up half of his height?”

Camila snickers. “Do you know this boy?”

“Yeah, like, we say hi in the halls and stuff?”

“Good.” Camila places both her hands on the girl’s shoulders and stares deep into her eyes. “Tell him to meet me behind the gym at 4:30.”

Katie nods, and Camila finds it a mix of cute and sickening that she looks like she’s been given a life-changing mission.

“Will do, Camila!” she says, bobbing her head up and down until Camila releases her shoulders and signals for her to leave with a thanks. “Bye!”

“You’re late,” Camila drawls when she spots a lanky boy with his hair two inches up in the air walking towards her. She repositions herself so only her shoulder is leaning against the wall as she faces this Jacob creature.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, blushing. “I thought this was a prank.”

Camila smirks. “I can see why you would think that but no, this isn’t a prank.”

“Am I in trouble?”

“Not if you help me.”

“I don’t see how I can help you, I’m sorry.” To his credit, Jacob looks genuinely rueful. The poor thing has no idea what he’s doing, talking to Camila Cabello in secret.

“I hear your mom owns a bakery, is that true?”

“Yes.” He moves closer and stands next to her, hands behind his back as he also leans against the wall. “You need a catering service too?”

“Too?”

“Well yeah, Lauren Jauregui–” Camila cringes as Jacob mispronounces the surname but he doesn’t notice, “–is doing some campaign event next week and she asked if I could get her some free cupcakes so I figured you were after the same thing?”

“If I ever need cupcakes from your bakery, I’ll make sure to pay your mom for her excellent service,” Camila informs him, smiling sweetly. “In fact, do you have a card or is there a website I can visit?”

“Place is called Baked Bites,” Jacob says, returning her smile. “You can look it up on Facebook or Instagram.”

“I will,” she assures him. She’ll order a box of goods to take home to her family, at least, and make sure that reaches Jacob’s ears. Favors are paid with other favors. “Now there is something I would like you to do for me, if you’re up for that?”

“Sure. What do you need?”

“Those free cupcakes that Jauregui is getting for her campaign…” She pauses on purpose, gauging his reaction. “What would have to happen for them to be… less than perfect cupcakes?”

“What are you getting at?” He squints his eyes, suspicious. “This is my mom’s business we’re talking about. I don’t want to cause her trouble.”

“Oh, you wouldn’t, don’t worry!” Camila cuts, eyes wide with innocence. “Ally Hernandez loves baking, I’m sure she’ll do her own batch for the event. We’ll blame it on her.”

Jacob laughs at that, his hair shaking with his movements. “Alright. I guess I could be persuaded then. What’s in it for me?”

Camila’s lips curl up smugly. “Name your price, Jacob. I’ll make it happen.”

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A/N: slytherin!camila: rise

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