#logical me is like yes you had a high salt day yesterday

[lucysweatslove]

You would think as a person who recovered from an ED I would learn NOT to weigh myself, like, ever, but of course I keep doing it because curiosity and it only causes distress.

[twdmusicboxmystery]

The Daryl and Leah Spoilers - Everybody BREATHE!

Okay, let’s talk about it. We’re gonna have to talk about it. The Crappiest Spoilers of All Time. (We’ll just abbreviate them CSAT, okay?)

Yes, I saw them. Yes, I spent most of the day yesterday talking about them with people. Yes, we went up and down and forward and back and right and left trying to figure out what the hell. Actually, I literally got 68 Asks about this yesterday. 68! Lol. I may have sarcastically told a couple of people it was 400. It wasn’t that high. But even when something big happens, I don’t generally get more than about 20, so this was a lot.

***Below I’ll be talking about all kinds of spoilers for 10x18! If you’re not someone who wants to know, stop reading now. You’ve been warned!***

Okay, let’s start by attacking this head-on.

Does this suck? Yes.

Am I happy about it? Obviously not.

Does it change my opinion about Beth’s return? Not in the slightest.

And in all seriousness, I’m not trying to make light of this. I totally understand how everyone is feeling right now and I feel the same. But if you’re doubting or losing hope, please keep reading. I really think the things I have to say after talking to people in the fandom literally all day yesterday will make you feel better.

So I’m going to talk about some things that are suspicious to me about this, and also about some reasons why, even if it’s exactly what it looks like, we don’t really need to worry. I’m also gonna give you a possible way this could actually be okay, but I’ll warn you that scenario is mostly head canon and not super likely to be the case.

Context

The first thing I’m going to point out is that we really, REALLY do not have the full context for this episode. CSAT are big, but there’s a lot we don’t know about what’s going on here. I have a thousand questions and we can’t really be sure of anything until we know the answers. Which we won’t until we see the episode.

And I don’t mean things that make me doubt CSAT are true. I mean like, what is Leah doing out there? Why did no one else ever meet her? Why did she disappear? Did she go on her own because she’s a jerk, or was she taken? Is the CRM involved? We simply don’t know.

These are just a few, and the answers might profoundly effect the way we view these events. So, I’m just saying there’s a lot we can’t be sure of and we should be taking these with a grain of salt. I’ll come back to these questions in a minute. 

The Psychology

So, my first reaction to this was that it’s not entirely unrealistic. Is it out of character? Yes, for sure. They’ve pegged Daryl as a character who wouldn’t do something like this, so it’s definitely out of character for him. I’m totally with ya on that. But I also feel like this isn’t a real relationship for him. What I mean is, it might be something of a rebound or an act of desperation on his part.

Think about what we know about this part of his life. He’s just lost Rick and is devastated. According to these same CSAT, Carol abandons him. AGAIN. I think he’s feeling very depressed and lonely and would reach out to just about anyone at this point. It doesn’t mean he’s in love with her. And yes, I know about the note he wrote to her, but I still think that can be explained by his state of mind. If he’s not feeling like he belongs anywhere else, and Carol has specifically told him she’s not coming back, why wouldn’t he go with someone who’s promising him companionship? I don’t like it, and I know it’s not what everyone wants to hear, but I do understand it.

I promise I’ll move onto happier things. Like this:

Patterns:

We’ve seen this pattern with A LOT of the TWD couples. They put one or both of them together with a small, short-term love interest. And that always happens RIGHT BEFORE they hook up with their soul mate. So, let’s review, shall we?

Carol had Tobin, and right after she left him, she met Ezekiel. Rick kissed Jessi, and only a month after she died, he and Michonne finally got together. Enid was with Ron when we first met her, but it was obvious Carl was meant to be her true love. You could even point to Abraham and Rosita. Their relationship was a bit longer and more established than these others, but the fact is Rosita wasn’t Abe’s soul mate. Sasha was. And now Rosita is with Gabriel, so…

My point is that Leah may be Daryl’s Jessie. Or Tobin. Take your pick. But the pattern is that this will be short term and he should be finding his true soul mate VERY soon after. Just saying.

Is This a Healthy Relationship?

Someone in my group pointed this out. CSAT says she asks him to choose between her and the rest of his life. I didn’t think much about that until one of my FB groupies pointed it out, but it’s really not cool to do that to him. It’s almost passive-aggressive. The way I see it, when you fall in love with someone, you want to get to know their family and participate in every part of their lives. If this was a true, committed relationship, she would WANT to go to Alexandria and meet his friends. She would WANT to help him in his search for Rick’s body. But that doesn’t seem to be the case.

So, in terms of how Daryl feels about her, well, loneliness is a different feeling than real love, and I’m not sure this is the healthiest relationship for Daryl to be in.

Scope, or Lack Thereof

The thing that I think most of the fandom is on the same page about is how out of character this is for Daryl. How out of left field this feels.

I’m mean, this is Daryl. Daryl Freaking Dixon. The writers know about the shipping wars. They know that no matter who they pair him up with—Carol, Connie, Beth, Leah, someone else—it’s going to be a huge deal. For them to do it like this just doesn’t make sense.

Now, I don’t think we have a definite timeline on this. We have two possibilities.

1)     I’ve seen some people say he’s sleeping with a complete stranger, which is very out of character for him.

2)     I’ve also seen posts that claim the two of them meet and develop a relationship over time. That would be less out of character, but it would also mean that the writers developed an entire relationship for Daryl in only one episode…and then took it away.

Does that seem logical to you? I just don’t buy it.

So, at the very least, if this turns out to be what it looks like on the surface—a real romantic relationship for him—I’m gonna say it’s not going to be a big one. It’s not going to be end-all, be-all of Daryl’s love life.

My Praying-This-Headcanon-Is-True-While-Also-Trying-Not-To-Get-My-Hopes-Up-That-It-Is Theory

All right, everyone. I honestly wasn’t sure I should even include this. I don’t want to get people’s hopes up about it. But the more I think about it, the more I think it’s a distinct possibility. 

So, @wdway said this first, and I kind of just glazed over it like, “Meh, probably not.” But the more I thought about it, and the more I talked to people and hashed things out, the more sense it made.

Let me go back to some of those questions I asked at the beginning. Why did no one else ever meet Leah when he was in a relationship with her? Yes, because they were out in the woods together, but it talks about him going to see Carol and going to Alexandria and looking for Rick, which is why she asks him to choose in the first place.

But if you have a sustained relationship with someone, why wouldn’t you introduce them to your friends? Why wouldn’t he have taken her to Alexandria with him? It’s really odd to me that this happened at a time when Daryl was completely on his own out in the woods and NO ONE in his life ever saw or met her.

(Once again, I have to point out that with how vague CSAT are, we can’t know for sure that no one else knew about her. Maybe when we watch the episode, it will show that someone did, but this is the vibe I’m getting right now.)

What else do we know about this point in his life? He’s deep in the throes of his grief over Rick, he’s withdrawn to his robotic, survival mode, which he always does when he’s lost someone close to him, Carol has just abandoned him, and he’s lonely. People who spend too much time alone DO tend to go a little crazy.

So, here it is:

Is there any chance this Leah woman…could be a hallucination?

Honestly guys, that makes WAY more sense to me than that she’s real. Because everyone in the fandom who’s saying this is out of character for Daryl is 100% right. Everyone who’s asking why the writers would do this is 100% right to be asking that question.

And let me tell you, it’s not just us asking it. The entire fandom is. Obviously, all the shippers. And while I’m sure there are some in the non-shipping fans who are glad Daryl is getting a love interest, even they think it’s a little weird. Cuz, you know, it is.

But this show regularly does hallucination story arcs, and Daryl himself even has a history of it. I’m just saying.

People have also suggested that it would sort of makes sense given what I said above about the “unhealthiness” of their relationship. Maybe her wanting him to choose was really more about his sanity and leaving the delusion behind. Again, just a thought.

Then there’s the suspicious timing of CSAT.

Suspicious Release of CSAT and Hype

While messaging with @monroelibrarian0626, she said something I hadn’t thought of that made a lot of sense. Does anyone else find it suspicious that they said we wouldn’t be getting screeners for several weeks and then literally two days later all these spoilers about Daryl’s sex life drop?

It’s not rocket science to know that tptb intentionally leaked these to drum up viewership. Everyone is totally going to watch to see what this is all about. But it also seems to me that they may be releasing just enough information to get everyone all hyped up and then it won’t end up being what it seems. Here, I’ll just give you part of my text message with her because she explains this point better than I do.

But yeah, I get that impression that she's not real, and that's really good promotion and hype for the producers to draw in more viewers. Don't miss it! Daryl is gonna have sex! And then, boom! You find out it's a hallucination. I remember with LOST, there was a preview for next week's show, and in it, the Korean guy, Jin, was shown saying, "It's going to be alright." And he didn't speak English then, in season 2, so it was like, OH MY GOD! And here, when the episode aired, Jin speaking English was part of Hurley's hallucination. Could be along the same lines! --@monroelibrarian0626

Doesn’t that just make a certain amount of sense? Especially given how out of character this feels for Daryl? No matter what you think of the writers on this show, they just really don’t betray the way they’ve set up their characters like this.

Now, once again, I’m really not hanging all my hopes on this. I’m preparing myself for the outcome of her being real and this being a real relationship for Daryl. Mostly because I don’t want to get my hopes too high. And I would suggest you all make your peace with that being the case. I’m just throwing this out there as a possibility. Even TD aside, given how out of character this feels, it would make more sense to me than that they’ve actually put him in this relationship.

It could also that once we actually see the entire episode, depending on what the other details of the story line are, it might be really obvious that she’s real and the detail will explain a lot of this away. That’s a real possibility. Once we learn about other parts of the episode, everything I’ve said here could easily go straight down the toilet.

Another outcome is that she could be a hallucination, but we won’t even know it because Daryl doesn’t. If he doesn’t realize she wasn’t real, the viewers might not be told that, either.

Other Things I’m Side-Eyeing

Check out this tweet, specifically the emojis he uses. Don’t you find those suspicious? Fish? A violin? A sunrise? Boat? Hourglass? Now, this guy got a screener. He’s not one of the writers or someone close to the show who would know the overarching grand plan, so I’m not suggesting he has some inside knowledge of Beth’s return.

But why would he use these emojis? There’s no reason for him to tie them to Leah. The only answer there can be is that he saw these things in the episode. He simply added them to the tweet as hints of what we can expect. And if all those symbols are represented in the episode, this is going to be a super heavy Beth-symbolism episode.

Not to mention, have you checked out Leah’s costuming in detail? Her boots are damn close to what Beth’s looked like. And sitting on the porch, the bag on her back looks a LOT like the one Beth carried in Still. 

I feel like she’s a Beth stand-in. And I think that will be true whether she’s real or not. Again, if we go with the Tobin/Jessi/Ron pattern, she’ll be a forerunner of Beth, so having Beth symbolism around her isn’t surprising.

But once again, this isn’t something we need to worry about.

And don’t even get me started on the damn cabin motif. I’ve been thinking about this since I did my 5x09/Tyreese post last week. I’m not going to go into details here because I don’t even have it all straight in my head yet, but it has some interesting ramifications for this Daryl/Leah situation.

So, pretty much everything that everyone is saying (including me) is pure conjecture until we actually see the episode. I know that’s probably not very helpful, but it’s the truth.

So, what’s my main point about this? It’s this:

I hope she’s a hallucination, but even if she’s not, it doesn’t bother me overly much. I mean, of course I’m bothered because I don’t like to see him in a relationship with her, but I mean I’m not bothered where Beth is concerned. It doesn’t change the fact that I think she’ll still be back, and this will just be a blip of some kind in Daryl’s story. And if she’s real, and it’s following the Tobin/Jessie/Ron pattern, Beth (his true soulmate) should be surfacing VERY soon thereafter.

So, we basically don’t know anything until we do, and I know the fandom is collectively losing its mind. I know this is going to be hard to get used to. But try to make your peace with it, in all its possible iterations. Try not to let it freak you out. Hold the line, TDers. Hold the line!

[ilguna]

Tacenda - Chapter Four (f.o)

Summary: you’ll never truly be free from the Capitol.

Word Count; 4.3k

Warnings; swearing, DEATH MENTION

NOTES: i give reader a last name to fit the world.

–

It took a little longer to get out of bed this morning, like it had on the train. Finnick sat next to you the entire time while you explained over the nausea. You told him your theory that it’s because you’re stuffing yourself, because it’s logical. All he did was continue to brush your hair out of your face and suggested not to eat as much.

Which was the thing. You ate a light breakfast, stayed hydrated throughout the day. Then you ate healthy snacks while you were getting ready for the parade. And then once again, when you got into the apartment, you ate slowly and tried not to shovel it in too quickly.

Normally you eat as quickly as possible because you won’t fill up as quickly. If you’re taking your time, then of course you’re going to be full faster. And you didn’t even eat that much last night either. You thought it would give you a stomach ache right after eating, but there you were, the morning after.

When you had gotten up, you then noticed a pain in your achilles on your feet.

There’s blisters lining the back of your feet because of the heels that you were forced to wear during the tribute parade. Laurel knew what she was doing when she gave those massive shoes to you, and you have to give her props. Her revenge was silent, but lasting. You’ll have these for a little while.

Unfortunately for her, you know a couple of ways to keep them from getting worse. The first thing you did at brunch–since you and Finnick had gotten up a little later than expected–was complain to Elysia and Mags until they told you to shut up. Elysia told you she would find some healing cream for you to use. But in the meantime, you would just have to deal with it.

To not make them worse, you’ve decided against shoes today. You’ll still be wearing the training outfits that are provided. You had a choice when it came to a top, a sports bra, a tank top and a full-sleeved shirt. You decided for the sports bra, since it wasn’t as uncomfortable as you thought. Plus, the leggings they’ve provided are high-waisted on you. You’re not showing as much skin as you thought you would.

Finnick didn’t really have a chance when it came to what to wear. He slid on his sleeveless tank top and the leggings that he was provided. It was either sleeveless or full-sleeved. Leave it to your husband to show off all the muscle.

After you guys were dressed–opting for a shower after training–you and him said your goodbyes to Elysia and Mags. You two will see them at dinner, but not in-between. They’re sponsor hunting, they’re going to start tying down people.

As you and Finnick head down the hallway, hand-in-hand, he starts to head for the elevator. He knows the plan for today, this is just to throw off anyone that might be watching.

“Let’s take the stairs today,” you tell him, letting go of his hand as you bounce around in the hallway giddily, it’s all an act, “As a warm-up. We can’t just go in there without stretching first.”

“We’re going down the stairs, not up,” he says, but there’s a smile hinting at his face.

“All the same to me!” You smile at him.

You go to grab the door first, but Finnick isn’t having it. He practically pushes you out of the way so he can get there first. All so he can open the door for you, what a dork.

“Thank you.” you chirp, skipping into the stairwell, he follows you in, and even makes a point to pull the door shut entirely.

At the bottom of the staircase is Haymitch, staring up at you guys. You motion for him to go up the couple of steps to where you are. This is mainly to get away from the door, there’s two peacekeepers out there. If they hear anything, they are going to report it. The smart thing to do is get away from the door, and stay quiet.

“I came down the stairs.” he tells you two, “They don’t know I’m in here.”

“Same as us.” Finnick nods.

You lean up against the wall, fanning your face since the humidity in the stairwell isn’t the best. It’s making you feel like you’re overheating, like heat stroke, which you’ve had before in the summertime from being on the boats for too long. The only problem is, you haven’t gone outside since yesterday during the parade. These next few days, you’re going to be inside.

Almost as if Finnick knows that something is up, he wraps an arm around your waist. If you fall, he’ll keep you from collapsing against the cement. Although, being pressed up against his body is making all of this worse. You don’t complain though, you’d rather have his arm around you than not. It’s a safety net.

“Katniss is stand-offish.” Haymitch begins, and you can’t help but snort. Neither of you interrupt him though, “She’s difficult to work with at first, but the more you talk to her, the easier she’ll be.”

“But why?” you ask, “We don’t mind being in an alliance with her, but what’s your motive of making one for her?”

He lowers his voice considerably, “A rebellion.”

You and Finnick share a look, and just right there is enough communication. He gives you a look of ‘this is happening’ and you tell him ‘our time is now’. Just in that one little look, an understanding has passed through you two.

“We’re in.” Finnick says for the both of you, shocking Haymitch, “What will it take?”

Haymitch is shocked, “That’s… it?”

You tilt your head, “The districts are going nuts right now. Just at the mention of it, four goes wild. Now’s the time to do it. What do we have to do to help?”

And just like that, Haymitch launches into his explanation. Starting from the beginning, and how the berries had angered Snow. Katniss and Peeta’s families were on the line, and so they were trying to do everything they could to quiet down the districts. Including a marriage to appease the Capitol to prove that the action was done out of love, rather than resistance.

Haymitch tells you that there’s talk about it everywhere, and people are looking at her. He believes that she can be the face of it. She can get people moving behind her, but a few things need to happen first.

She needs to stay alive. An alliance acts in her best interest, but since she’s stubborn, she won’t be making it by herself. She might suggest a few people that she might like, but other than that, it’s one thing or nothing. The worst thing about it, is that Katniss can’t know that any of this is going on.

Haymitch is supposed to be ‘saving’ Peeta, and not her. Since she was ‘saved’ the first time around, she wants it to be Peeta’s turn. But Peeta doesn’t like that, and he’s already acting with Haymitch to make it look like they’re working in Katniss’s favor. It’s unnecessarily complicated, and you’re not too interested in that.

To boil it down, you and Finnick will spread the word a little bit, bring in people that might find this to be a good idea. Keep it from the careers because they can be difficult. They love the Capitol because they spoil them. So, telling them would result in the destruction of the plan.

Katniss can’t know that any of this is happening. You have to pretend that none of this is happening. Haymitch will give Finnick a bracelet as solidarity with you guys, since you’re going to be the main part of the protection. You’ll show it to Katniss inside of the arena, and just like that, hopefully she’ll put the puzzle pieces together and allow you to help her.

The last part of the plan is keep her alive long enough for them to take her out and take them to District Thirteen. You called Haymitch a lunatic, because everyone knows what happened to thirteen for being rebellious. If they’re still thriving, then you guys would have seen them by now. But all he had to do was tell you that they have a gamemaker in on it already.

That was convincing enough. If a gamemaker is in on this, the plan will be much easier. They have more insight than you guys do. Haymitch can be unreliable, but you asked if he’s sure that Plutarch is trustable, and he told you yes.

After that, you split. Haymitch went back upstairs to get his tributes, and you and Finnick left the stairwell together, hand in hand. You made a comment while passing the peacekeepers about being tired, telling Finnick that you didn’t sleep well last night, and you hope that you’ll wake up more as time goes on.

It wasn’t until you entered the actual building, when you started to feel better. The entire building has AC like you wouldn’t believe. It was only a couple of minutes before you completely forgot about it entirely.

You and Finnick spend a moment, finding people and choosing wisely. Unsurprisingly, he wants to have a chat with Johanna, and you decide that you might as well see Cecelia again. Her and Woof are sticking together it seems, they’re sitting around the bug station.

That’s a good thing to touch up on. The dangers that might be hiding around inside of the arena. There’s so many possibilities and dangers that the arena holds, that it just makes you overwhelmed.

First, it’s fish, and the type that live in the fresh water, or salt water. Next are the types of leaves, is it ivy or not. The trees, do they burn smoke easily? The berries and the chance that they’re poisonous. And this is all to be paired with not having the food, or the iodine to make the water safe. Not being able to skin rabbits and cook it properly so you don’t get sick.

Finnick taught you CPR one of the times on the train while you were teaching tributes before all of this–of course. That goes right along with first aid. You’ve gone as far as to recreate the creams to show the tributes which ones mean which. What’s healing, what’s supposed to be used on your weapon, and so on. You teach them how to stitch, and create stents and the list goes on.

It’s so simple to overlook something like bugs. When you’re so worried about literally everything else.

Cecelia offers you a big smile when you sit beside her. Watching as she and Woof easily identify the types of bugs. You keep the conversation light, and then you begin to enter in the keywords.

“How would you feel about an alliance?” you ask, she looks up, “This can go for you and Woof.”

Woof smiles, but Cecelia looks a little confused, probably wondering what’s bringing this all on. You almost can’t believe that she thinks that you wouldn’t invite her into an alliance with you and Finnick. She’s practically your best friend, for her not to be in it would be stupid.

“Sure, is Finnick fine with this?” she asks, going back to the bug game.

“Actually, a few of us are okay with this.” it’s a hint that there’s more than one of you, “it’s sort of a protection plan.”

Cecelia nods, thinking about this. You hope that she’s smart enough to get this. She’s raised three kids that have spoken in cryptic ways when they’re toddlers. It can’t be that hard to decipher the double meaning in words. You had to go through this all with Alyssum.

“Behalf?” she asks subtly.

“Katniss.” you tell her, “Girl on fire, it’s quite a brand isn’t it? It’s almost like she’s trying to set the Capitol ablaze.”

Her eyes flicker to yours the same time that Woof does, “Is that so?”

“You don’t think so?” you’re hoping that isn’t a no.

You watch as Cecelia’s face slowly holds a smile, “I do think so. Count me in.”

“Me too.” Woof tells you.

“More info to come.” you mouth quietly, and they nod slightly, “Nice seeing you guys again.”

Deciding that visiting two people is enough, you go ahead and head over to one of the knife throwing stations. As you get closer, you can see that they have projections now, it’s not just dummies anymore. They move, and get closer, and throw virtual weapons.

“Perfect.” you laugh, stepping up to one of the stations.

At the programming, you go ahead and make it the hardest possible. You select your weapon, keeping it at knives. It’ll be easier to throw than spears. Spears, you have to get your hands right on the hilt before throwing it. As for knives, you’re literally picking them up and throwing them.

You go ahead and pick up a few, feeling them in your hand. As a test run, the program automatically gives you one to start with. You have to find your footing first. You’re not in shoes, you’re barefoot. It’ll be easier for you to slip, since your feet aren’t gripped like the bottom of a shoe is.

However, you’ve been training for months for this exact moment. It might have been in shoes, but you haven’t fallen in a long ass time. You’ve always caught yourself, gradually becoming less clumsy as time goes along.

You throw the knife, being careful as to watch how it flies through the air. It hits the hologram in the middle of the chest, and then the blocks crumble. Just like that, the game has started, and they’re coming at you. For a moment, you’re overwhelmed, because you need to find a pattern for it.

Then, it all comes to you. They come in twos to three’s. You can hit them the first time if you aim for the chest and above. You’re typically hitting them in the head, getting them down the first time around. But on the off chance of missing it the first time, you always have an extra fourth knife in your hand.

You take them on at one at a time. The closest one is always the easiest, you get them out almost immediately. The second one is a little harder, you lean forward a bit more for this one. And the final one, is the one you’re needing the fourth knife for. They’re farther back on purpose, and they don’t come any closer past the half-way mark.

You throw with more force, allowing your body to move forward with the momentum that you build. The knives rest between your left hand’s fingers. You’ll grab the handle, flip for the blade, and then chuck.

The game is over before you realize it. There’s no more people coming at you, it’s just the playing field in front of you.

This is when you’re able to see that you’ve successfully hit the wall, that’s over twenty-five feet away from you, hard enough to get the entire knife into the wall. The ones that weren’t tough enough to make it through, dented.

“Damn.” Finnick’s voice is smooth, he whistles slightly, “That was good.”

You turn slowly, almost like you’re revealing yourself. And then it’s all at once and you’re doing jazz hands.

“This–” you jab your thumb at the station, “–is fucking awesome. I could do this all fucking day.”

“Well, go ahead,” he motions, “Do it again.”

You bounce slightly, heading back to the programming thing for the station. You go through the settings of it, curious on what it holds. These things are brand new, and they have endless possibilities on things you can do.

“It can be for two people!” you tell Finnick, looking over your shoulder, wiggling your eyebrows a little bit, “Wanna fight with me?”

Finnick laughs, coming up the steps to join you, “Don’t have to ask me twice.”

“Good.” you set it up, “I was afraid I might have to force you. It’s set to knives, and the hardest it can be.”

“Nothing we can’t handle.” Finnick is proud.

You start it, picking up on your technique. You don’t let Finnick know what the pattern is, letting him figure it out on his own. He takes a different approach with it, throwing the knives one at a time, rather than gathering them into his hands. It’s almost like he’ll be overwhelmed if he did it that way.

Eventually, you two have caught up with the system, even if there’s double the amount of holograms running at you. You and him turn it into a competition to see who can get them the fastest. Finnick is ahead, getting the most, moving faster than you are, but the ‘one at a time’ technique eventually fails on him.

You can only hold so many knives in your hand at once, but it works. You can get four or five of them down, leaving one for Finnick because you’re throwing yours so quickly. Eventually, he begins to give up, allowing you to take on the challenge that’s supposed to be for two people.

The last one that comes at you is a little quicker. You take your time with ending the game. Letting him get as close as possible before throwing the knife dead at his chest.

You’re pouring sweat. You can feel it almost everywhere on your body.

“I need a rag, holy fuck.” you wipe your forehead, and the back of your hand literally looks like it’s had water dumped on it.

Finnick grabs one for you, and then one for himself. You sit on the steps as you dry up your skin. Your forehead, the back of your neck, Finnick does his best to pat your back dry.

Your body feels like it’s vibrating from the exercise. It’s a good feeling, you haven’t felt this alive in such a long time. If the hunger games were targeted just for fighting rather than killing people, you might have volunteered sooner. The whole arena, and weapons and testing your survival is a good way to keep your skills in check.

Except, it’s a punishment, so there’s no way that this will ever be just an event for fun. It’s not fun, hundreds of kids have died because of it.

“How are you feeling?” Finnick asks.

“So good.” you tell him, “I need water, and then some time before I do that again.”

“Wanan fuck around with knots?”

“Sure, I could teach you how to tie a noose.”

You get off of where you were sitting, stretching slightly, and then you toss the towel wherever. It doesn’t matter, you won’t be the one cleaning it up, and you could care less about manners. They’re sending you into the games, who cares about one measly little towel?

Someone will come after you and pick it up. Finnick follows the same thing you did, and you skip your way over to the knot tying station. Fortunately, this is the same time that the doors to the training center open.

Finnick looks over, “Girl on fire approaching.”

The guy from nine suddenly pukes, and you cover your mouth, laughing to yourself. Finnick can’t help but to laugh too.

“First impressions always stick,” you snort, stopping in front of the ropes, “Oh shit! Look, they’ve got different types.”

Finnick joins you. He messes around with the rope, creating several different loops, and then he’ll pull it apart. You on the other hand, tie the constrictors knot, and even pull the entire rope off of the display.

“You think you could hang me from the ceiling?” you ask, looking up to see how far away it is, “It would be kinda impressive to get down from there.”

“Don’t test your luck,” he shakes his head at you.

“I think I might!”

You untie the knot that you had made, and instead make one of the ends of the rope heavy. You swing it around a couple of times to make sure that it won’t fall apart, and when it’s sturdy, you toss it straight for the beams. You miss the first time around, but the next, it goes over.

“Oh, this is gonna be fun!” you laugh, “Watch–I can make a swing out of it.’

Finnick does watch as you make a couple of knots to sit and stand on, evenly spaced out. Then, you get on the end with the knots, and use the other side of the rope to pull yourself up.

“This is not real life,” Finnick laughs, “How?”

“Push me,” you laugh, and he complies, “Okay listen, there was a tree that we had in our backyard that was fucking huge. Not as high as these beams, but it was pretty big.”

“Let me guess, you made a tire swing or something dumb like that?”

“Exactly. We used to use old rope that we got from the square, so naturally they snapped easily. This is where I got a ton of practice with getting the rope over a tree branch.” you smile a little bit, “I would always have to climb the tree to tie the rope down, even if it wouldn’t last very long.”

“Which is how you were able to climb that tree so easily.”

“Ding ding!” you laugh, slowly letting yourself down from where you were in the air, “If only Reed were able to see me now. Instead of training, I’m swinging on a rope just for nostalgia’s sake.”

“I see nothing wrong with that.” Finnick tells you, “It’s my turn.”

You laugh, and he gets fixed onto the knots how he wants. You both pull the rope to get him up a little higher, and then you push him so he starts swinging too. You can see some of the other tributes stopping to stare at you guys. Acting like you’re a bunch of nutcases.

Eventually, Johanna jumps down from where she was practicing and heads over to you two.

“Really?”

“Don’t act like you don’t want to try.” you smirk, “Wanna go up next?”

“I think I’ll pass,” she goes over to grab a bottle of water.

“Johanna Mason, the girl who never had fun.” Finnick laughs, letting himself down too, “God, that hurts the thighs.”

Johanna rolls her eyes, “I know how to have fun, thank you.”

She then squirts water at you two, smiling slightly as she heads back to where she was practicing. Unbothered, you turn back to the rope swing.

“I should definitely hang upside down.”

“That is where I draw the line.” Finnick tells you, beginning to pull the rope down, “You’re not doing that.”

“Oh, why not?” you pout slightly, but there’s a smile on your face.

“You know why.” he tells you, gathering up the rope and then tossing it back into the display it came from, “What’s next?”

“Fish hook making?” you suggest, offering your hand for him to take.

He does take it, and squeezes your hand tightly, “Mine are going to look so much better than yours.”

“Another competition?” you ask, “Are you sure you can handle it?”

“Honey, we both know who’s the better fisher here.”

And only five minutes later, Finnick is eating his words.

“All the fish have fallen asleep again.” you tell him, “Or they’re leaving the area from how long you’re taking.”

He looks a little frustrated, and then motions to your hook, “Not like that could catch anything, anyway.”

“Just because it looks nice, doesn’t mean it doesn’t work.” you argue, looking up when you hear someone coming, “Ah look, we have a judge!”

Katniss doesn’t look too thrilled at her new title.

“Tell us, who’s looking better?” you motion to what you have.

“I’m not done yet–” FInnick tries to protest.

“You can’t fix the unfixable.”

Finnick glares at you, “Honestly, fuck you.”

Katniss cracks a smile, coming closer as she looks over what you guys have made. She seems hesitant, uncomfortable. She’s obviously trying to make allies, but she doesn’t want to. You guys need to make a lasting impression on her. Especially since she’s seen you fuck around with a rope swing and argue over fish hooks so far.

“(Y/n)’s is better.” she decides.

“Smart girl!” you flip off Finnick for a moment, and then you turn to Katniss, “Alright, protege, I could teach you a few things.”

“Like you know anything.” Finnick jokes.

“We come from the exact same district,” you shake your head at him.

Katniss accepts your offer. As soon as she does, the bickering between you and Finnick calms down a lot since you’re in teaching mode. Every now and then Finnick will chime in with some good advice on how to get a fish to bite quicker, or make a hook that’s flimsy but it works.

Eventually, she offers to teach you specifically, how to shoot a bow and arrow. You turn it down, telling her you have better ways to deal with long-range enemies, but you and Finnick definitely follow her over to see what she can do. Sure, you saw her in the arena last year, but these holograms are something else.

She’s quick on her feet. She turns quickly, her eyes are always searching around. She doesn’t get surprised easily, and she almost dances around.

“She doesn’t want to make too much noise,” you point out to Finnick, pressing your finger against the glass, “Look at how she moves her feet.”

“Definitely a hunter, I’ll give her that.” Finnick nods, “I wonder what else she knows.”

By the time she’s done shooting, she’s gathered a whole crowd. The careers, Wiress and Beetee, Johanna, Peeta, Cecelia and Woof and a few of the others. Wiress erupts into clapping when Katniss is finished, and you can’t help but to smile.

“This is going to work perfectly.”

[rosesisupposes]

If We’re Tryin’

Part 7 of Breakin’ Free, a High School Musical Sanders Sides AU

Chapter Pairings: Prinxiety, Logicality

Chapter Warnings: Scheming Deceit; 

word count: 4,025

Reader tags: @residentanchor @royally-anxious@bewarethegrammarpolice   @jemthebookworm@arandompasserby  @sparkly-rainbow-salt@astral-eclipse​ @thelowlysatsuma @adorably-angsty

<<6. Lunkheads | 8. Going For the Glory >>

read on ao3

SCENE: East High

Roman stood frozen in the middle of the hallway, a terrible weight dragging in his stomach as he watched Virgil walk away, disappearing into the crowd of students. Virgil didn’t want to do callbacks. He’d given up. But why?

The team finally seemed to have stopped being disappointed in him, but if Virgil was mad at him now, what was the point? Roman was so excited when he was with the shorter man. Like he was on the verge of some amazing discovery that he couldn’t quite name yet. And the more he sang, the more comfortable and fun it became. He didn’t want to lose that, not when he’d finally started to see himself as someone who could both sing and play basketball.

But if Virgil didn’t want to keep going, how could Roman continue?

He made his way to outdoor practice with the team, numb. Remy was running a scrimmage and grinned as he caught sight of Roman.

“Hey captain! Get your ginger ass in here!”

Roman stared blankly at the energetic team, dodging and weaving and shooting. It was too much. He waved Remy off and made his way to the track, jogging laps instead. Maybe the steady rhythm of running would help his jumbled thoughts and unsettled heart to align.

“Rem, is he okay?” Patton asked, watching the figure slowly jog further away.

“Don’t worry about it, Pat, he just needs to blow off some energy. I bet the pressure of the game is just getting to him.”

Pat frowned. “I hope you’re right.”

But even when he finished his laps, Roman didn’t rejoin the group, but went inside instead. Rem followed him in, only to see the star of the team failing, over and over. He was missing the basket even on easy shots. What was going on? Ro could make a layup in his sleep, but now he was struggling? As Rem watched, trying not to draw attention to himself, Roman managed to trip over his own shoelaces and fell to the gym floor.

He rolled over onto his back, muttering swears, before flinging the ball away and stomping off to the locker room.

Remy winced. They hadn’t messed up with their plan, right? It was just supposed to help Roman get back to focused. It was intended to help. So it couldn’t be a bad thing.

Right?

Two days later, Pat and Remy were in the cafeteria, waiting for Roman to join them from the lunch line. Just as he turning to join them, he practically walked into another student. He looked down, into deep brown eyes under purple hair.

Virgil.

He froze for a moment, then took a breath to start babbling apologies. But Virgil was already turning away. He neglected the table where Logan and the decathlon team sat, choosing instead to sit at a quiet table of mismatched chatter in the corner.

Roman stared after him until Remy called his attention. He looked up and gave a weak smile, then walked past their table to leave the lunchroom.

Patton chewed his lip, worried. “Rem, I really don’t think he’s okay.”

“Of course he is. Or will be. Maybe.” Remy sighed. “Fuck. No, you’re right. Even if he was a little bit unfocused before, it’s just worse now. The plan didn’t work, and we fucked up.”

“Language! But we do need to fix it, Rem. He’s our friend, and it’s our fault.”

“How do we even do that, Patton? It’s not like we can just hit undo.”

“This started through a miscommunication, right? So we’ll need to communicate really well to set it right. And we won’t do it alone.”

“We won’t?”

Patton shook his head, then stood and walked across the room.

Logan didn’t notice someone approaching until the students besides him were looking above his head and looking star-struck. He turned, to see Patton smiling at him from many feet above him. In a less sunny person, it might have been called looming.

“Pa- Mr. Baylor. Salutations. Was there something you needed from me?”

“Yes, Mr. McKessie, there is,” he responded, grinning a bit as he mimicked Logan’s manner of speech. “We need to talk, you see. About yesterday.”

“I see. Will you all excuse me?” He nodded to his team, then stood and followed Patton out of the lunchroom. Patton stopped by the basketball table to drag Remy along with them.

“Pat, babes, you could just ask if I can come with,” he complained.

“No I can’t, Rem, you’re too good at avoiding conflict.”

“Not my fault my reflexes are better than yours.”

“I find that very surprising,” Logan said, rolling his eyes, “because Remy causes my gag reflex to activate daily.”

Remy turned to face Logan with a terrible grin. “Oh hun, that can be arranged.”

Logan blessed his dark skin for making his blush that much less visible.

“Hey, no making fun of the allos, Rem, you already know you’re too much for us,” Patton admonished, utterly failing to keep his giggles from bursting of from behind the hand that strove to hide them.

Logan coughed and turned entirely away from Remy.

“What was it you wanted to discuss, Patton?”

Patton immediately sobered. “It’s Roman. He’s miserable. Has Virgil been down as well?”

Logan adjusted his glasses. “I am not particularly skilled at gauging others’ emotions, but Virgil has been rather avoidant over the last day. And even quieter than usual. It is very possible that he, too, is unhappy.”

Patton nodded. “I think the plan was a mistake. And since it was our mistake, we need to fix it.”

Remy ran a hand through his hair, his sober face a sharp contrast to his ‘Laughing On the Inside’ t-shirt.. “Not saying you’re wrong, Pat, but I really don’t know how we do that.”

“We caused this situation by removing the context of Roman’s outburst, did we not?” Logan said, thinking aloud. “So perhaps if we were to restore the context, and explain our collective part in generating his uncharacteristic response…?”

Patton nodded eagerly. “That’s what I was thinking too, Lo.”

Lo? Did he just give me a nickname?

“Will they believe us?” Remy asked

“They’ve got to,” Patton said fiercely. “We can’t be the ones who ruined true love!”

“True love?” Remy and Logan chorused, then glared at each other for voicing the same thought.

“Well, yeah! You two didn’t think the moping was just about the singing, did you?”

SCENE: Rooftop Garden

Roman was sitting alone on the roof, trying to absorb the sound of the wind, when the quiet was interrupted by a set of footsteps. He looked up to see Patton and Remy coming up the stairs. Well, there goes the secret hideout, he thought. Just another thing I’ve lost recently.

Rem seemed to hesitate, but was prodded on by Patton.

“Hey, Ro. Um. We just had another team meeting.”

Roman looked down. He’d missed it. Again. “Great.”

“We had a team meeting about how we haven't been acting like a team. I mean us, not you.” Remy took off his sunglasses and sat next to Roman. “Look, babes, about the singing thing…”

“It’s not happening anymore, Rem, I really don’t want to talk about it,” Roman said, refusing to face him.

“Ro, I just… I want you to know that we’re gonna be there, okay? In the audience, cheering for you.”

Roman looked up, startled. “What?”

“If singing is something you want to do, kiddo, we should be boosting you up, not tearing you down!” Patton added, smiling.

“Win or lose, we're teammates. That's what we're about,” Remy said, tentatively putting a hand on Roman’s shoulder. Then he grinned. “Even if it turns out you sing like a drowning cat.”

“Rem, I am sure he’s great! We just don’t know, because we’ve never actually heard you?” Patton interjected, turning expectantly to Roman.

Roman’s mood fell again. “Yeah, well, you’re never going to. Because Virgil won’t talk to me. And I… I don’t know why.”

Remy looked nervously at Patton, then back to Roman. “Um. We do.”

“Excuse me?”

“Here,” Patton said, handing him a packet from the lunchbox he carried. “I baked these fresh today. Thumbprint cookies, with this jam I just discovered in the health foods store. I think you should try one now, before we explain. After we do, you might need a second cookie.”

SCENE: Science Lab

Virgil was busy working through a particularly complicated reaction formula when Logan approached him.

“Virgil, can I talk to you for a moment?”

The shorter boy paused a moment, then shrugged a nod. He pushed his book aside and turned to face Logan.

Logan took a deep breath. “Virgil, I was, for lack of a better term, an asshole. But worse than that, I was an inconsiderate asshole. I mistakenly believed your interest in the musical auditions was killing our chances of having you on the scholastic decathlon team, and-”

“Logan, I don’t care about the goddamn auditions. I heard what Roman had to say. I'm on your team now. Done.” Virgil said curtly, turning back to his textbook.

“No, not done,” Logan said, stepping a bit closer. He didn’t want to invade the others’ personal space, but he needed to be heard out. “We planned it, Virgil. Remy knew he could get Roman to say things to make you want to forget about the callbacks. We orchestrated the whole thing. I am embarrassed that I was such a willing participant, and I am truly sorry for the adverse impact it has had.”

“No one forced Roman to say anything, Logan. It’s fine. We should be focusing on the decathlon anyway. It’s only a week away.”

“It is not fine!” Logan protested. “Doing well in the decathlon would be pleasant, but it is nothing compared to the regard you hold for your friends, myself included… or the regard you hold for Roman. That matters, too. And I regret that it took me so long to realize that.”

Virgil stared at him for a moment, then turned back to the board and continued writing chemical formulas, dark eyes focused on the task.

Logan nearly reached out to stop him, but let his hand drop. He allowed himself to send one last pleading look Virgil’s way, but it went unnoticed. With a sigh, he went to find Patton, to let him know that at least he had tried.

SCENE: The Montez Home

That evening, Virgil helped his mother continue to set up their house and unpack. They were very efficient packers after all these years, and tiered everything by importance. All the most essential supplies and clothes had been unpacked for weeks, and there were only decorations and knick-knacks left. His room finally felt settled now that his Nightmare Before Christmas posters were in a place of honor on one wall, and the cover art of treasured albums decorated another.

Humming Sing to himself, he carried his empty box downstairs, heading for the basement.

He was halfway down the stairs when he heard a knock on the door, and his mother opened it.

“Hello, are you Ms. Montez?” a familiar voice asked. His eyes widened as he saw his mom nod.

“Good evening - my name is Roman Bolton. Is Virgil home?”

Lisa slightly closed the door and leaned around the corner to make eye contact. Virgil shook his head, throat tight. She nodded in understanding, and flashed a brief “I love you” at him in ASL.

Turning back to the door, she responded to the tall ginger boy who was nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot on their doorstep, fiddling with a sheaf of paper in his hands as he did so. “Unfortunately, Virgil is rather busy with homework and such, so now's not really a good time.”

Roman gulped audibly. “I understand. It’s just that, I made a mistake, Ms. Montez. He doesn’t need to listen to my apology, but I really want him to know how badly I feel for making that mistake. Would you be willing to tell him I came to see him?”

Lisa softened a little. “I think I can do that, Roman. Have a good night.”

“Buenas noches, Ms. Montez.”

Roman turned and walked back down the entry path as the door shut behind him. He stopped and gazed at the house, wishing that he could somehow earn Virgil’s trust back. Listening to the quiet night sounds, he admired the balcony and graceful trees in the backyard of the Montez home. Wait. Balcony! That was it!

He took out his phone and dialed Virgil’s number. If he didn’t pick up, Roman would leave, and wouldn’t force himself into his presence. But if any part of him still was willing to talk…

After 4 rings, Roman was ready to turn away. But just at the last second, Virgil picked up.

“Hi.”

“Virge, I know you heard my idiotic rant, and I am so sorry. None of it was true - I’ve enjoyed singing so much, and particularly singing with you. It’s not nothing, it means so much to me. I just - I was so sick of my friends giving me constant shit for it, so I said things I knew would shut them up. I didn't mean any of it, please believe me.”

Virgil sat back on his bed, leaning back as he fought to keep the emotion and leaping hope out of his voice. “You sounded pretty convincing to me, princey.”

“I know the anger sounded real, because it was. I was frustrated and hurt and guilty, and I let my mouth run away with me, saying literally anything I thought would make them get off my back. But… Vee, the Roman you met on vacation, at the ski lodge… that guy was much more me than the dumbass you heard the other day.”

Virgil sighed. “Even if that’s true, the whole singing thing is making the school lose its collective shit. You said so yourself- everyone is treating you differently because of it.”

“Maybe because I don't wanna only be the basketball guy and they can't handle it,” Roman’s voice was rough - was he breathing heavily? “ That's not my problem, it's theirs.”

“What about your dad?” Virgil asked. He clamped down on the fluttery emotions in his stomach. Don’t get your hopes up don’t get your hopes up don’t get your hopes up.

“None of this is about my dad. This is about how I feel. I'm not letting the team down. They let me down. So I'm gonna sing. Will you be there next to me?”

Virgil rolled over on his bed, facing the wall. “I don’t know, Ro.”

“I need you to say yes, Virge. Because I brought you something.”

“What do you mean?” Virgil asked, sitting up.

“Turn around.”

Virgil turned slowly to face the window. There was Roman, smiling tentatively, standing on Virgil’s bedroom balcony. A leaf stuck in his hair called out the big tree behind him as his accomplice in getting up this high. Virgil slowly walked to the window-door and opened it.

“This could be the start of something new,” Roman sang softly, a capella. “It feels so right to be here with you.”

Virgil could feel a blush spreading over his cheeks. How could he not, when Roman was smiling at him with so much liking in his eyes, and singing their first shared song with as much feeling as he could muster?

“And now, looking in your eyes,” Roman continued to sing, bringing a hand up to cup Virgil’s face. “I feel in my heart the start of something new.”

Virgil was sure Roman could feel the heat of his cheeks where his fingers touched them, but the taller man didn’t try to rub it in. He just smiled earnestly, blue eyes meeting hazel, as he asked, “It’s a pairs audition, Virge. Are you with me?” He held up the paper in his free hand. It was Virgil’s sheet music.

Virgil smiled. “Yeah, princey. I’m with you.” He edged a bit closer, and took the music. Roman’s face was so close to his, but it was no longer physically possible for him to blush harder. Something in the taller man’s eyes changed, almost like a look of recognition or realization. Virgil leaned in, rising on his tiptoes as Roman slowly leaned down.

A car alarm went off on the street below, startling them both into leaping back. Roman’s face was even redder than Virgil’s, clashing terribly with his orange hair.

“I should, uh-” he stammered.

“Yeah, it’s late, and-”

“Thank you for, uh-”

“Yeah, you too,” Virgil said, and swallowed. “Um. Good night, Roman.”

There was that smile again, all freckles and pale skin and unabashed delight. “Good night, Virgil.”

He swung himself over the balcony railing, back into the tree, and grinned at Virgil from through the branches. “Sweet dreams!”

Virgil closed the balcony door again and collapsed onto the bed, still blushing. “Oh, I’m having sweet dreams alright,” he mumbled to himself. “And I’m not even asleep yet.”

SCENE: Music Room & Auditorium

Roman tore through the gym, dodging, spinning, and sinking baskets left and right. Not even Patton could guard him - he was here one second, gone straight to the hoop the next. The whole team felt the shift in energy - this was the focus they’d been striving for. They were one cohesive unit, sensing rather than seeing where their teammates were, passing with ease. Coach Bolton had nothing but praise: only days away from the game, but they were exactly where they needed to be. He could feel it in his gut - they were gonna win this thing. He wasn’t clear on the exact details of what had changed his son’s mood, but whatever it was, it was clearly working.

Still riding the energy of a successful practice, Roman flew through his post-workout shower. Teammates laughed and pointed at the clock as he shot finger-guns at the mirror. He grinned at them, and took off down the halls of East High.

In the science lab, the scholastic decathlon team was just as on point. Virgil had connected with the underclassmen in particular, and was walking them through a practical experiment. “See, guys, come look,” he instructed. “You’ve measured out five grams, right? Okay, now add that to the beaker.”

The younger student did as he instructed as the group gathered to take notes.

“See how it foams up? It’s been changed into an acidic state. And now our solution changes from pink to blue - just like the pH test strips.”

“It all makes sense now! Thanks, Virge,” a student said with a smile. Turning to give her a pat on the back, Virgil caught sight of the clock.

“Shit, gotta go! See y’all tomorrow, okay?” He quickly made his way to the door, removing his protective goggles and apron as he went.

He ran through the halls and nearly ran slap-bang into Roman as he rounded a corner.

“You’re late,” Roman said teasingly as they both ran towards the music room. Virgil grinned and grabbed Roman’s hand, pulling him along as they hurried to meet Joan for rehearsal.

Dee was strolling through the halls as if he owned them, as per usual. He hummed to himself, the callback song he and Cee were to perform in just three days. Even if this whole ‘callback’ thing was an irritating formality, it was nice to be able to

H suddenly heard something that sounded like voices accompanied by piano coming from one of the music rooms. He stopped short, reaching out and grabbing his twin’s arm without looking. They leaned as one to listen more carefully.

Two people were singing, and they sounded beautiful together.

“Wow, they sound good,” Cee said, not just a little concerned. Dee frowned, and crept to the door. Maybe it was some ensemble members?

Dee’s eyes widened as he saw that it was in fact Roman and Virgil singing, accompanied by Joan on the piano. “Cee, we have to do something!”

Cee furrowed his brow. “What if they’re just… better than us?”

Dee scowled. “They might be good singers, but they’re not actors. Now shush and let me think.” He took out his phone and scrolled through the calendar. “Hmm, ok. Our callbacks are on Thursday and the basketball game and the scholastic decathlon are on Friday…” He looked up, smirking. “Too bad all these events aren't happening on the same day... at the same time.”

Cee tilted a head, confused. “But that wouldn’t work, because Roman and Virgil just wouldn’t be able to come to the…” Dee nodded as realization dawned over Cee’s face. He smiled, finally seeing what the other intended. “I’m so proud to be your twin.”

“Don’t I know it,” Dee responded with a smile, and walked on with a new spring in his step.

That afternoon, Joan was in the auditorium instead of math class. They’d been struck by inspiration and also imaginary numbers were ridiculous, so composing was far and away the best use of their time right now. Humming very softly to themself, they revised and edited the sheet music on the piano as they relaxed in a corner of the backstage area. Suddenly, they heard voices walking in, and ducked to fully hide behind the piano.

“I don't want to hear about Roman Bolton or that Montez boy,” Ms. Darbus said, walking in. “In fact, I can’t hear anything about them.” She turned to face Cee & Dee, who had walked in with her. “But if you're telling me as co-presidents of the drama club that changing the callbacks would be what's best for our theater program, then I might be inclined to agree with you.” She checked around the area, confirming they were alone. “I will trust your judgments, Mr. and Mr. Evans.” She nodded decisively, and left.

“That was a yes, right?” Cee asked. Dee winked hugely, and walked off in the opposite direction from the director, singing under his breath. “Bop bop bop, bop to the top, wipe away your inhibitions!”

Cee still looked a bit confused, but followed his brother.

In their hiding place, Joan sighed in frustration. Would nothing with their show go smoothly?

They practically sprinted to the announcements board the next morning. But even though they’d expected it, they still felt the cold of disappointment steadily dripping down their back.

They were still standing and staring when the basketball and science teams came by.

“Callback Auditions reschedule to Friday starting at 3:30pm,” the sign proclaimed.

“Callbacks at the same time as the game?” Roman said.

Virgil’s mouth twisted. “And during the scholastic decathlon.”

“Why would they do that?” Patton asked unhappily.

“I hear hissing, and the snake’s named Darbus,” Remy growled, glaring accusingly at the poster over his sunglasses.

“It’s actually two snakes, and neither’s named Darbus,” Joan piped up.

Remy turned, and looked down. “Do you know something about this, small person?”

“Ms. Darbus thinks she’s protecting the show,” Joan told the group, “but Cee & Dee- well, mostly Dee - he only cares about protecting himself.”

“That’s it, bitches need to die,” Remy said, already about to storm off.

“Rem, no, no murder,” Roman interrupted. “We’re not going to do anything to them. Except maybe sing. I have the beginnings of a truly brilliant plan, if I do say so myself, but it’s only going to work if we can work together. Who’s in?”

Roman put out a hand that was immediately covered by Virgil’s and Joan’s in quick succession. Remy was next, and two underclassmen from the each team. Logan had gotten stuck on the outside of the group, but Patton put a hand up to high five him, then used his other arm to connect them both to the huddle. Logan smiled and felt the faint tinglings of a blush when Patton didn’t let go of his hand, instead clasping his hand more firmly.

“What team?” Virgil called with an ironic smile.

“Wildcats!” they cheered as a group.

Roman’s freckled face curved with his enormous grin. “Let’s do this, y’all! Game on!”

a/n: i’m having so much fun with this story, can you tell?

[well-hidden-hot-mess]

i just...

so yesterday was a lazy day because i had literally zero motivation to do literally anything except get up once an hour for most hours so i could close my stand ring on my apple watch. spent most of the morning sitting at the table but then at like 2pm i just got so tired where i couldn't keep my eyes open and legit crawled into bed and took a nap... i don't know whether i should be happy or concerned because i never nap anymore because vyvanse won't let me so the fact that it let me is concerning for 2 reasons - 1. it means it's not as effective anymore and it's not just due to depression that i'm so low energy all the time and don't get the same jolt i used to and 2. it means my depression is much worse than i've let myself believe and getting worse... either way, not a fan. but thankfully i finally motivated myself to get out of bed at like 5pm and drank preworkout and didn't end up working out until 6pm but had a pretty decent band/bodyweight glute focused workout on my "rest day" from the Epic program. i'm glad i did because i was in a better mood after it and i burned enough calories so i could eat dinner because i may have gone a bit overboard earlier in the day.

after the whole weigh in debacle yesterday i was just in such a mood and i actually cried a little bit... i felt feelings and expressed them... i don't know who i am anymore but i'm not mad. so of couse after that rocky start to the day my brain instantly started dropping those random one liners saying "i could binge", "i want to binge", or just general thoughts about bingeing in general and i know now that's one of the warning signs that if i don't change something instantly that doom is on it's way so i distracted myself by allowing myself to lay in bed guilt free and watch true crime youtube videos while giving in a little bit by having a whole bag of popcorn for breakfast so my brain thinks it's a binge but it's not, then had some wasabi roasted edamame, a peach from the peach truck 😍, and some dates with almond butter as my preworkout snack and after all of that i had like 100 calories left and was about to be hangry while my stomach was growling so badly so i was like okay, just do something so you can eat dinner and ended up having a pretty good workout where i listened to haunted by t swift at the end and was doing the alt curtsey lunge to squat x 12/leg with a 15lb dumbbell and then dropping the weight and doing it again followed by RDL to deadlift x 12 with the DB and was struggling and dying and then that came on and i may have forced it a little bit but i cried for a second in between sets because the adrenaline and emotion was so high but my brain was like nope, you have one more set, we don't have time to feel emotions right now because your heart rate is going to drop so let's go haha. and yes i know that sounds bad that i'm saying i had to workout to "earn" eating dinner and while yes that's what i mean, it's not a punishment or anything - i came at it from the viewpoint of i've been doing so well this week and i avoided a binge all day even after that shitty weigh in and the frustration/emotions and i don't want to negate all the positive things i did today by going way over my calories and once again giving up right as i'm about to get out of the 190's for the millionth time recently and i don't want to keep repeating that pattern and letting myself stand in my own way/drag me down so i wanted to stay on track and push through because i knew i'd feel better after working out in general and then it would carry over to today waking up and not feeling that shame and negativity knowing i had let myself down again and knowing that if i pushed through, i would finally reach the 180's today and would feel proud and would be one large step closer to breaking this cycle aka i had good intentions i promise.

so after all of that i'm sure you're expecting the next thing i say is going to be "and i'm so glad i did because i'm finally in the 180's again!!! YAYYYY!" (accidental caps lock but i'm keeping it lol). well jokes on both of us because that's what i thought today too especially because i feel extra morning skinny and "empty" despite filling the second largest mixing bowl i own with a big ass "burger" salad bigger than my head and devouring it very close to bedtime so i'm like oh i must've dropped like a full pound or something. NOPE. stepped on the scale all excited and honestly just wanted to be lower than yesterday which was 190.3lbs and 30.4%bf... what did the scale say this morning you ask? oh just 190.3lbs and 30.4%bf 😑 i put the body fat in there because i figured oh i still have all that food in me so my weight might be skewed but if the body fat % goes down then i'll know i'm still heading in the right direction. NOPE OF COURSE NOT. today i'm not even sad about it, i'm just mad AF. now the logical side of my brain is trying to step in and remind me of a few things - 1. i didn't fall asleep until like 1am and woke up at 3:30am because (this is gross just fyi) sir sprayed his butt juice all over my bed/pillows/etc and the smell woke me up and then i was angry so i couldn't fall back asleep so 2.5 hours is not enough sleep and my body tends to hold onto stuff when i don't sleep enough so that's not helping. 2. i didn't drink enough water yesterday to help flush out all the salt i ate all day and just in general 3. i ate multiple literal pounds of food last night before bed and it hasn't been "processed" yet and is still all in there so i'm sure that's adding to it. 4. these little plateaus are normal and once i get a better night's sleep tonight and murder myself with the final full body DB workout of death in the Epic program and sweat my bodyweight's worth of sweat during it, i'll get that great woosh effect and all that i'm holding onto will see it's way out and i'll drop like 2lbs overnight (and now i've reminded my brain of two of it's favorite partial quotes to play on repeat for months at a time "if i haven't lost 2lbs by tomorrow i'm gunna be pissed" and "i feel like i keep getting heavier" both from the true life: i can't stay thin episode from like 10 years ago and those two quotes have been tormenting me since then. (jk i checked it was 2008 so 13 years ago holy shit i'm old). but anyway, yeah i'm annnoyed. am i still sitting here almost 2 hours later hoping that my body would wake up and do what it needs to do to process last night's meal so i can have a more accurate weigh in and honestly the one i deserve? yes, yes i am. am i debating drinking some of the digestion bitters in hopes that it speeds up the process? yes i am. is this me being a little crazy? definitely. am i going to stop myself or do anything to snap out of it and remind myself that one weigh in isn't that big a deal? no because that's what i've done the last 2 days and almost willingly dove head first into a binge and i don't know if i have that level of inner strength to do it again today if this doesn't go my way as pathetic as that is but honestly i just don't care - i worked hard, i deserve to see the reward/benefit of my actions (second time trying to figure out the right words and that's still not it but whatever moving on) and i'm not letting my stupid body take this away from me today. i need this win mentally and that's just how it is. okay i'm over listening to myself now so i'm gunna get up and start my day.

update: was getting changed into workout clothes so i figured why not just step on the scale since i'm already naked... and it happened 189.8lbs. should i be concerned about how much relief that brings me? a little. it didn't bring nearly the level of release i thought it would which could either be good because then my mental health isn't as tied to it as it normally is or what i think is the more probable answer bad because instead of feeling proud or relief or anything, i didn't really feel much and that means depression is taking emotions away again but for now i'm not going to overanalyze it, i'm just going to move onto other things and start my day and accept the feelings/lack of feelings and just move on.

[jonjordanforrealz]

The Chronicles of Elfdom

Last December, I documented my struggles with Hermie the Elf - you know, of the “on a shelf” variety, sure, but more accurately, in my head, eating my brain and in my soul, tormenting from here to eternity. 

This is my story, shared only in hopes that it may help others.

Tread lightly... Vol 1: Narrowly avoided complete disaster after totally forgetting about the little bastard on Night 1, despite having read the special book/instruction manual/elf commandments at bedtime. Oldest boy Kramers through our bedroom door at 0500, announcing that he'd prefer to use our bathroom over his. As I pondered the logic behind this, thinking, "Boy, he's assertive," something felt amiss and within seconds, I realized my worst December nightmares (since exam time during the old teaching days) were already coming true. As Boy 1 finished his business, I sprung into action, anticipating his yearning to find our annual household guest at this ungodly hour, escorting his proactive little ass back to his bedroom. Always (read: sometimes) a step ahead, I waited in the hallway for the inevitable: an attempted rendezvous to join forces with little brother. After that was easily intercepted, it was time for a little psychological warfare. Warding off both emotional sabotage (Boy 1's, "Daddy, I love you") and an honesty play (Boy 2's, "We we were trying to find Hermie but he's tricky") some redirecting was in order. Authoritative Dad speaks! "It's 5:00 am. No one comes to this house unless everyone is sleeping." With that understanding in mind, aided by the musical distractions of the old Epcot Canadian band and, of course, Kidz Bop 27, I hunted down Public Enemy #1 in his top secret hideaway. Tucked away in a Target bag - dead giveaway, right? Duh. - I shoved him into my pocket and moved on to recover the donuts that he brought with him from the North Pole. Breaking kayfabe here, I'd actually purchased these GMO-laden diabetes bombs myself from Dunkin Donuts on the way home last night, on direct orders from the General, but yes, still totally forgot about this whole charade... Does anyone realize how fucking loud a paper bag is at 5:15 am? Donuts on a paper plate and little orphan Hermie's demanding ass still secured in my Florida State sleepy pants, I knew I had very little time to reach the intended destination and disappear into whatever remained of this night. Cat- or zombie-like in my movements (not quite sure which) down went the plate and into a bouquet of flowers leftover from Thanksgiving landed Osama - or whatever his name is. Somehow, now back behind my bedroom door, I'd survived. There would be no more sleeping for our hero this morning. The sweet taste of victory would be the lone reward. Looking ahead to Night 2, it is possible that we may bribe an acquaintance to drop the bomb on Boy 1, letting him know that this is all a bunch of honkybonk, and thus, instantly creating a valuable ally to continue the ruse for Boy 2. It is now clear that the oldest is the mastermind of what will surely be a constant barrage of this sort of subterfuge for the next 24 days. Vol 2:

There will be no threat of disaster tonight. Since yesterday's torment weighed on my mind all day, it would have been nearly impossible to forget my elfly duties this evening. So, there he sits, the little prick. He's made friends with another rather smug trio that has taken up residence in my home (rent-free, I might add.) Yes, nestled snugly between Alvin and Simon, while Theodore's fat ass looks on, in the morning, the kids will find Hermie, appearing to have read the timeless holiday classic, "Santa Comes to Florida" with his rodent buddies. If you haven't read this piece of literature, it's worth at least a passing glance. But I must warn you that it isn't all that accurate. For one, there is no mention of meth or bath salts, even as Santa flies right over Apopka. And two, there isn't a lot of love for Melbourne, which is pretty shameful since such visionaries as Jim Morrison, Darrell Hammond and that guy I went to high school with who ended up in that reality show boy band are among its native sons. Let's not get too sidetracked here. There is still work to be done. I was informed earlier that one of Boy 2's little friends announced that he received a letter from Santa himself this morning, officially putting him on "The Nice List," while, shame on me, all I did was make sure the kids saw the fuckin' elf and got to eat donuts for breakfast., sacrificing sleep, sanity and something else I forgot about because I'm tired and crazy. I guess lil' man used the power of deductive reasoning and, sans Santa letter, convinced himself he was on "The Naughty List," creating a bit of a challenge at bedtime. Dad here, who may or may not have occupied a spot on the unsavory version of the imaginary fat man's lists a time or two over the years, did his best to convince the young buck that he was not on any such document - that things were going just fine - but I'm not sure he bought it. Thanks to utter exhaustion, a self-inflicted derivative of last night's bullshit adventures, sleep came quickly for the littlest Jordan, allowing me time to think of what I might include in the now necessary piece of prose needed to support my earlier claims of his green light toward Christmas presents galore. Ideally, it'd be straightforward: [Hey, kid(s). If you're worried that you might be on the wrong side of Santa's ledger, maybe you weren't as good as you thought you were all year. You ever hear of the NSA? Ever see any of my text messages? Holy shit! Now that's a list you don't want to worry about being on. Anyway... Keep the faith. The truth is, we like you. And you'd probably have to try to stab one or both of us before we'd make sure you didn't get anything at all for Christmas. Love, Dad PS: On Saturday, I want you to sleep until 10 am. Remember: THE LIST!] But traditions are traditions and in this family, as in so many others, we lie like a muthafucka - especially around the holidays! And so, the propaganda continues. Hermie, it will appear, took a break from reading his Florida Santa book to his pals to write a letter to the Jordan kids, detailing how fantastic they've been and urging them to be good listeners and make good choices at least for a few more weeks. (Pretty suspicious - or "ironic," as Alanis Morrisette might deem it - that the stuffed elf, who I think wears makeup, uses the exact same discipline terminology as Mom and Dad do, ain't it? These kids get any smarter any time soon and they'll bust me for sure. And what then?!?) Depending on what time they wake up in the morning, I may have to stage a sacrifice when it comes to the chipmunk population in this home. If we can send positive messages via letters from imaginary people, we can also send negative messages by offing a fake friend or two. And since they haven't seen "Christmas Vacation" just yet, nor do they know for sure that I don't have a Cousin Eddie, they'll have no idea that he stopped eating chipmunks (yeah, yeah, chipmunks and squirrels are different things, I get it) when he found out they were high in cholesterol. Black and white photos should do. I'll use the old Hitchcock chocolate syrup trick. Tomorrow brings the added challenges of that batshit crazy Chick-Fil-A with all the lights, what the food there does to my insides and selecting the 2016 Jordan Family Christmas tree. There will be booze. Two down, 23 to go. Vol 3:

It's clear that my efforts here are drawing something of a crowd, which is much appreciated but not at all the intent. One trusted advisor has even suggested I attempt to profit financially from this record but the truth is simply this: It has to be done. For the betterment of all mankind, our successes and failures with this Johnny-come-lately holiday irritant must be documented. Tonight, I was reminded of a better day that has passed us by. As we decorated our tree, I took some inventory of the many ornaments we've accumulated over the years. Among them, holiday stalwarts like Frosty the Snowman, Santa Claus and The Grinch make their presence known. We also have the typical representation of some of our sports teams (all of whom suck out loud), life milestones ("2006 New Home" is a real joy, since that was two houses, two kids and one lawsuit ago) and the innocence of homemade trinkets featuring the younger versions of Boy 1 and Boy 2, long before they discovered the art of whining. There is also an ornament that is simply a beer glass (right on!) and the disembodied head of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which I find terrifying. It wasn't so long ago that my biggest holiday concern was making sure that as few of these characters were damaged during tree-trimming time as possible. (Why do they call it "tree-trimming" anyway? When I go to get my hair trimmed, I'm not looking for Akbar the barber to scatter random trinkets about my rapidly-depleting mane.) But as I longed for the days of yore tonight, there it was, right in my face, as if to say, "Not so fast, asshole! The glory days are over, mother fucker!" Hermie - this sonofoabitchofanelf - is also present as an ornament on our tree. Well, shit in my hat. Just as I discovered this mini version of our mini-monster, both boys began to melt down, merely an hour past their regular bedtime, and I was already on my way to a conniption fit myself, three days into the shit and already running out of placement ideas for Elfrey Dahmer. Coincidental timing, my ass! This guy's in my head. Or he's like the alien thing from Stranger Things. If my lights start flickering, I'm setting him on fire and we'll tell the kids he didn't stop, drop or roll because he wasn't a good listener. But at least I'm not in danger of forgetting at the moment. Tomorrow may prove difficult, what with multiple activities involving alcohol already scheduled - after the children's sporting events, as per societal acceptance. I figure if I can make it through a day like that and still move "it" from Point A to Point B, that's a big win for ol' Daddio. His mind powers working on both me and the young'ins tonight jives with my recognizing the cheery-cheeked, red-and-white clad fuzzy thing to be quite clearly a demon in cahoots with Beelzebub himself. So, I've now paired him up with a dragon statue that we have atop our curio cabinet. (Never thought you'd hear me use the term "curio cabinet," did you, old friends? That's right, I'm cultured. Or I've lost all street cred. Not quite sure which distinction to hang onto here.) What's the connection between Hermalerm and the dragon? Well, heroin of course. That's right, kids, the elf didn't just chase the dragon. He caught the damn thing. Which means as I drift off to sleep tonight, I'll be headed for a righteous dream of Hermie sinking through the floor to the sounds of Lou Reed's "Perfect Day," a la Trainspotting. You'll be alright, elf boy, but this one won't be easy. One bucket for urine, one for feces, and one for vomitus. Preparation is key. You're in a new kind of hell for now, fella. See you on the flip. Vol 4:

The voodoo appears to be working. In the last 24 hours, my better half and I have each been caught making mention of "having a talk with Hermie" about this instance of a slight misstep in behavior or that. It's worth pondering what sort of residual effect this may have on the boys (or any kids, really) long-term. Is life truly one observed event after another, with an eye in the sky passing judgment in turn? And let's not get all religious here. I'm seeing this through an Orwellian lens at the moment. If we do slip up, must we live in fear of being told on? I should get out more... Speaking of, having been out quite a bit yesterday, bailing on my "move the elf" responsibility was a distinct possibility but it did not come to pass. Late at night, headache looming, our favorite holiday hobo was relocated from the dragon's back to a high perch overlooking the entrance to Boy 1's room. It's a creepy spot for sure. Like, if you were to walk out of your bedroom and find a person situated the way Hermie is at the moment, laying on his belly, chin resting on his hands, smiling like a whackjob, cheeks as rosy as ever, you'd definitely call the cops. Or shoot him. Or both. The creative maneuvers are lacking for yours truly this year - although I guess mounting the dragon was pretty cool. That's ok, though. My goal is simply to survive this month with as few mid-sleep panic attacks as possible. Started off 1-for-1 but we have a clean slate since, so I'll call it a win so far. Perhaps tonight, we'll set the elf up with a lady or something - freak Carrie out a little, if nothing else. The boys have been warned - née, reminded - that no one is supposed to be up and moving about until at least 7 am in this house (great rule, hardly ever followed) and they seem pretty beat from a long weekend so there might be hope for a more restful slumber. If not, maybe it's time for the elf to get shelved for a day or two, go visit Santa (or Satan?) or something. That'll get these tired kids back on track. Tired kids are like drunk adults, by the way. But that's a story for a different setting. 21 days to go. Zeus help me. Vol 5:

There has been no shortage of remarkable moments in our adventures with the red devil of late. Boy 1, in an apparent attempt to extort his elf friend, left him a tangerine on Monday, after finding him purportedly reading through one of Mom's cupcake cookbooks. Perhaps he was being proactive, in the event that the elf delivers cupcakes as he did donuts on opening day of this annual charade. A simple, "Hey, man. I gave you a tangerine. Whatchyougot for me?" Or maybe he's overheard dear ol' Dad opine on the corruption of politics, in general. Either way, Boy 2 was not pleased. The littlest Jordan, you see, has developed an affinity for these tangerines and while he is almost always quite willing to share his snacks, such was not the case here, as he relocated Boy 1's offering back to its original box. This incensed the elder sibling and the back-and-forth game from tangerine box to offering table began. I should note that the boys are still suffering from Christmasitis - the plague that renders otherwise lovable little humans into demon beings, drunk on exhaustion, impulsive and exhibiting a bravado unbecoming of their age or social status. Now off to school, Mom stepped in with a solution, staging a scene where the elf appeared to have eaten the tangerine in question, abandoning his cookbook perch in favor of a seated position at a makeshift snack area and leaving scraps behind, along with a note that read, "Thanks for the tangerine! I'll only eat one!" (It is also likely that a smiley face was included but I cannot confirm with any certainty, having destroyed this document, and thus, in the name of accuracy and out of respect for journalism, it is omitted here.) This was, largely, an intelligent counter tactic by my female counterpart and while its intended result - assuaging the pending civil war betwixt brothers with a reasonable compromise - was achieved, ultimately, the strategy lacked the necessary foresight to continue the mind games without needling questions from the youngsters. Of utmost importance: "Wait... You moved him?" Crickets. "No, kid," I thought to myself - but dared not say aloud. "He moved himself, of course!" But, of course, this was not supposed to be a part of the pestilent pixie's skillset! For his meandering about is only supposed to take place at night, according to the owner's manual! Far be it from Mom to not have her next move planned, however, and as I stood stock still, considering a swift exit strategy (were the neighbors home? Could a friend pick me up? Where is my rocketpack?) as if beamed in by the projector of Orson Welles himself, the holiday classic "Home Alone" was suddenly on the living room television and Mom's invite for cuddle time was accepted by both young Jordans. Crisis averted, once more. In the time since, the attitudes of drunken demon children 1 and 2 have worsened. Boy 1 resisted piano practice and was not permitted to walk the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights in turn, then admittedly plotted revenge on yours truly, attempting to stave off bedtime as long as possible by prancing about the house, giggling and speaking in tongues. And Boy 2 ignored my orders to disarm, wielding his light saber freely about the living room as though I wasn't even there. With Mom on a run (and not 100% sure she was coming back) I engaged hand-to-hand, demilitarizing my target and receiving his "Mad Dog" glare for my troubles. In fairness, Boy 2 pulled it together enough to join me on the aforementioned Christmas walk, where he graciously educated me on the difference between frogs and what he calls "toadfrogs," (apparently this has everything to do with their tongues - who knew?) and I shared with him my disdain for projector lights. Nonetheless, the net result of Sunday/Monday called for a sabbatical for the nefarious imp creature, who has, as far as the boys know, "gone to visit Santa for a day or two," according to my - no, his! - note. Improvements are expected in short order but just in case, the vodka supply has been restocked. I now count 19 days, which looks far less daunting than 20. Still, my sleep pattern has been erratic. We'll call that 20% problem drinking, 60% guilt from blatantly lying to one's offspring and 20% New York Jets football. With apologies to my parents and, more importantly, to Mark Twain, I haven't told the truth, out of necessity, thanks to you-know-who, and now I can't remember anything.

Vol 6:

Tensions have subsided. The elf was brought back after the exhibition of acceptable behavior on the part of both boys on Tuesday night. 1 did a fine job at his school Christmas concert, while 2 gave a great effort at soccer practice. (It is also important to note that Dad scored a goal in an impromptu coaches/kids mixed scrimmage. That this feat was accomplished against 6- and 7-year-olds matters not.) More importantly, bedtime was without incident on the evening in question. Why that is ever an issue is still beyond me but never has a more relatable tale been told than that of "Go the Fuck to Sleep," by Samuel L. Jackson a few years back. (Well, maybe it isn't exactly the written work of Jules Winnfield himself but I'd like to think it is, as no one could possibly ever recite it better.) Boy 1 is a fan of the every-excuse-in-the-book technique (from pooping to asking questions to feigning injury to everyone taking turns laying with him, telling stories, needing water, etc.) while Boy 2 is more straightforward with his thoughts on sleep overall. Namely, he says he never sleeps. He just relaxes. While I know this isn't completely true, having witnessed him sleeping myself on thousands of occasions, there is something a little vampiresque about the littlest Jordan, who is almost always the first to arise in the morning, often long before the sun. Today, in fact, I awoke to a noise and thinking it was either intruders (that I would have to exterminate, obviously) or my youngest son dicking around (slightly more likely) I promptly began a seek-and-destroy (or G the F to S) mission. The latter scenario proved to be reality, as there he sat, hiding behind his bathroom door, sitting on the floor with the light on, cuddling with his blanket. I don't know either, people, but hey... We all have hobbies... The return of Hellboy Hermie, fresh from his visit with Santa, Satan or Sam Kinison - can't recall which and perhaps it was all - featured him choking out one of the boys' forgotten bath toys, a gator. In this house, that visual brings more joy than the hair of the dog cure-all on a Jordan Family Christmas morning. (Well, almost.) As we enjoy this new era of peace, recognizing that it may be a brief interlude, I'm appreciative of the pause its given me, for the war against the imaginary (?) black magic of this shitbag of a Christmas toy is rather taxing. 17 days. #tylenol Vol 7:

This tradition begets strange bedfellows. Hermie the Elf, who is destined to be renamed Beelzebub, I assure you, commandeered a ship belonging to Jake and the Neverland Pirates last night, along with John Cena and Sleepy (of Seven Dwarfs fame.) Oh, if this were only real, what an adventure they may have had overnight. Sleepy, groggy to the point of hallucination, no doubt, likely from a mixture of NyQuil, booze and some medicinal herb (since we can do that here now!) wouldn’t have been much help to his shipmates. The elf, in his Luciferian glory, perched atop the crow’s nest, would attempt to serve as captain, I would think, causing immediate conflict with Cena, the jorts-wearing, self-important hero, who nobody above the age of 12 really likes. (I’m told he was actually at a local bar I’ve been to a time or 200 a couple of weeks ago. Think I could take him?) They’d square off at some point to determine the alpha male and I’d have to give that decision to the only being on this ship with supernatural, other-worldly powers. “You can’t see me,” John? Well, that’s fine. Hermie doesn’t need to see you to breathe demon fire into your soul. And they'd land at their final destination knowing that the little red-faced asshole with the pointy hat was absolutely in charge. The destination was our TV stand, by the way, because I didn't feel like thinking anymore - or leaving the ship somewhere it might easily fall, ruining everything for everyone. (Or saving them?) The children seemed to approve of this newly established faction, upon this morning's discovery, and I suppose that’s what it’s all about. Unfortunately, it’s also proven to be all about my own sick mind, full of delusions and unfulfilled desires belonging to my inner child. Back in my day, all we had was the mystique of Santa Claus himself – and thanks to friends, Sean and Tina, that gig was up for me at around eight. (Eight! That’s Boy 1’s age now. Well, balls... Getting old indeed.) I believe the big reveal upset me for a few minutes but already conditioned toward materialism (thanks, America!) I reasoned that, hell, I’d still be getting presents, so I don’t think I really cared whether they came from Mom, Dad, Uncle Charlie (who I’m pretty sure once stole a trampoline before gifting it to me) or an old, fat stranger in a furry red suit who likes to have little children sit in his lap. I was skeptical – maybe my friends lied to me. After all, this was the same brother/sister combo that once had me convinced that the oil I spotted floating atop the drink they’d made for me was perfectly normal for “Swedish chocolate milk.” (Looking back, the accompanying smell of vinegar should have been a dead giveaway. Tasted like shit but I’m sure it built character. Appreciate that, S&T!) But alas, as I gave my dad a goodnight hug on Christmas Eve, 1987, there sat the Nintendo I’d be receiving the next morning, in his closet behind him. When I found it, unwrapped, as was Santa’s style, at the foot of the tree, the bullshit meter exploded but I wouldn’t let it get me down. Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out and Super Mario Brothers (and Duck Hunt, if only so we'd all learn about tagalongs at an early age) awaited! I was smart enough to know that I didn’t want to deal with upsetting my mom so I didn’t let on that I knew that Santa was Keyzer Soze (or Verbal Kint? Sometimes my metaphors don’t work.) I think I hid that from her for at least two years. Point is, I guess I fear these kids of mine finding out we’re all the masterminds behind some pretty serious fabrications. What sort of example does that set? But mostly, it’s about the growing-up-too-fast thing. I mean, fuck. I’m 37, somehow. Oh and the other point is, how did we allow this elf thing to get so popular? We had friggin' Santa already! And wasn’t one lie enough? I’m tired. 16 days.

Vol 8:

Turnabout is fair play. Boy 2 had something of a rough day yesterday, although not in the sense that his behavior was unacceptable. With the added pressure of a snitch like the elf-demon watching over you at all times, I'm sure being a 6-year-old isn't as easy as it could be at this time of year so, when the boy wonder seemed exceptionally emotional, I should have known to chalk it up to just that. After eight straight days of "being on 'Good Citizen'" at school, the littlest Jordan was proud to announce that he had recorded No. 9 in a row. How about that? My own little Cal Ripken-type thing. But after dinner, the tiny tough guy started showing his sensitive side (a trait shared by his father - but don't tell anyone.) Seeking either a goalkeeper for his soccer game, an opponent in marbles or a playmate of any sort, he solicited the services of all of Boy 1, myself and the lady of the house, though we all politely declined, citing a collective desire to relax and/or consume the programming of WWE Network before bedtime. (The latter, of course, forced upon Mrs. Jordan, although I think she enjoys it at least a little, though she would never, ever admit as much.) His emotions played out with faulty reasoning - "No one likes me!" - and harsh accusations - "I don't have a nice family!" and "Nobody is being my friend!" My explanation was simple; that declining an invitation to any particular activity does not automatically disqualify one from being another's friend, since free will is an important quality and, if I asked a friend of mine to eat dog poop with me, their lack of participation would not stand in the way of my assessment of their loyalty toward me. But Boy 2 was not having any of this and in a brief fit of rage, he roared at me, "You better watch your attitude, Mister, or I'm telling Hermie!" Oh, did I laugh! But he did not appreciate that either and retired to his room. Confession time came quickly. As I laid with him to coax him to sleep - the sleep that, remember, he swears he never gets in favor of only "relaxing" - he exclaimed, "I'm a bad boy!" and began crying immediately. At first, he would not tell me why he had come to this conclusion but after some leveling with him in the form of a promise not to get mad, he told me he had lied and that he had not, in fact, achieved a ninth straight day of school-bestowed "good citizenship." Instead, he was stuck on "Ready to Learn," which is quite fine in this house, although anything less will need to be addressed. I blamed the elf. For the boy was convinced that he needed to be stellar each and every day without fail, whereas on most days, outside of this window of watching from on high (and by on high, I mean somewhere high enough so as not to tempt the "illegal" touching) he, like his father, would be just fine in the realm of acceptable mediocrity. Never again will I utter the words, "I'm telling Hermie." At this point, 1) I hate the name. The kids named him, after that failure of an elf from the original Rudolph special, now a dentist, or so we're told. (Probably one of those creepy dentists, I'd say. You know, the kind that gasses his female patients and plays peekaboo and stuff?) 2) The kids know the (completely fabricated) score. I will not add to this charade more than I already have. And I will not go gentle into this good night. The company Christmas party awaits and I've got some tomfoolery in which to partake. Still tired. 15 days.

Vol 9 and 10:

They sell both volumes of Kill Bill together now, as I understand it, so I’m allowed to drop a double dose of Elfdom if I want to. (This will be of no additional length, mind you, but we’ll call it two volumes nonetheless.) The uptick in emotion from Friday still fresh in my mind, the idea this weekend was to restore the spirits of Boy 1 and Boy 2 (and mostly the latter) and the elf, for all his faults, appears to be adept at aiding that, so long as the pressure he brings is tempered. I’d like to think that the littlest Jordan is less concerned, having had some weekend time, about trying to be “Good Citizen” levels of perfect than he was during our last volume. Saturday morning, Elfenstein, which is one of many names I am considering for a possible rebranding, took a ringside seat next to Boy 1’s toy wrestling ring, watching what was staged as a battle royal between all of his favorite toy wrestlers. Adorning the garb of a particular favorite, Samoa Joe, along with the NXT championship belt, he sat, smiling his usual satanic smile, as if to say that he was some sort of champion himself. You are not, sir, by any stretch. Let me make that clear. But, they enjoy your company, again, despite your many shortcomings. The wrestling set-up reminded me, however, that I would enjoy squaring off against you, were you of an acceptable size to do so, and perhaps if I can find someone of a similar appearance in human form, elbows will drop (and he shall fall.) Of course, then, I’d likely be arrested and/or sued but hey, that’s the cost of doing business, I suppose. This scene, like so many others featuring you-know-who, turned out to be less than perfect, largely because I set him up too low to the ground to be completely ignored or out-of-reach, but this turned out to be a positive step for the children, who resisted the temptation to move him themselves and asked for assistance when he flopped over at one point. Boy 1 wanted the championship belt the evil elf had been wearing, you see, and I was happy to strip it from him, since he did not deserve such an accolade by any means. Boy 2, it should be noted, held back his elfly interactions on Saturday. Maybe he was trying to determine just how emotionally invested in this thing he really should be. Saturday evening brought forth the annual company Christmas party and since the lady and I do not often stay out past 11 pm, let alone 2 am, anymore, it is no wonder that the Hermie the Hack almost did not get moved that night. Of course, I had every intention, and though my return home (thanks, Uber!) involved a certain level of whiskey breath as I spoke directly with my mother-in-law about plans for said move, in the fleeting seconds following that conversation, I forgot completely, probably focused on the pillows calling my name just a few feet away. Ever-clutch, Gran chipped in and relocated the impetuous imp, placing his (fake) happy little ass in the middle of a wreath on the door to the laundry room. Last night, as I stared at him, I honestly thought to myself, “You know, elf, you look like a real asshole sitting there smiling at me with your hands folded. I’d like to spear you with one of the skewers I use to make kebobs from time to time. Or drop you into a vat of bleach. Or something... Keep looking at me like that! Go ahead!” He was just lucky that there was no whiskey for a second consecutive evening. Of course, there can be no whiskey on consecutive evenings for yours truly anymore. Such is the penance that comes with age. Well, that and a vile attitude toward all things festive, it seems. Or at least all things purportedly festive that are nothing more than some sort of fabric, a little plastic and stuffed with cotton (or is it demon fiber?) 13 days. Unlucky 13, the elf might say, but we’ll see how lucky he is when I practice punting him later on today...

Vol 11:

The easy way seems like the right move at the moment. From one stocking (with Spider-Man) to another (with Ultron) - specifically recognizing each boy's individual preference for good guys vs. bad guys, we've killed two days and two potentially grief-inducing moments. But hark! There are three more stockings! That could very well be three more days. Lady Jordan would love to see the imp intruder in her stocking, along with, say, vodka? Yeah, she likes vodka. And Superdog would dig it if he were to show up in hers next to, ah yes! Something she always begs me for - leftover pizza! Perfect! As for me, well, this isn't really about me but if I'm to tend to this shithead as much as I do, why not treat myself and set the stage for him to gift me some Johnny Walker Blue? Mmmmm. We're already down to 12 days and if I can pull this off, we're into the single digits with plenty of creativity left in the reserve tank. Note to self: Boy 1 is looking more and more suspicious by the day. He is wise indeed. Perhaps it is time to distract him with fear and confusion. Would he believe the Russians hacked his elementary school, forcing an uptick in homework? That seems to be a popular play these days and it just might work. Operation: Borscht shall commence in the am. And looky, looky! It's now midnight! 11 days, just like that! We can do this. Ohhhhh, yes. We shall overcome.

Vol 12:

Rats once spread the Bubonic Plague. Prince Prospero's hubris allowed the Red Death to infiltrate his castellated abbeys, according to E.A. Poe. And I say these little elves carry their own special pandemic - a yuletide malady that flips the universe onto its head and turns otherwise relatively well-behaved children into distracted, exhausted malcontents, spewing tidings of discomfort and misery on adults the world over. It makes no sense. At a time when conventional wisdom would dictate that they walk the straight and narrow like never before, the little ones have truly gone mad. Under the watchful eye of the hellion in the red hat, I always expect that Boy 1 and Boy 2 would adopt model citizenship - and for small spurts, they do. For instance, Boy 1's cleaning dog poop from the backyard last Sunday was completely out of character and Boy 2's strong run of eight consecutive "good citizen" statuses (already chronicled in a previous volume, as well as his subsequent fall from grace) was quite a feat! (Suddenly, I'm reminded that I did not ask for details on the dog doo cleaning duty - nor can I say for sure if they showered that night... Nonetheless, the past is the past.) But these exceptions have not become the rule. instead... It took 47 utterances of the elder Jordan child's name tonight just to get him to come to the table to do his homework, when normally, it would only take 3-5. And that was just the beginning of the battle. "Math with Mom" may sound like a fun game show of sorts but in reality, it's quite torturous. Eating dinner in short order once that was finally complete, a necessary rush on an evening when baseball practice beckons, drew moans and whines and pouts and eventually, claims of complete disinterest in our national pastime - a sin, certainly, but more importantly, a lie, as proven instantly upon arriving at the field, where free-spirited fun commenced. (I noticed there, too, that it is not just my own children who have figuratively tooted the Christmas cocaine of late. Everyone's offspring is mental at the moment, it appears. We're all in this together, people.) As for Boy 2, well, that run of eight straight school days by which he was judged all chivalrous and what not has been followed by quite the struggle. Warnings and consequences and nastygrams from the teacher are the new trend. (Note to Teacher: I feel ya, girl. I mean, I ain't never did kindergarten and shit but I did teach at muthafuckin' Hillsborough High School for a hot minute. And you trippin' if you think students clownin' in December is only for the jits. Teenage fools be whack AF.) But we have reached the magic number of 10 and with that, I see the light. Alas, I am stupid enough to crank this sonofabitch waaaaaaaaaay past 10 on the Holly-Jolly-Christmas-o-Meter tomorrow night, as we venture to what some might call the happiest place on Earth (whereas I call it, "Whythehellcan'twedrinkhereagainland") for Mickey's Very Merry Christmas Party. We'll see how very merry it is this time, kids. Just keep up the shenanigans and maybe I'll tell you the story of the crazy Christmas kid who got left with the elephants on the Jungle Cruise back in 1984. Look for him, Reggie, I think... Yeah, he's in there, somewhere. Keep looking... Ah, but that's tomorrow night... Tonight, I'll resist the urge to send the elf into the garbage can, no matter how easy to pull off the narrative of "Hey, kids. Yeah, sorry... He must have really wanted that last piece of chocolate," might be. Single digits are afoot!

Vol 13:

As if Christmas madness wasn't already enough to make even the most level-headed parents consider sending their normally well-adjusted children to some sort of juvenile rehab, we went and introduced the idea of this all-powerful elf and sent things into hyperdrive. And then you have idiots like myself, who facilitate the special kind of speedball that is Christmas and Disney World to launch the youngsters into a stratosphere of holiday intoxication that would appeal to Belushi- and Farley-types the world over. I've spent enough time at the House of Mouse in the last seven years or so to know that on any random Tuesday, you can do some serious people-watching but on a designated Friday night in December, at something they jam down your throat as a "Very Merry" Christmas party, young bucks and grandmas alike are off the rails right from the jump. It's marketing, I get it, but shouldn't it be up to me to decide how to describe the levels of joy and/or merriment I get from a party to which I'm invited (and certainly one I've paid for?) I'm not going to throw a pool party in a couple of months, invite a bunch of you people, and call it "Jon's Super Enjoyable and Relaxing Pool Party." I might assist in the temporary adjustments of your dopamine and serotonin levels as best I can but I'll leave it up to you to determine what sort of accolades you bestow upon my event. Anyway, free from the eyes of the elf (theoretically, anyway) the children were a bit wild on the journey to WDW but I've found that any car ride longer than 20 minutes or so has the potential to become the clearest manifestation of their best friends/worst enemies style of relationship at this phase of their lives. One minute, they're sharing books and the next, someone's finger is in someone else's eye. I tried my best to sing Christmas songs to myself (no, really, I do try to get into it here and there) but my soul-soothing would have to come in the form of a bunch of junk food at the park and a ride or two. The kids had free reign to try and off each other in the interim. As evenings go, one could really do far worse, honestly. As I've said a million times, it would be tremendous if adults could wander around the Magic Kingdom with a beer but I get it. It's a kids' park. And I suppose that isn't appropriate EVERYWHERE, after all. Plus, there are fleeting moments on these nights that we just aren't going to get anywhere else - like Boy 2 cuddling with his mom or Boy 1 beaming from the front row of a parade route or both of them, giggling with laughter (and maybe a little hint of fear) as we whirl around on some roller coaster or other. Those are sights and sounds I'm tattooing into my brain for sure. But by the time it's all over, we have reached full-fledged juvenile Christmas drunkenness, where, just like your overserved adult friend, conversations ramble on making very little sense, emotions are high and the expression of as much can go from "I love yous" to crying in an instant. There is slurring, overindulgence on late night snacks and then, ultimately, they just pass out. And while one big difference between your friend, Drunky the Bear, and your overtired, cranky Christmas kid is that you usually don't have to worry about the latter throwing up, another is that you can't just leave them where they fall out. So, in my case, you're forced to scoop and carry the now 70-ish pound, increasingly long 8-year-old for miles into boats and trams and finally to the car. While waiting for said tram, I surveyed my surrounding area and confirmed my suspicions that, yes, out of the 500 or so people I could see in my immediate vicinity, Boy 1 was definitely the biggest human sleeping in another human’s arms at that point. But again... Special moments, I suppose, if I'm being honest. (And honestly, between that and multiple shoulder hoistings throughout the evening, holy shit is my back messed up! Thanks again, lady who rear-ended me a few years back to kickstart that now-lifelong pleasantry.) As for the elf, the vile, heinous, intrusive being that he is, he's joined forces with an Angry Bird and Sven from Frozen, and has taken up residence in the boys' bathroom - which is definitely a little weird and creepy, now that I re-think my most recent placement strategy but hey, can't touch him again until tomorrow now. And besides, weird and creepy suits him just fine. ONE WEEK.

Vol 14:

Creativity has ceased. There are no more ideas. The focus has shifted, solely, to survival. Christmas intoxication has run amok and both children are perpetually drunk in turn. I have not yet found the proper means to detox them, although I believe, once that bag of chocolate-covered pretzels was stolen and consumed, only time was to be my ally. Boy 2 turned emotional once more last night, expressing his desire to "go home." Since he was sitting in his bed as he proclaimed this, a deeper inquiry revealed that he wanted to go back to our old house, which we left roughly 18 months ago, because he missed his friends. Total bullhonk, of course, since he couldn't identify a single "friend" by name, other than the old neighbor's dog, aptly named Jordan, which weakens his argument even further. Boy 1 arose at 6 am today, reportedly uttering some nonsense about starting a band. (I cannot confirm this directly, as I was in the midst of a dream starring myself, Wolf Blitzer and Jennifer Lawrence, all scouring the planet for "the lost relics." But the reporting of my wife person is to be trusted, more often than not.) His level of Yuletide inebriation has manifested itself in a phenomenon known as "Low Eyes Syndrome" and whether you choose to admit it or not, you've all been there. Just look through photos in which you've been tagged by others - specifically anything after midnight, at weddings or taken by your most obnoxious friends. On the positive side, we've reached the 5-day mark and are just two days shy of relocating this clan to the other coast, where the grandparent folks can assist in keeping us all alive. The inherent danger of said grandparent folks inadvertently contributing to Christmas chaos matters not, for there is strength in numbers and reinforcements at this point are sorely needed. The elf is spooning with a San Francisco 49ers Christmas ornament today and I think I will say no more to that end. "Take a look around here, Ellen. We're at the threshold of hell!" - Clark W. Griswold, Jr.

Vol 15:

The day is nigh. The elf has been bagged in preparation for the cross-state trek. Part of me wanted that to happen legit abduction-style - little potato sack thrown over his head, a swat of a tiny baseball bat to the dome... A garrote, probably, would have been overkill but I wouldn't have ruled it out. Anyway, he's MIA - and of course, that means we'll have to lie to the children once more as to why he's disappeared. "I don't know, kids. I walked around the corner and he just wasn't there anymore!" Then, tomorrow morning when he shows up at La Casa de Jordan 1.0, I'll be ogling Boy 1 to see if there is any further hint of suspicion in his eye. Surely, Boy 2 will wake up some time between 3 and 5 am tomorrow as the excitement percolates. (I will not.) There will be no attempts to peer deeply into his eyes, mostly out of fear that they've turned black by now, undoubtedly the evildoing of you-know-who. The good news is that I believe all is reparable, once he is gone for good - or at least until next year. In my experience, Christmasitis usually takes a couple of weeks to fade away and then some semblance of normalcy returns. This year, I'm hoping that comes with a newfound affinity for sleeping in. I was never very good at that as a young kid and didn't master it until college, really - an achievement aided at that time by, well, let's just call them PEDs. But I know it is possible for even an 8-year-old to sleep until 9, 10 or 11, even, because I saw my pal Jeremy do it with my own eyes. Sleeping over at his house was great the night before amidst our usual hijinks but I could only describe the following mornings as, uh, educational, as in I seized the opportunity to read every single book on his bookshelf and watch every movie he owned, killing time until he finally woke up. (What the hell were my parents doing anyway, that they couldn't pick me up early, as I often asked? Actually... Don't answer that.) So, again, the hope is that Boy 1 takes after Uncle Berm and learns to hibernate (at least a little.) There is no hope for the other one to that end. He continues to remind us that he never sleeps and only relaxes. "Sometimes," he says, "I don't mean to but I accidentally go to sleep automatically." Clearly, he isn't to be trusted with this intentionally perplexing narrative of his but I believe he has convinced himself that it is all true. That, in and of itself, surely leads to the unique circadian rhythm he's adopted. He sure is cute, though. I imagine that'll keep earning him a pass, no matter how many times he fires a soccer ball directly into my nether regions. Perhaps only one or two more entries into these chronicles shall be necessary from this point forward. I should say that I'm pleased with the response so far, as it seems most of the free world can relate in one way or another, but the goal from the beginning was simply to document the daily deeds of our ignominious, inanimate, annual invader and their impact on our everyday lives. Plus, if I should meet my demise during his stay, surely this will aid law enforcement officials. As far as that goes, one only needs to buy one vowel to solve this puzzle, and that is the "E" to kick off "E.L.F." You see, although we are still in the pre-Christmas phase of my intensive study, I have learned enough to commit to the conclusion that it is indeed an acronym, standing for Evil Little Fucker, as some of you may have already ascertained. It is but one piece but a vital one indeed. I've got you now, you hellion. It is only a matter of time. Deportation is but three days away!

Vol 16:

He is everywhere and he takes on many forms. The shape-shifting shithead has obviously meandered about my home for weeks but also invaded my tree, in the form of a Christmas ornament, and now, as I've taken up temporary residence at my parents' house, he is present as a children's nightlight in the bathroom, staring, peering, judging as people partake in their most private and personal moments. He truly is a sick sonofabitch. He is also in my brain at this point, as evidenced by the masterful mindfuck he pulled on me on Thursday evening. I am a man of many talents but perhaps my most important task as the husband, father and clearly established second-in-command of our family is to handle all packing duties for out-of-town adventures. At Christmastime, this can get tricky, what with an overabundance of presents to account for, in addition to our regular haul. But, always up to the challenge, I gathered up all of the important items and successfully played the game of Tetris that is fitting all of them into the dadmobile, née Honda Pilot. All of them, you see, except for my own suitcase, left perfectly packed and wide open on my bedroom floor, only to be revealed at the most impactful moment from a psychological perspective, as we crossed the Brevard County line, all according to "Its" diabolical plan. I have no clothes. I have no toiletries. As a broken man at this point, I also have no soul. And now I seek redemption. A Christmas angel has aided my efforts to thwart this hostile takeover and my suitcase has been successfully recovered, here, two days later, so brushing my teeth and replacing the loin cloth I've adopted in the interim is but hours away. But the damage has been done. The little fucker has clearly won a round. His reign of terror ends for the season after tomorrow but does that give me time to recover my soul before he is banished once more? Clearly, his excommunication is more important than my return to human form so if sacrifice is required, I must remain committed to the cause. In the event of Christmas catastrophe, I offer warmest regards and eternal gratitude to all that have followed these chronicles. As I forge forward, know that I am acting not on my own behalf but for all that is good in this world. The final showdown is nearly upon us and with any luck - and the guidance of Lord Zeus, Ra the sun god, sweet baby Jesus, John Cougar, John Deere and John 3:16 - when it's all said and done, I aim to look the elf straight in the eye and tell him what a cheap, lying, no good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?

Vol 17:

It is all over. Since I am writing this, it needs not be clarified that the side of righteousness prevailed in the end but this was not always a foregone conclusion. The red devil was a formidable foe and I can say with near-certainty that we will do battle at least once more, as Boy 1 and Boy 2 will probably still be buying what he's selling. It cannot go undocumented that Hermie took one last pound of flesh as he exited, to the tune of me waking up in a panic at 5 am to remove him from sight and complete this festive ruse. Just as he had on Day 1 this year, he ruined my slumber and that cheeky little smile stretched ever so slightly. It did feel good, under the cover of darkness, to jam the little prick into my suitcase pocket and zip it up. I hope it's hot in your own personal hell, you heathen. And now, we pick up the pieces. I am in need of repair, inside and out. Tired, tattered, full of torment... But mostly tired. Is there no vacation from Christmas vacation? It's become clear to me that, despite my ultimate victory, this experience will haunt me for years to come. And in ensuing years, likely, it will be worse. So, when is a win actually a loss? Perhaps it is now. Perhaps it is more than just a pound of flesh the evil elf has taken with him. There is, it turns out, slight discomfort in my liver area, you see. That's either from the traditional holiday excess or, if you believe the ancient Navajo legend, that's where the soul is located and clearly, mine is gone. Back to our happy little lives? Sure - I can play that game. It is a beautiful existence. But he has broken me indeed. "And Darkness and Decay and The Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."