#making a living wage and wasting my life away stuck in an office all day long

[oldcurse]

Yesterday my dad told me that my cousin’s parents are taking her to Malaysia for graduating college 😐

[rafecameron]

A Fall From Grace (2)

Summary: When Rafe loses everything he’s ever known he doesn’t know what to do with himself. With no home, no family and no money he finds himself wandering the cut, lost and desperate. He has to start fresh, get a job of his own and find somewhere to live. He’s determined to make it big, show his dad what he’s made of. Does he get his old life back? Or does he find something along the way that means a lot more than a large bank balance and a mansion.

Pairing: rafe cameron x female!oc <- find out about her!

Warnings: hurt, angst, slight depression, smut, swearing, drinking

Word Count: 2.8K

A/N: I’m so sorry it took me so long to update guys I kind of got distracted with other things but it’s here!

                                                         Icarus

Allie hoped that the rest of the week wouldn’t be nearly as draining but Rafe did everything in his power to make sure it was. Considering he told her how much he needed this job he sure was doing his best to lose it.

“Rafe, what are you doing?” She sighs, arms crossed as she watched the boy lean against the counter, his back to the front door as he scrolled across his phone and bit into a chocolate bar.

“Watching the desk.” Rafe replies with a mouthful, his eyes not leaving the screen of his phone.

“You have your back to the door and please, stop eating the stock.” Allie runs her hands through her hair, the stress of trying to control the wayward boy getting too much.

“No one’s here, it’s fine.” Rafe replies nonchalantly.

“It’s not fine!” She raises her voice, finally snapping, Rafe slowly looks up from his phone and over to her in shock, “It’s not fine at all! I hired you so I would have less work to do but I ended up with more work because now I’m a babysitter too! You don’t take his job seriously, you’re always on your phone and complaining and eating things off the shelf! You’re wasting my time and money!” Her shoulders drop and she shakes her head, “Just… turn around at least.” She groans before heading into the back and into her office.

Allie slumps down into her chair, her head falling into her hands, her elbows propped up on the desk as she let out a frustrated groan. Three days. That’s all it had been and she was already at her breaking point. She didn’t know how much longer she could put up with the boy, never one to deal with stress very well. She almost expected him to follow her into the back and argue with her but she was thankful he didn’t.

For the past three days he had done nothing but complain and eat her stock, without asking her she might add. He hadn’t even been serving the customers, too engrossed in his phone to even realise they were waiting to pay, so she’d had to take over from him. She knew what she had to do, she’d have to let him go. Even going back to running this place on her own was better than making herself ill trying to manage the kook. So it was decided, after his shift she’d pay him what she owed him for the week and tell him not to come back. A part of her almost felt bad but she reminded herself that he didn’t really need this job so she had no reason to feel bad for firing him.

---

Allie stayed hidden away for the remaining two hours of the day, stringing seashells on thin wire into necklaces to put in the shop. She had always made things to sell ever since she was younger. Shell jewellery, little wooden knick knacks, it was something she did to relax and they were the kind of things tourists loved so they sold well. At ten to five she finally left the sanctuary of her office and went back into the shop, glad to see Rafe hadn’t destroyed the place while she was hidden away.

“Rafe.” She calls, the boy turning around to look at her as he ran a cloth over the glass counter, “I don’t think this is working.”

Rafe’s mouth opens slightly then closes again as he thinks of what to say, “But...What? Are you firing me?”

Allie nods her head, “Yes, I’ll get the money I owe you and then that’s it, I can’t keep you here it’s too much work.”

“No, please.” Rafe drops the cloth and hurries over to her, “Please I really need this job, don’t fire me.”

“You don’t act like you need it! I’m sorry but I’ve made up my mind, you’ll be fine it’s not like you actually need the money.” She sighs moving around him to the cash register to get his wages out.

“I do! I do need the money, please.” He grabs her arm and turns her towards him and she doesn’t fail to notice the fear in his eyes, “My dad he - uh, well he wants me to pay rent. Be more responsible I guess. You’re the only place that was hiring.”

She looks him over and he can tell she’s still debating with herself, “Please.” He says again, his hand still holding onto her arm, “I’ll try better, I promise. I won't even bring my phone in tomorrow.”

Allie studies him for a moment before letting out a sigh and shutting the register, “Your last chance. I swear Rafe, one more thing and you’re out.”

When Allie had first told him if he didn’t behave she would fire him he hadn’t believed her, but now he knew she was serious and the thought of losing this job was more than enough to scare him into trying harder. The boy was finding it almost impossible to get out of the mentality that he could do anything he wanted. He never realised it could be so hard to change aspects of yourself like that. So he stuck to his word and left his phone in the motel room the next day, knowing that if he had it in his pocket he wouldn’t be able to control himself from going on it.

---

Allie hadn’t spoken more than a couple of words to him the whole morning and he pretended not to care. He didn’t want to admit that she was the only person he spoke to now. His friends all but abandoned him the moment his dad kicked him out. Now he spent his time on social media watching them doing the things he wanted to do. He found it was true what they say, that money can’t buy friends. Now he understood that no one on figure eight was truly friends with each other, all they cared about was money and status. He longed to have that back. He didn’t care if no one really liked him. He wanted his fake friends, his yacht, his vacations in the Bahamas and his golfing days. He wanted it all back more than anything and he felt the bitterness growing inside any time he saw someone from the other side of the island. He imagined this is how the pogues felt and almost felt bad for all the times he’d beat on them. Almost.

---

That evening he was feeling even more sorry for himself than usual, the panic of almost losing his job the day before helping him to realise just how desperate he was right now. He also never realised how much he liked talking, not talking to anyone besides telling customers how much they owed made him feel lonelier than ever. He sat in the worn out chair in the corner of his motel room, his eyes not leaving the peeling yellow wallpaper as he stewed in self pity. He hadn’t eaten today, he should have been hungry but he wasn’t. He knew he was losing weight and that he should take care of himself better but he couldn’t be bothered. The enthusiasm he’d had to be a self made success had dwindled away in a matter of days. Now all that was left was emptiness. He had no motivation. He didn’t want to eat or sleep. He definitely didn’t want to go back to work on monday.

Even on his lowest days on figure eight, the days where he thought his life was shit and wanted nothing more than to run away, they held nothing against what he felt now. His life really was shit and he felt like a selfish bastard for taking everything for granted before. If he could have it all back he would be a better person. He’d be nicer to his sisters and stop arguing with his step mom. But it wasn’t going to happen.

---

He spent the weekend in his room, laying in his bed motionless, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling trying to will himself to get up and do something. Anything. But he couldn’t. By the time Monday rolled back around he was nothing but an empty shell. He hadn’t found the energy to wash his clothes - or himself - so Allie was more than a little surprised with the sight she saw waiting for her outside the store.

“Rafe?” She asks, keys in her hand ready to open up but she pauses in front of the disheveled boy, “Are you...okay?”

Rafe’s eyes meet hers, his usual vibrant blue more of a dull grey, any happiness that had been there before long gone, “I’m fine.” He answers, his voice quiet and tired, “A rough weekend.” He attempts a smile but Allie thinks it looks more like a grimace.

“I’ll make you a coffee.” She tells him as she finally pushes her key into the door. She wanted to push further, knowing he was far from fine. But Allie knew that Rafe Cameron was not the kind of person you should push at so for now she left it.

She set the mug of coffee in front of the boy in the break room, sitting down across from him with her own. They sat in silence, Allie studying the boy across from her. Physically Rafe was here, but she could tell that’s as far as his presence went. He was staring down at the mug in his hands, the coffee left to go cold untouched. She sat with him for an hour, well past her usual opening time, waiting to see if he would talk. But he didn’t, so she left him in the break room and went to open up.

Once Rafe emerged from the back she sent him to restock shelves seeing as he was in no fit state to run the front counter. He looked a mess. His hair was greasy and his clothes hadn’t been washed. She couldn’t help but watch him the whole day, wondering what was going on inside his head while he quietly stacked shelves.

She never thought she would feel sorry for someone like Rafe, but she’d also never seen someone who looked so broken. She didn’t like it. She may not have liked Rafe but no one deserves to be in that state. She wanted him to smirk at her, call her a pogue and tell her she's a waste of space, but he didn’t. He just gave her another attempt at a smile and told her he’d see her tomorrow.

---

When the boy turned up the next day looking no better than the day before Allie knew she had to say something. She sat him down in the back, making sure he drank his coffee this time before she began to try and figure out what was going on with him.

“Have you showered, Rafe?” She asks quietly.

Rafe lifts his shoulders in the smallest shrug she’d ever seen, “I don’t remember.” He admits.

Allie could tell the truth just by looking at him. “Have you slept?” She tried, though again the dark bags beneath his tired eyes told her all she needed to know, “Eaten?” She prodded.

Rafe looks up at her, no words leaving his mouth. He watched the girl in front of him, he’d never seen someone look at him with so much pity in their eyes, usually it would make him angry, but today it just broke him more. He only realised the tears were falling down his face when Allie wiped them away with a tissue, he hadn’t even noticed her get up.

“Rafe.” The girl sighs, sitting on the table in front of him, his head in her hands as her own eyes filled with tears at the sight, “Please talk to me. This is not like you, something is really wrong and it helps to talk.”

Rafe shook his head, wiping harshly at the tears on his cheeks, “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Allie whispers, “You haven’t showered, haven’t slept, probably haven’t eaten. You haven’t called me a pogue in two days so I know somethings wrong.”

Allie pulls his head against her chest and lets him cry on her, his tears wetting through her shirt but she didn’t care. She held him for as long as he needed, only speaking when the tears had finally subsided.

“Is it something happening at home?” She asks, Rafe nods against her chest. “C’mon.” Allie pulls herself out of Rafe’s grasp and hops off the table.

“What?” Rafe asks, his voice hoarse from the crying.

“We’re going back to mine. You can shower and I’ll make us some lunch.” She tells him as she throws her bag over her shoulder.

“Lunch? We haven’t even opened yet.” Rafe stays seated at the table, confusion clearly written across his face.

“It’s almost twelve.” Allie tells him, Rafe hadn’t realised he’d been crying for so long and felt embarrassment wash over his body, “The shop can stay closed until tomorrow. Perks of owning it.” She smiles and moves forward, tugging on his hand.

As much as Rafe wants to complain out of embarrassment at her feeling sorry for him he doesn’t, he’s glad to be going somewhere other than this shop or his shitty motel room. Allie walks to and from work everyday, seeing as she only lives about ten minutes away. She talks on the walk, chatting away about mind numbing things to fill the silence, she doesn’t mind that Rafe doesn’t respond.

---

“Here’s a towel.” She holds it out to him as she opens the door to the bathroom, “I can wash your clothes for you, if you want? But you will have to sit in your towel until the dryers done.”

Rafe chucks his clothes out to her and she balls them up, crinkling her nose as she holds them out in front of her. She stuffs them into the washing machine, putting them on a quick wash. She leans her back against the kitchen counter, running her fingers through her hair as she tries to figure out what to do. She knew Rafe wasn’t going to openly admit what his problem was and she should just let him shower, eat and then send him on his way. But that just felt...wrong.

She wasn’t sure what it was, but something was telling her she needed to help him. Whether it was a sixth sense or just her kind nature she wasn’t sure, but she knew she couldn’t let him walk out of her house before she had a chance to help fix whatever had happened.

Allie was sure she would feel awkward with Rafe in her house but she didn’t. Even with him sat at her kitchen table with nothing but a towel around his waist tucking into a large bowl of pasta she didn’t feel awkward. “Are you still hungry?” She asks after he’d finished his food in record time, he quickly shook his head.

The girl quirked a brow at him and grabbed his bowl, putting some more pasta into it before setting it down again. He smiled gratefully at her and tucked in.

“Your clothes shouldn’t be too long, I put them on the quickest settings.” Allie tells him as she places her bowl in the sink, leaving it to be washed up later.

“Thank you. I-I appreciate it.” Rafe mumbles, eyes downcast as he thanks her.

“Rafe. I know we’re not exactly friends and don’t even really like each other but, if you want to talk about anything-“ Allie stops talking when Rafe quickly shakes his head.

“I’ll be fine. I don’t even know what that was.” Rafe, he waves his hand around referring to his little episode earlier, he smiles at her hoping he looks convincing but he didn’t in the slightest, “It’s just home things.” He sighs.

“Well...you can stay here tonight, if you want? I can make the couch up for you, so you don’t have to go home?” She offers. She’s not entirely sure why she offered. She was sure if it really was bad enough he’d go spend the night at one of his friends, but I still felt like the right thing to do.

“You’d let me?” Rafe asks more than a little surprised. When Allie nods her head he agrees to stay the night, thanking her and offering to do the washing up.

Allie is the last person Rafe wanted to tell about his situation, he didn’t want her finding out that he was living in a motel room. He could barely cope with her pity as it was let alone if she actually found out the truth.

That evening Rafe settled down on the small couch, and even though it was lumpy and hard he had the best night sleep in weeks.

tags: @royalmerchant @solllaris @rudyypankow @softstarkey @outerbankslut @butgilinsky @stfukie @stargazingstarkey @bohemianobx @obxmermaid @popeheywards @kindahavefeelingskindaheartless @skiesofthesketchy @rekrappeter @perkeusjackson @bricksatanakinswindow @cordeliascrown @aaleksmorozova @starlightstarkey @rafej-cambanks @joshy-obx

[damon-rutherford]

For whom the Bell Tolls | Selfpara

“Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts.”

---

“Float to the top, or sink to the bottom. Everything in the middle is the churn. That’s the only thing I’ve ever learned from my mother, but back then I didn’t know what that meant.”

“Your mother passed away when you were eight, right?” Doctor Rolfe scrabbled something in his notebook. Damon wondered what it was. 

“Yes, but not the mother I’m talking about. The biological one – Rose. That’s what she used to tell me whenever my father...”

The therapist waited for Damon to finish the sentence, but he didn’t.

“Do you feel like she provided a safe environment for you, as a child?”

The question made Damon laugh bitterly. ‘She was the one I needed to be kept safe from. Her and my father.’ He thought to himself, but the words didn’t leave his mouth. 

“No, but she taught me how to survive on my own. Inadvertently, though.”

“Can you elaborate more on what you said? About the churn? What do you think she meant by those words?”

“She meant that the most important thing in life is to survive, and it doesn’t matter whether you come out on top or you sink to the bottom, as long as you get out of the churn before you’re turn to pieces. That’s what she did – sunk to the very bottom.”

“Do you agree with that?”

“I used to,” until Cerys, he meant to add. His real mother taught him to swim to the top, how not to succumb to his darkness; that it mattered how you chose to survive, and how to let go of the rage that kept dragging him towards the bottom. People always assumed Damon had a kind heart, and it was effortless for him to be nice and caring.

How wrong they were.

Damon’s childhood had been a fight to survive. His teenage years – a fight to survive without sinking to the bottom. If he was a good person now, it’s because he forced himself to be, for Cerys’s sake, until it became his nature.

“I also used to think that I was never meant to survive, that one day I’d be dragged back into the churn. Like I’m living on a borrowed time, you know?” Another thought he kept to himself.

“Now, I would like to talk about your fath –” the therapist pointed up his pencil, but Damon cut him off.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” the Rutherford shifted in his chair, uncomfortably, and then raised to his feet. “In fact, I don’t think this is working at all. I just did this because my brother thought it’d be a good idea. Sorry to have wasted your time, doc.”

“Damon?” Mila’s voice brought him back from the trip down the memory lane. He almost forgot that he was at Saints & Sinners, not at the therapist’s office almost ten years ago. “Are you okay? Your eyes are twitching.”

It was strange he hadn’t noticed himself. Perhaps his mind was too preoccupied. The anxiety attack in the elevator, Eleanor being carried out by the Ambulance, the reports of explosions, the blackout... The night was getting worse and worse. London had turned into a battlefield where too many wars were being waged at once, and whether they knew it or not, everyone was in the middle. His mind drifted to Eleanor – would he lose another friend tonight? The phone had no new messages from Charles. He wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or bad. Damon’s eyes traveled from one guest to another, secretly wondering how each of them would choose to survive when the wave of war reached them. 

“Guys,” Cressida’s brows were tied in a knot, and her eyes were glued to her phone screen, “they’re saying there have been multiple cases of poisoning, most of them were guests at the Tory party. What did you drink when you were there? Did you drink whatever Eleanor had?” She looked at Damon, terrified.

“I don’t know, Cress, I’m pretty sure I’ve had everything that was on the menu, and I am not sure what Eleanor ordered, I feel fine. Besides, we don’t know if it was the drinks.”

Jacob started to look worried, too. 

Now that he thought about it, Damon had been feeling a strange ache in his back all night...

“Maybe you should go to the hospital, see a doctor, man... This is no joke.” Jacob suggested.

“Now? It’s a bloody chaos out there. The traffic has gotten even worse, apparently. I’d be stuck in a car until the morning, and freeze my ass off. I’ll just have a check up tomorrow.”

Jacob and Cressida exchanged a glance.

“Let’s just drink some more, or dance, or do something.” Damon was feeling restless. “I need to take the edge off.” It took some convincing, but eventually his friends caved. In this particular group, twenty minutes were more than enough to finish off an impressive amount of alcohol.

So when Damon got up to get Adri to join them, too, at first he thought the sudden loss of balance was because he’d gotten more drunk that he’d realised. His hand gripped Jacob’s arm, and legs started to treacherously give out. The metallic taste in his mouth confused him at first, but what came next had been worse.

The stiffness in his calves brought him to his knees. Every muscle started to ache. The poison was blocking the glycine receptors – the stop signals were no longer working, and his body was convulsing. The shrieks, the screams, the crowd that gathered around him – he could see and hear everything with perfect clarity, he could feel the pain at its extreme. The nerves in his brain were overly stimulated, an effect of the poison, giving the heightened perception and sending him into the agony. 

His body was no longer in his control, but he could move his eyes. He saw Jacob, feeling helpless, begging for a medic, screaming on top of his lungs to get him an ambulance. Cressida, frantically moving around, making calls at the hospital, Adrian barking orders to get him into the car to rush to the hospital, Adriana and Yvonne – no, he couldn’t bare to look at his sisters, knowing the pain they must have felt at watching their brother die in front of their eyes.

The difficulty in breathing that followed had been welcome, at least the agonising pain would end, and the end would come as a relief. 

He remembered the age-old cliché – how life would flash in front of your eyes before death. It didn’t. There were no flashes, only sentimentality. The little things – Yvonne’s hairpins that were all over the house every time he visited during college holidays, how Gideon always folded Damon’s clothes every night when they lived at the orphanage, Adriana looking like a chipmunk whenever she ate Hamburgers, his father’s laugh when Damon made jokes, Lara always setting aside the business section of the Porto Velho Post for him after she was done.

Slowly, like a movie fadeout, the real world around him evaporated. He was somewhere else, inside the world of the story where his family was whole, and his mother held his hand. 

The favourite feeling in the world.

[of-another-broken-heart]

I’m just going to copy/paste this because it took me hours and I’m drained. 

I guess I have to format it again if I want it to show up at all... 

I couldn't even make it back home before breaking down crying again.

Driving while chronically sleep deprived, exhausted, fatigued, and dissociating is bad enough. Doing it with all that AND without being able to see? How special. 

I barely had time to sit down, my phone rang. I answered it, begging for someone to hear me. For thirty straight seconds. "Hello? Hello? Hello???" Finally someone spoke, but they couldn't hear me. I'm sobbing. They hung up. I scrambled to call back, from my computer, because at least then I'm not fighting a lack of reception as well as my anxiety. They called again. I didn't answer. I waited for my computer to ring through instead. I'm put on hold.  I'm sobbing. It was just to ask what my pharmacy is. Which I already answered on my paperwork. Which I answered, again, at check-out. And I was forced into a third confirmation via a pointless, needless, anxiety-attack inducing phone call hazing. For something I already answered. 

It's not fucking fun. People don't choose this. I didn't choose this. But does it matter? "Call," the command comes. "Just call." "Call to confirm." "Call to ask." "Call." "Call." "Call." 

I want you to think of something that takes physical hold of your body and brings to you to tears. I want you to hold that and sit with it until it does those things. I want you to choose to reduce yourself to a sobbing mess, struggling to breathe, alone. And I want you to picture a world where you are commanded, demanded, required to do this. For virtually everything. Imagine needing help - but you must first re-traumatize yourself with your most painful memories until your nose is running and your eyes burn from crying. And you're exhausted for the rest of the day, too. Maybe multiple days. Absolutely exhausted. So fucking depleted that taking yourself to the bathroom is almost impossible. Feeding yourself - even eating something out of a can, or microwaved - is a herculean effort. Does that sound fun? Of course not. 

As for the appointment itself: It's the same. Much better bedside manner. But it's the same underlying capitalism-serving "care" system. It's my fault. I'm not trying hard enough. I'm not blacking out alone on the side of the road enough. I haven't dissociated hard enough and/or blacked out while driving yet, so it can't be that bad, right? Not until I'm maimed or dead, right? Why address the root of a problem when we can just plaster on endless band-aids instead? When we can blame you for hurting, instead of the environment that's poisoning you? I'm not medically sedating myself into an obedient little wage slave, and that's the real problem. I should aspire to produce capital for someone with most of the remaining hours of my life. That's the purpose of living, that's the reason for "health"care - not to care about health, no, just to keep the wheels of capitalism well-oiled with wasted human life. Inherent human value? Quality of life? Nah. 

They refused my medical history. I brought the 72-page pdf on a flash drive. Because that's how I was given it. Because I can't afford to buy and operate a personal fax machine and/or print out a chapter book's worth of pages of medical records. I went through the trouble of getting the files, and it took over a month - only to be told "we can't take anything but paper or fax." I filled out a file release form as best I could. But I didn't have the phone number or address memorized. Not even before that place became synonymous with medical neglect and trauma for me. So now they're going to go through the ancient months-long ritual of requesting the self-fucking-same documents from LISH, either by mail or fax, because they "can't" access a flash drive or a pdf or use email. Welcome to 2021. We're back to "normal" and teleheath never existed and the internet is fake and technology is a myth and why do anything efficiently when you can waste time and do damage to people instead? My Aunt called to check in on me during her lunch break. (Thank you again) She offered to get the file printed and try to hand it in for me. I'm too tired to hope. I'm too exhausted to think they'll accept it without fuss. Anything and everything to make things harder.

Top priority order of business is the whole "diseased for life" thing. Hashimoto's thyroiditis. Hypothyroidism. Daily hormones for every day of the rest of forever, gatekept behind eternal doctor visits and prescriptions and pharmacies and copays and and and and did I mention this is forever? I've got a referral to have a thyroid sonogram done. Haven't ever had one of those before. Need to make that appointment. I was able to have my blood drawn for the thyroid testing without needing an additional appointment, which was a nice change of pace. Normally you're supposed to fast for that, but I wasn't expecting that could be done during the visit. Three years of having to make additional trips to the lab for blood work. I ate immediately before getting there, so hopefully nothing had a chance to metabolize and skew the results. Even though it was great not to have to juggle yet another appointment for health shit, it was stressful. The nurse took three tries before she had all the supplies she needed in the room. I already have anxiety spikes (which also raise my blood pressure and heart rate) for all doctor visits now. (White Coat Syndrome, I learned, it's called) I didn't need to have a rubber cable tied around my arm, popped off, tied again, popped off, and tied a third and final time to make it worse. A pro to that con: she was incredibly accurate and gentle. I normally have sub-dermal bleeding and some bruising after having blood drawn, and keep the bandage on for a day or two. The bandage didn't last even an hour after I got home - but there wasn't a single spot of trapped blood, and I almost couldn't even tell where she stuck me.

I have another new diagnosis to add to my growing collection. Hypertension. High blood pressure. I used to have slightly low blood pressure. It stunned the first doctor I ever saw (you know, because I'm fat, so that sort of thing is supposed to be ~impossible~) and it frustrated my last doctor at first, too. But now, with years of building stress and anxiety? It's almost like living with your most basic human needs barely provided (food, shelter, healthcare - let's not bring up social needs LMAO those don't count anyway, right?), and at constant risk of being taken away, for months (years, in some cases) on end, is some form of stress. It's almost like being constantly dismissed and told "you're just not trying hard enough" (WHILE TRYING YOUR BEST JUST TO SURVIVE EACH DAY) is some form of stress!It's almost like perpetual, ongoing, worsening stress has a negative impact on your heart! It's almost like there are decades of data that spell this out, plain as day!It's almost like I noticed my elevated heart rate back in NOVEMBER and mentioned it out of concern to my last doctor - who dismissed it outright because my reading in-office wasn't *that* bad, and also shouldn't I be on 5487 psych meds instead? If I was sedated out of my mind, I wouldn't be physically capable of feeling stress in my body despite the presence of real-world stress factors. That's healthy, right? Don't bother to solve the stressors, just neuter the body's response to them. Super healthy response. (Not) My GYN took note of my concern in December, when my vitals DID show as high in-office. Not that my GYN had the jurisdiction to do anything about it. I'm being put on another medication to try to mitigate this, and potentially also address some anxiety. I haven't picked it up yet. I don't know the name. I don't know if I'll be able to afford it. "Your copay is only a dollar!" Yes well, when you don't have a dollar, you can't afford a dollar, can you?

I was given a list of psychiatrists. To "Call!!"Precisely none of them are a reasonable distance away. Nearly half aren't even in my insurance network. Some explicitly exclude Medicaid. Others are exclusively for children. I was suggested a medication for depression and anxiety. I can't remember which one. Either Abilify or Lexapro? I declined it for now, either way. I wanted to be able to research it. Lexapro is just another SSRI and I already know those don't work for me. Adding a chemical bouncer to my brain to make sure the happy chemicals stay out to play doesn't help when there are no happy chemicals in the first place. A quick search for Abilify doesn't address anxiety at all so it was probably Lexapro. In which case, I am not interested in repeating a different-flavor-Prozac experience. It was not good. I didn't get any notes with that medication, regardless. I got a sticky note with "Valerian Root Extract (tea or tincture)" and "Magnesium Glycinate 2 capsules" scribbled on it, instead. Out-of-pocket home rem-maybes. I can't afford to experiment with snake oils, so mostly I'll probably just spend a bunch of time looking for data and research and studies for those substances, and that's it. If I get around to psychiatric care, I will have to start from scratch in my insurance's shoddy search tool, again. And, frankly, it's not a priority. My mental health struggles are the result of a lot of physical factors and external/social factors, and no amount of artificial chemicals bullying my brain is going to solve any of it. When your car starts leaking oil, you don't just commit to buying more oil forever and dribbling it all over, wherever you go. You fix the fucking leak. If your house has a gas leak, you don't invest in gas masks. You fix the fucking leak. If you end up with a burst pipe, you don't commit to wasting water and money and damaging your environment. You fix. The fucking. Leak. But in these comparisons, I'm getting prescribed oil and gas masks and infinite water damage/waste/bills as long-term care.

I mentioned my fatigue. It was the final straw that made me give up with the last doctor. It just keeps getting worse. It's been getting worse for over 3 years. And I'm so, so fucking tired of it getting pinned fully on the fact that I'm not on psych meds. I WAS on psych meds during part of those 3 years with my last doctor. And it didn't fucking make any difference! A daily chemical lobotomy does not address or restore my lack of physical energy. My decades-old medication-resistant insomnia has never vanished with psych meds before, and it's not likely to do it now. Especially not with yet another of the same family of chemicals that I already know don't work. I want my concern to be taken seriously. I don't want it just brushed into the mental health corner, again. Being too tired to even do the things you used to enjoy - no one fucking wants this! I don't want this! I miss being able to go for walks. I miss going to the gym. I miss seeing how much I could do, and feeling good, and feeling strong. And I can't do any of that now. Not without risking harming myself in the process. 

No one wants this. I keep talking, but it feels like no one listens. At the earliest opportunity, we're back to repeating the same tired old shit that doesn't work. I try to come prepared, and the stress and time and system make sure I fail to stand up for myself anyway. I didn't get to document my disordered eating history. The relapse this year. Restricting, sometimes to the point of not eating at all. I declined to be weighed, because I want my care to be based on relevant data, vitals, blood results - not the shape and size of my body. But I was too tired to realize I needed to dodge a verbal ask for the same information. Which, it turns out, is nearly as bad a trigger as having the scale spit it out for me. Being your own advocate for equal care, when you're already tapped out? I'm not winning that challenge. 

I'm frustrated. I'm not giving up, but I am frustrated and beyond tired. I don't really expect anyone to read this mess. But it's here.

[writeyouin]

The Crooked Man X Reader - Purpose (COMMISSION)

A/N – Thank you for yet another commission from @petitelepus​. I hope this is to your liking.

Warnings – Minor thoughts of suicide. Minor harassment.

Rating – T

Commission Request: A female Reader Fable who is loyal to the Crooked Man down to the bone! She knows what he is doing is wrong but he also gave her life a meaning.

Word Count - 1827

You clung tightly to your purse which was the only thing you had left in the world; all it contained now was one lonely five-dollar bill and a pocket-sized painting of your cottage in the homelands. You had never been one of the main fables that the Mundy’s talked about, only one of many scullery maids in Prince Charming’s palace; nobody of great importance.

Ever since you had come to the Mundy realm, it had been one problem after another, going week to week trying to scrape enough money together just to survive. Now, with no money and no job prospects from either Fabletown or the surrounding Mundy area, you were forced to go to the Business Office for help. If Old King Cole was still around, you doubted it would be a problem; he was a merry old soul after all. However, the person you had to convince was Ichabod Crane, and you had heard that he didn’t have much in the way of generosity. Although it was late and you were the last person awaiting a meeting with Mr Crane, you hoped it wouldn’t affect his judgement, and that he might be moved to help you.

Finally, Crane himself opened the door but it wasn’t to see you, it was to kick both Snow White and Bufkin out.

“TAKE THAT WRETCHED CREATURE AND KEEP IT AWAY FROM THE BUSINESS OFFICE MISS SNOW! I WILL NOT TOLERATE ANY MORE OF ITS DISRUPTIVE BEHAVIOUR.”

Snow looked like she was about to argue, but had evidently had enough that day, “Come on Bufkin, let’s leave the Deputy Mayor alone; it’s closing time anyway.”

“Yes, Miss White,” Bufkin agreed, not caring that Crane had kicked him out. The advantage of being a flying monkey was that he could always get back into the Business Office from the outside window whenever he wanted to, and now he could mooch a drink off someone before returning.

“AND YOU-” Crane pointed an accusing finger at you, seeming to lose some of his bluster afterwards, “Make it quick.”

“Yes, Sir,” You squeaked, stepping into the office and closing the door behind you.

Crane walked to his desk, closely followed by you as you explained your plight. At the sound of your desperation, he started paying closer attention.

“So you need money,” Crane concluded.

“Yes, Sir, but a loan would be fine, I’ll pay it back as soon as I find work.”

“That’s redundant. If you are unable to find work, then I’ll have wasted an investment. It would be better if I simply gave you a job myself.”

“That’d be wonderful, Sir. I used to be a scullery maid so I can clean and-”

Crane waved your explanations away, “I am not in need of a maid. I have another job in mind for you.”

“Anything, Mr Crane. I’ll do anything.”

Crane closed the gap between the two of you, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear in a way that only made you feel vulnerable and afraid. “That’s what I like to hear.”

You tensed up, clenching your teeth, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up as Crane trailed his hand down your arm. Under his touch, you froze, feeling cheap and abused.

“I happen to need someone for various roleplays,” Crane told you. “And since you’re willing to do anything-”

Coming to your senses, you pushed Crane away from you, running out of the office as fast as you could with tears in your eyes; Crane’s screamed insults following you out of the room.

In the dark of the night, you kept running, not daring to stop lest your shame catch up to you. Without Crane’s money, you had nothing, not even enough to rent somewhere cheap for the night. Once you got to the park, you finally stopped running, walking along the bridge so you could look down at the glassy water that reflected you and your many failings.

Catching your breath, silent tears slid down your cheeks. What was the point of living in a world crushed in the fist of capitalism? With all that you had in the tiny handbag, you may as well resign yourself to starving to death, if the cold didn’t take you first. It would probably be better if you drowned yourself now. Unlike Mundy lakes, the one in Fabletown was deceptively deep, and would serve as a half-decent final resting place. Mechanically, you inched your leg over the side of the little wooden bridge, so you were straddling the handrail.

“Begging your pardon Miss, but I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a cockney voice said from behind you.

You turned to find Tiny Tim watching you sympathetically.

“Tim,” You breathed, recognising him instantly; it was hard not to when he was such a major character.

“Aye, thanks for leaving off the tiny. I hate it when people say that. You wanna come with me? I have someone interested in employing you.”

You looked towards the glassy water once again, fear now clutching your heart as you scrambled to get away from it, back onto the safe side of the bridge. Tiny Tim put an arm around you to steady you. “Do you want my coat, Miss? You’re freezing.”

You nodded jerkily, stuck with the thought that you had been close to throwing your life away. Tiny Tim removed his coat, wrapping it around your shoulders. “Alright then, you coming? I’m s’posed to take you to the boss.”

“Who is it?”

“Ah…Best he explains it, he’s had a bit o’ bad press lately, so his name does no good.”

You started thinking of all the villains you knew of. Bluebeard, the Tweedles, the Jersey Devil; you couldn’t picture Tiny Tim working for any of them.

“I promise he’s good. He gives people like you and me jobs. Who else’d hire me as a bodyguard?”

“…Alright, I’ll join you.”

With an amiable smile, Tiny Tim led you towards an out of place door on the bark of a tree, deep within the park. From the door, he led you down a rich hallway till you were in front of two solid-oak doors.

When he opened them, you found a man like no other. He was an older gentleman with a sagging left eye, as if he’d had a stroke. His nose looked like it had been broken more than once, and he held a cane, to keep up straight.

Instantly, your breath left your body in a state of panic, for who did not know of the Crooked Man? He was whispered to have taken part in every recent major crime in an attempt to control Fabletown, and there was nothing he wouldn’t do; suddenly, Ichabod Crane was starting to look like a real martyr.

“Miss (L/N), Sir,” Tiny Tim announced, before leaving you alone with the Crooked Man.

“Ah, yes, Miss (L/N), please, take a seat,” The Crooked Man gestured to the sofa opposite him in the small office.

“Why am I here?” You asked in a small voice, sitting down.

“Why? Because I heard that you were looking for employment, and I saw the manner in which Crane was planning to abuse you.”

“How? That only just happened…”

“Ah, it is of no real concern,” The Crooked Man answered, thinking of Bloody Mary and all she managed to see through her mirrors. “Tea? Coffee perhaps?”

“No, thank you.”

“Ah, I see you have manners. They’re so often overlooked nowadays, don’t you think? Alright, down to business,” He sat down in the armchair and scratched his chin. “I have heard that you are in need of employment, and it so happens that I’m looking for a personal chef, as well as a house maid. You will be free to come and go as you like, and you will be handsomely compensated for your work. The only thing I would ask is for your discretion. You see, my name has certain connotations, as I’m sure you are well aware of.”

A small part of you wanted to ask whether you would be executed if you didn’t take the job, but another larger part of you didn’t seem to care. You had met Tiny Tim time and time again, and he seemed to be a reasonably good judge of character. Perhaps he was right; it wasn’t every day you got offered a job that you were suited to for a good wage.

“It will be a pleasure to work for you, Sir,” You inclined your head politely.

After three months of working for the Crooked Man, you had never been happier. The work was good and it paid more than you deserved. You found yourself looking forward to taking his meals to him, enjoying every interaction with him. He was always polite and respectful, in a way that nobody else had ever been before, and whenever you brought the tea tray to his meetings, he made sure his goons always treated you with the upmost respect. Once, Tweedle-Dee had dared to lay a hand on you, and he was immediately punished. It wasn’t a pretty sight, but it had warned the others off you for good.

While you knew that the Crooked Man’s business dealings were morally wrong, you found that you didn’t care. He had brought you back from the brink of depression, and for that, you would forever be loyal to him.

“Breakfast, Sir,” You announced yourself into the office where he spent most of his time.

“Hm,” He replied, reading through some paperwork. He was unusually quiet as he scanned the script in front of him.

“Everything alright, Sir?”

He put the papers down with a sigh, managing a smile for the first time that morning. “Nothing that cannot be fixed. Just a dip in some stocks of mine that I find rather disappointing.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It will all be fine, my dear,” He said with a grin.

Your breath hitched in your throat; he’d never called you anything but your name before. Was it possible that he held the same feelings for you that you harboured for him? Or was it merely a platonic nickname, now that you had been working for him a while.

“A penny for your thoughts, (Y/N)?” He asked, noting your distress.

As coolly as you could, you approached him with his morning tea. Upon delivering it to his desk, you pecked his cheek. It was a move that could possibly lose you your job, but you decided to risk it anyway. If the Crooked Man had any thoughts, he kept them well guarded as you silently left the room, your heart pounding. Once the door was shut, the Crooked Man pressed a hand to where your lips had been and took a deep breath. He would have to find a way to repay the gesture ten-fold; you had very quickly become more to him than just another employee.

Like my work? Buy me a coffee and earn preview of the next fic, or commission me on the commissions page.

[kisses-holland]

Don’t Give Up On Me (Teaser)

Summary: Y/N tries her hardest to make sure she has enough money to help her five year old brother with his chemo. She lands a job as an assistant for a well known company. Only problem is? The CEO doesn’t like her very much.

Pairing: Enemies to lovers! CEO! Tom x reader, Enemies to friends! CEO! Harrison x reader

Warnings: Mentions of cancer, swearing, Harrison and Tom are mean, angst

Prompt (location): Office

A/N: This series is for @uglypastels writing challenge! Congrats on 2.5k baby! You deserve it and I’m so proud of you ❤️ this will be my very first series and i hope you guys enjoy it! This series is also inspired by the song “Don’t Give Up On Me by Andy Grammar. If you have not listened to it, I suggest you do. The song is beautiful and goes well with the story. Also, thank you to @uglypastels once again for the amazing mood board she created for me! I love it and she’s so talented :)

You sighed as you walked out of your apartment. You were tired. No, not just tired. Worn out, Hopeless. This was the fourth job you were trying out in a month, that could hopefully pay well.

As you were walking to the bus stop, you made a mental note to bring Ben’s favourite food to the hospital for him.

Your brother was only five years old when he was diagnosed with Leukaemia. You found out when he had lost an unhealthy amount of weight within the week, and noticed his frequent nose bleeds. Some nights, his bones started aching and he would wake up sobbing in pain. You couldn’t stand the feeling you had in your chest every night after comforting him to sleep, so you took him to the emergency room. The doctors immediately ran some tests and here you both were; Ben in the hospital, and you working full time to make sure Ben gets the proper treatment to survive.

You wish you had parents who could support the two of you. Your parents had passed away shortly after ben was born, resulting in both of you being put into a foster home when you were 17. as soon as you had turned 18, you found a full time job and saved up money for an apartment so you could have custody of Ben again. Here you are, 23 years old, and Ben six years old.

And now, you have to take care of Ben’s treatments and medicines, as well as pay for rent and utilities on your own.

It was very tough for you to find a job. with the hours that you could work, No one seemed to want to hire someone with the hours you were asking. Early morning shifts is what you needed, so that you could stay with Ben the rest of the night.

Your most recent job was a pizza deliver, but you had to leave because the job relied on commission and tips, which didn’t help pay for Ben’s necessities.

The job as an assistant came up out of the blue, when you saw a flyer for help wanted taped to your apartment door. You thought it was fate, maybe destiny? Because the interview went really well and you were on your way to the company for your first day. The woman who had interviewed you took a liking towards you immediately, and hired you on the spot. You get paid the starting wage, $23/hour, which was more than any other company could give you. Hopefully, if you worked well, you would get a raise.

Of course, you told her about Ben’s situation. She immediately told you that everything was going to be okay. When she asked what motivated you to get this position, you didn't hesitate. Not one bit. Your responsibility was to make sure Ben got to live his life without having to worry about any more treatments. The woman gave you a hug, after wiping a few tears of her own, and sent you your way. 

Taking the train to the company, you nervously walked in, and headed to your boss’ office. You never met him, you didn’t even know his name. All you knew about him is that he’s one of the wealthiest men in the city of New York, and that he was about the same age as you.

Knocking on his door, you straightened out your uniform, which consisted of a pencil skirt, a polo shirt, and a blazer. It was the most professional clothing you had. Not wanting to waste any money on clothing, you chose some old clothing you had, washed it, and worn it. You could tell that the clothing was old, but hoped no one noticed.

A gentleman with ice blue eyes and golden hair opened the door. You smiled, but it instantly faded when he looked you up and down and scoffed.

“She’s here, Tom.” he yelled back. He turned to you and smirked, “Couldn’t have found a better choice of clothing?” Immediately, your face flushed and you looked down, a feeling of insecurity taking place instead of nervousness. His tone was taunting, and you didn’t expect to feel like you were gonna throw up within five minutes of your first day.

The man made room for you to enter, and you took small paces towards the desk.

He was turned towards the windows, looking outside. The name tag on his desk read “T. Holland.” As soon as he saw you, he smirked.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” You frowned. not even the people in the foster home were as mean as they were, what was up with them? “You must be Y/N Y/L/N. I’m Tom Holland, your new boss.” He stuck his hand out for you to shake.

“Nice to m-meet you.” You stuttered. As soon as you were ready to shake his hand, he took his hand back.

“Now where’s our coffee?” He asked, arms folded and eyebrows raised.

You looked at him in shock. Coffee? No one told you about coffee. What was he on about?

“No one informed me about t-the coffee, s-sir.” You said. You could feel the embarrassment in your bones. You didn’t want to get fired on your first day. Especially when this was the job you needed.

“Well then what are you waiting for? I like mine black, Harrison likes his the same. Get to it. And don’t forget next time.” He scoffed, and turned back towards the window.

“But sir, the coffee shop is all the way across town, it’ll take me an hour to get them with transit. I-“

“I don’t remember asking. you don’t want to get fired the first day, do you? iI didn’t think so. We’ll be waiting for our fresh, hot coffee.” He said, not looking back at you.

You looked down as tears welled up in your eyes. Quickly, you blinked them away as you made your way to the door, the blue eyed boy named Harrison smirking back at you as you did so.

What the hell did you just get yourself into?

Taglist:

@fanficparker @your-daily-dose-of-fangirl @magiclolipopqueen @organicpurplepants @delicately-important-trash @butterfliesinthenightsky @redstrawbbaby @shayke-and-bake @olivia1112 @lazymarvelfan @karlitabi-rrito @green-lxght @babylsn @sincerelyfan @awesomeaugustina @joycesld @xxr-88xx @czygrlm @ixchel-9275

[vmheadquarters]

Happy Birthday @spookykinney!

For your birthday, surfer-Logan and FBI-Veronica are teaming up in this delightful remake of Point Break as told by our very own @cheshirecatstrut! We hope you have a great birthday and that you enjoy this first chapter of Taking the Drop.

It’s not like Veronica thought, while fighting tooth-and-nail to win a job at the FBI, that a law enforcement career would be glamorous. She assumed ‘high-risk’ and ‘life-consuming’ went without saying… but jumped in with both feet because everyone assumed she’d fail. Throughout those years she waged battles with a stacked system, though, to earn her gun and badge—she never once imagined the work would be BORING.

She’s currently reading email nine-thousand-three of more than forty-six thousand, however, so she can catalog contents to make a searchable database; and the sheer tedium has her reconsidering her position. Because sure, she MIGHT find the smoking gun in this stash, and put an international fraudster behind bars. But since right now she’s transcribing vet bills for a Pomeranian’s impacted anal glands, she has her doubts.

Voices filter back to her small and grimy cubicle, her reward for graduating Cum Laude from Columbia Law; she perks up as she hears the words, “…see if an agent’s available.” Since she’s fresh out of the Academy, and most junior on staff, Agent in Charge of Random Bullshit is usually her.

Approaching footsteps bolster this theory, so Veronica pitches her gum, straightens her somewhat-wilted blazer. Turns expectantly towards the entrance, alert-and-professional expression in place, just as Logan Echolls lounges against the frame.

He looks GOOD, she thinks illogically, even as she wilts like her sport coat. Tanned and buff and fifty times healthier than he should, considering those six years of tabloid-chronicled hedonism since she dumped him. He’s in old jeans and flip-flops, his ‘Live Fast, Die Young’ t-shirt both worn and snug; faint sun-wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen when he notes her disappointment. Darla from reception waves and OH-MY-GOD’s behind him as he says, “Why am I not surprised you turned a felony kidnapping investigation into a job?”

“Why am I not surprised you’re still wasting your potential at the beach?” She gestures up-and-down at his ensemble. “And what on Earth are you doing in the San Diego field office, Logan? Are you planning to make another romantic drunken speech? Maybe you saw a joke flyer advertising kegs, and the metal detectors failed to deter you?”

“You wound me, Veronica,” he says, clearly not wounded, as she shoos away Darla. “You know full well I’m always the host. Like I’d deign to turn up at some random loser’s party.”

She snorts, and his grin faintly manifests. “Tragically, though, there’s a distinct lack of revelry and booze at this locale, so how about I cut to the chase? Can I interest you in a theory regarding bank robberies?”

Her eyes widen and she sits back, gesturing towards the uncomfortable guest chair. He unfolds from his lean and slouches into it, stretching out his long legs and making the cube feel minuscule.

“Now what would a boy like you know about felony theft?” She taps her lower lip while he crosses his arms, entertained. “I’m guessing very little, unless you learned on a film set—but I’ll admit you’ve disappointed me before.”

“I’m talking, specifically, about high-yield local jobs—the ones you guys have bungled like Keystone Cops for three years?” He bobs his brows, tone ever-so-slightly-patronizing. “The robbers wear Ninja Turtle masks, and collect massive hauls with a crew of four?”

“I may have heard a mention,” V says, with irony, because this case is the local Holy Grail. “As has every cable-news watcher in America.”

“Any lovers of partisan coverage realized yet the jobs only take place in the summer?”

She rolls her eyes. “Give us a little credit. We’re the FBI over here, not credulous guest stars on Scooby Doo.”

“And has it further occurred to you,” he leans forward intently, elbows on knees, “that these are the prime surfing months in So-Cal? For the rest of the year, surfers travel to the best waves…which costs more than people other than me can afford.”

He’s close enough now for her to smell his cologne, the sun-baked scent of his skin. Her voice, when she speaks, is husky. “Logan, what have you heard?”

Shrugging, he reclines against the wall, satisfied he’s piqued her curiosity. “Rumors,” he says, with a hand wave. “Nothing substantial. You know how it goes, when we reprobates toast marshmallows and gossip. High-denomination bills are turning up among locals, lately…and I’m the only guy who hasn’t spent his trust fund.”

“Rumors,” she repeats flatly, disappointment washing over her. Decides he looks and smells too lickable for pointless conversation to continue. “Well if that’s all you’ve got, no need to prolong the awkwardness. Thanks for stopping by--we’ll look into your allegations and touch base if necessary. Appreciate the good citizenship, blah-blah, God bless America.”

She finger-waves, and he stares for a moment, disbelief fading into cynicism. “Fine,” he says at last, pushing up out of the chair. “Your loss. I’ve had fun exchanging insults again, Veronica—it’s been a while since my last creative tongue-lashing. Good luck with the glamorous new career. Oh, and…excellent choice, reverting to shorter hair. There’ll be less to tear out when ignoring my clue gets you nowhere.”

He winks and strides away. She runs a palm self-consciously along one side of her sleek bob, and watches his back muscles shift as he goes.

XXXXX

Veronica submits a form detailing the interaction, per procedure, then tries to re-focus on the mind-numbing emails. The memory of Logan’s disappointed expression nags…but what did he expect, showing up out of the blue with no evidence? She WANTED to believe him; just like she wanted, once upon a time, to have faith he’d give up reckless self-endangerment. But leaping without looking is Logan’s thing--and the best way to protect him is to NOT inquire into crimes of his nearest and dearest.

She’s a professional, though, and the bigwigs want their database yesterday. So she dutifully enters emails till it’s eleven and she’s wiped. V then drags herself home to run on the treadmill, eat a frozen dinner, and feel both sad and glad she’s got no hungry dog waiting.

When her alarm goes off (too early) the next morning, she staggers into the kitchen to grab a bottled coffee; slumps half-awake at the breakfast table to chug. Mac’s gone for the day, probably practicing Tai Chi in the park, but the San Diego Union-Tribune’s on the table, neatly folded to show the front page. Veronica’s bleary gaze passes over it…then swings back, focuses. She grabs it in both hands, cursing.

The headline reads, ‘Wild in the Banks? Surf Wax Found at Multiple Robbery Sites, Source Claims’. The article beneath, written by some pompous windbag named Julian Grac, details the theory Logan laid out yesterday…along with several bits of evidence she’s sure were kept from the press.

“That asshole talked to the PAPER,” she mutters, crumpling newsprint in her fists. “When I kicked him to the curb, I should have kicked HARDER!”

Her rage sustains her all the way through her shower and commute. But when she gets inside the forbidding white-stone-blue-glass building, and finds a summons from Agent Morris waiting? Anger gives way to foreboding.

Morris still holds a teeny-tiny grudge about the whole getting-outsmarted-IN-RE-Duncan thing. And continues to view Veronica with unreasonable suspicion--which is troublesome because right now she’s V’s boss.

Her fearless leader’s planted on the desktop when Veronica enters, legs crossed casually, arms folded. The ‘lazy housecat, circling’ routine Morris uses to intimidate is getting old; so V goes full can-do chipper in response. “You asked to see me, ma’am?”

“Mars, am I right in assuming we work for the same department?” Morris arches one eyebrow, and Veronica has to bite her tongue to contain sarcasm. “It’s not something I hallucinated, due to lack of sleep from investigating bank heists?”

“Last time I checked, ma’am,” V replies breezily. “Unless there was a re-org this morning while I was stuck in traffic.”

“And when a potential witness for said case appears in said department…” Morris pauses, for dramatic effect, Veronica assumes. “Shouldn’t the interviewing agent, who’s incidentally my subordinate, notify me ASAP?”

“I passed the information up the chain as per FBI rules,” Veronica says. “And you must have received it, or I wouldn’t be standing here.”

“Yes, but if you had walked Mr...” Morris consults a sheet of paper on the desk by her hip, “Echolls upstairs personally, instead of sending him on his way and writing a bare-bones report, I would’ve received the information YESTERDAY. BEFORE he ran to the paper, and spilled critical intel to perps. I might’ve even convinced him silence is golden, since you didn’t find it worthwhile to try. Here’s a hint—fake sympathy and charm work wonders.”

Veronica finds this claim dubious, but all she says is, “Ma’am, he was passing along rumors. He didn’t give names or offer proof. And I doubt he’s a witness to anything but his own moral decline.”

“Be that as it may,” Morris says. “He HAS made the acquaintance of this pain-in-my-ass Julian Grac. Who somehow knows about the beeswax residue at six of nine robbery sites--the chemical composition of which matches a well-known surf product. Mr. Zog’s Sex Wax, to be precise. Bubblegum scent.”

Veronica contains an eye-roll. “A detail which was kept out of the press.”

“Right.” Morris levers herself up to standing. “My question is, HOW does Grac know? Did he learn this tidbit from Echolls? And if so, where’d Echolls hear?”

“Logan parties a lot.” Veronica shrugs, hoping she comes off unaffected. “And snoops. Probably he stumbled into the wrong crowd and overheard a conversation. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Yes, I was interested to learn you and Echolls share a history.” Morris consults the paper again; Veronica wonders whether it’s a car-wash receipt or actual research. “He was your boyfriend after Duncan Kane fled the country, correct? It’s great you didn’t disappear him, too, because we can use that relationship to get close to his sources.”

“Logan Echolls isn’t big on being used,” Veronica says, lightly. “You might not find him accommodating.”

Morris sighs. “Look, Mars, we’ve been praying for a break on this case for years. And, as I’m sure you’ll be shocked to learn, none of our agents surf. He does, though—Echolls—I understand he’s pretty good. He also trusts you enough to hand you dirt on guys he knows. It might be…” she trails a finger along the edge of her desk, slants V a sly look, “…advantageous to your career to demonstrate team loyalty, Mars. Convince the guy to be our confidential informant. Get an introduction to some surfers, find out who’s flashing mystery cash. His social circle’s no doubt heard about your turbulent former romance. He could help us infiltrate the locals-only crowd, none of whom like talking to Feds.”

“But if I go undercover,” Veronica tries to conceal her mounting excitement, “who will log the last thirty-thousand Sanderson emails?”

“Let me put it this way, Mars.” Morris smirks. “If you DON’T go undercover? I got a server in today from Atlanta containing another hundred-k.”

“You know I’m a professional, ma’am.” Veronica folds her hands behind her back to conceal the involuntary fist. “Whatever my task may be, I’ll work hard to exceed expectations.”

“So you say.” Morris lays the paper, gently, down. “I’d rather you prove ‘my task’ means ‘anything the FBI asks’. Not ‘whatever I feel is right, even if it’s against the law’.”

Veronica nods, giving away nothing. Morris contemplates her in silence. “We’re working on an alternate post-Hearst background for you,” her boss continues, after a tense thirty seconds. “You’ll have it by the end of the day. I’ve also called in a favor from the owner of Neptune’s Net, a local surf hangout—congratulations, you’re waiting tables. You’ve got a month to produce actionable evidence, plus I want weekly reports, in person. And Mars…from now on, don’t leave ANYTHING out.”

“I would NEVER.” Veronica presses a palm to her heart. Morris narrows her eyes, then waves a dismissive hand.

XXXXX

Once back at her desk, V pulls up tools that make Prying Eyez look like a toy and researches Logan. Within two minutes she’s got a list of his petty crimes, including one drunk-and-disorderly sophomore year and two expunged charges…destruction of a police vehicle, and assault of Mercer Hayes. But since junior year at Hearst, Logan’s flown under the radar. He earned a political science degree, with honors, followed by a Masters in English from YALE; and then…he bought a house in San Diego by the water, and a dog from the SPCA. She copies down the innocuous address, cracks her knuckles and considers.

High-tech’s getting her nowhere, so Veronica decides to Google; finds a ‘What happened to Logan Echolls?’ article which reveals precisely nothing. Next she turns her attention to Julian Grac, which at least has the benefit of novelty. It yields links to crime stories in the Union-Tribune, and an article about ‘ten great authors you’ve never read’.

Frowning, she clicks through, only to realize it’s name confusion. But the phrase ‘a writer who prefers obscurity’ catches her attention, so she speed-reads the autobiography of one Julien Gracq; a turn-of-the-century novelist who rejected awards, refused to do book tours, and lived as a hermit. His masterpiece, ‘Chateau D’Argol’, was about a rich man whose best friend brings a poor girl into their social circle. After which the girl seduces, then ruins, them both.

At this point Veronica throws her pencil holder across the room. Because this is EXACTLY the kind of pseudonym Logan Echolls would adopt, and smirk about regularly, knowing few had the insight to penetrate his ruse.

She doesn’t need to use the search tools on Grac, at this point; but doing so reveals his paychecks languish in a shell account. Suspicions confirmed, she picks up the phone. Adopts the sugariest Southern accent she can muster, just because, and spins a tale to the Trib’s receptionist about the tip of a lifetime for ‘Monsieur Grac’. The voicemail box she’s transferred to boasts an inspirational quote (‘All news, as it is called, is gossip, and they who edit it are old women over tea’), recited in a drawl she recognizes. She hangs up, high on triumph, and decides a long-distance chewing-out won’t serve.

XXXXX

Veronica leans against a lamp post across the street to wait; within half an hour, Logan bounces out of the brown skyscraper housing the Union-Tribune. He loosens his tie as he walks, laughingly calling goodbyes to co-workers. He’s in designer flat-front slacks and a white oxford, hair mussed like he’s been running his hands through it--his impersonation of clean-cut and trustworthy is so cute she has to grit her teeth not to smile.

The street is packed with cabs, so it takes him a minute to notice her. When he does, he pulls a theatrical double-take before jaywalking, hands in pockets, smiling wryly.

“So,” she says, as soon as he clears the road, “Can I interest YOU in a theory about people who lie to FBI agents?”

“I didn’t lie, per se,” he counters, rocking back on his heels as his grin grows Grinch-like. “I just wore my weekend clothes and kept my mouth shut. The Veronica Mars Express Train to Paranoia-ville did the rest.”

“This is a serious federal investigation, Logan,” she chides, folding her arms. “Bringing evidence to the authorities isn’t a game for personal amusement.”

“What, exactly, are you mad about?” He lifts his brows. “That I gave you a hint instead of handing over story notes? That I failed to shout my job history from the rooftops? Or maybe you’re just pissed I’m not an alcoholic loser, since it makes you ditching me seem…selfish?”

“I could’ve had you subpoena’d and interrogated under oath,” she says, faux-thoughtfully. “But browbeating you in person seemed much more fun.”

He laughs. “THERE’s the Veronica who ran afoul of the Russian mob. So what convinced you my theory was worth pursuing, sugarplum? Not my charm, surely. Some fact in the article your colleagues missed, perhaps?”

“Like I’d discuss cases with a reporter,” she scoffs. “Why’d you go with ‘robberies only happen in summer’ when you had physical evidence in reserve?”

“Like I’d reveal my sources.” He grins. “Gosh, Veronica, seems like we’re at an impasse.”

“My supervisor wants to use your connections.” She goes sardonic in response to his glee. “I’d ask if you have experience undercover…”

“…But you know first-hand my skills are professional-grade?”

She narrows her eyes. He cocks his head, amusement warring with calculation. “If I help you, what do I get?” he asks.

“First crack at the story immediately following arrests,” she says. “With our full cooperation. And any information you gather solo you can use…unless, of course, it’s classified.”

He removes car keys from his pocket; stares, considering, into the distance as he flips them around one finger. Returns his gaze to hers and locks on, Logan-style. “I assume my role is to introduce you to suspicious surfers? Since I further assume you won’t let me handle this and report back?”

“You know what they say about assumptions,” she says, by way of answer. “Of course, you’re an ass already, so maybe you don’t care.”

“I should warn you, a lot of our high-school classmates have stuck around.” He holds his tie down with one palm as a breeze shifts it sideways. “This may suck for you, but you’ll have to pretend we’ve reconciled.”

She nods, and he extends the non-key-containing hand. “Give me your phone.”

V shouldn’t violate protocol; but Logan’s trustworthy, within limits, so she types in the code and does. He enters his number in the contacts and gives it back. “There’s a party tonight at Black’s Beach—should be locals-only, very exclusive. Text me an address, I’ll pick you up at eight. Oh, and dress like a surf bunny, even if doing so offends your sensibilities. Not all these people are stupid, you’ll need to blend.”

“Gee, I was hoping you’d refuse to cooperate,” she says wistfully, pocketing her cell. “Then do something worse than jaywalking, then flee, so I could knock you down and cuff you.”

“Maybe later, if you’re REALLY nice,” he says, leaning confidentially towards her ear. Then walks off, whistling, while she tries to purge the image from her brain.

XXXXX

Veronica’s sitting on the porch of her rented condo when Logan pulls up at 7:55—in a dusty black vintage Range Rover, not the shiny orange Porsche she envisioned. She considers, as she stands, whether she also makes too many assumptions. But his appreciative whistle while he opens her door is distracting.

“Guess it slipped my mind how much you love playing dress-up,” he murmurs. She doesn’t miss the quick once-over he gives her as he releases the brake. “You look great, Veronica, love the sarong. And friendship bracelets are a nice touch.”

“This is actually a tablecloth.” She strokes the fringed white linen, embroidered with red roses, she tied over one hip so she’d feel less naked in her green bikini. “I favor a no-nonsense black wardrobe these days, because Cup ‘o Soup stains don’t show.”

“Wise,” he says, and clears his throat. He’s in linen too, a short-sleeved, half-buttoned summer shirt over cargo shorts; she notes with amusement the shark’s tooth necklace has reappeared. “I figured we���d start at the top of the food chain and work our way down, since most surf crews around here are big on punching but short on brains. Brains being a prerequisite for smoothly-planned bank jobs.”

“Sounds fair,” she agrees, watching his arm muscles shift as he changes gears. “This party is where we’ll find apex predators?”

“Black’s has the most challenging waves in the area—ten, twelve footers courtesy of an offshore trench. It takes stamina to swim out and ride, so this spot attracts real athletes…the ranked surfers that compete on TV. And Zen masters, who just want to be one with the ocean.”

She makes a face, and he says, serious, “It’s not a joking matter to these people, Veronica. They don’t welcome posers in their midst. I vividly recall you disapproving of fistfights and vandalism, so be warned; the elite surfing community makes me, way back when, look like a piker. Crews are similar to those biker gangs you inexplicably love, although these are black sheep from MIDDLE-class homes--plus more ethnically diverse. This particular group is Mother Nature mystical in a way you’ll loathe and mock; so expect pot and hallucinogens, free love interspersed with showdowns. Stick close to me or you’ll be propositioned…and whipping out a taser would break your cover.”

“Understood.” She studies his face, surprised to see concern there. Gentles her tone in response. “I’ve gone undercover before, Logan. And agents are extensively trained in hand-to-hand combat. I can handle myself in a fight now.”

“Like you couldn’t before?” A smile plays across his lips; a street lamp illuminates his face as they pass beneath, then he’s cast again in shadow. He turns into a parking lot at the edge of a cliff and kills the engine. “I’m not worried about your moxie, Veronica. I just don’t want you to mouth off and find yourself surrounded. Out here, surfers make the rules.”

“I have full faith in your ability to fight dirty defending me,” she says softly. He laughs, gaze tracing her face, and she’s reminded of previous evenings with him in a parked car.

“Nice to see some things don’t change,” he murmurs, then climbs out to help her down. His hands linger on her waist as he lifts her from the seat, skin-to-skin.

They pass, in the moonlight, a brown sign that reads ‘stairway unstable due to rains’. He walks behind her down a narrow path with a rotting rail, hand on her shoulder like he’ll catch her if she falls. It’s nice, this unwavering focus, his concern for her well-being despite angry words. She used to take it for granted, the way she drew male eyes. But she’s grown up, post-Hearst; and she realizes now most men don’t pay attention as completely as Logan did.

At the base of the cliff, past a saucer-shaped observation tower, a bonfire sends smoke spiraling into the sky; loud music blasts, Dick Dale with the bass maxed. Seventy-ish people cluster near the crackling flames--on either side, a ribbon of sand stretches off into the dark. The water looks black, boasting military-formation-regular waves, and the rock wall at her back is smooth, forbidding.

The crowd’s uninhibited as advertised, drinking and making out, smoking and laughing. A few guys dance in a circle with much hilarity, like they’re having some Lord of the Flies moment or praying for rain. A knot of humanity encircles loose boulders at what’s clearly the party’s center.

It’s obvious Logan’s no stranger, despite his current respectability. He greets people with grins and backslaps, jerks of his chin, less unaffected than he seemed addressing work colleagues. Almost, he slides back into his high-school persona—the 09’er general who dictated popularity, who slashed tires and started shit when his judgments were questioned. But there’s a watchful tension to the set of his shoulders, and he glances left frequently to make sure she’s beside him. That, more than words, convinces her there’s danger.

They take an indirect path to the cluster by the boulders; Logan accepts a shot en route, which he tosses back, unhesitating. Cracking his neck, he meditatively surveys the throng, then coughs to get her attention as a gap opens.

“Guy holding court at the center,” he murmurs, indicating a ropily-buff Asian man with longish hair and ratty swim trunks. “That’s Bodie Chang, he was a year ahead of us at Neptune High. You remember?”

Veronica nods, watching Bodie gesture lazily from his semi-reclined position. Watching the crowd guffaw when he speaks, soak up his every word. “He’s come a long way since I interviewed him for the school paper. I remember Chang being shy.”

“He’s one of the top twenty-five surfers in the world, now.” Logan shoulders aside a drunk dude-bro to attain the inner sanctum. “In this place, he’s King.”

She opens her mouth to reply; but Dick Casablancas erupts from a log like the Ghost of Shitty Memories past, and drapes a wasted arm around her partner-in-crime. “Lo-GAN!” he shouts, like Logan’s not next to him. “Mr. Echolls in the house, now the party can START!”

“Enticing ladies again with the scents of puke and Jagermeister, I see.” Logan shoves Dick off, not without affection. “I thought you weren’t coming tonight, dude. Something about college cheerleaders and a hot tub?”

“They had emergency PRACTICE.” Dick accompanies a raspberry with a thumbs-down. “Seriously, how much do you need to rehearse waving pom-poms? It’s not like anybody looks at the props. Hey, who’s the wahine?” He squints, attempting focus. “Nice boobs, looks sort of familiar. Maybe I’ve seen her in a por…oh, holy SHIT! Dude, why the FUCK did you bring V…”

“Hey ECHOLLS!” a voice calls, mercifully drowning out Dick’s fit. Logan spreads a palm across V’s back to steer her--towards Bodie Chang, his summoner, and the makeshift royal throne. The King of Black’sBeach looks them both over impassively. “Thought you were too busy for our modest shindigs these days, man.”

Logan shrugs, nonchalant, but shakes the proffered hand. “You know how it goes,” he says, easily. ”All that money to spend, all those waves to ride. Plus too much temptation here to drink to excess. My body’s a fine-tuned machine.”

“I can respect that,” Bodie says, with a faint smile that reminds Veronica forcefully of Agent Morris. “Looks like maybe you’ve had other distractions lately, too. Who’s your date?”

“This,” Logan says, pairing a smile with a warning glance, “Is Veronica Mars.”

Then he snakes an arm unexpectedly around her waist. His hand finds the gap in her makeshift sarong, cups her hip; he pulls her flush against his side and adds, “My girlfriend.”

[sad-trash-writing]

Who’s The Hero Of Your Story?, Ch. 11

AO3 Link 

“Well, I can’t say we’re surprised, but we are very disappointed,” Raina said. 

Of all the ways Jemma was anticipating this meeting going, a lecture was not one of them. A newspaper lay on the desk in front of Jemma with a headline that read ‘Quake Thwarts Federal Building Robbery’ blaring across it. Jemma’s three advisors stared her down with a demeanor of disapproving managers about to write up a minimum wage employee for not hitting a quota, rather than supervillains admonishing her for not murdering their archrival. 

Jemma sighed and looked at the floor, trying her best to look scolded. 

The first thing she had done, once she made her way home through the sewer, was to check on Fitz. She became frantic for a moment, not being able to find him in his apartment or in the lab, but once she returned to her apartment, there was a small note stuck to the door:

Simmons- This is the week I’m visiting my mum for her birthday. I knew you’d forget. I stuck a key to Mrs. Oswald’s place under your door, because I’m supposed to be feeding her cat this week (but I forgot, too). I’ll buy you dinner if you do it for me. -Fitz

Jemma scoured the note for an hour, looking for any indication that it was written under duress, but nothing looked out of the ordinary. 

After Jemma was assured that Fitz was far away from her advisors’ wrath, she wasn’t so concerned when they called her to their office for this meeting. At this point, she didn’t care what they did to her. 

So far, all they were doing to her was frowning. Well, everyone but Garrett. Garrett had the deepest scowl across his face that Jemma had ever seen and, when Jemma walked in, he sounded like he was suggesting torture methods. Jemma ignored him. She had seen the schematics of his anatomy that Fitz left laying around and knew exactly where all his weak points were. 

Jemma stuck the dagger in the back of her pants, too, just in case she needed to defend herself. 

“Unfortunately, we don’t have any more time to waste. We need to get this project on the road,” Quinn spoke up, seeming satisfied with Jemma abashed expression. 

Raina sighed dramatically, “I know, it just would have been so much easier with Quake out of the way.”

“It would have, but our materials are already degrading. We need to act fast,” he replied. 

Raina shrugged and replaced her scolding expression with a bloodthirsty grin. “Now, you get to help us with a more fun job.”

Quinn laid out a massive roll of blueprints, schematics of a complex machine, and strategic points throughout the city. Jemma recognized all the elements of it that she had helped retrieve: the diamond, cut into four prisms and split between the four copies of the machine; the gold and silver from the nursing home, melted down and hammered into thin strips of foil to conduct the laser that was being filtered through the diamond; some rare metal that was reported stolen the same night Jemma was meant to kill Quake. She even recognized a few smaller pieces of hardware from blueprints that Fitz had been working from for weeks, probably not knowing they were being used for this machine.

The only component that she didn’t recognize was a round container that appeared to plug into the top and had multiple currents running through it. 

“What exactly is this part for?” Jemma asked, pointing to the sphere. 

Raina grinned so wide she looked almost manic. “That is the pinnacle of your contribution to this project.”

Raina flipped to a different schematic sheet. “Once we found out about your little mind-control power, we were inspired. It could be used for so many things, but we needed to figure out a way to harness and replicate it. Thankfully, you figured it out for us.”

Jemma blanched and remembered the vial of spores from her new plants that she had given them. The spheres in each machine were filled with a distilled version of the spores and wired to replicate and disperse once the laser reflected into it. 

“Then, we had to get creative,” Raina continued. “What’s the point of mind-control if you can’t use it on a mass scale?”

Quinn piped up. “So, we had your engineering friend help us whip up some crucial pieces and had you help steal the rest of what we needed.”

“Having you do it ensured Quake wouldn’t put together all our heists and figure out our plan,” Garrett added, “Also, it seems to have proven a decent distraction for her.”

“It would have been easier to accomplish this task if Quake was completely out of the picture, but we built in some safeguards. Just in case,” Raina finished. 

“Once we activate these, there will be no one in the city who can resist us. We’ll have a million more henchman to get us what we need to make more of these little babies, and who knows? Maybe we’ll have the entire country in our control by the end of the year,” Quinn said. 

Jemma gulped. In just one week, she had been dragged from petty theft to attempted murder and now world domination. No degree was worth this. She had to find a way to stop them, but the only person she knew could help, Jemma had threatened to kill the night before. 

She was going to have to get creative. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The minute Jemma got back to her apartment, she started packing. The Plan was set for three days from now. After that, Jemma knew that, one way or another, she wasn't coming back here.

She stuffed a few necessities in a backpack and threw it near the door. The rest of her items she start shoving in boxes. Luckily, she had been in this apartment less than a year so she still had all her boxes tucked in a closet. She piled up her things in categorized boxes, stuck a label on each one, and scratched Donate below it. 

She sorted out a few sentimental items and put them in a separate box which she labelled Fitz and placed it off to the side. He could come get it whenever he got back from visiting his mom. 

At which point Jemma would probably be dead.

The realization hit her like a speeding train and Jemma had to sit down and catch her breath. She had three days left to live. And if she didn't come up with a foolproof plan in those three days, a lot of people could get hurt.

If she managed to stop her advisors plot, they would almost definitely kill her. If she didn't manage to stop it, they would know she tried and they would definitely kill her.

If Quake happened to show up, either Quake would kill her or her advisors would, for not taking care of Quake when she had the chance.

Jemma’s advisors hadn't said exactly how they would use their new city-wide mind control abilities, but Jemma could imagine. They could get rid of anyone they wanted, do anything they wanted. No law enforcement or bureaucratic agency would be able to stop them from diverting whatever funds they wanted to expand their influence. 

Once that happened, there would be no stopping them. 

At this point, Jemma didn’t care if she spent the rest of her life unemployed if it meant she could foil this plot. 

She hastily wrote out a letter to her parents (it was hard for her to word ‘I got involved in supervillainy, but changed my mind so now I’m either dead or on the run’ tactfully in a letter, so she just stuck with the basics) and tucked it in the Fitz box. 

Then she wrote a letter to Fitz, mostly filled with instructions on cleaning out her apartment and how to get away from her advisors, but also with a lengthy apology. 

She taped her spare key to the letter and slipped it under his door for him to find when he got home. 

She glanced around the apartment. It looked just like it had when she first moved in; boxes piled everywhere, kitchen cabinets empty and hanging open.

  There was no time to be sentimental. She had to come up with a plan. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By the time the day came, Jemma had concocted and thrown out at least 1000 plans. None of them would work. She didn’t have enough information about the machine to figure out how to deactivate it, which was probably on purpose. 

Her phone chirped across the room. She was already suited up and just pressed her mask on before she opened the message. She already knew who it was. She could hear the blades of the helicopter whipping through the air. 

“Your ride’s here, Vine Girl.”

[cutsliceddiced]

New top story from Time: Cory Booker: A Waitress I Knew Made $2.13 an Hour. I Wish She Lived to Get a Fair Shake in This Economy

In late July, on a quiet, tree-lined block in the central ward of Newark, dozens of people gathered at Perry’s Funeral Home to celebrate the life and spirit of an indomitable woman who has forever shaped my views on the meaning of work in this country. Every Labor Day I’m reminded of her, but on this Labor Day in particular, given Natasha’s sudden and tragic passing in July, her story is especially at the forefront of my thoughts. Her struggles are a painful reminder of the broken bargain between America and its workers.

I first met Natasha Laurel — or Mama Tasha as she was known at the IHOP where she worked as as server — on Election Day in 2014 at the IHOP she worked at on Bergen Street in downtown Newark. It’s where I had decided to have my last non-vegan meal. Over the course of the many laps she took between the kitchen and my booth I learned that she was 32 years old and a single mother of three boys; that she lived in Newark’s West Ward in a public housing complex; that her “dream” job was to be a counselor.

Natasha illustrates, as James Baldwin so eloquently put it, how extremely expensive it is to be poor. She earned only $2.13 an hour plus tips, which made her vulnerable to the capricious generosity of fickle customers — many of whom were struggling themselves — and unpredictable work shifts. Unable to make ends meet with her meager wages, she relied on public assistance programs like food stamps and subsidized housing. Any unexpected expense, like a flat tire or traffic ticket, would plunge her dangerously over the cliff.

Natasha’s story is all too familiar for the modern American worker, who is working harder and harder each day but finding themselves inevitably at the end of their money before the end of the month.

Read more: Low Wages, Sexual Harassment and Unreliable Tips. This Is Life in America’s Booming Service Industry

The President likes to tweet about stock prices and the Dow, but what you won’t see him tweeting about is how wages are stuck. How — while corporate profits are basking in the glow of an 85-year high, hourly wages have been stagnant for 45 years. How nearly one in four Americans don’t have the savings to cover an unexpected $400 emergency expense. How more than four out of 10 federal workers make less than $15 an hour (though, in the absence of federal action, some states, like New Jersey, have thankfully stepped in to boost their minimum wage to a livable standard). How black Americans are making less today than they were in 2000.

There’s indeed a better way — and it doesn’t involve weakening unions, petulant bullying of the Federal Reserve, or a $2 trillion tax cut for the top 1%. Instead, it requires swinging the pendulum of economic power back toward the workers of this country — the ones actually driving profits — and away from corporations and moneyed interests. We must combat corporate power with worker power.

This can be tackled in many forms. For starters, we must make it easier, not harder, for workers to join a union. The right to organize is a bedrock principle of workers’ rights and our laws should reflect that. Employers shouldn’t be able to interfere as easily as they currently do when their workers try to join together to bargain for better wages and working conditions. If they do, there should be strong — and swift — penalties.

Secondly, we must reinvigorate our tepid antitrust agencies. Congress has strong antitrust laws on the books dating back to the 1890s. They’re meant to ensure competition for the benefit of both consumers and workers, but at some point over the last three decades, the agencies responsible for enforcing those laws have completely forgotten about the part of their mandate that applies to labor. In an analysis of several decades of cases, my office was unable to identify a single instance in which the Justice Department or the Federal Trade Commission has challenged a proposed merger or acquisition due to labor market concerns.

Along these same lines, we need to restrict anti-competitive practices like non-compete agreements and no poach clauses that limit worker mobility and keep wages down. No poach agreements are often forged between large corporate franchisors, like IHOP, and their franchisees, usually unbeknown to the worker. Such covenants prohibit the franchisees from recruiting and hiring away one another’s workers. This means, for example, that none of the thousands of IHOP franchises may hire an individual who is currently employed — or was recently employed — by any other IHOP franchisee. So, if Natasha wanted to get a raise by becoming a shift manager at the IHOP further south in Elizabeth, it would be impossible. The Elizabeth IHOP would have been prohibited from hiring her. IHOP thankfully ended this collusive practice last year amid public outcry, but dozens of other companies still have such anticompetitive and exploitative agreements on the books.

For workers like Natasha, these agreements mean that an already limited range of options narrows further. These clauses should be banned.

Lastly, we need mitigate the dangerous culture of “short-termism” that pervades corporate boardrooms and C-suites, as companies prioritize short-run returns to wealthy investors and executives over long-term investments in workers, like higher wages and expanded training. Indicative of this trend is the massive wave of stock buybacks, in which companies purchase their own stock shares in order to reduce supply in the market and drive up their price. According to the economist William Lazonick, between 2007 and 2016, companies on the S&P 500 dedicated 96% of their earnings to stock buybacks and corporate dividends. That left just 4% for investments in the workforce, like raises for workers. We need to crack down on the proliferation of these buybacks, or, at the very least, ensure that if a corporation buys back stock to increase shareholder value, it must also pay out a commensurate sum to all of its employees who help drive the profits — the “workers dividend.”

There is no reason that a country as rich and as powerful as ours should have to choose between great wealth for the few, like corporate CEOs, and great opportunity for all of its citizens, like Natasha. We must work to be a country in which any American who wants to work can get a job; where if you work hard, you are paid what you are worth; and where a free market means freedom for workers to move across the labor market to translate their value and increasing productivity into higher wages.

Like Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal and Lyndon B. Johnson’s Great Society, we must reimagine what we can and should expect out of our government. We didn’t achieve this vision while Natasha was alive. But I’m hopeful that her children, and her children’s children, will live to see the day where workers like their mom and grandma truly get a fair shake in this economy.

via https://cutslicedanddiced.wordpress.com/2018/01/24/how-to-prevent-food-from-going-to-waste

[jamesmeroney]

FIX THE SYSTEM

(Originally posted at Facebook/JimMeroney on 10/20/16)

Following are excerpts from a speech posted on Twitter’s @Pledgers2020 on August 12, 2014…

 Washington politics NEED to be cleaned up, and our book shows exactly how to—easily!  Here's just a taste of its common sense reasoning(s)...

 DON’T put faith in parties 100%, but principles, and ONLY support politicians so committed to them that neither party can dissuade them from what’s right for our country.

 It has been said that you have what you tolerate.  Democrat or Republican?  Either/or?  No!  BETTER RESULTS, or throw all the bums out!  Reform is NEEDED!

 IF you DON’T have knee jerk thinking, you’ll notice that our positions balance BOTH parties except if their position has NO good in it.  It’s called objectivity.  Take the good, reject the bad.

 Our books, Dumb as a Donkey Fat as an Elephant and Wit and Wisdom detail the good and bad of both parties, and offer solutions to choosing the lesser of two evils with NO third party.

 No other country is as widely or historically admired.  MAKE HER admirable in the future.  Our new generations CAN’T abandon this American value!

 We are the light on a thousand hills, and though NOT arrogantly, WE must rise to lead this world into a BETTER future.  We, Americans, have VISION!

 The GREATEST weakness in the American Dream is idolizing the love of money, with LITTLE social pressure to generously give back (i.e., only promoting selfishness).

 Democrats are GOOD on protecting the environment and animals, helping the poor, opposing racial and job discrimination, helping the elderly, decrying greed and being for equal pay.

 The GOP is good on ~economics, national defense, law and order, opposing at-will aborting, lower debt and advancing democracy.  Praise the GOOD!

 Democrat strategic advantage (vs. conservatives):  Ask them publicly if they regularly evangelize vs. just vote against abortion and gay marriage.

 GOP strategic advantage:  Close the borders, no amnesty, EASIER immigration and effective welfare to IMPROVE lives, skills and improve the economy.

 I’m NOT against Democrats or Republicans—just against their bad policies.  No one should support those.  Define good and bad by principles—not your feelings or money interests.

 82 percent of us are sick of what D.C. spews, with embarrassingly POOR results.  WHEN will WE do something about it?  How long will we be doormats or ostriches?

 We ALL know how BAD Washington politicians can be!  The majority wants them to change, but what will WE do about it?  They ONLY follow OUR clamorings.

 Bankruptcy, second-world standards, weakness, strife—if not civil war.  These are NOT ambitions any noble nation aspires to, or path we should go down.

 WE spend too much, empower laziness, offer no opportunity to millions, then complain if our taxes are used to keep them from dying.  Foolishness!

 The economy is ~stalled, the Middle East is ablaze, Russia's rising, our debt is crippling, China's beating our tails; QUIT ignoring FACTS, citizens!

 ACTION is needed, and ONLY action will help America! Our government is FAR too wastefully large; China's kicking our tails.  WHY do we take it so peacefully?

 You can and should respect honorable public servants, but with ideological intransigence, fighting and gridlock, there are less of them around today!

 DON’T let HIGHLY paid politicians (often rich lawyers) tell us that current state is the BEST we can do.  We're the greatest nation in the history of THIS planet.

 Clever politicians do JUST enough to make you FEEL they’re working, then agitate you enough to make you think you need them.  Great snake oil trick—if you’re DUMB!

 No matter WHAT Presidential candidates say to you, soon 99% of them REVERT to party line once in office!  WE have to change party lines where they are NOT good.

 Politicians who only address issues at the "right time" (i.e., just before elections) should be paid accordingly—PART-TIME!

 When we the people vote in politicians who are more concerned with our country than their personal gain, America will personally gain.  Until then, God help us!

 We are obsessed with personalities in politics, though ALL of them just spew the same policies of their idol—their party.  How dumb can we citizens be?

 We're trying to be clever with a first African-American and woman President.  Try common ground principles based on morality and common sense.  That WORKS!

 So long as your attitude is that politics is the professionals' department, life will cost you more, and your freedom to make decisions will be less, and America will NOT be number one again.

 ONLY a do-do fully supports every policy their political party espouses, usually because they protect their money, or help them get more money from others.

 'We the people' need representatives to speak TRUTH and morality to D.C. politicians, no matter the cost or backlash—to say ‘bring it on, party loyalists!

 It’s time to view American politics as a good thing that we can respect and be proud of, and judge it by its ACCOMPLISHMENTS. Lead the world that area too, USA.

 It’s time to kick tail and clean house in D.C.  IF you’re qualified and a MORAL American, join the "Pledge class" in 20/20 to broker power between parties’ extremes!

 Political common ground begins when we admit the TRUTH—that NEITHER party is perfect, and that neither will get all that they want forever.  Duh 101.

 Solutions are with common sense principles you and I live by every day.  They are NOT with people with famous names, or who are rich or telegenic, but with good policies!

 Un-naive reconciliation, communication, honesty and rightful intentions can solve MOST of our problems with a little effort exerted by us ALL; Just do it.

 Go to dinner with someone from the opposite party tonight.  See that they're human, and MOST of them want the best for our country.

 Get rid of the bad, and keep the good in both parties, or third parties will be inevitable.  America should LEAD the world economically, politically and militarily—but ~doesn’t.

 The majority is in the middle, but we're not given centrist options, as every issue is addressed by polar extremists for publicity and lobbyist money.

 Ninety+ percent of Americans constitute citizens and consumers.  We HAVE numbers to change a system favoring and pampering SPOILED elitists!  Just do it!

 DOING the right thing is ALWAYS more important than SAYING the right things.  DO NOT accept ONLY good words, "WE the people” political consumers!

 Choose to refuse to be manipulated by either party’s red meat issues that cause you to STOP thinking of better alternatives to their pabulum—offered daily.

 QUIT re-hiring failed politicians.  Hire new blood with BETTER ideas, who aren't worshipping parties or political career.  That's common sense!

 Speeches WON'T cut the mustard.  Talk is cheap.  ONLY actions achieve.

 FORGET your party and vote ONLY for good policies.  INSIST that your candidates defy party bosses when their policies are bad.  Do something, America.

 IF you’re content that our debt could crater our country, China OWNS us, and the dollar WILL keep losing value as we print funny money—KEEP the system.

 IF you’re content that even the E.U. is moving away from us toward independence, due to our WEAK foreign policy—KEEP the system/status quo.

 IF you’re content that our economy has STUNK since 2008, unemployment is still HIGH, and MANY have stopped looking for work—KEEP the system.

 IF you’re content that executives fare VERY WELL, as workers they get rich off barely get by, and are told to accept third world wages—KEEP the system.

 IF you’re content with REGULAR gridlock, demonizing, extremism, and well-paid politicians who do VERY little, and primarily tow party line—KEEP the system.

 IF you’re content with politicians and government LYING to you, spinning, wasting your money, buying votes with your tax dollars, and getting rich off evil—KEEP the system.

 IF you’re content with just pursuing your own career and family happiness, as America drops to NOT #1 or its historic leadership status—KEEP the system.

 IF you’re content with our country having struggling poor in the richest nation on earth, and some people abusing the system and NOT working—KEEP the system.

 IF you’re content that Social Security WILL run out, and our YOUTH will be stuck footing the bill, and the rich getting richer or complaining taxes are too high—KEEP the system.

 But IF you’re DIS-content with our political system, vote for ‘Pledged Politicians’ in 20/20, and DO something to improve our nation, ASAP.

 I believe almost every issue can EASILY be resolved if there is the will, money, and sincere determination to use common sense to find common ground.

 Just as God led me to attack top problems in His Church, I may be led to do same concerning America’s top problems.  Parties are NOT the answer!

 Americans want quick, easy answers, as we are busy, and disinterested in disrespected politics.  Our book provides just that—Easy, fast SOLVING of problems

 You name me traits the citizenry wants from D.C., and it’s already in our book.  My other 12 books verify that I tell truth and don’t lie!

  “We the people” can create a better future and society with LITTLE extra effort on our part, if we wise up, unite, and, most importantly—ACT!

 The MAJORITY in the U.S. are NOT extremists, right or left.  That IS a winning formula for 20/20—a year with symbolic significance.  Do we see clearly?

 For MORE common sense, common ground SOLUTIONS, see our books, Dumb as a Donkey, Fat as an Elephant, Wit and Wisdom and AmericanAnswers.org!

[daydreams-and-death]

One day I’m just going to lose it, finally break down and scream at people; “How could I ever be ok? Look at my life. Look at my choices, my mistakes, all the tragedy. Tell me how anyone could ever be ok living my life. Waking up in my reality every day. How would you feel? How would anyone be ok with this life?”

No one will ever get it. No one even seems to care sometimes. I listen to my friends problems and sometimes the dirty selfish part of me is enraged- furious at how privledged their problems are. How lucky they are to have the problems they do. It sickens me. In so many ways- the guilt, the shame, the jealousy, the fury, the pain... it’s so intense, in its flashes, like silent lightning it illuminates my self in white truth. That sterile hospital white washed walls, lit with the sickly hydrogen lightbulbs. That white hides nothing, it reveals everything in sharp clarity, even in life and death moments it offers no feeling nor judgement in its brught, white light. And after that glimose of light, a frozen millisecond of time cracking through my chest; after the lightning get comes the thunder. Thor does not disappoint, especially in my head. The rush of blood roars in my ears, quietly, as if the sound is millennia away. It’s the heat of anger, running through my veins in the form of adrenaline and making my heart thud loudly. I have nothing, am nothing, will die nothing. I am so utterly worthless, so useless and broken, I have failed in every way, in every avenue given to me or taken. I dropped out of college and university. I worked at Mcdonalds for 10 years out of fear of change and so many other factors of my fucked up mind. I finally got out and got an office job and my mental health has detoriated so much since working at the new job, I’m quitting before I kill myself from the stress. I have no savings. Zero. I have thousands and thousands in debt from credit cards and student loans. The only jobs I can get, and that I can mentally handle, are exploitive customer service jobs in fast food type settings, which unfortunately pays the absolute lowest wages, which totalled cannot sustain one person on, let alone fucking three people. I am working and paying and living for 3 people. Do you know what that feels like? The weight of the respsobsibilitt? The sheer pressure? Every move, every deacon, every fuck up and dollar wasted- it all goes back to them. And I am an utter motherfucking train wreck. The absolute worst person in the world to give this kind of job too. I am so fucked uo, I can barely, and I mean skin m-of-my-teeth, barely take care of myself. I have stopped functioning as a normal human being- I crawl by, I cut every corner, take every lazy disgusting route. I have so many health issues I’ve lost track. They’re all small, inconvenices, but all together they make me feel like shit, look like shit and I am in chronic pain now. It’s so fucked up. Every crack adds up until the glass shatters. And I’m so fucking cracked. I am so weak. I was born defected. I was cursed from day one, born wrong, born broken.

My moms funding from the government was cut off by $700. That’s our food, my mom’s and my brother’s clothing, shoes, everything they needed came from that fund. Gone. Just like that. The world heaves, the ground sways, everything is pulled from beneath me. Every dream and every plan. Every hope. Crumbles under my feet. And of course, of fucking course, this is days after I’ve decided to finally quit my job, the best paying job I’ve ever had, but also the most stressful and literally giving me massive depressive attacks from the stress and anxiety it causes me daily. Of course. That’s my life. My younger brother is severely autistic, can’t talk, can’t use the tiolet, completely dependent. My mom couldn’t work as she had to drop everything and take care of him 24/7 continuously since he was born. She couldn’t work. My dad died when I was 21. Leaving my mom who can’t work, cause she looks after my brother, who can’t work cause he’s autistic. Leaving just little old me. To financially support 3 people in one income. Without a proper education. Or any real experience or talent or fucking anything because I’m so fucking worthless. I can’t even take care of my family. The one reason I’ve been out here, that I’m still alive and suffering for it. I must be here to protect them, to take care of them, but I can’t. I’m failing every second of every day. I am so heartless. I am so selfish. I am so sick. All I want is freedom to live my own life, make my own deductions and mistakes, instead of being stuck here, trapped, chained down, to this town and this family. I know it sounds awful. It is. I am awful. I am just so tired. It hurts so much it’s stopped hurting at all. An alarming coping mechanism but, maybe shit is really hitting the fan this time. It doesn’t matter. I’ll be here, eternally acheing, tormented by guilt and envy and every emotion every felt, overflowing from me, and through me, until it’s too muchv and consumes everything I am.

[jonnyopinion]

A Case of the Mondays

My alarm went off at 4:30 this morning. It was Monday (still is, in fact). The sky was grey, though this being July, it was at least light. I lay there for a time, coming back to awareness of my body, of who and where I was - and, to a lesser degree, why.  This is normal: too normal for further remark. Millions and millions of humans wake up every Monday morning to their preset of alarms, compelled by economic necessity to wake earlier than we would probably choose to otherwise.

In his famous essay from 1967, Time, Work-Discipline and Industrial Capitalism [pdf] E. P. Thompson writes:

"Those who are employed experience a distinction between their employer's time and their 'own' time.  And the employer must use the time of his labour and see it is not wasted: not the task but the value of time when reduced to money is dominant.  Time is now currency: it is not passed but spent."

Time is money, as we know.  Marx's insight that wage-labour is fundamentally alienating is as true now for anyone on a 40-hour-a-week minimum-wage job as it was for the industrial workers of the mid-19th century he inspired - despite the many improvements in working conditions, rights, and employment laws that have been won in the intervening years by worker and labour organisations, even long after the words "communist" and "socialist" has slipped into use as little more than pejoratives.  No matter how pleasant and "flexible" your working conditions may be, how sympathetic your boss may have become to your needs and rights, the time you spend working at your "job" is no more your own than it was before such things as the minimum wage, maternity leave, occupational health assessments or paid holidays.  Your value is measured in the time spent on the work assigned to you.  The harder you work - the more hours you "put in" - the greater your reward.  Stress, depression, the psychologically unhealthy glorification of egoistic, aggressive and inhumane competitiveness, the inevitable negative side effects of involuntary work can all be brushed away as necessary evils when considered in the context of financial gain. Alarm clocks have been with us for centuries.  The 'snooze' function is a much more recent development.  That's something worth mentioning.

With the emergence of the "gig economy", far less has actually changed than its promoters would have us believe.  The phenomenon is an absolute triumph for spectacular capitalism: it creates the illusion of self-employment, of freedom, of maximum flexibility, while in reality condemning the economically disposable masses to longer hours, lower pay, and fewer of the rights most non-gig economy employees can take for granted; not to mention the higher-risk, lonelier and less reliable conditions that result from your income being more or less contingent on how many people within a 5-mile radius fancy a pizza.  Uber, Deliveroo, and their many, many competitors all get away with this by having their workers as "independent contractors", rather than true employees: paid volunteers, in effect.  Or perhaps not, as volunteers don't usually volunteer 70 hours a week of their time to do something they don't actually enjoy.

Fear this man.

This isn't a call to reform, regulate or ban the likes of Uber.  Such services succeed because their is demand for them, because they provide something more efficiently than their pre-gig economy equivalents, and because they work.  The market will allow for nothing else but this; this "efficiency".  This much I understand, and I understand enough not to get into the mud-slinging pointlessness of "capitalism boo" vs. "socialism yay" arguments, but the intricacies of the economics, I'm afraid, are lost on me.  Fortunately, this is all a digression, and I'm more interested here in the illusion than the reality.  It is the illusion, I think, that is far more dangerous than any of the (perfectly legitimate) concerns about working conditions, job security, or rights.

The illusion is this.  That work, however efficient, however rewarding (financially or otherwise) is intrinsically valuable, and something to aspire to.  That to want not to work, even if it makes your life materially poorer - in fact, knowing that this will be the result, is perverse.  That the unemployed are lazy by definition; a social scourge, rather than the source of some of its greatest role models.  The cockney rhyming slang for "dole" was "rock and roll".  That's something worth mentioning, too. (adsbygoogle = window.adsbygoogle || []).push({}); In the classic anti-work comedy Office Space, cubicle-bound everyman protagonist Peter Gibbons finds himself stuck in a paradoxical kind of post-hypnotic clarity when his hypnotherapist suddenly collapses and dies before being able to complete the session.  For almost the entire film thereafter, he lives with the singularity of purpose that comes with total indifference to the consequences of his actions, but motivated by the contempt he feels for his employers, and had been suppressed by the requirements of professionalism and adult respectability.  Just before going under hypnosis, Peter explains: 

"So I was sitting in my cubicle today and I realized that ever since I started working, every single day of my life has been worse than the day before it. So it means that every single day you see me, that's on the worst day of my life".

And implores the therapist:

"Is there any way that you can just, sort of, just zonk me out, so that I don't know that I'm at work?  Could I come home, and think that I'd been fishing all day, or...something?"

More than the desire for revenge, for revolution, against our "bosses", I think, we 21st century proles (and that's all we are, don't let the narrative of being "middle class" fool you, there is no such thing) is driven by the desire for an inner kind of revolution.  A spiritual revolution, if you must.  (Capitalists gonna capitalise).  It is the desire to be free not only from meaningless paid employment but from the experience of one-dimensional, linear, economic time.  Raoul Vaneigem's "one huge instant...without the experience of 'time passing'."

It's been a while since I worked on a Monday.  I've managed to adjust my life(style) such that I now only need to work 15-20 hours a week, on average, to make ends meet.  (The secret is just in having fewer ends).  This still isn't good enough.  Today I went into the office for 9am.  9am on a Monday morning, just like millions and millions of others.  I didn't want to be there, but I was, because of circumstance.  A widely-reported recent study claimed that for anyone to start work before 10am is akin to the "torture" of sleep-deprivation.  Alarm clocks are instruments of torture.  We keep them next to our beds.  When they don't go off and we sleep in as nature intended, there'll be someone out there in the waking world waiting for our apology.  These people are not your friends.

There are several threads in this post I could draw together into a satisfactory conclusion, but I'm not going to do that.  I left the office at lunchtime today, because I can.  Now I'm sitting in a cafe, finishing off this paragraph, and when I've done that, I'm going home for a nap.  I'm not ashamed of this, in fact I'm proud of it, though society still has a long way to go before we make it the Utopia we idlers dream of; but for now it's enough to live in a world of semi-abundance where such a thing is even possible.  Workers of the world, sleep!

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