#me? oversharing? preposterous

[numetaljackdog]

i'm like a little kid in many regards of immaturity but one of them is that bc i honestly don't drink caffeine super often, it like super affects me when i do. very much possess the energy of the kid on the playground who had too much sugar and is running around yelling and being annoying

[distraughtmary]

To Uncreate You. Chapter 12

Alla’s words were still ringing in Dmitry’s head as he was making his way to the library. His memories were rewritten? It was a ridiculous notion. He remembered everything that had happened before Mark and everything that had happened after his appearance. There were no gaps in his memories, no sense of missing out, no inconsistencies.

And he certainly did not wish for his memories to be altered during the instance of the magic. Alla maintained that his memories could have been tampered with in the same way the memories of others had been, though Dmitry retorted with the fact that he was still aware of Mark’s true nature. They continued arguing until Alla relented, but Dmitry was convinced that she still believed in her preposterous theory. Some part of Dmitry reluctantly accepted that Alla might have a point, being a specialist in rewriting things. No one had given Dmitry a proper answer, and Alla at least tried, although Dmitry still could not fathom why his memories even mattered. So what if they had been rewritten? The outcome was the same – being stuck in some crazy sex school. Oh, how he would like to rewrite that. Or the fact that Egor had slept with the nurse. Dmitry had shared his ‘affection’ for the guy with Alla, but she only scoffed at his silly crush.

‘I have eyes, and something was definitely brewing between you two. But he doesn’t seem like a good match for you. You’re too innocent, Dimochka, and he’ll break your heart with no remorse,’ she said after having smoked the third cigarette of the conversation.

‘Am I really innocent?’ Dmitry asked with a tangible affront in his voice. ‘I might be a virgin, but I’ve seen everything there is to see, and my online friends were very good at oversharing. I swear – when the real thing happens, I’m very likely to be disappointed.’

‘I don’t virgin-shame, darling,’ Alla was no less offended by the implication. ‘Do you know how many men came to me just to lose their virginity due to some peer pressure? And then they put pressure on me because I was their first and I had to ensure that they would leave in a state of bliss and self-fulfilment. A miserable experience. I know I should be jagged after everything I’ve been through, but no, I still believe in saving yourself for the right. Not in the religious sense, ew. But it should be with the right person.’

Dmitry flushed at the mention of Alla’s previous occupation, although he saw no shame in it. There were things Alla was not telling about herself, and it was fine as they were not that close yet. But Alla did hint at the fact that she had worked pre-transition with gay gays as her clients. She felt as if she had been deceiving them and herself, but they had been after her body, and she had considered it a separate entity.

‘I don’t know if that came with the trade or my dysphoria,’ Alla admitted. ‘I just stopped associating myself with my body. It took years for me to unlearn it and love myself completely.’

‘Listening to your makes me feel like my image problems are insignificant, and maybe they are. Dissociating from myself sounds… agonizing,’ Dmitry said quietly and cautiously, trying not to aggravate Alla.

Alla regarded him with amusement on her fresh face, a lollipop in her mouth.

‘It’s not oppression Olympics, Dimka. I’m well aware of the standards in the gay community, and I’m glad they have nothing to do with me anymore. I just have to worry about good old misogyny now.’

‘Out of the frying pan into the fire,’ Dmitry mumbled to himself, but Alla managed to catch it.

‘Well said. Cheers!’ she poured herself a shot of vodka, put the lollipop into the glass to stir the drink, and clanked it with Dmitry’s glass of juice. He felt like a child.

‘This is what I call innocent, Dima,’ Alla pointed her manicured finger at his choice of a drink. ‘And this is a good kind of innocent. Enjoy it while it lasts. Which is probably until Katya’s next party, where she will force you to drink beer or something.’

‘Why is he not good for me?’ Dmitry did not like the way the conversation had veered into and tried to right the course.

‘Aside from the fact that he can’t keep it in his pants? I don’t know. You tell me. Tell me what puts you off in him.’

Dmitry thought about it carefully. Egor might be hot, but the red flags were all over the place, putting a billow over his nice appearance.

‘Well, he was weird about me being gay,’ Dmitry counted with his fingers. ‘He was willing to accept a blowjob from a stranger. And he said something about pronouns in a pretty ugly tone.’

‘Wow, he knows about pronouns?’ she said teasingly, her eyes having a strange gleam about them. 'Very progressive.'

'Not really,' Dmitry shugs. 'Bigots know about them too and won't shut up.'

Alla flung herself from the table on which she had been half-lying and approached Dmitry while looking straight into his eyes.

'So, you're scared that he's a bigot?' she asked seriously, and Dmitry nodded.

'In that case, fuck him, and I'll ask Katya not to invite him to our parties anymore.'

'But...,' Dmitry said faintly, avoiding looking at Alla directly. His hesitation was noted.

'But what, honey?' Alla's tone was not unkind.

'What if he's just awkward about all of it? Like Valera? I don't want to give him the benefit of the doubt, but... I thought there was... some chemistry,' Dmitry fought the urge to gnaw on his fingers. 'I don't know how to explain it, but I felt something that makes me believe he's not that bad.'

Alla gave him a meaningful look and another puff to her cigarette. Dmitry was aware that he might be betraying some part of his community because of a pair of blue eyes, and he did not want Alla to judge him. Surprisingly, Alla smiled after accepting another dose of nicotine into her body.

‘Then talk to him. Tell him what’s bothering you. Tell him how you feel about him. Yes, it will hurt a lot if your worst fears are confirmed and if your feelings aren’t reciprocated. But at least you’ll know what he’s about and move on. I already have someone in mind for you.’

Although Alla’s words were far from reassuring and only promised more pain, Dmitry managed a grin.

‘And who could that be?’ he asked skittishly.

‘That’s a secret for now. Get back to me after you sort that thing out.’

‘If it’s some guy who specializes in eating virgins, I’ll pass,’ Dmitry said half-seriously.

‘No. But I’ll say no more. I respect my friends’ privacy, and the same goes for you,’ Alla quenched the cigarette before it could spell another unsightly truth. ‘Let me teleport you out of here.’

Alla had been mindful of Dmitry’s busy plans, and he ended up in the hallway which would lead him to the library and other facilities. Both the memory issue and Egor were heavy on his mind, and books could be to be the much needed distraction. Once he entered a room that looked bookish enough, he spotted a young woman with horn-rimmed glasses and a headscarf covering most of her hair. There was some sorrow in her eyes, as if she had been grieving, and Dmitry did not want to impose on her. But the woman spotted him as well, and her emotions had been replaced with business.

‘A new student, I presume?’ her voice was husky and matter-of-fact.

‘Yes. Dmitry Angarskiy.’

‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said with a hint of displeasure. ‘But I’m a mere librarian, so what you do and who you are is none of my business as long as you remain quiet within these walls.’

Dmitry could sense that there was something more to the librarian’s demeanour, but his curiosity about his magic outweighed his curiosity about the woman, and it was very likely that she had heard of him being gay, which could explain her passive aggressiveness. Still, he required her assistance to find the right books, so he boldly marched to the counter.

‘Could you help me find…,’ Dmitry managed to say before being cut off.

‘We have the technology here,’ the librarian extended her arm towards a surprisingly modern-looking laptop with a rather big screen and a highlighted keyboard. ‘Open the search app – it will help you find everything you need.’

Dmitry was used to the approach from the university library, but he had expected the magic school to be more… conservative and Luddite, so the librarian’s attitude was mildly surprising. He looked at the laptop suspiciously, as if it was a magical illusion that would disperse upon his touch.

‘Thank you, but I’d like to hear your reco-….’

‘The computer,’ the librarian insisted again. ‘There’s a special tab for beginners. Use it.’

Dmitry sighed. If he had been in her position, he would have probably behaved the same, although as a would-be teacher, he would have been more diplomatic, and the librarian was far from it, her bespectacled gaze mentally pulverizing him.

‘Fine. However, I’m not familiar with the proper termi-….’

‘The tab. It has everything,’ the librarian almost barked at Dmitry.

‘Great service,’ Dmitry uttered through his teeth and separated his deadened legs from each other to make a move towards the laptop when the librarian gave him a look full of scorn and hissed:

‘Can’t take a hint, you HIV-ridden fa-?’

‘Excuse me?’ Dmitry’s voice was more even than ever, although no one had dared to call him that straight to his face. Not that he was unprepared to defend himself.

‘Eduard was like a father to me. His son deserted him, and he took care of me instead. He allowed me to work here! To think that the likes of you could hurt him! It makes me physically sick! Tatyana Vladimorovna has no fucking shame letting you stay here and shielding you from the police!’ the librarian’s voice above all the acceptable levels of volume in her establishment. ‘Just wait until I get a day off and go to them directly.’

She smiled predatorily at Dmitry, and he did shiver, which was more due to the person who had entered the library during the librarian’s rant than her empty threats.

‘Anna Petrovna, you are so loud I could hear you in my office,’ the aforementioned Tatyana said, her smile an apex predator compared to the librarian’s.

‘Tatyana Vladimirovna, I- I’m so sorry,’ Anna Petrovna’s voice immediately rose several pitches higher.

The principal seemed unimpressed by her apology and approached Dmitry, her arms spread as if to hug him. Dmitry diffidently accepted her gaudy display of affection.

‘You see, Anna Petrovna, Dmitry is a special student of ours,’ she said while patting Dmitry’s head, his expression a battle with queasiness. ‘He is different from us in many ways, but different does not mean bad. We should celebrate it.’

Suddenly, Tatyana Vladimirovna dropped her voice while still playing a motherly role to Dmitry.

‘In other words, Anya, if you tattle anything to anyone, I will fire and send you to the frontlines. And since it is your word against mine, no one will believe you, and your pathetic life will be rendered entirely meaningless. Is it worth it?’

Anna Petrovna’s face went pale, and there was a hint of sheer fear and disbelief. She nervously adjusted her glasses and faced the principal, as if she still had some kind of leverage against her.

‘You… you wouldn’t. Eduard….’

‘Cannot help you anymore,’ the principal finished icily.

‘He’s your husband! How could you? Over this… this sodomite!’ the librarian’s expression was frantic, and her hands seemed ready to grab Dmitry and strangle him.

‘Anya,’ the principal said with a conspicuous warning in her voice.

The librarian kept glaring at Dmitry, yet ultimately said and did nothing. She returned to the other side of the counter and pretended to work by writing something into a bulky copybook. Meanwhile, the principal gave Dmitry’s shoulder a pat, beamed at him for more assurance, and scanned the counter.

‘You did not even give the poor boy his library card. How was he supposed to do anything without it?’ she reprimanded the bespectacled woman.

The librarian clicked her tongue in what could be interpreted as annoyance and handed Dmitry, who had drawn closer, his card. He looked at it in distrust as he did not remember taking any photos of himself recently. Shockingly, the picture looked nice enough for something meant for a document: it was in colour, slightly airbrushed to hide the blemishes (or it could be make-up, Dmitry could not tell), and his expression was peaceful, adding some life to the photo. There was a stark contrast between it and his ID photo, which had been taken for his 20th birthday, when a citizen was supposed to update his ID. In that one Dmitry looked more awkward, more flawed, more… adulterated. The less he had to show his ID, the better.

‘I don’t remember posing for this photo,’ Dmitry thought aloud.

‘Our trade secret, darling,’ the principal said merrily, and her merriment was submerged in strictness.

Dmitry thanked her and sat at the desk, his fingers on the keyboard and the touchpad. The principal watched him work for some time, reminded him of the evening rendezvous, and left the library. Anna Petrovna was in her own world where Eduard retained his ability to speak and was able to tell her what a good girl she was after having thoroughly explored her body.

***

The ‘technology’ yielded Dmitry only three books, but he did not complain as they seemed fundamental and voluminous. The books were ‘The Concise Introduction to Magic’, where the word concise was false advertisement, ‘The Art of Conjuration and Creation’, which could be useful, though Dmitry was not completely sure about the difference between the two, and ‘Movement Magic for Dummies’, which appeared promising despite the disparaging title. Under more grounded circumstances Dmitry would have scoffed at the titles and the popular science genre, but he was a zilch in magic unless he needed to kill someone, and beggars could not be choosers. After having the books checked out at the counter (the librarian’s hostility had permanently polluted the air), DmFitry went to grab a bite at the canteen. Only Egor was predictably present from the clique, and while it would be a good opportunity to have a heart-to-heart, Dmitry was so hungry that even the sharpness of Egor’s face was not distracting for once. He quickly consumed the soup, the main dish consisting of mashed potatoes and a meagre stripe of goulash, and gulped down the sugarless tea. He might have had some juice and chocolate at Alla’s, but they were nothing to Dmitry’s black hole of the stomach. Dmitry could not help noticing that Egor was stealing glances at him, which gave him a twisted semblance of hope that things could be fine between them. Even if Egor did not reciprocate his feelings, they would remain friends, probably. It would be impossible to kill the attraction, but Egor was not the first and would not be the last guy Dmitry had had to neuter his feelings for. A friend would be nice. Andrey’s reappearance had brought more questions than answers, and what Dmitry had said about starting from scratch was a nothing but a delay tactic before he could formulate a solid plan regarding him. The weekend was guaranteed to be busy.

Feeling full and energized, Dmitry went to search for Valera’s room, which was a challenge to find as it happened to be on a different floor. There were no numbers on the doors, but some incorporeal tug was leading Dmitry to the right room. Indeed, once Dmitry stopped, the nearest door opened, revealing Valera in nothing but a towel over his hips. Dmitry made a show of checking him out as that was definitely what he had wanted and walked past him into the room. Valera seemed outraged.

‘Hey, you can’t just ogle me and say nothing!’

‘Nice abs,’ Dmitry said half-heartedly while landing on an odd chair.

‘Ever a straight guy would say that,’ Valera sounded disappointed.

‘Do you want to me to a sing a serenade to your body or something? Do you want me to comment on every single feature?’ Dmitry asked with a snark.

‘A serenade would be nice,’ Valera scratched his toned stomach, and Dmitry cringed.

‘I mean, you have a nice body. Katya is lucky if she’s into that, and I can’t imagine being into anything else with you.’

‘Watch it, blue boy,’ Valera made a threatening gesture and then laughed. ‘You’re right, though. Let me put something on not to distract you during the learning process.’

Dmitry only groaned in return. Valera rummaged his wardrobe and scared up a white T-shirt that fit him tightly, barely obscuring the problematic areas.

‘You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you? But you know, I appreciate the show. Just need some brain tissue to complement the model,’ Dmitry nodded at Valera and overtly licked his lips.

‘You’re no fun,’ Valera grumbled and changed into a loose sweater more appropriate for a private lesson. Dmitry blinked at him meaningfully.

‘Okay, I’m going to create some… erm… cups. Yeah. So watch me, take notes, whatever,’ it was apparent that teaching was not Valera’s forte.

‘Okay,’ Dmitry said emotionlessly and reached for his phone, which was not in its rightful place. He had forgotten it in his room again. No notes it was.

Valera assumed a straight standing pose and started making sporadic motions with his hands. Nothing was happening, and Dmitry’s already low excitement went extinct.

‘Is it necessary to do this?’ Dmitry asked in a bored voice.

‘Shh,’ Valera snarled at him without stopping the motions. ‘Just wait and see.’

After a while the atmosphere in the room became tense, and Dmitry could no longer deny that something was at work. Glowing white forms start manifesting on Valera’s desk, and it took him more grunts and hand flailing for the will o' the wisps to become tea cups at last. Dmitry touched one curiously, and it seemed real enough. Valera looked exhausted, sweat making his forehead shine and his fair hair stick together, but his expression was all kinds of smug.

‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked Dmitry defiantly.

‘That’s impressive,’ Dmitry admitted. ‘But I have some questions.’

‘Fire away,’ Valera said and took the sweater off. Dmitry snorted.

‘What? It’s actually justified now,’ Valera winked and started rubbing his body with the towel.

‘What do you think about when you perform this… magic?’ Dmitry asked while respectfully facing away from Valera.

‘Oh, that’s kinda tricky. You have to imagine the objects like in a vacuum, and they can’t be anything you know from somewhere else. Otherwise you might be tempted to simply teleport them from there instead of creating them. Katya has a collection of cups, but they are black. I made them white on purpose because teleportation requires accuracy. Creating things requires imagination. Something like that.’

‘Hmm, that actually makes sense,’ Dmitry mused. ‘Maybe if that Eduard guy had bothered explaining the process to me, he would still be able to talk.’

‘Eduard is a dick. And he was my mentor, too,’ Valera made a spitting sound. ‘I always had to do everything myself anyway. Glad that you could rid us of him.’

‘Not everyone shares your sentiment,’ Dmitry said bitterly, still avoiding looking at Valera. ‘The librarian was mad at me, said he was like a father to her.’

‘That rat-looking girl? She can get mad? Colour me surprised,’ there was some incredulity in Valera’s voice. ‘What did she say to you?’

‘Nothing I want to repeat,’ Dmitry said determinedly, finishing the conversation, or so it seemed.

Dmitry felt someone touch his shoulder and squirmed, but it was just Valera in a tank top.

‘Hey, you can look now,’ Valera said gently, too gently for someone who was straight and with a girlfriend.

‘You’re being kinda gay,’ Dmitry pouted and tried to push Valera’s hand away, but the grip only tightened.

‘Nah. I know who I like. No offense – if I were gay, I’d definitely hit that freckled ass,’ Valera smirked and sat on another chair, the absence of his touch tangible.

‘Who said that it’s my ass that would get hit? Worry about your little one,’ Dmitry turned to Valera’s side, his face slightly flushed and amused.

‘Whoa, dude, easy,’ Valera made a surrendering gesture with his hands. ‘You’re making being gay less enticing.’

‘You’ve been dangling your delicacies in front of me all this time, and now you’re backing off? Pussy,’ Dmitry flashed his tongue at Valera.

‘I hate how you completely turned the tables on me, but hey, I respect that. Shows that there’s more to you than at first glance,’ Valera said appreciatively.

‘So, why were you doing that? Do you like showing off?’

‘Actually, no,’ Valera admitted with visible reluctance. ‘I mean, Katya likes me just fine, but sometimes I feel… how do you say that… inadequate. Doesn’t help that there are no treadmills and stuff here to keep me in shape. And since you can appreciate the male form and you aren’t a girl Katya will kill later, I thought… why not?’

‘Another victim of the male superman body standard, poor thing,’ Dmitry said with artificial pity in his voice.

‘Well, what do you really think?’ Valera asked almost nervously.

‘Well, you gave me a boner, and I had to quickly hide it, so it counts for something, I guess,’ Dmitry deadpanned.

‘Can you be serious for a moment? I want an honest opinion!’ Valera shook his fist at Dmitry.

‘What’s more honest than your body’s reaction?’ Dmitry shrugged his shoulders. ‘But fine, your body’s hot. I almost pegged you as a gym rat, though you aren’t that… excessive. Nice pecs, too, and the nipples look delectable enough. Would smash, as you straight guys say.’

There was something resembling blush covering Valera’s face, and Dmitry looked proud of himself. He had never praised a guy’s physique, fearing that he would get scrutinized in return, but Valera had offered him a perfect opportunity to do it with no strings attached and no feelings hurt.

‘And you claim you have no boyfriend?’ Valera asked after recovering from the embarrassment. ‘I find it a bit hard to believe.’

‘Being boyfriends requires more than being horny for each other’s bodies, don’t you think? You have hook-ups for that. Not that I’d know anything about them.’

‘You know, one of these days you gotta tell me how this whole thing works for gay guys. Like I was never really repulsed by what you do, contrary to what Katya thinks, but I never really got it either, so like… be my guide,’ Valera said pensively.

‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, but you have Google for that. Or Yandex, if they haven’t banned all gay-related stuff already,’ Dmitry said disdainfully.

‘Fuck them. I have a real person, and I want to hear how bad or how good it is directly from you. Is that okay?’ Valera’s eyes were full of determination.

‘Fine, fine. Maybe next time. Maybe… I’ll be more experienced by then,’ Dmitry modestly brushed his cheek.

‘Oh, you have someone after all?’ Valera jeered. ‘All my striptease was for nothing.’

‘Shut up,’ Dmitry flicked him a bird. ‘It’s just… I might patch things up with someone, and… hell, who knows, it’s probably nothing.’

‘And could that someone be Egor?’ Valera’s voice was poisoned honey.

Dmitry said nothing in return, which spoke volumes.

‘He’s acting kinda weird, you know. Like Zhenya, seriously? No offense to her, she’s a bombshell. But the men here turn to her in despair. She’s their last resort. He was here for what, like one day? Something’s not adding up.’

‘I’ll talk him. I need some clarity, too,’ Dmitry said distantly.

‘Good luck,’ Valera gave him a thumbs up. ‘So, any more questions… erm… about my magic?’

‘You know, I have more, now that your body is all covered up,’ Dmitry quipped. ‘What else can you create?’

‘Well, I can create all sorts of utensils, some tableware like plates, cups, tea pots… Those knitting and sewing things for Katya… And empty boxes. The simpler and the smaller an object is, the more successful the process is. To create something like a gadget I’d have to know what’s inside, and while I did try tinkering with alarm clocks and stuff, I’m still far from pulling it off. Sometimes I feel like giving up, but Katya keeps pushing me to improve, so I do my best… and my best so far is a round table. Come to one of Katya’s parties someday, and I’ll show you.’

‘You aren’t that bad of a tutor, Valera,’ Dmitry said after pondering over his explanation. ‘I think I have the gist of it.’

‘Um, thanks, glad to be of help,’ Valera fidgeted nervously on the chair. ‘Sorry, I’m not used to… you know… being praised and stuff. Except for Katya, but Katya is Katya, she always finds something good in me.’

‘You should cherish her,’ Dmitry said. ‘She sounds like a great girlfriend.’

‘Yeah,’ Valera lowered his head. ‘I don’t feel worthy of her, though. She talks about her previous boyfriend occasionally, and he seemed like a great guy. And now she’s stuck with me.’

Dmitry rose from the chair and stood next to Valera, placing a hand on his shoulder and returning the favour.

‘You’re a better person than I thought, Valera, and I’ve known you for a very short time. Tell her about this lesson, that you helped me and that you made a serious attempt to connect with me. You can omit the part about showing off your body, though. Let her see you in a different light.’

‘Huh, thanks. Di- Dmitry, right? I realize I don’t really call you by your name,’ Valera said meekly.

‘I think you’ve earned the right to call me Dima, but don’t abuse it,’ Dmitry warned him with a finger.

‘Alright, ginger boy,’ Valera giggled. ‘Dima.’

He said Dmitry’s name affectionately, making him groan again. For some reason, Dmitry did not mind the fantasy. God knew when a guy would call him like that, so embracing it for the time being would not hurt.

‘Valya,’ Dmitry murmured.

‘Fuck you, I’m not a girl. Or you wouldn’t like me otherwise,’ Valera corrected his sexism so hilariously that Dmitry accidentally burped, courtesy of the lunch he had devoured. Valera immediately went hysterical, slapping Dmitry’s back in the process.

‘Okay, I don’t want to ruin our moment, but could you teach me how to teleport things? I think it might useful to start with that before trying creation,’ Dmitry said pleadingly.

‘No problem,’ Valera agreed after recuperating from the fit. ‘What do you want to teleport?’

‘My phone, for starters? Or do I need to disassemble it before even trying? You mentioned something about knowing all the insides and outs.’

‘Oh, that’s only for creation. For teleportation you need to know the exact location of your phone and imagine it in your head. Think you can manage that?’

‘Um… I don’t think so. I need to check its location first. Will you wait for me?’

‘Sure. Just don’t rush and try to memorize as many details as possible. I’ll be here.’

Dmitry smiled at Valera and left his room. While moving down the stairs, he stumbled upon Andrey, who was heading in the opposite direction.

‘Dima? What are you doing here?’ Andrey asked Dmitry with concern.

‘Learning how to do magic?’ Dmitry answered sassily. ‘I thought that’s what schools are for, not for forced sex or covert prostitution.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Andrey’s expression of shock was almost believable, if not for the fact that he was in the staff and had to be aware of the underhanded.

‘Forget it,’ Dmitry accelerated his already fast pace, but Andrey blocked him with his body.

‘You can tell me anything, Dima, anything. I want you to feel comfortable here. That’s why I’m here,’ he whispered.

‘Well, that’s the problem, isn’t it?’ Dmitry ejected bitterly. ‘I don’t know why you’re here. I don’t even know if you’re MY Andrey. If I can create clones out of nowhere, who is to say no one else can?’

‘Dima…,’ Andrey tried to touch Dmitry, but he recoiled.

‘Just leave me be. We’ll talk on Monday, but only if you’re ready to be completely frank with me.’

Andrey cleared the way, and his hurt expression haunted Dmitry for the rest of the way.

***

Dmitry managed to successfully teleport his phone at the fifth try, and Valera procured a bottle of vodka from the entrails of his bottomless wardrobe to celebrate the occasion. Dmitry gave it a sip and almost spat it back, but as it would be impolite towards Valera who had done a lot for him in one day, he pretended to enjoy the beverage and described it as ‘very singular’. Dmitry also slipped to Valera that he would be meeting the principal, and the guy got the hint, promising to commemorate Dmitry’s success at the next party with the whole crew. Dmitry struggled not to ask who exactly was in the crew as three people were not a party made, and other students must have attended them, some of who could be among the slur speakers, but he had learned more than enough seedy facts in a day.

Dmitry intended to confront the principal as soon as possible. He rebuked himself for having let it all out on Andrey, who might have been genuinely oblivious, although he suspected that in such case Andrey would have been kept in the dark deliberately. Tatyana, for all her defence of him, held ulterior motives, and while she would never reveal them to Dmitry, he had his ways of reading people. He just needed to provoke her into divulging something related to the shitshow, and the rest would be confirmed naturally. The problem was that when he knocked at the door of her office, she did not look inclined to talk.

‘Sorry, Dmitry, but I have urgent matters to attend to. Our discussion will have to take place later,’ she said in her typical fashion.

‘Does it mean that I don’t get to go home?’ Dmitry almost shouted at her.

‘No, no, you will be… assisted by Andrey. Try to be awake as early as six o’clock in the morning, and he will handle the rest,’ the principal said with tiredness in her voice.

‘I see,’ Dmitry nodded dejectedly and then noticed that Andrey was in her office, sitting opposite her desk. He seemed to be in high spirits and not as miserable as Dmitry had left him, and Dmitry decided to leave it that way.

‘Good night, Tatyana Vladimirovna,’ Dmitry said with forced politeness and left.

***

Dmitry was sweaty from the teleportation practice and out of spare sweaters, so he found a bland T-shirt and put it on. His undershirt was filthy as well, and while he did not like being without it, especially in the middle of the winter, Dmitry had no choice but to trust the blanket to keep him warm at night. He also changed his socks and almost changed his underwear, but then he remembered that the cameras were on, and either his penis or cheeks would be on full display. Dmitry then tried to carry out the operation under the blanket, which was a partial success as he had to adjust the mess later, and something might have been caught on camera after all. While in his clean underwear, Dmitry started reflecting on the day’s events, and once his thoughts drifted towards Valera’s body, Dmitry cursed himself for having changed it because one of his body parts required his attention, which would result in dirty business. He had not masturbated ever since leaving his house, and his earlier boner had only aggravated the situation. But doing it under the blanket with the cameras on him seemed uncomfortable at best, so Dmitry decided to postpone the self-pleasure until the weekend when he could do it in the safety of his room. The room likely raided by his grandmother or brother at any moment, but it would be significantly better than the school. Dmitry cleared his thoughts of all men and focused on Alla, who had proven to be amazing and mysterious. He did not envy her life, but he envied her resilience. He felt like the worst was still in store for him, and he did not have it in him to fight the system.

Dmitry’s dreams were graphic in more ways than one. One moment he was in an orgy with a group of faceless men, all his orifices occupied, and the next moment he was being crucified, and his condemner looked like a mash-up of Tatyana and Alla. The words she spoke burned and frostbit him, pricked and gouged him: ‘Innocence lost and nothing gained. What you possessed cannot be retained. The body’s reaction is most honest. So ask it about the hornet’s nest.’

On the following morning Dmitry woke up in cold sweat, and he hesitated to check whether the wetness in his underwear was from a night ‘emission’ or from something much more inappropriate for his age.

[htub]

Vaguely coherent notes on Sasha Schäfer

aka my Smallville!self insert oc because I cannot be stopped

Theme song is Eat You Alive by The Oh Hellos because the vibes are immaculate

They're 24 and moved to Smallville kinda recently, it's their first home away from their family

They live in a refurbished camper at the outskirts of town, and get around by riding a somewhat squeaky old bike (can drive cars, but hate it).

The definition of chill. They're literally just vibing. Sasha honestly does not care about drama and wants to take life easy (although they can and will engage in harmless gossip for Enrichment)

But like, they didn't move to a place that's literally called Smallville to be stressed, goddammit. They may only be 24 but they have Seen Enough and they're retired now. This is their retirement camper. They made the dream of "fuck capitalism" come true and are just vibing now, they intend to stay right here and spend the rest of their life minding their own business, thank you very much.

They grew up in an abusive household, and spent several years working hard until they had enough saved up to afford that beat down camper. They got it fixed up and then proceeded to pack up their shit and get out of there to live their best life.

They're actually pretty gifted, graduated school top of their class and /could/ get into pretty much any field they wanted to. They do not want to. It's entirely a choice. Sasha may have the skills and qualifications but they very much lack the drive to actually do anything with them. Why waste your life working if you actually have the option to just not? They got all they need already, there's nothing left to strive for. Umlimited naps > money

Yes they're smart but they're also stupid it entirely depends on the context

Sole reason they're not dead is a mixture of weird luck and the fact that people generally like them. They have like, zero survival skills, they just sort of. Don't Die. And also do not give any fucks about near-death situations they're just so chill about it it's mildly concerning

Their camper has a bed, small couch, even smaller kitchen with old, run-down appliances and a whole lot of hidden drawers and storage spaces (but even so, there is only so much you can fit in a camper). They even have a little tv in there. It's very much a bare necessities kind of situation, but they don't need any more than what they have. They're the sort of person that will continue to repair things until they absolutely no longer work before finally caving and replacing them.

They got their bike from some neighbor who had a spare they didn't need. Yeah it's old and squeaky but it's got two wheels and gets the job done, so why waste money on a new one? Everything they have is like that. It still works, it's fine. If anyone offered them replacements they wouldn't even want them.

They cannot stand change even if it's positive. So what if they got one of those ovens that need to have a specific sequence of buttons pressed and then kicked at just the right angle to make them work? It's THEIR shitty kitchen appliance!

Very maximalistic despite their tiny living space and low needs. Their camper is filled with what one might assume is clutter, but really it's just lots of trinkets and pictures of or from important people and events. Nothing in there has high monetary value, but everything has a story and a reason for being there.

Sasha does not have a stable job and doesn't want one. They sometimes do little opportunity work like helping out with events or pet/house sitting, but mostly they just rely on the kindness of the community. Essentially they have good relationships with most people – small towns are like that – and get most of their needs met by an informal favor based system. For example, if something in their home breaks, they'll know a guy that will fix it for free. Many neighbors bring them their leftovers if they cooked too much too, so they spend less on groceries. Sasha's survival strategy is just befriending everyone (and it works).

Every older person adopts them and every younger person becomes their new little sibling. On sight. They have no say in this matter.

At some point they met some kid at the Talon struggling with homework and went over to give some pointers, since then it's just become A Thing. Whenever they're over there at after-school times it just turns into a study session. Sometimes they explain, sometimes they just straight up do the work themselves because they just felt like it. The kids tend to buy them drinks so they even get something out of it (but they'd do it either way they don't care). Most kids have their number too. (This, again, ties into the favor system. If Sasha ever needs help from one of the kids or their families, all they gotta do is ask).

Their favorite job is helping out at one of the farms. They don't even want to get paid they just want to get to spend the day with animals and maybe be invited for dinner. Definitely tend to be on the Kent farm just hanging out with the cows. They help with chores and don't get in the way so after a while their presence is just tolerated.

They don't always do work, sometimes they just kind of. Exist in that space. But everyone knows them so nobody really minds, especially since usually they're reading a book or giving one of the animals a thorough cuddle session, which isn't hurting anyone. But like, mild local cryptid vibes. Sometimes they're just There.

Once they become friends Lex keeps trying to buy them shit because his initial reaction to their living arrangement is definitely "damn bitch you live like this??" and also throwing money at people is the only form of affection he's ever learned but Sasha literally does not want it please stop

Probably saw Clark or any other Smallville teen use superpowers at some point and just went "well. that ain't none of my business" and walked away

Weird shit happens in this town at this point they just go straight to Acceptance

And yet, somehow, they keep getting roped in because once you befriend the Main Characters, you're fucked. The plot just keeps happening.

[catharticsacrifice]

🦋

[dirkgentle]

So... this Todd person. You seem to like him a lot. Why? What makes him so great? Because it seems like you’re over exaggerating him a little (a lot).

                  For a moment, the only sound is that of Dirk’s bewildered and absolutely mind-boggled disbelief. Then, in a sudden bout of insight into the utterly incomprehensible, he breaks his stream of quizzical exclamations with a laugh. 

                 “ Oh, right! I see! You’re one of those unfortunate ones who haven’t met Todd! Now, this does make perfect sense — I was getting seriously concerned for a second there! But of course. Yes. Joy-deprived waking-up-every-morning-to-a-world-that-doesn’t-include-Todd-Brotzman person speaking, that was to be expected. Not, of course, that you are in ANY way to be blamed; lots of people haven’t met Todd! Even I managed not to meet him for thirty-four entire regrettable years of my life! We’ve all been there. Such a dreadful state of mind, being unaware of Todd’s existence! You should seriously consider getting one for yourself, though NOT mine, I’m afraid he’s exclusively reserved for Dirk-ish purposes and not available for sharing, renting, kidnapping, stealing, being flirted with or ANY other objectives that make him even the slightest bit less of a my Todd. Look — why don’t you take a seat and let me elaborate? 

                 “ Todd … is … incredible. If you’ve ever felt that there’s a shortage of good things in the universe, that’s because they all went into the making of Todd. All of them. I’m sorry about that. I am, however, considerably less sorry about hogging them all to myself in a conveniently hug-shaped Todd bundle because, quite frankly, it’s an act of self-care and should not be unduly criticised. Speaking of hugs! Todd’s … well, I shouldn’t say bite-sized, but he’s certainly a snack, delectable in all the right spots and easy to carry around for some much-needed indulging. I love Todd! There’s just something about the shape of him that seems to fit immaculately against my chest, gosh, he’s the most flawless thing, though obviously he’s a person, but what a multi-functional one! He’s like … aha! A Swiss army knife of an assistant, except instead of a toothpick and a bottle opener and a little wonky bit that I could never quite work out he comes with an even WIDER array of neatly integrated qualities. For instance! His head is at once a wonderful chin rest and a place to dump ALL your forehead kisses and the most gorgeous sight since the invention of shooting stars and full of invaluable scientific knowledge and intelligence! He’s — oh, you poor person, you don’t even know! He’s sooo talented ?? To a preposterous degree, really. He knows all these outlandish minutiae about … electricity and – and car driving and growing the SWOONIEST bit of stubble that’s just right for tickly smooches and … and !! He’s a punk star, too! Oh, he’s so punk. I once saw him put on shoes without socks underneath. And he can sing! And play the guitar! He’s in a band, actually? Don’t know if you’ve heard of them, they’re only THE BEST AND MOST PROFUSELY AMAZING band ever. He’s their lead singer! To recap: not only does he sing, but he leads! He lead-sings a whole band! A whole one of a band! ” 

                 { Time to suck in a dizzying breath that swooshes all the way into the tips of Dirk’s toes, by the lung-bursting feel of it. } “ Todd looks … lovely on stage. And not on stage. Todd looks lovely on and in all stages, is what I’m saying. Even in a fresh-out-of-bed, no-toothbrush-inserted-yet, baggy-underwear-sporting stage. It’s uncanny, meaning I wholly lose my ability to can around him. He has these eyes, you know - and, oh, oh, he’s got lips, too, but not just any old pair thereof. They’re … mmm, I rather suspect he wouldn’t be TOO keen to hear me disclosing my assessment of them. We have this agreement, you see, wherein I shouldn’t necessarily overshare with strangers the sort of knee-weakening things — uh. Yes, I am getting a little side-tracked, aren’t I? Back to the Todd at hand! Well, sadly, not at hand. I ADORE holding his hand! His hands are a firm ingredient of happiness. — Hey! But I can hold these while I find myself tragically bereft of his actual presence! How very fortunate that I carry his pictures on me at all times, wouldn’t you say? Will you kindly look at them! That’s him, being an absolute  t r e a s u r e  at five twenty in the morning, can you believe it? And - oh! This shirt really accentuates what I haven’t, at this point in time, enlightened you about, but shall be thoroughly dedicating myself to in a sec’. Todd is fantastically strong! Do you see his arms? And his back? Oh, and those collar bones, and his neck, and his jawline and — ” 

                 A peculiar softening takes place across Dirk’s features, a ripple of undisguised fondness that spreads from the curl of his mouth to his besottedly slanting brows. “ He’s brave, too, you know. My boyfriend, ” he continues in a murmur, a tingle of relaxation easing into his voice now that the excited downpour has found such a willing ear to plunge into. “ Terrifically brave. Quite possibly - no, definitely definitely - the most courageous man I’ve ever known. Person I’ve known, really. Todd is … he’s so good. Few people are. I mean, not to misrepresent my perspective:  m o s t   people are good, notwithstanding popular belief. But Todd is … Todd is Todd. He’s unmatched. He’s … how do I put it? He’s always there. Al-bloody-ways. Without fail. He grabs whatever offends his sense of right and wrong by the scruff and shakes it until everything that keeps it from succumbing to common sense comes tumbling right out. The world’s better for him. I’m better for him. He was the first - the … the first person to look at me, really look at me and decide what he was seeing was worth staying for. He wouldn’t let me come to any harm, extraordinarily enough. Todd’s ( bear with me for another minute! ) … a protector of the universe, in his own manner, although heavens know it’s given him enough bullshit. But he … goes on. He’s a silver lining. He’s beautiful and loyal and unbeatable in all the right ways. Knows how to pack a punch, too. He gets me right back on my feet every time I stumble. He takes care of me. Spoils me. Makes me  s t u p i d l y  happy. And … well. ”  

                 With a sigh, the detective pockets the stack of printed-out Todds, thumb stroking affectionately across the patch of jacket that contains the bundle. “ He doesn’t know any of this. There’s never - NEVER! - been a single person more obstinately determined to slander himself than Todd Brotzman. But I … I love him. Very hair-raisingly, fanatically, irresponsibly, gorgeously much so. That he knows. And the rest … we’re going to get there, one day. ” 

“ … AND ALSO! Did I mention that he’s an out-of-this-world talented kisser ?! ”

[the1975hqs]

The Flask, a 17th-century former coaching inn at the top of Highgate Hill in north London, has seen its share of poetic outsider figures. Dick Turpin purportedly hid out in the stables. Byron, Shelley and Keats dropped by after visiting the opium-addicted local resident Coleridge. Now Matt Healy, leader of the pop interlopers the 1975 and cutting a Byronic dash himself with a wayward thatch of curls and rose-painted leather jacket and jeans, is in the Flask’s cellar-like back room.

He’s explaining how the Wilmslow band’s heavy presence at this year’s Brit awards — nominations for best British group and album of the year, plus a live appearance — is proof that rank outsiders can upset the mainstream.

“It’s an important moment for us because we’re a subversive act to have broken through on such a level that the Brits would want us to perform,” says Healy, 27, staring intensely over the weathered wooden table. “I’m not from the Brits’ world. I shouldn’t be there and everyone needs to know that. I couldn’t get arrested until I was 23.” He thinks about this for a moment. “Actually, I did get arrested when I was 23, but you know what I mean. I suffer massively from impostor syndrome.”

A cynic might point out that as far as impostors go Healy is an unusually well-connected one. His mother is Denise Welch, alumna ofCoronation Street and Loose Women, and his father is the actor Tim Healy of Auf Wiedersehen, Pet.

“I answered the phone to Harold Pinter once,” Matt Healy offers. “My parents did make following a creative pursuit seem like a viable life choice, but Coronation Street doesn’t buy you currency in rock’n’roll. It’s a curse, actually. When people say my parents bought my connections I think: ‘Yeah, the best person to get you a record deal is Curly Watts. Mention Gail Tilsley to Universal Records and you’ve got a No 1 album in America.’ ”

Forming the band during lunch breaks at Wilmslow High School in 2002 when they were only 13, Healy, guitarist Adam Hann, bassist Ross MacDonald and drummer George Daniel went under a variety of names before settling on the 1975. They vowed to reflect a young, internet-bred generation’s relationship with music where there are no guilty pleasures any more, just an endless world of choices from which to cherry-pick. This approach — of combining everything from shiny pop and gothic introspection to overblown stadium rock, and aligning it all to the terminal oversharer Healy’s emotionally wrought lyrics — led to such glorious moments as playing a concert in Stornoway, on the Isle of Lewis, to an audience of one.

Full interview under the cut

“We were a band with an identity crisis,” Healy says. “I was going around telling people we were the ambassadors of a generation who approach music in a non-linear way, who don’t think in terms of genre. The only problem was nobody was interested.”

Gradually, word got out. The 1975’s self-named debut from 2013 was a hit. When the preposterously titled I Like It When You Sleep, For You Are So Beautiful Yet So Unaware of It went to No 1 in 2016, the 1975 became Britain’s biggest cult band. Now here we are on a rainy January lunchtime and the wildly entertaining Healy is grappling with his conflicted feelings on stardom.

“Can you even be a rock star today?” he asks, talking as much to himself as to me. “The only way I can be a rock star is to be a humble egomaniac. I am saying: love me, with no top on, in a pair of leather trousers, but that obnoxiousness comes with genuine fragility and fear because it’s important for people to feel personally addressed when it comes to art. I’d rather talk about a part of myself that I have a profound distaste for than paint myself in a good way.”

What part of himself does he have a distaste for? “I’m constantly apologising for being pretentious and egotistical,” he says. “And I don’t like it that I can’t have platonic relationships with women. I don’t know why that is. I don’t sexualise women and I’m not misogynistic, but perhaps I’m such an atheist that the closest I can get to divinity is the feeling you have when a woman likes you . . .” He puts his hands over his mouth. “Oh no! This is all going a bit Ron Burgundy!”

Healy does tend to let his mouth run away from him in a way not dissimilar to Will Ferrell’s portentous character in Anchorman. In an interview with The Times in 2014 he pondered on whether he might actually be the Messiah. Last year he got into hot water after recalling Taylor Swift coming to one of the 1975’s concerts. Reflecting on the hysteria surrounding her, he wondered if it would be emasculating to be her boyfriend. The celebrity blogger Perez Hilton picked up on it and interpreted it as an insult against Swift. It also started a rumour that Healy was Swift’s boyfriend.

“Imagine what it is like being Taylor Swift,” says Healy now. “A guy you met for five minutes gets so badgered by questions about you, he inevitably says something that can be misheard as a shade. It made me realise how mental her world is.”

Healy is like your loudest, silliest friend who became famous by mistake and is still working out what you’re meant to do. When he tells of sharing a Saturday Night Live green room with Larry David, Ben Stiller and Bernie Sanders or recalls Dolly Parton calling him a cutie, you sense his awe.

“Mate, I’m just a snot-nosed teenager from Wilmslow and I’ve taken that world with me. The guy who used to do our merchandise is now my assistant, but I can’t call him my assistant because it’s Dan from maths who I used to sit next to. I’d like to say that backstage is like a meeting of Ginsberg, Blake and Lennon. Actually it’s more like The Inbetweeners with us playing Fifa and calling each other dickheads. Put me in a room with famous people and I’m rubbish. When David Byrne was in the dressing room next to ours I was the most uncool person in the world. I was lingering by the door, waiting for David Byrne to come out. Then he appears just as I’m opening a bag of Haribo, I’m shocked, they split open and go everywhere, he walks past me without saying anything and I’m just a dick with a bag of sweets.”

Then there are the fans, who are for the most part teenage girls who identify deeply with Healy while also finding him extremely attractive. “I do take my artistic responsibility seriously because with some of my fans it gets heavy,” he says, looking serious for a moment. “Someone sent me razor blades she tried to kill herself with. She was giving them to me to make sure she never did it again. Kids draw me all the time. I used to have my own emotional baggage. Now I have to buy a suitcase on every tour just for all the emotional baggage I get sent.”

Is that a burden? “No because I totally get it. Fundamentally what people want is human connection. Regardless of religion, or whether the world will come to an end, or what worlds may have come before, the only thing that will actually, definitely happen is interaction with another human being.”

All of this fed into I Like It When You Sleep . . . , its title an expression of Healy’s desire to make an album as over the top and emotionally unchained as possible. The funky, Prince-like Love Me is his response to becoming an icon of sorts; Ugh! is an expression of disgust at his former cocaine excess; The Ballad of Me and My Brain is a depiction of being driven insane by fame; and Loving Someone is a celebration of companionship that has become something of an anthem for the LGBT community. Healy says the album is the product of a band facing up to the crisis of finding themselves, after years of indifference, very popular indeed.

“We freaked out!” says Healy, excitedly, of their sudden success. “We spent ten years in my dad’s garage without anyone caring who we were. Nobody would sign us, so our manager formed a label and signed us for 20 quid in his kitchen, while making pasta and pesto. And then it happened. We were on tour for two years, suddenly it was time to make the second album and we didn’t know if we could do it. George had a breakdown and had to get help. And what was there to write about? I knew I couldn’t release a single called God, Aren’t Threesomes a Nightmare?”

He considers this. “Not that I was having threesomes, but nobody else was sharing our experiences so I had to go deep. What are the fundamentals? Fear, religion, struggles with addiction, my relationship with my mother, dealing with death . . . And I can’t change who I am. When it comes down to it I’m a gaunt, insecure person who is writing about being young and doing drugs.”

You can’t help but like him. He may be completely self-obsessed, but at least he has the grace to acknowledge it. (“I don’t think I’m Marc Bolan, but I like the fact that you might think that I think I’m Marc Bolan.”) And there’s something generous about the way he wants to give you everything he has to offer, whether you are a fan watching him preen on the stages of the world or a journalist wondering if, after an hour and a half of non-stop chat, he might feel like stopping soon. He is a rock star born in an age when being a rock star without a degree of irony is no longer viable.

“I started out in a band because it made me happy,” he concludes. “Then all this stuff happened, I got scared and I didn’t know why I was doing it any more until I remembered: because it makes me happy! This is my life. I would be selling flowers on Brent Cross roundabout if it weren’t for the 1975.”

[thesinglesjukebox]

SAM HUNT - DRINKIN' TOO MUCH [5.33] What've we got here? Why, it's a CONTROVERSYBOMB!

Ramzi Awn: A bold experiment with a few good ideas, "Drinkin' Too Much" employs dark moments of candor to highlight a muddled mix. [5]

Olivia Rafferty: The heart and soul of country music is storytelling, which is why this track works so well. "Drinkin' Too Much" shifts the typical country subject of alcohol abuse to the context of sad man R&B, aka Drake's genre. The spoken verses contain a rawness that could only be conveyed with that style of delivery, and the lyrics themselves are so vivid. Lay this over a subtle blend of 808s and slide guitars, and you have a solid attempt to influence the direction of country music. Let the genre-mashing begin. [8]

Anthony Easton: John Prine, in a recent Rolling Stone cover story, spoke about how Dylan's Nashville Skyline broke apart country music for him (he was a folkie at the time): "Man, there's something there where their two paths crossed. My stuff belongs right in the middle." This is also in the middle: between soul and hip-hop, between the drinking and heartbreak of Nashville and the fame-wasted ennui of Kanye and Drake. But it's also at the bottom: the bottomed-out production, how Hunt trips over details, how he extends stories, how he never quite brags about his money, how his self-loathing bubbles up like swamp gas. It's the opposite of all those party songs, the opposite of Moore and Eldredge and Gilbert. It has a singular voice -- a songwriting voice, but also how he sings, a gravelly push that reinforces his production choices. It is the smartest thing he has done, and maybe the most heartfelt. [10]

Alfred Soto: I'm no country corn pone. I like electronic whooshes and the kind of manipulation of space more common on Drake or "Climax"-era Usher, but Sam Hunt can't even talk-sing without his sockless boat shoes tripping on his ill-lettered cadences. He comes off like a lunkier Chainsmoker, in the market for any hook that'll get him on the radio and laid -- two of his more admirable virtues. Find better songs, dude, and don't try so damn hard. [4]

Thomas Inskeep: This non-single posted on SoundCloud is the audio equivalent of a viral video, and like many viral videos, it's also essentially a journal entry set to music. Frankly, it's not up to snuff: this is him doing his rhyming couplets (he loves rhyming couplets) with a woozy rhythm track from Pro Tools or whatever. It also sounds a lot like a demo for Justin Bieber. Most of all, this is slightly creepy oversharing; I want a Silkwood shower after listening to it. [0]

Elisabeth Sanders: Everything about this is deeply embarrassing, and that's why I love it. While I can't pretend I like this as much as anything off Montevallo, it makes up for it with "I wish you'd let me pay your student loans," and I'd like to submit this as a great entry into a music category I'd like to call "voice-memo pathetic-wave." (The other artist in this genre is Mike Posner with his great, deeply pathetic album At Night, Alone.) The song approximates, sonically and with almost nauseating accuracy, the feeling of being just too drunk enough that the room is spinning a little, being very sad about something that might be your fault in a crowded place at 2 in the morning. BEEN THERE, SAM. [7]

Jonathan Bradley: In which Sam Hunt pens a letter to Montevallo's Courtney From Hooters On Peachtree and proves himself to not be country music's Drake, but rather its Mike Skinner. The hook is the weakest part; it doesn't resolve Hunt's thoughts but elides them. (The austere "8pm" take works better and is worth a point or two more.) There is frisson in a lyric that pushes too far past the fourth wall, threatening to combust as it reaches the event horizon -- for the non-country, non-rap examples to which "Drinkin' Too Much" draws nearest, look to emo acts like Cursive's The Ugly Organ or Say Anything's "Every Man Has a Molly." "Hope you know I'm still in love," Hunt closes, except it's a correspondence that is only intimate the way a performance is, and so his words are combustible as well as heartfelt. The sour sense that this song bears too much truth is its most compelling point but also its most repellent; Hunt is too casual in his exhibitionism. [5]

Will Adams: It feels right; we've reached the level of bleakness in our pop music that songs can now just be actual shitposts with first draft choruses tucked in. [3]

Katherine St Asaph: Did we need another country "Marvin's Room"? In every country review I keep harping on artists telling the same generic story addressed to the same imaginary sorority girl, but here's a lyric and addressee that are certainly not generic or imaginary, and I'm not sure what to think. If Sam Hunt's byline didn't scare off the traditionalists, the first vocoded note is almost deliberately scheduled to shoo away the rest (none of the subsequent vocal is so blatant), leaving a smaller audience of fans and an explicit audience of one specific, named girl. There's something inescapably creepy -- voyeuristically creepy for the listener, manipulatively creepy for the artist -- about this, this couple chords and a tirade. Most of his target demographic will hear this as romantic, but for those unfortunate enough to have been stalked, the details are so familiar as to be textbook: presenting her with his un-rebuttable imagination of her life, in which she stages the Everytime video every time she wants to cry, in which there's nowhere else in Georgia she can buy peaches, in which everything reminds her of him, or at least does now; reminding her of her debt while holding Montevallo money over her head; apologizing for boosting her profile while writing her name into a huge triumphant chorus; pondering "whether it's OK to lie" while careful to mention none of the indiscretions that got him there -- merely their consequences, which now seem unreasonable. Better to address this as fiction, then -- like most "autobiographical" songs by celebrities, somewhere between songwriting exercise and publicity stunt, because you don't cross over into pop and stay without some dating drama. What's left is slapdash: accurate-sounding candor spewed over a couple identikit country choruses, each piece well-crafted but only assemblable by a real-life happy ending. Which is the point, and the problem. [5]

Megan Harrington: Too much of my instant dislike of "Drinkin' Too Much" hinged on the preposterous way Sam Hunt apologized for (more or less) doxing his then ex-girlfriend, now fiancé Hannah Lee Fowler on his debut album Montevallo, only to turn around and close the song by singing her name. In case there were any straggler fans out there who hadn't quite put her identity together, I guess. It was incongruous in a way that grated on me until I realized that it was the perfect synecdoche for the song, one that indulges overwrought production as 40 as it was country and several different singing styles, including plain old talking. It's right there in the way he names her his first fan and then cheats on her, the way he dismisses her sisters as "matchmakers" but hopes her dad still prays for him. Real life is messy and filled with leaps forward followed by half-steps back, relationships are chaotic and confusing, and Hunt captures all of it, ending hopefully with a (sort of, he hopes) romantic pledge to win her back. And it (sort of, I think) worked? [7]

Crystal Leww: The first time I heard "Drinkin' Too Much," I did not like it. I did not like the 40-esque production, the sad sap lyrics, the way that Hunt called out his ex-girlfriend. Then I listened to the 8pm version, stripped of the production flourishes, and figured that it was just the production that was bugging me. The lyrics were sad, but they were so specific: peaches in Pelham, a hotel room in Arizona, and that devastating, heartbreaking "hope your dad still prays for me," a reminder that breakups are the deaths of families, too. I've never liked the comparisons to Drake -- Drake is someone who has clearly never been in an adult relationship with a real woman rather than a built-up image of a woman, but Montevallo and "Drinkin' Too Much" feel like they're about real adults who have genuinely loved each other and created lives together. I still like the 8pm version more, but I've come around on the full version. It's dramatic, but I appreciate the attempt to appeal to a broader audience, and it highlights that Hunt's lyricism shines through anything, even snaps and strings. [7]

Josh Langhoff: A prof used to tell us, "People who are sorry weep bitter tears." I don't buy Sam Hunt's sorrow. Nor do I buy that this song has a melody or a beat, that it has any connection to country or R&B, that this is the same Sam Hunt who did "House Party," or that picking peaches is anything but the pits. More schnapps! [3]

Katie Gill: Look, I'm sorry, I can't hate this. With the exception of that "I hope your dad still prays for me" bit, the verses are awful, not singing but the Sam Hunt Spoken Word Poetry Hour. They swing between endearingly hokey and the awful Nice Guy sort of patronizing that was the entirety of "Take Your Time." But the chorus is AMAZING. It's so silky and smooth, perfectly mixed, and Hunt shows that he has a halfway decent R&B(ish) voice. But the two never really meet. The transition between verse and chorus is awkward every time, as the buttery-smooth chorus butts up against the not very smooth speaking voice of Sam Hunt. [6]

Joshua Copperman: I keep singing this title to the tune of Twenty One Pilots' "Ride", attempting to remember what little melody this song has ("I've been drinking too much, help me..."). Until the bridge -- which would make a better chorus -- nothing is worth remembering: not the strings, not the drum machine, and especially not the single strum of guitar to signify that it's still country. What made "Marvin's Room" work was the honesty and subtextual self-loathing that Drake would spend the rest of his career distilling. This seems less stream-of-consciousness and more trying to write stream-of-consciousness, which rarely works as well and results in lines like "I wish you'd let me pay off your student loans." The dramatic piano ending makes clear Sam Hunt's lack of shame in copying Aubrey, but that just makes him sound even less authentic, even though the backstory contains more than enough drama for something genuine. [3]

Edward Okulicz: The first time I misheard the line as as "I'm sorry for making the album Montevallo," but this sketch wouldn't be a repudiation even if he were sorry for that. And it's really not that much more than a series of lyrical fragments and a chorus, but I find myself nodding along at some parts, and being frustrated at the lack of detail in others, and going to the "Personal life" details of his Wikipedia article to see the resolution. So that means it's fairly compelling for its limitations. [7]

[Read and comment on The Singles Jukebox ]

[storiesbyjes2g]

Eliza sent Asia a text when she arrived home from the hospital. She was so excited about squeezing cute baby cheeks, she rushed right over. In a few hours, she would have to leave for work, and there was no way she was going to wait until the next day to coo over the new junior Pancakes. She was so excited about seeing the babies, she almost forgot about the new bedrooms that were constructed. Eliza led her into a colorful but not over the top room. She gasped as she looked around. There were so many colors and patterns, but oddly enough they meshed well together. Pink was the accent color. The room gave off a cheerful vibe that made her very happy.

“Good heavens! This is the CUTEST room! I didn’t know you had it in you, Eliza.”

Eliza snorted. “You know me quite well. These rooms are the hallmark of my husband’s odd talent.”

Asia’s eyes grew wider. “Bob did this?”

She nodded. “And he spends so much money on them. Thank the Watcher he was reasonable with these two. He spent nearly §6000 on Breanne’s room!”

“Good heavens!” The child’s room costs nearly as much as our entire basement! “But, that’s so sweet though! I didn’t realize he was so…uhhh…so–

“So doting? It’s ok. I realize on the outside he may come across as withdrawn, but…he’s quite the Mr. Mom!”

Eliza drifted away thinking about Bob. Asia had never seen her so taken with her husband before. Clearly, something had to be going on to warrant the surprise pregnancy. Despite how odd it was to hear, Asia loved how Eliza gushed about her husband without realizing it.

“So everything went ok this morning? No complications or hiccups?” Asia asked.

She was expecting a “yes” or “no” followed by a brief statement like always, but Eliza was in a rare mood. Perhaps she was still on cloud nine from meeting her two new, beautiful daughters. She was never one to overshare; perhaps it had to do with her profession. But, that day, she was quite the chatterbox.

“Well, no. The birth went without a hitch. Despite the reservations I have about Moira, she is quite good at her job. I, on the other hand, could have been more cheery.”

Did she just admit something negative about herself? Who is this woman, and how can we keep the old Eliza wherever she is?!

“I felt like a walk this morning. When Robert changed his clothes to come with me, I knew he was concerned. Getting that man to be active is like trying to milk a dead cow plant!”

A loud belt of laughter erupted from Asia’s mouth before she covered it with her hands. She forgot there was one sleeping baby.

“Naturally, I was quite surprised. It was nice, though…”

There was that twinkle in her eye again.

“However, we didn’t get very far…

“When we arrived at the hospital, he did the best he could, opening doors for me and keeping a steady hand on my back…”

Oooooh, Elizaaaa!

She heard the way her tone softened and her train of thought derailed at the mention of his hand upon her back.

They are completely different people behind closed doors!

“He still panicked! I will never understand why men can’t handle birth! It’s not like they are delivering the thing!”

“Bob too? I thought it was just Jared. All three times!”

“Hmph! They say it’s a sympathy thing. I think it’s preposterous!”

“Amen, sister!”

“Anyway… When we got to the room, he calmed down enough to calm me down.”

“Awww! You were nervous?”

“Of course not. I just didn’t want to do it.”

Asia laughed again. “Well, I don’t think you had a choice, my dear!”

“Hmph. That’s what Robert said.

“Anyway, seeing as how there was no reset button or return to sender envelope, I figured I’d get it over with. Robert was so…encouraging…”

There was that softness and runaway train again.

“I love you. You’re doing great.”

“Too bad he couldn’t encourage himself.”

“W-W-WHAT WAS THAT?”

“I just turned on the machine, Bob.”

“Robert, do collect yourself.”

“But, after Moira got them out, and I heard them for the first time, I felt…I felt happy. For the first time through the whole thing, I was happy!”

“Well it’s about time,” Asia yelled. “I never met a woman more…” She interrupted herself as she thought about Mary’s last pregnancy. “Well…new children should bring happiness, not sorrow!”

“Perhaps. You’ve never been unexpectedly pregnant. You can’t understand.”

Usually Asia didn’t like when Eliza told her what she could and couldn’t understand, but this time she had a valid point. She still thought she should have been happier though.

“So, you’re gonna keep them together in here until they’re older?”

“I suppose. They’ll be easier to manage.”

“Hmmm… I wonder if it’s a good idea to separate them at all. What if they don’t like being apart?”

“Well, I suppose we’ll drag the other bed in here and see what happens.”

“I hope you don’t end up wasting a room you guys so carefully built.”

Eliza gave her a cold stare. “My sentiments exactly. You have no idea what we went through to get these rooms.”

“Hmmm…I bet it has to do with someone whose initials are B.P.”

“Hmph!”

The sleeping baby awoke with a loud wail. It was lunch time. Asia enjoyed watching this unknown side of Eliza. She handled her so gently with care and precision as she smiled and giggled to herself.

“What’s tickling you?” Asia asked.

“Oh…nothing.”

“Come on! Spill!”

“Well… I’ve never been one to enjoy or engage in baby talk. I think it’s silly and insulting to the child. Robert, on the other hand, cannot stop the babbling rubbish. I never knew his voice could be so high.”

Asia giggled.

“And he makes faces at them. They love it so much. I vowed I would never succumb to such silliness, but there I was, standing beside him, babbling and making faces! I’m not quite sure what came over me.”

“They do that to you! Babies have a way of bringing out the playfulness in us. We’ll do anything to make them smile. It’s like baby joy is fuel for our own happiness or something.”

“Yeah… I know…” She seemed to get lost in thought again.

“But, the playfulness extends farther than the nursery,” Asia said with a wink.

Eliza blushed. Asia thought it was precious to see her friend that way. She always questioned their relationship in the past. Perhaps, at one point, things had gone awry, but she was glad they somehow found their way back to each other. It was awesome to witness how much their relationship had blossomed in the past few months.

Eliza shrugged like she was guilty. “Well… That’s a side effect I can live with.”

Asia’s jaw almost hit the floor. She loved all the vulnerability Eliza shared with her that day.

“Eliza! You’re a bad girl! I love this! Don’t go too crazy though! You don’t want anymore ‘oops’ babies.”

The two women laughed.

“No, but seriously though,” Asia said. “You guys aren’t having any more children, right?”

“Oh dear! I’d rather shop at the flea market!”

Asia snorted and shook her head at her friend. “Oh! You’ve been gushing about Bob so long, you haven’t told me what their names are!”

Eliza blushed again. “Oh…dear. Forgive me.”

“Eliza, never ask forgiveness for talking about your man. If you love him, let the world know!”

She seemed to consider her words before answering. “The first one is Lily.” She pointed to the bassinet closest to her. “And that’s Lexi.”

“Lily and Lexi! Good heavens, those are cute names!”

Joneses - 11.3 Lost in Thought - Asia visits Eliza and the twins before she goes to work. Eliza sent Asia a text when she arrived home from the hospital. She was so excited about squeezing cute baby cheeks, she rushed right over.