#no one can tell if it's real or not. in the usual american psycho fashion | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

qqueenofhades · 6 years

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alone, i fight these animals [alone, until i get home]

To nobody’s surprise, I had another Kastle plot bunny, as I absolutely adore them being soft, but Frank and Karen are also messy, broken, dangerous people with a lot of trauma, and I wanted to write about them dealing with that and something from Frank’s POV. Also, I had a whole lot of feelings about Frank as a father, and well. This happened. Set sometime in my future verse where they’ve moved in together.

Rated M; content warnings for canon-typical violence, themes, and language, and mentions of sexual abuse, abortion, child loss, etc. Angst, but we get there in the end.

The door of the cellar stands half-open, letting in a wash of damp, cold New York winter night, that ever-present murky tang of the Hudson mixing with the sharper, metallic reek of blood. Frank completes his methodical pace around, making sure that nobody is still groaning, but if anyone is in fact alive, they sure as hell aren’t stupid enough to tip him off, and he wonders if he should shoot them all again, just to be safe. Jesus, he wants to. One shot, one kill, that’s always been the rule. Even Schoonover, who masterminded the murder of his family, got one clean shot to the head, no wasted energy, no needless mess. But these sons of bitches… Frank’s trigger finger is still twitching, and he clenches it hard. One thing at a time.

As far as he can tell, the seven corpses in the cellar are indeed genuinely in that state, and the faint, acrid whiff of shit confirms that. Frank kneels down by the nearest one and rolls him over. Pale, doughy, middle-aged white guy with glasses, looks like an office manager, which seems to be how most of them look. This fucking bastard was the leader of one of the biggest child porn rings on the Deep Web, made money hand over fist with his sick videos, supposedly used one of his own kids in them. He’s been on Homeland’s radar, they were preparing a big sting op to blow up the ring. Madani’s gonna be pissed that Frank got here before she could, but that’s her problem. Waiting for some fat-cat bureaucrat to get back from his Caribbean vacation to sign the warrants, have you ever heard something that stupid? These monsters were out here still hurting kids, hurting little girls, and needless to say, they were not expecting the Punisher to burst into their lair in all his trench-coated, jackbooted glory. Some of them put up a fight. Lots of bullets flying, but Frank was careful not to hit the servers. Madani’s eggheads can confiscate them and comb them to their heart’s content, see if there are any more they missed. He was never giving them the decency of a comfortable life in prison, no matter how unwelcome child abusers are in there. He still can’t slow down the roaring in his ears.

Frank dispassionately examines the bullet hole in the ringleader’s forehead. He’s definitely dead, but for the first time in his life, Frank almost wishes he’d broken his own rules. He doesn’t torture unless he needs information, and he had all the information he needed, here. But this asshole didn’t deserve to die that easy. Once upon a time, Frank would have believed that sinners would get their just desserts in hell, but that’s kid stuff, fairytales. He ain’t like Red with the Catholic shit. Watched it turn to ash a long time ago. Probably burst into goddamn flames if he stepped into a church now.

Outside, he can hear the drone of sirens -- someone, understandably, has taken note of the ruckus in the cellar and called the cops. Frank should get out of here, and as he rises to his feet, an unexpected pain in his side clips him and makes him grunt. He looks down to see a wet stain on his black hoodie, where one of the pedos got lucky and winged him low in the ribs. He didn’t notice it in the chaos, and it’s far from the worst he’s ever taken, obviously, but he should stop at an all-night pharmacy and get some shit to patch it before he gets home. He doesn’t want Karen to worry.

With a final glance around, Frank jogs to the door and lets himself out, just as footsteps are hurrying down from upstairs. He steps outside into the night and hangs a sharp left as red and blue lights start to splash the wet pavement – good ol’ NYPD, day late and a dollar short as per fucking usual. The appearance of a bunch of dead perverts in a basement isn’t going to cause anyone any personal distress, but it does serve as a calling card, and Madani, at least, is going to know who did it. Not that Frank thinks she’ll narc on him – they have a weird understanding, and part of him feels that she wouldn’t have mentioned that tip about girls being trafficked through Newark International if she didn’t want him to do something about it, wanted but could obviously never say or encourage him to undercut her whole sting. Madani can be ruthless in her fashion, but she’s still obnoxiously dedicated to the ideal of the law and truth and the American way. Give the feds time to do their job. That’s a good one.

Frank speeds up, almost growling at a goggling dog-walker to keep his eyes fucking forward, and darts into an alley to peel off his jacket and stuff it into his backpack with his usual clanking arsenal of automatic weapons. The wound in his side isn’t bad, but it’s definitely bleeding a lot, and he glances around (there are literally five million Duane Reades in Manhattan, he has to be within a few blocks of one). Sure enough, couple more minutes, he sees one, and steps inside with an anemic clank of bells. The bright fluorescents make him squint. They’re playing “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer,” because apparently this might in fact be hell after all. Tacky Christmas stuff everywhere.

Frank strides past some alarmed local shoppers to the pharmacy, grabs some first-aid shit – bandages, disinfectant, surgical tweezers, whatever he needs to get the slug out – and heads to the counter. The clerk can’t help but try not to look too hard. He asks Frank if he wants the mouthwash on promotion, 99¢, or the $1.99 gingerbread cookie. Frank says sure. Man’s just trying (valiantly, really) to do his job, and doesn’t ask any dumb questions. He appreciates it.

“Happy holidays, sir,” the clerk says, as Frank hands over a $20, gets $4.46 change, and stuffs it all in his pocket. “You have a good one.”

Frank answers this with a curt nod, glances around to see the old lady in line behind him looking like she’ll hit him with her cane if he doesn’t scram and let her pick up her Geritol or what-fuckin-ever, and offers her a too-polite nod. “Ma’am.”

With that, and her eyes burning holes in him as some hooligan who is definitely Up To No Good, he makes his exit and tries to decide where would be the best place for an impromptu triage center. He could take advantage of that other ubiquitous Manhattan institution, Starbucks, though they’d probably get real precious about allowing him to use their bathroom if he didn’t buy one of their godforsaken overpriced drinks. Nothing else is coming to mind, however, and he could use some coffee. He crosses the street to the nearest one – they’re open until 9pm, it’s 8:23, he’d better not take too long – and goes in. It’s mostly empty by now, though there are still some hipsters bunked down with their ultra-thin iBooks and busy pounding out the Great American Novel or whatever they write these days. At that, Frank almost leaves again, but his side really fuckin’ hurts by now, and beggars can’t be choosers.

He buys a small (or ‘scuse him, tall) black coffee. The barista asks for his name. Frank says, “Pete.” Digs out the change from the drugstore and pays, sits at a corner table and sips for a few minutes, then gets up and heads into the bathroom.

Frank shuts the door, pulls out his kit, and shrugs his sweatshirt off over his head. He gets a look at the wound and has to admit it’s maybe a little worse than he thought. Thirteen bucks’ worth of medical supplies from Duane Reade is going to have to cut it, though, and Frank sponges off the blood, throws the used wipes in the sanitary bin, and angles his torso up to the mirror so he can get a good look at the hole. The tweezers are kind of shit, but they’re the best he can do, and he grunts and grimaces until he gets the butt-end of the bullet in sight, slick with blood. It takes a few more minutes (someone is passive-aggressively pounding on the door, and they’ll shut up if they know what’s good for them) until he finally eases it out. Wraps the deformed slug in another of the wipes and shoves it in the rucksack, as he’s guessing the Starbucks minions don’t want that in their garbage. Neither, frankly, does he.

Frank yells at the door-pounder that it’ll be a minute, and sticks himself awkwardly back together as best he can. He’ll probably need to stitch or staple it, but he’s got more stuff at home, and he’s hoping Karen will be out late. She went over to celebrate the first night of Hanukkah with the Liebermans. They invited Frank too, of course; it’s hard to forget that he literally sacrificed himself to a couple of psychos to save them, and his stint as the family’s weird violent guardian angel/replacement dad and husband is still something that catches him in the vulnerable place he keeps only for his lost family and for Karen. He wants to see them, wants to see Sarah, but it just hasn’t seemed like the right time to walk back in. They’ve got their lives back. He doesn’t know if he fits.

Having finished his makeshift surgery, Frank sticks one more butterfly bandage into place, washes his hands, shoves it all back in the backpack, and emerges to glare terrifyingly at the hipster who has been fighting him for custody of the lavatory. The guy shrinks (good move, man-bun) and apologizes, which Frank ignores. He strides back into the store, all dim and Christmasy and whatever, and grabs his coffee off the table, finishes it, and tosses it into the bin. It’s 8:54, the baristas are sweeping and mopping up and putting the chairs on the tables, and he nods at them too. “Night.”

It’s even colder by the time he emerges, the raw wind slapping at his cheeks, and he wonders if he wants to walk the rest of the way back to Karen’s place, or if he’ll just get the damn subway. Not the weirdest sight New York has ever seen down there at this hour, but he does still have a lot of guns in his bag, and he doesn’t want some nosy-ass transport cop deciding he wants to make quota for the night. Frank decides to walk.

It’s about twenty minutes until he turns into the street where he has spent the overwhelming majority of the past four months, to the point where both of them have implicitly acknowledged that it’s not likely he’s going to move out. Frank has his own cubby in the bathroom, buys half the groceries, takes his turn on the chores, likes to make dinner for Karen sometimes when she gets home from work, and he knows damn well that he doesn’t want to live anywhere else. Or if he did, only if she was there. He needs her, needs her around, needs her there, whatever unspoken relationship they have, where they live together and sleep together and otherwise act like a couple in private, but still have not talked about it or taken it public or acknowledged it between themselves, let alone anyone else. Of course Frank is not letting any asshole get within sniffing distance of Karen again (it’s a hard job – she somehow attracts as much shit as he does), but it’s more than that. They belong together. Life, whatever it is for him now, for them, is just right when they are, no matter what else is going on.

To his surprise, Frank sees a light under the apartment door when he steps up into the hall, and he hurries to the end, then pauses, in case it’s someone in there who shouldn’t be. He takes a quick grip on his pistol, nudging at the knob, but it hasn’t been forced. When he opens it cautiously, he sees Karen’s bag and heels scattered on the floor; the light is coming from the bathroom. She’s home earlier than he expected. Shit.

“Karen?” He shuts the door and drops his rucksack with a clunk. “Karen, you here?”

She doesn’t answer, but he hears a weird sound from the bathroom, like a combination cough and sob and sigh, and it sends a sharp spike of panic through his bloodstream, the fear that she might have been badly hurt. He practically runs down the hall and finds her sitting on the edge of the bathtub, in dress and stocking feet, holding something in her hand. It takes him a few more seconds after that to realize that it’s a used pregnancy test.

All the blood drains from Frank’s head at top speed. He feels almost dizzy, faint, like the world has fallen out from under him and he has no idea how to stand upright, as if he half-wants to turn tail and run out of here as fast as he goddamn can. His tongue locks to the roof of his mouth and he puts a hand out for support, trying to muster up words, anything, but nothing is there. Why is this – how is this even happening? Karen’s on the pill, right? She’s on the pill, and they’ve only been sort-of-together for four months. Oh Jesus. Maria got pregnant with Lisa after three, told Frank that he could leave if he wanted but she was keeping it, and he proposed marriage that same day. He is obviously willing to do the same again if necessary, but if history is repeating itself – Jesus. Jesus, no. Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, no. Not the same cycle to the same violent end. He can’t. He will lose his entire mind, and this time, there will be no chance of ever getting it back.

“Karen?” His voice sounds strange and foreign to his own ears. “Karen, what the hell is…”

“I’m…” Karen takes a breath. He thinks, he’s certain what she’s going to say next, and he can’t prepare himself for it, and then it isn’t it. “I’m not,” she says, after another moment. “I’m not pregnant. If you were wondering.”

It’s pretty clear that Frank was indeed goddamn wondering, was in fact just about to have a heart attack over wondering, and he doesn’t know if this is better or worse to hear. On one hand, there is a burning, unbearable, savage relief, that they’ve escaped the trap, whatever cruel joke fate was just planning to set for them. On the other –

“Not,” he says, hoarse and gravelly, as if to confirm it. “Okay. There some reason you thought you were?”

Karen is too distressed to pay much attention to him, his dirty and disheveled state, and rocks back and forth on the bathtub rim. “I was taking my placebos,” she says, after a pause. “You know, the cycle of pills end, you take the placebos and have a period, and that was supposed to happen three days ago. But I didn’t, and I realized that there was at least one day where I forgot, and I… well, I haven’t been feeling that good recently, and tonight I was over there and I just… I didn’t… I couldn’t do it, and…”

She trails off, gripping her knees, as Frank remains frozen in the doorway. He has no idea what to say, this is far from his area of expertise, but he’s still too numb to interrupt. “So what?” he says at last. “You thought you should check?”

“Yeah. I…” Karen wets her lips. “There’s been a lot of stress recently, I suppose it could be like that. Sometimes I skip, you know, I’m not totally regular. I just… when I figure I’m going to start, I take a bunch of ibuprofen, just so I know I won’t be in pain. I don’t care about dosages or whatever. Take three every few hours. That way it doesn’t hurt. But it also means I didn’t notice right away, and…”

Frank flinches, not for any detailed description of female monthly habits (he was married, he’s not a caveman, and he definitely isn’t squeamish at the sight of blood) but just at the idea of it being that way for her. Take as much medicine as you can to make sure it doesn’t hurt, don’t give a shit, just want it to go away. Not only talking about cramps, there, and he knows Karen well enough to be sure. He runs a hand over his close-cropped hair, trying to think of something useful to say, but still can’t come up with it. He glances involuntarily at the test – it does appear to be negative, like she said, not that he thought she was lying to him – but part of him knows these things aren’t always accurate, especially very early. Maybe the question isn’t settled. Maybe the trap wasn’t escaped.

“Anyway,” Karen says, inhaling a shaky breath. “I really wasn’t feeling good, and Sarah told me to go home and get some sleep, and I had to… just on the way home, I… thought of it and I had to know right away. So I stopped off and got this – ” she waves the stick – “and. Yeah. I didn’t know you were going to be out tonight.”

Frank thinks unwillingly of both of them, probably in goddamn Duane Reades less than a mile apart, buying medical supplies for different reasons, terrified of the other finding out. He still hasn’t gotten his breath back, and doesn’t know if he will. At last, he perches on the toilet lid, still dressed in his grimy blacks, hesitant of reaching for her hand. There is still blood beneath his fingernails. Karen still looks close to tears, and he wants to comfort her, but he isn’t sure what she wants to hear. They’ve obviously never discussed the subject of children, not when they haven’t even talked about their relationship as a real and formal thing, as if acknowledging it and embracing it will set up the universe to kick it out from under them. Neither of them can really trust that it will be able to avoid the temptation. But at last Frank says, “You probably didn’t want – I mean, we’ve got enough going on right now, huh? It’s a good thing, right? Good thing.”

He mostly agrees with this, but it still scrapes his throat, and Karen lifts her head, blonde tendrils of hair falling loose from her bun. There’s another long pause, then she says, not looking at him, “No. I can’t say I really did want it. I can’t be – I don’t know that I could be the right kind of mother, I don’t… it’s complicated. If it was some other guy that I’d been with for just a couple months and this happened and it was positive, I would have – I would have made arrangements, and I can’t be blamed for that.”

No, Frank thinks, no, she can’t. He’s obviously the last person in the world who has any moral standing to prattle about the sanctity of life, and a woman has the God-given right to make her own choices about her own body. He isn’t going to open his fat mouth and step on a landmine. But it’s true that he feels something else, something visceral and tender and terrible, about the idea if it had been his. Would Karen have even told him, if he hadn’t gotten home now? Even if – or especially if – it was positive? Would she just make the arrangements, and live with the unbearable knowledge of what she’d done to him for a third time, even if it was nowhere close to being an actual kid? Jesus. Jesus.

“Fuck,” Frank says at last, since there’s still nothing else he’s coming up with, and has the feeling he shouldn’t sit in total stone silence forever. “Karen.”

“I’m sorry.” She rocks back and forth again, as he reaches out involuntarily to grab her arm. “But the thing is… Frank… I still feel that way, and I did, and I do… but there was also part of me that wouldn’t have minded if it was. I just – I thought about it, and you, and us, and some kind of real family… I wanted that. It scared me, but I wanted it, even with all the good reasons I shouldn’t. I don’t know. I don’t know if that’s enough for it. I’m sorry.”

“Hey. Karen.” He grips her arm tighter. “You don’t have to be sorry, all right? You do not have to be sorry. You don’t owe me goddamn anything, just because you think I want it. Especially not this. Jesus. I’m sorry you’ve been feeling shitty. I didn’t – I’m sorry.”

Karen looks at him, her eyes swimming in tears, but they don’t quite fall. There is a clear irony, painfully visible to both of them, that they have been living together for four months, they’re both messes in the bathroom tonight, and they don’t even really know all the reasons why. She takes him in, and a faint frown creases her brows. “Where’ve you been?”

“I’ve been…” Frank shifts his weight. “I had an errand to run.”

“The kind of errand you usually have to run?” Karen’s voice is sharp, and she pulls her arm out abruptly from his touch. “I thought you were done with that.”

“I’m done with some parts of it, yeah. But as for others – ”

“Goddamn it, Frank.” She stands up abruptly; they’re almost the same height, and she stares him cold and level in the eye. “Who did you kill tonight?”

“A bunch of fuckin’ pedophiles, that’s who!” His voice rises, despite his efforts to keep it down. “A bunch of disgusting abusive scumbags, Karen, that’s who! People hurting kids, hurting their own kids, in some cases! You gonna stand there and tell me they deserved a fair trial and a process of law and twenty years in special protective custody? Huh?”

Karen slaps her hand down on the bathroom counter, face white, except for the hectic spots of color burning in her cheeks. She doesn’t immediately say it was wrong; she can’t, and she likewise knows him too well to even bother. Finally she says, “And you too didn’t say anything.”

“It works better for us if we don’t.” Frank whirls on his heel. “Is that really what you want? Want to know every time I go out to put a bullet in some punk-ass piece of shit? Am I supposed to ask permission, fill out a goddamn request form for each one? If you want me to just move out and find my own place, you could say so, you could fuckin’ say so. Don’t feel like you have to keep me around if you still can’t stand who I am!”

“And see!” Karen takes another step, eyes flashing. “That’s part of the problem, Frank. Every time, every goddamn time, you go straight for that, go straight for that bullshit, you go straight for suggesting that you leave and I never see you again. You asshole, you goddamn asshole, why do you still keep doing that? What, do you think I’ve changed my mind overnight, that I know something about you that I didn’t know yesterday? You have to keep testing me, making sure I don’t suddenly hate you, or – I don’t know what, I don’t fucking know what? You son of a bitch. You son of a bitch.”

With that, she reaches out and shoves him hard in the chest with both hands, as Frank, surprised, utters a grunt and takes a few steps backward. She’s also caught him close to his bullet wound, and he winces, having the (accurate) feeling that she’ll be even angrier if she finds out about that. He feels like he has to fight back somehow, defend himself; he is, to say the least, not used to taking blows without retaliation. But he can’t lash out at her too much, not when she’s Karen, not when she’s right, not when he knows it. There is a crackling silence as they stare at each other, nose to nose. Then Karen says, “You want to leave, you can leave. But that is your fucking choice. Don’t make it about me.”

Frank opens his mouth heatedly, discovers that he has no good answer, and snaps it shut. He and Maria had a few blazing arguments in their time – she had an Italian temper on her, and he wasn’t joking when he told Karen back in the diner that she could be ruthless, rip his heart out and stomp on it. He also usually came out on the losing end of those scuffles, coincidentally. Any sane man knows it’s a chump’s game to fight with the woman you love, but that doesn’t mean he’s still just going to sit here and not even try to –

(Oh God.)

(He knew it, he knows it, he knows it every time he looks at her, but still.)

Karen continues to stare icily at him for several more moments, until he blows out a breath and backs down, feels like a wolf in the pack rolling over to expose his belly to the alpha, calling off the fight. “I’m sorry,” he says again, almost inaudibly. Not for doing it, of course, but for not telling her. “Sorry I was a dick.”

Karen gives him a weary, affectionate, exasperated look, as if to say that at this point in his early-forty-some years, Frank Castle could, unfortunately, hardly be anything less. She raises both hands to her head, shakes it, and turns away, tossing the pregnancy test in the trash as if to banish its existence from both of their memories. Not looking around at him, she says, “The Liebermans were hoping you’d come tonight. Sarah and Leo especially.”

Frank cringes. “Maybe you can go back tomorrow instead, huh?”

Karen gives him a searing look, as if to say that she was literally just talking about him, don’t change the subject, Frank. She steps to the sink and runs the water, washes her makeup off, as he continues to shirk there in the doorway like the useless fuck he is. At last he says gruffly, “You feelin’ any better?”

“I think it’s stress. I haven’t really been sleeping.” Karen pulls out a wet wipe and sponges off the remains of her mascara. “I just… Frank, I… no, I’m not pregnant this time, thank God, but if this keeps up, us two, together, there could be some other time when I am. I can look into something longer-term than the pill, something I don’t have to remember to take at the same time every day, since you know. Our lives can be dumb that way. If you wanted.”

Frank tries to answer, once more comes up short, and looks at her wordlessly instead. There is part of him that wants to assure her that she can do whatever she wants, she doesn’t have to ask him for permission. Another part of him can see – not clearly, not entirely, but still – some ghost of whatever she did, a blonde little girl with Karen’s eyes and hopefully her nose as well, a little girl running, laughing, calling him Daddy. The word he thought was burned and buried for good, the word that still echoes and haunts him in his dreams. Part of him feels that now that Lisa and Frankie are asleep forever in that cemetery in those child-sized coffins, Lisa’s bedecked with Disney princesses and Frankie’s with Mets gear and a United States Marine Corps teddy bear, no one ever gets to say it again. The other part – perhaps all of him, and then some – would offer his entire soul for the whisper of a chance.

“You can think about it,” Karen says, seeing his dumbstruck expression over her shoulder in the mirror. “I just… thought I would let you know.”

She straightens up, towels her face off, and turns to go past him, out of the bathroom, but bumps up against his wounded side, and he doesn’t bite his grunt fast enough. Karen stares at him narrowly, then steps back and folds her arms. “Take off your sweatshirt.”

“I’m fine, Karen, honest, it’s not a – ”

“Take. Off. Your. Sweatshirt.”

Frank thinks just then that if they ever do end up as parents, she’s got the maternal death voice down, and bites his tongue smartly on future remarks. He awkwardly tugs it off, notices that there’s some blood spotted on the bandages, and hastens to reassure her, “One of ‘em had some shitty .38, it’s not a big – ”

Seeing the thunderous expression on her face, he once more shuts up on the double, and she regards it without speaking. Then she blows out a long, ragged breath. “Jesus Christ, Frank.”

“It’s not bad.”

“I don’t care if it’s bad or not. Were you planning to tell me you got shot?”

“I was…” Frank thinks that the truth will hang him, and he doesn’t lie, but there you have it. “All right, probably not.”

“Christ.” Karen rubs at her temples. “What kind of relationship is this? We live together, we share a bed, Foggy’s eye twitches every time he tries to ask about my ‘boyfriend’ without saying the word, even Matt knows you’re here now – and we can’t tell each other anything? How did that happen to us, Frank? We used to be the only people who told each other the truth. We have some idea, we always do, but – what? We’re too scared for more?”

“Maybe.” Frank draws in his breath with a hiss as Karen’s fingers brush over the hole. “I guess I just thought you were happier if you didn’t have the details.”

“It’s not like I suddenly expected you to become an altar boy. Besides, I’ve got one guilt-ridden Catholic opposed to murder in my life, that’s all I need.” Karen’s voice is wry. “But if this – if us – means anything, then… maybe we’re going to have to talk about it.”

Frank tries to think how to answer that, and once more comes up with nothing. Not his style, to fire blanks. This time, however, he is saved from the necessity of an immediate reply by his phone buzzing in his back pocket, which is a bit of a surprise. It’s not like there’s a long list of people liable to call him up for a chat, and he pulls it out, sees it’s a restricted number, and debates a moment before swiping the screen. He grunts, “Yeah?”

“Castle, you son of a bitch.”

He grins then, despite himself. “Evening to you too, Madani. You find the little present I left for you?”

“Cut your shit, Frank. Of course I found it, that’s why I’m calling you.” Dinah sounds exasperated, which he supposes he can’t blame her for, entirely. “You have anything else you want to tell me?”

“Voluntarily incriminate myself to a government official? Yeah, I’ll pass. You’ll notice I left all the computer systems intact. You get whatever poor bastard’s job it is to look through that, see if there’s anyone else in the ring. I might even leave those collars for you.”

“You’re such a dick.” Madani definitely sounds mad, but – and it might be Frank’s imagination, but still – almost like she’s trying a little too hard. Like she knows it’s the expected response to discovering what is, no matter how good its motives, still a mass crime scene with multiple casualties, especially when this was supposed to be DHS’s hunting dog from the start. “You don’t think that the rest of them aren’t going to immediately erase their tracks and go underground, now that the main ringleaders just got executed? Change their names, flee the country, scrub their assets? You just made this operation months longer, however much more time and money it takes to track the others down, when – ”

“You’ve got the smart people, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Otherwise just tell me their names, once you find them, and I’ll take care of the rest. Be faster.”

“Jesus Christ, Frank. I really should arrest you.”

He snorts. “Yeah. You’re welcome to try. How’s your dad?”

There’s a pause, both of them recalling that Dr. Hamid Madani saved his life a while back, and Dinah would probably strangle him through the phone if she could reach. Then she spits, “Fine. How’s Karen?”

Frank wonders if that’s something Homeland knows, been keeping tabs on them somehow, or just something she guessed. “Fine,” he says. “But you jackasses mind your business. I see any kind of tail, any agent trying to ask her a couple casual questions, you’ll wish you didn’t. You’ve been hunting those shitheads for months. How about a thank you, huh?”

There’s a long, loathing pause. Then Madani says quietly, “I don’t regret they’re gone, no. But that doesn’t mean you have a blank check to do it again. This will not go on forever, you can trust me on that. Night, Frank.”

“Night, Dinah.” He doesn’t know if she hears it, because the line clicks dead almost immediately, but he takes the phone away from his ear and sees Karen staring at him with one eyebrow almost touching her hair. He puts it in his pocket and says, “Just our friend in the government. Wanted to check in on my handiwork.”

“I didn’t know you had friends in the government.” Karen clearly can’t resist the riposte, even as she knows well enough who he means. “And it was evidently spectacular, if she’s calling you right away. Damn it, Frank.”

Frank takes that stoically, aware he deserves it, to say the least. Karen makes another small sound of distress as she looks at his side. “Maybe we should go to Metro-General.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not sitting in the ER for hours with a bunch of crackheads.” Frank can’t see that going well, though he is aware that rudimentary self-surgery with unsanitized, off-the-shelf tools could be a recipe for a nice little case of sepsis. Under her withering stare, however, he amends, “Tomorrow. We can go in tomorrow morning. Okay?”

“Okay.” Karen blows out a breath. It’s plain that she is still ferociously angry at him, but she bites her lip. “God. I’m not going to ask you to tell me everything you do, but if you come home with bullet holes in you, is it too much to explain that?”

“No. Sorry.” Frank is eager to smooth things over, and he trails after her into the bedroom as she steps in, shuts the curtains, and briskly starts to undress. It is not suggestive in any way, just the way it is when you’ve lived together a while and you don’t care if the other person sees you in your baggy sweats or naked or haggard or otherwise as a mess. Nonetheless, Frank watches her, can never be unaware of her, as she strips off the dress and rolls down her pantyhose, digs around for her pajamas in her bra and underwear. He awkwardly clears his throat. “You want me to sleep on the couch tonight?”

Karen snaps off her bra, grabs her pajama top, and pulls it on. With it halfway over her head, she gives him a tolerantly irritated look, as if to ask when she’s ever really, really wanted him to go. There was definitely that one time with Grotto, Frank thinks, but if he is trying to get out of the doghouse, he probably should not mention when he was shooting around (if not at) her and terrifying her. Finally she says, “No.”

Frank is relieved, despite himself, and wisely decides not to say anything else that could prejudice his position. He digs around for his own pajamas and changes, then waits until Karen has gotten into bed before climbing in next to her. They pull the covers up. There’s a thick duvet on, since it’s winter, and Karen has some pretty quilt, and piles of pillows. Frank settles down with a long sigh, as he still does not quite trust this comfort, sleeps with a loaded Magnum in the bedside drawer, and they lie there, staring at the ceiling, until Karen switches the lamp off. There are another few minutes of silence, until Frank fumbles out, finds her hand where it lies on the mattress, and squeezes hard.

Karen hesitates, then squeezes back, and they edge somewhat closer together, until their shoulders nestle. They don’t do anything else – she’s angry, and he’s wounded, and both of them have a sense that it might be unwise to challenge fate tonight, given what just happened. But she settles down on his shoulder, and Frank feels his heart shake a little, and sleeps.

He’s very stiff the next morning, and the wound has a bit of a funky smell when he peels the bandage off to check, and it doesn’t take much badgering by Karen to get him to agree to go down and get it looked over at the hospital. It always feels like a crapshoot giving Pete Castiglione’s ID to people, especially since they know the Punisher isn’t dead (or do they think that again? Frank loses track of how many times he’s supposed to have died) but he gets properly cleaned and stitched up, started on a course of antibiotics, and assured he’ll probably be fine. Not that he doubted that, or needed a nurse to tell him, but whatever.

It’s midday, cold and grey, when Frank emerges from the hospital with his prescription in hand (Duane Reade, here he comes again, no doubt) and there are a few snowflakes swirling in the air, though they haven’t settled. There are Christmas tree stands on the sidewalk, and carts with hot chestnuts and cocoa and popcorn, people carrying shiny department-store bags, and he slows down a few paces, despite himself. Christmas was fun when you had kids, or at least when he was home for it. He spent too many of the Christmases of Lisa and Frankie’s ultimately-too short lives calling on Skype from a tent in the desert, Kandahar or Fallujah or wherever, nine and a half hours ahead of them, while they unwrapped presents and showed them to the camera. Jesus, what he wouldn’t give to have even one of those back.

Frank breathes hard, closing his eyes, letting the human tide pass him to either side. The memory is painful – it couldn’t be otherwise – but for the first time in he doesn’t know how long, it doesn’t immediately, instinctively drive him to rage and violence. Everyone who’s ever lost someone, or just doesn’t get along with their family, dreads this time of year. Karen went to Thanksgiving dinner with Foggy, Marci, and Matt, but Frank spent it alone, as goddamn usual. Didn’t think it was the greatest idea to turn up there, didn’t want to ruin it for her. He was relieved when the Liebermans extended the Hanukkah invite, if nothing else because that it spared him trying to think how to spend the time instead. Now, though. He doesn’t know.

Frank thinks he might drop in on the group later – he’s been trying to do that every so often, try to be accountable somehow, and if nothing else, he probably owes Curtis the chance to once more chew him out for being an asshole. Curtis, though, he’ll understand, at the end of the day. He’ll be pissed, but he’ll understand. He always does.

After a moment, Frank starts to walk again, pulling up his hood and shoving his hands in his pockets. Again, however fleetingly, he can see that little blonde girl running ahead of him, excited, looking back at him to follow her. If she was real, if she was here, he doesn’t think he’d ever let her out of his goddamn sight, not for an instant. Fuck all those other wars, all those shitholes in the dark. He would not ever want to be anywhere but there, but here.

He turns in the prescription, then gets home and cleans up the place, and in mid-afternoon, changes and shaves and puts on something at least a little nice. When Karen gets home from work, she’s surprised to see him waiting with his coat on and a bottle of wine in hand. “Are we – ” She eyes him up and down, pleased but wary. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Yeah,” Frank says. “We’re going over to the Liebermans.”

Karen pauses, then looks down, biting a smile, almost as if she’s not going to let him see that, not yet. She goes into their bedroom, changes out of her work clothes and freshens up, then emerges. “Okay,” she says, almost shyly. “Okay.”

They get into Karen’s car and drive out to Brooklyn, turn into the neighborhood and find somewhere to park on the street. They get out and head up the steps, and before he knocks, Frank suddenly freezes. He probably shouldn’t be back here. Who knows if someone followed them. What if it all happens again, somehow, and this time he can’t –

Karen reaches out and squeezes his hand. Then she nods at the door. “C’mon.”

Frank heaves a breath – Jesus Christ, he wasn’t that nervous jumping out a goddamn C-130 for the first time, it’s just a door, it’s just a house in the suburbs, he’s been here plenty – and rings the bell.

There’s a pause. Then he hears footsteps, the chain clicks back, and Sarah Lieberman opens the door. The smell of something good wafts out after her, and she’s wearing an apron, but as her eyes lock on him, it all seems to fade. She blinks hard, then presses a hand to her mouth. Finally she says croakily, “Frank?”

“Hey. Sarah.” Frank holds out the wine bottle like a peace offering. “We – felt bad that Karen had to leave early last night, and we were hoping – ”

Whatever else he’s going to say is lost as Sarah hugs him so hard that his ribs creak. She’s a small woman, and he’s a very solidly built man, but he drops the wine bottle on the doormat (fortunately it doesn’t break) and Karen darts in to pick it up. Frank wants to tell Sarah to go easy, he still does have a .38 hole in his side, but he doesn’t. Instead, he hugs her back, and there’s something for half an instant – unmanifest, unspoken – that he, that both of them somehow understand. Sarah is happy rebuilding her life with David, and Frank of course is utterly devoted to Karen, and neither of them want anything different. But maybe in some other world where David did die, and Karen was fucking sensible enough to stay far away from Frank (he still doesn’t know why she sticks around, not entirely, but no good can come of asking), maybe it would have been this. Maybe Frank and Sarah would have ended up somewhere, somehow, as part of their own little makeshift family. You never know.

After another moment, Sarah lets go of him, discreetly wiping her eyes, and leans up to kiss his cheek. “We’re – ” She stops, and has to start again. “We’re really glad you’re here.”

Frank grins crookedly at her, and steps into the warm house. Heads down the hall into the dining room as Zach and Leo jump to their feet in surprise, and Leo races to hug him like she wants to win an Olympic medal. Frank grunts. “Easy, sweetheart.”

She ignores him, which probably he deserves, and hugs a moment more before letting go, and he tousles her hair and grins at her. Zach is a little more cautious, but at least the kid seems to have gotten over his wannabe-tough-guy shtick after being kidnapped by some people a lot worse than anything he could have come up with. He coughs. “Hi, Pete.”

“Hey, kid.” Frank doesn’t bother correcting him, just as David emerges from the kitchen, carrying a glistening golden-brown challah. Upon sight of their unexpected visitor, he doesn’t drop it, but it’s close, and Frank clears his throat. “Happy Hanukkah.”

David recovers himself, puts the challah on the table and covers it, then stares at Frank. After a long pause he says, “Thanks, asshole.”

They look at each other for another long moment, then step toward each other, do the bro-shake, and clap each other clumsily on the shoulder. David half-hugs him, and Frank hugs him back, even as he has a feeling that he’s probably in for a roast, overtly or otherwise, for at least the first half of the night, and definitely after the kids go to bed. They step apart as Sarah and Karen enter the dining room, David recalls his duties as a host and offers to pour the wine, and Zach offers to get Frank an extra yarmulke. He agrees, and sits down, and thinks that he had a dream like this once, a nightmare. It was his family, Maria and the kids, and David’s, and it was Thanksgiving, at least until the armed men stormed in. Half of him can’t help looking for them now. It probably will never stop.

Tonight, however, they aren’t there. Tonight there’s company, and food, and the second candle in the menorah. Tonight the world goes on, and spins softly into the darkness of a winter night and toward the beginning of tomorrow, and Frank Castle, somehow, goes too.

#netflix punisher #the punisher #kastle #kastle ff #frank castle

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builder051 · 6 years

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Shards of psycho

Creedless Assassins (Nat and Clint, pre-Avengers). Set approx. 2002. Contains references to self-harm and self-induced vomiting in a non-eating disorder context.

_____

Oh, she's sweet but a psycho

A little bit psycho

At night she's screamin'

"I'm-ma-ma-ma out my mind"

Oh, she's hot but a psycho

So left but she's right though

At night she's screamin'

"I'm-ma-ma-ma out my mind

--Ava Max

_____

“Shards o’ Glass popsicles are for adults only.”

“What the fuck…?” Nat stares at the words fading to black on the TV screen. They’re not the same words she’s hearing. She isn’t sure if it’s a test or if she’s going nuts.

“Geez.” Clint steps out of the bathroom, shirt untucked and tie draped over one shoulder. “Ok.” He ducks between Nat and the television. The blue glow of the next commercial illuminates a stubborn cowlick on the top of his head. The individual hairs wiggle in the static pull as he leans close to the box and looks for the power button. “You know that’s not real, right?”

Clint succeeds in turning off the TV, then crosses his arms and leans against the wall beside it. “Popsicles covered in broken glass? It’s a ploy to get people to quit smoking.”

“Huh.” Nat nods as if she understands. She can fool most people with a little sprinkle of faux sincerity, but Clint knows her too well. He narrows his eyes and Nat can practically see him noting the tells—her stance a touch too symmetrical, her motion a smidge too smooth.

“What’s the problem?” he asks. He flicks his gaze back to the blank TV screen, then looks at Nat again, his brows knitting in shock and concern. “You don’t want one, do you?”

Nat doesn’t rush to answer. If she says no in a hurry, Clint will only see through her. He will if she says no at all. So instead she matches his squint and glams onto the furthest fact she can without crossing the threshold into outright evasiveness. “You’ve seen that before?”

Clint nods. “You haven’t?”

Nat shakes her head, the motion much more natural. It’s almost embarrassingly so, as if she were born to be defiant.

“It’s on all the time,” Clint says with a laugh. “Truth media, I think?” He shrugs. “Something partnership for a drug-free America.”

“Right,” Nat scoffs. It would be absurdly petty to use the fact that she isn’t American to rationalize her penchant for dangerous behaviors. Even stupid ones, like slicing open her tongue for a lick of artificial strawberry. She imagines the juice running down her chin, thick and syrupy and mixed with blood. It’s not a hard image to draw up, and not entirely unappealing. Kind of like the pack of Marlboros at the bottom of her purse.

“What, don’t you watch TV on your days off?” Clint’s beginning to look incredulous.

“Yeah, of course.” Nat gives her hair a toss, the auburn waves dipping into her peripheral vision. It doesn’t take much of a stretch of imagination to turn the flash of scarlet into spray from a bullet wound. “I catch the news. Sometimes.” She steps closer to Clint, grinning manically. “You just think I’m weird because you watch too much.”

Nat uses both hands to smooth down Clint’s unruly hair, but it springs back up the moment she removes them. “I’m pretty sure only Cartoon Network does this much damage.”

“Hey, I don’t—” Clint starts, but Nat cuts him off and pushes him to sit on the edge of one of the beds.

“We’ve slept in the same room. Don’t lie to me.”

“Fine. Guilty.” Clint’s cheeks go pink. “Let’s not bring that up half an hour before my wedding, alright?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Nat says sarcastically. “You going all stodgy family man already? I thought you’d at least make it through the honeymoon before you gave up the ghost.”

Nat makes to head into the bathroom for a wet comb, but Clint grabs her arm. His calloused hand wraps all the way around her wrist and then some. “Hey,” he says, his smile slowly dropping into something more serious. “Nothing’s gonna change, ok?” Clint blinks, and Nat sees her silhouette reflected back in his eyes. “I’m not giving up the ghost. Alright Casper?” The corners of his mouth spring back into a grin.

Nat doesn’t want to smile, but she can’t help herself. It started off as a learned response, but now it’s her natural reaction when she’s about to cry.

“Here.” Clint gives her arm a tug, and Nat trips into his knees. He pulls her onto his lap and presses a soft kiss to her cheek. A chaste, brotherly kiss, but a kiss nonetheless.

Nat counts the seconds on her exhale, pushing her lungs until they’re completely empty, then picturing a diamond-bright shard boring a puncture to keep them from filling again.

“You can’t wear your tie like that.” She yanks on the end, intending to hold it up like a noose, but unsecured, the find grey silk slips off Clint’s shoulder and onto the floor. Nat hops down to retrieve it, not sorry for the excuse to break contact. As soon as they’re apart, though, she wants to touch him again. Or at least get close. “you can’t wear your hair like that, either,” she says.

“Who made you the fashion police?” Clint complains, though he stands and moves back toward the bathroom. Willingly, it seems.

“Um. You?” Nat offers. “Unless it was Laura.”

“Yeah.” Clint starts to laugh. “Like I said. Guilty.”

“Come on.” Nat pushes him against the bathroom counter and yanks his collar into place so she can get to work on the tie. A subtle buzzing comes from the mirror, and Nat realizes it’s vibrating against the wall. She doesn’t have to look up at Clint’s face to know they’ve made a silent pact to ignore whatever’s going on in the room next door.

“You gotta learn how to do this yourself.” Nat tells him, giving his tie a final adjustment and starting on his hair.

“I will, Clint promises. “I have, like, 20 minutes left to be a stupid bachelor. I’ll shape up tomorrow.”

Nat should grin at the joke, but instead she frowns and checks her watch. “Twenty minutes?” she says. “Try ten. Rule number one: never trust the clock on the hotel coffee pot.”

“Shit,” Clint mutters. He drops his chin and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Early is on time and on time is late.”

“Hey.” Nat dampens her fingers under the tap and smooths his hair again. She doesn’t mean for it to be a comforting motion, but it is anyway. It’s an equal swap, her confidence for his concern. It makes Nat feel a little better to see him losing his cool, and that makes her the guilty one. She deserves a Shards o’ Glass Pop instead of whatever they’re serving at the reception downstairs.

“You’re fixed,” Nat says when Clint’s hair is arranged neatly. “You’re good. Go downstairs and get your girl.”

“Thanks. I know what you mean, but…” Clint gives her an anxious smile. “I’m already with my girl.”

“Don’t let anyone else hear you say that,” Nat warns. But her cheeks twitch into dimples again. Because she feels like bawling again.

“You know what I meant, too,” Clint insists. “Ghost girl.”

And Nat does. They could never really be a couple. It would break up their partnership for one, turning them into the kind of husband and wife who rarely see each other, busy with stressful jobs and fighting over whose turn it is to take out the trash. If either of them is even home to do it. That one time they fucked is always going to be just that. One time. It’s probably better that way; no repeat performance to spoil the memory.

Laura’s going to be in for a rough life. Nat knows she knows it. She’s stronger than Nat is, knowing it and choosing it anyway. Nat isn’t sure if she envies her for it or hates her. The indecision makes her stomach hurt.

Clint takes his suit jacket from the hanger on the back of the door. “Alright,” he says as he slips it on. “I can do this.” He holds out his hand to Nat. “You ready?”

“Uh, yeah, one minute,” she waffles. “You go down. I’ll be there in a sec.” She quickly glances around for an excuse. She picks up a tube of mascara from beside the sink. “Just gonna touch up.”

“Ok.” Clint backs out of the bathroom. “But hurry. On time is late, remember?”

“Your opinion of my short-term memory is insulting.” That’s more like her usual affect.

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint waves his hand dismissively. “See ya down there.”

“Ok.” Nat stays put in front of the mirror until she hears the door to the room close. She keeps listening until she loses Clint’s footsteps at the bank of elevators at the end of the hall.

The people next door are still boning. Clint’s getting married in under ten minutes. And Nat’s going to explode.

She stabs herself hard in the thigh with the hard plastic cap on the mascara. It puts a dent in the sharp crease of her trousers, but it doesn’t hurt. Not enough.

“Fuck,” she breathes. She wants to put a good slice in the inside of her arm. Clint’s razor is there on the counter, tempting her, but blood on her sleeves would be a dead giveaway. Nat chews her tongue, thinking again of the commercial. It’s stupid. She’s stupid.

Nat’s stomach clenches. She crosses to the toilet in two steps and leans down, barely getting her fingers past her teeth before hot bile splashes into the water. She tastes copper mixed with the acid, and when she looks down, a thin veil of rust red swirls with the pale yellow.

Nat shouldn’t feel triumphant. Biting through her tongue or aggravating an ulcer is no cause for celebration. But there’s too much other celebration going on today. Nat needs the counterweight.

She tears off a length of toilet paper and wipes her mouth, then shakily stands up and washes her hands. Nat glances at her delicate gold watch. Three minutes left. It’s enough time, but barely.

She takes a deep breath, willing her diaphragm to stop trembling. She can do this. She’s done harder things. Standing with her friend through a 15-minute ceremony should be nothing. Nat picks up her neat black heels and tucks the room key into her back pocket. She steps into the hallway and runs for the stairs. The elevators are too slow. Plus the privacy of the stairwell will give her a chance to dry her tears.

#creedless assassins #mcu #marvel #natasha romanov #natasha romanoff #black widow #clint barton #hawkeye #angst #sickfic #mental health tw #self harm tw #emeto #emetophilia #emotional hurt/comfort #canon ships and all that jazz #laura barton

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ahouseoflies · 6 years

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The Best Films of 2018, Part III

Parts I and II are here and here.

GOOD MOVIES

70. Mid90s (Jonah Hill)- I usually applaud filmmakers for letting visuals tell the story instead of spelling everything out, but Mid90s needs to spell some more stuff out, especially at the truncated end. His brother brought him an orange juice, so all of the abuse is forgotten? I need a bit more there.

I was always going to be in the tank for this though, having been the same age as the protagonist at the time, owning some of the same shirts as him and hanging some of the same posters on my wall. Despite the "My First Screenplay" beef I had up top, each supporting character gets something to do. Hill shows promise as a director (and the fingerprints of his influences) by being able to shift between poles of emotions in a matter of seconds.

69. McQueen (Ian Bonhote)- Although it waits too long to get into McQueen's depression, this documentary does an adequate job of showing the ups and downs of his life. It was great seeing things I've only read about, like the Voss show.

Here's the thing though: I'm not a genius, but if I were, I would hope that my closest friends and advisers would be able to articulate what made me great. A little less "We were working sixteen-hour days." A little more "He changed art forever."

68. Beautiful Boy (Felix Van Groeningen)- For better and worse, this portrait of a parent's worst nightmare is unrelenting. Surprisingly, the toughest moment is when Nic is fierce with pride, clean for fourteen months. Because when you pause and see that there's an hour left in the movie, you shudder at how low he might end up going.

Van Groeningen's sort of french braid of past and present hasn't changed for his English-language debut, but things worked best for me when he locked in on Timothee Chalamet's mannered but touching performance. I wish the movie had a proper ending.

67. The Kindergarten Teacher (Sara Colangelo)- This takes a little while to get sick and twisted, but I liked it once it did. Part of why it works is Gyllenhaal's commitment to the role. As dark as the character gets--and the film does seem hell-bent on establishing her as a failure when I'm not sure that's true--Gyllenhaal never judges her. It's probably her best performance since SherryBaby.

As for Gael Garcia Bernal, who plays a poetry professor who kisses people and then apologizes and says that he misread the moment and acts all bashful, are we sure about him? Are we sure he's good at acting?

66. The Spy Who Dumped Me (Susanna Fogel)- The spywork of the last half-hour is way too convoluted, but the comedy is fast and loose in service of a sweet female friendship. We're at the stage with the genius of Kate McKinnon in which I just assume that she came up with anything funny on the spot. For example, there's an off-hand joke that her character went to camp with Edward Snowden and was surprised that the news didn't mention how "into ska" he was. It's so bizarre that it had to be improv. Later, when Edward Snowden shows up as a character, I had to admit that the movie was tightly written. But I assumed it was McKinnon first. 65. Ready Player One (Steven Spielberg)- Halfway through Ready Player One, there's a sequence that takes place inside The Overlook Hotel of The Shining. The characters are walking through a photorealistic recreation of that setting, down to the smallest details, but it has been repurposed with different angles for this film. Not only have I literally never seen something like this in a movie, but I never imagined the possibility of such a thing existing. And somehow...it's corny and derivative.

So goes Ready Player One. It takes the simple pleasures of a Chosen One narrative with a killer villain, loads every corner of the frame with Ryu or Beetlejuice or a Goldie Wilson campaign poster, and punishes you with maximalism. Each piece reliably contributes to the whole, sometimes in thrilling and amusing fashion, but no matter when you check your watch, forty-five minutes are left.

When imdb came out, Steven Spielberg was one of the first people I looked up. What shocked me was how many projects I attributed to his direction when he had only produced them. In my kid brain, Spielberg had directed Gremlins or Goonies or An American Tail. They had his imprimatur of whimsy and wonder and childhood identification even if they were, you know, a bit more conventional and less purposeful than the movies he directed. Well, not since Tintin has there been a Steven Spielberg-directed film that feels more Spielberg-produced.

My favorite reference was the Battletoads. Or more accurately, imagining the seventy-two-year-old filmmaker going, "Oh, you know I gotta get the 'Toads up in this bih!"

64. Ben Is Back (Peter Hedges)- Despite a little bit of note-card screenwriting--"Get a line about how insurance doesn't care about drug addiction in there!"--The first two-thirds take their time revealing information to the viewer, dropping bread crumbs of the family history quite gracefully. Roberts and Hedges play off each other well, and their charisma powers the first half. She, of course, has an ample bag of Movie Star tricks, but, surprisingly, he already does too. You can see, in the confrontation at the mall, for example, how the mother's dissembling and conniving would pass down to him.

So it's a real bummer when the final third decides to separate the leads and rushes to a baffling conclusion. It falls apart like few movies in recent memory.

63. Avengers: Infinity War (Anthony Russo, Joe Russo)- Whatever. I admire the skill that it must have taken to balance the revolving wheel of characters--even if it does feel like check-ins half the time. The movie is exhausting in a bad way until it's exhausting in a good way. More importantly, here are my power rankings. (Their power in my own heart. Thanos is obviously the most powerful.)

1. Rocket 2. Hawkeye (Renner Season even when it isn't.) 3. The Collector 4. Black Panther 5. Thanos 6. Iron Man 7. Ned 8. Nick Fury 9. Star Lord 10. Thor (His scene with Rocket is the best one in the film.) 11. Gamora 12. Hulk (Your boy is so earnest in this. "They KNEW!") 13. Spider-Man 14. Wong 15. Okoye 16. Doctor Strange (Way cooler in this than his own movie.) 17. Captain America (His hair was beautiful.) 18. Drax 19. Pepper Potts 20. Falcon 21. Groot 22. Black Widow 23. Winter Soldier 24. Loki (Is he alive? Was he alive before this? Can he impersonate people or whatever even if he's dead? What's his deal?) 25. Scarlet Witch (Her first line is, getting out of bed, "Vis, is it the stone again?") 26. Gamora's Sister (No, you look it up.) 27. War Machine (Do you think Cheadle forgets that he's in these? Like, he misses a day of shooting just because he forgot?) 28. Vision 29. Whatever Peter Dinklage Was

62. The Old Man & the Gun (David Lowery)- Sissy Spacek's character explains, on a tour of her house, that she pulled up some wallpaper and found a signature from 1881 underneath, which is so unique that--ugly as it is--she couldn't bear to cover it. The movie is sort of about that. Does a way of life from a long time ago matter now?

Does it matter how you present yourself? How much does intention cancel out action?

The questions play themselves out in a way that is formally interesting--Lowery swish-pans and advances the scenes in a way that he hasn't since Ain't Them Bodies Saints--but informally pretty dull. Redford is engaging as possible, but I feel like I maxed out on my concern for a person who refuses to change.

I've had the Sean Penn "on one" scale for a long time, but I'm introducing the "off one" scale for Casey Affleck, who is so purposefully muted that he seems like he's going to pass out in some scenes. Keep doing you, Case. As far as acting goes.

61. Disobedience (Sebastian Lelio)- I admired how little the film spelled out about the setting and the characters' pasts. The beginning is cautious without being slow, and the women seem drawn to each other with a sort of magnetism that is difficult to pull off. While the triangle of people at the center is realistic and fair, the picture is ultimately a bit staid. I don't want melodrama out of the story either, but I do think it would work better if the characters were more passionate about anything, even the religion that makes them lack passion. 60. Crazy Rich Asians (Jon M. Chu)- This movie is sweet, and it nails the rom-com fulcrum scenes that it has to. Hear me out though: Both of the leads are winning, and Henry Golding's charm keeps us from acknowledging that his character is a psycho. Here is a list of things that, over the course of a year, he does not bother to tell his girlfriend:

a. That his family is the wealthiest in Singapore. Or wealthy at all. But more notably, he tells Rachel no details at all about his family, such as his brothers' and sisters' names. b. That he skipped an important trip home a few months ago, which caused a rift in his family. c. How to pack or dress for their trip to visit his family. d. That his mother did not want them sleeping together at her house, not that he "wants her all to himself." e. That his family wants him to take over their business, which would necessitate a permanent move to Singapore. f. That he went out with one of the women attending the bachelorette party, and that this woman has very good reason to sabotage Rachel and Nick's current relationship. g. That the wedding they're attending is also a super-rich affair that will be covered by international media. h. That the wedding party they're attending the night before is a formal affair with hundreds of guests, not the "family party" that he presents it as. By the way, this is one of the two times that he not only doesn't accompany her to an event, expecting her to meet him there and find him, but he doesn't even send a car. i. That he's thinking about proposing to her. "We haven't even talked about that stuff," Rachel tells her mother.

Communication is key, Nick.

59. Lean on Pete (Andrew Haigh)- I liked the first half and its patient doling out of information. Haigh sews quite a few credible threads to show why the gruff Dell would take a liking to Charley. When the film diverges into a drifter story, I got frustrated with it. To me, drifter characters aren't interesting because they take unpredictable actions, what enliven films, and make them predictable. A dine-and-dash is a dangerous, exciting thing to happen in a movie, but when this scared kid has already done so much similar running, it dulls that edge. This is Haigh's least successful film, but it's still empathetic and sensitive.

58. Hereditary (Ari Aster)- The first third of Hereditary is when it is at its most intimate and compact as a story of grief. And with the bridge of a genuinely shocking event, it becomes less Don’t Look Back and more of a hellish explainer.

Ari Aster is a master craftsman already, investing every element with intention, down to “Why are clocks so present in the frame?” That craft extends to Toni Collette, who is even better than she normally is. But in refusing to be mysterious and small, the film didn't connect with me on a level beyond admiration..

57. Gringo (Nash Edgerton)- The expository information about the company comes too late, the ending is too tidy, and I'm not sure what my girl Mandy Seyfried is doing in this. But it's funny overall, in large part because Theron and Edgerton bounce off each other beautifully, projecting a very specific brand of nouveau riche awful. She says, "Fat people are...hilarious," and he wears too many accessories in his pick-up basketball game, for which there's a running clock.

Many of these crime comedies fail because all of the characters are painted with the same cynical brush, but Oyelowo is so likable here as a frazzled guy in over his head, playing against the type of simmering dignity he inhabited as someone like Martin Luther King. I'm glad that he's getting at-bats with something this different.

56. Bad Times at the El Royale (Drew Goddard)- If you like table-setting (and I do), then this is going to be a fun time. Each room at the motel gets a two-sided mirror, each character is two-faced, many events are presented from two perspectives, and there's even a double in the title. It's hard not to share in Goddard's delight as he patiently lays out all of the Tarantinian pieces.

Once he has to start declaring things though, somewhere halfway in the meandering two and a half hours, the film doesn't end up having much to say. I'm not sure I wanted another Cabin in the Woods ending, but I did want it to add up to more than the modest pleasures that it does. Kudos to Chris Hemsworth and his dialect coach for finally piecing together a serviceable American accent.

55. Thunder Road (Jim Cummings)- As far as calling card movies go, this one is a pretty smart character study. It centers on how the things we find important, the impact of words in this case, can often be the things we struggle with the most, through dyslexia and spoonerisms and messed-up jokes in this case. That being said, no offense, the film would be 25% better with a more capable lead actor. 54. Annihilation (Alex Garland)- Much like Sunshine, another Alex Garland script, this story handles the mystery elegantly, with jolts of real horror, until we get where we're going, which doesn't live up to the promise. I do appreciate that it respects the viewer's intelligence--withholding answers to questions, sometimes never answering questions. I'm grateful that it exists. 53. BlacKkKlansman (Spike Lee)- Like Chi-Raq and Red Hook Summer, BlacKKKlansman would make for a hell of a YouTube compilation if you cut together its best moments. It's sharp and vital when it's at its best, which is pretty much any time it's commenting on the present, through "Now more than ever" Nixon campaign posters, mentions of how David Duke's policies might show up in Republican platforms, or the searing epilogue that brings back one of Lee's oldest tricks.

Like a lot of his recent work though, it's a mess tonally, and basic stuff like the timing of the cuts seems amateurish. I also think Lee's relationship with Terence Blanchard is hurting him at this point; the music doesn't match what's going on at all. I wish it hung together better than it does.

52. Widows (Steve McQueen)- This is the messiest film that Steve McQueen has made, which is its biggest strength and its biggest weakness. That loose quality allows for some expressive moves, such as when the alderman candidate takes a real-time two-minute ride from the poor area where he's campaigning to the tony area where he lives, in the same district. This is a film with admirable ambition to go with its cheap thrills.

But that same messiness produces as many bad performances (Farrell, Neeson, and, yes, Duvall) as it does good ones (Debicki, Henry, Kaluuya), and it elides so many moments near the end that I have lingering questions about whether a major plot point was even resolved. This is definitely the type of movie that has a three-hour cut that is better, and I still hope that director's cut doesn't waste five scenes on Debicki's prostitute relationship with Lukas Haas. (Where is his sliver of a face on the poster?)

51. The Death of Stalin (Armando Iannucci)- I feel as if I have to adjust to the astringency of any Iannucci property, and when I do, I laugh a lot. This movie is hilarious, and I'll save you from a list of the jokes that work the best.

Iannucci and his collaborators take one of the most violent, tyrannical periods of history and expose its perpetrators as sniveling, feckless children who might accidentally spit in their own faces as they're trying to spit on someone else's. Destabilizing those in power--in this case de-memorializing them--and portraying them as lost, scared humans is the goal of satire. So even though he does it so well, part of me wonders, "Is that it?" Bureaucracy is dumb? Isn't this an easy target? For what it's worth, I felt the same way about In the Loop, despite everyone else's praise. I'm waiting for Iannucci to find a weapon sharper than the middle finger.

50. Tully (Jason Reitman)- In a way, it's refreshing for a screenwriter to be bad at writing men. The outdated, clueless, manchild dad is the biggest weakness of the script, especially since everything else is pitched with such realism. There's also one scene that I hate but probably shouldn't spoil.

Put aside that character though, and this is a movie with wit, verisimilitude, and even a bit of visual agility. The protagonist--Marlo, a Diablo Cody name if there ever was one--has a special needs son, and I appreciated the honest way that Marlo's frustration with him sometimes outweighed her understanding.

49. Fahrenheit 11/9 (Michael Moore)- Fahrenheit 11/9 is diffuse, but it's effective enough to be in the top half of Moore's work. He stays out of it mostly (besides that familiar narration, as gentle as it is ashamed), but his heart is clearly in the searing Flint section. In fact, I wish he had made a documentary that focused only on that American travesty, not all of them.

He has the same challenge that many of us do--pointing out the crimes and perversions of Trump while keeping the high ground--and he doesn't always avoid the low-hanging fruit. Dubbing Trump's voice over Hitler's is the type of shit that people hate him for. At most turns, however, Moore's choices make sense. A long diversion into the Parkland kids, even though I find them kind of tiring personally, serves as an inspirational peak to the valley of any people of a generation or two earlier than them.

48. Isle of Dogs (Wes Anderson)- Many Wes Anderson movies are flippant about death and disease. When the effect works, it's refreshing and disorienting. When it doesn't, like in this movie, it feels cold, as if he's moving dolls around in a playhouse.

But in every other way, the sweet and wry Isle of Dogs benefits as a manicured chamber piece. The details are obvious (the tactile fur on all of the dog puppets), less obvious (a translation provides the legend "very sad funeral" to accompany a news story), and even less obvious (more than one joke about how many syllables should be in a haiku). If the narrative--jaded stray finds redemption through guileless child--doesn't offer much in the way of re-invention for the director, then I'm glad the large canvas does.

47. You Were Never Really Here (Lynne Ramsey)- I wanted an artsy crime film, and I got an artsy crime film. I have no idea if I liked it. It's bleak and groady, more of a violence movie than an action movie, concerned with the cycle of abuse and the oily spread of vengeance. It begins twenty minutes after most films of its type might choose to, and it begins in earnest at the hour mark. The atonal Jonny Greenwood score is a perfect approximation of whatever kind of dark clouds are floating in the protagonist's head.

Even when it doesn't work, the film is a reminder that Lynne Ramsey is a real artist. Although this doesn't come close to the catharsis and real-world relevance of We Need to Talk About Kevin, it reveals a focused point of view. Whether it's depicting a sequence through only surveillance footage or cutting to a half-second of flashback, she includes exactly what she wants to.

46. The Commuter (Jaume Collet-Sera)- I gave Non-Stop two-and-a-half stars, and this is a much more elegant version of Non-Stop. Even though it succumbs to gross CGI and outsized conspiracy, the class-conscious table setting is non-pareil, and it lets Neeson act his age.

45. Vice (Adam McKay)- Vice is a difficult film to evaluate because its greatest strength, the resolute, partisan, experimental point of view, is also its greatest weakness, the hand-holding, pedantic, antic point of view. There are moments in this film--the menu scene, the fake-ending--that are more inventive than anything else this year. And credit to McKay for a sui generis structure that covers thirty years in the first hour and two years in the second hour; if nothing else, he has the talent to make unitary executive theory fun.

It's a big, angry, auteurist, '70s swing, so it also takes a lot of chances that don't work and, quite obviously, it wields poetic license in the way that Ron Burgundy swished around a glass of scotch. Sometimes it doesn't know when to trust the viewer, like when it freeze frames and flashes "George H.W. Bush, President, 1989-1993" over a Bush-looking guy talking about "Barbara and I" as his son misbehaves in the background. Through no fault of McKay's, the story feels anti-climactic as well. Although I felt more distance than I expected from events that I consider recent history, the dominoes are still falling in the world that Cheney shaped.

One thing that is less debatable is Christian Bale's transformation into Cheney. That word "transformation" is used any time a famous person wears a wig. This performance, which spans decades and is not directly related to any of Bale's other work, is different. The portrait of Cheney is one of monolithic evil, which Bale suggests, but it's also grounded in reticent, clenched jaw micro-movements. Cheney, who is four inches shorter than Bale, seems like the smallest and biggest man in any room. At this point, if you told me Bale was playing Grendel, I wouldn't bat an eye. In fact, his Grendel might look a lot like Dick Cheney.

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deadcactuswalking · 5 years

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REVIEWING THE CHARTS: 21st April 2019

There’s two new arrivals this week and other than one other story not much happened this week so this is going to be a really short episode without a featured song but I don’t care, I needed a break anyway, we’ve had some busy weeks very recently, I’m going to take advantage of a slow week.

Top 10

We barely get any country on the UK charts mostly because country is very, very American so there’s barely any real crossover most of the time, although Florida Georgia Line have cropped up a few times before. So that’s why I think the success of Lil Nas X and Billy Ray Cyrus’ “Old Town Road” is so puzzling, at least internationally, because countries like those in the UK are not typically all too friendly to country and/or trap, at least before about 2017 when urban music really started to take a step up in popularity within Britain. I guess it just struck a chord at the right time, especially with the cowboy aesthetic that I see in fashion recently, how we’ve reached peak trap, the acceptance of comedy and meme-rap in the mainstream, unfortunately thanks to Lil Dicky and simply how Lil Nas X is one of us. He was a Twitter comedian and Nicki Minaj stan account, so I’m sure his personality and character is relatable to people right now. We’re still experiencing some 90s nostalgia resurgence right now so Billy Ray Cyrus’ addition just made it perfect... and yes, that means that there’s a new #1. Lil Nas X and Billy Ray Cyrus’ first, “Old Town Road” is up one space from last week to the top of the charts, and I’m not complaining. While I’m a tad more lukewarm on the original, I do think that Billy Ray Cyrus adds a lot to the track and I’ve been rooting for its success ever since it started to be in TikTok memes, so this is a pretty cool event here, even if it’s already been #1 in the US for like four weeks, and I’m pretty sure it’s more of an international cultural phenomenon than I ever expected it to be.

Wow, what a drawn-out speech just to say some country-rap song from a Nicki Minaj stan has hit #1. Speaking of wastes of time, Lewis Capaldi’s “Someone You Loved” is of course down a spot to number-two from last week.

Billie Eilish’s “bad guy” is still at number-three.

MEDUZA and Goodboys continue to rise a spot to number-four with “Piece of Your Heart”.

Also up a space from last week is Tom Walker’s “Just You and I” at number-five.

“Giant” by Calvin Harris and Rag ‘n’ Bone Man has a particularly bad week down two spots to number-six.

The interesting story here is Russ splash and Tion Wayne, however, both having their second top 10 hit in the UK thanks to “Keisha & Becky”, which debuted a few weeks ago in the top 20 and went absolutely nowhere, but has suddenly boosted up 23 spots to number-seven. Maybe there’s been a video released – but that can’t be it because it quite literally debuted with a video already released. I soon found out that there’s a remix with Aitch, JAY1, Sav’O and Swarmz. I’ve talked about JAY1 and Swarmz before, but otherwise this is new territory and while I still have the same problems with the chorus especially, but the verses aren’t bad here, and Tion Wayne ending his with humming is pretty funny. Aitch is just embarrassing though, Sav’O and JAY1 are non-existent and Swarmz references “Gucci Gang”. It’s also way too long now, so I would in no way call it an improvement.

Down a spot from last week is Jonas Brothers with “Sucker” at number-eight.

Also down one space from last week is Dave with “Location” featuring Burna Boy at number-nine.

Finally, “Here with Me” is at #10, rounding off our top 10 with CHVRCHES’ first ever top 10 hit and Marshmello’s fifth, up a spot from last week.

Climbers

I find it funny that I concluded the last episode or so with mentioning how I can see all the debuts being hits but none of them are really going away right now, so I hope they’re slow burners. Speaking of, Alec Benjamin’s “Let Me Down Slowly” featuring Alessia Cara is up five spaces to #31, and that’s the only notable climber we have.

Fallers

We have a handful more of these, however. Billie Eilish’s “bury a friend” continues its fall down five spots to #15, as does “wish you were gay” funnily enough also by Billie Eilish at #26. “MONOPOLY” by Ariana Grande and Victoria Monét is also down seven positions to #30, prematurely joining long-term hits like “Wow.” by Post Malone down six spaces to #32. Oh, and there was an absolutely massive collapse for Ariana Grande’s “break up with your girlfriend, i’m bored” thanks to streaming cuts and dumb UK chart rules, down 24 spaces to #39.

Dropouts & Returning Entries

Remember when I said last week’s debuts would have longevity? Well... “My Bad” by Khalid is out from #32, “Kill This Love” by BLACKPINK drops out as expected from #33 and “Cool” by Jonas Brothers is out from #39. Otherwise, as I figured, “Streatham” by Dave is out from #40 and that’s all. In terms of returning entries, “Sunflower” by Post Malone and Swae Lee is back at #40 for some reason and for equally no reason, “Who Do You Love” by the Chainsmokers and 5 Seconds of Summer is back at #36. Sure?

NEW ARRIVALS

#13 – “Boy with Luv” – BTS featuring Halsey

Produced by Pdogg – Peaked at #1 in Malaysia and South Korea, #8 in the US

BTS have a new “Comeback”, because that’s what all their albums are called, I guess, even if their eras are non-existent. That’s one thing I don’t really like about K-pop – the mismanagement, and how the bands are overworked, but I suppose that’s none of my business, I’m just here to review the music – and, yes, this is the lead single and video from K-pop boy band BTS’ album and/or EP MAP OF THE SOUL : PERSONA, featuring... Halsey? To clarify it’s pretty much just a brief cameo, she doesn’t add anything to the song at all other than some crossover potential and to be fair I think that it will help them have more longevity unlike most K-pop songs that end up on the main charts. The beat is pretty barebones initially, just a vocal samples and a pretty groovy bassline actually, under a pretty steady drum beat which feels more organic than most K-pop beats, which usually go for a stilted trap beat. I can’t tell the difference between the BTS boys and Halsey, but I will say the pre-chorus is really catchy, even though I feel like I’ve heard it all before, it has a slight resemblance to “Wolves” by Selena Gomez and Marshmello, I see? The “oh, my, my, my” refrain reminds me of something I cannot exactly place my fingertip on and it’s really annoying, maybe it’s “Sweet but Psycho” by Ava Max but not exactly? I don’t really care, though, because it still suffers from what all K-pop does, the randomly-placed trap-rap verses which, while usually flowing well and okay within themselves, are not placed into the song as if it was an actual part of the song, as in, cohesive composition, and instead like an abrupt beat switch for no apparent reason. To be fair, this is more comprehensible than most other K-pop, but for BTS’ second top 40 hit (First top 20) and Halsey’s sixth (Fourth top 20), it is disappointing, especially with knowledge of the other artists’ work, which is mostly pretty damn good.

#12 – “SOS” – Avicii featuring Aloe Blacc

Produced by Avicii, Albin Nedler and Bonn – Peaked at #1 in Finland and Sweden, and #68 in the US

So, yeah, EDM DJ Tim Bergling committed suicide last year, there’s no way to avoid talking about that, and as to be expected with (And has since happened to) pop stars who die, posthumous albums will be released, the first of Avicii’s being Tim. While Avicii supposedly had the instrumental prior and all was needed was for Aloe Blacc to add some songwriting and lay down his vocals, it is stil like most posthumous releases, somewhat empty, and since a representative stated that there weren’t any plans to release any music, it does feel pretty scummy just a year later, but this is the only song really generating all too much profit for the producers and songwriters (Mostly because of the writing credits for TLC, ironically excluding the member who passed away), because of how all of the profits the album generates are going to the Tim Bergling Foundation, spreading mental health awareness, and I can’t knock that, so I do respect his label and close friends and family for producing this record. This is Avicii’s 14th UK Top 40 hit, the first of which that is posthumous, and his 12th Top 20, as well as Aloe Blacc’s fourth Top 40 and Top 20 hit, and honestly it’s pretty good. Sure, it sounds somewhat unfinished, and it really isn’t anything unique, but I love Blacc’s voice and the hook is insanely catchy, mostly because of the interpolation of “No Scrubs”, with the overproduced synths producing a legitimately good build-up into a relaxed but fun EDM drop, and I don’t really have any complaints about it, other than the fact that due to the circumstances, Aloe Blacc’s subject matter is unfortunately ironic and perhaps misguided, but I understand his intentions with having the song portraying a man, possibly detailing Avicii’s own personal struggles, willing to stop being reliant on drugs for the love of his life, and that’s a message I can get behind. For what it’s worth, I like this, but I’m not sure how moral it is or how long it’ll stick around.

Conclusion

It’s kind of slim pickings here, but I’ll go with Avicii and Aloe Blacc in terms of Best of the Week for “SOS” but I don’t dislike “Boy with Luv” at all so I think BTS and Halsey can scrape through with an Honourable Mention and there are no negative titles this week, because nothing here is worth getting angry about. Follow me on Twitter @cactusinthebank for more pop music ramblings and Top 20 rankings, and I’ll see you next week!

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blckbrdflyy · 8 years

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Oh 18 year old me & how not much has changed.

I’m now 30 and this was written in 2004 when I had just turned 18. It’s crazy how after all these years alot of this is still accurate. (Ignore the misspelling and grammatical errors I did not want to spend the time editing and wanted to keep it raw)

“my name is cathy but most know me as cat. i am very informed and opinionated and i love to debate. i am very open minded. i hate drama. pretty girls make me feel inferior. i like to be in love. shaggy haired guys are gorgeous. i play the guitar, write poetry and skateboard. i also love my art. i am going to be going to college to major in graphic design. i like solitude but if it werent for my friends i would go crazy. i am a foster child but do not feel sorry for me or expect me to tell you my life story. i love my family very very much but they will probably never know that. i am very shy and timid at first but i eventually open up to a whole new person. i am always changing and thats part of life. i do smoke pot and cigarettes, i do drink and i do party. i will never push my choices off on anyone so dont push yours on me. if you dont like it you dont have to. i am not on here to get the highest amount of friends. i do cry alot. i am a very emotional and sensitive person. i love to be in love. i love to laugh. i love to just have fun. i am a HUGE pessimist and it sucks. i am very unorganized. i refuse to be cheated on ever ever again. i will not suffer through another damn heartache. i am very gullible. i sleep with a night light on and music cause i have always been afraid of the dark. i worry too much. i eat alot of pickles and potato chips. i like to read alot and escape into the worlds that can be created by masterminds of the english language. i am not any kind of core, i am not scene, i am not straightedge, i am not punk, i am not gothic, i am not emo, i am not indie, i am not gangster, i am not preppy, i am not a metal head i am just my fucking self, so even though you may classify me it will never change who i am or how i see myself. i have a very low self esteem. i love hanging out with guys having burping contests and playing video games. i am a cat person. i love going to the park and swinging and always hoping that i will go over that bar into another dimension like swinger girl. i watch too much television. i am very passionate about the things i enjoy. i think i was born way to late. my favorite time period would be the 1900’s. i always try too hard to get people to like me. i am quite the insomniac. i bite my fingernails. i dye my hair alot and i think its going to fall out soon. i have thyroid cancer. i hate it when people feel sorry for me and pity me in any way. i love being the center of attention but large groups make me very nervous. i love kids and babies and old people. i hate to fight. i always feel really bad if i hit someone even if its my little sister and she just punched me in the face. i always put myself in someone elses shoes. i have scoliosis. i think society is just as fucked up as our government is. i hate george bush and there is nothing you can say or do that will ever change my mind. i am eighteen years old. i am worried that i will never find a love that was lost. i wish i didnt have to die. death scares the shit out of me. i hate thinking that everyone will eventually die. i believe in faith of the heart and mind because all organized religions are fuckin corrupt. i like watching cartoons. my favorite candy bar is twix but i dont like chocolate that much. i hate milk. i love love love ice cream. my favorite season is autumn because i think it is so beautiful and feels wonderful. winter is my least favorite because it is dreary cold and depressing. i do not hate my life but i wish there were alot of things that i could change. i do not like people that are racist and judgemental because they think they are so much better than others, its ignorant. i like to paint my nails. i like to make jewlery. i shop at the thrift store and the flea market. i really like boys not just as love interests but they make the best friends for me because they are much more carefree and fun to be around. i read alot. everyone including myself is a hypocrit at one time or another.i cant wait to get the hell out of highschool but i dont want to go into the real world just yet. i hate letting go but i have a hard time getting attached. expressing my feelings verbally is one of the hardest things for me to do. i am sometimes too nice that i get taken advantage of, i have a hard ass time being mean unless you are making fun of someone or just being an asshole. i want to join the peace corps. i want to live in australia. money is evil but so good to have. i have never seen three of my sisters and havent seen my real mom since i was six. my dad was a marine and he is a psycho abusive person and my step mom is a drunk. my older sister can be a huge bitch and trys to change who i am but she thinks she is looking out for me, my little brother has no emotion and he is turning out to be like my dad. my little sister is cool and she looks up to me. my grandma and grandpa are really poor but the absolute sweetest people you could ever meet. two of my uncles and a cousin have been to prison. my family is comprised of a lot of backstabbers and snobs. i am part german and cherokee indian. i am an american and damn proud and grateful for all that i have. i ponder all the things in the world non stop and often get so frustrated with all the unanswered questions. i like being popular but only if its for good reason. i would date a girl if she was right for me, but guys are my main thing. i try to help everyone i can through their problems. i love going to concerts and getting in the pit. my biggest pet peeve is when someone gets all competitive over music and has to know everything they possibly can and make you feel like an idiot if you dont. i want to be famous. i want to sing in a band. i am very very pale. i have a fake tooth. i like psychological movies that leave things unanswered to make you think of all the possibilities. i like smoking weed every now and then but i will not let any drug control my life. i have made a lot of mistakes and have a lot of regrets but i move on. if you dont like me chances are i will still like you. i look up to a lot of people such as martin luther king jr., harriet beecher stowe, harriet tubman, abraham lincoln, princess diana, mandy moore, john lennon, johnny cash, my foster mom, brad pitt and jenifer aniston, the dalhai llama, helen keller, elie wiesel, anne frank and last but not least myself. i hate talking on the phone. i miss my childhood and wish i could relive it and change so many things. i dont like cookies or cake too much or even chocolate. i love iced tea with lots of sugar. i love french vanilla roast cofee with lots of cream and sugar. my favorite holiday is thanksgiving. i still go trick or treating. i hate how a big of an influence society has on so many of our personal choices. i believe in karma. i cant wait to be on my own but i am scared. i am afraid of not being accepted but then again i dont want to care or worry about it. i am not a virgin. i love cuddling and making out better than anything else. i like falling asleep in a guys arms. i wish i could read peoples minds cause i always wonder just how they feel or what they are thinking. i love roller coasters and i get really nervous at first but after one time i am hooked and i will ride just about anything anywhere. i like being outside all the time when its warm enough cause when its cold all i do is sleep. i hate grey rainy cold days because they put me in a bad mood and i usually have a bad day. i have always loved making out in the summer or spring rain though its so romantic. i dont like getting gifts of any kind. i love politics. i love late night philosophical discussions. i wont tell you like it is cause i am a pussy and cant be a bitch. i love late night i love yous. i love when guys call me even after i just saw them because they miss me. i love randomness. i love life. i love nature. i love kualas. i love poetry. i love fashion. i love human anatomy. i love singing in the shower. i love playing dress up. i love star gazing in the middle of the night. i love crayola crayons. i love football games. i love fast food. i love mountain dew. i love self expression. i love spontaneity. i love open mindedness. i love stuffed animals. i love hoodies. i love cars. i love difference. i love tube socks. i love dying my hair. i love piercings. i love tatoos. i love monkeys. i like ego boosts every now and then. i love saturday morning cartoons. i can love you given the chance. i love to laugh. i love to smile. i will not change for you. i have opinions and yes they do change. i will not have sex with you. i like school because of the social interaction. i watch the news and read the newspaper alot. i learn slowly. i was diagnosed with manic depression and i am always medication but i dont think i am depressed i think i am like all the other teens, its just teenage angst and mood swings. i think this country is obsessed with diagnosing kids with all possible problem they can. i like my eyes. i struggle with letting things and people go. i like collecting things cause i am a major pack rat…Yep that’s me!”

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