#synapse magazine

[disease]

DATATON 3301 POLYPHONIC COMPUTER SYNAPSE MAGAZINE VOL. 3 #2 [1979]

[toiletpapercosmos]

[strawberrysnoopy]

ACT ONE: The Photo Shoot, part one

prologue

summary of the series: for months, leon has been writhing in his bed dreaming of his friend's wife (you). he's been fighting the desperation for months until that one night you bring up a lingerie shoot you've done for a prestigious brand.

summary of this part: recalling the first time you and leon met, you've realized you've been poorly treated by your husband. leon is no different, in a toxic relationship with his wife, ada wong. as the seeds of resentment have begun to germinate, the desire for you grows like a brush fire nearby.

warnings: MENTIONS OF PUKE, BUT NOT ACTUAL PUKING, leon teaches you how to smoke (i don't wanna see no dumb stupid comments about "oh but leon hates smoking", well leon isn't disloyal but here we are), brief use of (adjective) girl (atta girl, good girl, silly girl), praise, mentions of misogyny (not from Leon ofc), awkward, tense ass convos, a fuckton of desc. and a little description, no sex (yet ;) ), cussing, descriptions of fucking, descriptions of masturbation, semi-public masturbation, almost caught masturbating, slight corruption kink (? if you squint), alcohol consumption, use of tobacco, smoking, implied sexual references, etc.

also a/n, writing this as of feb. 2nd, 2024: 60 notes?!!!!! i was writing this for my own personal pleasure but like...??!?! i got reblogged so many times?! im gagged, tysm you guys!!! making a playlist rn, so excited to release the soundtrack. if you see little random edits, i'm probably obsessing over the fic and trying to make it perfect lol/anticipate changes. i would also like to write I DO NOT CONDONE CHEATING! always communicate with your partner, discuss issues, etc. this fic is just a lil’ taboo type of fantasy, do NOT cheat on your partners.

The first time you met Leon was at a grocery store: two weeks before your husband would have any idea of his existence and one week before he had invited Leon and his wife, Ada, over for dinner. You were picking up a bottle of red wine for you and your husband under the guise of wanting something nice for date night. The reality would actually be you were buying it for yourself after your husband decides you're not worth his affections anymore, lazily mosey on over to the spare room, and pull out his phone to text other women. The wine would be something to drink to inebriate you while you watched a shitty re-run of a sitcom from the 90s. Maybe if you got lucky, Golden Girls was on.

He was only browsing, stumbling upon the liquor section and staying to look if there would be anything worthwhile. And there was. It was you. He knew he had to think of something witty, something cool people say, before you left and thought he was some creep staring at you because he saw a smidgen of your breasts in a magazine. "You're a famous model, right?" He asked. Oh, how stupid he felt. He was a chronic overthinker: thinking of every last terrible scenario, a trait he picked up after becoming an agent. This had certainly felt like one of the worst options he picked, especially with how you would-- You interrupted him. "Yeah, that's me." The subtle sweetness, the slight rasp in your voice was better than anything any street drug could offer with the amount of dopamine flooding into his brain: overloading every neuron, synapse, dendrite, and cell membrane in his body.

But for whatever reason, he stretched his hand outwards and lazily grinned towards you. "I'm Leon." "Nice to meet you. Well, I'd say my name but y'know..." He nodded in an awkward agreement before you could even finish your sentence, but not daring to go as far to interrupt you. He felt as if he already started off the conversation with a cumbersome beginning. "Right, right. So, that's your real name? I see a lot of models use stage names n' stuff like that." He adjusts his weight from one foot to the other, switching the hand holding his grocery basket from his right to his left. He felt so...awkward around you. Maybe it was the fact you were a famous model, or maybe it was the fact you were just so calm. The joke causes a soft chuckle to leave your lips and the mere look of a fleeting moment of bliss to cross over your features makes his knees turn into gelatin. Those nerves solidify into stone when the overwhelming sense of guilt hits him like a tidal wave but allows it to wash over him for the sake of continuing the conversation.

"Yeah, just my regular name. I'm not that creative outside of modeling. Usually the photographers do the thinking and the creative processes for me." He chuckled, shaking his head and barely moving himself a little closer. Leon wanted to sink in that gentle, warm, and soft presence you carried around with you. Your aura felt comforting: like a hug after a tough day: it had felt so much more different than his wife. True, Ada could be affectionate but that's usually only after something good has happened to her or Leon was her last resort of attention. He really hated how much he would act like an obedient dog, awaiting her arrival home, coming back to her after she's treated him like dirt. You? You felt so goddamn altruistic and considerate. And he's only known you for three minutes.

You notice he's gone silent and you're silently hoping he thought you were cool. Cool. Like a teenager trying to fit in. You silently cringe at yourself until he smiles at you, almost like he's signaling you to continue the conversation. You can't think of any conversation starters. And you're a model for gods sake. You're usually so outgoing and social with other people but now it's like a cat came by and stole your voice box. Thankfully, he takes over that portion for you. "Buying wine?" He knew it was dry as all hell but he wanted to steer the conversation away from him being a fan of your modeling gigs. No, he just wanted to talk to you and discover what you were like behind the camera. (Okay, and maybe he wanted to see if you'd flirt with him.) "Yup. But I'm just buying wine for..." You paused, about to say 'for me and my husband' but your throat becomes dry whenever you feel like you're about to announce it to him. "...Myself."

He smiles. He likes that you're awkward in real life. The fact made you feel more real, like you weren't just some sexy model with expensive tastes and a bratty attitude. You were a person like anyone else.

"Right. Me too, just uh...just browsing." You nod, fidgeting anxiously with the sleeves of the coat you decided to toss on last minute before leaving the house.

The conversation went on to end when you eventually realized you would be home late. Although you thought that worrying your husband a little would be the thing that reignited the spark in your marriage, you knew that punctuality was a habit you'd like to upkeep. That, and you also knew if you talked to this handsome stranger for longer, you'd cheat on your husband. That night, Leon had fallen asleep to the thought of you for the first time. Soft little visions of pressing his lips against yours, caressing your cheek softly and whispering sweet nothings into your ear, etc, etc, cheesy lovey dovey bullshit. So much more different than the truly filthy thoughts he had about you nowadays. You're torn from your conversation with your friends when you make eye contact with him. You can practically feel his eyes travel from the hair at the highest point on your head to the very last bit of your black, leathery heels with perfect pretty pearls embellished on the pump. For a moment, you feel like you're trapped in some type of horny labyrinth while you stare longingly at him.

He's ripped out of his own longing by the feeling of your husband's hand slapping his back. Ada sat beside Leon with her arm protectively wrapped around his bicep. You felt as if the gesture were a signal to everyone at the party that Leon belonged to her. He was under her control, nobody else's. Or maybe the protective message was for her husband, as if he was an unruly friend to her husband. And you could agree with that. You fell in love with your husband because he was wild and care-free but after the diamond ring was slipped onto your ring finger, you realized he was also carefree in the sense that hurt you: talking to other women behind your back, and leaving for days at a time only to come back inebriated. But you stood by his side, no matter what. You hated how you felt like a doormat but you didn't know what else to do besides stay married and play the role of an oblivious wife while your husband fucks other women in various positions. In a way, you and Leon sat in the same loveless boat. Who knew when that same boat would be shaking from the violence of the both of you fucking, clothing pulled out and to the side instead of being fully taken off. Your thoughts become interrupted by an unmistakably handsome voice.

"Hey."

You feel a hand being placed upon your lower back except it's so much more different than your husband's. The palms were rough, callouses inside the nooks and crannies, and pulsing veins make you all dizzy if you thought about it for too long. His voice was dampened with some undertone of lust, his fingers prodding into the skin of your sides. He's always been a little too handsy for a man that's supposed to happily married. But you always figured touch was how he communicates: touch. But he's never touchy with your husband. Or any of your friends. And he missed you? Sure, your're friends due to the fact your husband was friends with Leon. (Even though you met him first, but I digress.) The simple phrase had your mind reeling, cheeks flushed red due to the hidden intimacy of it all. His wife shoots him a look and his hand immediately retreats back to his side, fighting the urge to palm the engorged erection struggling against the seam of his boxers. "Haven't seen you in so long, hm? Thought you disappeared on me for a minute." He's holding his facade of being totally and irrevocably in love with Ada up and steady. Like he had no feelings for you other than being friends.

"Of course not." You murmur, feeling a hearty chuckle reverberate from his chest. He takes his index finger and his thumb and gently swiping it against your chin.

"Atta girl." And of course, with how hoarse his voice is, your panties are instantly puddled with a thick pool of arousal. You hate his stupid, thick, sexy, and deep voice. You especially hate his voice whenever you imagine him degrading and praising you whenever your husband was away and you just happened to have your hand down your underwear, playing with your clit to ease the throbbing impulses you felt for Leon. He gives your back a single pat before moving back to stand beside his wife. You really hate that you feel jealousy flare like wildfire within you, but you brush it off.

Everyone would eventually be drawn to the several dining tables that were arranged in a group and had golden candlesticks and smooth white tablecloths on top. Once you are seated, you observe that Leon appears to be striving extra hard to guarantee his place beside you. He looks right at you for a brief moment. And only then can you see, just a hint of thirst sprouting in his eyes, before he glances away from you and gives Ada a quick smile while patting her thigh.

It's only a few minutes before Leon decides to break the awkward silence.

"How's that modeling gig going?" You nod, gulping down way too much champagne.

"Good, been going good. Have to admit it gets a little boring posing in front of the camera after a while but can't bite the hand that pays you, right?" You joke, and the table laughs with some sense of jealousy. "Nice to hear. What was your latest shoot?" He asked, leaning forward in a sudden rush of intrigue. Then those words pass your lips. Words he had never anticipated, even in his wildest guess (oddly.)

"A lingerie shoot. For Chanel." The table goes quiet. And everyone, including your dumb-ass husband, look at you. Someone (Ada) clears their throat in the dining room, hinting at you to elaborate and it's almost like you suddenly developed to ability to hear from light years away.

Leon, who had just finally got his goddamn boner under control feels his cock twitch back to life, fully hard instead of a semi this time. And correct him if he's wrong, but he starts to feel pre-cum smearing his dress pants. He's thankful he chose the black slacks instead of his lighter colored ones otherwise this would be downright humiliating.

"Sorry, um...I did an intimates photo-shoot for Chanel a few weeks ago for their new line of clothing." That seems to help lighten the mood a lot more because everyone goes back to their conversation with their respective friends, the embarrassing "confession" from you immediately leaving their minds. "The theme was Overtime. Like, staying later in the office with my shirt unbuttoned and stuff. Nothing that interesting."

The table simultaneously nodded, Leon going as far to excuse himself for a cigarette.

"If you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go have a smoke." Leon scoots out from his seat, heading towards the upstairs balcony to take care of business. Asshole, leaving me with his mean ass wife.

You decide to join him outside.

The air had finally gotten too tense, felt too judgmental for your taste. Scampering outside, you're met with the sight of Leon smoking a cigarette outside. That's odd: you've usually pegged him to be the straight-laced, no-nonsense type of man yet here he was, smoking a cigarette while leaning against the balustrade of their friend's top floor home. At the sound of the balcony door opening, he turns his head to see what you're doing out here. His eyes scan you, almost like he would while he's in combat but it's more or less to get another glimpse of the outfit you were wearing tonight. Okay, and maybe he wanted to commit the sight of you to memory.

"You alright?" He asked, trying his best to look straight forward when you step closer and cross your arms over the balustrade.

"M'fine, just needed a minute of fresh air, I think." When you sit beside Leon, there's a few things you notice. The first was his outfit. A white button-up that usually would be covered by his black suit jacket, though he left it behind on his chair in the dining room. There's also mentioning his blacks slacks, fitting his muscular thighs a bit tight but loose enough so they're comfortable. Then there's the dress shoes, ones he wore at his wedding due to how overly formal they looked. Maybe he wanted to get some more use out of them? Who knows.

"What about you? Why are you out here?" You decided to be the one to take the reigns since the air outside had become incredibly awkward as well. "Same. Thought I'd take a minute of fresh air, you know?" The second thing you notice about Leon is how much he calms you. More importantly, how much you never noticed that you were anxious when you were around others. He had this aura of relaxing or maybe you were just buzzed, who knows that either? Maybe it's the cigarette, speaking of...

"I haven't smoked since college. Cigarettes, I mean. Don't think I even know how to do it anymore." The confession makes his head tilt to the side, now taking more of an interest in the conversation than before. He grinned wolfishly, taking your chin in one of his thick and strong hands and pulling your head forward. For a second, you could almost be dumb enough to think he'd be moving in for a kiss. Of course not. You'd never be that lucky. "Open f'me, sweetheart." And like an obedient puppy, you opened your mouth just enough so your pretty pink-shaded lips could be parted. He placed the cigarette on your lip, the moisture making the filter stay in your mouth alongside his index and middle finger holding it up, thumb brushing your chin. Little hazes of grey smoke dance along your tongue without even taking a sip of the smoke yet, your lips trembling with a lustful agony. "Now close your mouth..." He whispered, his damp and hot and horny breath hitting your ear like an affectionate declaration of love. "And inhale."

You close your lips around the cigarette, faintly tasting the flavor of him where he had sucked on the cigarette. You got notes of citrus, rum or some expensive, top-shelf label of whiskey he used to help quell the pain he experienced on grueling missions, tobacco, and maybe even the slightest hint of his wife's lipstick. Chanel's Rogue Allure, if you had to guess correctly. "...Now hold it..."

You held it. "Silly girl." He whispered, pulling the cigarette away from your lips while you slowly exhaled the rest of the smoke you've been holding in your mouth and then some. You can't tell if it's because of the alcohol, Leon's presence, or your mere anxiety but you begin to feel dizzy. Thankfully Leon seems to swoop in with his questions to keep your head in the game. Bless him.

"Why'd you need a minute, huh?"

For a minute there, you didn't know how to respond. Looking down at the leathery pumps you chose for the evening, you begin to wonder why you even chose them instead of answering his question. But you answered him. Eventually.

"I'm just tired. This whole night just seems a bit…” You gesture to the party in the background. “Fake. I don’t want to be here."

He hummed in agreement, but it felt like more of a signal for you to keep going. "I'm also just terrible at making conversation. Especially when it's awkward and silent."

His eyes flicker down to the pumps he'd already stared at tonight, not finding an interest in them anymore than your own body. He tucked his lip between his teeth, pulling the pink flesh away from his mouth before he spoke up again. "You're not that bad, you know? I think you're pretty good. How about this?" He pauses. Then a beat passes.

"Tell me something true. Tell me something you wouldn't brag to anyone about." He moved his cigarette to rest on the balustrade instead of the space between his fingers. "Something that's yours...and only yours."

You look at Leon with wide eyes, mouth agape as you struggle to answer his question. Your eyes rake down his face from the space between his eyebrows to his parted, pink lips: just a little chapped from the cold chill of the night air. You wanted to kiss him. All of those times you've had him over for dinner, all of those times you've spent with your hand down your panties while your husband was away on "business": dreaming of his best friend, Leon, and god, all of those times you thought about throwing caution to the wind and leaning in to press your lips against his: the sum of all of those moments had you quivering for more.

But you'd never cheat. You have a reputation. You have a husband that gifted you the pretty diamond ring on your finger. But how did it always feel so...impossible? Like you couldn't live another day if you weren't able to fuck Leon like a rabid dog in heat. But he was staring at you, almost as if his eyes were laser beams and searing holes into your skin: you had to answer.

"I don't know what I could tell you that's only mine." You chew on your lip. "Huh. How about..."

How about the fact I wanna kiss you? I wish it was you I was in bed with rather than my stupid, cheating husband? The fact you are so much hotter than him?

"I hate being a trophy." And that brings the biggest grin on Leon's face. A massive shit-eating grin. Leon had gone stir crazy. He wanted to peel your entire being open, see all of the nooks and crannies of your soul and devour it whole. But now wasn't the time to scare you away: even if he wanted to fuck you, you were still a friend to him. So he calmed down. "I can't say that's too surprising. I mean, who would? Being able to be pretty and have money being tossed at you is nice until you want something deeper. Then it seems like one of the only things that are scarce in your life."

You nod, letting out a breath of consolation. "That's exactly how I feel. Like my only purpose is to sit still, look pretty, serve my husband, and be a hole when he needs it."

His eyes become downcast, looking down at the garden on the ground level of the restaurant. "I get what you mean." The moment was interrupted by a waiter peeking out on the two of you: head poked outside of the door that lead to the outside area. He pulls his hand away from your soft skin and back to his side, sighing wistfully that tonight wouldn't be the night he gets to act on his desires for you. Damn it all to hell.

"You should head back. I'll be back, yeah?" You nod and within a few seconds, you've returned to your spot at the dinner table. He sighs, hand slipping down to palm at his erection. Fuck. Can't go back like this.

Just resist. You're just another woman. You have a husband, He thinks to himself, I'm married to a lovely woman. I am a faithful husband. The silent mantra he practices on himself works about as well as a band-aid on a bullet hole. Resist. God, but you looked so pretty tonight. That cute jewelry set you wore with your little black dress? Hot. The smoothness of your skin?

Resist.

But he can't stop picturing you on your knees in front of him, sucking on his cock. The sounds your perfect, wet mouth would make. How he'd ease himself down your throat. How you'd whine.

Resist.

Or how about when he could be fucking his cock into your tight, wet, and warm cunt? The tip of his dick kissing your cervix? Or what about the positions he could force your body into? Like having his arm around your throat, bicep curling into your mouth to muffle your moans from his wife hearing? Or how one of his hands would be gripping your hips while he needily plowed into your pussy, while you begged him to let up. Resist.

Resist.

Fuck it.

In the few moments after he's excused himself from you, he's already rushing to the upstairs bathroom of the restaurant: thanking the holy beings above for making it a single stall bathroom for his jerking pleasure. He hastily unbuckles his belt with one hand, other hand impulsively opening Twitter as a first resort to find some fashion fanatic post about the slutty lingerie photo-shoot you did for Chanel. Alas, you're still a bit of an undiscovered goddess in the modeling industry at the moment: so Google is his next best option. He pulls out his half-hard but hardening cock from his jeans before he can even find your photo-shoot and gives it a quick few pumps to ease the throbbing that's starting to build up in his loins. Eventually, he finds it. Thank fucking god because the creativity for his fantasies are beginning to run quite dry. And instantly he's grunting and groaning while he strokes his cock and scrolls through the multiple scandalous photos the photographers took of you.

"Fuck." He winces in pleasurable agony as he stares at quite possibly his favorite photo of you. The photo was in black and white: theme being "Overtime" like you mentioned. The white button up shirt was undone, revealing you had nothing on underneath, and allowed for the side of your perfect breasts to be revealed. If he squinted just a little harder, he could see your puffy nipples threatening to peek out of the shirt. He tried squinting a little harder to see your nipples a little easier. And oh my god. You have piercings?! He almost shot his entire load on the spot. God, he needed to fuck you. And hard. He groans as he feel himself get closer to orgasm. Closer, and closer, until--

"Leon?"

Fuck. It was you. God, of course you're so goddamn sweet, checking up on him to make sure he's okay. He didn't dare stop stroking himself off, especially not when he's got jerk-worthy material of you almost catching him. That's also not mentioning the soft intonations of your almost innocent voice right there. He's trying not to cum too quick, wanting to savor those images for as long as he could but he also realized his wife might start asking some questions and she wouldn't be on the other side of the door if she came upstairs. "F-fuck, yeah?" He responded after much too long of hearing your sweet voice. "Did you need something?" "Are you okay? I just got worried when you left. You've been gone for like..." You check your wristwatch: a classic and dainty Timex from the 80s with a blank band that wrapped around your wrist snugly.

"Fifteen minutes. Do you need water? Ibuprofen?" He shakes his head as if you could see him while he continues to jerk himself off, hand swirling in a sort of cranking motion as he tries to work his cock to orgasm. But his pre-cum isn't coming out fast enough, not as fast as the pumping motions his hand was doing right now, so he spits in his hand before bringing his palm back down to his cock and lathering his dick in spit. You believe him enough to think he might be getting ready to vomit.

"Nah, jus'...ngh, drank too much, I think." Please keep talking, He selfishly thinks to himself. "Oh, okay. Well, if you need anything, just text me?" He nodded, grunting out a thank you while he continues to dream of ruthlessly fucking you until you're embedded into his mattress. He wants you. He needs you. He feels himself get a little closer until he finally releases into his fist. His hot and sticky cum ran down his palm while the waves of post-orgasmic bliss and post-nut clarity simultaneously moved together as one. For a few minutes, he's panting like a rabid dog in heat until his breath eventually stills and he's able to walk downstairs and look his wife in the face while giving her the impression that he definitely didn't just masturbate to his best friend's wife. When he sits down at the table, the first person he makes eye contact with is you. You smile at him, mouthing a "you okay?" because, of course, you're still worried about him being sick. He nods with a grin peeled onto his face. Because he came to the sound of your voice. And you didn't have a fucking clue.

credits: snoopy divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more heart divider by @saradika-graphics

[strangelittlestories]

Three weeks into the latest depressive episode A magazine calls - they want me on the cover

I tell them they’ve made a mistake I tell them the only reason I picked up Was for the sticky ‘ew’ feeling Of answering a phone call In this day and age

I tell them I haven’t showered And all I’ve eaten today Is a pack of six bake-at-home cinnamon buns And I feel a bit sick

He tells me I work for ‘Not Okay’ Magazine And we don’t make mistakes

Well, okay, we do Often But most of the time they’re sexy mistakes. We both know he’s lying, But I agree out of exhaustion.

They send a photographer to my flat We agree on a series of tasteful nudes With unwashed laundry And mouldy mugs In all the right places. They ooze attitude They also ooze literal ‘ooze’ Because of the, y’know, mould.

I list my nearest and dearest So they can ask for quotes. The one they print reads: “I wouldn’t really call us friends I haven’t heard from them In years I assumed they were mad at me.”

We chat in my living room Over a single measuring jug filled With expired instant coffee The interviewer breathes in a waft Of bovril-smelling caffeine slurry  And wipes the awe from his eyes Then says:

“A few years ago No-one knew you You were medium sad The human equivalent of a drive-thru restaurant Bad, sure, but everyone knew what they were getting. You were … a C minus.

But now? You’re a landmark A national trust ruin They may as well tattoo ‘This is not a place of honour’ On the small of your back.

My doctor heard I was interviewing you And referred me for therapy  As a precaution. So let me ask the question on everyone’s lips? What’s your secret?”

“What a great question.” I say, wrestling the coffee From his hands Because I deserve it

“It takes a lot of practice. You’ve just got to make time To remap your synapses I try to fit in one life-changingly bad event a year To really forge new wide-ranging roads Through my internal atlas Away from those depots of cloying serotonin I know I don’t deserve. Y’know, something really verve-destroying.

I’ve careened across the map Wheels burning into redundancy town Double-parking at heartbreak hotel (did you know you could fail a break-up?) Getting a ticket on bereavement boulevard A hit-and-run through jury service-ville (leaving my faith in humanity behind)

And of course Pandemic City was a blessing  for all us sad-sacks But an extra spicy affair if you worked in healthcare

Finally, I crashed the metaphor into a river On the coldest night on record But it was pretty shallow And I think the cold probably helped Shock me out of it. Plus, I made it home with my trousers only partially frozen.

We are creatures of habit, Michael Can I call you Michael?”

(He quickly corrects me - Michael is not his name - “I didn’t ask you what your fucking name was I asked if I could call you Michael” He says yes)

“Like I said - creatures of habit If you *practice* If you really dig your feet in If you cut a wide furrow through the mud Some part of you will start to think Of the hole you burrowed in the dirt As home.

Your highest landmarks Are distant skyline and To visit would feel like trespassing.”

At the end of the interview I ask Michael If he’s sure I’m qualified To be a coverperson

After all There are so many people More ‘not okay’ than me Or who have more reason to be Yet remain seemingly functional.

“That’s the beauty of Not Okay magazine,” he says, with a smile like marshmallow “We don’t judge or rank. We ask for one thing: That today you are not okay.

In its own way, every sadness is interesting Even when it feels boring as the road you grew up on Tomorrow you might even be happy That’s okay too. Tomorrow is an impossibility of sunrises. Today - you are seen.”

[cochitalinda2002]

🌹Artwork by Vanessa Stockard🌹

"Vanessa Stockard is an artist who interprets classic paintings with kittens."

She is an Australian painter who has given the world her reimagining of great classic works. Vanessa's relationship with art developed from a very young age when she invested hours of her life drawing and this was accompanied by piano injuries, which were ultimately the impulses that led her to want to be a creative person. However, during her adulthood she admits that she somewhat envies the creativity she had when she was younger since for her “the young creative mind rests in a castle of lost socks.”

I’ve always had a thing for cats. I love and hate them for different reasons and I find them endlessly entertaining. I grew up with a black Manx cat who was, shall we say, ‘pretty scratchy’ and, well, I guess she stuck with me. She lived a long life and I loved her regardless. I’ve met cats along the way that have made a big impression on me. Obviously, the mangey black Persian I dubbed ‘Satan’ started a journey several years ago, and eventually, I saw an old sock in the studio and thought… That’s a kitten! It wasn’t. But that wasn’t important. That’s a kitten and its name is Kevin. Logical.

[therealieblog]

The key thing that people who promote diets for health do not understand is that our brain chemicals and bodies do not share our societally taught, moral stance on food. Our brains and bodies instead, function on a system of chemical reactions, synapses and homeostasis-maintaining biological systems that don’t give a shit about whether or not Cosmo Magazine thinks Doritos are bad for your health. 

The body contains a self maintaining emergency system for dealing with sudden health risks, like white blood cells to fight infections, blood coagulants to stop bleeding, fight or flight mode to protect us in emergencies, and increased hunger hormones to combat starvation.

What it does not do so well, is stopping us from eating too much. Our body’s survival mechanism surrounding food is a one way operation that doesn’t have an off switch, and it doesn’t care that you want to be thin. It doesn’t care that you’re restricting in order to fit into your wedding dress six months from now. It doesn’t care that your doctor ordered you to eat less cholesterol, or that you hate your thighs. It is a single minded machine, bent on keeping you alive. 

Because we have so little control over this self perpetuating meat suit that runs on chemicals and electric impulses, trying to get in the way of its self perpetuating system is designed to fail. It is the same as messing with ones ability to breath, or trying to stop from having sexual thoughts, or struggling to hold in one’s urine. The body must eat to survive. It will swiftly grow accustomed to having enough tasty food around to keep it fed and happy, and some people, for multiple reasons, end up getting fat from circumstances of upbringing, genetics, illness, or being subjected to diets in early life, 

If you starve a thin person, they will suffer and their body will fight back. If you starve a fat person, they will suffer, and their body will fight back. The size of the person when you start starving them, and the intellectual reasons behind why you’re starving them, matter about as much to your body as the chemical makeup of moon rocks. Your body does not give a shit about your moral stance on food, AND IT FUCKING HATES YOUR DIET. 

It will crave whatever amount of tasty food it’s used to, and if you try to stop it, it will fucking bite you. Do not fuck with your body. 

Find ways to work with it instead. 

[roguesynapses]

I recognize that url.

Sinneslochen was a West German software company made up of immigrants and refugees from East Germany and other Eastern Bloc states does not exist and never existed.

Sinneslochen primarily did outsource labor for larger European and American companies in the late 1970s and early 1980s, much of which involved German versions of office software and bugchecking/fixing was part of an elaborate hoax made by Kurt Koller, owner of the arcade game archiving website coinop.org.

Polybius was Sinneslochen's first video game, utilizing the profits generated from their outsourced work to make a puzzle-action "thinking game" game featuring an advanced hardware suite, simulating vector graphics on a raster display, allowing for increased backgrounds. The game was directed by Dr. Ygor Euspanese, a Ukrainian computer scientist. was a viral hoax created in the early 2000s, describing an early 1980s video game that supposedly caused headaches and other negative side affects in players, and was watched by US federal agents, before disappearing entirely.

Polybius was sent to several test markets in the USA, especially in the Pacific Northwest. Those who played the game near universally reported headaches and difficulty focusing for hours afterwards, with some players who got farther into the game reporting extremely disturbing "nightmares", seizures, and even limited precognition for a period of time. Reportedly, gameplay sessions and machines were monitored by NSA and DIA agents, with some players who made several levels into the game being interviewed by said agents and never returning. never existed. It was a hoax created by Kurt Koller to increase traffic to coinop.org, gaining popularity after appearing in an issue of Game Informer magazine.

Ygor Euspanese, PhD, emigrated to the United States following the test release and subsequent abandonment of Polybius, along with several Sinneslochen programmers. Several former Sinneslochen employees testify that Dr. Euspanese insisted on creating the game, pressuring the other staff of Sinneslochen to abandon other projects and engage in the game fully. They state that Dr. Euspanese had an almost manic obsession with the idea of ESP and "psychic abilities", and made the game in an effort to unlock the "psychic potential" of players. Nearly all of Sinneslochen's capital was spent on creating approximately 15 test cabinets, and with no ability to find a publisher and the departure of Euspanese and other programming staff, Sinneslochen was forced to dissolve in early 1982. The whereabouts of Euspanese after arriving in the US are currently unknown, though it is rumored he and his staff have been working on several US Government black projects is an anagram of Rogue Synapse, an amateur game developer who has a passion for making fan recreations of games that have appeared in popular movies and other media. He made a fangame of Polybius in the early 2010s. It is also the name of a very minor poster on tumblr, with several unoriginal ideas.

Polybius is highly sought after by arcade enthusiast and several local police authorities, as it is supposedly linked to several unexplained phenomena and cold cases throughout the United States. It is widely believed, however, that every copy of Polybius was either sent back to Germany and destroyed, or seized by the US Federal Government and are kept in unknown location(s). does not exist, and never existed, except as a story, and in that form, it always will exist.

[posthumanwanderings]

Once Upon a Time in Cyberville (1996)

“This program takes a provocative look at the power and role of technology in our lives today, as well as what role it may play in the future. PCs, e-mail, video games, interactive TV, electronic shopping malls and the Internet are all an important part of ‘Cyberville.’ But are these advances moving us farther away from the real world outside our doors? Is technology and ‘techno-lust’ causing us to lose sight of who we are and where we came from? Instead of dealing with our growing societal problems, are we focusing on a future ‘cyber-utopia’? This program explores advances in technology across a wide spectrum, as well as their implications for our society, economy, and culture. Among the many technology proponents and critics featured in the program are: Doug Rushkoff, author of Cyberia; Kristen Spence, Senior editor of Wired magazine; Robert Abel, CEO of Synapse Technology; Strauss Zelnick, multimedia executive; Douglas Trumbull, special effects creator; Aris Janigian, philosopher; and a self-described teenage ‘cyberbrat’.“

[toinfinitywinning]

How it Began? As a kid, until something bad happens all you know is innocence. Bounce back. Resilience. Words and thoughts your growing mind can’t get its synapses matured yet. And by bad, I mean it rocks you. You’re crying. You’re asking why for the first time poor thing it’s forever; you’re confused. You cannot process the magnitude of the incident and sometimes may even require Counseling to help guide you through it…NVR goes away.

And then.

I mean it’s sad, Right? Being born isn’t your introduction “hey!” realization and rationality Day, it’s your Birth Day. Period. Everyone’s glad you’re here. But you’re not going to know anything for a Long time. Everyone’s with me. Hopefully, b/c I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no babies. And Well, most people R glad you’ve come unless you’re..ok no not that rn.

BUT

First time you are hurt and are able to process and internalize that new feeling it’s like welcome to the jungle we got fun and games! And I remember that moment for me. It wasn’t when I smacked my head and got hit with bats and sliced my fingers open trying to whittle (Dad’s fault) to make a teepee which now I’m not sure should be a thing. Also tried to make a tornado bottle like those science fair ppl had. The ones that won. B/c they actually figured out how to puncture a hole in a plastic 2 liter top without stitches and having to explain what in the Hell you were doing (Heather u said you might be here so I know you’re with the gear Shift trauma rn)

For me until now it’s never been me physically hurt or incapable that’s defeating me—defeating—adjective : defeated—also adjective but untrue. This is different and I hate it b/c of that. I was born with vampire senses at least that’s what vampire diaries says. I feel everything so intensely that often it has trickled over to affecting me physically. I suppose a Good example is a panic attack but I’ve moved onto bigger things. I’ll be one of those ppl on ppl magazine whose ღ ended hearing bad News. This could get dark so I’ll Stop at bad News.

It’s funny -I have all this time. And most of the time I don’t enjoy the time but I’ve thought a lot of that time some about when I was a kid. Just free fallin’. Before I got the anxious bug again I was fine being serendipitous and sporadic. One time I put a Friends name in my calendar even tho I knew I knew the time. That stuff. So back to the carefree kid. Like, 8+ I have to clearest memories. I want to take a sec to say how sad that is!! There is no question that I was the kid with the most bandaids. There are pictures and I Love them. Pain didn’t really bother me. Not like this. And I’ve had a lot of very serious injuries and surgeries. Why can’t I be her?

It’s all about control.

Sometimes staying in a State of any negative, sad emotion or trying time becomes comfortable so it becomes routine. Safe. This can Go downhill quickly. But I promise something from my psych minor talks about this my sister would know. Anyways you gotta get out and can’t.

I was in this State Right before I got sick but I pulled myself out of that creepy Ass Edgar Allen poem pit and swing thing b/c I didn’t like it anymore. But this is a Choice promise. And there’s not statute of limitations on how Long it takes you or if you even get to make a Choice time which is already a Mountain.

I tend to be really open and candid. I would be a horrible Celebrity. First of all they’d only have pictures of me in sweatpants. But the openness isn’t for me or really anybody unless someone does see it and be seen. I never had that. And that’s no one’s fault. We didn’t have Smart phones which ironically give us cancer and often stupidity from the crap you read due to that algorithm. A few people reached out in my DM’s and on posts to just do this I guess and throw in a Basketball time to time.

I was stuck. And I had well…a very eye opening bad experience. I don’t think I’ll ever share that publicly. But I was terrified. Something came over me when I got to my car and it wasn’t a Voice it was a direction. To home. Safety. Familiar. Routine. I knew sooner than immediately that I was done. That’s it. There’s a pattern in this pattern. You see?

So all that is taken care of and now we will work on my eating Disorder. Anorexia, restrictive ED/exercise bulimia and body dysmorphia. You get it. Add this in with Addiction. Talk about stuck. All I can think of to compare it to is that scary book w/ a wizard and a whirlpool and IDEK how it ends but that was always enough for me to be done w/ that story. So, You’re bound to have one after losing 150 lbs over two and a half years and now can see your bones and muscles. Hey you’re confident again Good for you. This will not sustain. You lost weight probably all the wrong ways anyway but it worked. And you’re still in control. Things have changed and u know what to do to keep your skeleton up. One gust of wind or fainting and head stitches again having to hurry and tell your Apple Watch not to call the rescue’s and you’re an inch closer to hospitalization. Doin’ fine.

All I had Left was my eating Disorder to work on and I’d made so much progress. I’ll expand on this but you actually have to eat when you’re sick. I won’t thank COVID-19 for that tho. Sometimes u can follow all the rules and still get *BEEP, explicative!* sooner or later it would have risen. So that infamous Day I’d just finished my hour walk and like had been doing about to eat w/ my Parents. I remember it like it wasn’t a 26 month old toddler Day away. One sniff. Mom -please get COVID tested. I remember being annoyed. B/c I have taken all the precautions. Well so do a lot of people and things still happen OUT of our control. This became the problem. Two saddest things about that next few days is I made my Dad say Shit when I came up positive then gave it to my Mom. I cannot tell you the guilt I would be carrying had this been the other Way around.

I had lived my Addiction free Life and started to heal my ED rest of my Life. For 3 weeks. I felt so light. Felt so free. Brave and proud. More authentic. B/c being stuck and not being able to fix things yourself takes a lot of deleted Pride and bad bad bad experiences apparently. Wakey wakey. Why’s it gotta be that Way? At least it’s the Gentry way. I’d rather not keep that up.

Crushed. Pre healing I couldn’t Exercise for 2-4 hours daily. Wake up at 5 am still kinda dazed and do 100 push-up’s then 10lb weights, several sets. Not one thing from a video or trainer but i can see everything chiseled so gotta be doing something right. Then walk a mile and a half or 10000 steps before you even answer a call at work. All this to have your evening free. To see your ribs and sometimes ✔ the camera Cloud to make sure that 10 pound added weight doesn’t happen. Showering at lunch break. Oh it was a machine. And ppl knew. I’m very aware. I lean toward empathy as well.

I was very very sick. Different sick. And TBH as much of Hell this is and might forever be I’d rather this. Even a broken ღ that was your stupidity and blinders anyway. Although I cannot control this it’s not an intensity of emotion in those skinny Ass bones I can’t turn off anymore. Need size zero and xs. Ghastly. I can answer a question of would you rather in this Case. My ღ literally aches. It’s all of the omnipresent and then some. So intense and relentless. I could change my mind tomorrow. Right now.

This Pain is Physical. Not my fault. Wasn’t abused. Can’t control this either and I’d never wish it on all but one person but idk. I feel things that intensely. I’d be the X-Ray Report that says torn or damaged in about nine places after my ACL tear. The Report was an entire page LOL. That is not common I don’t think. Should’ve just said everything is bad take your 2nd of now Four ambulance trips with your Dad to the ER.

Let me be clear. This is very hard to put into words. It’s less I guess that I wouldn’t barter but sometimes you’re just like please give me that Pain instead, just for a while.

Right now I am comfortable in Pain. Isn’t that pathetic yet tragic? I meannn. Whole body Pain. It’s emotional too trust me but this it takes first. Imagine…the control freak. This is not acute. Feeling without Pain even temporarily is kinda scary and better word unsettling. You want to get better of course but your body has done such a 180 that it becomes what you’re worried about and what makes you nervous. It’s an evil Domino set mouse wheel. Let me also add that long-haul Covid and dysautonomia and pots all of them happened because my body had gotten so healthy again it went in overdrive to try to help me and then couldn’t stop. How nice. Kindly. I’ve learned things about my body and about what people can experience and I didn’t want to. I will never again scoff at someone for saying that they are debilitated because, they are in constant pain or too “tired”... They can’t be safely aware. I’m ashamed I ever thought that about people because there is no take a Tylenol and lay down. There is no taking a nap and you’ll wake up refreshed. That’s all bullshit at this point, and it hurts if you have to ever explain it because you can’t, like so many other things until it happens to you you don’t really know how you feel like a lot of things you can swear that you’ll react one way or the other but when something happens to your kid or someone you love (dare i say abortion as a topic) all the sudden it’s personal and you’re thinking something you never thought you would. Or not. The struggle is actually real.



There is a lot of trauma or some type of PTSD with being this sick for this long as well because you sit comfortably, you know exactly what’s going to happen. If then, then that some of which are terrifying I shake I can’t believe anyone has to deal with this and yet I’m not even one of the most serious cases if you can believe that. Then there’s the Gaslighting. Go to stone ridge and admit yourself for anxiety. NAH. Thankfully all of my docs have been first class with no doors blown off.

I want to say I’ve learned a lesson.. karma. I deserve this. I should’ve seen it coming. Let me be clear again. No one deserves this and yet we’re human and stuff still happens to good and bad people. losing control has been difficult, but I feel like I’ve learned so much about, literal heartache and pain that only someone who was going through the same thing can identify with. there aren’t words. I’m not trying to paint a picture of someone who is on oxygen and dying or taking chemo, but I think that you can hold sadness in several different ways without feeling guilty. you can own What you’re going through. it’s OK to be angry at God at anything and I’ve had to realize that and it’s taken a long time and I think I still am working on it because I think I’m over here. not famished. not taken hostage. not bombed. I have a bed to lay in when I feel bad. U can’t compare things like this and you shouldn’t anyway. I think in doing that it’s never productive anyway. I don’t like being helped which is ironic because I have some co dependencies still and yearning to stay close to what is familiar and home and safe I’ve had to put my or whatever aside and my confidence out the window because yes, you will gain weight not exercising that much but you literally can’t do things at first. I was using a cane to get to the bathroom. I would pant no exaggeration like a dog for at least an hour sometimes after walking 10 feet, ask my mom she was on the couch across from me and we’re both thinking what just happened. or you have to use spoons because you’re shaking so much. Don’t even try a fork w/ rice. or you’re so confused that you always have to have what I would say and interpreter at this point, and praise God that there r doctors surrounding me. I have needed so much help and I think part of accepting help is also allowing someone else to practice stewardship and I think somewhere possibly the Bible at some point you can’t continue to deny someone’s help because they have to have the experience of helping and we both know each feeling. Frankly need it sometimes there are things that not even Gentry will speak of that I’ve gone through but somehow I’m thinking wow Pooh bear was correct. I really am stronger than I seem and I thought that the last time I was in a bad place life is nuts except help, if you don’t have the hope or faith let your family hold it for you. It’s still there. You just can’t get it yet and I cringe to say it, but I have learned so much and whether I heal completely or not writing all this again is therapeutic one, but two when people can identify with someone else, it is a very intimate experience the kind of intensity I feel with everything. I tell people I don’t want to hear ‘you’re going to get better’ because you don’t know that. we can pray for it, but I’ve given prayer a hard time as I’m able to complain, not going to church routinely. Then again going to church is just the building. Sadly tru 4 2 many. a reflection of your yearning for community and a place of hope and routine. we know from the current state in this world that going in a church and coming back out there’s nothing Christian about it, but I’m thankful that I have been held. I’ve even asked. Dad has even had to hang onto me. I’ve been in a wheelchair. I’ve had a bed pan. things that would normally humiliate you. You get humbled immediately. You may have your arms and legs, but there will be times you will need to be pried off the floor, there will be times that your head stays on a cold marble kitchen counter for hours because you don’t have the strength to walk 20 steps to your bed. Covid sucks. it has ruined lives, marriages, people have gone bankrupt. People have died. Mistreated. People have had experiences much worse than mine, and they didn’t deserve it either even if they didn’t take precaution like I did which is part of why I was so frustrated with getting sick. and again i was at that point I had gotten healthy. So ofc, the more prone your body go into hyperdrive. Trying to heal you. and that’s still where I’m at.

[maaarine]

The Brain Has a ‘Low-Power Mode’ That Blunts Our Senses (Allison Whitten, Quanta Magazine, June 14 2022)

“When our phones and computers run out of power, their glowing screens go dark and they die a sort of digital death. 

But switch them to low-power mode to conserve energy, and they cut expendable operations to keep basic processes humming along until their batteries can be recharged. 

Our energy-intensive brain needs to keep its lights on too. 

Brain cells depend primarily on steady deliveries of the sugar glucose, which they convert to adenosine triphosphate (ATP) to fuel their information processing. 

When we’re a little hungry, our brain usually doesn’t change its energy consumption much. 

But given that humans and other animals have historically faced the threat of long periods of starvation, sometimes seasonally, scientists have wondered whether brains might have their own kind of low-power mode for emergencies.

Now, in a paper published in Neuron in January, neuroscientists in Nathalie Rochefort’s lab at the University of Edinburgh have revealed an energy-saving strategy in the visual systems of mice. 

They found that when mice were deprived of sufficient food for weeks at a time — long enough for them to lose 15%-20% of their typical healthy weight — neurons in the visual cortex reduced the amount of ATP used at their synapses by a sizable 29%.

But the new mode of processing came with a cost to perception: It impaired how the mice saw details of the world. 

Because the neurons in low-power mode processed visual signals less precisely, the food-restricted mice performed worse on a challenging visual task. (…)

It could have important implications for understanding how malnourishment or even some forms of dieting might affect people’s perceptions of the world. 

It also raises questions about the widespread use of food restriction to motivate animals in neuroscience studies, and the possibility that researchers’ understanding of perception and behavior has been distorted by studies of neurons in a suboptimal, lower-power state. (…)

Whether you’re hungry or not, “the photons hitting your retinas are the same,” Burgess said. 

“But the representation in your brain is very different because you have this goal that your body knows that you need, and it’s directing attention in a way that will help satisfy that.” 

But what happens after more than just a few hours of hunger? 

Researchers realized that the brain might have ways of saving energy by cutting back on its most energy-intensive processes.”

[helgion]

Это интервью было подготовлено Фрэнком Гэвином и опубликовано в журнале Synapse Magazine номер 2-5, март/апрель 1978 года.

[maximuswolf]

Can someone please explain the Beyoncé acclaim? (Not a hate post I promise)

Can someone please explain the Beyoncé acclaim? (Not a hate post, I promise) I really like Destiny's Child a lot. Their music was fun and silly often to the point of being outright comical. There's not a lot of music out there like that. And Beyoncé always was the standout among the group, rightfully positioned up front. She's a charismatic performer with strong vocal talent.I haven't loved most of her solo music as much, but I did like her earlier music.I also admire her more recent album concepts. I appreciate that she creates wholly conceived albums, and I appreciate the ideas that have driven the Lemonade, Renaissance and Country Carter albums.As a gay man who came of age in the 90s, I particularly looked forward to the Renaissance album...but then I ultimately found it unlistenable because of the lyrics, which by and large are absolute nonsense as far as my ears can hear. Not "good nonsense" (for my taste, all things being subjective) like Destiny's Child, but more self-serious nonsense that has potential to be funny but isn't presented in a way that seems to be meant to be funny.The lyrics...Ass gettin' biggerRacks gettin' biggerCash gettin' largerHe thought he was loving me good, I told him, "Go harder"She thought she was killin' that shit, I told her, "Go harder"Just look at this alkaline wrist 'cause I got that waterAss getting thiquerCash getting thiquerThat's that thique, that's that real shitThat's that jelly, baby, champagne and cherry, babyThat's that thique, that's that ball dropThat's that keep going, that's that never stopThat's that thique, that's that na-na, that oochy coochy, la, laYeah, this that Fiji agua, candy girl piñataHit it in the car and take you back to the casaBet I got you rock now, that thique all over the yacht, nowThat's that freaknik, that's that 1996That's that moon Miami bass, 12 in the trunk 808Uh, that's that Castro, eat that shit like Mastro'sShe say she on a diet, girl, you better not lose that ass, thoughAs the kids say, "I just can't."I really can't get into her music.And that's OK, of course. I absolutely accept that all taste is subjective and I don't condemn anyone for their creative output.My criticism, really, is of critics—because I just can't understand the universal acclaim of her music because of the lyrics. Metacritic gives Renaissance, the album from which the lyrics above come (and of which they are pretty representative) an average score of 91/100—universal acclaim.Notoriously hypercritical magazine Pitchfork gave it a 9/10 and wrote this about it:Renaissance is a commanding prescription to be perceived again, without judgment. Listening to the album, you can feel the synapses coming back together one by one...which absolutely baffles me.Can anyone explain what I am missing? I'd like to be able to appreciate Beyoncé's work but I am just bewildered. In all honesty.Also, the song "Thique," quoted above, credits three writers.The lead song on her new album, Country Carter, credits THIRTEEN writers. Thirteen writers!As I mentioned, I came of age in the 1990s, when women singer-songwriters dominated a major share of the music scene, and most of those extraordinary talents composed their own music, sang their own music without pitch correction, performed their own music, and wrote their own lyrics without any cowriters. Some such as Tori Amos, Fiona Apple, Regina Spektor, have continued to work this way for all these decades, and it's really hard for me to understand most of today's current artists who are universally praised for their songwriting when all of their songs are written by committees of cowriters, and some of their song lyrics seem to be to be pure gibberish without any insight whatsoever.So I ask again, in all earnestness, can someone explain Beyoncé's work to me in a way that will help me to appreciate her as a songwriter, and help me to overlook the seeming superficiality of her lyrics to understand the treasures that seemingly every critic can see so easily? Submitted April 22, 2024 at 08:32AM by AmericanLymie https://ift.tt/H9rMZJz via /r/Music

[deathsmark]

the industry was ruthless & the production of impactful lyrics could be the difference between reveling in delusions of grandeur & the lime - light piercing through you, rending potential from the miserable purgatory left over. zed remembers the deep, resonating bass as it vibrated through enormous speakers, the sensation of calloused fingers strumming guitar - strings, every synapse alive & ignited. it didn’t mean he had forgotten the frustration that seared at the edges of his vision, the withering glares & animosity as it reached a crescendo - breaking point. it was a starved beast, once prized artists ousted back into a vapid reality, their cadavers a pyre for their competition to ascend. only few reached the grandiosity of fame and even fewer did so with their sense of self still intact. he had seen kayn through some of his worst times, where alcohol & delirium coalesced into a night hovering over the bathroom sink, retching through ruined gasp & wretched sobs. in return, kayn had been there while zed waded through the dregs of his band’s dismantling, found himself again in the artistry of ink & needle, had been his first client right beneath those flickering fluorescent lights. even as heartsteel & his career demanded more of him & their once almost nightly visits waned further & further apart, kayn showing up at his studio or the apartment, the one with the despondent peeling white paint &  the slightly too archaic band posters, had always been welcomed. “ have you told him that ?”  ezreal, a name that often came spat after an acrid insult, umbrage darkening his expression. there were only so many things he could know about him before they were introduced but the fervent array of emotions that blazed through kayn made him feel familiar, more than just a handsome face plastered on magazines. a solitary brow arches with his inquiry, a can of whiskey & coke rests precariously on the bar-top, thumb & forefinger cradling the rim, the bottom tilted on its edge, ruminative. the vehemence that drove kayn was often surmised as bitter contempt yet,  the indignation that curled his lip was often steered by other, more acute emotions. “ if your music was subpar, do you think you would have made it this far?”  it was a grating clash of disposition & identity, something zed was unfortunately familiar with. his band, in their glory - days, had been a spectacle of nurtured talent & adamantine friendship, still, inevitably, they collapsed beneath the weight of expectation & conflicting viewpoints. their luminous aspects sputtering out into chagrin & the termination of both the band & their friendship. “ show me what you’ve written, i’ll tell you if it’s shit.” it was unspoken that kayn’s lyrics were filtered through his suffering, notoriously unintended for the ludicrous morality of those who hadn’t endured as he had. It was what made his work relatable and had listeners demanding more. forsaking the can he extended his hand to kayn, awaiting the eventual relenting & surrendering of these so called shitty lyrics. 

@umbane / HEARTSTEEL verse.

[hospitalterrorizer]

diary53

11/3-4/2023

hell , oh. everything is fine and today was good.

i got dressed really nice today, because i had to do an interview for a local magazine, about how i dress and my music and how my sense of fashion/beliefs about fashion and my approach to music are related. their relation is weird, it's sort of just that i get dressed how i do to enable myself i think, like if i feel pretty and cool, and externalize what i think is pretty and cool, i can do other things, or i don't know, that's only part of it. they took pics of me, my friend did the interview, and one of the people working at the mag came to do the photos. i think i might look good in them, i didn't really look. i did take my own photos around where we took pics, they had me in nature a lot, and i took my photos standing in weird places no one really wants to go.

plus there are selfies i took w/ my phone but i can like upload those tomorrow. it's honestly such an actual hassle to get photos off your phone it is so stupid. at least if you have an iphone. it makes you feel useless and dumb so often, a debilitating piece of hardware to own if you interface with computers a lot.

so, uhhh, i like the makeup i did a lot today, the eyeshadow is really fun i think. i just told my friend that i like the locust and the blood brothers a lot, and i mentioned pg. 99, i should have brought up usurp synapse and combatwoundedveteran too, and like, everything else, but it would have been so annoying of me and like who cares, i just want to be accurate i guess even though that's pointless.

anyways my gf is out rn at a bar with colleagues from school, and tomorrow we're going to an anime con, i wonder what i'll wear tomorrow. hopefully i can hack something together for that.

anyways i am just sitting here listening to the cramps, not doing much, practicing a song sort of for when i can go in and record the vocals i wrote today, i mixed the next single some more, i need to get to the b side but i think tomorrow i'll be able to decide if i want to throw something into the right channel during verses on the song or if that would distract too much from the left channel guitar thingy. there already is a right channel thing but maybe there needs to be a little more, something following the riff that's played in the left, but idk, it'd have to be quiet and not too sharp or anything, just something to fill out the song better, but i wanna decide if that's even necessary, the song's a little imbalanced but that's how i can get so much sparkle out of the guitar thing on the left side i think, but i am still unsure. the plus of having something else there would be it'd probably sound kinda good, especially if it were sitting lower in the freq range and i cut out the high end more or less.

practicing the vocals just to get timing right is nice, it makes things feel like i can do better, typically since my gf is always around, i just mouth the words and try to feel things out that way, this is obviously a lot better, since i can do whatever and not commit to delivery style (i already know thought this song is gonna have a lot of screaming). hopefully this really does stick, these next few nights i will have to just mouth it probably unless she goes out another time alone.

so now i am sleepy, a strangely long day, i still have not been able to get around to taking care of the chicken and prepping dinner for whatever nights i am cooking which is frustrating and i am too exhausted today for it. like, so frustrating seriously, i need to get on top of that tomorrow. blehhhhhhhhh.

soooo, anywayyyyy:

byebye!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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[docrotten]

TENEBRAE (1982) – Episode 234 – Decades Of Horror 1980s

“<Evil chuckle> When I realized Christiano Berti was the killer… and it didn’t take me long to realize that. <Evil chuckle> The rest, Mr Germani, was like writing a book. A Book!” Book ’em, Dan-o! Wait. Wrong media. Join your faithful Grue Crew – Chad Hunt, Bill Mulligan, Crystal Cleveland, and Jeff Mohr – as they take a cue from the 70s Grue Crew and take in some Giallo, Dario Argento-style with Tenebrae (1982).

Decades of Horror 1980s Episode 234 – Tenebrae (1982)

Join the Crew on the Gruesome Magazine YouTube channel! Subscribe today! And click the alert to get notified of new content! https://youtube.com/gruesomemagazine

American author Peter Neal, who – while in Rome promoting his latest murder-mystery novel – becomes embroiled in the search for a serial killer who may have been inspired to kill by his novel.

  Writer/Director: Dario Argento

Produced by: Claudio Argento (producer), Salvatore Argento (executive producer), Allan Scott (producer: English version)

Music by: Massimo Morante, Fabio Pignatelli, Claudio Simonetti (as Simonetti-Morante-Pigatelli)

Cinematography by: Luciano Tovolin (director of photography)

Film Editing by: Franco Fraticelli

First Assistant Director: Lamberto Bava

Second Assistant Director: Michele Soavi

Special Effects by: Giovanni Corridori (special effects)

Production Services – New York: William Lustig (uncredited)

Selected Cast:

Anthony Franciosa as Peter Neal

John Saxon as Bullmer

Daria Nicolodi as Anne

Giuliano Gemma as Detective Germani

Christian Borromeo as Gianni

Mirella D’Angelo as Tilde

Veronica Lario as Jane McKerrow

Ania Pieroni as Elsa Manni

Eva Robins as Girl on Beach

Carola Stagnaro as Detective Altieri

John Steiner as Christiano Berti

Lara Wendel as Maria Alboretto

Isabella Amadeo as Bullmer’s secretary

Mirella Banti as Marion

Lamberto Bava as Elevator Repairman #1 (uncredited)

It’s time for another 1980s feature from director Dario Argento with a return to the Giallo sub-genre. The film is Tenebrae – or Tenebre (original title) or Ténèbres (French) – and features Anthony Franciosa, John Saxon, and Daria Nicolodi. Argento was inspired by a series of incidents that saw an obsessed fan telephone the director to criticize him for the damaging psychological effects of his previous work. The telephone calls culminated in death threats towards Argento, who channeled the experience into the writing of Tenebrae with a double helix of a plot.

At the time of this writing, Tenebrae is available to stream from Wicked Horror TV, Shudder, Kanopy, and Plex. It is also available on Blu-Ray and 4K Ultra HD from Synapse Films.

This is the Decades of Horror Grue Crews’ xth encounter with Argento. Here are their other Argento episodes if you care to check them out.

THE BIRD WITH THE CRYSTAL PLUMAGE (1970) – Episode 190 – Decades of Horror 1970s

THE CAT O’ NINE TAILS (1971) – Episode 149 – Decades of Horror 1970s

DEEP RED (1975) — Episode 77 — Decades of Horror 1970s

SUSPIRIA (1977) — Episode 58 — Decades of Horror 1970s

PHENOMENA (1985) – Episode 168 – Decades of Horror 1980s

DARK GLASSES (2022, SHUDDER) – Gruesome Magazine #369

Every two weeks, Gruesome Magazine’s Decades of Horror 1980s podcast will cover another horror film from the 1980s. The next episode’s film, chosen by Crystal, will be George Romero’s Monkey Shines (1988). Oh yeah. We love monkeys with sharp utensils!

Please let them know how they’re doing! They want to hear from you – the coolest, grooviest fans – so leave them a message or comment on the Gruesome Magazine Youtube channel, on the Gruesome Magazine website, or email the Decades of Horror 1980s podcast hosts at feedback@gruesomemagazine.com.

Check out this episode!