#I might be manic but it’s way better than the soul crushing depression I’ve felt the last few days

[gvaf-radio-blog]

I was laying in bed trying to not think about the rejection when the crying fit started, normally it goes away after a bit but this welled up and I felt an emotion like onto a rage induced tornado surging through me and I pounded the floor screaming like I lost a limb to a bear trap and started to pray to God, keep in mind I am a Satanist, to either help me find a way to get the love of my life back or to give me the means to end my life.  Satan was very understanding but reminded me to call them first next time since Satan never told me I was damned for being born pansexual and they did turn me on to better fashion and literature, sorry Satan.

It had been going on like this for the better part of July and there were several things going on in my life at the time one of those was a firm belief that I had grown too old, too fat, too broken to be any use to anyone other than to make others feel better and be target practice for the Russian Cupidi who seems very intent on making others fall in love with me on the other side of the continent, little fuckers have surprisingly deep laughs I found out . There was a person I was convinced was the love of my life because they seemed to understand me, never made unreasonable demands of me ( I thought)  and to put it simply we could not be in a room alone ever. We worked well together in fact each time we would meet it ended in us kissing and tearfully saying I love you to each other  while holding each other head to head crying. Everytime I heard a slight Russian tinged laugh. We were for a short time had an almost family, an almost family is where things are just off and need adjustments. I wanted tp make us a full family badly I wanted this family to happen because these kids were at one time treated like mine own, I am a  simple and boring man except for the Cupidi and a stalker with cat ears who keeps leaving dead birds on my front stoop.  

So yes I was that fool everyone has laughed at in a heart break fueled misery that pop songs and movies lie to us and say “ AH but tis only the third act! The two distant lovers will be reunited and the love song with start after the credits”. I want to start rounding up the con artist that make a living by filling empty headed children with these notions of true love or that love conquers all and sodomize them with live lobsters.  I don’t want to violate ethically challenged people with shellfish everyday, just on those days when I have to deal with the doll eyed masses, ok so basically every day I was trying to give myself the benefit of the doubt.  The Ex had asked me if the reason I wanted to get back together was because they were a “sure thing” I told her that they were really a long shot but if I didn’t try then I couldn’t live with myself. Fast forward a few weeks and several insulting explanations later and I am now turning over all the reasons I am broken goods and that I should not rise above my station because I deserve to be alone, i’m scum, I’m why baby jesus cries and milk spoils when I walk into the room. I started taking pot shots at the local Cupidi with my compound bow but it was hard to aim with eyes full of tears and the edible kicking in finally. I don’t know how to say fuck you in Russian but I think I know the sound of the word. 

Next we find me red eyed muttering some gibberish that’s been fueled by what I would find out later to be a suspected mental illness that is only half way being treated with medication and therapy. To give you a funny and disturbing visual. After not eating or sleeping for several days  I looked like what could be described as a  cross between a fat Reinfeld and a goth George Costanza , or Meatloaf on a bad day. I give you options for your visuals, am I not merciful?

It’s now sometime between one and five A.M and I am looking up the price of the least expensive .45 handgun because I’m poor and I’ll be getting some extra money soon because I turn thirty nine in a week I do not want to be thirty nine so I start looking for american style solutions, happy fucking birthday. I chose this caliber because having some medical training and studying the wonderful world of trauma  I got to see in full detail what a self inflicted head wound looks like and what a person's life is when the bullet doesn’t take enough grey matter. I didn’t want to be alive then I sure as hell didn’t want to live as a joke character from a Garth Ennis story so I was going to get a bigger bullet .  America, fuck yeah.

so I started to make my final birthday plan and feel at peace with having my last ride of Clove’s, bourbon and a good pub hamburger then, Tchüess. BANG! Obviously I didn’t buy the gun to end my misery and embarrassment as my brain was telling me I needed, because instead my brain going into OH FUCK mode was throwing everything it had at me to save the ship. Then it hit pay dirt. I rediscovered a natural emotional energy that put my mind into a laser focus clearing the fog and lies away  just enough to stop my self destruction and restart the rebuilding I began in the winter. The emotional energy that saved me from turning my head into goo goes by the name of pure fucking spite.

I realized that my idiocy levels had reached a critical mass when the Cupidi in hazmat suits who seem to be , in Russian , bitching about extracting me to go get recharged . They came down to take me back to a containment unit that will refill my cynicism back to optimal and lethal fuck off capacity. After my IV of coffee and Monster™ grape was removed I was set loose again into the wilds of Southeast Portland to reconnect my brain with seething hatred that I somehow misplaced my hatred during the heartache attack between Southeast Division and Southeast Clinton street where I  was bludgeoned with a baseball bat by the woman who was wearing cat ears. I was on a time limit because I had to do this quickly and retract my steps before my appointment with a Psychiatric Nurse Practitioner at two P.M later that day. I managed to find my hatred , my senses and a new found desire to attack any human with those fucking anime cat ears on their head and entered the office and was treated like a human being not a Cro Magnon sociopath who might try  to kill people on the train, it was a nice change of pace honestly.

We talked about my past trauma and some of the diagnosis that where off base and some that came close to the mark but the main thing we talked about was the depression, the depression that had me looking for a gun as a treatment plan. This Nurse Practitioner pinpointed everything that I had to hide from others or train myself not to do in less than thirty minutes, Let me give you a bit of perspective. 

Most of the mental health professionals I worked with in the past used a method I call flow chart counseling, example:

Therapist sees me walk into the door, therapist will ask if I drink if yes how many drinks in a week, if no move on to the next question. Therapist: Mister Cromag do you drink?

Me: yeah, I like a good beer, or wine I take a shinning to good bourbons as well.

“Therapist now flows to follow up questions”

Therapist: How many drinks per week?

Me: Well, I like to have a drink that pairs with my dinner and some weekends I’ll have a bit more during games or socialization depending on who’s around.

“Therapist now moves down to alcoholism”

Therapist: how long have you been an alcoholic?

Me: I’m sorry what?

Therapist: You binge drink Mister Cromag, more than four drinks per week means substance abuse.

Me: No it means I like the taste of a stout. “Moves down the chart to denial”

Therapist: We need to find you an addiction specialist.

Me: You think my drinking is bad, wait until I tell you about my porn collection.

After that exchange I was referred to a physical therapist to help with carpal tunnel and after a traumatized therapist had to call security all while frantically  trying to find a flowchart for the psychotically horny they made a suggestion about me having an Oedipus complex.

So you now see what I mean, a lot of professionals never got to the heart of it and there are other stories where I’ve had the professionals all but sneer at me when my symptoms are presented. So this Nurse Practitioner was a nice change of pace and with the discussion about my issues, what I thought I might have been dealing with  (sometimes people see that I do have some form of intelligence and not just hit thing with club real hard unga bunga) we then worked out what medication I needed to treat  the thing I was dreading, being diagnosed with  Bipolar 1.

Bipolar and ADHD share many of the same characteristics and as I’ve learned if you have one the other is more than likely there it just needs to be screened for. Bipolar is also a hereditary form of mental illness which makes it a bit unique where others are mostly trauma induced but Bipolar just kinda waits for something to happen and when nothing does it creates its own fun. To add to this good time Bipolar  is classified as a “mood disorder”  your highs are hyperactive boarderlining and often going into a full true manic state of mind and body, not nearly as fun as it sounds. Then the lows are soul crushing affairs that amplify the depression and then takes the lies you brain tells you and creates a story based on people around you, your fears, past trauma and then makes you this poisoned lullaby cake that tastes like candy feels like medicine until you fall to your knees paralyzed and the fangs sink into your back and you see too late what is having you for dinner tonight.

So that’s a quick and blurry on Bipolar 2, I have Bipolar 1 which means I get all of that plus the added fun of hallucinations, and not the type Terrence Mckenna taught us about. These are things that just manifest as if they are real life like if you were in a  film and it was edited without  warning and in this new situation  you now have to improvise a reality, any  reality, this is why I take *drugs prescribed and other. The other issue is that it feels like my memories get remixed and things that happened now have a new twist, a paranoid hurtful twist.  Good example of this is when I was making a terminal wishlist and believed that there were people who truly wanted me to die because I interpreted their actions as malicious. Another example is I was walking home to the apartments  around ten or twelve years ago, I was walking home at the time with groceries and when I got through the front door there was construction going on at the apartment above me. I sleep days and at best i’ll get four hours due to shit employer, new born child, a girlfriend that was Sybil the next generation who completely refused to get treatment because she was a psych major and thought she was the heroin to overcome all odds  in a lifetime movie.  So on top of this my mental illness is not in check, no insurance and if I mention medication at work I could get fired. 

 I wish this was a part I made up  but I mentioned I was on antidepressants at one time and they removed me from two positions back to entry level until I got clean off celexa, Not allowed to do the fun drugs and then punished for using the boring ones no idea why I stayed there for eight and a half years. 

Back to the construction, I get home try to put my groceries away and one of the workers says he needs to do something in the bedroom I tell him to get bent , he calls me a fat fuck and I proceed to beat him bloody! Except it never happened, I woke up beating my fist bloody onto the tiled floor of the kitchen where I had started to put away my groceries until I jumped into this other reality, I’m just happy the kid wasn’t home because it might have scared her and made her cry and knowing I made her cry hurts the worst, I would have attempted that second suicide earlier. This freaked me out I’ve never had an hallucination like this I was scared, when I told then girlfriend hoping to get support or at least pointed in the direction on where to look she labeled me a schitzophrentic started talking to me as if I was going to flip out  and that I was even more dangerous.  I let that turn around in my head for years thinking that this was the linchpin to me being broken and with the way she talked to me I believed I didn’t deserve help. This was one of the main reasons I had to kill myself after she took my daughter away.

Like a few million other miserable , confused people out there I didn’t know a blessed thing about what was happening, I remembered the mental abuse and emotional abuse from the church, and some had argued physical and neglectful abuse I recieved at the hands of my family or my mother’s husbands who told my mother to no provide for me but instead buy him a new toy car. My step sister who somehow hates the knot headed reprobate more than I do stole his precious camaro and rear ended a Semi. After learning she was ok I fell on the floor laughing because all I could think about was this NASCAR addicted stunted man child calling his mommy to whine about a broken toy, to add to this mental image he was wearing a blue jean diaper and clutching a plush Richard Petty teddy bear.

There’s more but I don’t feel the need to talk about school bus drivers and me losing memory of one full  year of my life, bullying at the hands of adults and children alike. I feel like that would be redundant and unfortunately all too common a story I’ve heard from so many people in my life, friends, lovers , coworkers the fucking homeless people who talk with me after I give them beer money. Leaving some of the genetic issues aside you bastards need to understand how wide spread some of these traumas are for fuck sake my motley of misfits are all walking trauma case studies and instead of getting help YOU people ridiculed them, or gave them the greatest useless sentence in the english language which is :

 “Just get over it.”

Do you know what I would like to see? I want to see all of us survivors roaming the streets like that piss poor movie they claimed was a horror movie the Purge and with a list not unlike the list owned by the man that comes around Johnny Cash sang about during his song of the rapture, and I see men, women, and nonbinary people going to the address of those passive aggressive twits and beating them within an inch of their life, then carving into their chest (backwards) “get over it” then we move on to the homes of the rapists and tell them “you asked for this” before destroying their cocks with battery acid. The screams in the night would be glorious with the bats acting like percussion and the screams keyboard swells it would be like Front 242 unplugged. Maybe then the sniveling pretentious nra members out there will learn a bit. At best, it would be fair warning not to be passive aggressive asshole and learn a bit of compassion and mindfulness or to just get their heads out of their ass about battles they know nothing about if they want to avoid severe head trauma that one can not just simply get over. 

Living with mental illness is not easy at any level whether a small bit of depression after a breakup or full blown PTSD after a brutal rape that leaves one unable to leave their house. Whomever has these afflictions are the ones suffering and your feelings of inconvenience or fear  of those sufferers need to be thrown into the Willamette river, I would say you need to follow suit  but there’s enough garbage in this river you can fuck off into a trash compactor.

Living is the hardest thing I do but I keep finding ways to stop the thoughts from taking over and I will and have done whatever it took to not die and sometimes the only way I was able to beat the mental illness was being bat shit insane. Some people think I’m a drug addict, others just think I need to talk to my old invisible friend, a few well meaning souls have suggested psychedelics and these people are pure and I will castrate any who try and stop them from their holy work from the almighty Bob. what I do need is to find that bitch with the **baseball bat and introduce them to a proper bonfire that I’m going to roast one of those little commie Cupidi on, oh yes I want my revenge for St Louis. 

*the drugs in question are cannabis for the most part, when I’m spinning hard it helps tune me down and when the depression hits it shuts up the thoughts that plague me. Not a cure all nor is it a replacement for proper medication and therapy. I like to think of it a supplemental medicine that has the added effect of making Tool sound even more epic and letting me sleep peacefully. 

** all wildy violent, funny and or cartoonish descriptions written about are there to be funny and entertaining no Cupidi do not exist and the Cat ear person does but the assault was less bloody and didn’t involve a bat  but it was far more traumatizing.

#gvaf #bourbonsexual #mental illness #suicide #abuse #Gonzo Journalism

[nitratestock]

One by one, like a painful slow drip from a finite source, we lose people to time, people who contributed positively to the world in ways political, artistic, scientific. One by one. Considering the sum total is simply too great, we need stagger. For those who share my year of birth by a margin of three years give or take on either side, we’ve been lucky. Lucky in the sense that the stagger has been long and wide. Over the last decade we’ve lost some important people, particularly important to our early life, the exit of our single digits and the early part of our teens. Early on I was crushed by the death of Sidney Lumet, in 2011, a giant of the film community. I wrote about his passing back then, at the point of worst emotional pain, as bad as one can feel without being a family member or close friend. Since then we’ve lost Cimino. We’ve lost Nichols. We’ve lost Varda. We’ve lost Akerman. We’ve lost Hooper and Romero. As we brine in our Gen X jar, we unfortunately transition from sniper fire to machine gun spray. Legato becomes staccato. People of my age group watch in horror as heroes depart. It’s no different of any other age group, perhaps only more enhanced by the increased prevalence of mass media over the course of the last century and into ours. Distance and folklore becomes nearness and screens. In either case we involve ourselves in the lives of others, in ways good and bad. At worst we connect through this urge to pillory those who are guilty of our very same sins. At best, we mourn the passing of a public figure we’ve come to acknowledge, without their knowledge, as a friend. Hopefully out of benevolent interest, that last part.

So I say with the melancholy of a film fanatic that came of age in the 80’s and the heft of a life, if averages count, mostly lived at this point, that the recent passing of one Alan Parker left me despondent. Perhaps not for the fate of the world, but definitely for the fate of film as a malleable form that might struggle with the twin purposes of art and commerce and succeed somehow. Film fanatics, or as I prefer to refer to myself and others, Cinegeeks, often find themselves drawn to figures within the film world considered 2nd or 3rd tier interviews, whose body of work might contain two or three masterpieces amongst a body of mediocrity, or who might have a mostly or even highly successful box office record but never get critical acclaim. Fanatics like to champion the underdog. It’s our nature. To a degree Alan Parker found himself in this category. Partially because his CV didn’t fit neatly into the Auteur Theory folder. Partially because he didn’t play the normal Hollywood game. It’s sometimes overlooked that the boldest outsiders during that New Hollywood era knew how to play the studio/PR angle and did so like sawing a harp from hell. I’m looking at YOU, Coppola and Scorsese.

Parker had artistic ambitions, some would even say pretentious ambitions, and yet I defy anyone to observe his body of work and not see a blue-collar hardscrabble mentality etching away at the base of all his films. He failed sometimes, but in all endeavors he struggled not just to ensure proper light diffusion, but to connect the audience to the scene that was unfolding and the characters within all of that art direction and brilliant cinematography. In his debut feature, the cult classic BUGSY MALONE, he invited audiences to indulge in the lark of basically watching an updated Little Rascals film as whipped-cream St. Valentine’s massacre. With an infectious soundtrack by Paul Williams. And it worked and still works. In MIDNIGHT EXPRESS, he sought nothing less than to put you through the Turkish prison system at its most barbaric. And damn, did he succeed. In FAME, he sought to enroll you in La Guardia High, the School for the Performing Arts, partially ushered in by one Mr. Lumet, and he brought you into the NYC streets to join the dance. In SHOOT THE MOON, he dragged you through the broken glass and nails that is a brutal divorce. Most critics still feel it’s the film that’ll never be topped on that topic. And yeah. It’s punishing to this day.

That’s just his first four films. He followed MOON in the same year with his cinematic distillation of PINK FLOYD’S THE WALL, as ambitious, reckless, insane, obtuse and inspiring as any art film dared to be. He waged one of the bravest, constant battles between the band, their label, his studio and the inevitable lash or backlash from the critics and the crowds as any director dared in that decade, which had now, even by 1992, belonged to Reagan and Thatcher’s crowd. It worked, it was a success on its own terms. It stood with QUADROPHENIA as one of the few successful adaps of a “RockOpera” to screen. And it would serve as an insanely influential piece of cinema/album mashup. I can’t think of another film that’s even attempted to match it to this day.

Parker’s true gift was that of exploration, and this was evinced by his sojourn from cinematic genre to cinematic genre. Like great directors before him, he felt the need to examine and exult in them all. He turned after 1982’s twin trials to what many referred to as William Wharton’s “un-filmable” novel. Parker found a way to film it, and in the process crafted a minor masterpiece, and the first film in his American Gothic trilogy. BIRDY is about so many things; the horror of war, the futility of grand romantic dreams, the last days of glorious, unweighted childhood. It succeeds in all those ambitions, but what it is squarely about is the healing power of friendship, of that bond between brothers that even the trauma of battle cannot best. He accomplished this in two different time periods and two different venues; the 60’s early and late, as disparate as a decade could get from itself; then the wide, economically depressed funland expanse of post-WW2 Brooklyn, against the claustrophobic, chiaroscuro lit cell of the VA, where the only shadow to hide within lies beneath the mottled cot. All of Parker’s CV can be described as character studies of one form or another. Here he began a three film sojourn into America’s pockets, its secret soul and even its original sins. He’d leave the punishing abandonment of what once was the City of Brooklyn as it stood circa 1962, for a far more insidious and painful abandonment, one of a whole swath of the country and of its stolen populace.

ANGEL HEART was ostensibly a mashup of horror and noir, a neat trick that any successful director would’ve been drawn to, especially in the MTV 80’s, a music video era (greatly inspired by directors like Parker, I might add) that found itself drawing on the tropes of past cinema genres in a highly stylized way. The synopsis implies a simple morality tale, a private eye hired by a seemingly nefarious talent agent to track down the client who’s eluded him. Perhaps by supernatural means. Parker expanded on the location by quickly resetting the action from Brooklyn to New Orleans, after a quick trip through Harlem. White culture has to answer to and for black culture in America, and Parker employed this almost caricature smoke-and-topcoat shamus to do this investigation. There is great butchery in ANGEL HEART, which I’ve always believed reps the butchery of slavery and the Jim Crow era. There are bold implications and terrible consequences for what we now term “cultural appropriation”, from Johnny Favorite’s Depression-era crooner stealing from black artists to the Krusemark’s adoption of the patchwork voodoo religion. Above all, there is guilt. There is a clear through line, as clear as Capt. Willard’s river to Kurtz, toward White America’s brutality, ongoing. Harry is our surrogate, should we choose. He goes on his own journey of discovery that becomes, unwittingly and surely unwillingly, one of SELF-discovery. His final manic, desperate denial is the same as any who enjoy white privilege to this day while at the same time being wholly unaware of it: I know who I am. If ANGEL HEART is the one he’s going to be remembered for, I believe it’s this subtext, unplanned or otherwise, that will allow it the test of time well over the brilliant cinematography and perhaps Mickey Rourke’s finest performance. Parker would next attempt to expand on this subtext and present it as text, with very, VERY mixed reactions.

MISSISSIPPI BURNING was a project begun with noble intent, I believe. In an era where white men still got to tell the black narrative in America. While I forgive a lot of the film’s dramatic license, I fully agree with its detractors as well. 1988 was a tipping point for tone-deafness in the film industry. Had Parker made BURNING a decade or so prior, it might enjoy a better rep in the context of its time. The end of the 80’s demanded better. I’m a fan of this film, as a film, not as a history. In the same way I’m a fan of well-crafted cinematic narratives that have dated very poorly. The tragedy of MISSISSIPPI BURNING is not just that he made so well-crafted a film at a point in the timeline when something more inclusive, honest, and better representative of history was possible, it’s that he chose fiction for fiction’s sake. Nevertheless, it was the second and final Oscar nomination for direction he’d receive.

Parker remained in this wheelhouse of American guilt for 20th century wrong-doing. COME SEE THE PARADISE was an earnest attempt to depict, to REMIND America really, of the awful Japanese internment camps of the WW2 years, the venerable FDR’s greatest sin. At the height of his filmmaking powers he was unerring in his balance between stylistic pursuit and substance. Alas, with this effort and his previous, glow softened suffer, and the heart of the tale proved elusive as a result.

Maybe he had a moment of clarity then, after these ambitious but perhaps stultifying efforts, and decided to return to a genre that had stood him in good stead. Parker turned to the homespun Celtic kick of Roddy Doyle and decided to create a real-life soul/funk/r&b band from scratch for THE COMMITMENTS, which most will agree is his last great film, though his later fare has its champions, and fair play to them. For a director so well known for his meticulous prep and focus he fared incredibly well in filming wild abandon. Maybe it was a mode he needed to consciously shift into gear for, but once there he cooked quite a stew. The film delighted both critics and audiences, and also helped re-start a soul music resurgence, helped in no little way by the film’s pre-fab ensemble, who’d take to the road for a series of live shows with various members of the celluloid iteration in tow. Some might argue that he retreated to a stance that shied from his previous inquiries regarding the separation of cultures white and other, and the theft perpetrated by one on the other, and in doing crafted so populist an entertainment as to render the argument moot. That’s a fair assessment. Some others might argue that a truthful, passionate depiction of people inspired by others different from their living experience, plaintively plying their art, is honest work as well, no matter their skin color. The debate won’t go away. And it shouldn’t. In terms of moviemaking, though, Parker had fired on all cylinders. Perhaps for the last time.

The remaining decade-plus of his work was, in most estimations, workmanlike, with the odd Parker flourish here and there recognizable to his fans. THE ROAD TO WELLVILLE was an eccentric choice as follow-up, and also as navigation through the early days of a new and unsure decade (He’d already travelled the biz director-driven, to producer-driven, and was now in the who-the-hell’s-driving 90’s). It features several fine performances, from recent and deserved Oscar winner Anthony Hopkins to the still-finding-their-way Matthew Broderick and John Cusack, and its huckster-health theme does still resonate, or at least it SHOULD, as well today as then as late 19th century. If it ultimately found no target to spear, it remains a well crafted and intentioned work. EVITA was no sleepwalk-to the-Oscar gig, even though the resulting film is at best assessed as a dreamily-hued mess. Parker took on the challenge of a legendary broadway smash, one that Hollywood had been desperate to film for well over a decade. A lesser director would’ve turned the camera on and yelled “Sing!”. But Parker was one of the few who’d found success in the post-studio era with one of its warhorse genres, the musical, which had diminished, and decidedly felled such giants as Coppola and Bogdanovich at their peak or near-peak. It’s a noble effort, if it comes up short. It’s not quite empty Oscar-bait, but it’s well shy of a film with a purpose. He either directed or was gifted a great Antonio Banderas perf, and he did his damnedest with Madonna, which is sorta the theme of her career don’t send hate mail. He got a hard-won, decent turn out of her, perhaps not the magnetic dying star that the role demanded, but an actor giving her all. That’s still worth something, even if they’re miscast. For further evidence I direct you toward Matt Damon in THE TALENTED MR. RIPLEY.

And here’s the part that I always hate to talk about. Parker was a director who, in my estimation, never sought validation, but always inspiration. It’s the source of his greatest works, and they remain some of the greatest of the post-studio years. He took his best swipe at an unlikely best-seller, Frank McCourt’s wildly successful but impossibly depressing ANGELA’S ASHES. Like EVITA, it had “prestige” built into it. Like EVITA, it was a package deal. Like EVITA, the studio expected some love from the Academy at the end of the day. I feel like Parker was thwarted from the start, tasked with this take of utter poverty and despondency while asked to chase the gold. Had the book come out sometime early in his career, had he discovered it and championed it, and then saw it through production and release, we may have been gifted something along the lines of a Ken Loach or even Buñuel at his most honest. The gilt and geld of the Hollywood studios, especially at that time competing with the newly-found prestige of the indies, precluded any chance at that, despite next-level perfs from Stephen Rea and Emily Watson. It’s a not-unworthy effort to seek out, especially if you're a Parker fan, but in some ways it may have signaled his ultimate abandonment of this art form. Maybe he felt he’d said enough. Maybe he felt he wouldn’t be allowed to say his piece on his terms anymore. Maybe he looked ahead at filmmaking in the new millennium and decided he’d not update his passport to this new continent. For reasons we never fully received, Parker was leaving.

His last film would be THE LIFE OF DAVID GALE, an anti-capital punishment screed that felt out of joint, and not due to the lack of effort from its stars, Kate Winslet and Christopher Plummer. But it’s an aimless effort, deprived of any real bite on a subject molten to a wide swath of the citizenry. It was met with mixed box office and mixed reviews. It left with nary a trace. And then, whether we realized it or not, so did Alan Parker.

It seemed to be a welcome retirement. At least in my following of my filmmaker heroes. I don’t believe I saw one item, one gossip piece, about a new Alan Parker project, about a studio extending him an offer on a prestige or even indie film. He popped up as interview subject and fairly frequently, and seemed to enjoy his status as thus. He’d crafted a remarkable body of work, and by all witness enjoyed remarking on it. He occasionally served as mentor, as when Christopher Nolan reached out to him. He’d definitely serve as defense attorney, especially when the subject of Mickey Rourke came up. He absolutely and most magnificently served as beacon to a whole generation of film lovers and future filmmakers, kids who were desperate in the corporate/production team/CAA 80’s to cling to films of their generation they could call their own. At a time when art and the so-called “auteur” was a dirty word in Hollywood he was able to put the work he’d crafted into your head and into your heart. I’m not sure if we’re gonna see another Alan Parker, and he’d be most upset by that notion, but if you’re reading this, and you find this possibility unacceptable, go grab a camera and be another Alan Parker. We’re waiting.

[sodokachi]

Secret Keeper

(ao3) 

It all started at School after classes had been let out for the day. She and Marinette had been talking when the object of Marinette’s affection had walked out of the class across the way from them.

“Marinette you’re staring at him again.” The girl in question blinked startled out of staring at Adrien. She quickly looked away before sending a sheepish glance towards Alya.

Alya rolled her eyes. How was Marinette going to make progress with Adrien if she couldn’t look at him without drifting off in to one of her daydreams? Maybe she should just tell Adrien than he could do something about it instead. Though the idea was entertaining she couldn’t do that to Marinette.

“You know how I get Alya! I just can’t seem to act normal around him.” Marinette said still looking at Alya somewhat sheepishly.

“I know Marinette, but if you want to make progress-” Alya stopped speaking when she noticed Adrien walking over toward them.

“Hey, Alya.” He greeting casually. He then slightly waved his hand towards Marinette to greet her as well. “I need to talk to you for a moment if you don’t mind?” He said glancing between the two girls sounding slightly nervous.

“Sure Adrien you don’t mind do you Marinette?” Alya asked making sure she wasn’t breaking Girl Code.

Marinette just shook her head assuring it was fine and saying she would see her later. Alya glanced at Adrien as Marinette left.

“Why did you need to speak to me anyway? Not that I mind just that we don’t really hangout.” Alya said hoping that he didn’t get the idea that she disliked him. The look on his face whenever he thought someone didn’t like him was depressing enough without the guilt of it being her fault.

“Don’t worry about it I know we don’t normally hangout.” Adrien said seeming almost as sheepish as Marinette had. “I really just need help with something really important.” His eyes had turned more serious and his lips had thinned startling her slightly. She hadn’t seen him act this seriously before.

“Well, If it’s important than I’d be happy to help.” She said back feeling confused about his sudden seriousness.

He seeming to relax a bit at her easy agreement a fleeting smile going across his face before he regained his serious composure.

“I need your help keeping a secret.” He said his voice turning far more severe than she was used too.

She stared at him not sure what to make of him.

“Well… I said I would help. How can I help you keep a secret? Wouldn’t it be easier to keep without me knowing?” Adrien grimaced and she had to cut him off before he could say anything. “Don’t. I said I would help didn’t I?” Alya said shooting her friend a smile.

The smile he sent back relaxed her a bit. The way he was acting was putting her off kilter so she was happy that he was acting a bit more like his usual self.

“Well-” He started losing only a bit of his smile. “-In this case the secret is already close to being out and I need your help convincing someone that I don’t have said secret if you know what I mean?”

“I don’t think I follow” She felt herself getting confused. Maybe he wanted her help covering up a secret?

“It will be necessary for you to know the secret to help me.” He said slowly the smile he wore before dimming considerably.

“How big a secret are talking about?” She asked her curiosity slightly getting away from her.

“Really big.” He chuckled. “You’re the only one I could think of that would have the skills to help me that I also trusted enough.” He continued with the smile back on his face.

“Well what is this about then?” She felt slightly touched that someone as nice as Adrien said he trusted her enough to keep something that seemed so important to him secret.

“Well I would prefer if we were talking somewhere more private before I say.” He hedged a bit.

“That important huh?” She grinned at him. “Let’s head to my place than while were there you can tell me the secret and then we can get started on the cover up. Cool?”

“Cool” He replied a brilliant smile lighting up his face.

The walk to her house was spent in companionable silence. Alya wondered if this secret of Adrien’s was actually worth all the secrecy. Adrien couldn’t have that big of secrets. She knew exactly how busy he was due to Marinette’s slight, maybe not so slight, obsession with him. She considered that it might be a crush, though wouldn’t he want his crush to know about how he felt? Adrien didn’t seem to be the type to get nervous around girls but maybe he was like Marinette always nervous about hers?

She supposed that her curiosity would be abated soon enough but if it was a crush and it wasn’t on Marinette that could make keeping it a secret very difficult. Worse yet what if it was on Marinette? She couldn’t lie to her friend about it. She had trouble just keeping the fact that Nino knew about Marinette’s crush a secret.

Well she would just have to deal with whatever fallout came from this whole ‘Adrien’s secret’ thing since they were getting close to her house.

“This is it!” She declared shooting Adrien a reassuring smile. “As soon as we get to my room we can, well figure out how to hide your secret thing.” She chuckled.

Adrien politely smiled back at her and reached for the door holding it open for her.

They entered her house and immediately headed up to her room. When Adrien asked where everyone was she blinked and replied that her siblings were still at school and her parents wouldn’t be back for a while yet.

“So you don’t have to worry about your secret getting out through my family at least.” He smiled at her seemingly satisfied that at the very least the following conversation would be private.

Her room was somewhat cozy (small) and the only places to sit were her bed and a desk chair. She offered him the chair which he gratefully accepted. He then slide into the chair before proceeding to lean back with one arm over the back of it and then crossed one leg over the other. The pose reminded her of the poses he would do on the covers of magazines.

“Do you ever stop modeling?” Alya asked as she sat on her best crossing her legs and sending him a dry glance.

“What do you mean?” He asked with a rather clueless look on his face.

“Don’t give me that! I know that you know what you’re doing.” She shot back not quite buying the look.

He kept the look for a few more seconds, enough for her to doubt herself and almost apologize, when he laughed.

“Sorry, I’ve been waiting for one of you guys to call me out on that for a while.” He explained in-between chuckles.

She let out her own snicker. “Well you got me, I actually thought you didn’t realize you were doing it for a moment.”

He beamed at her perhaps taking too much enjoyment in his actions.

“This is fun and all but my curiosity is starting to get the better of me here.” She said with a smirk striking its way across her face.

“I know, I know, I need to tell you. It’s just hard. I’ve never told anyone about this before and it is a very important secret.” He said. The serious expression she saw earlier coming back onto his face.

“Well seeing as how it’s a super important secret that you’ve never told anyone I’m starting to think I’ll be disappointed that it isn’t as big as you make it out to be.”

He stared at her for a moment frowning. He then sighed as though there was a pressure weighing him down.

“Look when I tell you this you have to promise you won’t tell anyone-”

“I already said I wouldn’t right?” She cut him off frowning slightly at him.

“I know you did.” He said grimacing slightly. “I trust you Alya.” He said looking straight into her eyes.

She shifted uncomfortably wondering for the first time if this, maybe, was bigger than a crush. Taking a big breath she steadied herself and looking him in the eye as she spoke.

“I promise I won’t tell a soul without your permission.”

“Okay then.” He said softly. “Plagg you can come out now.”

The first thing she thought upon seeing the little creature was that he reminded her of the familiars she had seen in comics and anime. The second was wondering why in the world Adrien Agreste of all people had a familiar. This train of thought was derailed when she realized that the creature looked like a black cat.

She glanced back and forth from the creature, she supposed its name was Plagg, and Adrien. Adrien had a familiar. A familiar that looked like a black cat. Oh my god she hadn’t realized she was in the same class as a freaking superhero!

“Huh? Adrien she’s making a weird face.” Plagg said a small grin making its way onto it’s, well he sounded male so, his face.

“Shush Plagg don’t be mean.” He said. He shot a pointed frown at Plagg. He then looked at her again and gave her a reassuring smile.

“Are you alright Alya? You seem… surprised.” He said carefully.

Alya blinked finally closing her gaping mouth. She kind of wished that she hadn’t just stared at him. Her mind going a million miles an hour but what was she supposed to do? He was Chat Noir. Adrien Agreste was Chat Noir. How? She wondered somewhat bitterly. Did she not notice? Some reporter I am.

“Adrien Agreste is Chat Noir.” She muttered.

“Yes I am.” He agreed cautiously. “Maybe telling you this was a mistake.”

“No!” Alya said suddenly jumping off the bed. “I’m good now see.” She gestured to herself a slightly manic smile on her face.

“Are you sure Alya?” Adrien replied a looking disconcerted by her smile.

“Very.” She replied the smile on her face losing some of its edge.

“Okay then.” He sent her one last questioning glance. “I’ll introduce you two.” Adrien gestured to her then to Plagg. “This is my Kwami Plagg. He allows me to transform into Chat Noir.” Plagg glanced at her looking for all the world like he could not care less about what was happening. In spite of the look he waved his little arm in greeting.

“Plagg-” He gestured back to Alya. “-this is Alya. A friend of mine. Be nice.”

“I am being nice.” Plagg muttered.

“Sure you are.” Adrien rolled his eyes in exasperation.

Alya glanced between the two of them trying to figure out how Adrien was chiding a powerful magic creature like he was a rebellious child.

She waved at the little Kwami in greeting. “So you give Adrien powers? Can you give me powers too?” She asked.

“Huh? That’s not how it works girl.” Plagg said looking at her with a dry expression. “Adrien was chosen to wield my power.” He said his tone as dry as the look he was giving her.

Adrien glanced at Plagg A look of exasperation on his face. “You know that Ladybug and I have both have Miraculouses right Alya?”

“Yes, She has her earrings, and you have a ring right?” Alya replied.

“Yes.” Adrien smiled at her before holding up his hand the white ring on his finger. “This is my Miraculous. I use Plagg and it together to transform into Chat Noir.”

He glanced at her to make sure she understood what he was saying and blinked when he noticed the stars in her eyes.

“Is Plagg attached to the ring?” she asked her curiosity showing up in her eyes.

“Yes, that’s exactly it.” He smiled at her in satisfaction.

“I’d love to go over every detail with you but I really need to talk to you about hiding my secret.”

“Wait. You said that someone was close to figuring it out right?” She asked getting more serious as she realized the situation.

“Yes. After the last akuma, Jackady, my father has been more suspicious of me.” He said his face showing the seriousness of his words.

“I need your help to stop him from figuring me out.” He pleaded with her.

She waved her arm as though dismissing his words. “I already agreed to help you know?” She grinned at him pushing up her glasses. “So how are we going to do this, I mean do you have any ideas how to allay his suspicion?” She asked.

“Well, yes.” He seemed to hesitate for a moment before continuing. “I was thinking that you could film me standing next to you and then flip to Chat Noir waving to us… or something like that.” He trailed off sheepishly.

She considered him for a moment. She wanted to help her friend but how would filming Chat Noir when there wasn’t even an akuma work?

“You know you could just take some akuma footage of Chat Noir winking at you and splice it together with Adrien and you standing next to each other.” Plagg interrupted an amused grin on his face. “Then you could post it after the next akuma attack. Boom done. Can I have some cheese now?” He said sending a pleading look towards Adrien.

Adrien stared at his suddenly helpful Kwami for a moment before shaking his head. “I guess you can have some since you helped out.” He stated reluctantly. He grabbed a small piece of cheese out of his bag. As Alya watched the small Kwami grinned when Adrien threw the cheese at him. She watched in wonder as the tiny god’s mouth opened wide and swallowed the cheese in one bite.

“Does he always eat like that?” She asked gaping at Plagg.

Adrien just groaned.

The next day Alya got to class early and tried not to fidget as she thought about the day before. Finding out that Adrien was Chat Noir was still a bit surreal to her. She felt like she should have noticed sooner. She groaned and face planted into the desk as another thing occurred to her. She showed Marinette a picture of Adrien with Chat Noir’s suit and she still hadn’t figured it out!

Oh my god! Marinette tried so hard to deny she was into Chat Noir! She thought snickering to herself.

A couple of the people in the class that were there early glanced at her before going back to what they were doing. Alya wondered how Adrien even kept up with his super busy schedule with also being Chat Noir. She glanced at her phone. It’s a good thing my blog isn’t too heavily focused on Chat Noir’s identity. She would have to be careful from now on. After all she didn’t want her friend’s identity to end up on the internet especially since she was making such an effort to help him hide it from his father.

When she glanced up from her phone she noticed that Adrien had just walked in.

He made his way to his seat proceeding to put his bag down. Alya wondered if Plagg was really comfortable hiding in a bag all day. She supposed it had to be considering the lack of whining from Plagg.

After putting down his bag he turned to her and she noted that he had a small box in his hand she didn’t recognize.

“Hey Alya.” He greeted quietly a soft smile on his face.

“Yo. After class I think we should grab that video of us waving to Chat Noir so that I can get it ready to be posted after the next akuma.” She spoke even quieter than Adrien. She noticed that his face dipped into a more serious expression for a moment as he replied to her.

“Of course. We can do it in the park right after school.” Adrien spoke his voice just as quiet as hers.

Unnoticed to them Chloe had just walked into the classroom and overheard them. She gaped at them wondering what in the world they were talking about. Whatever Adrien’s and Alya are doing. She thought. At least it’s he’s not doing it with Marinette. She scoffed sitting down at her desk. She would spend the rest of class time shooting completely unnoticed glares toward Alya.

Alya agreed with Adrien quietly. She glanced back at her phone to see that they still had about five minutes until class started. Considering the time she kind of hoped Marinette would arrive soon so she wouldn’t be late. Blowing a lock of hair out of the way she sent Marinette a quick text informing her of the time.

She blinked when she noticed that Adrien was still turned towards her fiddling with the box in his hands. She looked down at him questioningly.

“Well. Um. I was thinking of a way to thank you for helping me out with such a big thing. And. Well. Ikindaboughtyoujewelry!” He rushed out looking slightly worried.

Alya blinked at him somewhat startled at the Marinette-esque behavior from Adrien.

“Well, I do like jewelry.” She reassured him wondering why he was freaking out.

“Huh? Oh. Good, that’s good. I was kind of worried since Pla-A mutual friend of ours said it might be a bit much for a thank you gift.” He said his worried look dissipating slightly.

“Is that was he said exactly?” She asked.

“More like he implied that I liked you, well, more than Ladybug you could say.” He muttered the last part.

Right because Chat Noir was pretty much in love with Ladybug. She thought. Shoot. What in the world would she tell Marinette?

“Here it is anyway. Friend.” Adrien placed the box onto her desk. He sent her an expectant smile looking form her to the box.

She sent him her best ‘thank you for the new socks smile’ she could and opened the box.

“A-are those real diamonds?” She whispered towards him gaping at the necklace.

“Yep. Do you like it?” He beamed a hopeful smile at her.

She glanced at him before looking back at the gold chain necklace at the center her name spelling out in gold with the A in Alya studded with what were apparently actual diamonds. She could now understand why Plagg thought the gift was too much. Glancing back at his hopeful smile she groaned internally. No way am I getting out of accepting this gift. She thought.

“It’s great!” She said with a strained smile. Adrien didn’t seem to notice this as his hopeful smile turned into a genuine happy one.

“Thank you Alya.” He said. “For everything.” He added beaming at her.

She took a deep breath and then grinned at him. His enthusiasm contagious.

“Your welcome.” She replied.

Gabriel sat at his desk considering the video that Natalie had brought to his attention. It was listed as ‘My Friend Adrien Agreste and Me Alya Snap Some Pics during An Akuma Fight!’ and despite the atrocious name he was giving it a watch, it only to be sure Adrien hadn’t put himself into any unnecessary danger.

His real reason for watching was actually hiding quietly on the bookcase behind him. As Adrien’s father he had the great responsibly of making sure Adrien was safe. He had formed a suspicion that his son’s ring might be something more than just a fashion statement. A coincidence that he had no way of confirming or rejecting. Until now anyway.

The video showed Chat Noir waving to his son and the girl filming. At this he finally felt himself relax. He had not been hunting his own son. This was somewhat of a relief.

“No matter.” He muttered. “I was foolish to think it could have been under my nose this whole time when I keep Adrien so close.”

He quietly left the room to head to his next meeting far more relaxed now that his suspicions had been put to rest.

Nooroo sat on the bookcase looking slightly perturbed by the man. Didn’t he realize how easy it would be to fake such a thing? Oh well. He thought. If Adrien is indeed Chat Noir it would be in his best interest if I didn’t know about it or else I would be forced to tell my master.

He quietly floated down to the computer pressing the replay button with the mouse. Watching several times he wondered how Gabriel could dismiss it so easily. Maybe he just doesn’t want to believe it.

Shaking his head the Kwami just hoped that whatever happened it did not drag an innocent child such as Adrien into it. He grimaced slightly once last thought leaving him feeling exceptionally bitter. Gabriel most likely already had involved his son. Just by being Hawk Moth.

#miraculous ladybug #ml #fanfic #first fanfic #sodokachi #adrien agreste #alya cesaire #friend fics

[ashwank-blog-blog]

Wonder how long this will last

Welp, it’s been 6 years or more since I’ve been on this website. I’m pretty sure my idea of it being porn, feminist rants and cats isn’t as accurate as my judgemental mind believes it to be but we’ll see. I don’t really understand tumblr, but from what I gather I’ve unfollowed the 1 person I was following and I’ve blocked some weirdo who was posting dicks everywhere, so if anyone I know is reading this whilst you’re welcome to do so, just know I have made an effort to scrub this blog from any previous attachments.  I’m going through some shit, many people have told me to write down how I feel but one of the curses of working in an IT field is... Well, my hand writing isn’t readable. I have this issue where excluding typing or petting cats, my hands just don’t do what I tell them and writing is included in that. So, here I am. Life is 50 shades of shit right now, let’s break it down. The girl I thought was my soul mate doesn’t love me, and it scares me to think of how long she hasn’t. I mean, in retrospect I don’t blame her. She’s a fantastic human being and I’m a bit of a cunt. If it took me as long as I think it did to realise something wrong, what right do I have to ask for another chance? I’ve said a lot of things since I knew how she felt and some of them were hurtful, to her and coming from my own mouth. I just don’t understand how you can fall out of love with someone, nothing ‘big’ or typically ‘relationship killer’ has happened. Neither of us cheated, neither of us are abusive, neither of us have a reason to get out as soon as possible... To me, whilst I know it’s not true, she just woke up one day at some point in the last 6 or 7 years and realised I wasn’t the person she wanted to spend her life with. It hurts, more than my vocabulary can even begin to describe. It hurts to breath, it hurts to eat and it hurts to think. It hurts to wake up, it hurts to sleep and it hurts everywhere in between.

I’ve slept something like 4 hours since she gave me the final decision on Wednesday. I tried so hard not to speak in anger, but I do this thing where I say I’m trying not to do something and within 5 minutes I’m doing exactly that. I was, and still am, so angry. I wanted to be a dad, I wanted to be a husband and I wanted a family. I’m a simple guy, I wanted a job, a house, pets and a wife. The kid(s) were a pipe-dream that would’ve come further down the line, there was no immediate plan. But all that is dead. I don’t even know what I could’ve done to stop it from dying in all honesty. I mean, I know from what we talked about how I could’ve been a better person and I know it sounds so childish but I’ve taken it on board and I’ve changed. It wasn’t the type of change you’re forced into, I just lost my way in life and I needed someone to tell me to wake the fuck up. I needed someone to tell me that when my mum said “treat others how you wish to be treated” she was wrong. You treat others how they deserve to be treated and even then, sometimes you just treat people nice, it’s simple shit and for whatever reason I think my lack of understanding this simple human trait, is one of the big reasons we’ve broken up. She said on Wednesday night that she didn’t think we could even come back from this and in the ‘heat’ of the moment I said I agreed. I think it’s incredibly hypocritical of me to call her a liar and telling her I feel betrayed by her giving up because when the chips are down I basically did the same thing. This girl, I live for. I know it’s cheesy, but I really do. You see people describe their love by saying stupidass shit like they’d die for one-another or they’d do something ‘til the end of time but man, I’d attempt the impossible if it meant being given a chance to right all the wrongs going on right now.  I gave her nan the Christmas presents I bought last week, this morning. It was like 7:40 and since she’s a war child she’d already had her 7am lie-in, so thankfully I didn’t wake her. I wanted to go the night before after work but she didn’t come home til late and the last thing I want her to think is I’m following her or being a creepy stalker. So I turned up in the freezing cold and gave her nan the little bag of shitty presents that my shitty hands wrapped with shitty sellotape and you know what she says to me? “Things not going so well?” shortly followed by “Well I hope we see you at Christmas”. I wanted the world to swallow me right there, I just numbly said “I don’t think I’ll be there” and excused myself to go to work. She then sent me a message on Facebook a few minutes later just to say thank you and repeating the seeing me at Christmas thing which... Whilst nice, I didn’t have a reply to. I wish it stopped here, but the next bit is what killed me. I wrote a little note in the bag, it started off as just a way of telling whoever gives them out whose presents are whose, but I ended up writing something stupid like “Merry Christmas and thank you for everything”... It wasn’t meant to be some over-dramatic teen bullshit but I guess it comes across that way. Anyway her nan sent me another message about an hour later saying she didn’t realise it was good bye and... “You were like an adopted grandson”. Had to take a moment to blink back tears even writing that, so we won’t speak of the little cry I had in the office toilet. This family did things for me my own family couldn’t do, so when I said to her in a reply “You were more family than my real family a lot of the time” I really meant it. I was gonna type more about that but... It hurts too much.  We’ve got to sell the flat. All that stuff, from 2 years of building a life, has to be moved, binned, stored, sold... Then there’s the fish, I’ve killed so many fish I don’t think I can even look at them without feeling like the worst kind of person. The reasons behind killing them were genuine most of the time, they were either sick and dying anyway or we had no option but I mean this time... I really got into it. I really enjoyed setting up the tank and learning how it all worked, learning their names and their ‘breeds’ personalities and just learning to get involved with something that she liked. Not to impress her or for any stupid reason, just because dismissing something you don’t like before you’ve really tried it is a terribly ignorant thing to do.  I’m also gonna miss the cats. I get daily cuddles. Dodger was on my lap for hours last night, I wasn’t doing anything and had no reason to get up so he just slept on me. I never had indoor pets growing up. The closest we had was one time we let the rabbit in the kitchen, or when we found frogs in the garden. I never had this ‘need’ for living company. I sat alone in my room with the tv and a laptop and smoked, drank and ate. When I went to bed, whilst I was crippled with loneliness I never knew what it was like to have a living thing to keep me company. Now I do, but I also know I’m going to lose them. Sure, I could get another cat or maybe even a dog. But, and as dumb as this sounds, these cats are the closest thing I’ll ever get to having children with her. They’re the closest thing to a family and to a future I could make an effort to live for. Whilst they’re not gone yet, they may as well be. As hurtful as it sounds, I wish they hated me just to make it easier to walk away and never see them again. On top of the breakup, I’ve been down for a very long time. I was diagnosed with ‘manic depression’ when I was 16. They gave me pills that I refused to take and I dragged my ass through college as best I could. I’ve not quite had suicidal tendencies, but I’ve not exactly looked at life as anything other than a happy coincidence. I was the winning sperm, congratulations to me, fuck the rest. I’m trying to get help for this... Talking and being honest with people is difficult, albeit the amount of talking I’ve done compared to 16 year old me you’d probably not even believe we were the same people. I have a meeting at the hospital on Monday in which I’m not exactly far off just asking to have some meds thrown at me. Just enough to make me numb. I’ve not been happy in a very long time, so long in fact I don’t even remember so I doubt I’d miss it. I just can’t take these low points, I have no real escape. Everywhere I go reminds me of something I no longer have or a mistake or a thing I failed at and it crushes me a little more every day. I’m not brave/stupid/selfish enough to take my own life, though it has crossed my mind more times than I would like to admit. I don’t think it’s fair to hurt the people that do care for me, or even just the colleagues that I’ve confided in. But I also don’t think I would move from a derailed train or a swerving vehicle, in fact my one concern would be whether or not it would be enough to kill me, or just cripple me. I think that scares me a lot less than it should. I might make more posts. I might not, I wanted to make a point of finishing posts with something meaningful just in case it is my last one, but realistically nothing I can think of would sum up how I feel now, so I guess I’ll just try “I’m sorry.” A