#Wonder bar psychedelic candy

[william-scott77]

Wonder bar by canna banana

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#Psychedelic mushroom chocolate bars for sale #Psychedelic mushroom chocolate bars for sale california #Psychedelic mushroom chocolate bars for sale near me #Psychedelic mushroom chocolate bars for sale usa #Where to buy Wonder bar by canna Banana #Wonder bar by canna banana for sale #Wonder bar by Canna Banana ingredients #Wonder bar by Canna Banana price #Wonder bar canna banana reddit #Wonder bar chocolate psychedelic #Wonder bar psychedelic candy #Wonderland psychedelic mushroom chocolate bars

[henrysglock]

High Existence and ZeroSpace: The First Shadow and NINA May Be Massive, Immersive Drug Trips

The blurb in last Friday's video from TFS sounded familiar, but I couldn't place it. I found a lot of sites quoting The Alchemist about the universe conspiring to give you what you truly want (which is similar and it's probably what I was thinking of when this blurb registered as familiar), but I couldn't find this exact quote:

Well...not at first, anyway. I decided to stick every word I could make out here ^ into my search bar...and I found where the blurb comes from:

This blog post is quite literally the only source I could find for it, and the whole damn thing is directly lifted.

Right off the bat, the site fucking jump-scared me:

And it doesn't end there. Let's dive in, because this rabbit hole is a trip unto itself...no MDMA​ ​required.

1. The Fucking Website...#1 (HighExistence.com)

High Existence is a sort of drug-induced-spiritual-trip centered self-help site.

It's got blog posts and podcasts and all that jazz. Here are some of the highlights:

Wow! That was...a lot. A lot of words from the word show, too:

Wholeness, heroes, ancient aliens, prisons of politeness, and the fucking Shire, too, I guess. Why not?

(An Aside: I've included the VR in here too because of the sheer similarities between Henry's experience with the Shadow in VR, El's experience in NINA, and The First Shadow in general.)

Like fuck it, why not keep going, these posts date back to at least 2017:

And don't let me start in on that Creel boy and Faust...

[Jason voice] "[Eddie] made a deal with the devil and now he has his powers!" (Also we get it, one of them is neurotic and the other is psychotic. I've been saying this since like...forever)

Of course, all that insanity aside, the Russian base arc has just...an insane amount of ST4 and TFS stuff packed into it in general:

(And this isn't even all of it. I know others [cough] Stav Heroesbyler [cough] have covered it even more...but bro it is THERE)

But most importantly for the NINA arc:

Three things: Dialogue doubling (there's the one I showed, plus a) Robin yelling "Wipeout!" at Steve which has the pipeline -> "Wipeout!" at Rink-O-Mania -> 002-005 bullying El in a very similar manner and b) Steve's "that's amazing" line about the water fountain -> "This is amazing!" not only from Alice irt the Creel house but also from Mike irt Will's painting on their way to save El from NINA. Again, these are just a few of MANY instances), makeup doubling with the bloodshot eyes, and my beloved: set/prop doubling.

I love that beautiful framing on the nearly-identical square clocks. I have so much to say about that clock, but specifically:

The clocks being set 9 minutes apart, which happens to be the exact length of time from the end of Vecna's voiceover in 4.07 to the start of the fight sequence in 4.07 (aka the length of One's frozen-clock monologue).

Not only that, but the clock isn't even right. It says it's 3:55, but it's definitely not 3:55 AM (see: movie theater scene) but it's also not 3:55 PM:

(And why do we have a clock in an elevator anyway? That's the real question. That thang only exists to deliver subtext, baby! It exists to connect the two scenes further!)

Anyway, as you all likely noticed, this site mostly deals in psychedelics, stimulants, and empathogens.

link

Hell, you could even pull One's bit on the ecosystem into it, since he's describing connections between beings that are being disturbed/destroyed by humanity.

Anyway, the site tends to center specifically on DMT and MDMA...so let's talk about those:

MDMA & DMT An aside: Interesting to me that psychosis here can be counteracted with sedatives. Makes me wonder if whatever happened in 1979 could have been halted if they'd just tranq'd One. Hm.

First off: Did I read that right? Piggy-backing? Damn, son. 4.09, The Piggyback, is pictured in that paragraph. So is Brenner's candy bit with the children -> "candy flipping" vs LSD use in Brenner's lab.

Second: Ah, how nice. Intravenous/injectable. Just like how El is constantly being shot up with...something...to enter NINA.

Now, nearly all psychedelics can induce psychosis, but especially so if they're combined with other psychoactive substances and/or if the user has a history of psychosis (either themselves or in their family).

However, MDMA specifically has been posited as a treatment for PTSD and retrograde/traumagenic amnesia:

link Like...wow. Okay, I guess!

tl;dr: One seems to have been tripping fucking balls during the monologue. Literally every fucking version of him. El likely is as well. Funny how that works. Was any of that real? [smash cut to the way blood pours down the walls and the dead children dance around in the VR version of NINA] And either way, Henry in TFS isn't far behind with his hallucinogenic moments.

The connection? Whatever the hell is going on in Hawkins Labs...and symptoms of drug use.

I was not expecting to get this much out of a single rabbit hole. But...that's life with this show, isn't it? And this is only Part 1.

2. The Fucking Website...#2 (Futurism.com)

The guy who made that original post that TFS lifted the blurb from (Jordan Lejuwaan) runs a couple different websites. The most interesting one is Futurism, which is basically an online version of the Weekly Watcher:

It won't let me filter by date, but it seems to have been founded in 2017, stemming from an infographic subreddit. (Now, it says it's a trustworthy news source, and maybe it is, but... Do your own assessment of that. I'm not your mother, yknow?)

Jordan Lejuwaan was also involved in something far more interesting irt Stranger Things...

3. Zero Space

Jordan co-founded an immersive, interactive theater experience called ZeroSpace back in 2018. As we all know, TFS was just in the beginning phase of its creation around this time.

So...This was like a brick to the skull:

"Alice in Wonderland" (don't get me started: rabbit fuckery, DRUGS!!!!!, clocks/being later, Alice Creel, Fringe connections (Through The Looking Glass and What Walter Found There being the episode about the pocket universe where 20 years passed in 5 days...and also wherein we find out about him hiding away an Observer child that he will later time travel with to save the world from the Observer takeover...erasing himself from time/the timeline by doing so...there is SO much) not to mention the "one pill makes you larger/smaller" vs teen El and baby El...it's too much to try and fit in this post), "ALIENS AND LASERS", "stretch the perceived reality of the sense", "art, actors and your own mind converge to prompt MORE QUESTIONS THAN ANSWERS" (which was a common complaint about TFS: it leaves people with more questions than answers).

("See you on the other side" being an in-show line from Henry in the lab to Patty in the void, but this image is ripped directly from the same promo video that the High Existence blurb appears in.)

Here's a little taste of what ZeroSpace is like, but I suggest going to the actual page to see it in action:

It's heavily heavily reminiscent of TFS, even just in the content warnings...

Not to mention the actual show content SFX:

However, the goal of TFS isn't to stretch our senses. We're just watching. We are not the volunteer seeing the other side.

For most of the show, that person is Henry (except the first 5 mins, when it's Cptn. Brenner and his crew literally experiencing the other side). Henry is doing the experiencing. He's the one breaking the fourth wall by picking at/breaking the sets, the one running through the audience and leaving out the theater doors (only to end up right back on stage just like El in the Rainbow Room in 4.05).

With each bit of info I find out adjacent to the play, the more convinced I am that this is some secret third boy's experience in a NINA-like simulation.

Overall—

a) TFS most likely isn't wholly real, and it seems very likely that it's the same kind of simulation as NINA.

b) El was probably drugged up with some kind of empathogenic psychedelic going into NINA, likely with the goal of setting her up to form emotional connections quickly and deeply only to rip that deep connection away in order to bolster her abilities.

c) NINA is not, then, wholly based in truth. Parts of NINA (staring at the bullying from 002-005) may have been generated from El's memories of the outside world.

d) With NINA and TFS seeming so similar, I wouldn't be shocked if parts of it are just one massive empathogen trip (staring at how quickly Henry and Patty bond, similarly to how quickly Henry and El bond in NINA).

e) Whoever is in NIA with teen El is also tripping balls, most likely, and may have gone off the rails in that regard. However, that's in a simulation...hard to assign guilt or blame for things done in a fictional/unreal world.

f) Whoever was with baby El in 1979 may have been in a similar situation "moving chess pieces"-style instead. Read: drugged in order to put him in a situation where he would bolster El's latent abilities...and it went wrong (see also: Walter Bishop's orchestrated/fake massacre meant to bolster Olivia's latent abilities.)

g) Richard Brenner having been the head of narcotics makes me question which Brenner we're seeing at any given time: Martin, or Richard?

#st nina project #st: tfs #henry creel #el hopper #non-consensual drug use #medical malpractice #ZeroSpace #High Existence

[cantsayidont]

April 1986. Long ago, back in the prehistoric days when you could still potentially buy both a new comic book and a candy bar for a single U.S. dollar, DC had a protracted flirtation with digest-sized comics, obviously intended to capture some of the supermarket checkout rack space normally dominated by Archie Comics. With very few exceptions, they were all-reprint, with a diverse array of material ranging from Golden Age reprints to '70s horror comics to recent DC highlights. This issue, #71 of the BEST OF DC BLUE RIBBON DIGEST line (which was only a "series" in a very technical sense), was one of the last, if not the last, of this eight-year experiment, and it sort of highlights why it became unworkable.

Let's suppose that you're a kid in early 1986, and while in line at the grocery store, you persuade your parental figure to buy you this comics digest. If they could spare the $1.50 plus tax, there was no obvious reason to object — it's a comic with a silly cartoon character on the cover and seems to have some Superman and Batman stuff, no big deal. What it contains, however, is a very peculiar assortment of recent material, including, inter alia:

"The Day the Earth Died" from SUPERMAN #408 (Paul Kupperberg/Ed Hannigan/Curt Swan/Al Williamson), a story about Superman's nuclear anxiety that begins with a rather harrowing dream sequence where Superman sees Metropolis destroyed by nuclear attack, leaving him the only survivor.

"Mogo Doesn't Socialize" from GREEN LANTERN #188, the now famous Alan Moore/Dave Gibbons short that introduced Mogo, the Green Lantern who's a planet.

Three ridiculous Keith Giffen stories: Blue Devil fighting the Trickster (from BLUE DEVIL #8); Ambush Bug trying to hassle Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman into guest-starring in his new miniseries (from ACTION COMICS #565); and a short in which the Atari Force's alien pet Hukka is terrorized by a robotic toy (from ATARI FORCE #20).

A tongue-in-check Batman adventure from BATMAN #383 (Doug Moench/Gene Colan/Bob Smith) in which our hero, in both his identities, desperately tries and repeatedly fails to get some sleep.

A solo story for Katana from BATMAN AND THE OUTSIDERS (Mike W. Barr/Jerome K. Moore) in which Tatsu murders some guys and recovers a stolen Japanese artifact with no dialogue or sound effects other than running radio commentary on a baseball game.

The well-known Alan Moore Swamp Thing story ("Rites of Spring," from SWAMP THING #34, drawn by Stephen Bissette and John Totleben) where Abigail Arcane and the Swamp Thing get very high on one of his psychedelic tubers and Abby gets her monsterfucker card punched, which editor Barbara Randall said had to be carefully recut not for content, but to get it to fit the page format.

This was a reasonably representative sampling of DC's 1985 output, but it's a weird lineup that's all over the place in tone and content. I have no idea what a hypothetical kid would have made of "Rites of Spring" upon encountering it in this format (by the time I happened upon my copy of this digest years later — for 50 cents — I'd already read it in TPB), but it would have been apparent that we were not in Riverdale anymore.

One nice thing about the digest series is that they often had some thoughtfully selected material; the themed issues are worthwhile, chosen with care even if the size and quality of reproduction were far from ideal. DC has occasionally put out conceptually similar packages, but not on a regular basis, usually in something more like regular comic book dimensions (the Walmart specials, for instance), not on a regular basis, and not on supermarket checkout racks.

#comics #best of dc blue ribbon digest #dc digests #ambush bug #keith giffen #karl kesel #green lantern #swamp thing

[bearsuitrecords]

Andrei Rikichi – "Caged Birds Think Flying is a Sickness" It's Psychedelic Baby Magazine review:

By the time you recite the title, this 28-minute blast of fresh air will be almost over and you’ll be asking yourself “What the hell did I just hear?” The latest in Bearsuit’s roster of quirky signings (Eamon The Destroyer, Harold Nono, Bunny & The Invalid Singers, et. al.), Rikichi is the international son of a Tokyo father and Bucharest mum who grew up in Switzerland and Belgium and now resides in London. Dumpster divers may have come across his previous releases as a member of such Belgian groups as The Unaccountable Red Mist Orchestra, but this is his opening salvo as a solo artist.With a remit inspired by the Ramones (if it takes more than two minutes to say your piece, you’re a wanker in need of an editing machine), most of these “songs” are over before they begin. So you’ll probably have to listen three or four times before playing (as the saying goes) to catch all of Rikichi’s intricacies. One can almost feel the bones crunch and the blood spurt on the opening gooshy industrial cacophony of the ‘Theme From The Butcher’s Parade’ (think Nine Inch Nails-meets-The Residents) and whilst sliding down the slippery, blood-soaked slope of the horror show ‘They Don’t See The Maelstrom’, you’ll appreciate Rikichi’s command of the studio and all its inherent madness and tricks, like a mad scientist version of Carl Stalling in a candy shop full of 21st century technological wonders. Of course, that may not excuse the excessively glitchy ‘At Home I Hammer Ceramic Golfing Dogs’ (which did take longer to type than listen to) or the hurricane-induced whirlwind ‘Whatever Happened To Whitey Wallace?’ (I didn’t know he was missing), but there’s so much happening over, under, sideways, and down inside these Musique concrète creations (including the occasional operatic aria that would give Klaus Nomi a run for his tonsils – ‘This Is Where It Ends’) that you just have to sit back and let Rikichi have at it. Something impossibly surreal or wonderful or both is just around the corner and you only have to wait about 120 seconds to experience it. Some tracks, like ‘Bags, Lyrics, New Prescription’ (which sounds like a typical day out for good ol’ Andrei) come off like cinematic cues for a film soundtrack to a non-existent film, while the 13-second ‘This’ will undoubtedly inspire reams of analysis in the British Journal of Aesthetics under such highbrow titles as “If A Song Lasts Less Than 15 Seconds, Can You Hear Enough Of It To Postulate And Defend Its Reason For Existing?” Which will most certainly end up being the title of a track on Rikichi’s next album. And ‘Death Of A Postman’ is one of the most beautifully sombre pieces of funeral music you’ll hear this year. While the pingy Undersea World Of Jacques Cousteau bloop-bloop ‘Player Name – The Syracuse Apostle’ (look him up) stands tall at almost four minutes (maybe it should have been two separate songs? Sounds like it could have been), the “Hallelujah” chorus of ‘This Is Where It Started” (curiously, but necessarily imbedded in the middle of the album) segues seamlessly into ‘They Hide In The Dark Forest’ to such a degree that I wouldn’t be surprised if the punster in Rikichi didn’t actually record a single, 28-minute extravaganza and then take a razor blade to the tape, Brion Gysin-style and just randomly slice the tune into 14 segments. Sort of like a musical answer to The Human Centipede…and almost as demented! Of course this is not the sort of thing you’ll put on for a romantic cuddle-up with the girl you want to bring home and introduce to mum, but there’s madness in Rikichi’s method of assembling found sounds, distorted segues, disjointed rhythms, atonal noise, and the odd (odd?) electronic bursts of brilliance (how’d he do that?) that justifies the sign outside his recording studio which reads “Quiet! Genius At Work Creating Something He Hasn’t Quite Figured Out What To Call It Yet…but if you hum a few bars….” Jeff Penczak [It's Psychedelic Baby Magazine] https://www.psychedelicbabymag.com/2022/09/andrei-rikichi-caged-birds-think-flying-is-a-sickness-2022.html?fbclid=IwAR1iyqCE6_SUTFM7ZnARN-2LwLXtsQezisHfeaY9O-bavQBdEX7J4H0io9I

[binniesthighs]

dear anon, sweet anon, thank you so much for requesting this <3 i didn’t know that i needed it in my life and now...here it is;) IT WAS SO FUN hehe

melt in your mouth | reader x jisung

Pairing: self insert, gender neutral reader x han jisung 

Genre: that good good smut 

Summary: After hearing a rather interesting story about a certain brand of chocolate aphrodisiacs, your curiosity gets the best of you and your friend’s roommate, Jisung.....a spin off of bites like bittersweet

Word count: 3.7k 

*photocreds to OP!

{see below for tags, nsfw and warnings!} 

Tags: aphrodisiac au, somewhat friends to lovers, hints of mutual pining, bestfriend!seungmin, seungmin’sroommate!jisung, hardswitch!jisung, hardswitch!reader, explicit language, mentions of food/eating, hand stuff (r &m), degredation, petnames, dirty talk, unprotected sex (stay safe cuties), creampie, voyeurism, and we love a plot twist ;)  

~💋~

two flavors seemed excessive. one flavor seemed like just enough. you didn’t want to break the bank or anything on something that was likely crappy quality or potentially psychedelic; even worse, it could be both. 

“and you want to try these with me why?” seungmin pushed his wire-framed glasses up his nose bridge and scrunched it up. he inspected the paper wrapper with a skeptical glare. the design itself was anything but trustworthy: in swirly cursive pink font, the name Cherri Amore and under it, a absurdly large lipstick mark with the outline of a couple doing what must have been fucking “spread eagle.” 

seungmin muttered, leaning over the counter of the dingy kitchen he shared with his roommates, “proven aphrodiasiac and libido booster...? y/n, sorry, i just--i’m fucking lost here--” 

“--ever heard of trying something for the hell of it seung??” you snatched the bar from his hand. “the review that i read online said that it made them crazy fucking horny, so much so that they fucked their best friend of something like five years or something like that. isn’t that insane?!” 

your best friend’s eyes blew out with his mouth aghast, “what the hell?? shit--of course you’d find something insane on the internet like this and drag me into it...”  

in your incredulous laugher, you threw your neck back so hard it hurt a little. “loosen up! it’s probably a scam or something. plus...if it does work on us...don’t act like i haven’t caught you in the act before...” 

seungmin, ever the angel, flushed a shade of fuchsia you thought inhumanly possible for someone to attempt. “that-that wasn’t--that wasn’t what you thought it was!!!” he cast away the chocolate bar as if it were his dick on the very night that you had walked in on something that was supposedly not what it looked like. 

“relax!” you punched your embarrassed friend on the arm which he dramatically rubbed into. “it’s not a sin to jerk off or anything. hell, i do it....obviously.” 

seungmin chuckled out unsteadily, “well, um, what if it does work then, what do we do?” 

you snickered, “ha! hell if i know. cross that bridge when we get there?” 

“so what you’re saying is...this could either be a massive waste of our time, or, both of us get so stupidly turned on that we decide to have sex....with eachother?” 

“that’s the gist i’m getting.” you took to the corner of the shiny pink paper wrapping at the corner. “but...who said that we had to fuck or anything...?” 

from fuchsia to nearly scarlet, seungmin averted his eyes at the speed of light. 

“seung!!! do you have something to tell me?!” your teasing grin spread wide and you lifted your hand to give your adorable friend a clap on the back. 

“i’m just repeating what you said!!” 

you broke the bar open, cracking off the first square on the counter with a solid snap. with a smirk, you offered it to your friend. he reached out, only to nearly jump out of his skin when the old-timey ringtone from his phone erupted in the hollow kitchen. 

“shit.” he murmured under his breath, pulling it out and immediately pressing the call button upon seeing the caller. “h-hello? yeah? wait, wait...slow down...the cultures did what?! and you have to start over?? shit--” 

before you could have anything to do with it, your friend was already throwing on his sneakers and sky blue raincoat. “sorry, y/n but i have to go. that was my co-worker, they said that something went bad with the incubator, and all of the cultures are ruined, and there’s the stupid lab meeting in the morning--” 

“i’m gonna pretend that i understood everything you said.” you hung at the doorway to the kitchen, observing him trip over pairs of shoes and other random-ass college-aged boy items. “you only get a pass because i have a feeling that the coworker we’re talking about here is the cute one.” 

your friend rolled his eyes, mouthing a reluctant, “yes.” 

“fine then. we can try the chocolates another time.” 

“fine--sure--” seungmin grabbed for the handle, “sorry. again.” 

~💋~

you felt like the chocolate bar was taunting you, just sitting there opened with two squares all ready for the eating. oddly, you really couldn’t figure out exactly why you had wanted to try them in the first place. for a second, the guilt and loneliness started to seep through and it felt sticky, pathetic, and stung like thorns right into your breaths. 

“fuck it.” you whispered under your breath, swiping them all up and walking over to the trash can. 

“whatcha got there?” a voice entered the room attached to one of seungmin’s roommates, jisung. 

the two of you had met many times in passing, and you had shared enough small talk to consider him somewhat of an acquaintance. from what you had gathered about the boy, he spent much too much time in his room working on his animations and was the dictionary definition of one of those cocky-assholes you had a soft spot for. 

“jisung--hey. it’s...it’s nothing. something stupid that i blew my money on.” 

“let me see.” he crossed the room, looking wired and overtired as usual. 

from staring at his screen for so long his eyes bagged with dark circles, but somehow it made him look mischievous, or something like that. his muscle tank had been cut low to reveal his sides and ribs which flared when he grabbed for the bar of chocolate. 

“huh.” he scoffed, “i’ve seen like, infomercials for these things. you were going to try it?” 

“yeah...i-i mean--no...i was.” 

“what’s stopping you? not curious anymore?” 

“window of opportunity passed.” 

“i don’t think so.” he grinned, matter of a fact. “i like chocolate.” 

you couldn’t quite believe what was being said to you at first. jisung, the boy that you barely knew, was standing there with his goofy heart-shaped smile and all, holding libido boosters and asking you to take them with him. 

“you do know what those are, right? what they could do?” 

immediately, he popped one in his mouth, nearly like it was a challenge. “empahsis on the “could.”” 

he held them closer to you, prompting you to take the remaining square which was flecked with little red hard-candy looking bits. 

“fine then. you’re right. what they could do.” you downed the candy, crunching it and finding that the quality was certainly not a guarantee. the thing itself tasted halfway between a tootsie roll and cold medicine. “fuck.” 

jisung laughed, throwing the rest of the bar away.

“what did you that for?” 

“i’m guessing whether they work or not, you might not need them anymore.” 

your friend’s roommate slicked his hair back, and ruffled it over his dark eyes. his face was slightly puffed with exhaustion, but it didn’t make him any less handsome. 

“so we wait now?” you asked, glancing at the clock. 

“wanna order some food or something?” he smacked his lips, “i need a fucking chaser after that.” 

~💋~

you didn’t know what time it was; late, probably. after a couple hours of realizing that nothing was really going to happen to you or your friend’s roommate, you had decided to stop expecting it. although, you had kind of hoped...

the sofa that the boys shared was just about as comfortable as you had remembered it. it was large enough to hold you and seungmin’s two roommates on better days, but, once again, random-ass college-boy stuff cluttered at least half of it. it was one of those “dumpster finds” and kind of smelled like a grandma’s house, but honestly, that was what made it so comfortable. 

the tv carried on, playing some kind of animated movie that jisung had chosen claiming that the director was some kind of “god of animation and storytelling.” you liked the colors, but soon you felt yourself being lulled and drowsy: your head felt heavy simply resting on your shoulders. 

your eyelids fogged, and the sounds from the tv set started to fade into inexistence. beside you, jisung had crossed his arms, but the lack of space had pressed both of your thighs together, and the warmth from his leg started to wash over your drowsy state. your head bobbed, swayed...then fell, directly onto his shoulder. had you been more lucid, you would have cared more. 

“oh--” he jumped slightly, and shifted awkwardly. 

the room darkened and soon all you could see was the thin line of light that your half-open eyes allowed. 

“this-this can’t be comfortable for you.” jisung hushed and clicked the tv off. “hey, you should be heading to bed anyway, it’s late.” 

“are you kicking me out, jisung?” you babbled, not really aware of your own words. 

your friend’s roommate chuckled, straightening his posture to support you. “i’m not gonna make you walk back to your place at this time of night.” 

“it’s only a couple of blocks--” 

“--you’ve slept over here before, haven’t you?” 

you stretched out your arms with a little squeak.

“yeah. on the couch.” 

“you...can’t do that. you’d have to sleep in a fucking corkscrew if you did that.” 

“yeah, i know.” you giggled, now finding yourself in a kind of stupor that made you wonder if the chocolates really were doing their job. “i’ll just take seung’s bed then--” 

“--he’s! not back...yet.” jisung hugged his arms to himself. “i dunno, shouldn’t he have his bed when he comes back?” he cleared his throat, composing himself. “of course, there’s space in my bed if you’d like.” 

“me? sleep with you?” 

“yes, with me.” just as he had before, that little challenging edge coated his tone, “only if you’re comfortable i mean. i guess that i’m forgetting that the most that the two of us have shared yet is some wack-ass chocolate so, i shouldn’t be making any assumptions.” 

“no, no!” you pounced off from the couch, reaching high to the ceiling to stretch out your sore back next. and, perhaps to let your shirt tuck up just a little bit as you did so. “i don’t have a problem with it.” 

jisung nodded, grinning in the half-lit room, cleaning away to-go boxes. you had noticed before, but the way that his triceps tensed when he moved around was really just a little too distracting. 

“you can head on in, but--be quieter about it. jeongin is sleeping in here.” 

you clicked off a sleepy salute, following the hall down exactly where you had known his room to be, but you had never entered it before. it didn’t surprise you, but it was just as messy as the rest of the place was, and you had to tip-toe around god-knows what to find your way.

after tripping on something soft and sort of damp, (which you prayed was a shower-towel) you made your way to jisung and his face illuminated by the blue-glow of his phone screen where he had immediately jumped in bed after navigating through the room much more skillfully than you had.  

“you have an issue if i sleep in my underwear?” you asked, realizing. 

jisung paused, wide eyed, but quickly fell back into his casual and cocky smirk. “i mean, that’s basically what i’m doing so...”  

“scooch over. i hope you’re not a blanket hogger or anything.” 

the bed was already pleasantly warm from jisung having occupied it. it would have felt amazing if you had been as tired as you had been moments ago, but now your entire body felt horribly wide-awake. 

“--and if you start to snore, i’m leaving you for the couch, got it?” 

jisung let out an airy laugh, shifting and creaking the bed a bit under him, “i don’t snore...for your information.” 

with the blankets pulled up to your nose, you turned to lay on your back, eyes finally adjusting to the darkness of the room. above you, the faint green glow of glow-in-the-dark stars sprinkled across the ceiling, making up constellations: from what you could make out, the big dipper was above jisung’s bed, and the little one was above jeongin’s, who peacefully slept with tiny breaths. 

jisung rolled to the side, accidently brushing his bare leg against yours. 

“night, y/n. sorry the chocolates didn’t work out. would’ve been kind of hilarious if they did.” 

“psh.” you rolled over too, closing your eyes, “you saying you would’ve taken up the opportunity to get in my pants?” 

“guess we’ll never know.” he sighed. 

~💋~

birds chirped, signaling the coming sunrise what was nearly breaking upon the horizon, and filled with deep blue sky with a type of orange-glow. the room was dim and stuffy, and noticeably much hotter than you remembered it being before. over the course of the night, you had tangled your legs with the sheets, finding them trapping you between them, and you shuffled to escape them and feel the air hit your skin. they shifted, letting you feeling the sticky mess between your legs. 

“what the--” the aching and heated desire made itself painfully obvious, soaking directly through your underwear, making a wet mess of them where you throbbed with an utterly unexplainable arousal that reverberated in your core. 

the friction from your legs only heightened the sensation, and you found yourself unwillingly rutting down into the mattress just to feel an ounce of relief. 

fuck, the chocolates, you recalled. while you had expected to feel something from them, this was twenty times more intense than anything you could have planned for. 

you were like an animal in heat, vulnerable, weak, dazed. your body set ablaze, and it only made sense to strip of any and all clothing that held you back. in your own desperation, you had completely forgotten about the man resting next to you. 

“y/n? what's--what are you doing?” jisung groggily croaked in a tone several octaves lower than you were accustomed to. your brain could only calculate it is as downright, unbelievably sexy. 

“jisung, i’m fucking burning up, an-and, i think i’m finally feeling something....are you?” 

he hadn’t noticed it at first until he did, but from where he could see where the blanket dipped all the way down to your waist, you were completely bare. with fluttering eyes, he gulped down dry. you noticed the way that he took you all in, looking at every inch of you. you reveled in how he greedily and shamelessly didn’t stop. 

under the covers, his own legs twisted. 

“me too.” he answered gravely, speaking with a low whisper.  

carefully, his tentative touch advanced under the covers, slowly reaching to your bare hip, where he settled a testing caress, squeezing harder, then cascaded down the small of your back to make you shiver. your own hand did the same, instead finding his leg and creeping your hand up and under his shirt. little space existed between the two of you, and only the panting of your heavy inhales and exhales could be heard. 

your eyes glued to his, beautifully brown and dilating, trembling a little while holding yours. from his light touches, it took every bit of your will to control yourself from launching over him. jisung’s hand fell lower, and toyed with the elastic band of your underwear which had started to feel painfully confining. each of your own fingers traveled up his torso, brushing over his chest which made his whole body shake. 

“sh-shit, i’m so fucking--” jisung started, dropping off his words to let out a wavering sigh. you didn’t need to guess any further. 

jisung slid two fingers under your elastic band, and it became too much to handle. 

“please, touch me jisung.” you whined out pitifully, clawing directly into the soft muscles of his back. 

you were shocked how quickly he had given into you, immediately crashing his lips against yours first, then using both arms to pull you into his chest so close it stole all of your breath away. you kissed him back roughly, ravenous to feel the sensation of his mouth against your own. he growled out a small groan directly into your lips, sloppily working every single corner and edge of your mouth with a devilish smile curling his own. 

lower, both of your hips met flush, grinding and twisting to create the kind of pressure that the both of you craved. limbs twisted, sweating and heated skin mingled, and you could feel every bit of his hardened cock right against your own arousal and how his shaft throbbed helplessly. 

“you taste so good.” he murmured between haphazard kisses, letting his low tone vibrate against you. 

“take these off.” you ordered, tugging at his boxers, nearly taking them off yourself. 

“take yours off.” he echoed, and you did. 

curious hands plunged deeper, delighting fingers in the slick of the other’s cum. 

“fuck.” jisung dragged the explicative over your lip where he lapped lazily into you. “don’t stop.” 

you gave him a moment’s pause, stopping to wet your palm with saliva, then met it with his cock. you worked his length with the sharp and twisting turn of your wrist, causing him to whimper out shamelessly. 

“shhh.” you hissed, pulling his lip with our teeth, “don’t want to wake up your roommate do we?” 

he nodded, biting each and every tantalizing little sound into his lip instead. your own breaths grew shallow feeling the pressure from his hand between your legs and how he had grabbed into your thigh to swing it over his hip for better access. 

“wouldn’t you like me to fuck you out, baby? fuck you like the good little cock whore that you are for me? i’ve seen the way that you look...you’ve wanted this...haven’t you?” jisung’s words were slick and luxurious despite their bite.  

to suppress the begging moan in your throat, you cupped your hand over your mouth, and pressed hard into it. 

the blanket tented from your pulling at his cock and how you rubbed over his slit: it was an ethereal sight even in the blurriness of the room. 

slowly, you leaned over to his ear, waist rocking back and forth over the sensation of his hand rubbing into you relentlessly. “don’t lie baby, you want my ass bouncing on your cock...don’t you?” 

in one movement, he swept his full body weight over yours and harshly pulled your legs back to open your entrance just for him to tease with his tip. he guided himself in slowly and meticulously, bottoming out once you had sunk your fingers into his shoulders to manage some of the screams you would have let out otherwise. 

“fuck yes, baby.” jisung growled, finding an animalistic pace that burned your whole body with white flames of pleasure. 

you grew impatient wondering furiously what his cute little pouty cheeks would look like when you fucked him from above, riding his dick. you wouldn’t wait any further, taking your grasp on his shoulders to then flip him, settling your hips over his dick which you pounced on to the tune of one of his moans slipping past, loud and guttural. 

“shut. the fuck. up.” you scolded him, throwing your hand over his pretty mouth. he whimpered out once again, eyes rolling feeling the tip of his dick reach as deeply inside of you as you would let it.  “cum inside me sungie, i won’t stop until I have every last drop.” 

jisung nodded, chest flaring as his breaths quickened. 

“cum for me baby, and i’ll cum for you...got it?” your breathy whispers scratched your throat, but you needed him to hear. 

you held his eyes which glistened with two pretty little tears that fell  as he came hard, shaking with his whole body and letting each of his gleeful moans come spiraling into your hand. 

your own heat came surging, right at your core, growing....growing...

a lamplight flashed on. 

“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? WHAT THE--WHAT THE--” 

jeongin threw his sheets over his eyes, while shuddering. “I WAS FUCKING SLEEPING!!” 

his shrill scream sent you jumping out of your lust, and you scrambled off jisung’s throbbing and pink cock, and forgetting the force of gravity, which sent his cum dripping out from inside of you. in your panic, you grabbed at anything to cover up your body and his, only to get so tangled that you lost your balance on the edge of the bed and.....

~💋~

THUMP 

your body hit the wooden floor of jisung and jeongin’s room, right on your butt where you knew that it would be hurting for weeks. 

as disoriented as you were, it took you a good few minutes to realize what had actually just happened. 

“y/n?” jisung called with his groggy half-awake, half-asleep tone. “did you just fall out of the bed?” 

on the opposite side of the room, you whipped your head over to see jeongin still peacefully sleeping with his back turned to jisung’s bed.

“fuck--um, yeah. i did. shit...” 

jisung chuckled in the dark room just barely peeking with the first bits of the sunrise in streaming into the room. 

“i don’t know how you did that considering i gave you plenty of space. get back up here.” 

still dazed and brain overheating, you could have sworn you felt the little aftershocks of the orgasm that felt so real still coursing through your body. 

you felt it too: the way that your underwear had slicked. some part of it all must’ve been real. 

“jisung--” you started, not even sure if you wanted to tell him in the first place. “are you certain that you didn’t feel anything?” 

jisung turned to face you and shook his head, “no, you?” 

you hesitated, holding his eyes to see that he must have been telling the truth. 

“i just...i just had this insane dream...” 

“dream? about what?” 

“it’s hard to explain...” you trailed. 

“you look kind of shaken up, are you sure that you’re okay?” jisung extended a careful hand, and smoothed down the side of your face in the way that had felt frighteningly real only seconds ago. his hand lingered, falling down your neck and giving you goosebumps. your eyes fell to his lips, and you wondered if they would taste like you had imagined them to be. 

you leaned in closer, closing the gap. 

“it went something like this.” 

~🌹~

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[purkinje-effect]

The Anatomy of Melancholy, 20

Table of Contents Go to first. Go to previous. Go to next.

Drug culture and human experimentation tw’s.

...This track out of time is coming full circle.

To the East end of Lexington, the remains of Mystic Lakes lay under the ruins of the Route 3 overpass. Angel had assisted ‘Choly in bathing in the water of the Mystic River, both by providing a lookout and getting his back for him. He wished more than anything that he could have simply laid back and soaked, but the area was neither secure nor private. ‘Choly dried himself off just enough to comfortably put on his surgical corset, then with bated breath requested the garment bag from Angel’s storage.

It felt like a step backwards in every sense to be in uniform again. The khaki slacks, dress shirt with US lapel pins, and tie tied precisely. Grateful for impeccable tailoring, he’d have to wait for his suspenders to dry. He toed into his dark brown dress shoes, then affixed his wrist and ankle braces. The Pharm Corps overcoat, complete with its twin caduceus lapel pins, the double silver shoulder bars to mark his rank, and over his heart all the bars from nearly ten full years’ service. His hands went over them in guilt. For the first time since he stepped foot in Lexington, he questioned what he was doing.

Self-agency was a bitch.

The sound of laser fire behind him jostled him from his moment of remorse, and he jumped.

“What! What was it--!”

“There was no saving those articles, Sir,” the Handy Bot elucidated, unable to hide its relish at dispatching with them in such a way. “No amount of Abraxo could have gotten out those stains. You’ve worn them an entire month straight. Today was simply the last straw. Ha Ha!”

‘Choly frowned at his robot meaningfully, forced to commit to the wardrobe change long-term.

“I... suppose it’s for the best,” he ultimately dismissed. “Abraxo is better served for just about anything but cleanliness.”

With a long, distant pause, ‘Choly stared out over the water, able to see Medford from where he stood. Finally putting his PipBoy back on his right wrist, he faced Angel with an odd smile.

“It’s going to be dark soon. We should get back. I have... work to do.”

He sat in the wheelchair as Angel unfolded it again for him, and they were off again through the heart of the city.

“Forgive me for saying so, Sir, but it does my servos such a delight to see you in uniform again. I’ve... missed circumstance.”

“I suppose for lack of anything else, for better or for worse, one can always fall back on the familiar.”

Angel served ‘Choly a small dinner of Cram and a sweet roll, to recover what nutrients he’d lost that afternoon. Once it was dry enough, ‘Choly brushed his hair back into a fresh french twist, then he excused himself for the night, to sort out his own demons. With the Merrick Index and a fresh holotape loaded, he made his way up to his garden office.

As night fell, the incandescent lighting from the office’s wall sconces soothed him, but he still supplemented their illumination with two candles on the edge of the desk in the middle of the room. He stood, and folded up the wheelchair in the corner. Makeshift planters framed the outer edge of the floor and filled the shelves lining the opposing walls, and he had even coaxed a melon plant to take to a hanging planter in the far corner. He smiled as he tended to each bedpan, each wash basin, each bucket and pot in which he had cultivated some manner of strange postapocalyptic life. The delicate pale lavender flowers with their dark foliage, the shallow muddy pan in which he’d revived a cutting from large red water lilies, the handful of tiny glowing stalky mushrooms he’d transplanted from one of the bathrooms in the place. And then his most endeared project in the room, his successes in transplanting the brain fungus from the break room refrigerator.

He then took a seat in the swivel bucket chair at the desk. For some time, he sought mental quiet staring out beyond the overpass outside his accidental window. He opened a fresh can of purified water at the desk and nursed on it in favor of alcohol for the evening, then popped a Mentat under his tongue and got to skimming the leaves of notes he’d tucked into the front cover of the pharmaceutical reference.

There had to be some way to distract Jared from seeking out cyclomorphine as his wonder drug. Now knowing Jared’s means and motives, he could prepare all necessary phrasing with care.

Perhaps, he could shift all focus imaginable on synthesizing the most potent Jet possible. Ultra Jet, fermented to be extra concentrated. It’d probably require a substrate to the mix, to boost the cultures. Jet Fuel, a heterogeneous mix of flamethrower fuel. A literal attempt at lighting up the third eye, it could plausibly take the form of an inhalant, injectable, or edible. Buff-Jet, as Berries-Carey had once proposed, an attempt at throttling pineal uptake of the entheogen. He could provide an entire veritable candy shoppe of chems to the raider outfit.

Anything but cyclomorphine. Surely, the constituents had died with civilization. He didn’t want to think about the finite morphine stock in the lab downstairs, if even in the context of how once it ran out, Psycho might be impossible to synthesize ever again.

Owing to the source of his hypothetical Buff-Jet recipe, he eyed the brain fungus mounding up in the pan along the wall. The most psychedelic mushrooms he knew of, they all tended to grow on dung, or on other fungi. He wondered whether the secret to infusing Mentats with Jet would either be found in feeding brain fungus to brahmin... or cultivating brain fungus in brahmin manure. He annotated these ideas, in the hopes of running them by Jared. He never wanted to sample Jet again in his life, if he could help it... and yet, the fingers of addiction crawled at the fringes of his personal space.

Of course that acute an exposure would have rendered dependency. Revolted to be reminded again of the afternoon’s experience, he squirmed in his seat and eyed the bottle of whiskey on the desk. He shook his head of the compulsion and drank more water, then did his best to focus on his task.

Flipping through the Index, he browsed the various formulas for synthesizing saucier chems like Daddy-O or Daytripper. They required patent-protected precursors, for the most part, and he sighed in nuisance that recreating these sophisticated synthetics was beyond him in his current capacity. He wondered... Perhaps, in other branches of the pharmacy warehousing, he might put his hands on pharmaceutical precursors such as these. For as much as he endeared himself to the sublingual facility of Mentats, barring Berries there was no crisper clarity than that bestowed by Daddy-O. Chasing the injection with Daytripper... usually smoothed out the resultant short temper and social clumsiness of having your brain run faster than your mouth. No contraindications existed strong enough to deter the intent from stacking Daddy-O with Mentats, either.

Though, as far as mode of dosage went, if ‘Choly had to pick how he took a chem, he far preferred to eat or drink it. Needles had such a high rate of injection site necrosis, depending on the chem, and regular Daddy-O abuse was right up there with Psycho in terms of that risk. He trusted Berries, no matter how clinical and exact the cholinergic high of Daddy-O felt. He didn’t much trust inhalants, either. Alimentary uptake was the safest, in his clinical and personal opinions both, and that left him right back at Mentats.

He eyed the brain fungus again, and sniffed pathetically. Perhaps the night that had birthed Melancholy from Berries and Jet Carey might have gone differently, had the Berries and Jet been compounded for compatibility. To his knowledge, drug culture hadn’t determined the means to marry psychedelia with nootropics, possibly for the best, and yet... in his desperation to find something, anything, better and more appealing than Psycho, he found himself seriously deliberating the means to precipitate Jet-Tats. The chemist fell asleep at his desk, scrawling chemistry notes.

“Sir, it’s time for breakfast,” Angel chirped from the office doorway.

‘Choly picked up his head and looked to the Handy, then nodded and followed in the wheelchair with his half-can of water. Once in the break room, Angel offered a box of Sugar Bombs and a mug of black coffee, which he greeted. After some time, he cleared his throat.

“Call it nerves if you want, Angel, but I would like to store a few things in you for safekeeping. You’re the safest place I have to hide just about anything. You’re... holding something very valuable right now, in fact. Could you...”

Angel had a blind spot just about where its owner had installed the false bottom in its storage, so it swerved and dilated its ocular lenses curiously before turning its back to 'Choly so that he could take a look inside himself. He pocketed the revolver, and tucked the Merrick Index inside along with all his notes. While he was in there, he counted only five bottles of Melancholia.

“Here, follow me around for a bit and add to your stock as indicated. All the Melancholia... And all the morphine and cyclomorphine... and all the barberine... Toiletries...” The list went on for around an hour before Angel insisted he be on his way to work.

“Things will be just fine, Sir. You were most ragged when you came home yesterday. Today will go so much more smoothly, I assure you!”

“I certainly hope you’re right.”

Jared already manned the Jet rig by the time Angel parted ways and ‘Choly wheeled across the assembly line floor to meet him.

“Ah, chemist. I expected you to be late. Yesterday must have done a real number on you.” Jared glanced at him, then got a better look when the initial glance didn’t add up. “You changed clothes.”

“You’re certainly chipper and compassionate today.” ‘Choly watched with a thoughtful frown as the black raider finished loading the bucket of manure into the spigot. Suddenly, in proximity to the rig, he felt utmost gratitude to port an ensemble with head-to-toe military grade water and stain repellent. “Yeah, after yesterday, the clothes I had were done for. What’s on the agenda?”

“Well, if your memory didn’t conveniently lapse, you should have brought me something very specific. Do you remember what that was?”

Deadpan, ‘Choly produced the Nagant from the hip pocket of his military jacket and held it out for him handle first. Jared looked it over, then checked out the rudimentary sight on it. With a low, impressed whistle, he aimed the thing at 'Choly. The chemist flinched despite knowing the firearm had no bullets.

“So this is a Russian pistol. I’ve been thinking. Little verbal slips here and there. You being able to confidently identify the make of this thing. Supposing you are a man out of time. That you really are from before the War. You were a Commie, weren’t you?” He laughed darkly at 'Choly, who straightened in his seat.

“I’m Russian. That’s right.”

“From the look of that uniform, you didn’t fight for the Reds, though. You defected. Betrayed your country.” The raider walked to the other end of the assembly line with the revolver in hand, forcing ‘Choly to keep up to sustain the uncomfortable conversation. At a workbench, he began to tinker with the thing to get acquainted. “What made you do it?”

‘Choly trembled, not sure whether he was more indignant or threatened.

“You have to know? Same reason I plied for your graces. Money, at first. Asylum. Opportunity. The Chinese were already vying to subsume the Motherland before the United States military approached me and offered me a pardon of my nationality in exchange for my service. They could overlook that I was Russian, as long as I did what they needed of me without question. I’ve...” He swallowed. “I’ve always followed anything that looked like security, and... this... this outfit is the most secure I’ve felt since I thawed out.”

He bit his tongue before tacking on a not that it’s a good frame of reference.

“An answer I both did and did not expect from you. I’m strangely pleased with you, chemist. Lacking your brains, I wish more people in my outfit had your sensibilities. You have your priorities straight.”

“Do I? I just handed over your capacity to administer whatever chems you want, to whomever in the room you want. Tell me I haven’t just fucked up. Promise me I didn’t just make the second worst mistake in my life.”

“And what, pray tell, do you say takes the cake?”

“Not being more adamant with my commanding officers, as to the side effects our experiments were having on the soldiers. We lost lives just through gross clinical negligence. I nearly lost my humanity in all my years of service, forced time and again to prioritize results over the safety of the test subjects. And... and you’re asking me to stand by while you do exactly what I did two hundred years ago.”

“A... military chemist.” Jared’s eyes went wide, and he turned from the dismantled gun with a wild grin as he gripped Melancholy by the shoulders. “You’re a fuckin’ Deenwood chemist. Holy fuck-in’ shit. I knew I struck gold when I laid eyes on you. You’re going to cook Psycho for me. The Jet ain’t cutting it.”

‘Choly’s head swam hot and his extremities numbed. When his left leg began to spasm, he clamped his elbow down on it forcefully to glare at Jared.

“The hell do you know about the Deenwood Compound.”

“I know that these experiments you’re doing your best not to describe were perfecting Psycho. Don’t play stupid with me. You can take credit for all your fine work. God!” The raider let go of him to throw up his hands in delirious disbelief. “I’ve got a fuckin’ Deenwood chemist right in front of me. And you’ve wasted all this time dicking around with Buffout, and Jet... when you could have been making my outfit the good shit! God--!” He cackled, and suddenly the gun itself paled to everything else transpiring.

“I, I can’t entice you with literally any other chem on the planet, can I.”

“Barring X-Cell, you’re the best thing I’ve ever had in my sights.”

The mention of the highly experimental drug boxed ‘Choly’s ears, and he did his best to ignore just how much Jared seemed to know about ‘Choly’s employment.

“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the precursor for Psycho is extinct.” Another worst possible remark, at the receiving end of Jared’s instantaneous glower he choked down errant saliva despite a dry mouth. “Cyclomorphine is a morphine analogue. Painkillers. Opiates. Morphine comes from a plant called opium. Without it, Psycho can’t exist.”

“Painkillers...” Jared crooked his tongue in the corner of his mouth a moment, and stared a hole through ‘Choly. “Painkillers, like hub?”

“What.”

“Hubflower. Those dark purple plants with the light purple flowers. What else could you have wanted them for? Wastelanders keep the petals to chew on when they’re hurting. Makes the whole tongue go numb.”

“Are you trying to tell me... that there’s a good chance my office contains potted descendants of the poppy.” His heart clung to his throat. Jared had sidestepped every possible objection he could have to the prospect. “I have potted plants... in my office... the flowers of which--” His voice broke off in a sweating squeak.

“Cool it, you little Nimrod. Don’t blow a gasket. What’s the matter with doing for my outfit what the government had you do? You know it pays well. How did you put it? All the money, asylum, and opportunity you could ask for. You're not in a position to turn me down. Fuck this shit. We’re done with the Jet. We’re going for the gold. You’re going to test hub to confirm it’s a match for the chem you need. And you’re going to be my Psycho cook.”

“I... certainly look the part, don’t I.” Shakily, he raised his right hand to his forehead and saluted him to the best of his abilities. “Captain Alan Carey of the Deenwood Pharm Corps, at your employ.”

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[chrisjackson12]

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[syzygyzip]

The Myth and Meaning of MissingNo

A few notes about this essay: first, I have removed the period from the name “MissingNo.” for ease of transcription. I also refer to MissingNo’s sibling as Bar ‘M Bar or [][][][] ‘M [][][][] because its real name is irreproducible in Unicode:

Also, for the purposes of this essay it is helpful to think of Pokémon less as animals and more as a gamut of spectral entities: yokai, devas, fairies, sprites, genies, elemental intelligences, ghosts, servitors, unincorporated astral matter, etc. All those strange and elusive beings who populate world mythology and the collective imagination. In contrast to our world, however, people in Kanto are universally aware of these entities and their relation to ourselves. Much more can be said on this subject, but allow the basic premise to inform your reading when it feels appropriate. The subject before us is liminal by its nature.

Myths, Stories, and Suspicions

When we encounter a glitch in a game the temptation is to say that it broke our immersion. Maybe it’s because children are more easily entranced, but as a child my experience with MissingNo did not feel particularly incongruous with the narrative. The encounter, though strange, didn’t contradict the world of the game -- it expanded it in a psychedelic direction. When I met MissingNo, the battle played out more or less as normal. It was only the image of the creature, the arcane initiation, and the haunting after-effects that were atypical.

As soon as Pokémon Red & Blue came out, one fact of life became very clear: Kids love to spread tall tales about Pokémon. It was quite common to hear about Mew hiding under a truck or Togepi skulking around in the inaccessible wilderness behind Bill’s house. But the purported apparition of something called “MissingNo” or “Bar ‘M Bar” held an especially uncanny sway, because everyone believed it to be true. The basic story was that you talk to an old man, and then fly to an island where you meet bizarre and game-glitching Pokémon – but the many accounts which peppered the playground and Internet each held idiosyncratic details. Some said Mewtwo would turn up on the island, others said they found Pokémon native to the Safari Zone, or rogue trainers, or that you could multiply your items by 100. When I finally initiated what came to be known as the “Old Man Glitch”, I performed it in the prescribed manner:

Talk to the Old Man in the North of Viridian City. He will show you how to catch a Weedle.

As soon as the Old Man is finished, fly to Cinnabar Island.

On the island, walk over to the eastern edge and use Surf.

Surf the very edge of the water, moving up and down.

And sure enough, there appeared a fuzzy Tetris-looking rando named [][][][] ‘M [][][][]. Armed with a little background research, I succeeded in slaying this entity, and came away with 128 rare candies, a glitched out Hall of Fame record, and a whole lot of questions. The experience was so simple and tidy, and the performance of the glitch was just dreamlike enough that my young mind felt the thin silver light of meaning shining dimly from behind the supposedly arbitrary method of contact.

MissingNo and its glitch siblings became well known in the Pokémon community as reliable and functional game exploits, and stuck in the imagination for the peculiarity of their presentation. The programming quirks behind MissingNo’s operations are well understood, and the character has wormed its way into a sizable number of fan theories and creepypastas. Something about this strange little block of static resonates with players, and it seems to have surrounded itself with cryptic clues as to its true nature.

The Method of Contact

The first step to understanding a mysterious aberration in a game is to consider the events that lead up to it. What must the player do in order to find MissingNo? The trip begins by talking to an old man in Viridian City who shows the player how to catch Pokémon by snagging a wild Weedle in a brief scripted encounter. This is an interesting motif right off the bat, because we are meeting a teacher figure who shows us how to catch the worm. In dreams and in myth, the worm is often a symbolic representation of the Kundalini serpent, the principal driving force of life itself which coils at the base of the spine. The Old Man is found near the beginning of the game, and he will show you this tutorial as many times as you like. After all, he is teaching an essential lesson: catch the Pokémon around you to expand your team; or more abstractly: integrate the aspects of nature which complete you.

Viridian city itself is a special place, in that we begin and end our Pokémon journey there. It is the first town we come to after leaving home, and it is also host to the final gym and provides a road to the Pokémon League – the culmination of a trainer’s journey. The next step to MissingNo is to fly to volcanic Cinnabar Island, which is incidentally the last town a trainer discovers. So we have leapt from the site of our first lesson to the final city. Here on Cinnabar we walk straight east to the beach, and use surf to ride a Pokemon up and down the edge of the water. If we venture further out to sea, the ritual is forfeit and we must restart. So we glide up and down and up. Here along the crashing waves, apparitions greet us according to our name. The letters in the player’s name are the values that determine which Pokémon appear – and what form MissingNo takes. With this, contact is made. So let’s take a look at this setting. The island is a classic symbol of self-conception: a crystallization of identity emergent from the undifferentiated ocean. There happens to be a volcano on this island, which is also a timeless symbol: that of the eruption of unconscious content; hidden energy and power which has formerly lain dormant and unknown. We encounter MissingNo in a rather narrow area: a single column of tiles representing the edge of an island. We move up and down this coast attempting to trigger the event, swimming/surfing/pacing along the seashore. This is an incredibly profound detail, because the shore of the ocean signifies the mediation between the mundane terrestrial (the land) and the vast realm of the unconscious (the ocean).  The fact that it is the Eastern coast is a bonus, as that is the place where the sun rises in its most prolonged glow, and gives birth to the new day. The island itself is named Cinnabar, home to a research facility that serves a major role in the game’s plot. As we discover through research notes littered about, Cinnabar Mansion was the site of a series of experiments to re-create Mew, which is thought to be a primordial Pokémon. Famously, this resulted in the creation of Mewtwo, an anthropomorphic “clone” of Mew who lacks the originator’s genetic purity (Mewtwo cannot learn any TM, as Mew can), but appears to have gained a humanlike awareness, a trait lengthily elaborated in the first Pokémon movie. Mew as Prima Materia

So what does Mew symbolize? It is known to resemble an embryo, and believed to be the ancestor of all other Pokémon. It is a light pink, which is interesting given that the alchemical prima materia – the formless substance that composes the primeval material of the universe – is said to be dually white and red. In the original games it is only attainable through the metatextual experience of an IRL promotional event, and was allegedly inserted into the game secretly. Mew is clearly meant to be a transcendent being, notoriously elusive and often depicted in space.

Mew is the only pokemon that learns Transform, except of course for Ditto. This has spawned a highly popular fan theory that Dittos are failed clones of Mew. There are some supporting reasons for this idea: they share the same coloration (in both common and shiny iterations), the same weight, the same stats, and Ditto is present at locations relevant to Mew’s story (notably the Pokémon Mansion and the Cerulean Cave, where Mewtwo is found). Unlike Mew, which cannot breed in game, Ditto can successfully mate with any non-Legendary Pokémon. But Mew, critically, is a psychic type. Ditto is “normal.” It is as though the scientists succeeded in recreating the prima materia, but only in a purely physicalist sense. Ditto contains the genetic potential of all current life, but it does not generate new forms. It does not even learn new moves by itself, it must be taught. Science has apparently replicated the form and fertility of immemorial cosmic life, but not its potentiating vitality, its breath of life, its pneuma. I wonder where that pneuma went. Mewtwo, though not having begat novel lifeforms of its own, nevertheless expresses the pneuma in its thoughts and deeds. But maybe pneuma, as a formless concept, could only be expressed allegorically to the player as the enigmatic and varying being known as MissingNo. Revealingly, MissingNo is a Bird/Normal type Pokémon, birds being classical symbols of the spirit. Its cry upon encounter is the default “blank cry”: an unaffected cry of the male Nidoran (the only gendered Pokémon in the original release). But when MissingNo is viewed in the Pokédex, it makes the sound of a Rhydon, the first Pokémon ever designed; we could interpret this therefore as a reference to the voice of creative impulse. There is a caveat to discovering this: the player can only view the Pokedex entry if they have not seen a Cubone. This is another mythic peculiarity, as Cubone’s defining characteristic is its knowledge of loneliness, and its desire for reconciliation with its ancestors. If this sense of separation has never been known, only then can we “read” Missingno’s information, understand its primal utterance, and order it in our Pokédex-pantheon (as #000)

Curiously, Cubone is also host to a popular fan theory: that its missing mother is Kangaskhan. This is believed mainly because Cubone always pines for its perpetually absent mother, and Kangaskhans bear their young in their pouch, but the young are never seen independently. It is therefore supposed that when Kangaskhans die, their young don the skulls of their mothers and become Cubone. I have no strong opinion about this story, but MissingNo closes the circuit thematically. Just as MissingNo has ties to Cubone, its sibling Bar ‘M Bar mysteriously evolves into Kanghaskhan. Additionally, one of the appearances MissingNo can take is the “Ghost” sprite. In the main game, this sprite is only used for the ghost of Cubone’s mother in a unique encounter. Until a special item is used, this ghost isn’t affected by the player; with this guise MissingNo tells us it cannot be grasped.

4 Visions of MissingNo

In addition to the L-shaped white noise and the ghost, MissingNo can appear in two more ways. It can take the form of the fossils glimpsed in the Pewter Museum: a skeleton of Kabutops or a skeleton of Aerodactyl. These constellations of bones further suggest that MissingNo is an ancestral spirit. Kabutops is a water dwelling primordial life-form, whose development name meant “Atlantis,” and who symbolizes the origin of physical life from the first primal waters. Aerodactyl resembles a dragon or wyvern, an intermediary of heaven and earth. These two beasts, like the ghost, are no longer embodied. Though all 3 are potential symbols of the dead, they embody that sentiment differently. Kabutops comes from the water, Aerodactyl from the sky, and the ghost, as a veiled Marowak, would be terrestrial, but its image taken independently refers to the realm of the etheric.

To see these alternative forms, the player must have a certain letter in the 5th, 7th, or 9th slot of their character name: W for Kabutops, X for Aerodactyl, and Y for the ghost. The natural form of MissingNo gives us 4 forms, an apparently timeless property of visionary and mystic experience, from Ezekiel to mandala art and the platonic elements. In fact, there are over 150 such amplifications found in Carl Jung’s General Index, so it’s rather difficult to catch them all. Like many mythological quaternaries, 1 among the 4 is qualitatively exceptional. In this case, of course, that is the so-called “Normal” form, the fuzzy L-block which appears as a result of a much greater variety of player names. Though this natural form is less definite in criteria and appearance, it is actually more definite in its character. The other three forms take their base stats and moves from the last Pokémon in the party (a dittolike effect!); and their sprites, when viewed from the back, are taken from whichever Pokémon’s data was most recently accessed. So when these entities are in use by the player, they resemble something else entirely; they are phenomenologically reordered to resemble a known quantity. The natural form however, has a constant square-shaped sprite when viewed from the back. Though this form is exceptional among the 4, it is reductive to say that this is its “true” image: each of the 4 is a different capitulation of the same idea which itself is formless. Though there is one more peculiarity about the natural form! MissingNo. and Its Twin MissingNo’s natural form is identical with Bar ‘M Bar, as is its Pokédex number, leading many to believe that they were the same creature. However, there are many differences between them. Their height, weight, and stats are different, and they learn slightly different moves. Bar ‘M Bar does not cry like a male Nidoran, but instead sings a pitched-up version of the Zapdos call. This sound resembles birdsong with a background buzz indicating electricity. This pitch-shifted voice tells us that Bar M’ Bar resides even higher in the heavens than the sky-streaking legendary bird of thunder. Its “height” is also coincidentally tied in value with that of Rayquaza, a sacred serpent whose name means “firmament” and is the canonical lord of the skies. Another difference previously mentioned is Bar ‘M Bar’s unique ability to evolve into Kangaskhan. This happens at level 0, but if you glitch it to level 128, it can also evolve into Clefairy. Clefairy is a symbolically rich Pokémon as well; it was the main character of the original manga, and originally slated to be the main character of the anime. It is strongly indicated to be of extraterrestrial origin and is also plainly representative of the fairy kingdom, as indicated by its name and type. Additionally, it happens to be the Pokémon that Bill, a famous internet architect, accidentally transforms into as he is playing with time and space in order to construct a teleporter. We therefore can surmise that Clefairy relates to that which is alien: the alienation of the creature from the franchise, the alien origin of the species within the narrative, and the truly alien experience of inhabiting another body. This changing of bodies is perhaps what Bar ‘M Bar does when pushed past the realm of possibility, into level 128. There is of course a practical programming reason for the number 128, but it also happens to be double the number of possible codons in DNA. The “clef” in Clefairy means “musical key,” or in French simply “key.” Clefairy’s trademark move is metronome, which replicates most other Pokémon moves through the magic of synchronization. What would the world be like if this memetic sprite succeeded in its role as mascot of Pokémon? Would the world be all the more entranced?

When it comes to seeking an audience, Bar ‘M Bar is even wider in its accommodation than its sibling MissingNo. It can be encountered with any name at all – besides the preset options! Bar ‘M Bar’s own actual name, [][][][]M’[][][][] is certainly its most obvious difference. The bars on either side of the ‘M are determined by the actions of the player – Bulbapedia sums it up nicely:

It is most commonly known as 'M, since these are the only typographical characters in its name—its real name is impossible to produce with text, and some tiles in its name are not constant. It is also called 'M Block due to either the glitchy blocks next to its name or the Pokémon's boxy shape.

The first two tiles in [][][][] ‘M [][][][][]'s name depend on which sprite is occupying the spot where the player's Pokémon appears. In battle, the tiles on the left of its name will copy part of the sprite in the bottom-left corner of the screen (the player's Pokémon), while the block on the right will copy part of the sprite in the upper-right corner of the screen (the opponent's Pokémon). Out of battle, the blocks in its name will change depending on the player's location.

We know that MissingNo’s name is constant, and its form is undefined, a result of the player’s bestowed name. On the other hand, Bar ‘M Bar is a definite outcome for any bestowed name, but its own name is defined by the player! Yet it always retains the ‘M in the middle, which is tempting to interpret as the conjunction n’ (and). It looks as though Bar ‘M Bar’s name is something like “This n’ That.” And indeed, that’s what the sprites which comprise the bars draw from: the player’s Pokémon and the opponent’s Pokémon. The fact that these two glitchy blocks are separated by something close to “and” is a beautiful detail. It takes these two oppositional beings and phrases them both, but does so with the separation intact. If it lacked the ‘M between the two samples it would give a different impression. It is the difference between hendiadys (good and ready) and a modified adjective (well ready). It acknowledges that the two things are distinct and in concert, yet they are termed by Bar ‘M Bar in a single body. There is an endless mystery surrounding the mythological motif of 2-in-1, but it is often explored in alchemy and Jungian psychology through the image of the coniunctio, the holy marriage, the reconciliation of opposites.

Can we even say that Bar ‘M Bar is a single entity? It certainly has the strong dual aspect of its twin, MissingNo. Are these two glitch Pokémon the same or not? In the coding of the game, they are not. None of MissingNo’s forms share the constitution of Bar ‘M Bar. Yet they are defined in the Pokédex – the pantheon of the player’s understanding – in the same place, #000, and therein utter the same cry (Rhydon’s). They share an identical sprite and learn nearly identical moves. They cause the same glitch effects to occur in game. The strongest evidence for seeing them as representations of the same essence is in popular conception: Bar ‘M Bar is frequently referred to as MissingNo, and was the first of many other glitch Pokémon subsumed under the generic description of “MissingNo.” It is almost technical trivia to separate them. And most tellingly for the sake of this investigation, they complete each other’s symbolism. So, they are discrete entities AND they aren’t. The mystery of the coniunctio is thus further embodied in this dual being.   The Lingering Presence Now that we’ve outlined the taxonomy of MissingNo+, we can begin to look at the consequences. The two most well-known effects of meeting MissingNo are the Item Duplication Glitch and the Hall of Fame glitch. Item duplication occurs after any encounter with MissingNo or Bar ‘M Bar, regardless of whether the player has fled, caught the creature, or knocked it out. When examining the bag after the battle, the player will find that the 6th item in their inventory has been increased by 128 (although this does not occur if the value is already over 128). Given that a player can reorder their inventory at will, this was a famous exploit for getting hundreds of Rare Candies in order to quickly max out any Pokémon’s level, or generating 128 Master Balls ensuring the capture of any creature you meet from then on. Indeed, this is the most common reason for performing the old man glitch, and likely the critical factor in MissingNo’s renown. And what fuel for the legend: a bizarre seaside vision that grants a wish. Another popular exploit is duplicated fossils, normally given only once per game, so that you could resurrect 100 Kabuto, Omanyte, or Aerodactyl. But any item is fair game: you could effectively wish for infinite wealth, health, lives, moves, defense, speed, power, whatever. You hooked the magic fish, what you do with it is up to you.

The experience also corrupts your Hall of Fame data, replacing some of the images with blocks of static, and scrambling names and values of your champion Pokémon. This is a largely inconsequential effect, but it has symbolic weight. Each Pokémon that exists is a symbol of some kind, representing an attitude, or an attribute, and as you go along meeting them and incorporating them into yourself, they accumulate further personal meanings. So consciously or unconsciously, the Pokémon that accompany you to your final battle are in some sense a mirror of the player: they represent your priorities, values, and appreciations. These are the ones canonized by the game in the Hall of Fame. MissingNo then transforms this composite irreparably. This act can be seen a psychic realignment of the player-character.

Summary

Let’s imagine the story of meeting MissingNo as a fairly tale. The protagonist, Red, talks to an Old Man at the edge of town who shows him how to catch a worm. Next, Red flies through the skies to a volcanic island. There on the Eastern shore of the island, he swims the coast. Attracted by his name, some number of foreign beasts appear before him, culminating in the appearance of a totally unexpected entity which defies easy categorization (though there are partial physical descriptions in some versions of the story). He then defeats, captures, or flees from the apparition. Then looking in his bag, he finds some object or capacity of his has been magnified to a superhuman extent. Finally, we find that some of his major psychic precepts have been mysteriously and radically altered for evermore.

So what then what was the encounter? An alien? A deity or holy ghost? The pneuma which animates life? Is it an unconscious complex made manifest? A psychotic break? The disorienting eruption of the Real? Is it a highly coherent and synchronous glitch-experience, or a pareidoliac imprint in static? I don’t believe that any of these answers satisfy in themselves. Like the images of MissingNo, the interpretations are interdependent, forming points along the circumference of a subject whose middle cannot be approached by the intellect. What is easier to parse is the influence of MissingNo on the fanbase. MissingNo is so famous as a glitch that it has become the common shorthand for any glitch Pokémon throughout the series. MissingNo and Bar ‘M Bar have inspired not only countless tall tales, but tons of fiction, fanart, merch, and a featured article on Bulbapedia. Using our imagination, it is rather easy to place MissingNo into the narrative context of the game, conceptualizing it any of the above ways. As much as this being seems keen to disrupt our in-game immersion, it seems equally willing to stride across our imagination, as though it were walking a bridge leading into the world of Pokémon, or our own reality, or wherever its place of origin.

#pokemon #pokemon rgb #pokemon gen 1 #missingno #glitch pokemon #pokemon psychology #alchemy #prima materia #pneuma #old man glitch #pokemon myth #pokemon creepypasta #creepypasta #spooky #pokemon theory #mew

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Harry Styles - Harry Styles

Well for once, I don’t know where to start. 

Harry Styles used to be in the biggest boyband of the past decade (don’t roll your eyes at me, just look at the numbers). Probably one of the most sought-after British singer as of late. He had his every move scrutinised, over analysed and of course, criticised. After spending five years under the spotlight, Harry from One Direction disappeared, shot a movie with Christopher Nolan (no less) and flew to Jamaica to write his first solo album. Harry Styles is born. Well, reborn in a pink bath that vaguely seems like a reminder of wastewater. If it weren’t for the lotus necklace, I’d say he wants to be the flower growing out of muddy waters. This man is brand new. 

The thing is, Harry Styles is quite an enigma. Although, you could tell by his fashion forward choices and heavy presence on stage he had been influenced by the 70′s and rock’n’roll, he was never drawn to the microphone during interviews with the band. Can’t blame him given the medias constant need for his blood. Cryptic messages on twitter, artsy photography on instagram, rumour has it he even paints, Styles isn’t your average twenty-three years old, all that was missing was an album that could showcase this to the masses. 

The eponym album has dropped this May 12 at midnight worldwide after a mere month of perfectly thought-out promotion. Styles is using the very medias who chewed him out and enjoying it. Handpicked TV shows including SNL with Jimmy Fallon, a Rolling Stone cover featuring an interview by the one and only Cameron Crowe, an Apple Music Documentary and a first fully sold-out tour. The first single “Sign of the Times” was released on April 7 and sent the world in a frenzy (even Spotify couldn’t hold on). While most of the world expected a love song or a so-so pop tune, Styles decided on putting out a five minutes and forty seconds almost psychedelic rock ballad that reminds us of Bowie’s Space Oddity. A DJ’s nightmare just like Baba O’Riley back in the day, but a well played move. 

The record fully produced by Jeff Bhasker (Kanye West, Mark Ronson, The Rolling Stones, Ed Sheeran) is made of ten songs. And it is exactly what I expected it to be. Harry Styles loves music. When I say music it implies the one made by musicians with instruments not auto-tuned electronic sounds. That man is the love child of British most iconic musicians and the best bands from the West Coast. When you’ve got references like these, you’re bound to be influenced, many detractors will say “he got this riff from that song”, “he sampled this”, “he copied that”, but guess what? I’ll rather here a song that sounds a bit like the Beatles than most of what plays on the radio these days. It is what it is, Harry Styles sounds more like the seventies mixed with the Britpop era than today’s Top 40 but thank God. He’s giving us change. 

The album opener “Meet Me In the Hallway” is Harry’s way of inviting us in a finger-picking guitar world. He sets an atmosphere straight on, halfway between Jeff Buckley and perhaps Cat Stevens with a touch of psychedelia. Then comes “Sign of the Times” which I believe to be the most lyrically accomplished song on the record. I’ve long thought about it, and there could be endless meanings about it, rumours have flown around. I understand why he said it felt like a first good choice. I want to discuss my theories with him. Following suit is “Carolina”. It’s sounds more like a road trip in the California desert with the “olalalalala” and the strumming guitars, but I’ll give him a pass. It’s a bit Stealers Wheel meet the Beatles funky bits. Then comes “Two Ghosts”, a song about two lovers giving themselves another unfruitful try. (”We're just two ghosts swimming in a glass half empty, Trying to remember how it feels to have a heartbeat.”) It could easily pass off as country with a touch of The Eagles' “Wasted Time”. The next track is “Sweet Creature” which was released early this week on Apple Music and got torn on the web for sounding too much like The Beatles’ “Blackbird”. Who cares. 

On the second half of the record, Harry Styles brings out the big guns. His inner rockstar, the heavy guitar and full-on Mick Jagger swagger. “Only Angel” is moody, having sex in the toilets of a New York bar moody. It’s naughty Harry. “I got splinters in my knuckles crawling across the floor, couldn't you take home to mother in a skirt that short, but I think that's what I like about it”. Far from the cleaned up boyband image, Styles emerges as the twenty-three years old sex symbol he could be. “Kiwi” follows in the same vibe, it’s getting dirty “Hard candy dripping on me 'til my feet are wet, and now she's all over me, it's like I paid for it, it's like I paid for it, I'm gonna pay for this”. It’s Ramones’ like with the heavy electric guitars and drums. This one is going to be amazing live.

After indulging our need for Dirty Harry, he turns things back down with “Ever Since New York” a song he first played on SNL and apparently wrote a few years back. It’s folksy, the kind of track you’ll find in a rom-com. A nice soundtrack to feeling blue on a Sunday morning wondering why you’re waking up alone. “Woman” is right up my alley, Elton meets Roxy Music. Late night jealous guy at the piano bar. It’s atmospheric. Harry Styles’ music is atmospheric remember that. "From the Dining Table” the finale is the most intimate track. Almost acoustic, he whispers the lyrics until the song peaks up with violins (clever by the way) before softly dying down again. She left with another. (”I see you gave him my old t-shirt, more of what was once mine. I see your grin, it's all over his face, comfortable silence is so overrated. Why won't you ever say what you want to say? Even my phone misses your call, by the way.”) 

Releasing the most awaited album of the year is definitely not easy. Especially not when it’s your debut album as a solo artist. People will say his music is influenced. True. You make music influenced by your taste, because you make music you actually want to listen to. He chose to avoid the easy way out. Because let’s be honest, he could have released something that would have charted quite well. He didn’t. He wants his integrity to remain, it does. Not all of the tracks will be remembered, that’s okay, that leaves room for more. And, I, can’t wait to see him in October. 

The album is totally Styles. Sweet as his dimples, naughty as the twinkle in his eyes. Well done. 

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Epic Political Suicide Poem

By Elizabeth Harper

Suicide plans on post-it notes scattered on surfaces, pieces of furniture, countertops throughout the apartment. Stashes of pills stockpiled, knives sharpened, razor blades bought in bulk, handles of bargain brand vodka. A cozy robe. Should you force yourself to wash the sheets? Change your underwear? Does it matter? Should you care? Could anyone care less than you? Suicide as backup plan when you can’t think of anything better to do.

Last resort. Snickering snort. Middle finger propped up on a splint. Merry Christmas from the bloody stump of a tree cut down, dying, displaced, withering, needles drying and falling to the ground like dandruff or dead bugs shaken out of some crevice ignored, denied, despised. Who needs a bomb? Who needs a gun? You could just stop eating, getting up, trying.

But wait, maybe there’s something good on TV. Check your Facebook feed. More racism and sexism and debates on what should be considered terrorism.

How can you live in a world with people so stupid? Begging politicians and gurus to tell them what to think and how to be and what to believe when confronted with a barrage of patently false possibilities.

Every ideology self-defeating. We are shooting our own feet without even realizing it and wondering why we are failing as foot soldiers for the revolution that, by the way, is not coming all at once en masse, but in a multitude of minuscule increments, backtracking and stammering, apologizing and grandstanding, falling back in reprieve, struggling to get back up again like a toddler ballerina in a shimmering tutu precariously slipping, a glimpse of diaper peeking through. Aging like an elderly grandmother struggling to walk through the grocery store, clutching a cane, confused by ingredient lists and nutrition labels. How does everything become so difficult? Is it a lack of vigilance? Failing to see the big picture, or missing the tiniest of details? I’m giving up unless I don’t. Spending time on the phone with customer service representatives. Isn’t there an app for that?

If only getting rid of police and politicians and annoying people was as easy as deleting an app on my iPhone. It’s so shiny. I’ll play Candy Crush to distract me from the news and the loud people on the bus I waited 40 minutes to ride.

Watching the whole mess go down when the problems are systemic and the system ironclad and propped up by the buildings filled with iron bars paid for with blood and tax dollars.

Close the schools and jails and offices. Paint them in psychedelic swirls of rainbow colors, paisley, hearts, and flowers. Give everyone an iPad and a lifetime supply of all the pot and booze and pills they desire. And a basic income and musical instruments and books and art supplies and French pastries and ice cream.

Getting rid of the guns won’t get rid of the sadness and anger. Getting rid of the cops won’t get rid of the cops in your head.

Freely distribute poetry on flyers, and condoms too. Sandwiches and cheap hotel rooms. Love strangers as birds in flight, ships in the night.

Dreamers in plight.

Suicide kids.

Suicide kits should be a constitutional right.

When all the others die from the callous slip of a back-alley abortionist’s knife and a paid-off politician’s lack of insight.

 Image shows Christmas ornaments designed by Todd Francis.

#Candy Crush #ice cream #Facebook #Todd Francis Christmas Ornaments: Tis The Season For Suicide #suicide #politicians #iPhone #TV #vodka #customer service #poetry #abortion rights #Post-it Notes

[theliterateape]

Epic Political Suicide Poem

By Elizabeth Harper

Suicide plans on post-it notes scattered on surfaces, pieces of furniture, countertops throughout the apartment. Stashes of pills stockpiled, knives sharpened, razor blades bought in bulk, handles of bargain brand vodka. A cozy robe. Should you force yourself to wash the sheets? Change your underwear? Does it matter? Should you care? Could anyone care less than you? Suicide as backup plan when you can’t think of anything better to do.

Last resort. Snickering snort. Middle finger propped up on a splint. Merry Christmas from the bloody stump of a tree cut down, dying, displaced, withering, needles drying and falling to the ground like dandruff or dead bugs shaken out of some crevice ignored, denied, despised. Who needs a bomb? Who needs a gun? You could just stop eating, getting up, trying.

But wait, maybe there’s something good on TV. Check your Facebook feed. More racism and sexism and debates on what should be considered terrorism.

How can you live in a world with people so stupid? Begging politicians and gurus to tell them what to think and how to be and what to believe when confronted with a barrage of patently false possibilities.

Every ideology self-defeating. We are shooting our own feet without even realizing it and wondering why we are failing as foot soldiers for the revolution that, by the way, is not coming all at once en masse, but in a multitude of minuscule increments, backtracking and stammering, apologizing and grandstanding, falling back in reprieve, struggling to get back up again like a toddler ballerina in a shimmering tutu precariously slipping, a glimpse of diaper peeking through. Aging like an elderly grandmother struggling to walk through the grocery store, clutching a cane, confused by ingredient lists and nutrition labels. How does everything become so difficult? Is it a lack of vigilance? Failing to see the big picture, or missing the tiniest of details? I’m giving up unless I don’t. Spending time on the phone with customer service representatives. Isn’t there an app for that?

If only getting rid of police and politicians and annoying people was as easy as deleting an app on my iPhone. It’s so shiny. I’ll play Candy Crush to distract me from the news and the loud people on the bus I waited 40 minutes to ride.

Watching the whole mess go down when the problems are systemic and the system ironclad and propped up by the buildings filled with iron bars paid for with blood and tax dollars.

Close the schools and jails and offices. Paint them in psychedelic swirls of rainbow colors, paisley, hearts, and flowers. Give everyone an iPad and a lifetime supply of all the pot and booze and pills they desire. And a basic income and musical instruments and books and art supplies and French pastries and ice cream.

Getting rid of the guns won’t get rid of the sadness and anger. Getting rid of the cops won’t get rid of the cops in your head.

Freely distribute poetry on flyers, and condoms too. Sandwiches and cheap hotel rooms. Love strangers as birds in flight, ships in the night.

Dreamers in plight.

Suicide kids.

Suicide kits should be a constitutional right.

When all the others die from the callous slip of a back-alley abortionist’s knife and a paid-off politician’s lack of insight.

 Image shows Christmas ornaments designed by Todd Francis.

#Candy Crush #ice cream #Facebook #Todd Francis Christmas Ornaments: Tis The Season For Suicide #suicide #politicians #iPhone #TV #vodka #customer service #poetry #abortion rights #Post-it Notes

[dusudaunord]

Things to do in Montréal February 17 to 23

It may be February but Montréal’s intent on keeping things hot this week: Off-Igloofest gets us dancing in the snow; indoors there’s art, ballet, comedy, theatre and music to keep us on our toes; and brilliant winter festival MONTRÉAL EN LUMIÈRE kicks off with constant entertainment.

Winter festivals

In a city that’s been celebrating winter like a a pro for 375 years, this winter’s Les Hivernales 375th anniversary events have been a stand-out – they wrap up as electronic music festival Igloofest continues with Off-Igloofest on Feb. 17 – ÎleSoniq festival presents Aussie producer Thomas Jack – and on Feb. 18, an entirely free all-ages night with music from Le Matos, Hatchmatik and more along with the Nordik games (including the Slap Shot movie zone) – and don’t miss the Nordik Slide and Nordik Village on the afternoon of Feb. 19. Among this week’s extreme winter sports: race along with or cheer on the participants of the Polar Hero Race on Feb. 18 at Parc Jean-Drapeau, featuring a unique 5-km, 25-obstacle course and a 10-km, 50-obstacle course. And the wonderful MONTRÉAL EN LUMIÈRE winter arts, culture and fine dining festival starts Feb. 23 at various locations – among the outdoor site activities to try: Curling en lumière. 

Une publication partagée par Emily Leclerc (@tomorrow_emily) le 10 Févr. 2017 à 13h08 PST

Active February

We’ve had a lot of the white stuff here in the past few weeks, so why not get outside and play in the snow – among the many free things to do this winter, try tobogganing or ice skating on the Mountain or visit Mammouth Village at the Olympic Stadium Esplanade, featuring skating, ice slides, activities for little kids and, on Feb. 18, the Snow Food food truck event. Go from tropics to boreal forests at the Biodôme and Botanical Garden (the Butterflies Go Free event starts Feb. 23!) and explore space at the Planetarium, part of the many worlds at the Montréal Space for Life. Or play a game of cricket, ultimate Frisbee or even quidditch at the Ministry of Cricket (and Other Homeless Sports). Cheer on the Montréal Canadiens as they take on the Jets on Feb. 18, the Islanders on Feb. 23, and open their practice to fans on Feb. 19 at the Bell Centre – or watch the games at one of Montréal’s best sports bars.

Food and drink

Winter weather calls for winter warm-ups: try a big bowl of pho or Japanese authentic ramen, go for a signature winter cocktail at one of Montréal’s Hidden Bars or cozy up next to Montréal’s coziest fireplaces. A cup of tea at Montréal’s tea houses might hit the spot, whether you’re looking for a Parisian café, British high tea or Japanese green. Feed your sweet tooth and spoil your inner child at Montréal’s candy shops – they’ve seriously got everything. And starting Feb. 23, indulge in the MONTRÉAL EN LUMIÈRE winter festival’s many fine dining options from multi-course meals to workshops and food-focused tours.

Stage and screen

Sing along to the sweet pop sounds of ABBA at hit Broadway musical MAMMA MIA!, at Place des Arts, Feb. 17-19. This year’s winter-spring dance program includes Perm Opera Ballet’s rendition of Swan Lake, presented by Les Grands Ballets at Place des Arts Feb. 22-26, while 100Lux brings urban dance troupes such as Tentacle Tribe to the intimate Cinquième Salle stage Feb. 16-18 and Alessandro Sciarroni adapts the Schuhplattler traditional folk dance in his show Folk-s / Will you still love me tomorrow? at Usine C, Feb. 21-23. February is Black History Month – this week, see acrobatic multimedia production Afrique en Cirque with Kalabanté at the Olympia Theatre on Feb. 17, Black Theatre Workshop’s children’s musical Bluenose on Feb. 18, and more. In theatre, laugh along with farcical play Noises Off at the Segal Centre or Centaur Theatre’s comedy Bakersfield Mist. Comedian Amy Schumer might get controversial at the Bell Centre on Feb. 17. And in film: at the Phi Centre watch indie films and step into new realities’s Virtual Reality Garden and Not Short on Talent installation, and see Québecois films on new music in the Salle d’exposition at Place des Arts.

Photo from the Winter Exhibitions Vernissage at Never Apart on Thu, Jan 26th, 2017, where over 500+ people joined us for our seasonal celebration of diversity and culture. . The exhibition shown is Chef’s I’ve Worked For by Beaver Sheppard @beaversheeperd. . Read the interview with Beaver @beaversheeperd about his first solo painting show Chef’s I’ve Worked For, a vivid exposé of the chefs he’s worked for in Montreal’s colorful restaurant scene, in the January 2017 edition of @NeverApartMTL Magazine. . Excerpt: In Chefs I’ve Worked For, Sheppard seeks to: paint chefs who have struck a chord in my life. Whether they were upsettingly hands-off or actively suffocating me under their wings, they all tried their hardest to teach me that ‘Chef’ is simply French for ‘Master’.. . The full interview can be read online at: http://ift.tt/2kv1OE8. Link in bio (2/12/17). . Photo by Saad Al-Hakkak @facesmgmt @saadvision. . #chef #chefs #chefsiveworkedfor #beaversheppard #art #artist #performance #painting #music #video #fashion #film #culture #unity #montreal #mileex #mileend #neverapart #entrepreneur #creative #creativity #startup #nonprofit #installation #exhibition #gallery #design

Une publication partagée par Never Apart (@neverapartmtl) le 12 Févr. 2017 à 12h12 PST

Museums and galleries

Must-see winter’s museum exhibitions include the wonderful paintings, costumes and music of CHAGALL: COLOUR AND MUSIC, featuring 340 works by the Russian-French artist at the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts. Part of the 375th programming, kanien’kehá:ka (Mohawk) artist Skawennati’s solo exhibition Tomorrow People explores time and identity in analog and digital forms, at Oboro. See the influential work of Montréal artist Françoise Sullivan until Feb. 18 at Galerie de l’UQAM. And at the Musée d’art contemporain, Québec artist Emanuel Licha’s Now Have a Look at This Machine documentary installation. In Old Montréal, Belgian artist Wim Delvoye provokes at DHC-ART. Never Apart’s winter exhibition celebrates Black heritage, Indigenous women and more. See artist and novelist Marc Séguin’s multidisciplinary exhibition Atemporalités at Arsenal. The comic book universe of Astérix steps off the page as Grévin Montréal unveils its newest exhibition – see Asterix, Obelix, Dogmatix and more characters among the stars and historical figures already populating the wax museum. And follow our guide to art in the “underground city” pedestrian network and the city’s most stunning churches and other sacred sites.

Live music

On Friday it’s all about vocals: singer-songwriter Chantal Kreviazuk comes to Le Gesù, singer-songwriter Blaise Moore and Locals Only Sound belt it out at Le Bleury, and Mozart’s Sister makes the party happen at Arbutus Records headquarters. Also on Friday, the Orchestre symphonique de Montréal plays a different kind of concert: two organists improvise soundtracks to short films by Chaplin, Keaton, Méliès and McLaren at Place des Arts and Black History Month Montréal presents a night of soul, Motown, funk and groove with singer Marie-Christine at Le Balcon on Friday – followed on Saturday by a soul, Motown and disco evening with Kim Richardson, and all kinds of music to dance to at Groove Nation. Also on Saturday, float along to the psychedelic rock of Elephant Stone at Théatre Fairmount, while Common Kings bring their distinctive R&B meets reggae-pop sound to Bar le Ritz P.D.B. and electronic producer Grum turns the beat up at Newspeak while Borgeous runs the dancefloor at New City Gas. Spend Sunday afternoon chilling as DJs Andy Williams and Scott C curate an afternoon of music from the African diaspora at Artgang Montréal alongside a slide show and performances by Jamaican Dub poet Mutabaruka and Clifton Joseph. On Tuesday, hip hop supergroup Run the Jewels and The Gaslamp Killer overthrow Metropolis, Imani Gospel Singers launch their album FAITH in a free event at Le Balcon, and hip hop artist SonReal and Clairmont the Second are at La Sala Rossa. Vasily Petrenko conducts the Orchestre symphonique de Montréal and pianist Javier Perianest at Place des Arts Feb. 22-23 and 25. On Feb. 23, violinist Alexandre Da Costa brings his project Stradivarius à l’opéra to Place des Arts, part of the MONTRÉAL EN LUMIÈRE program, and French acoustic reggae group Tryo come to Metropolis. For more, check out where to hear live music in Montréal.

Up next:Your MONTRÉAL EN LUMIÈRE survival guide

  The post Things to do in Montréal February 17 to 23 appeared first on Tourisme Montréal Blog.

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