#i am sleep deprived and writing this in mid of sleep so- idk where the vocab and grammar came from it's all alien. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

carronpatrick · 15 days

Text

I had 4 hours of sleep in the past 3 days... And now that Trooper is gone, I just. I'm so scared to even try to sleep.

I haven't slept alone since I was like, 12. Which, I haven't slept since Trooper died 14 hours ago despite being so utterly destroyed I can barely keep my mind working... But either a dog or boyfriend or friend sleepovers or on my parent's floor... I don't know how to sleep alone without night terrors and fitful dozing of 15 minutes here, 10 there.

And I don't even give a flying fuck if whoever reads this thinks I'm being dramatic. I'm not. I had this puppy since he was 7 weeks old, being sold as a 'defect' because he had a curly-q tail, and we were together through an extremely abusive relationship, a car accident, someone stalking and threatening to kill me, my shitty ass family and exfriends dramas, the death of my dad and Jake and our 2 eldest dogs, 5 different diseases between us two, my mom's brain surgery, and every time my depression got almost unbearable where I literally begged God to let me die... I kept going purely because he needed me.

He slept in my arms from night one. There were 3 nights in his 9 year life where I wasn't home and that was to take care of my mother in Nashville and my dad watched him and sent me hourly pupdates. I didn't sleep until I almost passed out whole driving us home and even then I was in my mom's room.

I feel absolutely empty and hollowed and dead. Just still have the horrific pain which is how I know I'm still alive. I manage to stop sobbing and having a panic attack where I can't breathe and then I just... Look around and I see him everywhere. His water bowl by the bed, his babies on it, his hair clippers in the bathroom, his medicine downstairs, his numerous beds and toys and his treats and his little hoodie and his damn fur from when I trimmed him literally right before his became comatose on our bed... I have his collar on me constantly, which I bought before I even knew he was the best boy for me...

I am just so utterly alone. Everyone I love leaves or dies or lives hundreds of miles away and I genuinely don't know what I did in a past life to either piss off the universe or for God to think I can just handle all of these struggles... But I'm so sorry for whatever I did, I am. I need just.... One bit of good, of sunshine in this fucking hurricane.

I had to set up 2 night lights just so I can try to maybe sleep if I can finally pass out from deprivation and exhaustion from crying almost the entire past 14 hours. My skin is raw, my eyes are swollen and red, my nose and sinuses are stopped up to where I popped my left ear when swallowing mid-episode, I got maybe 6 bites of food in because I am so so sick to my stomach, I have a fever and chills, I have marks where I dug nails into my arms and legs and a bruise on my forehead and chest where I pounded repeatedly in a feeble attempt to stay sane and alive and grounded and I still can't fucking sleep.

I lay on my left and I expect to see him there, whining to go under the covers and cuddle with me... Lay on my right and expect to feel him curl into my back and scooch me to the side more and more... Lay on my back and expect to feel him at my head, curled around it like he did since he was a baby.

I doubt anyone is still reading and I'm just fucking sobbing writing it but. It's 330a and it's not like I can fucking sleep. I want my baby, I want my daddy, I want my honey... I want to dissociate or just snap and not feel a fucking thing thing until I can successfully shove all of this pain and sadness and misery into my compartmentalizing brain boxes and not take bits out until I can handle them.

Hopefully my medicines kick my ass and I just.... Sleep with zero dreams or terrors for the next day or week or, idk. I can't even talk about what exactly happened to him because it was too similar to my dad's death and I genuinely am traumatized because I was just finally easing my ptsd from dad and now have it from my baby boy, my son, my soul... I probably am making zero sense.

Hug your loved ones, anyone actually reading this... Hug them and tell them you love them every chance you get. Say it over and over - it doesn't cheapen it. Not if you mean it. Whether your loved one is a fur baby or a human, related or a friend or whatever... fucking love them and let them know it every second you can because anyone can get taken from you in a moment. And you'll be left cursing every millisecond of wasted time.

#I love you forever my sweet boy #You were the best boy anyone could ever have #I am so sorry if I wasn't good enough of a mommy I am so sorry I couldn't keep you safe and healthy #I miss you so fucking much

1 note · View note

all-hail-the-witcher · 4 years

Text

nobody likes a claggy bit of cheese

this idea came to me in mid november while i was watching an episode of the great british bakeoff and crocheting a scarf for my sister while eating a very very healthy college lunch of apple sauce and caramel corn. someone (maybe it was paul) said the word “claggy” and i was like Wow That’s British. and then someone else (probably paul again) said “stodgy” and i was like WoW ThAts BriTisH. and then i was like you know who would appreciate these Very British Words?? my dumb friend who likes to pretend he's british. and thEn i was like Oh Shit what if he hosted great british bakeoff that would be energy oh my god. and i was About to text him that when i was like No Wait! instead of a baking competition it would be a Mac And Cheese competition because that's like,,,his wholes pride and joy. and then i was about to text him that but then i was like wAIT! this has fic written all over it oh my god i can see it now. and now here we are.

also mikey in case you didn't realize, you are my dumb fake british friend and this is your present but i mean its more of your persona slapped on race and i called it a day. its not a mothman shirt but it'll have to do eye guess

anywaymst

enjoy this trash pile

_________

ship: eye guess its platonic ralbert

genre: pure ass crack

warnings: uhmmm, race is an idiot, poorly written british accents, paul hollywood stare, uhhh, albert is Annoyed, jack is an idiot who makes bad mac, spot get Angryyy, idk im writing there before the fic is finished, katherine definitely knows the mafia

editing: lol that's funny

words: enough to fill a few pages but not enough to bore you to death like the metamorphosis

_________

“CHEESE!”

Blankets tornadoed around the room as Race jumped off the bed in a half awake sleepy haze, barely landing on his feet in a fight stance, wielding his phone like a weapon in front of him. He glared into the dark corners (not that he could even tell where the corners were considering that it was pitch dark) of the room before stumbling out into the hallway, muttering madly about cheese.

“Cheese...blue cheese…..string cheese…...mozzarella cheese….” Race barely heard his own half-mad whispers as he opened all the cabinets, rummaging around in the same matter a hurricane floods a basement, in a mad search for pasta. When he came up empty handed he scowled, sat himself up on the counter and yelled for the next best thing:

“ALLLLLLLBBEEEEEERRRRRRRRRRT!”

CRASH! That would be Albert falling out of bed. Race kicked his feet against the cabinet impatiently.

WHOOSH! SLAM! And there was Albert’s door opening and closing at an alarming speed.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! The pictures in the living room began to shake, announcing his arrival.

“Race?! What’s going on? Are you okay??” And there was Albert, sliding into the kitchen in nothing but a pair of socks and boxers (despite the fact that it was probably 3 degrees out), weilding a single black converse high top. Race wasn’t quite sure how the shoe was supposed to help him, but he decided to ignore it. He couldn’t afford to get distracted by Albert’s weird antics when there was a legitimate crisis at hand.

“Race…?” Albert asked again, slowly lowering his shoe. “Is everything-” “We’re out of pasta.”

“We’re- what?” The shoe Albert had been holding banged to the floor. “You’re telling me that you woke me up at” he peered at the oven clock over Race’s shoulder, “three fifteen am to tell me that we’re out of pasta?”

“It’s horrible isn’t it?” Race slammed his head into the cabinet behind him. “Now I can’t make mac and cheese!” “W h y do you want to make mac and fucking cheese at three fifteen in the goddamn morning?!”

“BECAUSE ALBERT-” Race jumped down off the counter, “-I had a dream. A dream where I was competing on The Great British Bakeoff and I made my Famous mac and cheese. And Paul Hollywood, the man, the legend h i m s e l f, tasted my humble mac and said ‘Race. That is amazing.’ And gave me a handshake! And I was so honored that I awoke hungry for the wonderful, delicious, creamy taste of mac and cheese. So I wander into the kitchen and what do I find? A fridge full of cheese, but no pasta to be found!” He stepped closer to Albert, planting his hand firmly on his shoulder. “This is an emergency!”

Albert swatted away Race’s hand and rubbed his eyes, already turning back toward his room. “If Paul Hollywood deemed your mac and cheese so amazing then just hold a competition of your own and make other people make mac and cheese for you. That way I don’t have to go to Walgreens at three thirty.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “I’m going back to bed. Don’t make us lose our security deposit.”

Race stood in stunned silence as Albert disappeared down the hall and his door closed.

“That sleep deprived idiot might actually be onto something,” he muttered, launching himself onto one of the bar stools and opening his laptop. He had work to do.

•••

“You know, when I told you to host your own mac and cheese competition I thought I dreamt that entire encounter, and, now that I realize that I definitely didn’t, I especially didn't expect you to make me host it, and I certainly didn’t expect you to make me wear this dumb costume.” He tugged uncomfortably at the dark blazer and black wig.

“Oi mate, if you’re gonna be Sue yew gotta start actin like ‘er!” Race glared.

“But Race-”

“Thas Paul Hollywood to you. I don want none uh this ‘Race’ business,” he crossed his arms and gave Al his best Steely Eyed, Paul Hollywood Glare.

Albert just rolled his eyes and stomped off.

Race sighed happily as he turned to survey the tent in front of him. He had called Katherine last night after his missing pasta crisis and asked if he could use her Dad’s Hampton’s estate to host a mock version of the Great British Bakeoff but for mac and cheese. Katherine, like any good rebellious daughter, had loved the idea and called several of her “contacts” that apparently “owed her favors.” (Race didn’t understand the life of rich people, it seemed very extravagant and two-faced) And that was how Race had come to be standing in a tent with what could very well be the set up of the Great British Bakeoff laid out in front of him with he himself dressed in his very best blue button down and jeans, a spitting image of Paul Hollywood. Well, maybe Paul Hollywood 30 years ago.

His friends that he had invited on to be the contestants of the show were setting up at their stations. There was Jack, Davey, Romeo, Mush, Blink, Finch, Buttons, Specs, JoJo, Spot, Crutchie, and Smalls. Katherine had opted not to participate and instead film everyone to make it seem more like the actual show.

Someone (probably Katherine) had forced Albert to stand next to him to announce the signature challenge that they had prepared.

“Alright bakers-”

Race shot him a side glance.

“-er, mac and cheese cookers?” he tried to amend. “Today Ra-uh, Paul would like you to make a nice, hefty batch of mac and cheese. You may use whatever ingredients you would like, but he would like it to be cheesy, delicious, and contain pasta. You have 45 minutes.” Race could practically hear the sigh in his voice. “On your marks, get set, ba-cOOK!”

Finally, Race thought as his friends scrambled around their respective stations, I’m going to get some good mac.

•••

It was becoming very clear very quickly that Race may not actually be getting any good mac.

He wandered from station to station, Albert following begrudgingly behind him, progressively becoming more and more disappointed in each and every one of his friends. Didn’t any of them know how to cook?

“Roight Jack.” He leaned on the one empty scrap of counter in front of him. “What are yew makin?”

“It’s a surprise.” Jack - well he assumed it was Jack, he couldn’t really be sure with all the flour flying everywhere - ran around his workspace, which was crowded with every ingredient imaginable, from shredded cheese to, was that maple syrup?

“Jack for the sake of the show yew gotta tell us what yew’re makin.” Jack must not have the braincell today.

From somewhere in the flour cloud a timer went off. Jack yelped and dropped what sounded like several pots with an amazingly loud clatter.

“If you really must know - ouch!! - I’m making - god fUCK! - baked mac and cheese with a - SHIT! - crispy top.”

“Alright well,” Albert dodged a flying blob of flaming cheese, “we’ll leave you to it. Hopefully we get to actually eat something edible.”

“Good luck,” Race turned away from Jack’s workstation and leaned towards Albert as they made their way to Mush’s station. “Do we ave a foire extinguishah here?”

“I think so?”

“Good cause we moight need it.” Albert looked at him knowingly for a long minute before the two of them snapped out of it and approached Mush.

“So Mush,” Race said, taking in the polar opposite of the mess of a station that had been Jack’s, “what ave yew got for us?”

Mush smiled, looking up from the block of cheese that he had been grating. “Today I’m going to be making my signature mac and cheese with three kinds of cheese.”

Race let out an audible sigh of relief. Finally something that sounded edible!

“Is that pleasing enough for you, Your Highness?” Mush winked mischievously and Albert giggled.

Race straightened up, checking his mouth for drool (there was none). “Yes, oim looking forward tew it.” He watched as the cheese mush was grating flaked satisfyingly into the bowl, his mouth watering at the very sight and thought of cheese. Oh cheese. Beautiful, rich, delicious cheese. “Oi would like tew sample some cheese if yew don't mind.”

Mush straightened up, putting his hands around his cheese protectively. “And I want someone to slap me so hard my eyes fall out. We can’t all get what we want, Susan B. Anthony.”

“Hollywood, moi name is Paul Hollywood.” Race glared at Mush, horrified that he would decline him the judge a cheese sample! Paul Hollywood always got ingredient samples when he asked for them! Maybe he should have put more effort into his hair today…

“I know very well who you are,” Mush went back to grating his cheese. It was as if he were mocking Race with every bit of shredded goodness that fell onto the glorious cheese mountain.

“I do believe you’ve upset Mr. Hollywood.” Albert smirked. Of course he had to join in on the make-Race-feel-like-hes-being-mocked party.

“I don’t particularly care about Mr. Hollywood’s feelings,” Mush put down the grater and reached under his counter for a pan. “What I do care about is the fate of my mac and cheese so,” he stared at the two of them, deadpan , “be gone Thots.”

“But-”

“I SAID BE GONE THOTS!” Mush pointed a wooden spoon at the two of them menacingly and Race half expected sparks to shoot out of the end like some kind of sorcery bullshit, but all he got was a cloud of flour to the face and twelve sets of confused eyes looking at him.

“Uhh,” he mustered every ounce of Paul Hollywood that he could, “thank yew Mush.” Quickly he turned away, brushing the flour out of his sharpied on beard and mustache while Albert stifled laughter next to him. “Shut up,” he muttered.

“But that was-”

“Oi said shut- oh hoi Smalls!” He tried desperately to regain his composure as they approached the final station.

“Gucci Prada my fuckin clown wig I- oh, uh, hi!” Smalls quickly put the spatula that she had been holding behind her back.

“What are yew makin for uh today?” Race took in Smalls’s station. There was a wide array of cheese on the counter, we well as spices and breadcrumbs and pasta. But something seemed...different.

Smalls looked down at her feet, suddenly very interested in the carpet.. “I’m making gluten free baked mac and cheese.”

“Why gluten free?”

“Because,” Smalls glanced behind her briefly before hissing, “because that was the only kind of pasta I could find in my cabinet that's why you feet fucker.”

Race’s toes tingled with happiness. He do it! He could say the trademark Paul Hollywood meme thing!

“Now, when yew make mac and cheese gluten free it tends to get stickey and lose some of its taiste. Ave yew tested this to make sure that wont appen?”

“Y e s,” Smalls rolled her eyes. “I put extra oil in it so the pasta wont get sticky a n d there’s lots of spices for added flavor.” She brought her spatula out from behind her back in a soldiers salute. “I won’t disappoint you, your Highness Mr. Paul Hollywwod Sir.”

“Yew bettah not,” Race laughed as he walked back to his very official looking director’s chair (he didn’t want to know how many people Katherine had had to kill to get this).

“Sue, how much toime is left?”

“TEN MINUTES COOKERS, TEN MINUTES!”

There were varying screams of frustration from around the room as his friends scrambled to get done. The smell of cooking cheese wafted from several ovens and stoves and Race smiled contentedly. Twas almost Mac Time.

•••

Ten minutes later, as promised, Race was standing behind a Very Official looking wooden table with a fork and a glass of water, ready to taste (or spit out, depending on whose it was), his friends’ mac and cheese.

“Oilright, Davey, why don’t yew bring up yewr mac.”

Davey strode up to the table confidently, somehow without a spec of food on his apron, and placed down a plate of gooey looking pasta. Man oh man he was excited! But no, today he was Paul Hollywood. No excitement. Only glares.

He picked up his fork and took a scoop of pasta, glaring at Davey for good measure as he tasted.

He chewed for far longer than actually necessary to give Davey just enough time to get nervous before giving his verdict. “Whot yew’ve actually done is quite noice, Oi rather loike the blend of the cheddar and the goat cheese, but what yew’ve done is create something that’s so soft that its lacking textah. It’s loike Oi need somethin crunchy to offset it.”

Davey nodded. “Okay.”

“But overall noice job.” He nodded, the silent cue for Davey to take his dish and return to his station.

Race surveyed the contestants and grimaced. “Jack bring yew’re flamin bomb up here.”

He thought he heard Jack mutter some half-decent curses under his breath, but not decent enough for him to repeat.

A few seconds later a lump of orange stuff with green (???) blobs on top on a plate was placed in front of him. “Roight,” he sighed. “What ave yew got there?”

“Well this is my baked mac and cheese with green goldfish topping!” Jack said proudly.

Race looked at the plate as if it were a flesh eating disease that could kill him at any second. And, knowing Jack’s track record with food, it just might. “Any reason why you chose green goldfish?”

“Adds a pop of color!” Jack bounced on his toes.

Good gosh. Race took the tiniest bite possible on his fork and lifted it to his mouth-

“Make sure you get a goldfish!” Jack insisted. “Really adds a burst of flavor!”

“Oh sure, sure.” Race picked one up before shoving the whole abomination into his mouth. He chewed for a few seconds before swallowing down as best as he could.

“Wow that is pitiful,” Race coughed. “The pasta is overcooked, and the cheese, yew’ve cooked it too much so that it’s become gummy, and all the moistah has gone into the goldfish and made them soggy.”

“Oh,” Jack sounded deflated.

“Overall the textah is a bit claggy, and no one loikes a claggy bit of cheese.”

“Right, right.” Jack stroked his invisible beard.

“Overall its dreadful and Oi’d loike it if you removed it from my sights, preferably to the bin. Next!”

•••

Almost a half hour later Race was practically done testing all of the mac and cheese, save for Mush’s and Smalls’s. Along with Jack’s trashpile, Spot’s had also been notably horrible, it was somehow burnt and undercooked at the same time? Race didn’t even want to know. Crutchie’s and JoJo’s though had been surprisingly decent, and both were in the running to win.

“Oilroight Smalls, bring up yewr mac why don’t yew.”

A few moments later a plate of mac and cheese was dumped in front of Race with no class whatsoever. “Here you go Mr. Paul Sir.”

Race stabbed his fork into the pile of noodles. “This was the gluten free baked mac and cheese, roight?” “Yes your highness.”

Race rolled the noodles around on his tongue for a few long moments while his taste buds analyzed the flavor combinations.

“Roight so, I warned yew about this bein tasteless roight?” Smalls quirked up her eyebrow. “It’s tasteless isn’t it.”

“Yes. Get it away from me at once.”

“Of course, your lordship.” Smalls snatched the plate from the table, even curtsying to Race before making her way back to her station, picking up a fork, and digging into her own mac and cheese.

“I don't know what you’re talking about Mister Colonel Hollywood Sir, this tastes great!”

Race bushed imaginary crumbs off of his table. “And Oi’m goin tew pretend Oi didn’t hear that.” He pointed to Mush. “Mush, bring up yewr creation, if yew pleathe.”

“But of course!” Mush placed down his plate of mac and cheese in front of Race, who dug in immediately. “What you have there is parmesan, cheddar, and american cheese with elbow pasta. Enjoy.”

Race let the glorious noodles glide over his tongue as his palate was enveloped in a wonderful cheese flavor. He was amazed. He was astounded. Hell he was even speechless! What did Paul Hollywood do when he was speechless? Oh right!

“Well done Mush,” he stuck out his hand for the famous Paul Hollywood Handshake. “That’s a really great plate you’ve made.”

“Oh, thank you sir!” Mush smiled joyfully as Albert tried to sneak a bite of the mac and cheese. Race swatted his hand away with his other hand.

“In fact, it’s the best that Oi’ve had today, and Oi announce yew as Star Cooker!”

The room erupted into cheers and everyone ran to hug Mush while Race quickly finished his mac and cheese. His plan had worked perfectly. The next time he was out of pasta at three am he knew exactly who to call.

•••

“Hello? Do you need help burying the body?” A tired voice answered the phone.

“Mush, it’s Race. I’m craving mac and cheese and I don't have any pasta. Can you-”

“NO!”

_________

so how bout that huh

anyway sappy boi hours heh i love mikey and im real happy that were friends cause he's the absolute best and i cant wait to meet him next week eeee

feedback is always appreciated hmu to be on the tag list

tag list

@fairly-awkward-trashcan

@well-the-kids-do-too

@racetrackcook

@ughwaitwhat

@aw-jus-let-em-try

@voice-foundshoe-lost

@stopthe-presses

@ridin-in-style

@pinecovewoods

@i-got-no-clue-what-im-doing

@getchapapes

@be-more-chill-evan-hansen

@stellar-alpaca

@saxoph-ella

@smolcanadiankid

@disney-princess-sized

@the-newsies-justice-for-zas-blog

@spot-conlon-king-of-brooklyn

@have-we-got-news-for-you

@thatfancyclam

@myidkwhatmynameisblog

@legoflambwrites

@not-a-scab

@albertdasillvaprotectionsquad

@entschuldigung-bitches

@thebroadwayaesthetic

@tea-and-theater

@seasickdolphin

@auspicioustarantula

@newsies-of-ny

@mrs-higgins

@spot-me50-papes

@papesdontsellthemselves

@deathcast-s

@the-poodles-of-pulitzer

@hopefully-not-the-ghostbusters

@humanracoon

@irondad-spiderson-duo

@albert-eats-cookie-cake

@nico-nat

@localfakeitalian

@carryyourownbanner

@writing-makes-me-antsy

@racetrackyeetgins

#saphie scribbles #newsies #newsies fic #ralbert #racetrack higgins #albert dasilva #this is not a christmas fit its just a christmas present #*fic #heh #luv you my milky tot #;)#grandpapi #papi #suburban papi #oatmeal aesthetic dad #daddy #cricket feet #u make my feet tingle with happiness #SIX DAYS MAN

35 notes · View notes

crazyperfectsense · 4 years

Text

4/30/20/1

god April was 5 minutes long and I’m going to spend all 5 of them writing this post

this is honestly probably far too personal to put into the public of the internet, and perhaps I’ll take it down before anyone really sees it, but Tumblr is comforting because it is almost a graveyard and the people who remain (who I see in fleeting posts in passing, hi) I trust (or just will not see this because they do not care or the algorithm does not favor long text posts), whereas Facebook is horrifying and Instagram is worse, and this is likely going to be too long to hold anyone’s attention for the whole thing, but I also want to get some notes down for whenever I finally get to talk to my therapist again, so here we go

I woke up at 6:30am naturally (horrifying!), leapt out of bed because I realized how much work I had to do (hate when a nap turns into just...sleep!), and got a text from my dad 15 minutes later that my maternal grandfather was in critical condition, and somehow still managed to do work for the next six hours out of necessity

it briefly brought back flashbacks to 2012, where my dad didn’t tell me for a week that his father died because I had finals my first semester of college, but told me right after he picked me up as we were driving across campus to pick up a friend that we were taking back home, so I had about 3 minutes to compose myself before a 2 hour car ride (horrifying!)

my grandfather died around 1pm, and I had the truly unique (horrifying! ! ! !) experience of finding out via text while I was on a Zoom call as the TA, where I was the only person sharing video other than the professor (my advisor!), and I had to keep my composure while simultaneously finishing creating the homework that I was behind on making while also trying to figure out what to respond to this text notification of mortality, because I don’t know how to say any sort of condolence really in Chinese, but my dad was handling communications and just texting in English anyway — and I don’t know, it’s the kind of thing where I probably could’ve ditched the call and made excuses later, but the effort to preserve even the slightest tinge of normalcy in this moment seemed right, and I did my very best (and succeeded!) to not spontaneously burst into tears on camera, even though I did about 0.03 seconds after I hung up

an aside: thank god that my advisor was sharing screen and people were hopefully focused on him / in speaker mode or something, because my neutral face is....poor! not entirely sure because I avoided making eye contact with my virtual self aside from brief checks to make sure that I was still alive, still functioning as I flickered from screen to screen across my two monitors

I had a meeting scheduled with my advisor afterwards, and he was all ready to move into it, but was so extremely understanding the second he saw my message I had sent 50 min earlier that was effectively “can we push this back a bit because my grandfather died and I need to call my fam lol” and suggested (as any normal person with emotions would) that I take the time to formally postpone and regroup if needed (needed!) rather than just pushing back a half hour or so like I naively thought would work

I had to desperately cry for about 20 minutes (horrifying!) before I felt ready to call my family, even so

I hate hearing my mom sad! it’s the fucking worst! but it was a relief for 2 seconds to exist over a phone line with someone who also couldn’t talk straight without needing to take a few gasping breaths

another aside: i didn’t write about this in February because, well, everything was on fire in my life already, so briefly: my mom was supposed to be in China through mid-March, having gone there in October. things obviously went to shit, given *gestures at COVID-19 and the world*, and we booked her an early return flight, given that the senior living facility my grandparents were in had already closed to visitors out of precaution. my brother, dad, and I collectively freaked the fuck out (my brother started crying in the middle of class and had to leave, I barely held it together in mine but paid negative attention) when flights back from China started getting cancelled (and for those like, terrifying few hours where Trump was going to ban foreign nationals since my mom’s not a citizen and they didn’t make it clear that immediate family of US citizens were fine), but we somehow made it happen

so, back to the phone call: I just let her talk and she had so many regrets about leaving China when she did, and it just made me feel like the shittiest person for wanting her back home in America when it deprived her of the chance to see her dad one more time. my uncle and mom luckily got to take my grandparents out of the senior home for one night to celebrate Chinese New Year the day before the facility closed to visitors, so they had one last dinner together as a family but thinking about the what ifs makes me want to cry all over again. my mom just kept saying how she wished she could’ve done more, how she wished they had gone to the hospital earlier for a check-up, and the most I could helplessly contribute was “coronavirus concerns were already rampant and it could have been even worse, given airborne contagion,” even if I said as many other things as I could, about how dialysis was painful as hell and my grandfather, the former doctor, said he didn’t even want to be in the ICU at the end years before his passing

I learned what the Chinese words were for “depression” today, when my mom said my grandfather said he had it and they had gotten him some medication for it a few months ago, and I was so stunned that it was “depression” and not some strange disease I was unfamiliar with that I couldn’t say anything for 30 seconds, and I can’t really write more on this point because I will just start crying, but perhaps I should really think about how aging research is largely focused on non-Asian populations and how perhaps, I’m uniquely equipped to contribute a bit to the field here (but, that is true for so many things, and I am tired!)

my grandfather was great. he was quiet, but stubborn as hell. he was a doctor, and he loved routine. he cared so, fucking, much about me and my brother. he always insisted on taking my brother and me on walks to the same few places that he liked to visit — I remember visiting this community center that had a ping pong table — and him going out of his way to find me internet access, since my grandparents’ apartment didn’t have it for most of the years I visited. he loved taking me and my brother to KFC, because he thought it was the height of Americanized cuisine in China, and was so proud of how much better it was than American KFC (which he hadn’t had, but he knew, and he was right. we would eat every single bite of a two-piece meal each. even the ketchup was better). he once cut out a newspaper clipping ranking UT as the #2 college on this huge list of colleges (I think it was referring to research endowments, but anyway) and saved it to show me almost a year later. he told me in 2013 that he would probably live to see me finish college, and he lived to see me two years into grad school, dying when I was halfway through year three. he was 89. I loved him so much, even if we didn’t get to talk much at all.

I’m so mad at all these fucking people who, in the land of the free and the home of the so-called brave, are being idiots in this time and not social distancing. I’m so mad at every single friend who posts a large or small gathering to their story, at everyone who is so thirsty for social connection that they’re willing to put everyone they’re in close contact with at risk to hang out with another person for just a few hours (horrifying!). humans are social creatures who need engagement and connection to live — having written 22 pages about health and social relationships across 12 hours a few weeks ago, I understand this point so saliently that it’s painful. but seeing such....levity when my mom is crying over not being able to even go back to China to properly say goodbye because they won’t admit anyone from the US (and the US has banned travel to China, like that was necessary in this xenophobic environment) makes me want to punch a wall. suck it up! call your friends over Zoom or FaceTime like the goddamn rest of us!

grief is so strange, and grief is encapsulated in every molecule of this new normal — the strangeness of missing the life that once was, even if the past wasn’t something that I thought I’d miss. I remember feeling so, so guilty for traveling twice in February because of the studying for comps that I should’ve been doing, and now I marvel at my foresight. (and have so many regrets for the people who I told “I’ll see you in April when I’m back after comps are done!!”

I’m in this weird spot where I feel like I’m screaming at the people around me to care, and all of them are too busy with different social ties, and I’m watching my connections wilt and fray because everyone thinks I’m so stable and put-together (or boring and shy?)

an example: I was left off of a reunion Zoom call with some people I worked with in college that was widely talked about on social media regarding “love having shared all this time with these strong women” and all, and it felt very, idk, selfish and whiny (horrifying) to be like “how can you call this feminism when I, a real woman, am being left out of this call”! the following exchange, about the above, happened with in a group chat with a very blunt friend:

D: “Also, how does it feel to be left out of that [organization] Women zoom call, Amy?” another aside: (this....was a stupid question. but we’ll allow it, because boys will be boys.) me: “lol it honestly hurt my feelings but it's not like they weren't cliquey from the very beginning ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ to be expected I suppose” D: “Yeah when I saw that I was like “Why didn’t include Amy, she was there at the same time as they were”” me: “LOL thanks for thinking of me 🥺 they clearly did not”

(the other friend staying quiet, because it was tangibly awkward, even if I tried to play it chill, but my feelings remain hurt) perhaps if I cared more, or wanted to try and make people feel bad, I would’ve replied to a story with “tfti”, or laughed, or heart-reacted, or something “casual” that still implicates “where was my invite”, but....is it even worth investing the hurt and care and time when I’m not even sure it would spark embarrassment on their end? because perhaps they intentionally just do not...care about me and my feelings? at all? (horrifying?)

(I already know this to be true, even if the snub was unintentional, but I needed to muse about it anyway)

another aside: I still talk with plenty of people from this organization who I am MUCH closer with, and I shouldn’t feel snubbed to be snubbed by people who I never felt too close with in the first place! (and yet! horrifying!)

sent an extremely passive aggressive message earlier and yet, K tells me that the people in the chat might not even read it as passive aggressive! (horrifying!)

god. I don’t know! I feel so much sadness and anger, and yet still have a few hours of work to do tonight. it’s wild that even today, where my heart just hurts every few seconds if I think too hard, I still have my mind centered in needing to be productive and not lazy because I’ve already spent too much time procrastinating on my work (horrifying!). but the work is about Asian American collective action / media production, and I feel good about it, and I’m working with some badass Asian women, and I really hope it lands in this flagship journal, because that would be a win, and I kind of just need one!

oh if it’s not clear I finished comps and I don’t know if I passed yet but they’re done so...that’s something

also whoever fucking looked at Chicago style citations and thought “oh hmm, let’s make another type of Chicago style that is DIFFERENT and call it Chicago style documentation” is the literal fucking devil

ok this is enough for now bye. god this was long. (horrifying!!!!!!)

#ever spontaneously write 2000+ words

2 notes · View notes

oxfordeliterp · 7 years

Photo

CONGRATULATIONS, AREEJ!

You have been accepted to play the role of CHARLOTTE ZERILLI with the faceclaim of VANESSA HUDGENS. Please create your account and send it to the main in the next 24 hours. When I say that picking the player of Charlotte took me thirty whole minutes after I have read all three applications (impossibly beautiful, all three, and impossible to compare, for they were three different Charlottes that I wanted to see shifted into three different characters, all played in the roleplay group’s context), it’s not a hyperbole. I read about Charlotte being the heiress, the wasp and the strategic, and I honestly couldn’t possibly tell which I liked most, reason why I have literally written this acceptance message for two of the three versions and was ready to post it. I have changed the application under the cut three times and it haunts me how difficult of a choice you have made this for me. I am going to encourage everybody who has applied and didn’t get the role they wanted to reapply, because I would genuinely want you all, but you two (you know who you are) I feel like the roleplay group would be incomplete without. You all had the misfortune of falling in love with the same character. If the Gods love me and if you do end up reapplying, I’m going to be the happiest person alive. It’s unfair; you are all mob princesses to me, right now.

Now to focus on you, Areej. Sorry for the intro, thank you for the wonderful application. I cannot stress how much love I have for every detail you have put into this. It is obvious to me that you are a skilled writer with a capacity and understanding for the human nature that cannot go unnoticed. The para sample was so flawlessly executed that it stuck in my mind. Every little detail you have included made me eager to see your Charlotte on the dashboard. I want to meet her and see where she goes wrong. The amount of research you put into the application has not gone unnoticed. What can I say? And right then, she finally understood what godfather meant.

Name and pronouns: Areej (alternatively Queen, your fave, empress, so on and so forth) & she/her

Age: 17

Time-zone: GMT

Activity level: Right at this very moment, while procrastination is at an all time high, a lot. If I don’t get off by mid-June please kick my ass.

Triggers: removed for privacy

IN CHARACTER INFORMATION

Desired character: Charlotte Zerilli

I love her a lot. (ok duh I love her a lot or I wouldn’t be applying for her. look @ me stating the obvious.) But on a more serious and hopefully less obvious note, what I’m always drawn towards is characters’ relationships, and Charlotte’s, I feel, have the potential to be very interesting because she’s almost always superior. Not in a mean way. It’s just how it is. Charlotte Zerilli is everything, has everything, and no matter how approachable and friendly she paints herself as, lingering around her is an air of superiority she can’t seem to wash off. This is what creates chasms. Between her and whoever she’s talking to, there’s a distance. And it’s kinda sad because she longs to have close, personal relationships, but feels like she can’t because nobody understands her, and she thinks nobody can. It’ll be fun. i love making beautiful, complex characters suffer bye

Gender and pronouns of the character: Cis female (she/her)

Changes: As much as I love Shay Mitchell, I wanna request an fc change to Vanessa Hudgens! I just have more muse for her. idk idk

Traits:

CURIOUS ━ As a child, bright and starry eyed, there was a lot about the world around her that Charlotte didn’t quite understand. It wasn’t necessarily because anyone was hiding anything from her (for there weren’t many secrets in the Zerilli household. There was no shame, no need). Rather, there was so much for her to learn and so little time. She wished to know everyone and everything intimately. Twenty years on and not much has changed, although she’s become more subtle in her questions and artful in her use of information.

SECRETIVE ━ Charlotte has this curious ability of making it seem like she over-shares, is honest and straightforward, but there are worlds and worlds she hides. Mainly, what she perceives to be her weaknesses. The most obvious is prooobably the Mafia thing. While she’s become more accepting of it (or, more specifically, the softer aspects of it - i’ll explain later), it’s still not something she talks openly about. Still, it subconsciously shapes her. Behind her mercy, her kindness, is a vain attempt to balance out her family’s crimes. She overcompensates for wrongs she didn’t commit. Not only this, but she doesn’t really talk about her feelings, either, internalising emotion and stress to the point of it being physically detrimental. She’s also big on denial. Always running.

COMPASSIONATE ━ It is perhaps this that came as the biggest surprise to her father and mother although, to be fair, they should’ve expected it. Instead of being given half the love, the Zerilli twins received double from their parents. There was not a moment Charlotte was allowed to feel alone. Her heart surges with the same affection for everyone, not just reserved for family like her father’s is.

VERSATILE ━ Multifaceted and adaptable, Charlotte can go from sleep-deprived academic, slaving away in one of Oxford’s many libraries to out-of-your-league party girl to loyal, advice-giving friend whenever it’s required of her. (Not that her heart truly fits into the moulds she creates for herself, but that’s another story.) The girl prides herself in being able to talk to anyone about pretty much any trivial topic. It is, she believes, an ode to having so many different people around to engage in idle chatter with her growing up, united by nothing but their ties to the Mafia. Her variety of talents, too, (piano, violin, dancing, tennis, painting – it goes on) showcase how her ability knows no limits.

FICKLE ━ An extension of above: because she’s everything, she’s nothing, really. Charlotte’s ephemeral and changeable. Always evolving. Indecisive. Not only about what to eat or what to wear, but about herself and her beliefs, too. For example, she no longer resents her bloodline, which was one of the strong moral stances she took as a teenager. Her perception is constantly changing. And because she’s so perceptive and intelligent, Charlotte can appreciate arguments and situations from different angles – being stubborn in a view means the exclusion of another, so she remains, like air, unsure, always hovering in between poles, restless.

SUPERIOR ━ She’s been running and running from it but, like everything, one chilling fact has caught up to her and there’s no denying it, at least not to herself: Charlotte Zerilli is lonely. How? In a room crowded with awestruck admirers, how is it possible that she feels so isolated? That’s exactly it – everyone’s just an awestruck admirer. Nobody’s really on her level (except Miles !!!! love it).

DEMANDING ━ Of herself. Of others. Her standards are about as high as the walls around her

Extras:

For the course, I was thinking something partly humanitarian – in a vain attempt to, perhaps, ask the God she desperately believed in for forgiveness (saving lives to redeem all those lost at the hands of her family) – with strong scientific elements because she’s lowkey a nerd. aka Medicine. I can go into a lot of unnecessary, extra depth about this decision if you want me to but that was the condensed version

MUSINGS: (faves are bolded) one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven when will i stop twelve thirteen fourteen fifteen probably never sixteen seventeen eighteen nineteen and finally twenty

PARA SAMPLE

did i accidentally write a short novella? yes. i’d apologise but i’m not sorry for making you read this

He’d been asking for years (and years and years) and, for a reason Charlotte couldn’t explain more tangibly than it felt right, on this mild Tuesday afternoon, she’d finally agreed. She’d go with him. “Yes. I’m ready,” she’d said, standing in his excessively large office that morning, voice betraying only a slight hesitation. He hadn’t picked up on it. Nobody ever really did. Rather, the light – was that pride? – Charlotte saw swimming to the surface of her father’s eyes served to remind her why she’d ever come back in the first place.

So she smiled, ducked her head and walked with him. As they weaved through the streets of Detroit, she was vaguely aware that this wasn’t a typical Don errand – not that she really knew what that was, granted, having spent the majority of her life actively not knowing. Of course, she’d heard whispers. How could she not have? She’d heard stories about how members of La Cosa Nostra beat people up, stole from them, killed them. Under her father’s orders. But Charlotte had never dared to bring it up with him. She wasn’t sure she’d be able to handle the confession. (Because, who was she kidding, it would’ve been a confession.)

If this was the case, what was she doing here and now? Staring into the eyes of the beast? God knows, she thought, kicking a can that was littering her path, adding to the little mound of rubbish piling up on the side of the road. But she sort of knew, too; it’d been, perhaps, a moment of weakness on her part. For resistance was so tiring. Running was tiring. She craved nothing more than her mother’s arms, her father’s kiss. So Charlotte did something that just a few years ago, she believed was synonymous with weakness, and maybe it was: she surrendered.

“This is it, Tesoro,” her father said at length. She glanced up to find they’d stopped in front of a house – or, she supposed, it was more of a shack. Charlotte watched as he brought his knuckles to the door, about to knock, the gold of his rings forming a stark contrast with the red, peeling paint.

Everything inside her screamed run, run, run. This wouldn’t end up well. No doubt. She was on the brink of witnessing her very first Mafia crime, about to stare into the heart of the Partnership’s – her family’s – sins. Guilt eyed her, licking its lips. It’d swallow her whole.

“N – no. Stop. Please. I can’t do this.” She felt sick. She had to get out of here.

He looked at her, eyebrows furrowed in confusion for a moment before his gaze flitted to the Capo who’d been trailing behind them. When he turned back to his daughter, his head tilted to the side, as if he understood her concern, and he smiled. In that second he was no longer the Godfather, but just her father. “Come on, Charlotte. Don’t you trust me?” But he changed back again. He always changed back again. Before she could answer (and the answer, as much as she hated it, in this moment, it would’ve probably been no), he’d already knocked at the door.

This was it.

The boy who answered couldn’t have been more than nineteen. Upon realising who it was, his eyes darkened, she guessed in fear, as she’d seen so many others’ do in his presence. They knew what he was capable of. If they even made one wrong move, they’d be, quite literally, dead. She wished it was over already.

“Boss,” he spluttered, bringing her father’s hand to his lips and kissing it.

The older Zerilli nodded in greeting. “This is my daughter, Charlotte.” As the boy moved to kiss her hand, too, her resolve faltered. Surely people didn’t introduce their kids to people they were about to murder. Then again, she didn’t know enough about Mafia customs to recognise that this wasn’t a murder mission at all, that he had people for that, and that this was a compassionate one.

“Will you come in? I can make – what d’you want? Tea? Coffee? I have Scotch.”

Her attention piqued; so she was wrong. Huh. Interesting. If not to beat this kid up, why were they here, then? Her eyes wandered inside, past the boy in the doorway, trying to pick up clues as her dad answered, “Not today. I just came to deliver this.” He handed him a thick envelope. Cash. It had to be. “How is she?”

“A lot better, Boss. Thank you so much for this. It really –”

He held up a hand to silence him. “Of course. It is our duty to help our family, at any cost.”

As they continued this conversation, it occurred to Charlotte, tuned out of the world and into her own mind for a moment, that she’d got it so very wrong. Maybe this wasn’t all bad. An odd sense of honour filled her at the scene; the same father who steadfastly looked out for her and her brother was using his position to look out for this (what she presumed was a) picciotto, too, and if there was one, there may be many more. They were – in his eyes – family. The Detroit Partnership. All the racketeering and the beating were somehow justified, at least a little bit, in her mind by this one act of compassion. How could she have been so judgmental before? It was her father’s blood that coursed through her veins, that made her strive to protect those who could not protect themselves. People like the ‘she’ he’d referred to. And who was she? Probably a sick relative. Mother, sister. It didn’t matter, really – all she knew was that it was someone who needed help. Help that the capofamiglia provided.

And right then, she finally understood what godfather meant.

#charlotte zerilli #accepted

1 note · View note