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hootcifer · 3 years

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talking about toh | season two, episode eight: "knock knock knockin' on hooty's door"

holy shit

sorry this was a few days late, i was equal parts busy and lazy.

previous | first | next spoilers under the cut, as always

the beginning

awww hooty’s writing to lilith! like he promised!

btw, just so you guys know, i’ll be referring to hooty with he/they pronouns, because it makes sense to me. also i use he/they and i’m a hooty stan so it works.

I realize now that i spelled “hootsifer” wrong in my url. oh well, i like “hootcifer” better anyway. (also the url “hootsifer” is taken anyway)

oh no, hooty feels unimportant! i’m sure the large majority of the fandom is okay with this, but i’m not! poor thing.

i found it adorable that luz wants to find a way into amity's heart (even though she's had a place there since grom). how she would use the echo mouse for that, i don't know.

luz saying "we have to go" was almost a direct parallel to amity saying "I GOTTA GO" in "wing it like witches".

king's plot

i love how king is going through his angsty teen phase. that's hilarious.

why the fuck does hooty just eat people?! and then just act like that's an okay thing to do?!

i think it's a fun detail that hooty is wearing king's teacher hat from "the intruder". i love little things like that.

i like how this episode gave us some lore as to how demons on the isles work. they emerged from the muck of a decomposing titan? that's dope! it's also cool how there's three main types of demons.

hooty is a worm?!

on the board with all the bug demons, i recognized the butterfly alador kept chasing in "escaping expulsion", as well as adagast from "witches before wizards", the bear trap demon from "the intruder", and the kindergarten teacher from "i was a teenage abomination".

it was neat to see the fairy from "a lying witch and a warden" and the butterfly... thing from "witches before wizards". more neat continuity stuff!

what did king say with his dance? i'm very curious.

maybe king didn't want to talk about the cocoon, but i certainly do! what the hell happened?!

because of some of the images in the background when hooty was talking about demons, we can infer that some students of hexside are demons and not witches. i wonder if witches are more powerful than demons, or if they're on the same level.

other biped demons i recognize are the bounty hunter, tibbles, one of the pirates, warden wrath, and braxus.

i also saw a cat-person. are catgirls and catboys a thing on the isles?

i like how tiny nose and hooty are friends. somehow, it makes sense.

was tiny nose playing on a nintendo switch? that's cool.

we got to see even more past demons from the section about beasts, such as the ratworms, the echo mouse, the trash slug, the selikdomus, the slitherbeast, and the snaggleback.

has tiny nose's voice changed, or is that just me?

i'm really curious as to what the heck king is. is he a unique kind of demon? a hybrid, maybe?

i thought it was sweet that hooty and tiny nose tried to celebrate king for who he is, even though it just made him sad. they're trying.

eda's plot

hooty had a good point in wanting eda to sleep. sleep is important! says the guy who regularly stays up until at least midnight.

i completely understand hooty's fear of the owl beast. remember what happened last time?

the cookies hooty made were very cute. i loved that.

hey, the sleeping nettles are back! the same thing luz and hunter used a few episodes back to put kikimora's steed to sleep.

we got to see eda's dad! we know very little about him, but we did see him. also, did he look like nigel thornberry to anyone else? no? just me? okay then.

it broke my heart seeing raine and eda breaking up. it was neat that we got confirmation that they were together!

eda clearly regrets pushing raine away. poor thing.

who is the cloaked figure? i've seen a lot of theories that it's amity, but that makes no sense. i don't think she was even alive at this point. it could be odalia, though. that would be a cool twist.

the little owl beast was so cute. i want a plush of that.

HARPY EDA! holy shit, she's so cool. top tier character design.

luz (and amity)'s plot

you better bet your ass i have a lot to say about this! plot! okay, let's start from the beginning.

i was really hoping we would get some mutual pining lumity this season, and by god did it deliver! luz referring to her as a "cotton-candy-haired goddess" was too cute.

from what she said, it sounds like this isn't the first time luz has tried to ask someone out. she's so afraid of getting rejected. wait a minute, amity was afraid of getting rejected too! that's a parallel i didn't even realize!

i wasn't expecting to see amity this episode! it looks like her parents let her keep her purple hair. that, or the twins are using illusions to hide her hair from their parents.

i love how hooty's solution to getting amity to the owl house is to straight-up eat her. that's one way to do things.

i really want to know more about house demons. are there more than one? are they all bird-like? are they born as houses or do they just inhabit houses? so many questions and not enough lore!

the way luz interrupted amity when she suggested "forgetting" about what happened in front of blight manor reminded me of how eda kept interrupting king last episode when she thought he was going to tell her he was planning on leaving.

i'm not gonna lie, i skipped through the majority of the tunnel of love scene. that kind of thing gives me second-hand embarrassment like you wouldn't believe.

my heart shattered into pieces when amity said that the idea of her adting luz was stupid. she obviously doesn't believe it, but she's probably been trying to convince herself of it.

this part had me terrified that the lumity plot for the episode would end there. thank goodness it didn't, eh?

the ending

AAAAAAAAAAAA

okay, okay, let's start from when hooty freaks out for a third time, after the tunnel of love.

i thought it was funny how hooty ripped himself out of the door in order to run (?) away. at least we didn't have to hear all the sounds this time.

wait, "things always get weird when hooty's upset"? has this kind of thing happened before?

gosh, the part where king's voice powers saved luz and amity was so cool. i saw somewhere that the animator wanted to reflect the lesbian and bi flags and they did a great job.

eda encouraging luz to ask amity out was so cute. we stan a supportive mom, always.

and then comes the scene everyone's been talking about. oh my gosh, this was done so beautifully! it was equally awkward and cute, the way it should have been, and the fact that they both asked each other was perfect!

LOOK AT HOW HAPPY AMITY IS WHEN SHE SAYS YES!!! this is the happiest we have ever seen her, and it's adorable.

something i really love about this scene is the fact that they didn't say "i love you" or even kiss, like what seems to happen in a lot of confession scenes. they just held hands. it was probably one of the most realistic confession scenes i've ever seen. it kind of reminded me of when my gf and i got together.

oh yeah, that's right! they're officially together!!!!!!! FINALLY!!! i was not expecting anything that happened in this episode, but out of everything this one was the most surprising. holy SHIT! we have a canonically sapphic couple! in a disney cartoon! a disney cartoon!

honestly, i hope everyone has gained more respect for hooty after this. they've helped further the plot more in one episode than anyone else has done throughout the rest of the show.

we got to see king's dad properly for the first time! i don't think we'll see him in "eclipse lake", but maybe we will in the episode after that? i hope so.

everyone's freaking out about hooty eating the letter but... can't they just... throw it back up? like they did at the beginning of "really small problems"?

predictions

to my knowledge, the next episode is going to be about amity looking for an ingredient for the new portal. i also know that eda, king, and hunter will be there too. i don't know what to expect, but i am very excited. until next time!

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ratingflavourtext · 3 years

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Rating the Flavor Text of MTG Cards: Part 1: Introduction and Criteria

I think in many ways writing flavor text is one of the most underappreciated arts in games. When people talk about the stories and narratives of games that aren’t Dark Souls, they usually don’t care about the words about an item that don’t relate to it’s ability to do things in the game.

There is a temptation when no one seems to care about a thing to simply do nothing with it, or to not put thought into how you fill a space that you might assume no one would look at. I think that there are many writers who have, conversely, stepped up to the challenge of telling small, often contained stories, jokes or lore tidbits.

Because there are actually a decent amount of people who read flavor text. Just like there are people who will explore every nook and cranny of a game, or just like there are people who don’t read the quests when they take them in MMORPGS. There are speed runners who turn games into a cross between an engineering puzzle and an Olympic sport. A single game can have many facets which not all players will value or interact with the same way.

The best place to start to prove the value of flavor text is Magic the Gathering. However, since telling magic fans that flavor text is cool is tantamount to telling the pope that you think god exists, my other goal in this is to highlight flavor text that can get missed in the shuffle. We all know the Feldons and the Obliterates, but I hope to highlight more obscure cards with some good flavor.

You may now be asking how I am qualified to definitively rank Magic Flavor Text. The answer is: I’m not. I have no license, but at the same time I cannot be stopped. You don’t have the power to stop me from doing this wildly unimportant job no one asked for.

But enough preamble. Here is the criteria I will be rating cards by:

Each card will be given a score.from 1 to 10, with 1 being poor and 10 being good. Cards start at a rating of 5 and can gain or lose points from there. I will attempt to make this less arbitrary by listing the ways cards can gain and lose points. A card can gain or lose up to 5 points for any one feature.

Generally I will be pressing the random button on scryfall until I hit a card. I’ll make a post with that card and it’s scoresheet, and I’ll release multiple of those posts at once.

I will also be including commentary to justify my decisions and also tally the points the cards gained and lost.

A card can gain points by:

- Evoking Emotion (Humor, Sadness, Joy, etc)

- Adding depth to a card’s story or abilities

- Creating an atmosphere that is conducive to the atmosphere of the set it’s in.

- Having or being part of a well formed narrative

- Teaching us something about the world or character

- Is memorable in it’s own right

A card can lose points by:

- Evoking Emotion (Rage, Bafflement, Irritation, etc)

- Making a card or the story more shallow, boring or otherwise worse

- Contributing to a bad storyline or otherwise breaking established cannon or rules in a discordant way.

- Being incongruous with the set

- Being overly wordy

- Confusing us about the world or character

To show you a few examples.

Rune Snag -

Transcription: “Concentration is key. Without it, a mage conjures nothing but a splitting headache.” —Zur the Enchanter

Commentary: At first I was somewhat pleased with the flavor text on this card. It has some clever wordplay and a reference to a known magic character. I like that it explains it’s own effect: It breaks spells by disrupting the concentration of the spellcaster.

However one thing bothers me is that Zur says this, and it seems like the sort of thing that any spellcaster would say. This is the sort of flavor text which helps us understand the world at the expense of obscuring one of it’s characters. I’ve played magic for 8-9 years and I know basically nothing about Zur, and even less now that I’ve read this flavor text.

Ultimately, though, I think the neat things this card does outweighs the one hurdle it stumbles. But not by all that much.

Rating: 6/10

Score Breakdown:

-1 point for confusing us about a character

+1 point for teaching us about the world

+1 point for adding depth to a card’s abilities

Daemogoth Titan -

Transcription: “Of course it offered you power. Demons always do. But trust me—the sweeter the prize, the more ruinous the price.” —Professor Onyx

Commentary: That is how you do a quote from an established character. For those who don’t know, Professor Onyx is Liliana Vess in disguise on the world of Strixhaven, basically magical College but without the crippling debt. And she is very much speaking from experience. Liliana made a pact with demons for immortality, so it’s good to see her telling students not to make the same mistakes.

It’s very heartening to see actual character development in a flavor text. Long running games like magic have a temptation to keep things in a sort of stasis, where characters broadly never change or do anything different. So seeing some sort of steps in a new direction for a character is very nice to see.

This is really well executed. It doesn’t quite have the 10/10 perfection, but it’s really well formed.

Score: 9/10

Score Breakdown:

+4 points for adding depth to a character

--------

Anyway, that’s the two examples for now. If you want to dispute the ratings, or tell me what the heck is going on with Zur then please do so. I may actually come to re-rate cards if there’s enough demand for a re-appraisal, though only if I feel it’s justified. I’ll also feature the responses that convinced me if I do so.

#mtg #flavor text #magic the gathering

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hopelessromanticspoonie · 4 years

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#23 with Tom please ?

I am SO sorry that this took so long to write. It got lost amongst the smut requests, and I only just discovered it the other day. I do hope that you enjoy my take on the prompt (Apparently all our friends have a bet going on that we’ll end up together) and that you aren’t too upset that it took so long to get to you!

Luck Be a Lady

The crowded bar was the last place you’d expect to meet Tom for drinks, but he had insisted, and you knew better than to argue something so unimportant when his mind was made up.

So you dutifully sat at the back of the room at a high-top table for two, sipping on an old-fashioned with a glass of whiskey, neat, sitting protectively in front of you. You flicked through mind-numbing social media on your phone and rocked back and forth absentmindedly to the music barely heard over the din of the other patrons.

“There you are, darling!”

A smile tugged on your lips before you even looked up to see the source of the velvet-voiced greeting, a broadly grinning Tom stepping through a break in the crowd to stroll up to you, unbuttoning his worn black peacoat. Once it was off and draped over the chair opposite you he tugged you into a tight hug that had your face pressing into his neck. The clean masculinity of his skin was a welcome breather compared to the slightly foul mixture of stale beer and too many colognes and perfumes mingling in the tiny business. It was as warm and inviting as the gentle giant at its source.

He hummed pleasantly into the embrace before pulling away and tugging out the chair directly next to yours, sliding onto it gracefully and taking the drink you offered him. “I apologize for my tardiness. I was going to surprise you and bring Ben - it’s been so long since you’ve seen each other - but when I arrived at his flat he begged off with a stomach bug. You’re stuck with me.”

Eyeing the long lines of your dear friend carelessly draped over the rickety chair as if he had been born to do nothing else, you couldn’t begrudge the turn of events. “I think I’ll manage,” you teased, taking another sip of your drink to hide your all-too-pleased smile.

You fell into an easy, comfortable rhythm, catching up after months due to his hectic acting schedule, the latest a stint on Broadway that had him positively beaming with pride and excitement when he discussed it. He was a ray of sunshine in the dimly lit club, his dazzling wit and enthusiastic personality working with the brush of his thigh against yours and his head dipped toward you to be heard over the noise to scare away any shadows that threatened to creep up from reality.

And wasn’t that how it always was with him? Years hadn’t dulled the effect that he had on you, if anything, it intensified with each carefully planned visit to accommodate his busy lifestyle. A cup of coffee here, a lunch there, a quick bite of dessert when he was breezing through town. It was all worth it to get your fix of your very dearest and closest friend. That your heart clenched and your lungs cried out for air each time he left wasn’t important; there wasn’t anything to be done about it. He was Tom, your best friend, and that was the best that you could possibly hope for as a person forced to exist in the drudging monotony of the real world.

“I absolutely love this song. Dance with me?” Tom asked, interrupting your revery. He stood up and offered you his hand, eyes twinkling with infectious mischief and hope written into the crinkle of his nose.

How could you say no?

Giddy laughter bubbled up from your throat and joined his trademark chuckles as he twirled you around the dance floor, his hand gracing along your spine, your shoulder blade, your middle back while the other kept tenuous but constant contact with yours. It was impossible to have a dreary or down thought when he was beaming down at you with every bit of happiness shining in his eyes and crinkling his nose. Any lack of skill you possessed was lost to his confident lead, any misstep laughed off and compensated with his sure-footed guidance.

Only when the music shifted to a slower song did you beg for a break, patting your hand on his chest. “We aren’t all runners, Tom. I need a rest.”

His hand settled over yours on his chest, holding it there while the other clasped yours in a firm grip that you knew would never falter. Steadfast as the very sun he resembled, your Tom. “A slower dance, then.”

The darkness of the bar made it all too easy for you to allow your forehead to nestle against his shoulder, soaking in the quiet contentment between the two of you. It was easy, in his arms, to just exist. No pretenses, no worries or fears beyond the knowledge that one day you wouldn’t be allowed such a privilege. He wasn’t getting any younger, and the world was quickly coming to terms with just how incredible of a man he truly was. Before long your best friend would spin another around the kitchen of his flat, his lips anchored to her hair as they were yours now. It was best to absorb the moment while you were allowed the honor.

“I missed you,” Tom admitted quietly, the words an intimately whispered secret meant only for your ears on the crowded, sticky dance floor.

You lifted your head to stare up at him, meeting his thoughtful gaze with your own slightly confused expression. “I missed you, too.”

He seemed to think for a second, his brows furrowing and his eyes darting back and forth between your own. Your slow rotations stopped, his feet planted to the ground as if his worn boots were suddenly made of lead. His heartbeat fluttered beneath your palm. “Apparently all our friends have a bet going on that we’ll end up together.”

“They do?” you asked, honestly dumbstruck that your mutual acquaintances would foresee you together. What did you have to offer the man who seemed to have everything? As if you were equals in the grand scheme of things. And even though the very thought was enough to make the butterflies in your stomach twist with hopeful anticipation, you knew that it was a useless feeling, and played it off with a too loud, “That’s mad!”

Some tiny part of you had hoped that he’d correct you, tell you it was a completely reasonable thought and that he agreed with them. But besides the unrecognizable emotion that briefly flickered over his face, he did nothing of the sort. He released you to run his fingers through his ginger curls, letting out a humorless chuckle and dropping his gaze to the floor. “Of course, you’re correct. It’s getting late, isn’t it? I’ll call you a cab.”

Hours later you had drowned your disappointed hopes in enough ice cream and salty chips to send you on your way to a food coma. Curled up in bed, you tossed and turned, replaying the evening in your mind and wondering when you would get another one. It had felt, for the briefest of seconds, like he was trying to break through the barriers of your friendship into something more. But you hadn’t been sure, and the thought of damaging what you had to a misunderstanding was enough to make your blood run cold.

You just managed to drift toward sleep when the doorbell rang, jolting you upright in bed. You scrambled for your phone with one hand and any form of protection in the other. There was an umbrella in the entryway. That’d have to do.

“Who is it?” you called, willing your voice to sound sure and strong and only having a small measure of success with it. You were ready to dial emergency services as you edged toward the door, gripping the umbrella like a club in the other.

“Tom.”

The umbrella fell to the floor at your feet, and you rubbed your bleary eyes as you stumbled the rest of the way to the front door and open it up. The chilled winter air assaulted your skin, reminding you that you hadn’t thrown on a robe over your pajamas. Too late now.

Tom didn’t look much better than you felt standing in your doorway. His hair was mussed as if he had run his hands through it several times since you parted, and his fair skin allowed you to better see the dark circles lingering beneath his desperate eyes. He shoved his hands into his pockets, shoulders almost up to his ears as he stared up at you through his light lashes.

“It isn’t mad.”

That was all he said. Just those three words and then a silence that echoed and rang in your ears. It took your exhausted brain more than a moment to piece together what he could refer to in the dead of night, running through the evening as your eyes run over his rumpled sweater and creased jeans. Eventually your brain fell back to the conversation that had plagued the last of your waking hours, but that couldn’t be what he meant.

“What?” you asked a little too bluntly, sleeplessness removing some of your polish and politeness.

He took a deep breath and stepped forward, pulling out his hands to hold them between you entreatingly. “Us together. I don’t think it’s mad. Not in the slightest.”

Either exhaustion had really taken a toll on you and you were dreaming, or Tom Hiddleston had just given a fairly strong indication that he returned your feelings for him. You quickly rubbed at your eyes as if he’d disappear when you were done. But he was still there, having closed the distance between you in those seconds that you were trying to grasp the situation, deep blue eyes silently pleading with you in the shabby half-light spilling from the street.

Your hands slipped over his even as you fought the revelation with a stammered, “But you, me. We’re so different.”

His hands skated up your wrists, over your arms to ghost along your shoulders to cup your neck so his thumbs could tease at the edge of your jaw. “Not in the ways that truly matter. Not at this moment, right now. Right now I am a man who has been driven almost to insanity for the longest time, thinking nothing of you, even when I’m halfway across the world. When I’m with you,” he paused, allowing his lips to pull upwards into a wistful smile that made your breath catch in your throat. “When I’m with you, I’m free to be myself. It’s a freedom I am rarely granted. I don’t want to lose it, lose myself. You keep me grounded, and yet, when I see your smile or feel your hand upon mine, I feel like I’m flying. Maybe it’s madness, and if it is, then I will happily remain so if it allows me to be with you.”

Words caught in your throat before they could form. Your mouth opened and closed several times in rapid succession as you tried to form a reply to the declaration that you had been longing to hear for so long. Was this a dream? The heat that fluttered in your stomach from his gentle caress of your neck told you otherwise. Boldly, your hands reached up to mirror his, rasping along the light scruff at his razor sharp jawline, delighting in the soft masculinity of it.

“I don’t think it’s mad either,” you admitted quietly, afraid if you spoke any louder the overwhelming happiness you felt bubbling up from inside of you would spill out into uncontrollable laughter that you wouldn’t begin to hope to quell.

The heat of his body was most welcome against the chill he let in. He was long and lean and firm against you as he fitted his hard edges to your soft curves just before he dipped his chin to tease his lips across yours. His kiss was unbearably soft, laced with coffee and chocolate and mint that feathered against you in a gentle caress that promised so much devotion and affection.

“I wonder who is going to win the bet,” you asked breathlessly, pulling Tom inside of your home, closing and locking the door behind you.

He grasped your hand to press a soft kiss to your upturned palm. “We can ask them in the morning.”

Tidbit of Tom taglist: @otakumultimuseoc

Whole Shebang taglist: @just-the-hiddles @yespolkadotkitty @vodka-and-some-sass @nonsensicalobsessions @he-is-chaotic-she-is-psychotic @myoxisbroken @blah666 @brokenthelovely @myworddump @polireader @wiczer @littleredstarfish @the-broken-angel-13 @arch-venus25 @xxloki81xx @jessiejunebug @tinchentitri @sllooney @devilbat @vikkleinpaul @bouquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses @angelus80 @wolfsmom1 @kthemarsian @toozmanykids @claritastantrum @princerowanwhitethorngalathynius @sabine-leo @lovesmesomehiddles @peterman-spideyparker @wegingerangelica @bluefrenchfries604 @silverswordthekilljoy

#tom hiddleston imagine #tom hiddleston one shot #tom hiddleston fluff #friends to lovers #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston/reader #hopelesswrites #luck be a lady

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cravingcrazewriting · 4 years

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Reinvent Yourself {Treebros}

(Sorry about the error in the first one! It won’t let me edit it at the moment)

Being a shapeshifter was convenient for a number of reasons.

Evan could pretend to be anyone but himself, well, as long as he didn't strain himself too hard (that was never fun). He could completely redesign his body and alter the features he hated so much.

Even if he'd grown up in the confides of a government lab, and he didn't exactly get a childhood, he deserved to have a little fun, damn it, and explore the world he barely knew. He was finally free, and could do whatever he wanted.

Well, nothing illegal, obviously. He also had to keep an eye out for any government agents looking for him. But that was besides the point.

After flashing an ID at the bouncer, he stepped inside the bar and immediately was met with quite possibly the most beautiful person there.

They had a long, well built figure, with oak brown hair that poured down to their shoulders. Around their waist was a leather jacket, and they were wearing a black tank top, accompanied with multiple rings on long fingers, and ripped jeans to tie the whole outfit together.

Immediately, Evan turned on his heel and ran out and into an alleyway. He had to impress the beautiful stranger, and well, he couldn't, being his actual, boring self. His boring, actual self, who had sandy blonde hair, green eyes and the right mixed with red, soft skin, a snake tattoo on his upper back, little to no muscle whatsoever, and sort of plump build.

Throwing off a drawstring bag he previously had around his shoulders, he quickly stripped naked so his clothes wouldn't rip. Once this was done, he shut his eyes, and tried to imagine himself changing into a more attractive person.

He imagined curly, brown hair, a large physique, skinny waist, and a sharp jawline. Yeah, that'd do. He could change into the opposite sex, but most times he preferred using a male form, but couldn't do an animal, but everything else was fair game.

Bones began to unhinge and rearrange, as muscles started to expand, as his size grew, hair curled to his will, his vocal cords deepened, as his body made snapping and twisting sounds (it was never pleasant to do, let alone listen to).

When he opened his eyes, he was an entirely different person. On the outside, at least, but he could fake it till he made it, he supposed. It would work for the time being, until he didn't have to pretend anymore.

He doubted that'd be anytime soon, though, but that was beside the point.

Evan pulled out his ID again and looked directly at it. What was special about it was that it scanned all of his new facial features, and printed it onto the photo, adding on other specifics, like his height and stuff.

He strode over to the bouncer with confidence in his step, after putting a different set of clothes on, showed him the new ID, and went inside to find the beautiful stranger.

The Beautiful Stranger was sitting on a stool, on their phone, and a class of water sitting in front of them. They moved a hand downwards, and moved the sleeve of their leather jacket, before grabbing the water and taking a sip.

Evan decided to take the initiative, slowly sitting next to them, sparing a glance at their features.

They were a lot stronger than Evan anticipated. While they didn't have a body builder physic, the discarded jacket left a full view of two defined and broad biceps that this person could use to easily pin Evan against a wall or something because he just wasn't that strong of a guy. Sure, he could make himself strong, but it wore him out faster.

He wanted to speak to Beautiful Stranger, but the bartender already came over, and was asking him what he wanted to drink.

"Just some water, please," Evan didn't put any thought into the order, he just wanted the bartender to leave him alone. He spared a glance at Beautiful Stranger, wanting to initiate a conversation somehow.

Maybe a compliment would do? He wouldn't know, he never flirted with anyone before.

"Your hair looks soft," as he let the words unintentionally tumble out of his mouth, he realized that was a really fucking weird thing to say to someone. It sounded weird, too, and he was probably freaking Beautiful Stranger out, now.

Beautiful Stranger turned their head towards Evan, surprised by the compliment, but they smiled, and it was small and kind and friendly and just really nice.

"Thank you," they nodded their head at Evan, in a friendly type of way.

Evan wasn't good at upholding conversations. He really preferred it when someone else upheld it for him, because coming up with questions and creating small talk just wasn't his forte. "Where— where do you get it styled?"

"Oh um, this is all natural, actually," Beautiful Stranger gestured to the wild curls. Evan internally decided he'd keep referring to them as them until he heard a name or other characteristics because he did not want to assume anything. "It's god awful to take care of. It just— does it's own thing— that's how curly it is, it's ridiculous. Back in high school my dad would always tell me to chop it if I complained, but I was as stubborn as a mule, I suppose."

"I can't say the same," Evan chuckled meekly. "My uh— I was never aloud to grow out my hair. They always c-chopped it if I tried growing it out." Back when he was still living in a lab, his primary caretaker, Doctor Sherman, didn't let Evan grow out his hair or change it in any way, shape, or form. Previously before, he didn't know why they wouldn't let him grow it out or dye it, but he knew it was just to keep his appearance consistent on his file. Now that he was free, he was growing out his natural hair to a mullet.

"Oh," Beautiful Stranger looked like they wanted to say more, but chose not to. "I'm sorry," they looked away from him.

And just like that, the conversation died.

Evan resisted the urge to sigh, instead drinking his water, slightly disappointed. He needed a new plan, so he paid and left the bar, going back to the alleyway.

If some friendly banter didn't work, maybe seduction would do the trick? While he didn't know what attracted Beautiful Stranger, he decided he'd settle on a tall, skinny girl, with long, black hair, and would wear a shiny, ruby red dress with flats. It'd be the easiest way to find out what exactly caught Beautiful Stranger's eye (and if Beautiful Stranger seemed uncomfortable, Evan would back off, because he would never want to do something like that to them).

He let his muscles shrink and become more femininely shaped, as fat faded away and gentle curves smoothed their way up his thighs and hips, and his bones shrank and rearranged, as his face become a softer shape (despite having a women's body, he still preferred being as a guy).

Evan once again showed the bouncer his ID as he entered, spotting Beautiful Stranger just where he left them. He strutted over to him, feigning confidence, and willing his hands not to shake.

He gave them a gentle shoulder stroke to catch their attention, and trailed his finger down their arm.

Beautiful Stranger shuddered at the touch, and looked at Evan, seeming to be surprised.

"Hey hot stuff," he purred, silently hoping he was coming off as seductive and not as a predator or anything. "You're looking very nice tonight."

They chuckled somewhat awkwardly, and gave a little smile. "Um.. thanks?"

"You come here often?" Evan leant against the counter, allowing a relaxed pose to take its place.

"Not really? Look, you're attractive, and I mean like, super attractive, you're so beautiful but..." Beautiful Stranger let out a sigh. "I've stopped doing one night stands, and I'm here with my sister, celebrating something kinda important. So if you're looking for a hookup, sorry, but I can't."

Evan was surprised by his honesty, but stood up straight, knowing he wasn't wanted anymore. "Alright, I get it. I'll be on my way."

"Thank you," They seemed relieved. As Evan made his way out, he could feel their eyes on them. They cleared their throat and said, "Is that a snake tattoo?"

Evan turned his head back, seeing some of his tattoo slip out. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised, as the dress he wore was a bit revealing, especially in his backside. He just nodded.

"What's it mean?" Beautiful Stranger asked.

Ironically, Evan had never been the one who chosen that tattoo. Doctor Sherman chose where it went and what it was, and that was that. That was four years ago, and he was just twenty two, and while he could try to get it removed, it was a special tattoo that changed along with whatever form he took (the same went with his right red-green eye).

"Er— I guess it's a conception of judging something by it's appearance, but it being completely different," he just made all of that up, because what else was he supposed to say?

Beautiful Stranger hummed thoughtfully, before turning away from him.

Throughout the night, Evan tried using different forms and personalities in an attempt to impress Beautiful Stranger, but none seemed to work. They didn't seem to bat an eye at the different people he made, and whatever conversations they had were short and unimportant. Evan could only assume they just didn't like him. It was somehow, still, just him.

Evan entered the bar a final time that evening, wearing a basic blue button up, neat jeans that had little to no holes, and a grey jacket, as he swung his drawstring bag that was filled with his various outfits he'd used that night. Evan was tired, and quite frankly just wanted to drink and to drown his sorrows in them. In the back of his mind, he told himself to stay sober enough to rent a motel to pass out in (he didn't have an actual place to stay).

He sat down a couple of seats away from Beautiful Stranger. He just couldn't bear another rejection or let down. He wanted to be alone, probably for the first time all night, with whatever drink he'd buy.

"What'll it be?" The bartender from earlier approached him.

"I'd like some Rose Wine, p-please," Evan fidgeted with the hem on his jacket. "And put it on my tab?"

As he ordered, he couldn't help but feel a set of eyes on him, which was weird, because he wasn't remotely interesting to be watching. While granted, Evan was a shapeshifter, he tried to live his life as vanilla as possible, because that's what he missed, he never got to live normally, and he probably never will, because the government is still after him, and all he wants to do is meet his mom, who supposedly just 'gave him up', which he doesn't really buy, not at all, and go live in Canada, because he erased all files on him before he left, so they wouldn't be able to get him (or at least, he assumed). The only thing holding him back was the lack of money he had, and he'd need a job for a good solid few months, but he also couldn't stay on the streets, because that was unsanitary, and it was only going to get colder and colder each and every day.

"Bad day?" A familiar voice asked above him, settling into the seat beside his.

Evan didn't even want to raise his head to face them, so he just shrugged feebly. "Shitty night..." he said softly, and fuck, when did his eyes start watering? Doctor Sherman always called him sensitive, and told him he needed to mask and control his emotions. It wasn't like he could control his emotions, no matter how much he wanted to, because feelings were complicated and messy, and he just wanted them gone so he wouldn't have to deal with him.

"You um, wanna talk about it?" The stranger offered, and his curiosity got the better of him, as he raised his head from the counter top, and wow, okay, it was Beautiful Stranger sitting next to him, giving him a look of worry that could be compared to offering someone their condolences when a family/friend died, which was kind of baffling, because they hadn't really cared about him before, well, more like the different versions of him, actually, they'd never formally met like his true, god awful form, and yet he was getting more attention than any of his others did.

For obvious reasons, he couldn't tell him he was trying to talk to him all night, because he'd sound crazy, so he had to make something up. "Er— my b-boyfriend, he didn't like how anxious I was— or well, still am, actually— with like, everything, and I— I tried to change for him, but... nothing worked... so he b-broke it off with me..."

"So wait. You were trying to change yourself for some selfish asshole, while you have anxiety?" Beautiful Stranger looked pissed off, but not at him.

Evan nodded feebly, not saying anything. Really, what could he have said?

"You deserve better than him," Beautiful Stranger said firmly, shaking their head. "You're better off."

The bartender set down a cup of Rose Wine, and Evan suddenly remembered his plan. Taking the cup, he downed it and asked, "Why're you here?"

"Celebrating with my sis. I'm four years clean from cutting and two years clean from smoking weed," it was weird, because they seemed more eager to tell him about this than before in his other form.

"That— that's great," he smiled at them, because it was great, and it had to be a big achievement if they felt the need to celebrate it.

"It hasn't been easy, but it's worth it... What about you?" Again, there's hesitation in their voice, but they fight through it. It's kind of admirable.

In a way, Evan's addicted to shapeshifting. He absolutely loves being able to reinvent himself, despite the pain that rushes through his body, and it never fails to get his blood pumping.

But it's another thing he can't tell Beautiful Stranger. So, he says, "Lying. I hate conflict."

"But you aren't lying to me," Beautiful Stranger was smiling at him, and was he flirting? Evan couldn't tell.

"Or— or so you think," really, he was lying to them, but only about small stuff.

"If you were lying, you'd get defensive, and well, you aren't," Beautiful Stranger laughed slightly.

Evan sputtered, "I mean— well—I guess."

Beautiful Stranger squinted at him, and then smiled, "Wait, hold on, you have it too?"

"Have— have w-what too?" Evan was confused by what he meant.

"Your eye. It's got a little red in it," they clarified.

Evan's face flushed, and he looked away, covering it. Doctor Sherman could never find out where the red came from, and called it a 'scientific anomaly'. "Oh... sorry. It's weird, I know."

"Wait, no! I didn't mean it like that!" Beautiful Stranger rushed, and— that's their hand? It's so soft. "Just. Look at me?"

Evan sighed internally, but complied, and watched Beautiful Stranger brush their beautiful, long hair out of their face, revealing his left brown eye with a large amount of blue in it. He gasped, gazing at it.

"I wanted to say we both have Heterochromia," they chuckled awkwardly.

"Oh..." Evan said softly, trying hard not to stare at them. He knew from experience how awkward it was to have people staring at him, but he couldn't help it. They were just... so beautiful (hence the nickname), and Evan would stare at them for forever if he could, and fuck, their hand was still on top of his, and their gaze was directed at him and felt all too tingly in a sudden moment.

His thoughts were interrupted by the bartender coming by. "Want a refill?"

Evan nodded to them, and watched as the cup filled once more with the Rose Wine, taking it afterwards, and took another drink.

Beautiful Stranger grimaced, "Please tell me you didn't drive here."

Evan finished half of it before setting the cup down. The alcohol was really starting to set in. "Can't drive if I don't have a car," he shot finger guns at him somewhat awkwardly.

"So you walked," they assumed, "cause I don't think you'll be okay to go out on the streets like this."

"I'll be fine!" Evan laughed, and oh yeah, the alcohol was really hitting now. "I don't—" he hiccuped, probably from not having any water in between drinks. "I don't even know y-your— name!"

"It's Connor. Connor Murphy," Beautif— no, Connor Mur— no, beautiful Connor Murphy, smiled at him, and Evan decided it was safe to assume his pronouns were he/him unless told otherwise.

Evan slowly raised his arm so Connor could take his hand, but it probably looked weird, but everything was spinning and he'd rather not fall off of his stool and get a concussion. Never the less, Connor The Beautiful took his hand and shook it.

"I'm... beautiful," he whispered, not really used to calling Connor by his actual name. He was just so beautiful, he couldn't help it.

"While I won't deny that, I still need your name," Connor laughed, letting go of his hand. Evan just let it drop, sort of like it was weightless.

"Oh," Evan drank the rest of his second cup, and asked for a third. He laughed at the fuzziness gathering in his chest and said, "It's Evan."

Oh so beautiful Connor was smiling shyly at him. "Well Evan, maybe I can convince my sister to give you a ride home?"

It dawns on Evan that he kind of can't accept his offer. He'd love to, definitely, without a doubt, but he just have a home. His cup was filled once again, so he took another drink, trying to figure out how to tell Connor he couldn't without hurting his feelings.

"I— don't have one," well, congratulations Evan, for being brutally honest with this super hot stranger that he'd never see again.

Admitting to homelessness probably always sparked concerned, Evan reasoned to himself, as he saw Connor's expression melt into shock. "What? But where have you been staying?"

"Shelters, hotels, motels, and sometimes on a bench," he laughed dryly. He was painfully used to this routine by now, but it's not like he could leave.

"God, I'm so sorry for asking," Connor groaned, hiding his face in his hand.

Another drink went down the hatch. " 'm not mad or anyth'ng, you d'dn't know." He was forgetting to articulate his 'i's, he was aware, but did that really matter? No, he was drunk, and he could do whatever he wanted (well, he'd probably get in trouble, but that didn't matter to his drunken mind).

"Fuck, are you going to be okay?" Again, there was that look of worry, while Sober Evan would appreciated, Drunk Evan didn't want to be pitied.

" 'll be fine," he insisted, his cup becoming empty. "Just need a motel."

"Well when you're done, can I take you to one?" Connor took a moment to pause. "And I know it's weird, because we barely know each other, but I promise it's not out of pity, but because you're important."

'Important to the government? Yes. Important around here? No,' Evan thought to himself, but didn't actually say it. "Okay."

While Evan had a couple more drinks, Connor made some small talk. He talked about how hellous his high school years were, as he was at the bottom of the food chain, among with the relentless expectations from his parents didn't make life easier. He'd spiraled into depression, and struggled with it for the longest time, but eventually got a support system he could fall back on if needed be. He went into Graphic Design and was interning to design Buildboards with a company. In the spring, he'd graduate and start working there, while his sister majored in Astromony, and her girlfriend, Alana graduated early with to be a Paralegal (that was normal for her, because she always went the extra mile, he explained).

Once done, Connor talked to a blonde haired girl Evan could only assume was Zoe. With every passing moment, he could feel his legs wobble and he had to use the counter to stay upright. Connor noticed this, and coaxed Evan into grabbing onto his shoulder for balance, which was super nice, as he lead him out into his car.

It was embarrassing that he couldn't even get his seatbelt on without help, but all he could do was slump back against against the seat and mope. Connor was typing into his phone, looking for a nearby motel, most likely, and Evan couldn't help but feel just... so lucky. He knew guys like Connor weren't nearly as common as he'd like to believe, and just the fact he was doing this for him... Just was amazing.

Finding a motel didn't take nearly as long as he thought it would, much to Evan's disappointment. Was it wrong he wanted to be around him so much? He barely knew him, and yet there he was, wanting to see him again.

"Can you get inside okay?" Connor turned to him once the car was parked.

Really, Connor was just too sweet for his own good. Was he trying to leave Evan swooning hopelessly after him, cause he hoped not. "Yeah. It's just a few feet."

But just when he was about to step out of the car, Connor spoke up, "Can I have your number?"

Evan felt frozen in his spot, out of fear or anticipation, he couldn't tell.

"It's just— believe it or not, I've had a really nice time talking with you tonight, and I wanted to see you again," Holy fuck, that smile, it was like finding a diamond in the rough. So beautiful and rare, and aimed just at him.

Evan could feel himself fumbling for his phone, and handed it over, watching Connor take his out so he could take it. He silently typed in his number, seeing Connor smiling as he did the same, and they swapped back. He couldn't believe it. He'd gotten Connor's number.

And as he stumbled into the cheapest motel room he could find for the night, he felt like he finally did something right for once.

#deh #dear evan hansen #evan #evan hansen #connor #connor murphy #zoe #zoe murphy #alana #alana beck #shapeshifter evan #shapeshifter #meeting #bar

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taylorboultoncw30-blog · 6 years

Text

Home

First there was Liam, tall and appealingly average. He had been the football star, the ‘ladies man’, the one destined to live out a life that would make Willy Loman green. Next came Josephine, brilliant and beautiful, and infuriatingly unaware of both. Lastly, and in the eyes of just about every extended family member most definitely least, was me. I’d always been far too artsy and liberal for my conservative town. Siblings who grew up with little in common but our parents and a desire to escape suburban prison, now brought back together in that holding cell.

Mom had been sick for a while. Which is unjustifiably why none of had been to visit for a long time. I was busy at school, Josephine was working on her masters and interning for some prestigious organization, and Liam was still enjoying the fact that he’d peaked in high school, but no one seemed to notice. All of these seemed like extremely valid reasons to ignore our ailing mother when we believed she would remain ailing for some time, but incredibly unimportant the moment I got the call.

They became increasingly unimportant as time passed, and as I sat in the back of a cab on the way from the airport to my childhood home I wondered why I hadn't taken this trip home a year ago. I had always prided myself on being the most humane of my siblings, but in this moment we were exactly the same.

My dad was waiting outside when I pulled up to our house. He looked smaller than I remembered, even through the tinted windows of the cab I could see his forced smile and the bags under his eyes. He opened the door for me and immediately embraced me in a hug. He felt as weak as he looked, but I could feel him smiling over my shoulder, for real this time.

“Hey kid.”

“Hi dad.” I smiled too.

We let go and he walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk, pulling my suitcase out. He walked back around as I finished paying the driver and waved them off.

“I could have paid.”

“So could I.” I shot him a small smile and followed my dad inside.

As we walked across the lawn he asked about my flight and informed me that Liam was already inside with ‘her and the baby’. He was referring to Liam’s wife Sherri and their six month old daughter, who was already an astounding brat.

We entered our house and found ourselves in the tiny room which serves as a claustrophobic entrance. My father swiftly kicked his shoes off and shuffled through the door with my bags in tow, leaving me alone for a brief moment. I leant down slowly and untied my shoes, fumbling with the laces of my sneakers and attempting to take deep breaths. I put my shoes off to the side, in the same place I had put them everyday for the first seventeen years of my life, and followed my dad through the door which led into our kitchen.

He was waiting on the other side for me, “Ready kiddo?”

I nodded and we walked through the kitchen and into our living room.

It hadn't changed. The walls were the same faded grey, the floors dark and shiny. The family portraits that I always looked awful in hung, taunting me, above the stiff leather couch. And there, sitting upright on the couch wearing a neat and tidy dress pants and shirt, was Liam.

He stood and stepped around the coffee table to meet me in the middle of the room. He smiled and hugged me tightly, it was the kind of hug that when we were younger would have almost certainly come with some sort of prank that resulted in tears. But not this time, I rested my head on his shoulder for a moment and closed my eyes.

We pulled away to realize that our father had disappeared into the kitchen once more. I followed Liam back to the couch and sat down beside him. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted before he could get the words out.

“Elizabeth!” screeched a women appearing from the stairwell.

It was Sherri, just as blonde, and squeaky, and exactly like the type of person you would expect to spell Sherri with an ‘i’ as ever.

“I just put the baby down for a nap but she’ll be super excited to see you!” She glided over to where Liam and I were sitting and stood directly in front of me.

Upon receiving a harsh nudge from Liam I stood up.

“I am so, so deeply sorry for your loss.” She said, wrapping her arms tightly around me.

I finally escaped her clutches and sat back down without saying anything. Sherri sat in the chair across from the couch where Liam and I sat.

My dad came back through the kitchen doors just in time to spare us the silence. He was carrying a tray with four cups of water balanced on it.

“Jo just called and said she's about five minutes away.” He said, setting down the tray.

Those next five minutes were filled with weak attempts at slightly offensive small talk from Sherri and too forgiving responses from Liam. We couldn't have been more relieved to hear the front door open.

My father immediately jumped up and ran to meet Josephine at the door, leaving me to listen to Sherri unapologetically list off all the things she was missing out on back home while here for the weekend. When Josephine and our dad finally came through the door all three of us leapt up.

I hugged her first, tight and heartfelt. We said our greetings and I received a slightly condescending but well meaning “You look good, Liz.”

Sherri dove in next, granting an over the shoulder eye roll from Jo and a returning scowl from Liam. Liam didn't move forward to hug Josephine, and we all pretended we didn't notice.

Our dad promptly excused himself, claiming he needed to ‘pick up a few things for dinner’ but more than likely wanting an excuse to have a moment to himself. So he left us siblings alone, almost. Sitting back down in our places, now with the addition of Josephine, perched professionally on the couch beside me.

We fell into the security of small talk. I asked Josephine about her flight, she asked me about mine. I told an anecdote about the toddler behind me who continuously kicked my chair for the five hours we were trapped together. Sherri fired questions at Jo and I about our jobs and our love lives and all things that your sister in law should already know. We avoided any topics of substance and ignored the colossal elephant in the room; no one wanting to talk about the past, and no one wanting to talk about the future. To an outsider it would have sounded as though we were a group of strangers, pretending we knew each other, which was sort of how it felt.

Liam stayed relatively quiet, his way of letting Jo know he was still pissed off about some past conflict, of which details I hadn't the liberty of being told. Jo had semi filled me in last time we talked, but she didn't give details and I had almost 20 years of evidence to back up my decision not to ask.

I gathered that their argument had something to do with Sherri, because not only were Liam and Josephine hostile, but Jo was channeling her teenage snottiness and shooting various snide remarks Sherri’s way. I couldn't really argue with her though, Sherri was usually deserving of a snide remark or two. She was in the middle of belittling my Women and Gender Studies class when Jo jumped in, suddenly defensive on my behalf.

“I don't think you're comprehending. They discuss actual topics of substance in this class, something I’m sure you don't have much experience - ”

Liam cleared his throat aggressively, the closest he’d gotten to actually communicating since we sat down. Jo ignored him, but didn't continue. Sherri either didn't catch what happened, and was actually as dense as we thought, or simply decided to ignore it.

“Your mother was quite the feminist wasn't she?”

And I felt my chest clench, she had broken the rule. There had been an unspoken but universally agreed upon rule that we were not to mention mom, and we were certainly not to mention her in the past tense.

I could feel Jo tense up angrily beside me, but I couldn't look at her, I couldn't look anywhere but my knees. I heard Liam responding forgivingly, but it was muffled. Suddenly I was all too aware that it was a ‘was’, she was a past tense, and I didn't know what to do with that information. I kept my hands securely in my lap, but I could feel them trembling. Everything felt foggy and warped, like when you're a little kid and you're sick but you don't know why you feel that way because it’s never happened before.

I stood up suddenly, without knowing I was going to do it.

“Excuse me.”

And I was walking swiftly up the stairs. The walk turning into a fumbling run once I had rounded the corner and was out of sight. It was as though my body was on auto control, I reached the top of the stairs and immediately walked through the second door on the left.

I found myself in my old room. In all of the things that I had over-thought in preparation for this trip, this one had completely slipped my mind. I sat myself down at the foot of my bed and looked up through my tear-clouded eyes at my childhood, forever preserved in pink wallpaper and film photographs.

A specific photo caught my mind, it was just stuck on the wall amongst the rest of my photos, but it wasn't one I’d taken. It was a bit old and faded and it was of my mom. She was sitting in the middle of a field, her head tilted back laughing as the sun set behind her. She was younger in it, my age maybe. I had the sudden realization that I would never know her at that age, and she would never know me past it.

I was letting the greatness of this sink in as my tears slowed to a somber stillness and I looked around my old room, a shrine to the person I was. There was a soft tapping at my door. I didn't respond, but watched as it slowly creaked open and Liam glided through, followed by Josephine. Without a word they walked over to where I was situated and sat on the floor on either side of me.

We sat silently for a moment, silently apologizing as siblings do. And then I spoke, voice cracking as I did.

“I didn't come home.”

Liam wrapped his arm tightly around me and Josephine leaned so her head was resting on my shoulder. Suddenly I was crying again. And suddenly so was Jo. And finally so was Liam.

There we were, united by our former desire to escape and our current desperation to go back in time.

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braindamageforbeginners · 6 years

Text

Campbell’s “The Highwayman”

So. I'm starting treatment tomorrow. Which means this might be my very last post. Sort of.I should point out that, although I'm afraid of dying (that's hardly unique), that's never been my chief fear. Don't get me wrong, I'm very scared of that possibility (and it's still one of the likelier options), but, far and away, the greater fear has always been that I'll suffer some sort of severe, permanent brain damage resulting in noticeable neurocognitive defects. Or, to make that less cerebral (as, indeed, my oncologists will make me - literally), I'm worried that treatment will make me dumber. Or mess up my memory abilities. Or steal my scientific literacy. Or steal my literacy. Or just make me less... well, me. I'm not great at being myself; I think I'd be hilariously bad at being someone else.

I've written elsewhere about how neat and strange individuality is - just on a biological and biochemical level (I’ll be repeating and/or paraphrasing some stuff I’ve written elsewhere, so forgive me if you’ve read this). To help me out this time (because I no longer have enough time to be direct), I thought I'd use Zeno's Paradox. Zeno was an ancient philosopher, who came up with the following hypothetical, and I've updated it for the modern reader (you're welcome). Let's put LeBron James in a race against a tortoise; however, that's hardly fair, so we'll give the tortoise a 20 ft (6 m, to my communist friends) head-start. LeBron will never even reach the tortoise, because, before he can overtake the tortoise, he has to cross half of those 20 feet (10 feet); before he gets there, he has to cross half of 10 feet (5 feet), and so on. The numbers get ridiculously small, but you get the idea - you have to cross infinity to get anywhere (which is also what it feels like convincing the insurance company to pay for radiation treatment, but that’s a different topic for a different time). The fact that people walk didn’t deter or invalidate Zeno’s hypothesis (philosophy, while fascinating, has very little practical application); then, many centuries later, in one of those moments I live for, science and math overtook philosophy and invalidated it. In this case, it came in the form of calculus, which takes all those infinite little fractions and adds them together to get a real, usable number (unlike philosophy, mathematics is enormously helpful, albeit sometimes in highly specific situations). The biological punchline of all this is that you are the end-product of countless interactions, collisions, mistakes, and encounters, from the sub-atomic level to the moon’s gravitational force on Earth (the tides are important for life on this planet). Human beings are very similar; it takes a lifetime of small, slight, random encounters, interactions, and collisions to make you who you are; perfectly formed by countless infinitesimal incidents that we can’t recreate.

The second part of this concept requires a little help from you, dear reader (I know, homework; I’m sure there are a few of you would switch places with me to get out of it)(also, if that swap were possible, I guarantee you that I would take it, no questions asked). Make a list of things that make you who you are - in excruciating detail, and including the most minute and irrelevant details; from the stuff that barely counts (”has a weird recurring dream about Godzilla”)(I can’t be the only person that happens to) to the big stuff (”loves spouse/kids/dog”). To connect this to Zeno; this is an endlessly long list. You want to write a lot of assorted details (”fully remembers details from Thanksgiving 2010″) and random quirks. Now, you’re going to hand that list to a random stranger and ask them to cross off five items on this list; those things are no longer a part of you. According to Zeno (and my oncologists), those things probably aren’t important in the grand scheme of things, and you will still be you. But will you, really? Will you know who you are? Will you know what’s missing from that list? And can you get it back, or is it gone forever, or is it not worth it to recover what’s missing? And when do you stop being “you?” Obviously, there are a few big-ticket items that would permanently - and terribly - alter you (see that “loves spouse/kids/dog” one), but, if you look at that list, it’s not a dozen major things that define you, it’s the countless, tiny, unimportant things (I realize there’s some overlap with the Theseus’ Ship, but I like math). Again, according to Zeno and my oncologists, these probably aren’t worth fretting over, but it’s not them on the chopping block.

The concept that we’re working toward is a working understanding/empathy of what it’s like to live with brain damage/neurocognitive impairment/neurodegenerative disease, so I’ll be a little more blunt. Imagine a life in which you are unable to remember where you put your keys, phone, and wallet. The minute you set them down, bam, they’re gone from your mind, even if you leave them in the exact same place you always leave them. If you want to leave the house, you have to physically look for them until you find these items. You’ll still experience the same aggravation and frustration as anyone else, the only difference is, you’re usually unaware that there was a time - very recently - when this wasn’t a real problem. Those are the good days - the ones when you’re smart enough to observe these sorts of deficits. Other days - and these constitute at least 75% of your time - are when you don’t have that frame of reference; you’re just aggravated and upset that leaving the house now takes 45 extra minutes. And tired. And, a philosophical question that I can answer; what’s worse than being dumb? Being not-quite smart enough. Imagine a world where you’re intelligent enough to be ambitious - but not intelligent enough to accomplish those ambitions. That’s the fun little parting gift from neurosurgery #1. This is why I’m get a little paranoid whenever a clinician admits that there will be some brain damage - it’s like statisticians using the word “dismal,” it’s got to be really bad if they’re going to warn you about it prior to starting treatment. And there are still no guarantees that this will work, or even that it’ll buy me anything more than a few months, and that’s just a few months of my heart beating. What if this is as good as I will ever feel, for the rest of my life? I’m not feeling great right now, but the thought that this is as good as it gets is, to say the least, exceptionally unpleasant (on Thursday, in the final pre-serum screening, I was given three words to remember - “truck,” “apple,” and “blue” - and I couldn’t remember them at the end of a ten-minute interview. Not exactly hopeful, since I haven’t even started treatment, but the stress and lack of sleep is definitely a factor to consider). And that’s definitely not going to get better in the near future, unless my doctors start prescribing me more powerful drugs (with my luck, I come down with a horrible disease the minute the medical establishment starts getting paranoid about opiate precriptions)(but, hey, thinking positively, marijuana will be legal here in a few weeks)(I mean, uh, drugs are bad and you should never take them, kids)(unless they’re nearly-fatal drugs prescribed by a licensed doctor to, uh, kill very specific pieces of you)(yes, that’s how this medieval cancer treatment monkey-business works).

I’ve also thought a lot about the stages of grief, like you do when you’re mostly just waiting to either die or the treatment to work (and this sort of horrible uncertainty is - far and away - the most unpleasant emotional situation I’ve ever experienced), however, no one seems to have informed my limbic system, because I’m hitting all five of those simultaneously. Sort of, I’m still stuck in “bargaining,” I still can’t escape the idea that, maybe, with the right treatment and doctors, I’ll make it past this one - of course, the basic mathematic probability that I’ll almost certainly die within the next decade hasn’t really sunk in, but that’s also because I’m so exhausted and scared all the time that basic planning beyond a 72-hour window is completely beyond me (this might be some sort of self-preservation thing).

This is not to say that I’m automatically opposed to change, but the potential for dramatic and immediate neurocognitive change is dangerously high. Imagine the sorts of personality and emotional changes that occur just due to hormones, or antidepressants, or other drugs, and you can imagine the changes that can occur by dramatically altering my anatomy. Sort of; this is more like slowly stripping out pieces of me, and potentially who I am. Which is unpleasant enough, but, because I’m still tumbling down the rabbit hole, I recently learned something just as problematic: you only get one radiotherapy course per organ per lifetime. Which means I am pretty much all in on this gamble, and if this disease ever returns (spoilers; this is the second time I’ve come developed a malignant (or potentially malignant) glioma), thanks for playing. I will probably, thanks to my lab rat connections, be in line for whatever crazy new, experimental treatments that science can concoct, which is a good thing. But, how many AIDS patients died waiting for science to catch up to them? And, since we’re cutting funding for health insurance and medical research, is that realistically a good gamble? These things bother me in an abstract sense, but that 72-hour planning window is helpful in this situation.

This blog exists to painstakingly document my path so that the next person in my position might have an idea of what to do (or not to do), but, more importantly (to me, anyway), I’m doing this for the exact reason any human has ever done anything - from making the great pyramids to having children (although I realize the stated rationale at the time might be slightly different) - that there might be some small scrap of me that remains in the world, if the battle goes ill. It’s sort of like scribbling “Kilroy was here” in wet cement (and blog sites owned by Yahoo will last forever, right?). I’m not going to leave any grand legacy for the ages, unless everything goes much, much better than expected and, even then, I’m not likely to change the world (for all you future generations that might be reading this, your self-confidence decreases dramatically when faced with a grisly ending). This blog is also, if everything goes right, a baseline, a form of self-reflection for me to figure out a way to get back here, if everything goes well (again, even if everything goes flawlessly and better-than-expected, there are still going to be some neurocognitive changes). I don’t know who will be writing this thing in 24 hours, or in several weeks (major side-effects and problems are expected to start showing around Week #3), hopefully that guy won’t be too different from the person typing all this, and, if that’s the case, hopefully this will be some sort of guide to get back to normal (well, “normal” for me). And maybe someone else can get similar use out of this thing.

Obviously, there are going to be some days where I don’t feel like writing (if I go weeks without checking in, you can start to panic), or I’m too busy (if, God forbid, you develop cancer, you’ll spend many, many happy hours in the hospital), so I thought I’d just give a quick run-down, starting with height and weight (I realize those are mostly-irrelevant, and I won’t mention my height again, unless that changes). Hopefully, that won’t be too hard to keep up with over the coming weeks. HEIGHT: 6′ (183 cm) WEIGHT: about 210 lb (95-ish kilos) CONCENTRATION: Good, though I’m somewhat distracted; ability to start and focus on tasks is great, although completion isn’t always guaranteed (I still haven’t finished watching the latest episode of “Happy,” for example). Basic tasks are still pretty easy, but you don’t get many points for that outside of a psych researcher’s office. MEMORY: Not good, for me (I usually have close-to-eidetic memory), but still better than the average person’s. Still, using myself as a baseline, there’s been some noticeable-but-not-significant deterioration in that area, but, again, I’m not getting much sleep and I’m super-stressed. Still, I’m not forgetting the important stuff, yet. APPETITE: Good. I’m still eating as much as I usually do, which is a lot. ACTIVITY LEVEL: Good. I didn’t go to the gym today or yesterday, but since I went to the gym four or five times over the last week, I’m not going to beat myself up too much for it. SLEEP QUALITY: Nowhere near good, but much better than it was two weeks ago (but that’s not saying much, since I’ve gotten about 2-6 hours of sleep, on average, over the last month). Still, I’ve never slept very well (and I’m probably never going to sleep well again, not counting general anaesthesia), so it’s a little hard to gauge that. COORDINATION/DEXTERITY: Much, much, much better than it was this time a month ago, but my whole left side is still about 5-15% below-normal. I’m readily completing basic two-handed tasks, but I’m not going to be a concert pianist any time soon. Or in the next life, come to that (assuming there is a next life).

Tune in soon for the continuation of the reality-TV remake of “Flowers for Algernon.” And a very merry fuckin’ Christmas.

#brain cancer #brain tumor #brain damage #chemotherapy

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