#no one fucking understands them like i do. one day ill post my thesis. one day

[littlebigplanet]

hello shadowgale nation

#i feel sick i love them so much #been working on this for like five hours straight. okay time for one million tags #baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #shadowheart #gale of waterdeep #gale dekarios #galeheart #shadowgale #gale x shadowheart #i dont remember what the most popular ship name is so youre getting them all #no one fucking understands them like i do. one day ill post my thesis. one day #had to replace the models for all of these except the epilogue clips because im an idiot and didn't save her romance scenes from my gale ru #🫀

[reidyoulikeabook]

Invisible String

Ship: Fem! Reader x Spencer Reid

Warnings: None, this is just fluff.

Word count: 3.2k

Summary: You and Spencer Reid don’t know it, but you’ve almost met quite a few times. What happens when you do?

A/N: This is potentially a bit on the wrong side of the cheesy line, but I was listening to invisible string by Taylor Swift and couldn’t get this idea out of my head. Pls bare in mind I’m from the UK and my only understanding of the US college system is from Google searches, so pls be forgiving of any misunderstandings about that.

November 6th, 2007

Dr. Spencer Reid. As you sat, thumbing through the article he’d written about the formation of ionic compounds in a chemical whose name you could not for the life of you spell or pronounce, you couldn’t help but resent the man.

Sure, the paper was very well-written and as cohesive as possible given the complex subject matter. But Dr. Spencer Reid, whoever he was, was the current source of your resentment at selecting chemistry to make up your science credit. Highlighting the name of a substance you’d have to look up later, you sighed. It was getting late but you had to hand in a critical summary of the paper on Friday.

It didn’t help that Dr. Reid was: a) a triple doctorate holder by the age of 22, or b) that your chemistry lecturer was none other than his old chemistry lecturer from Caltech and practically glowed with pride whenever he got to bring him up.

You chew on the end of your pen, having now distracted yourself from the notes. Not that you were particularly focused anyway.

In another life, maybe you’d have been a budding chemist who could describe an ionic lattice off rote. In this one, however, you’d just have to settle for slogging through the list of chemical processes and hoping you understood it well enough to please Dr. Reid’s biggest fan.

***

April 16th, 2008

Spencer hated flaking on commitments. It caused him a great deal of anxiety, the feeling of disappointing someone. He didn’t have much choice in this circumstance though.

Diana had taken ill over the last weekend. Nothing serious, some stomach bug or other. She’d become severely dehydated though, and had been hospitalised as a precautionary measure. Truth be told, he might not have gone if she hadn’t caught him on the phone. He was already feeling guilty for not having visited since Christmas. He wrote her letters everyday, yet still felt like he was neglecting his duties as a son. Rubbing his hands over his face, he lets out a deep sigh. Then takes out his laptop, to send another email.

Dear. Dr Abraham

I sincerely apologise again for my last minute cancellation. Excluding any unforeseen circumstances, myself and SSA Hotchner will be available to present the lecture on May 12th.

Yours sincerely,

Dr. Spencer Reid.

***

May 12th, 2008

Considering this was your third year on campus, you sure were bad at finding your way around. In your defence, they were doing maintenance in one of the main buildings, meaning that lectures got shuffled around and relocated. You probably had a higher change of attending the right lecture by accident than on purpose.

It doesn’t help that you’re running a little late this morning. You rush into Room 203. A lot of the seats are taken, you have to meander your way past quite a few people until you end up sat almost directly in the middle. Only moments before the lecture starts.

“I’m SSA Hotchner, and this is SSA Reid. We’re members of the BAU which is based at FBI quarters in Quantico. Today, we’ll be talking to you about profiling.”

This is not your forensic linguistics lecture.

Panic hits you, hot in your gut. Scanning the room anxiously, you suddenly become conscious that you’re drawing attention to yourself when you feel the eyes of the man who is not SSA Hotchner on you. Fuck.

There’s no way for you to escape now, not without disturbing half the lecture hall.

So you sit back in your seat, resigning yourself to sit awkwardly in the lecture you’re not supposed to be in and hoping nobody notices.

But then, it’s really interesting, actually. The work that Dr. Reid does sounds similar to work you’ve done in forensic linguistics, analysing patterns of speech and minor phrase formations that can give things away about the perpetrator. By the end of the seminar, you’re sat leaning forward. Enraptured by almost every word coming out of their mouths.

It seems to be the general mood: everyone is enamoured. People are clammering to speak to them at the end. After a brief inner battle, myou decide that you should talk to them too.

What’s the harm?

You’ve decided that you’ll speak to Dr. Reid, since he seems to share more of a field focus. However, as you’re heading down, you spot him. Dr Adams, your chemistry lecturer from last year. Oh shit, it’s that Dr. Reid.

Speaking to SSA Hotchner will just have to do instead.

----

“I’ve been majoring in forensic linguistics and criminal psychology,” You tell him, “Do you think ... I mean, I know it’s a pretty exclusive team to get on to. But is that the kind of thing that could maybe get me there one day?”

Hotchner nods, “Forensic linguistics is something that comes in very useful in the investigative aspects of cases. The FBI is always looking for new angles and perspectives, those are both good subjects to study if you were thinking of signing up to the academy.”

"Thank you, Agent Hotchner,” You say, suddenly a little bashful as you notice the queue of people lingering behind you, “That was a really interesting lecture. It’s definitely something I’ll think about.”

“You should talk to Dr. Reid if you have a particular interest in the linguistic aspect of profiling. He’s more specialised in that area than I am. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to discuss any research you’re conducting at the moment and suggest materials that might be helpful in furthering your understanding of the area.”

“Thank you,” You smile, and he nods at you again.

Stepping away from Agent Hotchner, you look to your right. Dr. Reid is still engaged deeply in conversation with Dr. Adams. You glance at your watch. There was time before your next class, you supposed, so you could wait. It couldn’t hurt to find out more, could it? It wasn‘t like you were getting your hopes up or anything.

It’s then that you feel a pair of arms around your waist, a familiar scent of cologne.

“Hey!” You whip around to see your boyfriend, grinning widely.

“Hey,” You reply, “How’d you find me?”

“I was walking past when I saw you talking to that FBI agent. Seriously, FBI?” He asks, with a disapproving quirk of his eyebrow, “You want to grab a coffee before Psych?”

You want to say no. But he’s got his hand on the small of your back, leading  you out of the room before you even get a chance to reply. You glance back over your shoulder, making eye contact with Dr. Reid for all of two seconds before you’re swept away.

“Seriously though babe, FBI?”

Unsurpisingly, you don’t mention your potential change in career path to him.

***

March 8th, 2009

“Come in,” Hotch calls. He looks up from the paperwork on his desk to see Spencer entering the room, clutching a report in his hand.

“That last case we were on. I was doing some more research, just for future reference about linguistic patterns. Have you read this?” He asks, sliding a copy of your paper across the desk.

Hotch gives it a cursary look over, nodding, “Yes. It’s interesting. She’s signed up as an NAT. I believe I actually spoke to her at one of our lectures last year.”

"Her work is really impressive for somebody whose only studied this at a master level.”

Hotch almost smiles, “Yes. That’s exactly why I’ve recommended to the bureau that she signs up for profiling classes. Her work shows a lot of promise. They’re sending over a copy of her completed thesis, if you’d like to read it.”

“Yeah, I’d like that, thank you,” Spencer says, struggling to conceal the smile playing on the corner of his lips.

“I’ll email it to you as soon as I receive it.”

Spencer nods, smiling properly to himself as he leaves the room. It wasn’t unusual, exactly, for him to share new research that was relevant to cases. It was important that they all kept themselves fresh and acquainted with new theories about the field. Hotch, however, didn’t miss the excited way Spencer had presented it to him. Talking about how impressive you were, as if to subtly hint. He thinks it’s quite typical, actually, that Spencer could take such an interest in someone he only knew via an essay.

Although Spencer’s response does get Hotch to send a follow-up email, inquiring about whether you’d agreed to the classes. If Spencer was this impressed with your work, it must be good.

***

June 1st, 2009

The Metro that morning is packed. It doesn’t help that you’ve not been living here long, and don’t exactly know the route from your flat to the station off by heart yet.

You'd also had to make a detour to the post office. Your, firmly ex, boyfriend had mailed over the last of your things. Really, it was good riddance. His hounding you about your choice in job had only worsened. The relationship had been hanging on by a thread long before you’d moved away last month. You were more than a little grateful that it was finally over, that you could draw a line under it all and focus on your career.

Unfortunately, that hadn’t stopped you having a little cry to yourself on the way over.

Rushing, you make it onto the Metro just as the doors are about to close, falling against the railing on the left side. You grip onto it for dear life.

On the other side of the carriage, Spencer notices someone hurrying for the train. He had been buried deep in the paper he's reading, but the bustle had pulled his attention. Your back is to him, and there’s a scarf at your feet. He wants to say something, to try and get your attention, but he can’t from where he is.

“Miss, I think you’ve dropped something,” The woman you’re standing in front of says, gesturing to the scarf pooled at your feet.

You meet her eyes, sniffling slightly, “Thank you.”

Spencer watches as you pick it up, back still to him. Crisis averted, he turns his attention back to what he's reading: the published copy of your thesis Hotch had emailed him last week.

***

September 2nd, 2009

"This is SSA ____, the newest member of our team. She’s recently graduated from the academy and has an excellent knowledge of linguistics that the bureau feels will be a great advantage to this team. She’s had her induction and now will be joining the team on a probationary basis. She’ll be spending a little time with each of you in between cases to make sure she forms well-rounded knowledge of all aspects of what we do.”

It’s a little overwhelming, having everybody’s eyes on you.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Emily is the first over, offering her hand for you to shake.

“You too, it’s really nice to meet all of you,” You say, shaking hands in turn with her, Morgan, Rossi, J.J, and Garcia.

“Hi,” Spencer calls from behind you.

You turn around to face him. You remember what Hotch had mentioned to you about him being a bit of a germaphobe, so you keep your hand by your side.

“Hi,” You say, “Dr. Reid, right?”

“You can call me Spencer,” He says, a little bashful, “I read your thesis, the study about you did about the construction of passive clauses as an indicator of guilt in adolescent offenders. It was fascinating.”

You feel yourself getting a little warm under his gaze, “Thank you. I'm surprised you’re even aware it existed.”

Hotch interrupts then, “Reid, do you want to sit with ____ while she goes over the case file? It’d be useful if you could go over how you’d go about constructing a linguistic profile.”

That’s how you end up spending much of your first day: with Spencer, huddled up over case files as he explains his profile-building process to you. Spencer’s an incredible teacher, you think. He explains his thought process without ever being condescending, leaving little gaps for you to answer.

You’re incredible, Spencer thinks. You seem to grasp exactly what he’s saying, filling in the gaps based on the clues that are actually in front of you, not letting yourself be guided too much by bias.

***

October 29th, 2009

Spencer loves everyone at the BAU. They’re all the family he never had, and he has relatively good friendships with all of them. Just, they aren’t quite the same as they are with you.

He struggles to put his finger on it, exactly. It’s a unique relationship. He shares very familial bonds with a lot of them: he and Morgan are brotherly, Rossi is fatherly, Garcia’s somewhat like an overexcited little sister.

The friendship he has with you is special. You always listen to him, even as he rambles on about inane things that anybody else would tell him to shut up about. In fact, sometimes about the exact things that they do tell him to shut up about. Just last week, he was rambling on about Star Trek when Morgan told him, not altogether unkindly, to “give it a rest, kid.”

“What was that you were saying?” You’d asked, sidling up to him, “I’ve never watched Star Trek but I thought the quote was beam me up Scotty.”

He’d looked at you, considering you for a moment, “You don’t have to-”

“I know. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t want to know Spence. You think I’d ask for a 15 minute lecture on Star Trek if I wasn’t interested in it?”

A warm feeling flooded his chest. The look on your face was so genuine, and you’d perched on the edge of his desk as he gesticulated, getting deep into the lore and how the misconception had come about. He still didn’t pinpoint exactly what it was, until he got to the end of his spiel. And then you asked him a question. You asked him a question to make sure you understood what he was talking about. You were listening the whole time, and you genuinely cared about the point he was making.

It's then that he realises, it was hard to pinpoint because it wasn’t friendship. He likes you. Shit.

***

November 2nd, 2009

You like everybody at the BAU. They’re all quite patient with you, really, happy to walk you through how they do things. Morgan’s taught you quite a bit about the tactical side of things already, and Rossi has been working with you on your interrogation techniques. Emily’s generally just a great mentor, always happy to listen and support however she can. She’s more experienced, but still relatively new to the team too, so you feel like there’s a certain understanding between you.

However, you’d definitely be lying if you said the person you hadn’t learnt the most from, or spent the most time with, was Spencer.

It hadn’t gone unnoticed by the rest of the team, either. You seemed to gravitate towards one another, forever sitting side-by-side on the plane. Sharing a line of thinking that usually led to devolved rambling, and scribbling, until you came up with something coherent.

It isn’t until November 2nd that you realise you have feelings for him.

You’re sitting at your desk, filling out a case report that Emily had promised to go over with you before she left for lunch.

“Hey,” Spencer’s familiar soothing voice comes, as he sidles up to you, “I got you something.”

Looking up, you notice the coffee cup in his right hand, “You are my caffeine lifesaver.”

He hands it to you, smiling a little nervously, “It’s actually not that.”

“Oh?”

His other hand is tucked behind his back, and he pulls it foward towards you, brandishing a red sweatshirt.

“I know you uh, left your red sweater behind at the hotel on the last case. And I know it was your favourite one, and I was shopping yesterday and I saw this and...” He trails off, embarassed, “It’s not the exact same, but it’s the same kind. I just thought you might like it.”

You swallow, hard, “Spencer that’s so sweet. C-Can I hug you?”

He nods. Standing up from your desk, you wrap your arms around his frame.

“That was so thoughtful.”

He squeezes you a little, really leaning into the hug, his face pressing against your shoulder. His tousled hair tickles your nose a little and you smile, clinging onto him, relishing in the feeling of safety and warmth.

It hits you then. When you realise you don’t want to let go. When you realise he makes you feel fuzzy. Loved. Cared for in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. Eventually, you have to let him go, and it’s in a daze that you return to your desk. You’re so concentrated on your overwhelming realisation, you don’t realise how reluctant he is to let you leave his embrace.

***

December 22nd, 2009

Driving Spencer home from the office was really just an excuse to get some time alone with him. You’d said something about the Metro being busy, one of the services being cancelled. He hadn’t factchecked you on that.

The BAU had tentative plans for boxing day, with the caveat being that no emergent cases arrived in the meantime. It was only really four days you wouldn’t see him, but that was longer than you’d ever gone without seeing him in all the time you’d known him. You worked together everyday, and it was unusual for you to go a full weekend without seeing each other. Recently, you’d got into the habit of going out for Sunday brunch together.

Pulling up outside his house, you hear him sigh.

“I know it’s only four days, but I’ll miss you.”

Smiling, you turn to him, “I’ll miss you too.” 

Something in you changes then. He’s looking at you. You may be relatively new to profiling but you can see something behind his eyes, feel the charge of unsaid words electrifying the air.

“Can I hug you?” He asks.

“You can always hug me,” You reply, undoing your seatbelt and opening your arms for him.

He embraces you the way he always has: tightly. Like he doesn’t want to let go, couldn’t imagine ever letting you go. His face nuzzles to the crook of your neck, and then you feel his thumb brush your chin. Tilting your head down.

You exchange a look. His eyes flicker from your eyes, to your lips, and back. You nod your head, just slightly.

He kisses you then. Tender. You melt into one another, lips moving quickly as you drink one another in. Kissing each other breathless, your fingers intertwine in his hair and his hand comes up to cup your cheek. Nothing has ever felt so right.

***

June 10th, 2011

Neither of you have ever really believed in fate. It’s hard to - especially in your line of work - to want to interpret the workings of the universe as deliberate. Maybe you’d think a little differently though, if you knew about all the near-misses. All the times you could have met. But fate knew better. She waited until you were ready.

And as you exchange vows, promising each other your forever, you both know you couldn’t possibly deny that this was meant to be.

------

Taglists: @takeyourleap-of-faith @sassiest-politician

(let me know if you would like to be added to/removed from this list!)

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #criminal minds #reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #imagine spencer reid #criminal minds x you #imagine criminal minds #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagines #pls like this it took me so long

[whitehotharlots]

Andrea Long Chu is the sad embodiment of the contemporary left

Andrea Long Chu’s Females was published about a year ago. It was heavily hyped but landed with mostly not-so-great reviews, and while I was going to try and pitch my own review I figured there was no need. Going through my notes from that period, however, I see how much Chu’s work—and its pre-release hype—presaged the sad state of the post-Bernie, post-hope, COVID-era left. I figured they’d be worth expanding upon here, even if I’m not getting paid to do so.

Chu isn’t even 30 years old, and Females is her debut book, and yet critics were already providing her with the sort of charitable soft-handedness typically reserved for literary masters or failed female political candidates. This is striking due to the purported intensity of the book: a love letter to would-be assassin Valerie Solanas, the thesis of which is that all humans are female, and that such is true because female-ness is a sort of terminal disease stemming not from biology but from one’s inevitable subjugation in larger social contexts. Everyone is a woman because everyone suffers. Big brain shit.

But, of course, not everyone is a female. Of course. Females are females only some of the time. But, also, everyone is a female. Femaleness is just a title, see. Which means it can be selectively applied whenever and however the author chooses to apply it. The concept of “female” lies outside the realm of verifiability. Suggesting to subject it to any form of logic or other means of adjudication means you’re missing the point. Femaleness simply exists, but only sometimes, and those sometimes just so happen to be identifiable only to someone possessed with as a large a brain as Ms. Chu. We are past the need for coherence, let alone truth or honesty. And if you don’t agree that’s a sign that you are broken—fragile, illiterate, hateful, humorless.

Chu’s writing—most famously, her breakthrough essay “On Liking Women”—establishes her prose style: long, schizophrenic paragraphs crammed with unsustainable metaphors meant to prove various fuzzy theses simultaneously. Her prose seems kinda sorta provocative but only when read on a sentence-by-sentence level, with the reader disregarding any usual expectations of cohesion or connection.

This emancipation from typical writerly expectations allows Chu to wallow proudly in self-contradiction and meaninglessness. As she notes herself, explicitly, meaning isn’t the point. Meaning doesn’t even exist. It’s just, like, a feeling:

I mean, I don’t like pissing people off per se. Yes, there is a pleasure to that sometimes, sure. I think that my biggest takeaway from graduate school is that people don’t say things or believe things—they say them because it makes them feel a particular way or believing them makes them feel a particular way. I’ve become hyper aware of that, and the sense in which I’m pissing people off is more about bringing that to consciousness for the reader. The reason you’re reacting against this is not because it contradicts what you think is true, it’s because it prevents you from having the feeling that the thing you think is the truth lets you feel.

And so she can get away with saying that of course she doesn’t actually believe that everyone is a female, the same as her idol Valerie Solanas didn’t actually want to kill all men. The writers, Chu and Valerie, are just sketching out a dumb idea as a fun little larf, to see how far they can push a manifestly absurd thought. If they just so happen to shoot a gay man at point blank range and/or make broader left movements so repulsive that decent people get driven away, so be it. And if any snowflakes complain about their tactics, well that’s just proof of how right they are. Provocation is justification—the ends and the means. The fact that this makes for disastrous and harmful politics is beside the point. All that matters is that Chu gets to say what she wants to say.

This blunt rhetorical move—which is difficult to describe without sounding like I’m exaggerating or making stuff up, since it’s so insane—papers over Chu’s revanchist and violent beliefs. Her work is soaked with approving portrayals of Solanas’ eliminationist rhetoric—of course, Chu doesn’t’ actually mean it, even though she does. Men are evil, even as they don’t really fully exist since everyone is a woman, ergo eliminating men improves the world. Chu goes so far as to suggest that being a trans woman makes her a bigger feminist than Solanas or any actual woman could ever be, because the act of her transitioning led to the world containing fewer men. Again: big brain shit.

I’ll leave it to a woman to comment on the imperiousness of a trans woman insisting that she is bestest and realest kind of woman, that biological women are somehow flawed imposters. I will stress, however, that such a claim comes as a means of justifying a politically disastrous assertion that more or less fully justifies the most reactionary gender critical arguments, which regard all trans women as simply mentally ill men (this line of reasoning is so incredibly stupid that even a dullard like Rod Drehar can rebut it with ease). Trans activists have spent years establishing an understanding of transsexualism as a matter of inherent identity—whether or not you agree with that assertion, you have to admit that it has political propriety and has gone a long way in normalizing transness. Chu rejects this out of hand, embracing instead the revanchist belief that transness is attributable to taking sexual joy in finding oneself embarrassed and/or feminized—an understanding of womanhood that is simultaneously essentialist and tokenizing. When asked about the materially negative potential in expressing such a belief, Chu reacts with a usual word salad of smug self-contradiction: 

EN: You say in the book that sissy porn was formative of your coming to consciousness as a trans woman. If you hadn’t found sissy porn, do you think it’s possible that you might have just continued to suffer in the not-knowing?

ALC: That’s a really good question. It’s plausible to me that I never would have figured it out, that it would have taken longer.

EN: How does that make you feel? Is that idea scary?

ALC: It isn’t really. Maybe it should be a little bit more, but it isn’t really. One of the things about desire is that you can not want something for the first 30 years of your life and wake up one day and suddenly want it—want it as if you might as well have always wanted it. That’s the tricky thing about how desire works. When you want something, there’s a way in which you engage in a kind of revisionism, the inability to believe that you could have ever wanted anything else.

EN: People often talk about the ubiquity of online porn as a bad thing—I’ve heard from lots of girlfriends that men getting educated about sex by watching porn leads to bad sex—but there seems to me a way in which this ubiquity is helping people to understand themselves, their sexuality and their gender identity.

ALC: While I don’t have the research to back this up, I would certainly anecdotally say that sissy porn has done something in terms of modern trans identity, culture, and awareness. Of course, it’s in the long line of sexual practices like crossdressing in which cross-gender identification becomes a key factor. It’s not that all of the sudden, in 2013, there was this thing and now there are trans people. However, it is undoubted that the Internet has done something in terms of either the sudden existence of more trans people or the sudden revelation that there are more trans people than anyone knew there were. Whether it’s creation or revelation, I think everyone would agree that the internet has had an enormous impact there.

One of the things I find so fascinating about sissy porn is that it’s not just that I can hear about these trans people who live 20 states away from me and that their experiences sound like mine. There is a component of it that’s just sheer mass communication and its transformative effect, but another part of it is that the internet itself can exert a feminizing force. That is the implicit claim of sissy porn, the idea that sissy porn made me trans is also the idea that Tumblr made me trans. So, the question there is whether or not the erotic experience that became possible with the Internet actually could exert an historically unique feminizing force. I like, at least as a speculative claim, to think about how the Internet itself is feminizing.

Politics, like, don’t matter. So, like, okay, nothing I say matters? So it’s okay if I say dumb and harmful shit because, like, they’re just words, man.

Chu can’t fully embrace this sort of gradeschool nihilism, though, because if communication was truly as meaningless as she claims then any old critic could come along and tell her to shut the fuck up. Even as she claims to eschew all previously existing means of adjudicating morality and coherence, she nonetheless relies on the cheapest means of making sure she maintains a platform: validation via accreditation. This is all simple victimhood hierarchy. Anyone who does not defer all of their own perceptions to someone higher up the hierarchy is inherently incorrect, their trepidations serving to validate the beliefs of the oppressed:

I like to joke that, as someone who is always right, the last thing I want is to be agreed with. [Laughs] I think the true narcissist probably wants to be hated in order to know that she’s superior. I absolutely do court disagreement in that sense. But what I like even better are arguments that bring about a shift in terms along an axis that wasn’t previously evident. So it’s not just that other people are wrong; it’s that their wrongness exists within a system of evaluation which itself is irrelevant.

Chu has summoned the most cynical possible interpretation of Walter Ong’s suggestion that “Writing is an act of violence disguised as an act of charity.” Of course, any effective piece of communication requires some degree of persuasion, convincing a reader, listener, viewer, or user to subjugate their perceptions to those of the communicator. Chu creates—not just leans on or benefits from, but actively posits and demands fealty to—the suggestion that her voice is the only one deserving of attention by virtue of it being her own. That’s it. That’s what all her blathering and bluster amount to. Political outcomes do not matter. Honesty does not matter. What matters is her, because she is her. 

This is the inevitable result of a discourse that prizes a communicator’s embodied identity markers more than anything those communicators are attempting to communicate, and in which a statement is rendered moral or true based only upon the presence or absence of certain identity markers. Lived experience trumps all else. A large, non-passing trans woman is therefore more correct than pretty much anyone else, no matter how harmful or absurd her statements may be. She is also better than them. And smarter. And gooder.

Designating lived experience and subjective feelings of safety as the only acceptable forms of adjudication has caused the left to prize individualism to a degree that would have made Ronald Reagan blush. And this may explain the lukewarm reception of Chu’s book.

While they heaped praise upon her before the books’ release, critics backed off once they realized that Females is an embarrassingly apt reflection of intersectional leftism—a muddling, incoherent mess, utterly disconnected from any attempt toward persuasion or consensus, the product of a movement that has come to regard neurosis as insight. The deranged mewlings of a grotesque halfwit are only digestable a few pages at a time. Any more than that, and we begin to see within them far too much of the things that define our awful movement and our terrifying moment.

[daddy-socrates]

okay I'm curious Why did you mention salior uranus in your thesis?

THANK you for asking because i love to talk about it hehe >:3c buckle up

back in undergrad, i was invited to do a senior thesis. i wanted to do mine on language and gender because my (problematique fave) professor whose class got me into the field at the start just... wouldn't use my pronouns. she's very bad at using pronouns and frankly i think she does not understand limits. a philosophy of language class does not mean you get to just say ~whatever.~

basically, this project was borne out of "hey! use my fucking pronouns :))" i had (have) pretty severe "i can fix her" disease :// i....... was not a really great student in undergrad. people who have followed me since then can probably attest to that through my personal ramblings. my advisor (a different professor) was disappointed in me like the whole way through and i live in constant fear that she will find this blog and go "oh! thats why you didnt pay attention in class, dumbass :)" (though maybe she would see this post and say "oh.... growth :)" who's to say)

but see, though i struggled to get myself to stay engaged in my advisor's class, both she and that problematique fave had assigned texts that would lend themselves beautifully to my dream project - even though i just..... had a terrible habit of misunderstanding readings to basically an absolute inverse degree. like it's a chronic issue. maybe i should have figured out "this is what im understanding so the opposite is probably more correct." i'm working on it, though, and i'm better at getting it the second time around now that im in grad school. ^^;;

SO this brings me back to my thesis: basically, why does language matter? one of my chapters was about representation. i talked about janet in the good place reminding people every day, "not a girl." i talked about haruhi fujioka from ouran high school host club, "i don't care if people see me as a guy or a girl. it's what's on the inside that's important." i talked about stevonnie from steven universe, being the first fusion to be addressed with they/them pronouns. i talked about jesse and james from pokemon and their frequent "gender swapped" costumes. and, at last, i talked about sailor uranus - tenou haruka - using both masculine and feminine self-referential language and presentation.

the thesis statement of my tragically mediocre thesis paper is basically "when you have access to language, you can better describe your experience and understand the experiences of others." you can come to a stronger self-understanding, form connections with others who share some traits, discover community, come into support, enact change, and so on.

the paper im writing "writing" right now for my epistemology class is pretty much an elevated version of that, though i'm focusing less on gender identity and discussing like.... more like the "concept of identity" itself. one of my first grad classes was hermeneutics - the study of meaning, where it comes from and where it leads - and there is so much ~delicious~ overlap between the texts for that class, those from the undergrad class on language, the undergrad class on gender and intersectionality, and my current class. my current paper is on "epistemic injustice;" that is, lack of access to language (whether deliberately or unconsciously through systems that no single individual person had set up) puts people at disadvantage for the huge sector of life that they otherwise could understand.

ALL THIS to say, i was a snarky asshole in undergrad but i have very real investment in media representation. if i had watched she-ra before i presented my paper, i would have included double trouble (my beloved), and i have yet to watch owl house but i see there's another they/them? we love they/thems <33 i am always thinking back on when korrasami became canon, how that was a huge moment of positive bisexual representation. i think about sophia in orange is the new black, introducing to a more adult audience different layers and kinds of violences that she and other trans women, especially she as a black trans woman, are uniquely at risk for.

my graduate school thesis is going to diverge a bit from the language of justice and of personal and group understanding to an even broader scale, though i am going to have a lengthy chapter on the matter. (literally like one hour ago i emailed my county representatives to say "hey, the training material for my substitute teaching agency Fucking Sucks, how can i help bring appropriate language and subsequent recognition of mentally ill, neurodivergent, and disabled folks to the stage?")

the many forms of the philosophy of language is what sparked my passion for the field, and i want to give language to those who may have difficulty understanding texts like i do. i want to take all that i am learning and share it as best i can with others, or at the very least, use it to aid my interactions with others. that's why i have this stupid tongue-in-cheek blog in the first place! academic shitposts and some current social and political events are so important to share.

i do have a side blog for fandom shit since i wasnt smart enough to make that the main and this the side, so fan artists see @/daddy-socrates liking their posts and i am So Sorry About That but like... i don't want to take everything in life so, so, gravely seriously. OBVIOUSLY there are subjects and scenarios that are not to be joked about, but i think we get so bogged down in the severity of all the global problems that we forget to play around a bit. purposely putting a handful of anime characters into my undergrad thesis was my way of being both playful and highlighting how fun is a critical social learning tool. it may well have been the only really solid thing about that project, honestly. i hope that in the future i can revamp it, using what i have now.

so............. that was WAY more than you asked for, but there you have it, my whole raison d'être. :'^) thanks for asking, hope i made sense

#about #blah blah blah #replies #anon made the mistake of opening this can of worms so now you all have to see it /j #if you arent following me for my tag rambles why are you even here though /also j #ive gotten better about using tone indicators in recent months so i feel i should go back and edit them into past replies #i have a constant fear of sounding too detached or cold to people who send me asks and yet i never modulated my typing!! #might replace my pinned post with this #or make like a separate page #ohoho look at meeee big time coding expert #(jk if i was id have a more pleasant desktop format with page numbers so i dont have to scroll forever to edit individual posts) #okay time to get back to 'writing' that paper sksksk #10 paragraphs........... this is how i write correspondence #ive written like four separate 8 paragraph emails in the last few days re: disability rights #i really wanna get more involved but i dont know where to start #calling that training program out for their endorsement of aba therapy was a start though. FUCK that shit #im not autistic but im adhd. i love my brain cousins and i will NOT let that go without address #heavy sigh #the writers both evidently dont know any better and very possibly dont care #but maybe they do! maybe they simply........ don't have access to the language (testimonies and studies) about it #thinking face emoji #im fairly certain i never would have learned so much about autism if i didnt look into whether i had adhd #i wouldnt be in the circles where i am now #i like to imagine i would still care? about humane treatment? and respect? and rights? #but i seriously believe that without my current self-knowledge i would be VASTLY ignorant of the needs of others #so #yeah #do we love my tags being a separate whole two paragraphs tangentially related/tying pieces together? lol

[friendofhayley]

ship history meme

Embrace your past and get to know your friends’ fandom origins!

Rules: Post gifs of your fandoms / ships starting with your most current hyperfixation and work backwards. (Bonus points if you share any stories about how or when you got into that ship! But not necessary!!) Then tag anyone whose fandom history you’d like to learn about!

Tagged by the most gorgeous, smartest, sweetest, and kindest person in my life @sightetsound​ <3 Sorry y’all, I have a lot of hyperfixations and I’m on NyQuil!

1. Katsuki Bakugo and Eijiro Kirishima, My Hero Academia - I literally can’t watch Season 4 until it’s finished because my heart will Explode if I’m left on a cliffhanger involving these too!!! (Unbreakable T.T <3) I don’t usually like animes but I fell in love with his trash bastard and his soft rock boyfriend by the villain’s attack in S1. It all started when I got a TikTok because a Very Hot Bakugo cosplayer was on there. (Literally, their rendition of Bakugo is just, umph. They have appeared in my dream.). As she got more popular he started cosplaying more of Class 1-A of MHA, and I kept wondering?? What the fuck is this anime about?? Why is there an alien girl?? I soon gave in and watched the show to gain context to this thirst trap. I have so many feels for these boys, even though I don’t post on them much here, and T.T

2. Alec Lightwood and Magnus Bane, Shadowhunters - I literally almost wrote my thesis because of this ship. I got into Shadowhunters because I was depressed in a foreign, racist country where I couldn’t go outside alone because old white men would corner me on the street, and everyone was talking about how Mike from Glee was kissing a guy at a wedding? Instead of partying during my study abroad trip, I gobbled down Malec content. And like who wouldn’t?? Harry Shum Jr. was playing a bisexual warlock?? And he had lines and a main character role??? An interracial couple where the characters are both POC?? Sign me up! But then I quickly fell in love with awkward gayby Alec and immediately knew how it felt to be in his shoes. (Disclaimer: I still haven’t finished the show because I don’t want their story to end, but just seeing their wedding scene????? Tears!!!!!!!!!! Both wedding scenes! I-) I just love how soft they look at each as they realize how lucky they are to be able to fall in love against the odds. T.T They deserve the world and all the warlock and shadowhunter babies and T.T This is just going to devolve into me crying so-

3. Stiles Stilinski and Derek Hale, Teen Wolf - I got into Teen Wolf to escape the hellfire that had become the Glee fandom around S3-S4. (Tbh it might have been Dereklei’s constant Sterek content on my dash that led me to give in.) Stiles was bi (through subtext) and definitely turned on by an older werewolf. What more could a depressed Gleek ask for? And listen - now looking back, Sterek is definitely gay Twilight - if Bella was snarkier, had a mental illness, and also a personality. Sterek was the ship to get me back into writing fanfiction and where I could read paranormal characters working through PTSD, ADHD, and other mental illnesses while fighting monsters and having unrealistic sex! I also love those future fics where Beacon Hills isn’t a Hellmouth anymore, and everyone’s alive and just living as one big found family. Truly, Derek deserves the world and I love him so much, and Stiles definitely agrees.

4. Louis Tomlinson and Harry Styles, One Direction - If it’s a surprise that I’m a dark larrie, please read my bio. HL made me believe that love is real and exists and can last for years. I got into One Direction in 2011 through a Lilo fanfic, but as soon as I watched the Video Diaries,,,we knew. Louis has saved my life in ways I can’t describe and the songs that they’ve written for each other through their tough times are so inspiring to listen and dance to. Seeing how they’ve been dragged apart by management, Sony Entertainment, and the whole music industry as a whole even though they exist in glass closets is very disheartening to see. But their resilience that they show through their art (Only the Brave, Sweet Creature, If I Could Fly, and like so many others) is always there. If you want to fall in this rabbit hole, look at freddieismyqueen on YT and come inside lol. Larry is real.

5. Kurt Hummel and Blaine Anderson, Glee - the ship that got me on Tumblr! I didn’t start watching Glee until the summer before S2 came out. My whole choir was into it and I didn’t want to be “mainstream”, but Kurt was the first openly gay teen character that I saw on TV. When I heard a character played by Darren Criss, a musical theater YT legend from AVPM, I had to watch it. I ended up binging the first season with those Netflix DVDs during summer break (yeah remember when Netflix wasn’t streaming? lol). I watched every episode of that god-forsaken show the night of (or night after illegally, hidden from my parents) for that ship, and then me and my best friend would rant about it for the whole week: rinse and repeat. The episode they got together made me scream and I definitely put those Glee Rewind songs in my iPhone. (Fun fact: I used to cry at night because I wished someone like Kurt could love me like that because I heavily related to Blaine and his whole situation). I naturally stopped watching Glee the moment they broke them up and I’m still mad at their hasty attempt to marry them out of nowhere with no well-written getting together / make-up arc other than Jigsaw?? and a barn wedding?? As if Hummel would. What a trash fire. But dang, Glee fanfics have some of the dirtiest, kinkiest, forbidden fics out there. If you were ever on Glee_Kink_Meme on LJ, you know.

6. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter - the ship that started it all, the big kahuna, the ultimate enemies to lovers for 90s kids. Drarry got me into the fandom world in middle school, where I basically lived on FFN and LJ while pretending to do my homework. I used to get ready every day by watching the same playlist of “The best Harry Potter videos on Youtube!” (curated by Ariel333Lindt, who was the only queer person I knew but lived in Eastern Europe, where I could see two gay people kiss and fall in love in the safety of my room through badly photoshopped videos. Please check out that playlist). I just love how each fic is a microcosm where they have to construct how magical systems work, the backstories of pureblood families, creatures, or just wizarding culture for the end goal of having Drarry fuck and fall in love! I love redemption arcs that take 200k to achieve, I love dark!Harry takes, and every single different damn take on Narcissa, Pansy, and Millicent - because deep down that’s the writer trying to come to turns on whether or not Draco should be redeemed to get together with Harry. (I mean we all know they’re obsessed with each other, book 6 anyone?) I feel like Drarry fics have the best worldbuilding and characterizations of these characters, and I just love those moments when Draco and Harry take a moment to take a breath together and realize how far they’ve come. No one else can understand how it felt to be the pariah or the chosen one, they both interacted with Voldemort the most, and they have the most history together. They should have gotten together! But I mean the author’s dead, am I right?

So that was a lot! Those are all the ships that impacted me that I still participate with. They have shaped me for better or worse, and have made me learn more about who I am and what I want (or don’t want) in a relationship. This was the most fun essay I’ve ever written on NyQuil!

I’m tagging @homosociallyyours​ because I really want to know your fandom story! Also @stozierbrak​ because I love you and must hear you gush about your boys. I’m also tagging @iamaqualady​ because you’re literally the most intriguing person I know and I’m glad we’re friends even though we haven’t interacted that much? ish? 

#tag #me #kiribaku #drarry #sterek

[cubeswhump]

Defy Fate; Reanimate, part 1: The Pieces of Osiris

Gonna make it clear that I got “Defy fate / Reanimate” from this song. This story takes inspiration from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein but I kinda took the barest base of it and ran wild.

For much of my childhood, I was dead set on being a forensic pathologist. Then I got autistic burnout which turned into a nervous breakdown and had to reevaluate my life plan. I still have a huuuuuge love for forensics/pathology and I finally put it to use. A bit too much use. You’re gonna learn about rates of decay today.

Note: Part 2 is already written and will be posted tomorrow or the day after.

Tagging @more-miserables and @brutal-nemesis

Warning for gore, self-harm (not done from depression or misery), terminal illness, whump of a minor (via flashback), death (death is a whole ass focal point of this story so be warned), drugging, creepy whumper (like super creepy), consensual mildly-NSFW stuff that doesn't go anywhere, semi-professional surgery, dismemberment, disembowelment, general grossness.

Dearil was a constant; Lorelai barely remembered life without him. He showed up in first grade an awkward little boy who didn't speak a word of English and she was the happy helper with dozens of gold stars who took him under her wing. But they grew up and he learned English and gained confidence while Lorelai retreated into her shell.

Dearil seemed the type of kid who would be bullied relentlessly: openly gay, overweight, embraced his feminine side with pinks and purples and earrings, grew his hair longer than any boy at school, could tell you every plot point of Bleach and Naruto but couldn't follow a conversation, did these things with his hands that were later identified as stimming. However, he never held his tongue and had this air of confidence that even the mean kids respected. It was quiet, studious Lorelai they picked on, but no one dared bother her when big Dearil stood next to her. When chemotherapy made him lose his hair when they were sixteen, some classmates even shaved their heads to show support.

They stayed close even Dearil repeated eleventh grade because health complications made him miss so much school. They stayed nest best friends even when Lorelai graduated six months early, when he took a gap year, when Lorelai got into medical school. Even when the dreaded Boyfriebds stuck their feet in.

The two shared an apartment while Dearil worked on a degree in business and Lorelai was kept busy as an assistant in a morgue and full-time student. They had big dreams, but Dearil's were much more feasible: he planned to open a bakery that exclusively hired neurodivergent teens and young adults. Lorelai's plans?

"They only don't want to mix magic and medicine becahse the pharmaceutical companies will lose money!" she growled, glaring daggers at the emailed rejection of her thesis.

"People fear what they don't understand. I mean, science can't explain it and it's pretty fucking crazy," Dearil replied, shrugging. "If I had to explain it, I'd say it's kinda like equivalent exchange in Fullmetal Alchemist, right? I don't really get how it works. But you're smart. You're strong-willed. You'll do great."

She didn't get his anime comparisons, but she could get lost in the sould of his voice. If she could bottle it she would drink nothing else for the rest of her life.

Then another Boyfriend came along and she heard that voice less and less. She hated everything about Frankie: the way he zipped around on that noisy motorcycle (and how dare he wear the only helmet while Dearil rode around unprotected), his spikey hair, his smug smile, his grating laughter, his leathee jackets, his lips on Dearil's.

She refrained from hexing him. She wasn't a bad person who would use witchcraft to cause harm. Her acts were subtle and harmless: placing red rose petals in Dearil's pockets and shoes and placing petunia petals in Frankie's.

"I don't know what the flowers mean but I'm guessing it's some passive-aggressive bullshit," Dearil huffed. "Cut it out."

He got a bit angrier when she tried to cut off a chunk of Frankie's stiff hair. It was just for a bad luck charm, nothing lethal, but she pled the fifth on that one.

"You're like a sister to me," Dearil reminded her that day after Frankieeft. He meant well, but she wanted to scream and cry and break things. But she forced herself to smile.

There was a thought that haunted her every day. She would be the maid of honor, perhaps wearing teal if Dearil's current hair color was anything to go by. She would have to give a speech and congratulate the grooms. Watch them kiss. It should be her under that altar! She should be wearing a white gown and veil!

She resigned to life as a lonely spinster. She'd be married to her job.

That was the worst thing she imagined happening, until life hit her like a truck... and the delivery was a truck.

Dearil was so late getting home again. Any minute now he'd call and tell her he was spending the night with Frankie. And sure enough her smartphone rang, but it wasn't Dearil.

"What's up, Kensia?" she asked, but the only response from Dearil's younger sister was sobbing. Instant dread. "Kensia? Come on, use words. I'm not a mind reader."

So Kensia spoke, and Lorelai would have preferred she didn't. She didn't remember getting off the phone. She didn't remember much of that night at all, but she couldn't forget all of it.

***

She almost didn't go to the funeral. She didn't want to wake up ever again. She thought about joining Dearil. But she got out of his bed, staggered to her bedroom, and searched her closet for appropriate attire.

The black dress was old and wouldn't cover the runes carved into her arms, but what did it matter if someone got uncomfortable? Fuck everyone else. The dress was tight in her waist and she bitterly realized that it would fit soon enough now that Dearil wouldn't be baking sugary treats all the time.

His mother came to greet her dressed in all white. The whole Jean-Pierre family wore white, even Dearil's dad whose wardrobe consisted of grey suits and plain ties. Catheline wrapped her up in a bone-crushing hug and Lorelai wanted to push her away and shout, "I'm not here for you!"

A cheap pine coffin for someone so great. What a disgrace. It was closed too. A closed-casket funeral was the most logical solution but it hirt Lorelai to know she wouldn't see his beautiful face ever again. That beautiful face was pulverized. Even Frankie, who was wearing a helmet, was killed so Dearil didn't stand a chance. He was killed on impact, painlessly.

Painless for who? It hurt so, so much.

She could scarcely hear the spoken eulogies over her own sobs, and declined to give one herself. Dearil's own mother wound up consoling Lorelai throughout the ceremony, rocking the young woman in her arms like a child. No words were shared until the end when Catheline walked Lorelai to her car.

"Traditionally in Haiti, we gather to mourn for nine days. It's a social gathering where we eat and drink and talk, nothing stiff and formal," Catheline explained through her own tears, smoothing Lorelai's messy ponytail. "You're part of the family, cheri. We want you to join us."

Like she wanted to waste her time at some social event. The only thing she wanted to do was lie in Dearil's bed and smell him on his pillow. But she couldn't shut Catheline down like that.

"Why nine days?" she asked.

"That's how long the soul takes to leave the body - that's what we Vodouists believe. We gather for nine days to assire the soul ascends safely and doesn't get stolen away by any petro loas. Evil spirits."

A pause. Lorelai got an odd look on her face. "Was he embalmed? Were his organs donated?"

Disgust flashed across Catheline's face for just a second. She took a deep breath. "We believe that harm dealt to the body after death harms the soul, so we don't usually embalm or donate organs. Dearil did want to donate his organs, you know what he's like, so we respected his wishes. He wasn't embalmed. Why do you ask?"

The question had a bit of an edge. She sniffed and dabbed her eyes.

Lorelai wasn't crying anymore, though her eyes were rimmed with red. "Catheline... If his soul is still on earth, could his body be saved?"

Catheline frowned. "What are you..." Her face contorted with horror. "No! I have nothing against you doing witchcraft, but this is where I put my foot down. Interfering with the soul? My son's soul? Imagine the pain he'd be in! How could you even think of that?"

Lorelai looked away from her. "I'm sorry... I'm just really... I'm not thinking. I wasn't thinking. I wouldn't do anything to harm her."

Cathine took her hands. "Look me in the eye. Promise me, Lorelai. Promise me you won't tamper with anything you shouldn't."

Lorelai sighed, looking into those honest brown eyes, eyes so much like Dearil's. "I promise."

***

She promised, but above-ground burial only existed to tempt grave robbers. It was a blessing; the universe wanted Lorelai to do this.

What wasn't a blessing was the man standing outside the mausoleum. Fucking Catheline must have held her suspicions and reported on them. The guard's head snapped her way, and she bolted.

"Hey!" he shouted. "What do you think you're doing?"

Every step toward her car, every step toward her front door was a knife twisting. She was leaving Dearil behind.

She went to the gathering to keep up appearances. She drank much-needed wine and ate Haitian foods even when she felt like the smallest bite of food would make her vomit. She and Catheline said nothing of their conversation, and the older woman hugged her a bit much for her liking.

The witches in the forums turned on her. They called necromancy evil and her plan foolish.

People like you are why people think so badly of us! wrote WitchBitch666. No one had any tips but MagickalShells wanted updates on her progress.

No one had done anything like this. At least, not in written history. She was completely on her own. But it wasn't the first time she did something crazy woth magic, though the forums were more help the last time.

The migraines. The vomiting. The paranoia. The way he couldn't catch his breath. Finally, the seizures. After the appointment with the neurologist, Dearil had called Lorelai crying.

Four tumors across his brain, all cancerous. Two inoperable, the structures too important and delicate.

Dearil needed her like he did when they were younger, but it wasn't enjoyable this time. The doctors estimated that he had ten months to live. They only offered to attempt to shrink the tumors with chemotherapy and "focus on his quality of life."

He slipped into a coma toward the end, and Lorelai grew desperate.

Lorelai knew little about witches. Heathens, Mama and Pedro called them. They voted for increased limitations on magic at any election - local, statewide, and nationwide. They wanted it to be outlawed entirely.

But she knew witches did things that couldn't be explained with science. Maybe science wasn't everything. So she turned to the forums.

Once a week she would rip off a fingernail with her pliers. She would sneak into Dearil's hospital room and put the fingernail under his mattress, then slice into his hand with a razor blade and draw a rune behind his ear with his blood.

Hospital staff increased security when they found the harm done to his body hand and the blood on his head, but he miraculously woke up after two weeks. He still had cancer, though, and her work wasn't done.

"You've been doing what?" he had cried when he was coherent and cognizant enough to understand, staring at the deep, angry red slash across his palm. She lunged for his hand and he stepped back. "And let me see your fucking nails!"

"Come on, you're dying," she pointed out. "What do you have to lose?"

He cringed, but they both knew she was right. So he would let her take his blood and sleep with finger and toenails under his pillow, though he shuddered to think about. She lost weight and grew pale as he regained what his mother called "bebe fat" and life returned to his eyes. The tumors shrank with each X-ray.

"You're doung this, aren't you?" asked Catheline, very seriously, and Lorelai had paled. But when the teenager bowed her head, Catheline pulled her into a hug. "Thank you, thank you, cheri. But don't kill yourself to save him."

Week eighteen. Lorelai's nails were growing back ever so slowly and terribly brittle. With two toenails left, she had to wonder what offering she would give when she ran out.

But with the next X-ray, it was announced that the boy who was supposed to be dead in mere months was in remission. He walked with a limp because of the damage the tumor did to his cerebellum, but physical therapy got that fixed up. He returned to school, behind a year, and Lorelai became fixated on influencing western medicine to adopt witchcraft, if not becoming the first doctor to use magic on her patients in the United States.

The guard was there the next night, but she made sure she wasn't seen. She linked herself to the ground and, urging him to hurry up and take a bathroom break or something. Dearin's brain was the most important thing to be kept, but the brain is one of the first things to go, ces collapsing just minutes after death. Every minute wasted waiting for this stupid guard was cellular death. Losing her Dearin.

An illusion spell. He ran to investigate the vandals kicking at tombstones and each footfall was like feet stomping on Lorelai's face. She was never so happy to feel pain though.

A spell to unlock the door would be a waste of energy. One of the runes on her chest was already seeping, and she needed to save her blood for tomorrow. She picked the lock and slipped inside as the "vandals" led the guard here and there, running him ragged.

Dearil didn't deserve to be in this house of nobodies. Name after useless name among the granite on the wall until she found a Dearil Jean-Pierre. She pried off the granite slab with her crowbar, and then the concrete under it. She dropped the concrete on her foot and puffed out her cheeks to keep in the profanities. The concrete broke in two, and she expected her throbbing toe did too.

She gripped the sides of his coffin and tugged. It took a minute to budge. Dearil wasn't very tall, and neither was Lorelai, but he was wide and heavy. Her face turned red and she grunted with effort. She jumped back as his coffin fell to the ground. It was still jammed shut, and she wished they still nailed coffins shut. She didn't know what this sealant wasade of, but it was rough.

Running out of time. Guard could come back. Hurry up.

The lid came out, and the smell. Oh god, the smell. She gagged, but it was nothing compared to when her flashlight landed on what was left of her friend.. No, that actually made her swallow back bile.

He was missing one arm, only a little mangled stub remaining in his empty sleeve, but that wasn't the problem. His face, God, his face. The left side was caved in, skin and dreadlocks torn away to reveal the gore. He didn't have much of a left eyebrow, his jaw leaned to one side with missing teeth gaping at her, and what was left of his nose was a bloody pulp with the little stud nosering glinting far from where his nostril was supposed to be. And his eyes, his gorgeous eyes... Grey-blue scleras, left eye protruding from the socket with black spots around the iris.

"Oh god, Dearil..." She rubbed her eyes, willing herself to get a grip.

This was the easy part; all she had to do was transport him. But how was she supposed to fit a 5'7", 185 pound man in an, albeit large, suitcase?

It felt so wrong undressing him. She wanted her first time seeing him nude to be consensual, but not one "yes" left his bloated lips. She tried not to look anywhere inappropriate, flushing under her mask.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whispered as she produced the bone saw from her gym bag. She held the flashlight in her mouth as she sliced into one thigh.

Rigor mortis had passed and he was soft abd squishy, but the femur was still rock solid. It took a bit of force and then she moved to the other leg. The smell increased tenfold, and ut got even worse when she swutched ti a scalpel and sliced off strips of his wobbly, pudgy belly.

His neck was already broken and any damage could be fixed, so she pushed his chin down to his chest, avoiding looking at those glassy eyes. His remaining arm was okay to stay. It was easy to angle and wrap around his head, and she secured the limb with tape before cramming him into the plastic-lined suitcase.

She put the lid on the coffin and lifted it back into its divot. It was much lighter now, only containing clothes, flaps of skin, and two legs, and there was no evidence if tampering at first glance. She pushed the two concrete halves together and into their place on the wall, shoving the granite slab in after. They kept sliding and threatening to fall, so in the end she went around prying off and smashing dozens of slabs. With so much damage, they won't know where to start, and if they find other caskets unaffected, maybe they won't check his...

This plan was falling apart. No it wasn't. It wasn't, it wasn't!

Connecting her senses to the grounds, she found the guard outside. She held a lighter to her hand, feeling the warmth, imagining a small explosion and fire. Runes bled onto her shirt. The guard ran off to check the exosion at the other side of the graveyard, shouting. Feet trampling her face.

It was just an illusion. She wasn't one for destruction magic or vandalism. Well... The mausoleum said otherwise about vandalism, but as she walked away it was out of sight and out of mind.

She still struggled to lift Dearil into the passenger's seat of her car, having to roll the windows down to deal with the odor. She plugged her phone into the auxiliary cord and played his favorite music. She was never a fan during his life, but now she loved the sound.

She didn't go to their apartment. No, that would be far too predictable. She still had a key to Mama and Pedro's beach house, and when she checked earlier that day she found that they hadn't chamged the locks. It was only an hour's drive and she could make that to and from work, school, home without running out of gas money.

The roar of waves crashing on the shore competed with the obnoxious rumbling of a heavy wheeled suitcase on cobblestone. She got inside and turned on the lights. The table was new, very nice with polished wood. She didn't feel at all remorseful putting Dearil's odorous, leaking body on the pristine surface to operate. Preserving his brain was frst and foremost.

Face-down, his eyes didn't stare at her. She sliced around the top of his scalp, separated the skull, and then sliched straight down to his nape. She severed his optic nerves and then focused on removing the brain. The brainstem had to stay intact, so she removed the uppermost vertebrae it was attached to.

In her hands, she held Dearil's mind, the most important thing she had ever touched. Faintly grey and sagging with a chunk taken from the left. She struggled to figure out what larts were damaged the most. She reslized, with complete horror, that there wasn't musch left of Broca's area. Not his voice! I need to hear his voice! She'd have to fix that.

Wernicke's area looked okay though, so hopefully he would be able to read abd write without problem. His parietal lobe as a whole didn't look so good, and he already jad sensory issues... Hopefully it wasn't too bad.

She wished she could do an X-ray and see how the inner structures had decayed, especially his hippocampi. He needed to remember her!

Focus. She needed to focus on the task at hand. Whatever the damage was, nothing would be fixed if she just stpod there staring.

Her medical school had gotten on board with new postmortem brain preservation techniques. Liquid nitrogen, cryonics, blood substitute. The dust was mixed into the fluid in the tank, and now she allowed Dearil's brain to be submerged. She dripped fresh blood onto the rune under the tank and for just a second, the water glowed.

The human body is home to tens of trillions of microorganisms that keep you healthy. Though these populations are necessary for human survival, a single one getting out of control would be devastating. That's where the immune system comes in, suppressing overgrowth and keeping these populations in check.

But dead people have no immune system; bacteria runs rampant.

Lorai soaked a new mask in winter mint rubbing alcohol and pulled it on, and new gloves. Her goggles and apron stayed on, and sue set to work, starting the scalpel at his shoulder and ending at his breastbone. Mirror the stitch. Slice down his mutilated stomach to the start of his pelvis.

Peeling back the skin, it was clear his liver and gallbladder were no more; his insides were stained yellow-green with bile, and the winter mint did little to mask the smell of ammonia and hydrogen sulfate. She had to get rid of his stomach before the hungry microbes could do any more damage, scarcely breathing as she cracked open his ribcage and transferred internal organs to a garbage bag.

She couldn't exactly drag him outside and hose him down, so so brought him to the downstairs bathroom with the detachable shower head. He was so light now.

She rinsed him with the shower head. Water ran yellow-green, and then finally clear, though his insides still were definitely not a healthy red-pink. She wrapped him up in the fluffiest towel and brought him to the kitchen. She'd removed all the shelves in the refrigerator during her first trip to the house so she had no problems sticking Dearil's mostly empty husk inside.

And then she lit a few scented candles and went to bed.

***

The head medical examiner was a lonely older man. His wife was either dead or left him (Lorelai wasn't sure which, and she didn't care), and his only company was the corpses he sliced open. Lorelai saw the way he looked at her, eyes hungrily taking her image in. In the days after Dearil's accident, she started making moves on him even though it ft so, so wrong.

She smiled at him throughout today's shift. She washed her hair for the first time in days and let it hang lose around her face during her break. She even put on makeup, though it took a few video tutorials to get it loose.

Toward the end of her shift, she sidled up to him, whispering, "Hey, Viktor..."

He glanced at her. "Hm?"

"I'm not wearing any underwear."

He went red up to the tips of his ears.

"Come home with me," she said in a whine, fingers stroking his arm. "I'm staying at my family's summer home. I'm the only one there, all alone and sooo lonely."

"Fuck yes," he breathed.

"You ever have sex on the beach?"

"I'm getting hard just thinking about it."

She forced herself to smile instead of grimacing. "You ever been with a witch?"

"You?" His eyes widened, but then he smiled. "I bet you're magical in bed."

Ew ew ew.

"You've got that right." She placed a hand on the unmarked chest of the man on the table. His skin was the wrong shade of brown, but his hair was perfect. She already had a nose on ice that she'd taken during Viktor's break. It was a bit too dark as well, but it was just the right shape for Dearil. "How about we take this guy with us?"

Viktor recoiled. "Excuse me?"

"Come on, you said you want a magical night. Do something crazy!" she exclaimed. "You don't have to fuck him or anythibg, and we'll have him back by morning. It's not like he'll mind. It's a witch thing."

Viktor put a hand to his salt and pepper hair, eyebrows knitting together. A few emotions clouded his features before he came to a decision. "If you say so. But if we get caught this was your idea."

"Noted. But I promise you'll enjoy yourself."

He helped her wheel out the John Doe on one of the cheaper stretchers no one would miss, faces obscured by masks and a darkness spell. They stuffed the corpse into the tiny trunk of her car. Viktor pressed his lips to hers suddenly, bushy mustache scratching her. He smelled like literal death and whatever offensive oil he rubbed into his mustache so he wouldn't have to smell as much decay.

He couldn't keep his hands to himself during the whole drive, rubbing her thighs, kissong her neck, trying to unhook her bra and getting excited when he found out she wasn't wearing one. She wanted to slap his hands away, shout that her body belonged to Dearil, but this was a necessary step.

Her mind screamed but her lips purred, "Ohh, that feels so good."

He still hadn't settled down when they were taking the Doe into the house. "Talk dirty in Spanish, chica," he murmured.

"I was born in Florida," she sighed. "I don't speak that much Spanish."

"Don't you know any?"

"A bit. Do you?"

"I can say hola and count to ten," he laughed. "My Spanish classes probably ended before you were even alive. Come on, say something."

"Estas... Estas tan muerto," she said. "Eres solo, uh, um... un peón."

"That's so hot," he moaned, and she bit her cheek to keep from laughing.

Viktor's smile became a frown when they walked into the house. He set the John Doe on the table while Lorelai went and locked the door. He quickly sniffed his shirt when she wasn't looking, but the smell wasn't coming from him. And the bed in the adjacent living room was a bit of an odd choice, though he could appreciate the silk and headboard. And the ropes. This was gonna be a fun night.

Lorelai came back, a smile playing on her lips. She put a hand to his chest. "Come closer, Señor. Permítame whisper in your ear."

He leaned close, his smile tentative now. Her lups were so close they tickled him just as a sharp pain struck his neck.

"I never liked you," she whispered, pressing the needle in harder as he tried to pull away. He shoved her away and staggered back, staring at the clear fluid still in the syringe.

"What the fuck did you just do to me, you crazy bitch?" he screamed, clutching bis neck. Her smiling, round face had gone hard and cold, expression neutral.

"Oh, calm down. It's just lorazepam," she said. "They use it on unruly patients all the time. It's probably the safest injectable sedative."

Ge hit out at her but she easily dodged the sluggish attack. She pushed him down onto the bed, tying up his wrists. He still kicked his legs until she tied his ankles too. He was finally silent when she wrapped the duct tape around his head and moury several times.

"Don't look at me like that," she said, tying ger hair back. "Alexa, play Bury Me at Makeout Creek by Mitski, full album."

It's beautiful out today

I wish you could take me upstate

To the little place you would tell me about

"When you'd sense that I'd want to escape," Lorelai sang over the muffled screams and shouts, pulling on her mask, goggles, gloves, and apron. Viktor could only stare at the saws, scalpels, drills, and needles that she left on the table before she disappeared into another room.

No one could hear him scream.

#whump #whump fic #whump writing #surgical whump #medical whump #magical whump #tw self harm #self harm tw #torture #torture tw #female whumper #female whump #male whump #male whumpee #female whumpee #tw death #death tw #creepy whumper

[jereviendrai]

||| ooc; does every character on this blog have bpd symptoms? is this problematic, considering they’re all villains or would-be villains? is there a way to give a villain a mental health disorder without stigmatizing the disorder? well--

OH AND BIG TRIGGER WARNING FOR A WIDE RANGE OF MENTAL HEALTH TOPICS SUCH AS: eating disorders, mental illness, stigmatization of mental illness, self harm, suicidal tendencies, and a fuckload more. I don’t go into detail. There are just mentions. I’m not gonna say a bunch of graphic shit, I promise! If I went into graphic detail, this would turn into a PhD thesis proposal, and that’d be WAY too long to be worth writing. Also I have BPD, but I’m not going to pretend that I’m an expert on the subject. I’m not. My word is not law, but it’d be nice if my word was taken into consideration.

this post got so fucking long and disorganized jesus christ

The answers are: yes, not inherently, and absolutely.

I want to get into the mental health of all three characters in a second, but I think it’s important to talk a little about the other two points first. That said, though -- yes, they’re all borderline. All three of them! And they all experience it differently! I will come back to that. Anyway--

I feel like it’s important to talk about villains, mental illness and stigma. There’s a really common (and insanely lazy) tendency for writers to explain a villain’s villainy by simply saying, “oh, well they’re a psychopath,” or, “they’re just crazy.” This is not only lazy and offensive, but it contributes to an unfair stigma against the mentally ill.

Mental illness might, say, compel someone to steal a chocolate bar or snap at someone out of anger. It might make a person’s emotions volatile. It might make someone unreasonable. They might suffer delusions of abandonment, of some plot against them, of people’s secret intent to humiliate them, etc. They might suffer and handle their suffering poorly. They may cause harm. But that doesn’t make them... evil. It makes them complex. And how they react to and handle their negative actions says more about them than any diagnosis could.

When you have a villain with a mental illness, you need to examine how the illness is hurting them. Write about how it hinders their progress. Write about how isolating it can be for them. Write about the impact and struggle. Not how the illness makes them so evil or so irredeemably awful. The illness should be what humanizes them and helps to make them relatable. No matter how untouchable and powerful your villain is, they have some personal struggle that is independent of their villainy. When done correctly, it can go a long way in fleshing out your villain and adding interesting inner conflict!

I know, I know. You might be asking, “yeah, but don’t people with mental health issues sometimes cause harm directly related to their symptoms?” To which I say: yeah, duh, of course. Just like a depressed person might say something mean when they’re having a bad day. Just like someone with ADHD might make someone feel like they aren’t being listened to. Just like someone who has social anxiety might make a friend feel unloved. Just like mentally healthy people also occasionally cause harm.

I’m not saying mental health issues don’t cause problems and maladaptive behaviors. I’m just saying it doesn’t... make someone inherently bad -- real or fictional. And I need people to internalize that.

ANYWAY ON TO THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR BPD

(i know, you’re probably like, “dude oh my god shut up and get on with it” sakjlfdkjsa)

I’m going to be referring to the four subtypes. I know these are controversial to some people. Some really don’t like these labels, others feel comforted by them, etc. They’re just to make it easier to talk about this whole thing. No one fits neatly into any one subtype! Some people don’t resemble any particular one! Everyone is different! Don’t box people into these subtypes if you haven’t been given consent, thanks!

Mr. A / Clark Donovan Mr. A is a classic example of the Quiet Borderline. Someone with quiet BPD mostly directs their symptoms inward. It’s harder to detect than other types, as the symptoms that are most prevalent are mostly expressed, well, inwardly. Self-esteem issues, self-blame, insecurity, withdrawing emotionally, pretending you’re not angry when you are, self harming tendencies, suicidal thoughts, etc. He’s also kind of clingy. Mr. A is an extremely loyal person to a fault. He is a people pleaser and will go to the ends of the Earth to make his loved ones happy, even if it hurts him. This is of detriment to him, as he often finds himself getting hurt on behalf of people who might not care as much as he does. He’s let a lot of bad people into his life solely because they made him feel loved, wanted and useful. He views everyone he loves through rose-tinted glasses and only takes them off long after he’s been laid to waste by them. He has terrible issues with self-image and has thus developed an eating disorder. He also has severe depersonalization/derealization disorder, which is a result of how his mental health interacts with his reality-warping powers. It creates a lot of anxiety with him, watching himself phase through things and bend the world around him on a whim. His motivations in life are connected to this, but his motivation to do evil things is not. He wants to bring other superpowered people together as a united front against humanity, as he feels that humanity is a threat to their continued existence. This has nothing to do with his mental health issues. The part of it that does tie in is that he’s painfully lonely and has chronic feelings of boredom, so being surrounded with a shit ton of different people mitigates that. It’s a motive for him bringing people closer to him, but it is not a motive for him to launch an attack on all humanity. He’d be really offended if you tried to accuse him of doing this on the basis that he’s just a bit ill. His illness literally just makes him crave contact with other living beings just like him. He sometimes does bad or stupid things because of this, but it literally has nothing to do with his motives as a villain. As an addendum of sorts, Mr. A’s alias and reluctance to use his given name (Clark Donovan) are a result of identity issues he suffers due to his BPD. He finds it hard to maintain a stable sense of identity, so he just... doesn’t.

Ivan Chanteur Ivan closely resembles what we like to call an Impulsive Borderline, comorbid with ADHD. He is an impulsive person, as the name of the subtype suggests. He’s a thrill-seeker who suffers from extreme levels of chronic boredom, which he desperately tries to combat by any means necessary. Staying still and doing repetitive tasks is literal torture for him. If he cannot get up and move and do whatever it takes to keep himself feeling fulfilled and occupied, he is probably going to fucking lose it. When he is actively vocalizing his boredom on a regular basis, this means the chronic feelings of boredom have reached critical mass. It’s not just boredom. It’s anxiety, it’s agitation, it’s existential dread, it’s an inability to focus, it’s pent-up energy that needs to go somewhere and can’t just stay in him anymore. If he can’t get it out in healthy ways, he usually resorts to self-harm or less-than-healthy pursuits. He’s been known to dabble in drugs, self-harm, occasional promiscuity on a bad night. While therapy’s helped him get a handle on it, there’ve been a lot of stressful and traumatic things going on in his life have have made it a lot harder to keep himself in check. Ivan is pretty charismatic, able to cast a wide net and catch all sorts of people in his social web. He has a sort of natural magnetism that, on a superficial level, should make him quite popular. But underneath it all, he has difficulty trusting people long enough to actually let them into his life. He’ll act like an open book, only to slam himself shut and reshelve himself before anyone can get anywhere near the end. He’s easy to befriend, but difficult to get close to. This has caused him to feel lonely and frustrated. He wishes he could easily form deep connections, but it’s hard and it hurts him. In addition to all of this, he engages in a wide variety of attention-seeking and risk-taking behaviors. He often spends time with people who are not good to him, simply for the thrill of it. This has often gotten him hurt, but he finds it hard to cut this habit in spite of everything. This leads to a lot of frustration and self-hatred, as it makes it hard for him to protect himself. Every time someone hurts or betrays him, he beats himself up over it and tells himself he should know better by now. All that said, though, he’s come a long way in therapy. He’s not quite able to keep a handle on all of it all the time, but he’s managed to secure one or two decently stable friendships along the way.

Eve Laurier Eve is particularly difficult to talk about, but I’m going to try my best. Eve is what happens when you make a conscious decision to be bad. He knows beyond a shadow of doubt that what he’s doing is wrong, but he feels so wronged by the world that he just cannot seem to motivate himself to care. This... again... has nothing to do with his BPD. If anything, it’s his struggles with this disorder that keep him at least somewhat... grounded in reality. Eve suffered a personal tragedy -- the loss of his twin sister in a housefire. Though ruled an accident, he cried foul play. Consumed with grief at the loss of the only person he felt could truly understand him, he vowed to find the culprit and make them pay. This set him down a path of vengeance that would make John Wick blush. Eve grew up as the heir to his family’s criminal enterprise. This put him in a position of power the very moment he was born. This also left him exposed to a lot of terrible, violent crimes from a very young age. Because this was normalized by his family, he internalized and compartmentalized any misgivings he had about violence. By the time he was ready for university, he had been thoroughly trained to carry out hitjobs on behalf of the family. He was a weapon from the moment he left the womb. He was groomed to do terrible things, and it’s because of this ongoing and continuous trauma that he developed his particular cocktail of mental health issues. He mostly fits in with the label of Petulant BPD. Repeated and violent trauma did a number on him, leaving him angry and hurt over what his parents let him fall victim to. He also experiences feelings of self-loathing over the part he feels he played in his own trauma, despite the fact that it started in early childhood. He is self-defeating and self-blaming. He has a difficult time expressing his feelings and has angry outbursts fairly regularly, often resulting in self-harm and suicidal ideation. He’s been known to reach for the nearest mind-altering substance just to get out of his head for a bit. His mood swings are intense and leave him feeling fatigued and anxious. He has severe social anxiety that sometimes manifests as cold indifference. He also has issues with control, has paranoid delusions about the people in his life and doesn’t often believe it when people say that they care for him. He will find any and every piece of evidence that points to the contrary, even if he has to make it up himself. This usually ensures that he’ll end up alone again. He doesn’t have very many close relationships, if any at all. His BPD is not the reason he hurts people. Any hurt caused by his BPD is directed at himself, not at others. His BPD is a direct result of what actually has primed him to hurt people. It’s a direct result of trauma. He’s traumatized. And no, trauma is no excuse for what he’s done -- but his BPD didn’t make him kidnap and torture Ivan while he waited for Ivan’s parents to send in the ransom. That was all Eve. That was his conscious decision to make, in spite of everything in his head telling him how awful and wrong he would be to do such a thing. He knew it was wrong and ignored it, as he was under the impression that Ivan’s family had a hand in his sister’s death. If anything, his BPD aggravates his feelings of shame and self-loathing when he does precisely what his parents had been training him to do his whole life.

Anyway-- I hope this was helpful or at least interesting.

The point I’m trying to make here is that mental illness isn’t some kind of ultimate litmus test of good and evil. A disorder doesn’t make you good or bad. It’s just another facet of who you are.

So... to that end... please for the love of fuck stop using personality disorders as the reason for someone’s villainy. Please. I am begging.

I wrote a bunch of BPD villains in various stages of villainhood because I have BPD and this disorder often makes you feel like you’re evil, a monster, etc. Honestly, on good days I feel like an inherently bad person who consciously chooses to do good. That’s very flawed and I know that logically I’m not inherently bad, but that’s kind of what stigma does. It makes you feel like you’re inherently bad. And that feeling influenced how I write all three of these characters.

This is an incoherent mess but today’s the day I find out if I have coronavirus and I’m so fucking stressed out and hopped up on DayQuil. Thanks for reading any of this, I guess?

#||| ooc; #||| canon; ivan chanteur #||| canon; mr. a #||| canon; eve laurier #||| canon; #PLEASE READ THIS I SPENT SO MUCH TIME #I LITERALLY SPENT HOURS ON THIS FOR NO REASON AKLJFJSAJDLKSKJDKSL #i'm listening to 'the spider' by weezer and it's a fucking mood right now #fucking christ ok tumblr lags so goddamn much when i open this in my drafts so i need to post this now #also yeah i guess this is me telling the world i have a personality disorder hi surprise i'm Messy and Traumatized who knew haha

[rayofspades]

My Thoughts on Blue October: A Two-Way Personal Narrative

This post has no point or thesis it’s literally just me talking about music that I like because I think it’s interesting.

Anyways.

I was making a playlist for work the other day, and in the process I rediscovered some Blue October songs I have on my ipod. And then I rediscovered all of the Blue October songs I have on my ipod because...I have a lot. 

And it’s pretty much my favourite music (for the most part). 

Blue October was a weirdly prominent part of my youth, so it makes sense that I would have an attachment to their music (people tend to like the music they grew up with). But even then, re-listening to those albums fills me with a lot more satisfaction than other songs from my childhood/adolescence. From ages 11-16-ish, my favourite band was The Killers, with Blue October in second place. I still like a lot of Killer’s songs, and they have a lot of nostalgic value, but when I’m listening to Blue October’s music...like....it really, genuinely holds up to me.

Which is weird, because most of my current faves and older faves were either pop or soft-rock (with the sub-genre of “edge” in my early teens). 

Blue October is classified as “alternative rock” which I think is just the professional way of saying “fucking wild.”

I’ve always joked that if some songs are “edge” then Blue October is “the whole knife.”

But that’s the thing; even though they’re understandably known for their kind of raw intensity, at least among the fan base, the albums tend to have a fair bit of variety both musically and lyrically. I often think of the lyric from “Inner Glow”: “So here's a preview shove it under old-new / Or call it rock or pop or bach or fuck / Goddamn where did we go wrong / Now there's a category for every song.” Even though the band is kind of unhinged in terms of genre, each album very much has its own personality despite the different tones of each song.

By the time Approaching Normal came out (when I was around 14) I had kind of put together a narrative with each album. It wasn’t really a clear-cut story based on the lyrics of every song, but rather a series of emerging themes and events that each album put extra focus on:

Consent to Treatment: Dealing with psychosis and frustration.

History for Sale: Continuing to struggle with mental illness while also thinking about romantic and sexual relationships.

Foiled: Appreciating and/or longing for loved ones.

And yes, I know that The Answers is technically their first album, but I only know 3 songs from that one and didn't love them enough to seek out the whole album.

Personal context: I started listening to Blue October at a relatively young age because they were one of my dad's favourite bands and he would blast their albums in the car. He correctly assumed that I, a sheltered 10 year old, wouldn't put together that some of the songs were about drugs and suicide. He would always skip the more sexual and violent songs though. He aint irresponsible.

So basically those first few albums just became part of my internal music library since I heard them so much. I remember the first song of theirs that I really noticed on its own was “The Answer,” and after learning that it was Blue October singing that song, my interest in them grew slightly more independent. 

When I was about to enter my early teens, I developed an interest in psychology (most notably psychosis) after watching A Beautiful Mind. After that I became even more interested in the lyrics from Consent to Treatment and History for Sale, and grew more attached to these albums that I was already very familiar with and fond of.

Foiled was and continues to be my favourite album of theirs, though. It has the largest variety of music and a lot of the lyrics are really interesting. 

I almost think it was kind of inevitable that this is the album that would get popular. “Hate Me” keeps true to their style, but it still has mainstream appeal. It’s...not the whole knife, but it still has a good melody and good lyrics. 

“Into the Ocean,” which is my favourite song of theirs, is fucking perfect for mainstream appeal. It’s catchy, it’s pretty, it’s edgy, and it’s good. I HEARD IT PLAYING IN A HOTEL ELEVATOR LIKE A MONTH AGO. The song is so beautiful it’s almost enough to distract you from the fact that it’s about suicide.

It’s great.

The only song on the album that I would say is far outside of mainstream appeal would be “Drilled a Wire Through My Cheek,” but according to wikipedia, that made it onto the Saw III soundtrack, so there you go.

Foiled also might be the best showcase of the lead singer’s vocal talent. One thing that I really like about this band is how the vocals can be unbelievably smooth and wonderful, but the lead singer, Justin Furstenfeld, can just...fucking...flip his vocal chords inside out and fucking scream to a melody when the music calls for it.

It’s an amazing album that I would recommend to pretty much anybody who’s into punk or “alternative rock” or even just...music. 

ALSO I have to talk about the s t r i n g s.

I legitimately think that Blue October’s music sounds so different and resonant because, even though it’s a lot of intense hard rock, there is so. Much. Violin.

Sometimes the violin will overpower the guitar, or maybe even straight up replace the guitar in some places. It’s unique and great and it sounds fucking amazing. I love that fucking violin. 

So I’m really invested in both the music and the Narrative of Blue October albums by the time I’m 13-14sh; right when Approaching Normal drops.

This album is...different...ish.

Like, I don’t necessarily think it’s more intense than their other albums, but it’s...angrier.

Approaching Normal also apparent themes, much like its predecessors: the birth of a daughter and a crumbling marriage. However, unlike the previous albums, the lyrics on this one become a lot more literal. The writing isn’t as good as far as the words go. As for the music...eh. I like “Should Be Loved” quite a lot, but I feel like the vocal performance is at odds with the melody. Most of the album is either just okay or actively bad. 

It’s...an uncomfortable album. The Narrative has become too overwhelming and I would argue too personal. 

There’s less violin.

And

whoo boy.

Okay, I literally just found out there was a censored version of this album like 6 seconds ago because I’m looking stuff up on wikipedia, but, of course, me and my dad got the uncensored version because we’re not w i m p s.

So, thank fuck by this point in my life I had my own ipod and my dad listened to music on his computer, so we heard this album independently from each other. 

Dude, I first heard the song “The End” at like 3 in the morning as a very sheltered and very very squeamish 14 year old.

I

could not sleep.

I literally took the song off of my ipod so I wouldn’t have to even think about it.

Yeah...this album didn’t get played in the car often.

It’s amazing how Foiled finally got the band off of the ground and then like 3 years later they come out with this album that is not nearly as easy to market. My local radio station used to have a show called “wired or fired” where they would play new songs and the audience would vote on whether or not it sucked. “Dirt Room” was featured on there and the reception was nooot positive. 

So fast forward another two years and Any Man in America comes out.

I fucking hate this album.

Actually the sad thing is I technically like more songs on this album than on Approaching Normal, but I just haaaaate it conceptually and in practice. 

The lyrics are even more literal and more personal than on Approaching Normal, and the Narrative picks up right where that one left off. The theme of Any Man in America is a very very messy divorce and custody battle that Justin Furstenfeld was going through. 

It is a Hard Yikes.

The misogyny in this album is overwhelming. And you can argue like “hey...the guy has bipolar disorder and is just working through his emotional problems” or whatever, but...he still dedicated an entire album to basically cursing at this woman. But what really turns my stomach is how much this album can and will resonate with every joe-shmoe misogynist going like “yeah haha women suck the feminists are taking over make me a sandwiiiiiich” like alskdfkhgkajhdkfjskf I DON’T THINK THAT’S THE ALBUM’S INTENTION BUT IT WILL DEFINITELY SPEAK TO THAT CROWD EVEN IF THAT WASN’T THE POINT.

But hey, shout out to “The Money Tree” and “The Follow Through” for actually being good songs and also bringing back that violin. 

So yeah. Blue October just kind of fell off of my radar after that, until another two years pass and I catch wind of Sway coming out. I was kinda like “eh, they’ve already jumped the shark,” but then I heard the single “Bleed Out” before the album’s release and...I didn’t love it, but I liked it. It sounded more like Foiled and less like Any Man in America. So I got on the hype train.

And I’m glad I did. I bought the album digitally and burned it onto a CD for my dad, and it was the first time in a while that he had an actual Blue October CD in his car, instead of just the best selection on a USB.

It’s the most tonally similar to Foiled, although I don’t think it’s as strong  as that album. That could be a nostalgia bias, but I do legitimately think the melodies are less interesting... and that violin continues to get downplayed. I miss it. I miss the violin.

The Narrative continues, but thankfully the lyrics have gotten less literal. I would say the theme of this one is “healing and starting over.” “Sway” is a pretty ballad and I love “Angels in Everything.” The album as a whole is just...nice. But it still has some of that edge/whole knife thing going for it. The sex and drugs aint absent. 

So I liked this album. 

Fast forward another few years, to a Renee that hasn’t listened to Blue October songs in a while and also doesn’t really listen to the radio that much anymore. I’m randomly in the car with my dad when I hear a fucking Blue October song on the radio. A new one. I could tell it was them because Furstenfeld’s voice is very distinctive. Out loud I’m just like “Is...is this Blue October?????????” Partially because I didn’t know they had a new album out, but mostly because this was the first time I’d heard a new Blue October song get radio play in my city since fucking 2009 when “Dirt Room” was on Wired or Fired.  

The song was “Home,” which was also the title of the album. My dad ended up buying it for me for Christmas that year. The album reminds me more of Sway than any other, but I do prefer more songs on it. “Heart Go Bang” is great and sounds like it came straight off of History for Sale and “I Want It” is fantastic in my opinion. I like “Coal Makes Diamonds,” I like “Houston Heights” and “Leave it in the Dressing Room,” and I really like “Home.” 

(Still want more violin, though.)

I would say that the Narrative/theme of this album is love and family. This album was written after Furstenfeld remarried. Before Sway came out, his girlfriend apparently told him to stop being a piece of shit and get sober or she was going to leave and take their unborn baby with her.

So he did.

I really want to know more about this woman, because she’s kind of my hero at the moment.

The second last song on the album, “Time Changes Everything” feels like it’s about letting go of that battle he was fighting with his ex. It’s conceptually comforting, if that is indeed the case.

The funny thing is, I thought this album kind of put the Narrative in a nice little bow. Like, the most dramatic part is over and now this story can have a happy ending.

Which is why it came as an extra-super-double shock when I found out two days ago that Blue October released another album over a  y e a r  a g o.

This is what I get for not listening to the radio.

I have not listened to this album yet, and the reviews posted on wikipedia are positive but still mixed. Like, people saying it’s poppy and mainstream but also saying it still has edge, etc.

I’m a little afraid of listening to it, because I’m not sure what direction their music has taken, or if it’ll become too same-y to other stuff on the radio.

We’ll see.

When I finally listen to it I might post a review or something.

But from what it sounds like, the album is mostly positive in terms of messages and themes, and that’s comforting to me.

Okay.

Those are my thoughts on Blue October.

They...probably are my favourite band, despite the problems I have with some of their music.

I kind of made this post to put into words why/how this music is so important to me, but it’s genuinely hard to describe. I’ve done my best, but at the end of the day...I just really dig this music.

Anyways, if you for some reason decided to read this post without knowing much about Blue October music and want to get into it, I made a playlist of what I think are the best songs from each album because IIIIIII had nothing better to do. Apparently.

Trigger Warnings: A very large number of the songs are about mental illness and suicide, so watch out for that.

“Angel” and “Razorblade”: Sexual Violence TW (Good songs, but really intense)

“Hard Candy” and “Drop”: Drug Use TW

There ya go.

Enjoy.

#blue october #music #renee life

[bubblesandgutz]

Every Record I Own - Day 287: Daughters Hell Songs

Very few “heavy” bands truly live up to the misanthropy they project through their music. But Daughters were different. Over the course of a U.S. tour together, I got to know the guys in the band pretty well, and they were a rare instance where their personalities were as fucked up as their music. Don’t get me wrong---they were all great people. But there was something inherently damaged in their chemistry. They were barely functional as a unit, but that made their music seem all the more dangerous.

A year or two after that tour, Continuum Books announced open submissions for their 33 1/3 book series, wherein authors analyze classic albums and assess their cultural impact. I knew I didn’t stand a chance, but I pitched a book on Hell Songs. My thesis was pretty basic: heavy music is typically just theater, but Daughters was real life drama, and that made their music that much more intense. As per their submission guidelines, I wrote an opening chapter. The pitch was rejected, but I wound up posting the chapter online, where it caught the attention of Robotic Empire, the label that put out Daughters’ debut LP. They offered to print the book. And so for the next year-and-a-half I dedicated all my spare time to questioning the individual band members, chasing down old tour mates, stitching together the chronology of their history, reading old interviews, and writing the damn thing. I submitted a first draft to the band and waited two weeks to hear back from them.

They eventually asked to cancel the project. There were disagreements within their camp as to how shit actually went down. And, understandably, there were a lot of grimy details that they weren’t too excited to share publicly. It was disappointing, but understandable. I figured a certain amount of rejection is inevitable as a writer, and this one at least had a valid excuse, so there wasn’t much of a sting.

Anyhow, I’ve posted the first chapter after the jump. The writing seems a little corny now, so maybe I ultimately dodged a bullet.

“Yeah, I’ve been called a sinner...”

And so begins Daughter’s 2006 sophomore album Hell Songs--with a declaration of degradation. Vocalist Alexis S.F. Marshall, or Lex for short, wears the insult proudly, announcing it with the kind of defiant pride of Hester Prynne and her scarlet letter. And then a cascade of noise descends upon the final syllable. The song, “Daughters Spelled Wrong”, is one minute and 42 seconds of Lex’s self-flagellations delivered in a slurred Southern Baptist preacher’s drawl. In that short parcel of time, Lex lists off every slanderous label he’s endured.

“…wrong-doer, evil-doer…”

As the front man for Daughters, Lex was the human element to the band. And while his performance on Hell Songsis unnerving enough in its own right, his tirades became exponentially more menacing live. With his stringy waist-long hair, his tall and gangly frame, his wiry handle-bar mustache, his hopelessly tattered black pants (apparently his only pair), and his ill-fitting stained white dress shirt, he gave off an aura of someone who didn’t give a fuck about the pageantry of rock music. He wasn’t even fashionably unfashionable. Grooming, hygiene, and composure were neglected. He looked disheveled, poverty-stricken, strung out. Most Daughters sets found Lex in less attire, usually just a pair of briefs. Far from the display of muscle and machismo seen in chiseled frontmen like Henry Rollins, Anthony Kiedis, and Chris Cornell, there was nothing erotic about near-nude Lex. Sexual? Certainly, but only in the most degrading, animalistic sense of the word. Lex’s stage presence only served to make the audience as uncomfortable as possible. He would claw red lines into his belly, cram his entire fist into his mouth, fellate the microphone, and drool on himself while fondling his genitals. In moments where audience members chose to interact with him on stage, the results were equally filthy. People vied for his spit. Women pulled at his briefs. Fans fondled and licked his exposed cock. A confessed “sex addict”, Lex would swap spit with both men and women mid-set and fuck fans in venue bathrooms. His tally of sexual conquests was startling, given his disturbing stage behavior and lack of sociability. Claiming a bad acid trip as the root of his social anxiety, Lex was nearly bipolar in his daily interactions. He was relatively friendly and talkative one moment, withdrawn and angry the next. A ninth-grade drop out and former homeless teenager, his bleak world-view was legitimate.

“…worker of iniquities…”

There’s no verse. No chorus. No rhyming scheme. No melody. It’s just one musical phrase repeating for the entire duration of the song. The instrumental accompaniment sounds like a broken machine filtered through the ears of someone simultaneously shuddering through a panic attack and immersed in vertigo. The sound underneath Lex’s litany is a study in all things wrong and counter-intuitive. The band—comprised of entirely capable and talented players—sounds like they’re deliberately unlearning their instruments. Cymbals crash without a kick drum to punctuate them. The bass guitar dives and climbs with little regard for actual notes. One guitar avoids the lower octaves completely and opts instead for atonal high-end screeching and skronky discord. The other guitar remains stuck on one warbled, seasick riff through the whole song, sounding off-balance and broken even when the whole band locks in around it. It’s confounding, ugly music.

“…transgressor, bad example, scoundrel, villain, knave…”

The annals of rock music have no shortage of bands showcasing the darker side of human nature. Ever since Robert Johnson sold his soul to the devil, ever since Jerry Lee Lewis set his piano on fire, ever since Iggy Pop rolled in broken glass, there has existed a certain sector of the rock community dedicated to exorcising its demons on stage. It’s the reason that concerned parents and church groups still argue that rock music is evil. This flagrant display of bad behavior, self-destruction, and reckless abandon is at the very root of rock music. And perpetuating rock’s legacy of danger requires raising the bar of rebellion. As rock music nears the age of retirement, its old tricks no longer impress young audiences. Chuck Berry and Little Richard carry none of the threat they did in their heyday. KISS terrified puritanical parents with the widespread rumors of their name serving as an acronym for Kids In Satan’s Service, but now they seem downright Christian in comparison to the blasphemous content of black metal bands like Gorgoroth. So prevalent is the anti-social contingent of music in today’s market that it’s hardly noteworthy for a band to parade its malice for an audience. The harder edged realms of rock music—metal and punk, for example—depend on that kind of antagonism. Daughters looked for one of those last few buttons to push, one of those last few taboos to break, one the last few ways to make people cringe. Perry Farrell noted well over two decades ago “nothing’s shocking.” Daughters challenged that statement.

“…miscreant, viper, wretch, the devil incarnate…”

It takes a certain brand of individuals to make nihilism translate into music, and it requires their contempt to be believable. Words like “genuine”, “sincerity”, and “honesty” get thrown around by critics and fans as signifiers of good music. How do those qualities apply to antagonistic musicians? Do the artists have to be genuinely miserable people to make convincingly ugly music? The artists who are typically the most successful at channeling this kind of dark art manage to convey that wrath and misery in both content and form. It’s not just a matter of singing about the pasty underbelly of the human psyche or throwing a few skulls on an album cover; it’s about the thoroughness of pessimism. It’s about creating a genuine sense of danger. And it requires a misanthropic honesty that carries itself both on and off-stage. It used to be that the entirety of the public’s perception of an artist stemmed from image they set forth on stage and on record. In the age of the internet, this is no longer the case. Even more so for a band of Daughter’s stature—a band that rarely had a backstage to slink off to, a band that still had to unload their own gear off stage, a band that still had to run back to the merch booth after their set to sling t-shirts for gas money, a band with no place to hide and sustain a fabricated mystique.

“…monster, demon, fallen angel, murderer, and thief…”

The Catch-22 is that being in a successful band—a band that can write music together, play shows, tour, record, maybe even make a little money—requires unity, solidarity, positivity, compromise, and sociability. In other words, a band that’s genuinely driven by angst and hostility is doomed for failure. Proof of the unsustainable nature of these kinds of acts is most evident in the dearth of popular nihilistic bands. Even the somewhat well-known misery peddlers tend to be tragically stunted. Notorious shock rock icon GG Allin made a career out of anti-social behavior and bilious lyrical themes. He was known to take the stage naked, ready to fight the audience and fling his feces at the crowd. He wrote songs with titles like “Last In Line For The Gang Bang” and “Fuckin’ The Dog”. He famously promised to kill himself on stage, which would have been the ultimate display of the self-destructive nature of negative music, but a heroin overdose beat him to it. Glen Benton, the vocalist and bassist for seminal death metal band Deicide similarly promised to off himself at the age of 33 as a mockery of Jesus Christ’s year of death. Benton failed to live up to his word. And while he will always be remembered for the controversy he created in his early career by branding an inverted cross into his forehead and advocating animal sacrifice, he tempered out in his later years when he became a family man with a wife and kids. Not surprisingly, the quality of Deicide’s albums declined, as did their album sales. Allin went too close to the edge and fell into the abyss. Benton mellowed out. Neither managed to sustain the malice of their classic records over a protracted career. Daughter’s brand of ugliness had none of Allin’s overt misogyny and violence, none of Deicide’s Christian-baiting Satanism. Instead, they specialized in a kind of implied depravity. Lex wouldn’t attack the venue patrons, but he’d do everything else in his power to make the audience take a squeamish step back. Even though their album title references Hell, there was no trumpeting of a contrarian religion in their lyrics, no acknowledgement of moral consequence. Instead, Lex sang about emotional voids. It somehow made Lex scarier than GG or Glen. He seemed smarter. Colder. Less confrontational, but also less vested in cheap stunts and outlandish behavior for the sake of winning over anyone’s approval. He wasn’t interested in violence. He was interested in degrading himself on stage, forcing the audience into an unnerving kind of voyeurism.

“…lost sheep, black sheep, black guard, loafer, and sneak…”

Even the millionaire “bad boys of rock”—artists like Alice Cooper, Guns N’ Roses, and Motley Crue—aren’t exempt from the imbalance of nihilism and authenticity. For one thing, these cultural giants never tread so far into the blackness that you feared them as people. Their worst crimes were their hedonistic appetites. They still came across as people that would be fun to party with. Marilyn Manson managed to up the ante of anti-social behavior in the ‘90s, but the controversy was calculated. Manson always knew how to articulate his more vitriolic statements in a calm, well-spoken, intellectual manner. It was obviously theater. Daughters didn’t come across as the life of the party. They didn’t come across as having any sort of deeper, thoughtful meaning to their art. They came across as genuinely bitter, crass, resentful individuals.

“…good-for-nothing ass-fucking son of a bitch.”

Daughters were a band that tried to find that balance between thorough, real ugliness and some kind of self-sustaining functionality. They wanted to be successful; they wanted to tour the world and make money. But they also wanted to make something truly hideous and uncomfortable. Their debut album, Canada Songs, was an 11-minute surge of hyper-paced noise-driven hardcore. Occupying the kind of punk/metal hybrid territory instigated by bands like The Locust and Dillinger Escape Plan, Daughters found an immediate audience among fans of frenzied, technical music. It was well-received, but not entirely unconventional for that particular style. But Hell Songs was different. The band ditched their lightning-speed tempos, metal-steeped instrumentation, and shrieking, indecipherable vocals for disjointed mid-tempo lurches and Lex’s drunken oratory. They weeded their old material out of their performances. The fans felt betrayed. They had gone from sounding like the arty descendents of the powerviolence and grindcore scenes into a tightly wound meth-fed version of The Birthday Party. There was a much stronger adversarial vibe to their new approach. Their sound was less tethered to any particular scene. It alienated a fan base that was already built on embracing disenfranchisement and being at odds with everything.

But deservedly, the record found an audience, albeit a small one. For as caustic and abrasive of an album as it is, there’s a surprising catchiness to the material. The low end groans; the high end piercingly buzzes like a swarm of insects; the drums flit from spasms of hyperkinetic pulverizations to deconstructed thuds and clatter; and Lex moans and howls over all of it. Yet somehow, Hell Songs is rife with hooks. There was a discipline to what they did. It could’ve easily devolved into white noise, but there was always a clarity and separation to the instruments. They were a tight band. And for the three years that followed the release of Hell Songs before the group imploded, Daughters came about as close as any band can get to being a total train wreck without rattling apart at the seams. There was fighting, a rotating cast of guitar players, drugs, infidelities, van accidents, hospital trips, lost money, rivalries with tourmates, promoters pulling guns on the band, and an never-ending list of lewd stage behavior. They were a fascinating, glorious mess, and they perfectly captured it over the course of ten songs.

“I’ve been called a sinner.”

#daughters #everyrecordiown

[eallisnwndrlnd]

Moving On From 2018

One thing I can say that I love about New Years is that it’s like life feels like it gave you a bit of a reset button. Not erasing anything but at least working towards improving what you did or didn’t do the past year. I definitely need that reset for this past year 2018. 

Most of the year was in a bit of a stressful blur. I’m not going to bother reflecting on my previous New Years post since most of what I had hoped to come into fruition didn’t. All I can say is despite my battle with my depression and anxiety being the major factor in my stressed out year, I managed to accomplish some things. May not have been most of what I had planned but hey, that’s life sometimes. 

This past 2018 I completed my 3rd year, completed my internship hours and my first semester of my last school year in college. 

Even if I didn’t get in any of the companies I may have wished for my internship, I was lucky to find a company where I had a chance to utilize my skills and creativity in my writing and photography. It was pretty stressful initially when I was not getting any response from any of the fifteen companies I applied to. Thankfully it all worked out in the end. I even had fun and made it feel like a vacation with a classmate that became roommate and friend. I was feeling less claustrophobic when I was in our shared apartment in BGC, Taguig, away from the many reasons for my stress and anxiety. I was able to let myself forget about it at least during those short two months during break. 

Going straight into the start of 4th year with unresolved issues and things that needed to be done, my stress and anxiety kicked into overdrive as schoolwork and personal issues at home gradually stacked up against me. By the end of the semester I was completely wound tight and sensitive as hell where I felt at any moment I could break. There were some close calls close to the end that’s for sure. Especially with some family drama that nearly buried me in an emotional quicksand. I ended up breaking down in front of my teacher for thesis because I thoroughly let myself down on that one. I was in no shape to complete it in time for the scheduled defense that was a few weeks ago. When it all comes down to it, no one is harder on me than myself. I put the high expectations on me and when I don’t meet them or make a mistake or complete it short of perfection, I dwell on it to no end. Then there was the matter of film and theatre class, where if I were back home, I may have enjoyed and been extremely enthusiastic about but alas due to my poor fluency in Tagalog I wasn’t able to truly be a part of the major projects we had to complete. I ended up taking roles that were so far away from what I really wanted to contribute but as the stories were in a language and culture that I still didn’t fully understand, I was in no way able to contribute in the way I would have wanted to anyway.(One of the brighter spots of film was being able to share some of my favorite films of all time and also participate in our groups documentary on a Badjao community despite being in pain and sick more than half the time. Seeing and meeting some of the people with their strength and courage and determination despite their hardships, really helps one put things in perspective.) With the organizations I am a part of, even if I had a minor role in all three, I still didn’t feel up to the task. I really kind of played dead dog for most of my responsibilities in ISO. 

Honestly, this semester and even last semester, I felt myself ever so slightly detach from everything and kind of just mechanically go through the motions just managing to barrel through out of sheer need to complete my four years in college, do well and graduate. This semester is the first time in over four years where I found myself nearly having an anxiety attack. Not once, but three times. Once during debate when my brain refused to memorize my speech and then I fucked up completely during the recitation for my midterms. (I’m just thankful that my written speech helped me pick my grade up for that. Writer I may be, but speaker I sorely am not) It didn’t help that I still get a bit of stage fright every once in a while. Then the second was when my cousin messaged me about my mother having a schizophrenic episode and that it was causing drama and issues. The third one was during one of our theatre rehearsals and that one had no initial trigger except my stupid bronchitis that refused to go away that came out of a cold that has lasted frakking forever. Toss in several emotional breakdowns and smoking a ciggy after three years ciggy free and I could say I was down for the count. These past holidays of Thanksgiving and then Christmas were kind of meh considering I was sick for the first one and ma and I both were sick for the latter. But I pretty much had been sick on and off all this past semester and throw in my fibromyalgia kicking in worse than its been in the past four years, bringing spasms of pain that brought me to tears and bouts of insomnia this entire past year, 2018 brought more pain in more ways than one than anything else. I’m just thankful my ma, pop and family and friends (and my possessed cat, Gandalf) are still healthy and those that aren’t so much are on the road to being so, hopefully soon. 

This new year 2019 is hopefully the year where I finally meet one of my lifetime goals of graduating and getting a college degree. After so much work and sacrifice not only from me but my parents, I need to reach that goal. I will be starting my fourth year second semester at the end of this month but before that hopefully will have completed our final film and theatre projects as well as getting some traction in completing my thesis that is now not a solo one as I included three classmates to be a part of it. At the end of the day, even if I had wanted my thesis, that I started with on my own, to be solely mine, I had to consider my health both mentally and physically which became the deciding factor in no longer trying to push myself in such a way that would’ve hurt me rather than help. As I near graduation, I will set out in determining what I want to do afterwards. Whether I stay here (that’s only if I get an opportunity down the road) or go back to the States or go to another country has yet to be determined. If I were to go back to the States, I’d then have to decide which state I’d be moving to. Or rather, WE would be moving to. We as in me and mother. Yes, my mom is a big factor in my decision. She has to be, there’s no point deluding myself that I would be comfortable with any other scenario. I’ve watched over that woman pretty much all my life and have been a sort of parent-like person for her since I was a kid. As she grows older and goes deeper into her schizophrenia and becomes more fragile, I cannot in my heart think of any other alternative other than keeping her with me. It’s not some martyrdom complex or anything like that, it’s just how I am wired. Even with all my issues and the mental, emotional and physical toll it has taken on me, I love my mom and she brought me up the best way she knew how or could do. I can’t fault her for her illness and I can’t ignore the fact that she needs me as much as I need to know she is ok...as ok as she is capable of being. I may gripe and such but let’s face it, these are the cards I was dealt and I’ve managed all this time somehow and I’m pretty sure as I get older and wiser I’ll get better and better at doing so. But for the most part I can say I’m at peace with my decision (even when a tiny voice inside my head screams at me WTF are you thinking!!! HEEELP MEEE!) Now I’m just torn between should I stay or should I go (now. ....sorry had to. As I was typing those words I was singing it dammit!!!) And if I go, go where exactly? What do I do with my cat? How tf am I getting the beloved furry pain in my butt to come with me? What best fits not only my needs but my mothers and (if my furbaby is coming) Gandalf? New York? (That’s expensive AF) San Francisco? (SAME! but but SWEATER WEATHER LOVE!!!) L.A. (I’m not gonna lie, my home city is the last choice on my short list) Seattle? (perhaps but can my ma stand the so called gloomy weather which I am partial to?) S.A. (STOP! HAULT! DO NOT GO THERE! Though I have many fond memories and do love the city in many ways including my family and friends..and cheaper rent per square foot...and delicious bbq...I just can’t...cuz politics, namely its states’ politics. I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want my tree hugging, In-N-Out loving ass either anyhow.) I guess I can only say We’ll see. As I get closer to the end of my fourth year I’ll be more sure of which direction I’d want to go but so many things can still happen from now to then so I just want to leave myself open to any possibility that I may not have even thought of. 

So besides all that ‘off to the future I go’ crap, lets see...what do I want to see myself accomplish this year. I...

Must read more books (last year was depressing af for my bookwormish self as I only read three books, actually technically two were only completed in 2018 but I started in 2017. Now that’s sad for someone who used to down one to two books a day and read as she walked) 

Must get rid of more of my shit (I actually have been slowly accomplishing this little by little but seeing as it is nearing the end of my time at UB I must do this in its entirety by the middle of the year.) 

Must write at least one script of my own and complete it. (I have a few synopsis ideas written down, I just need to sit my butt down and make it a full story) 

Hope to go to Tokyo, Australia, New Zealand, Thailand and again to South Korea. (At least Tokyo I hope for this year) 

Must lose the weight I gained only during this past semester. (I can only fit my rollies into two of my jeans and both have holes, one was bought that way and the other lost the battle with a tricycle and a school chair) 

Must cook more (I actually have been little by little doing just that, thanks to Instagram people who post recipes that motivate my lazy ass into wanting to cook what’s in the picture.) 

Must regularly volunteer again(Unfortunately I haven’t taken much time to do any since I’ve been here. Hopefully once my workload at school eases I can finally take the time to do this. It’s one of the things I love doing with my time because it’s the time when I can do something that isn’t for me but for someone else which I guess in a way is also for me in the sense that it just makes me feel good.) 

Must explore more of the Philippines (hopefully after I graduate we can do this) 

Hope to get to Guru level on Gurushots (only need to mark off four more of the criteria to get there) 

Hope to learn a third language (I’m thinking either Spanish or Korean since I at least know some vocabulary and short phrases already. The fact that I would love to be able to watch my kdramas without subtitles definitely gives me the incentive to lean toward the latter.) 

Hope to get more than four hours of sleep on average. (I would love that, only if my neighbors (front, both sides and back) dogs and Gandolf agree to keep it quiet during the wee hours in the morning)  

Must follow my daily, weekly, monthly goal checklist for more than just one month (yup that’s pretty much all that it lasted give or take a few weeks then days, last year) 

If I can manage to even complete a fourth of that which is mentioned above, I will have done this long ass blog entry justice. So if y’all managed to reach the end of all this ridiculousness, I wish to say to you HAPPY NEW YEAR and may this year and the many years to come bring you all you hope for and more. Let’s 2019 the shit out of this frakking year and make it our bitch!!!

(At least I can say with this yearly blog entry that I’ve managed to keep this one and only friggin tradition during New Years)

#new year #new years resolution #new years eve #life #goals

[ithisatanytime]

 GIve me a break, this is like the fifth day in a row i have been up well over 24 hours ok. some of you are gonna hate what i talk about here, but i just want you to acknowledge something, i didnt come to these conclusions because i was personally hateful towards any grouping of people, i came to it by accident while studying biology, a major lifelong passion of mine, straight up, i just wanted to learn about frogs and shit, but i kept running into brick walls as my interest in biology grew broader, why cant i learn about this? why isnt anyone trying to figure this out? the experiment would be easy to set up, and the answer is important so why cant we talk about it?

  at first i thought the answer was politeness, and i probably could have gone my whole life believing that and been much happier as a result, if i didnt have an innate passion for learning about this stuff, but i do, so i didnt. years and years of further study, into what this thing is that i was perceiving, thats pulling a shroud over vast swathes of information, what could it be?

  oh fuck its jewish people. even with the proof right in front of my face, i denied it for two full years, even when proof slapped me in the fucking mouth every single day for two years, i wouldnt except it. the last thing i could cling to was there was no believable method of action, i could hardly believe that jews all met in some shady building somewhere and plotted together about how they were gonna stick it to the gentiles. i could CLEARLY SEE that the people motivating, and funding this massive web of lies were almost always jewish, WAYYY beyond the scope of my confirmation bias, remember at this time i was trying hard not to believe that, anything but fucking THAT! right, i grew up training to join the army someday, i read book after book about world war 2, we were the good guys, hitler was gassing millions of people! we saved them! not to mention a literal lifetime of propaganda depicting people who hold racial views as the villian every time, that got easier to let go of once the heros started being racist as fuck towards white people, and the media and colleges were basically like “kill whitey”, it was a jarring about face. and then i found former professor of psychology at the university of california kevin macdonalds book culture of critique,

  i was already familiar with group identity dynamics, and Macdonald masterfully proofs (over and over, relentlessly) that judaism is a group evolutionary strategy, and on some level its instinctual for them to sabatoge their larger host population. i cant begin to do the book justice, each chapter basically starts with an assertion or a theory or a question, and then its just paragraph after paragraph of proofs with tons of mainstream sources sited. after i finished reading it the first time, i sought out the best argument against his book, and my god it was fucking terrible. the guy pinker accused macdonald of cherry picking, which if you read the book, its a ludicrous charge, macdonald responded and eviscerated this guys “critique” they back and forthed for a while, with pinker sticking mostly to his original erroneous charge, it was literally like he didnt even understand the thesis of the book, it was embarrassing. he later admitted to not having read the book, and then was heavily implicated in the EpSTEIN child molestation ring. you know, the one where mossad paid Epstiein to black male americas rich and powerful by taping them fucking underaged prostitutes he hired? that epstein (man who gives a FUCK if he committed suicide or was murdered!?)   obviously that doesnt have any bearing on his argument i just thought it was funny to mention, if you think im lying look up steven pinker right now.                                                                                                                                    the rest of the “critiques” of kevin macdonalds books arent even worth talking about, i considered just pasting them into this post but its already long as hell and interesting to no one else but me so ill spare you, the short version is they just called him an anti-Semite or a white supremacist, or that he had cooties or whatever the fuck else people call people who are telling the truth and they want them to stop. after that it was over for me, the book just lays it all out, the whole history of it, but more importantly the mechanism of it. jews arent some hive mind (no shit) they are just humans, they arent a monolith, they disagree, but they also do conspire, and its literally in their DNA to do exactly what they are doing here, LIE mainly, but they are only lying so they can steal, which is what they have been doing since long before you were born. again, not all jews, and not all responsible for this fucking mess are jewish, but the mess itself is distinctly jewish, its got a little hat on and everything. our country looks the way it does, is dysfunctional in this very specific way, due to massively disproportionate jewish influence.

[isa-ly]

PROJECT NO CONTROL

TW: therapy, mental illness, anxiety, depression, control issues, One Direction

As you have probably noticed by now, I take trigger warnings quite seriously, as I believe that it’s not only important to give people the chance to prepare for or avoid certain content, but also think that it is a good way of showing that one takes the mental health and wellbeing of others seriously. 

Which is why I included One Direction up there, because if anyone who has been part of this fandom will probably remember, Project No Control was one of the most insane and traumatic incidents to ever happen on this platform (Tumblr, that is). Although, I guess the trigger warning is kind of useless in this case, since it only comes after the headline of today’s entry. But hey, I tried.

Anyway, enough about One Direction (is what One Direction also said, five years ago ... still going strong on that “hiatus”, huh guys?), let’s move on to what I want to talk about today. The last couple of posts were definitely not all easy to write, as I shared some things that only the closest of my friends knew about me so far. In a way, simply putting them on this blog doesn’t feel as big of a commitment (remember the one about dumping your problems on social media? Yeah, that’s kind of similar to this) but it also doesn’t leave me completely cold. After all, I’m not just chucking out one sentence about how I’ve been crying into my pillow all day, but instead actually taking the time to elaborate on my feelings, and by doing that, trying to make more sense to myself and actually work through my issues.

Another part of this whole blog idea, was to not exactly know who was going to read it. While all the things I share on here are written and edited by me, the whole compromise lies in letting others read them too. And sure, those are mainly the people who follow me on Instagram (hi, there), since I’m not really influencer enough to have random folks read it, but even that causes me to feel a little bit uncomfortable.

Because I can’t monitor who sees it, I can’t access what people think of it and I’m simply not in control of what happens once I post something.

Ah, yes.

Control.

The little word that not only dominated Tumblr back when those five British guys were still world-wide sensations, but that also seems to dominate my entire life. Only that I didn’t really know that until a few months ago. 

I briefly mentioned it in my last post when I talked about slithering into my quarter-life crisis, which resulted in my anxiety and panic attacks, as well as a mean depression and my low-key burn-out. Anyway, back to the topic of control. I told you the story of how, back in autumn of 2018, I had suddenly and for the first time in my life, found myself in a situation where I was completely out of control in almost every aspect. I had realized that what I was doing and studying, was slowly turning out to be a huge disappointment and even worse than that: I had no idea what to do about it.

Sure, I could have dropped out right there and then. But that wouldn’t really have made things easier, as I still had absolutely no clue what I would have done next. I had no back-up plan, no safety net. Well, I mean of course I had a metaphorical one – that being all my friends who I’m infinitely thankful for – but I still wouldn’t have known what to do with my life in general, had I simply quit university.

This, in addition to the fact that my parents weren’t quite as supportive of the idea of dropping out as some of my friends might have been, just added to the feeling of everything slipping from my hands and me no longer being able to call the shots in my own everyday life. I had been so sure of so many things and from what seemed like one second to the other, that certainty that had always given me such a grand feeling of control, was ripped away from me before I could even bid it a proper goodbye. 

So, there I was. Stuck in a situation that didn’t seem to have a solution or emergency exit. And, well, you just need to read the last entry to see that it didn’t go too well after that.

I remember one fateful day where I had once again been sitting in the library, trying my absolute hardest to write my thesis (and, obviously, failing), until I just gave up again and started watching Netflix on the university computer. As I was sitting there, not really paying attention to whatever show I had clicked on anyway, I felt so insanely frustrated because I just didn’t know what was wrong with me. I didn’t know why I couldn’t write or read my books or just do anything that involved my goddamn thesis.

And this not-knowing, this feeling of staring at what seemed to be so obvious yet invisible to me, drove me up the fucking walls. So, in a desperate attempt of once again solving the riddle that was my own mind, I sat down and did what I’m actually doing right now as well: I started writing. I figured that whatever it was that was keeping me from working on my academic responsibilities (and also causing all my panic attacks and insomnia), must have had its origin at some point in the past.

And since I didn’t know what point that could have been, I decided to start at the beginning. And I mean the literal beginning. I opened a new Word document that – and I am fully serious – started with the words: “Let’s try and make a timeline that starts with me being born”. I know, dramatic as always. But I was ready to commit. I had never considered my life to be something that contained many traumas (oh, innocent past-me), but I was more than ready to dig deep to find some, so I could finally make some sense of why I seemed to be stuck, both emotionally and academically.

I still have that document and I actually briefly skimmed over it just now. And, oh dear. Reading all of that again was not easy. And writing it wasn’t either. I remember sitting at that computer and, despite having thought that there wouldn’t be anything worth mentioning from my past, just typing and typing and typing. When there was nothing else left that came to my mind, I stopped and started reading through it. It was all there, laid out right in front of me, and it was like going on a very nostalgic, sad and painful walk through all the events of my childhood and teenage years that had just been really, really shitty.

So, there I was, reading, thinking, comprehending. And all of a sudden, like the clouds clearing, like the lens sharpening, like the fog lifting, I saw it. I saw the red string. The penny fucking dropped and I literally couldn’t believe it.

“I knew in this moment, that I had lost complete control.” “I had no control.” “Maybe it’s just a way for me to wield control.” “I felt like something was happening that I didn’t have under control.” “It resulted in me trying to get back control.”

All of those sentences were among what I had just written. And you don’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to figure out what the pattern I had recognized was.

You thought mommy and daddy issues were a cliché? Well, let’s add yet another layer on top of this pile of stereotypes: My incessant, compulsive and almost obsessive need of always being in control of myself and my surroundings.

I remember exactly how I felt when I finally, fucking finally, made the connection in my own head of why I was feeling so hopeless and lost. It felt like getting to scratch that annoying itch you couldn’t reach, like fitting that last puzzle piece into the whole picture. Needless to say, I burst into tears in the middle of the busy library, because while I might be very emotionally repressed, having that massive epiphany did actually make A Feeling happen inside of me, because I had been so desperate to figure out what was wrong for so long.

I’m aware that all of this sounds a bit like a crappy Hollywood movie, as big aha-moments like this don’t often happen in life – or in a library. But this one did. And I’m infinitely glad about that. Because it was in that moment I realized that a) I really, really needed therapy and b) I really, really was not going to finish this stupid thesis just for the sake of it and risk making my already worrisome mental state even more.

In a way, you could say that the urge of making a list and sorting all my traumatic memories from bottom to top, was in of itself a mechanism of yielding control for a short period of time. But okay, I don’t want to completely dissect every tiny action and choice of mine just for the sake of finding out what trauma it might have been influenced by (she says, writing the seventh, ultra-long blog post on dissecting every tiny action and choice of hers just for the sake of finding out what trauma it might have been influenced by).

Alright, let’s recap: On said very fateful day, I realized that the reason why I had been having those panic attacks, why I couldn’t seem to write my thesis and why, in general, I felt so depressed and lost, was because I felt like I was out of control of everything in my current life. And that terrified me. So much so, that it had almost stripped me of my ability to function like a normal person.

Quite the epiphany, huh? Yeah, it felt like that too, back then. And I know that not every realization happens like that. Most of my other soul-searching attempts that came when I started therapy, took a lot longer and required a lot more digging and work until I was able to untangle them. Like, for example, the question that posed itself after having figured out that I seemed to have very severe control issues: What the fuck caused them?

Because yeah, it’s one thing to finally understand what’s happening, but an entirely other thing to know why. Which leads us to part two of this wonderful post. The one where, and we’ve all been waiting for it, the two most important women of my life come back into the picture: My therapist and my mum.

Okay, I need you to know that I just laughed out loud at that last sentence for several minutes and then considered crying a little, too. But, I repressed that urge (healthily, don’t worry) for the sake of finishing this entry. So, let’s continue. (Why do I not have a career in stand-up comedy yet, seriously.)

When I started my personal therapy sessions with Kerstin, one of the first things I told her about, was that trauma-timeline list that I had written. Naturally, as therapists do, she then asked me the exact question I already asked above: “So, where do you think that need for constant control comes from?” And I said: “Well, damn, Kerstin, wouldn’t I like to know!” Okay, I didn’t say that. But in the imaginary sitcom that’s always happening in my own head I did, and then everyone laughed in that super fake ‘Friends’ way. What a blast it was.

Back in the real world, I actually did another load of digging through my past, this time to find the reason behind my, at the time, newly discovered issue with control. Or better, the issue with loosing it. I already talked a little bit about my childhood and teen years not always having been easy, mainly because of the sometimes very difficult relationship with my mum. And, well, it turns out that that “sometimes very difficult relationship” left a lot more scars than I would have ever liked to admit. I always have a hard time talking about this, because it makes me feel like I’m painting my parents as some sort of villains who constantly mistreated me. And that is just not the case. Life’s not black and white like that, and neither is family.

Again, I really had a great time as a child and teen, and my parents loved me, were always there for me and supported me in almost every aspect. But in some others, they let me down. Saying and admitting that breaks my heart. But denying it has broken it even worse in the past. I’m not going to go into much detail here because I don’t feel any need whatsoever to fill the Internet in on my personal family issues.

However, I do feel the need to remind myself why it is okay to talk about where your own current problems and struggles might come from. I’m not pointing fingers and blaming my own mum for everything that ever went wrong in my life, because that would be stupid and simply wrong. But I have grown and realized enough to know that, yes, by raising me the way she did, she did cause me some pretty heavy and painful traumas which I’m still working through today.

One of them being my problem with giving up and losing control.

My mum is such a strong and smart person and I learned so much from her. But she also never let me forget that whatever achievement I accomplished in life, was due to her providing me with support, knowledge and guidance. According to her, whenever I did something wrong, forgot something or made a mistake, it was because I hadn’t listened to her advice or done it the way she would have done it. And whenever I did something right, succeeded and made progress, it was because she had pushed me and told me how. She never let me have any credit of my own. She told me she was proud of me, but she never let me be proud of myself too.

In a way, she raised me thinking that the reason for any and everything I did, was because I either obeyed or disobeyed her. She always had the upper hand and she was always, always in control. Of my failures, of my successes, of my life.

As you can imagine, with puberty added into this already difficult family-mix, shit kinda hit the fan when I got a little older and we basically didn’t speak to each other for an entire year. Whenever we did speak, we’d just end up arguing instead. And that’s where I decided I to simply take matters (and back then, that was pretty much just school) into my own hands. Some other nasty stuff happened in reaction to that, but I actually managed to, from this point on, be independent when it came to studying, organizing and planning everything school-related. To some people, this might sound ridiculous and insane. But in my family, with my mum, this was almost reason enough to literally kick me out of the house.

But I still did it and for the first time ever, I was the one who controlled something. I was the one who decided when to do homework, how much to study and how to keep track of all my school stuff. Again, I realize that some people are probably thinking “Big fucking whoop, it’s just school?!” and yeah, I thought that too. But my mum didn’t. However, I didn’t budge and I kept the upper hand, for the first time in my life.

You can probably see where this is headed. As I got even older and started university, more and more responsibility became my own and my mum had to let go of more and more things she had always controlled for me. Not without a fight, never without a fight, but she did, eventually. I was now the one who decided what I wanted to do (at least most of the time, since I still lived at home and that came with its own set of struggles).

Without getting too carried off here, I’ll just try and make my point: When I realized that what I myself had chosen as a life and career path, was no longer actually something I wanted to do, this sense of control that I had quite literally worked years to get (from my mum and for myself), all of a sudden started to crumble. And subconsciously, without even realizing, this took me back to the mental place of being a hopeless, sixteen year old teenager that felt belittled, powerless and uncredited. Only that now, I had “no one to blame” but my own self.

The way that I had been raised with always having to have such a vice, controlling grip on my own life and academic “career” in order to be in charge of it myself, sat so deep inside of me that having had the minuscule realization of not being fully sure of my future anymore, was enough to throw me so hard that I could barely catch up with how quick I was falling apart.

That was one killer of a sentence, I apologize. But I hope that it got my point across somehow. Maybe this all sounds a bit ridiculous, maybe it doesn’t. I honestly can’t tell, most of the time. But by now, I have come to terms with the fact that how my mum taught or actually failed to teach me the value of giving up control, has greatly influenced me, even if it was just subconsciously. Because had you asked me, I would have told you in a heartbeat that it was no big deal to doubt your academic choices and even less of a big deal to change them or look for something new.

But, deep down, there was another truth that I had grown up with and into, and that one was what started to cause all my inner turmoil, the anxiety, the panic attacks, the insomnia and, eventually, my full-blown burn out. 

And all of that hit me on that one fateful day, in the fucking library.

I feel like I’ve been waffling for ages now but it felt kind of cathartic to get this off my chest. I’m planning on talking about this is another post soon, but this was the first time I realized the crucial difference between saying and living things you want to be your truth, and saying and living things that really are your truth. And back then, I didn’t know I hadn’t been doing the latter for a very long time. Hitting that kind of breaking point was a very unwanted, but definitely also very much needed jumpstart to my journey of working through my own issues. 

The first being the one I had with control.

I’m gonna shut up for good now and just leave you all with two screenshots because they’re just too funny not to include them. They were both reactions to my, dare I say, iconic sentence of my therapist and my mum being the two most important women in my life and well, just see for yourself ...

... sorry, mum. And also ...

... don’t we all?

#mental health #mental illness #anxiety #depression #control #control issues #therapy

[lightspren]

Year End 2017 Wrap Up

I’m gonna be straight up honest with y’all, I almost didn’t do one of these for this year because this year has sucked horrifically and I just didn’t see a fucking point. But I’ve done one every year for like, at least four years now, and it’s tradition, and I for some reason feel it’s important, so by damn I’m gonna look back on my text posts from the year and my memories of what I was doing and see what happened this past year.

Jan 2017 - Was beginning my last ever semester of undergrad this month. At this point I still thought I’d be going to grad school hahahah so much can fucking change in a few months. Started my AC sideblog so that’s cool. and even this far back (: we still see me struggling with debilitating pain (: which has been a trend ever since I’ve been doing these year summaries I think, is seeing how bad my pain was throughout the year. jfc. looks like I was struggling with some depression symptoms here too, go fucking figure. I had an interview for grad school too and we know how badly that went…

Feb - Here’s where I decided I thought i might be on the autism spectrum. I now think I was wrong on that self dx, but you know, journeys of self discovery are important and all that. but here’s lots more pain and tired and “brain not working” which was lots of depression symptoms I believe, sigh I let that get bad for a while there. Oh and then I learned I didn’t get into that grad school I got the interview for.  so yeah that was Feb in a nutshell l o l

Mar - Breath of the Wild came out this month and dominated my life for a month or two, I still love this game very much and it’ll always hold a special place in my heart, ti’s just so good and sweet and lovely. I still haven’t even really beat it LOL and I need to but. still. that’s never been the most important part of Zelda games to me. OOO THO I had beginnings of existential crises this month!! cause I was getting so bogged down in my thesis research and didn’t know if research was what I wanted to do forever and ever anymore!! isn’t that fun!! (it was not fun). but the rest of this month seems like. a whole lot of bitching about pain. paaaain pain pain. like holy jesus bitching about pain. maybe if I printed off all these posts and gave them to my doctors they’d believe I have a problem LOL.

Apr - So I had shitty dr appointments that further hurt my chronic illness identity, and then other Ongoing Identity Crisis because of not getting into grad school and wanting a job in which I could help people. this is the month I in earnest started applying for jobs; research tech jobs mostly, but some adjacent jobs too (don’t remember what exactly). I didn’t branch out very far at this point though cause I was still McFuckin Terrified. and then I realized that I didn’t want to leave hundreds of miles away for work, cause as much as a lot of the culture of southern Appalachia can suck sometimes, it’s still home, /my/ home, and I don’t want to abandon it. I know I freaked out a lot about getting my thesis done and presented this month too bc I was soooOooOOoO unmotivated to do that shit LOL like. whew. did not want to, did not care any longer, but still had to do it.

May - GOT MY FIRST EVER TICKET LOL THAT FUCKING SUCKED SO BAD. sigh. otherwise I was mostly vague as SHIT with stuff this month. I know I graduated, didn’t walk though cause I could not give less of a fuck at that point. I applied for every job I could find that I remotely qualified for that was close enough I was willing to move to. I even had a Skype interview for one, either this month or in April. it fell through, of course.

Jun - One of my very first June posts is “who the fuck am I/how do I become who I want to be” LOL so that identity crisis was still rip roaring obvs. then that time when I tried to explain disability stigma to one of my previous (cishet white male) bosses. Had another phone interview this month for another job I didn’t get lmfao. Pretty sure this is the month where I started applying for mental health case management jobs, like a bunch of them, at different locations all in the company I’m currently in.

July - So I think it must have been around the beginning of this month that I had my first in person interview? I bombed that one hardcore. didn’t stop another location from interviewing me though, and I got a second interview with them, which I then proceeded to fail because I had no prior experience. It was brutal LOL. and the new person started at my old job, and I had to start training her, and that whole situation was just awkward and weird and Undesirable. to the maaax. it was this whole ordeal too where they’d scheduled my last day to be the 28th of July, so that’s what I was planning on and like, focused on… but then it turned out my coworker got national guard orders and had to be gone two months, so instead of having newbie there by herself, they were like (to me) “hey… just wanna… chill for two months longer or until you find a job…” which was admittedly hella cool of them.

Aug - Lots of blogging about pain, lots of general vagueblogging. I did announce publicly on tumblr that I’m intending to convert to Judaism so that’s still cool, and still a thing, even if life has been repeatedly crotch-punching me so I haven’t been able to make much actual progress on it. but then, I had the interview for my current job. that i somehow passed with flying colors. And my asthma started getting worse, and I started getting soooooo so done with my old IT job, but I /got my new job/. ALSO THIS MONTH WE GOT RADS MY SWEET NEW BABY so now our family is made of me, my husband, and two kitties.

Sept - September. Oh, September. started out so innocently, with starting orientation for my new job. I was all starry eyed and hopeful for the new job because I thought that it was a perfect home for me. then I got there. started doing things. realized that I was terrified of trying to meet my new coworkers and learn their dynamics. realized I was terrified of trying to meet my new supervisors/superiors and learn their expectations. realized that in general I just didn’t know the culture of the place at all and that fucking /terrified/ me. and then the job itself, the job itself was something I’d never done before, had no experience in /whatsoever/, had no FUCKING clue what I was doing. I was a fish out of water with no bloody idea where I was going, and hoooboy. I almost quit by the end of September, I truly did.

Oct - tw: miscarriage at end of month I started therapy for my anxiety!!! yay!!!! I had a lot of adapting to work in this time too that I didn’t really talk much about on tumblr too I think. I mean I was learning a lot, I was meeting more of my clients, some even time. I was still terrified, especially of my other coworkers because I didn’t know them or understand them, but even at that, I was learning. [Stop reading if you need to avoid tw miscarriage and skip to Nov.] The other horrifically sucky thing to happen in Oct happened not to me, but to my sister. She’d found out a few months perviously that she was pregnant, at 37 years old. they’d just recently gotten all the genetic testings back and found out they were going to have a girl. unfortunately though, the baby stopped developing at 15w. my sister discovered this at what would’ve been 17w. she had to have surgery to remove the baby. she’s still recovering from this trauma, she’s heartbroken and just. very upset. I’m still upset for her too.

Nov - Last month I was doing ok I think. I was doing pretty well at work, kinda just coasting along but mostly getting the hang of things. Therapy had been helping I think; it’d been teaching me somethings, mostly only small differences but I think having someone to talk to had been helping frankly. Work was going well, and we’d decided to start looking for a house to /buy/ (realtor.com) but hadn’t hired a realtor yet. probably for the best. as it turns out now…

Dec - Fuck you, December. the good news is, my new job’s health insurance kicked in Dec. 1st. which is great, considering I got admitted to the hospital  Dec. 7th, a Thursday. the Monday prior I’d tried to pop a zit, no big deal. WRONG. it got infected. not just any old infection, though, oh no. FUCKING MRSA. so I got cellulitis in my face, my whole right side of my face swelled up three times the normal, I got MRSA/pneumonia in my lungs, I had MRSA in my bloodstream. when I came in the ER I had very low blood pressure and heartrate of 130, so I was septic. like. shit was going down. I stayed in the hospital 6 days, and they released me with a PICC line and having to do vancomycin (really strong IV antibiotic) twice a day via the line. I went back to work too early for two days, but saw my PCP on the third day and he put me off that again. /Then the chest pain started/. I assumed it was a side effect of the vancomycin, since back and chest spasms/pain are a listed side effect, but NO, apparently NOT, at least not to this DEGREE. The home health pharmacy, who I called to ask about it, called the on-call at my PCP, who advised to go to the ER to get checked for a “pulmonary embolism.” Doesn’t sound scary at aaaaaaaaaall. Get in ER, go through the whole terrifying ordeal, CT scan, x-ray, shit and shebang - what do you fucking know. I have a septic embolism. very rare. much wow. fuck me. so here I am, once again, in a fucking hospital room, tied up to IV antibiotics, at the end of Christmas day. At least they’re keeping the pain meds going now. Oh at one point my kidney function tried to drop, then it turned out I had a pleural effusion so they drained 550cc (half a liter) of fluid off my lungs (painful as fuck let me tell you). Ended up spedning 5 days total in the hospital, home now, but still in like. the same amount of pain as when I went in. Having to fight with so many things to get medicines sorted and shit. while feeling like shit too. everything is awesome.

So that’s it. 2017. That doesn’t even get into the way 2017 has sucked on a global, non-personal scale, that’s just how it’s sucked on a mostly-immediately-personal scale, and I’ve even left out some of the immediately personal ones I think. and that’s just the shit I remember LOL jesus christ. I really need to do an effigy burning of this year.

#kit being stupid #happy new year #year end 2017

[studydreamrepeat]

I’m a very goal driven person.  Without a clear goal in mind I begin to flounder and struggle, uncertain of where I should redirect my efforts.  So, as I reconsider my career goals and relationship with academic research, I thought some reflection might be useful. 

I entered college with a very specific career goal in mind.  I wanted to be a pharmaceutical researcher, working for a (large, well-paying) corporation on developing drugs for clinical trials and/or consumer use.  Chemistry and biology were my favorite subjects in high school; lab experiments were my favorite part.  I had an amazing experience during HS where I spent a year doing community outreach for a grassroots air quality organization.  The experience had been so amazing because they were actually measuring the levels of air pollutants in the air with the help of graduate students at a local university, and I got to help them measure the levels of nitrous oxides in the air.  I reported my results to city officials and even presented at a youth conference in DC, where I spoke to my local and state representatives as well as EPA officials.  Doing real-world lab techniques, learning about the chemistry and the biological effects, and seeing my results be used in real life outreach and legislation had enraptured me.  I was sold.  I wanted to do something similar with my life, but in pharmaceutical research I saw a better connection to my interest in disease, better pay/job security, and more real-life influence by developing medications.  It seemed perfect.   Three years later, I have no idea where that enthusiasm went–but it’s totally gone.  I’m now changing my major.  Again.  A B.S. in Biology is what I’m switching to, making it my third chance.  I entered college pursuing a B.S. in Biochemistry & Biophysics, as there was no plain biochemistry degree (which seemed ideal, with biology and chemistry being my favorite subjects)–but switched out within the year.  Following a poor first term (C’s across the board, with the exception of a history course), my adviser scared me out of the program by convincing me that I would never survive the rigor of the remaining calculus and advanced chemistry classes I would have to take.  If I couldn’t excel in general chemistry right out the gate, how would I survive the school’s advanced physical chemistry series where straight-A students were known to struggle for passing grades?  That seemed like a fair criticism.  I switched majors that spring.   I aced the rest of my self-written gen chem labs and went on to ace organic chemistry as well, driven by pettiness to deliver a subtle “fuck you” to that particular adviser.  

There were other, more valid reasons for my leaving the department, but the success I forced myself towards out of sheer bitterness has always entertained me.  I switched to a unique degree after biochemistry, pursuing a B.S. in Biological Research.  I loved the department, adviser, and coursework.  I got to customize the classes I was taking and elected to focus on toxicology.  The other great thing about the degree was that it required nearly 20 credits of thesis research experience.  I tacked on a chemistry minor and a certificate in medical humanities, thinking I was set for the next three years.

Within two weeks of joining the department, my adviser had been contacted by a doctoral candidate looking for an undergraduate to work with him.  He was a program alumni needing extra hands for his natural resource isolation research in a pharmaceutical sciences lab.  On paper it seemed like a great fit.  I jumped on board even though natural resource isolation wasn’t my real interest.  I was willing to learn about anything, and for the first few weeks natural curiosity carried me.  I’d heard horror stories of how difficult it was to get a proper thesis project, and was relieved to have it seemingly handed to me. In person, it was more of a disaster.

Of the four other undergraduates already affiliated with the lab, three of which were also women, I was the only one who regularly came in.  It didn’t take long to find out why.  A majority of the researchers (not that there were many) came from cultures that are known for poor treatment of women.  I was, after a few months when I finally thought to ask, told it had been quite some time since there had been a post-doctoral or other faculty researcher in the lab, and that the last one had not stayed particularly long.  I consider myself a friendly person–I make eye contact, smile, and exchange pleasantries when it seems opportune.  I was now in a setting where I was actively ignored.  I was largely expected to learn by just doing what I was told.  Questions were rarely answered, and trust me–when you’re holding a bottle with a giant label declaring CARCINOGEN for the first time, you’re going to have questions about how to proceed. 

I was isolated from everyone but the other undergrads and my mentor–when he was gone, I could occasionally convince one of our post-docs to help me find the right compounds, before he would return to his bench where he would scroll through FB for a majority of the day.  My PI rarely spoke to me, and he was often gone from the country for weeks at a time.  With only general chemistry under my belt, I didn’t know enough to really appreciate what I was doing.  I struggled.  Things got better and I started to understand, only to get lost again when our project shifted in another direction, then back, then back again.  My mentor was surprisingly patient through all of my confusion–far and away, he is the only reason I even survived a year in that lab.

Paperwork caught up with me.  My depression returned, worse than ever.  This time I struggled with anxiety symptoms that I had somehow evaded in all my previous experiences with mental illness.  My grades started looking like the long end of a bell curve. I gave up part of my Christmas break to stay in town to work in the lab, only to spend those days working on an unrelated project.  

Halfway through the school year, I was casually told my thesis project would be changed to something involving gene operons.  I would be working with a lot of bacteria, rather than the genetically modified yeast cultures I had been working on in my resource isolation.  I hadn’t taken general microbiology yet, much less bacterial genetics or any other relevant class.  I was just starting a class in cellular biology and barely knew what a gene operon was.  My opinion had never once been asked through this process.  It was never once suggested that my mentor and PI had been thinking of switching my project.  They decided without me or any input from me, and when I was told it hadn’t been a proposition or question–they were very honest in telling me the decision had, somehow, already been made.  Had they asked me, I would have been happy to go along with it.  That my opinion on what I would be spending the next two years working on was regarded as unimportant was very frustrating.

I was starting from square one again.  To this day, I still don’t understand a lot of the techniques I used or data I generated.  The only thing I understood was that I was getting damn good at electrophoresis.  I had no funding, so I continued to put in my hours without pay.  For most of the year my efforts were considered null even though I was in the lab logging more hours and generating more data than many of the paid researchers.  It seemed I had gotten my acknowledgement when funding finally came that June, nine months after I had started.  It turned out that the grant had actually been secured for me by my adviser who knew I was staying in town for the summer to continue my research.  Now four months into this new project, I still didn’t understand the basis for most of my experiments, didn’t understand how to analyze whatever data I was continuously generating, and generally didn’t know what was happening.  The lab was becoming emptier. On occasions I would arrive and find the lab was just closed for the day, lights off and doors locked.  My mentor was busy with his prelims.  There was no support or acknowledgement of my frustrations.  I remember one day where I repeatedly asked for clarification, followed the directions I was given, and was then told I had done it incorrectly and had to redo it.  I messed it up again because the numbers I had been given was wrong.  I remember tearing up in the lab and managed to excuse myself for the evening, then crying out of sheer frustration in the women’s bathroom.

I wasn’t the only one frustrated.  One of the other undergrads left the lab, citing the lack of support and poor treatment, including some degree of sexism, from the professional researchers. The lab was falling apart at the seams.  Water occasionally dripped from pipelines running above our workbenches.  The equipment was all older than I was, and the bigger equipment was twice my age.  Our fridges wouldn’t maintain their temperatures.  Experiments would frequently be delayed for a day or two while my mentor tinkered with equipment, trying to fix things that someone else had broken. Someone had broken a rubber ring on the fermenter and tried to replace it with a ring of parafilm. We had two HPLCs, and one of them was broken the entire year I was there.  When questioned, I was told fixing it would be pointless because if we had a second working one then someone would break it knowing there was still the second. When we started having weekly lab group presentations, sharing our data and progress, it devolved immediately.  One person would present, and the rest would sit around the table finding the most useless and particular questions to ask in an attempt to one-up the presentation.  We stopped having meetings again as our PI flew in and out of the US.  The problem with the lab wasn’t that we were complacent or poked fun at each other and each other’s research, or asked legitimate questions to encourage growth.  It was openly hostile.  Asking for help accomplished nothing. Undergraduates were not encouraged to ask questions in the lab or ask for help. We also weren’t allowed to work without someone else  in the lab, because it was well understood that we didn’t know what we were doing and were a danger to ourselves.  

There’s no way of explaining how exhausted or ill working in that specific setting had made me.  It was a collection of small things.  The inherent frustration of research–constant failure and constant redesign–barely registered through the entire experience.  The frustration of not being able to express myself, being isolated, lacking financial/intellectual/mental support, and not having working equipment built up to become hair-pulling.  I stopped wanting to come to lab.  Then I stopped wanting to go to school.  For a while I entertained just dropping out completely and fulfilling my life’s dream of becoming a subsistence potato farmer in rural Idaho. My partner patiently reminded me my life goals were bigger than potatoes.  My friends reminded me my life goals were more than potatoes. My family wanted me to have more than potatoes.  Everyone severely underestimates potatoes. All the meanwhile my family life devolved in the background.  There were three months where at any given point I had a family member in a hospital.  I was constantly on the edge of a mental breakdown. 

I left at the end of August for a week’s vacation, which extended into a month because of a medical emergency.  Away from the lab–even with other major stresses–my anxiety receded.  I was coping better with my depression.  I resolved not to go back and I didn’t.  I withdrew from the lab, citing family responsibilities and health problems.  I was, and am, completely disenchanted with lab-based research.  My career goals had been decimated because I don’t believe I have the discipline or willpower to pursue a PhD.  I am skeptical of the quality of any letter of recommendation or reference I could get from that lab because of how my PI rarely interacted with me and the way I suddenly made my exit, abandoning a lot of responsibilities. Exhausted by research, never mind a full thesis, I am switching majors to a good and simple Biology degree and taking my minor and certificate with me.  I’m not sure what my new career goal will be.  MD, PharmD, JD focusing in health law, or maybe a MS or PhD in a different field. 

Despite the frustrations and discrimination my peers and I dealt with in that lab, I learned so so so much and am very grateful to have gotten the opportunity.  I learned a lot of lab techniques and shortcuts. I learned how to present and communicate my research, how to interact with vendors, how to get funding (alternatively: how not to get grants), and saw a lot about graduate school and what it really took to get a lab-based research degree at the doctoral level.  I saw my mentor’s frustrations, even with his decade of experience, and how it was shaping his career and effecting his family life.  My scientific writing improved.  I pushed myself to new limits and, optimistically, I’d like to say I grew as a person. I also learned some things that I’m glad I haven’t taken for granted, which is what I don’t want to do with my life.  I learned how to put myself and my health first, even if it means giving up on amazing opportunities.  I learned how to tell when something was becoming too much for me to handle or deal with.  I learned where my breaking point was, which is at an 18 credit term with 20 hours a week of research (orgo chem, physics, cell bio, and tech writing made for a pretty brutal term). 

Even with the disastrous experience I went through with academic pharma research, I still want to have more research experience–just in a completely different field.  I’m going to pick research that I am interested in and because it’s what I want to learn more about, not because I need research experience to fill a requirement or to bolster my resume (although that’s a bonus).  I’m looking at PIs who are focused in health literacy, or quantifying legislative effects, or nanotoxicology. 

If you want to do research, it ought to be something you genuinely care about or are interested in.  Sure, you can do it if you’re indifferent or if you’ve scrounged up some everyday curiosity for it, but after a couple hundred hours you’ll be pretty goddamn miserable. No matter what it is you’re doing, if you’re going to put hundreds of hours into something, make sure you care about it.  Those are hours you will never get back.  Even in labs where there is support and people act like decent human beings, research is still not an easy task.  I’d like to think we call it research because you have to constantly be searching for reasons to continue. 

There are reasons worth continuing.  There are reasons to keep pushing forward and hunting down the answers to your questions.  Your discoveries may be small at first.  History is made by small discoveries and a random spattering of luck.  But your discoveries, no matter how revolutionary or mundane, are still discoveries.  Your work can lead to a cure.  To a difference in the way we interact with other species. To a difference in the way we interact with each other.  You can change the way we use certain materials, or the way we use the world. You can change the world.

#this took a much more autobiographical turn than i was intending it to #idk man i just wish i had someone who had told me this when i was starting as an eager young stem major #proofreading your own post is for the weak #it's nearly 2am i'm going to bed guys #studydreamrepeat #long read more is long

[thespace-dragon]

Psst you got any good sick or injured Keith fic recs?

OK! finally getting around to answering this. sorry it took so long but ive like literally had to go through all of my bookmarks to find some, and even then the ones im about to rec are pretty loose on the sick/injured Keith.

Needless to say, theres lots of angst, some have happy endings, some dont. Ill add the warnings in for each rec

Finding Home by spacegaykogane

Warnings: N/ASummary: After the wormhole collapses, Keith finds himself stranded on a strange planet. Alone. Until Lance comes along.With their lions dead and resources limited, Keith and Lance need to put aside their differences and work together to get home.Wherever that may be, now.WC: 26966 (6/6)General Notes: Its the typical fic of Lance and Keith getting stranded on a planet post s1 wormhole collapse. From what i remember its told mostly through Keith’s pov and I enjoyed it for all its worth. 7/10

we’ll make it, you and me by asexualrey

Warnings: Major character injurySummary: "Keith, if we make it out of this alive, I'm going to kiss you." WC: 6421General Notes: I really wish i remembered more of this one, i can only tell you that it was good. Lance is the one that ends up hurt the most, but like both of them are pretty beat up. 8/10

The Six Gun Sound (Our Claim to Fame) by Mytay

Warning: N/ASummary: “We’re not robbing the bank of the biggest crime lord here, Lance. Do you have a death wish?!”“Let’s just do our damn best to not die. I am too gorgeous to expire this early, dude — I haven’t even hit my prime yet.”Six weeks after crashing landing on this miserable world, the Red and Blue Paladins are on the verge of losing everything. This is how Lance and Keith turned it all around and earned their badass reputation as The Two McClains: Mercenaries That Get The Job Done.WC: 13181General Notes: They both get pretty scuffed up in this one, and its more of that dynamic duo action. i really love these two as space mercenaries/pirates. 8/10

Keith’s Scar by 61feathers

Warning: N/ASummary:Keith and Lance comfort each other later after Keith tells everyone he is Galra.Lance didn't get the chance to tell Keith his scar is actually really sexy though.WC: 1134General Notes: Short and sweet post ep8. You know that shoulder injury he gets, all about that. 8/10

all we have to do by akinghtley

Warning: N/ASummary: Keith gets hurt during a mission, and Lance is not sure how to handle that.Lance wakes up on the floor outside of the medical bay, jerking wildly, body a mess of aches and twinges.WC: 19418General Notes: summary pretty tells all there is to this fic, and its pretty much all this, and Lance not knowing what to do with himself really. I loved it. 9/10

Don’t Forget to Remember Me by CamelotQueen

Warning: N/ASummary: Keith recognizes him immediately. Alarm bells go off in his head. This person is important, he thinks. He wishes he could remember.“Keith!” he exclaims, “Look who’s finally awake. How are you feeling today?”Keith falters. His mind is working a mile a minute trying to recall this person’s name, what he is to him.“Um… who are you?” he asks dumbly. He immediately regrets it._______Keith suffers from dissociative amnesia.WC: 4107General Notes: a;sdkjgnasah this fic, holy shit, keith with amneisia kills me. my heart hurt the whole time, ust ughhhh. He’s not necessarily hurt but Lance is there taking care of him and boy, the domestic life suits them, but damn does it hurt. 10/10

Homecoming by Thesis

Warnings: Major Character DeathSummary: Two deaths and one funeral. Keith has trouble readjusting to Earth and Lance has trouble dealing with Keith. WC: 9845General Notes: I’m emotional over this still and i havent read it in forever ok/ thats all i gotta say. 9/10

bruises by Chaosandthecalm

Warning: N/ASummary: "Show me how much you hate me.”Keith wants to know what Lance's problem is. The answer might surprise him.WC: 3632 (3/3)General Notes: Boys being boys and being idiots. What can you do. 7/10

Of booty shorts and Injuries by Queerklancing

Warning: N/ASummary: Keith is sure that he’s having a heart attack. Or that he hurt his brain when he fell earlier. Because it’s simply not possible that the boy who’s sitting next to him is not a hallucination. How could someone so gorgeous just sit in an emergency room at night?"Keith and Lance unexpectantly meet at the emergency room in the middle of the night.WC: 23862 (4/4)General Notes: lmao this one is great, def not as heavy as the others, but both of these doofuses get injured. keith is a hockey player and lance has legs for days. enjoy. 10/10

Prison Bonds by GriffinRose

Warning: N/ASummary: Keith and Lance are captured and stuck in a cell together, but it's not the Galra. They almost wish it was. These Cordalians feed off of emotions, and their favorite emotion is sadness. Worse, they've found a way to make their victims relive their worst memories to make that pain fresh again, and Keith has a lot of terrible memories he'd rather not relive.WC: 18925 (8/8)General Notes: just read it. please. 10/10

Heroes by battleshidge/Amiria_Raven

Warning: Graphic Depictions of ViolenceSummary: “My mom always hated the Garrison and what we were supposed to do there. I never got it. How can you despise the idea of being a hero?” Lance laughed a little here, dryly. “But I think I understand now.”He took a shuddering breath.“Because heroes aren’t meant to survive,” he choked, and then buried his face as the tears started falling again.WC: 8463General Notes: askgjnafbab, lance breaking down in this fic hurt my heart. 8/10

of florists and tennis shoes by venpast

Warning: N/ASummary: 'Lance wasn’t sure if he’d imagined the brief tremble at the corner of Keith’s lips or not, that slight stutter that promised a smile. But before he could guess further, Keith gave his knee a shove and got to his feet. He reached out to him, “I’m done here, and I’ve still got some daisies to sell you.”“Yeah,” Lance agreed, looking down at the extended palm, noting the little Saturn tattoo on the inside of Keith’s wrist where the sleeve hiked. He took the hand, “better not overprice those too, you asshole.”'(in which lance is a broke university student trying to impress a pretty girl with flowers, but ends up falling for the florist that sells them instead.)WC: 63774 (11/11)General Notes: This isn’t the kind of physical hurt that most people think of, but Keith does get emotionally hurt in this one and it just breaks my heart. i really loved this, its wonderfully written, and its just, wow. 10/10

Echoes of the Past by Gigapoodle

Warning: Graphic Depictions of ViolenceSummary: It was his fault. He shouldn’t have retreated – he should have ran after them, Galra forces be damned, and ripped the red paladin right out of his weaponized hands, shooting the commander dead on the spot.But he hadn’t. Lance stood there, frozen with adrenaline and fear, before backing out with tears in his eyes, justifying it to himself by saying, ‘he won’t get far, we can easily get him back once I have Voltron with me.’He’d forgotten they didn’t have Voltron. He’d forgotten that without Keith, Voltron was nothing.Keith is Galra. Keith is gone. Keith is Galra. Keith is gone.WC: 28197 (yes one chapter)General Notes: this is more along the lines of keith finding out he is galra and hence running away its still one of the best fics in this fandom imo. 10/10

i can’t help but want by aknightley

warning: N/ASummary: Lance deals with the aftermath of being sucked into a black hole and stranded on an alien planet.When Lance wakes up, all he can see is blue.WC: 16921General Notes: more of klance being stranded on a planet post wormhole collapse, and just yes. 10/10

Just Static by Jessadilla/wobblyarms

Warning: N/ASummary: --Static-----iro, Hunk, Kei---, nybody? I’m-----static----I’m sorry guys. This is all my----static--cc-----I found my coordinates. They’re---stttcc--guys. I hear something-----scccc--end transmission-Alone on a hostile planet, transmissions aren't getting through. How did it come to this?WC: 84141 (16/16)General Notes: just holy fuck. this fic made me cry, like straight up. it is more than likely one of the few fics that have made me cry, and i dont cry easy. 100/10

#klance #keith #fic recs #holy moly #those are like all the really good angst fics i have centered around keith #i really tried with this #sick/injured keith is not something i find often #and most of the time its because of emotional damage #sorry if some of these arent what you were looking for #but theyre all great fics #fawnvanilla #dragon answers

[badacts]

Do you think Neil has a binder (solely) for Andrew (and him) and one for his Foxes? What's inside the binder(s)? And ohh btw I just simply love your hc about the photos ((and i want more bec i love you and your hcs so much))

thanks bb

(neil only got the binders because he can’t cover every spare inch of the walls of their apartments in photos and articles - even he recognises that it would make it look like a serial stalker’s den. yes, andrew’s slightly judgmental expression did help him to reach that conclusion)

anyway, a list of some of the contents of neil’s post-graduation binders:

every photograph and article about kevin day neil can get his hands on - and there’s a lot of them. kevin holding trophies, kevin with his teams, kevin and thea in elegant clothes at big events, kevin smiling in a way that starts fake but gets more real as the years pass. kevin, alive. kevin, victorious. kevin with everything that riko tried to take from him. (enough of them that andrew made a dry comment or two about neil at least being predictable in his obsessions) (he’s quietly satisfied by the progression, too)

articles on robin, as both a fox and afterwards, concrete proof of neil’s work as a captain and andrew’s...something neil isn’t quite sure of sometimes, still. photos of her standing tall and proud, no trace of the mousey child who was nearly too afraid to be a fox

a collection of postcards addressed to them both in renee’s neat hand - pictures of mountain ranges and jungles and forests and deserts and cityscapes, ones that still make neil think about a different kind of travel than the frightened bolt he and his mother did across half the planet all those years ago with that vague kind of longing for something different

the entire photographic coverage of allison’s first fashion show (neil was there, which meant andrew was there. unsurprisingly, andrew ‘i wear designer clothes’ minyard found it more interesting than neil ‘the height of fashion is my partner’s oversized hoodie and these jeans that i’ve had for ten years’ josten)

a heavy piece of cream card inviting neil and andrew to the wedding of nicholas hemmick and erik klose (they went. neil had never seen nicky happier)

a picture of matt and neil hugging on the court after eschewing the more normal post-game handshake, wearing different colours and smiles

articles following dan’s career, from her first teams through to the foxes, including photos of her familiarly disapproving and determined and delighted expression on the sidelines or amongst her players

a collection of photos taken by various foxes at their ‘reunions’ - matt and dan curled in the same armchair, dan laughing because she’s getting squashed. renee braiding allison’s hair, her face all careful concentration, while allison sits on the floor between her knees drinking wine. aaron and kevin arguing, for old time’s sake. nicky and andrew making drinks while erik watches on in the background. all of them together in one mess, no one looking the right way, someone’s eyes closed, someone laughing a little bit too hard - perfect

a singular photo of jean moreau, helmet under his arm as he looks down at jeremy knox, the man he followed through the professional leagues post-college. he’s smiling in it, grey eyes crinkled in the corners. (neil can’t quite explain why he kept it - he doesn’t look at it much. when he does, he remembers)

a collection of articles about andrew on the court, from his first year pro all the way through. articles that still call him dangerous, but mean it in relation to the scoring percentages of his opposition. photos of him stretched out in goal, immortalised in brutal determination, beside total strangers calling him talented, even calling him revolutionary because of his style of play

more articles about andrew, off of the court - andrew as an icon, flat-faced beside LGBT campaigners for sports, speaking bluntly and truthfully and tactlessly at events as an invited guest. 

andrew, whose thesis on the treatment of mentally ill juveniles in the justice system was publicised by a psu student, who stared at everyone who questioned him about it in a way that unmistakably said i meant what i wrote

andrew, the survivor, who donates so much of his salary to a variety of causes, who did before anyone knew and who continued after it became public like he didn’t give a fuck because he didn’t

photos of the andrew that belong to neil, ones that make andrew curl his lip if neil pins them up - he and his brother standing shoulder to shoulder at the reception of aaron’s wedding, caught on camera by the official photographer in a very rare moment of understanding. him bathed in the light of a sunset on their balcony, all golden. he and neil together wearing red, white and blue in the locker room of a foreign stadium, ready to walk on the court for their country. him on the couch, asleep on his belly with one of the cats curled up in the cup of his lower back

(neil doesn’t mean to document his own history, only theirs - it happens by accident. there’s a photo of him beside kevin, medals around both of their necks at a world cup final. a photo him in the audience of an event where andrew is on the stage, photographed looking up from the crowd with a slight smile on his face included in an article on andrew. one from a reunion, taken from behind him and andrew with the sun turning them to silhouettes, including where their hands are curled together between them. a headshot of him from a where are they now-style article on the first ncaa champion fox team, scars on display and stare as bright and challenging as ever - still alive)

#the foxhole court #andreil #the foxes #nerdy headcanons #prompts #Anonymous