#redneck rage rising

[bonefarm]

The notes on a recent post got me thinking

By nature, I’m a fan of having 2 beers and meeting strangers at a bar somewhere you’ve never been, which is a thing that we don’t do in 2023 between COVID and being afraid of one another because of the prevalence of gun violence and regular violence and misdirected road rage and the million other little deadly social erosions of the past 10 years or so.

You have got to let go of this idea that any place is a complete nothing-burger full of nothing-people.

You have to.

Its vitally important that you navigate that airport with a stranger in Denver and realize he’s got a tattoo of lyrics from your favorite song. To sing House of the Rising Sun with four people you’ve known for 2 hours (and somehow managed to get into the DNCs private bar with) in the back of an Uber in DC when it’s pissing rain and entirely too cold for your southern blood. It’s important to cooperate and solve problems together and go about it laughing and singing. We are silly little creatures that love a puzzle and a story.

It’s also important to flee a tornado in the back of a shitty red pickup at pride in Oklahoma City and feel the sky break wide-open against the lazy /tick-lok/ /tick-lok/ of the windshield wipers while racing down what once was Rte 66. Its important to know that in the face of creeping fascism that place, of all places, has entire gay neighborhoods. It’s important to wake up in an apartment high, high up in NYC and watch the sun through the buildings and boulevards and watch the glorious great goddamn of that impossible number of people all cooperating and all not. To say Hyoo-stun, that way, on purpose just to get a rise of your born and bred NY friend who does NOT think you’re funny but will make coffee for you.

You need to see a beach full of people cautiously approaching and flinching away from a floating, dead horseshoe crab on Tybee Island, Georgia the way any troupe of wild animals approaches an unknown alien thing. Cows in a field, fish in the ocean flinching from a diver. Little children squealing and wide eyed behind their parents legs. You need to be the person that walks out and picks it up and watches the rest of the crowd creep in to investigate.

I don’t get to travel a lot in the way that most people do, when I go to a place it’s usually because something bad has happened there, but I have found it universally true that most people just want to tell you a story or show you a picture on their phone of the craziest thing they’ve ever seen and they don’t particularly care who you are or what your accent is. Sometimes they do, and those people suck, but those people are not the majority.

Sometimes if you let an old redneck talk he’ll tell you everything you never wanted to know about forensic accounting. Sometimes you’ll meet someone in the middle of the biggest city in the US who knows everything about show pigs. I’ve been to the smallest Kansas towns and the biggest cities in the US and I’ve found none of them were full of nothing.

#if you want to be weird and negative and play the gotcha game here I will simply kill you

[empressbergeron]

Anyone want to help me solve the mystery of the horse in my backyard?

Crucial information:

I do not own a horse.

No one near me seems to own a horse.

I did not *see* the horse.

I did not *hear* the horse.

Evidence of horse:

Big Honking Hoofprints. Just, everywhere. I’m no tracker, but, I mean... hooves. It’s not hard.

What do YOU think the horse left in my backyard? Yep. Twice. Thanks, horse.

Additional information:

The unwanted guest seems to have wandered around for a while.

There were a couple of forays into the front yard, but it was mostly in the back.

Tracks near the road, but none on it.

Tracks near the back gate, but no disturbed foliage past the gate, so it couldn’t have come that way?

Hypothesis:

Human Intruder on horseback (but I didn’t hear them) (and how did they get here) (and why didn’t they get knocked off when they went under the arbor?)

Horse intruder (but how did it get here) (and why) (and where did it go)

Ghost horse. (No data against)

Other theories welcome.

#horse #ghost adventures #headless horseman #maybe a ghost #ghost horse #is a ghost scarier than a human on horseback? #no it is not #horse latrine #IN MY YARD #mystery #horse in a hospital #except its not #because it’s in my back yard #what is going on #why is my life so weird #redneck rage rising #do not want #do not like #rude af #tag rant #sanity slipping #losing my marbles #i’m going to bed #oh and I was checking for a water leak at the time #because we can’t have nice things #or even one weird thing at a time #AND I almost busted my ass on a broken step #and in a hole #and on a branch #i need an adult

[smis-five-creedmoor]

I think the reason for the seeming rise in "dogwhistles" is because of the fact that every word uttered is put through a fine tooth comb, but with none of the context behind it.

It's less "there's an increase of such dogwhistles being used and therefore the Far Right is on the rise" and more "I'm projecting something."

I'd give examples, but I know there's gonna be some Big Brained people coming at me saying I'm inviting Far Right Extremists for daring to question this shit.

...

Ah fuck it. I've already lost many mutuals over this shit (of course, for sake of their privacy and security, I won't use their name).

There's a post from an ex-mutual who, to paraphrase, said something along the lines of "the Far Right will attempt to infiltrate your friend group by appearing as though they only have legitimate questions, only to lure you into their grasp."

Are there people that will use your goodwill against you? Yes, absolutely. However not everyone who has a different viewpoint is necessarily a bigot. The worst you'd expect most of the time is they're wrong.

Take Scott Cawthorn as an example. Seemingly overnight, he went from a beloved indie dev who is also the shining example of whom all indie devs should strive to be, to a pariah worthy of having his entire family doxxed.

Because he donated to conservative politicians.

"Oh but he's supporting racists!" "These people are a danger to Minorities!" etc etc

Okay, let's assume the worst. Let's assume that Scott Cawthorn did indeed donate to raging Neo Nazis. Have you tried calling out those very same politicians? Or would you rather attack someone for being kinda ignorant of the fact that he donated to said politicians?

This, of course, assumes that all conservatives are raging racist rednecks.

I've yet to address the biggest elephant in the room:

This shit is culty as fuck. And I know damn well what a cult looks like. Us Vs Them? Check. Depicting detractors and ex-adherents as sneaky and/or diseased and mere association is enough to call you a pariah? Bigger check. Obsession with Death? Jon Battleborn is struggling to put in any bigger of a check here, my dude.

A while ago I made a post about politics taking over religion as the new religion. I've now come to the conclusion that this shit's worse than I thought back then.

I need me some mead.

[flamingredanon]

Henry gets amnesia:

Reg and righty ran to the Henry’s farm, looking around it, it was cute, sweet, but something wasn’t right.

Righty turned and sees Henry “Henry!” Henry’s hair was pulled back in a ponytail and looked like a mix of a farmer and a redneck.

Righty hugged Henry “Henry! We’re found you!”

Henry pulled his body back “You city focks lost?”

Reg put a hand over his mouth, no.. please no. “Henry… it’s us, your husbands.”

Henry blinked “I’m married? Man… I didn’t know.” He removed two rings from His pocket “these?”

Reg and righty hug Henry before pulling him into the house, Henry make them some cups of coffee.

Reg was calling Henry’s dads, telling them they found him but he think he’s farmer.

Terrence, Wilford and Randy arrived at the farmhouse before nightfall and Henry began to explain what happened.

"I woke up with my clothes all tore up and my head was pounding and not a lick of memories other then my name being Henry. I wandered around this area untill this strange Government man found me"

"Since I was near this here farm, I asked the fellow if I lived here. Apparently his memory wasn't the best cause he had to think abit before confirming that I did so, that I was a mighty good farmer. I thanked him for his deed and he was soon off."

"Though since you two came along with the three older fellows, something is itching my brain that this ain't quite right."

Reginald felt a fury of anger rise up, it was the Government's fault in the first place that Henry was hurt, then they lie to him instead of getting him help!

Right held Reginald's hand as Terrence spoke up, seeing the rage in Reginald's eyes.

"Well Henry, we three fellow are your fathers, we adopted you when you were just a small baby. And those men over there are your husbands."

"I know you just can't take our words at face value, but I brought along the family photo album along with a few other things so that we can show you that we aren't lying."

Henry pondered abit before asking to look at the photo album, wanting to look through it alone for awhile.

Everyone respected Henry's wishes, knowing that only he could remember his own memories.

Henry didn't make any sort of expression at first, turning pages ever so often, but then a quizzical look befell Henry as he spoke out loud.

"I... think I remember this event... I wanted to be a large scary pumpkin for Halloween, but I think... only... only... Papa was able to make it because... Dad and Pappy were sick with something and... Papa tried his best... but the costume he made wasn't very good."

Henry looked at Wilford, who came over to Henry and saw the pictures.

"You can say the costume sucked, because it so very much sucked. But yes, that did very much happen, Terry and Randy had a bad flu going around so all the dad duties fell to me."

Henry looked through more pictures as tears started welling up, remembering things slowly as he looked at each picture.

And then Henry saw his wedding photos, of him, Reginald and Right walking down the aisle, of their kisses and of the party afterwards.

Each photo caused tears to fall, with Henry clutching his head at one point before taking the wedding rings out of his pocket, his voice cracking as he spoke.

"I remember... I remember! I am Sir Henry Copperbottom Manfred Suave Radman! I remember Papa, Dad and Pappy! I... I remember Righty and Reggie and co leading the Toppats with Reggie dear. I remember now..."

Henry put on his rings as Right and Reginald ran to Henry, hugging and kissing him as Henry found himself kissing his husbands as well.

Wilford tucked the photo album back into his coat as everyone decided to leave, with Henry asking "Does anyone know who's farm this even is? Because it sure isn't any of ours."

There was a silence before Terrence replied "I wouldn't worry about too much. Knowing the Government, it was probably some ploy to get you arrested while you couldn't defend yourself."

Henry soon gave each of his dads a hug as they headed back home, with Right soon carrying Henry and Reginald as they headed back to the Airship, together.

#lizzyask #henry stickmin #right hand man #reginald copperbottom #terrence suave #randy radman #sir wilford iv #sirrave #copperrightmin #wedding #photos #memories #amnesia #memory loss #remembering #injury

[soniaxdixon]

Truth or Dare pt. 2

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Spencer being a dick again (Tries to raise his hands but Daryl doesn’t let him) cheating, mention of blood. Ends with some good ol’ fluff though.

Summary: Pt 2 to Truth or Dare, Reader finds out Spencer spent the night with another girl and goes to confide in Rosita but Daryl answers the door. Shit breaks out in the street reader ends up with the one who’s right for her.

Word count: 1151

Your night was long, tossing and turning on your bed thinking about how you would fix your relationship with Daryl and if you even wanted to continue your relationship with Spencer. Before you knew it the sun was rising and you were pushing yourself off your bed. You walked over to the bathroom and turned the shower on, stepping in and letting the water rush over your body in an attempt to wash away the events of last night. Thoughts swirled through your mind, decisions had to be made. You turned the shower off and dried your body, you decided to tackle the Spencer situation first.

You headed for Deanna’s, thinking that her house was the place he would have most likely spent the night. You held your breath walking up her stairs, surely Spencer had spoken about last night. You knocked and waited for her to answer.

“Y/n, what a pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?” Was she being sarcastic?

“Uh hey Deanna…Is Spencer here?”

“Why would he be here?” So he wasn’t here, where was he?

“Oh, um, we kind of had a bit of a disagreement yesterday and he didn’t come home.” That was an understatement.

“Why didn’t he come home?”

“That’s kinda on me, I told him not to, but I thought he would just come here.”

“I’m sure you had your reasons, I hope you two sort things out.”

You gave her a weak smile before heading over to Rick’s place, you knocked on the door and Daryl answered, your breath hitched as he stared down at you without saying a word.

“Hey, uh, hi. Have you uh, have you seen Spencer?”

He just grunted and shook his head no but Rosita popped out from around the corner.

“He went over to Jessica’s last night, said he was spending the night there.”

“Thanks Ro.” You smiled at her and looked back at Daryl for a second before turning on your heels and heading for Jessica’s. Daryl and your relationship seemed to be fleeting from you a lot faster than you thought, was there anything left to salvage or did you make things too awkward beyond repair?

You arrived at Jessica’s and knocked on the door but there was no answer, you knocked again, louder but still nothing. You twisted the handle and the door cracked open, you shouldn’t be doing this you thought to yourself.

“Hello? Is anyone home?” No answer. You looked around briefly before walking up the stairs slowly until you stopped walking completely to the sound of creaking and soft moans. A sudden rage of anger filled confidence washed through you as you barged up the stairs and threw the door open.

“Oh my fucking God, what the fuck, Spencer!?”

Spencer threw Jessica off of him and she wrapped the blanket around herself before yelling back. “What the hell, get out!”

“Y/n it’s not what it looks like” Spencer tried to plead.

“What the fuck does it look like to you Spencer, because it looks to me like you were balls deep in another girl.”

“You were the one that fucking kicked me out last night.”

“I told you to spend the night somewhere else not in someone else, douchebag.”

You couldn’t hold onto your anger anymore as sudden waves of sadness started rolling in. You stormed out of the room as tears began uncontrollably streaming down your face. Why were you even crying over a dick like him, it didn’t make sense but you felt so betrayed, so broken. You rushed over to your groups house and knocked hard, Daryl answered again.

“Is Rosita here? I need Rosita.”

“Nah she’s on watch, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just need Ro.” You turned to walk away towards the guard posts but Daryl grabbed your shoulder and spun you back around.

“Sure doesn’t seem like nothing, what happened. Did he do something.”

“Just forget about it Daryl, I’m fine, not like you care anyway.”

“What makes you think I don’t care?”

“I said forget about it.” You turned to walk away again but you were halted by your name being called down the street as Spencer ran towards you. You mumbled “shit” as you hastily wiped your eyes. “What the fuck do you want?”

“I want to apologise, she meant nothing to me.”

“The hell’s goin’ on?” Daryl stormed over and placed himself protectively in front of you.

“Stay out if it, stupid redneck.”

You had reached your limit, you pushed past Daryl and swung your right hand, hitting Spencer square in the jaw. “I told you not to talk about him like that.”

“Dumb bitch, that was a mistake.” Spencer raised his hand, you braced for the hit but it never came. When you opened your eyes Daryl was on top of him, landing punch after punch. You could hear bones cracking until Daryl finally stopped. Spencer spat out blood that had filled his mouth as more ran down from his nose, his eyes already began to bruise. Daryl stood up and moved away from Spencer’s limp but conscious body and walked quickly over to you. He began running his hands along your arms and your face, lifting your chin gently with his fingers as he checked you for any signs of being injured. You melted into his touch and he noticed, leaving his hand on your cheek and looking into your eyes.

“Are you okay?” You asked him, pushing his hair behind his ear that had fallen in front of his eyes.

“M’ okay. Ya alright?”

“I am now.” By now a small crowed was gathering.

“What happened?”

“He cheated on me, caught him in the middle of fucking another girl.” Hearing this, Daryl walked over to Spencers body and landed one hard final kick to his dick. “Daryl, you handled it, he’s down.”

“Just wanna make sure he stays that way.” He looked back over to Spencer who was now rolling in pain.

“Hey can we talk?” Daryl nodded and you grabbed his hand gently leading him over to his porch, leaving Spencer on the ground, someone else could deal with him. “Last night, I didn’t mean to push you into anything, I didn’t mean to throw that at you like that.”

“Stop. It took everything in me not to kiss ya last night.”

“Why didn’t you?” Your eyes were filled with questions as you stared up at him

“Because ya were with him, I thought ya had it good and I didn’t wanna ruin it for ya.”

You couldn’t help but admire him even more. “I’m not with him anymore.”

A smirk spread across his face as he suddenly grabbed you around the waist and threw you over his shoulder, opening the door and carrying you down to his bedroom. “Nah, ya mine now.”

He made sure you knew that. He made sure everyone knew that.

#daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixon x you #you x daryl dixon #you x daryl #daryl x you #y/n x daryl #y/n x daryl dixon #twd #twd fic #twd series #twd fanfiction #the walking dead #the walking dead fic #the walking dead imagine

[twdeadlysins]

Don’t Listen

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader 

Word Count: 2.9k

Summary: The Governor wants information and will do whatever it takes to get it from you and Daryl. // Set during Season 3

Request: Could I request a Daryl x Reader with the prompt “How come she loves you?” Where basically the Governor has captured them both at some point during season 3 and is trying to get them both to talk. Daryl and the reader can each hear what is happening to the other, and the Governor tries some emotional manipulation by saying the prompt. Then Rick&Co come to rescue them and they have a tearful reunion. If you decide to write this thank you! Your fanfics are the best ❤❤  // @harpersmariano

Warnings: angst, fluff, abuse (physically + mentally), the usual walking dead themes, and possible typos by yours truly 

A/N: I apologize for the wait! I changed this fic SOOO many times because there were so many routes I could take with it. 

The gifs I use aren’t mine, so all credit goes to their respective owners.

MASTERLIST

The constant shouts, grunts, and the deafening sound of fists colliding with skin made you viciously thrash against your restraints. The rope that bound your wrists was harshly rubbing against your sweaty skin as you used all your strength to lift them, hoping to somehow break free. 

It was useless, you were very aware. 

There was no way you could tear the material just by tugging on it, but you refused to sit there and do nothing while Daryl was relentlessly getting beat on for information.

You and the hunter were on a supply run specifically looking for baby formula for the newest addition to the group, while also keeping an eye out for anything else that could be useful. After you had walked out the store with what you needed and some other necessities, you were met with a gun and a familiar face.  

Merle Dixon. 

The presumed dead redneck had grabbed you and placed the weapon to the side of your temple before Daryl stepped out the door, having no choice but to abide by his brother’s commands. 

You arrived at a town and were discreetly guided to a building where they separated you from your lover. The wall was super thin, so you heard every sound that was emitted from the room. You’d bet that you could hear a pin drop from where you were seated. 

Silence. 

The methods of getting information were no more, which left you confused as you halted your struggle. Were you supposed to feel relieved or worried? Did they leave and give Daryl a break or did they end it and kill him? 

Before you could ask if he was okay, there was sudden noise of someone fiddling with the door knob to unlock it. Your head whipped to the sound that was once trained on the wall beside you, waiting with an anxious, but curious gaze as to who would step through. The numerous failed attempts of breaking free, and the unknown of who was behind the door and what would happen to you made your chest heave, replacing air faster than the punches that were thrown in the other room. 

When the door swiftly opened, your blood began to boil, orbs filling with rage that replaced your anxiety. The amount of hatred that spilled from you prompted you to clench your teeth, refraining yourself from snarling at the man that strided in the room with pride and a smile plastered on his face. 

He pulled a wooden chair out with the back facing you, situating himself before he nonchalantly rested his forearms on the top. 

“Got yer panties in a bunch, sweetheart?” 

“Shut up, Merle.” 

You had no patience for his bullshit and since he was in such a fantastic mood, you assumed Daryl was alright. Despite Merle letting them torment his brother, he would be devastated if he was hurt beyond return. 

His features crinkled with amusement as a chuckle rumbled through him, which earned you to scoff and roll your eyes, not finding anything humorous. 

“Yer a feisty one, can’t believe my baby brother got a fine piece of ass like yerself.” He laughed once again, making you furrow your brows as a question swirled in your head, despite wanting to drop kick him for that comment.  

“Speakin’ of your brother, why are you letting them do this to him? Thought you were supposed to protect him? You're his big brother.” 

His smirk morphed into confidence. “M’baby brother tough, but he’ll eventually cave. Always does. We were plannin’ on robbin’ the group blind and leavin’ before y’all even knew what hit ya. But y’all left me on that roof before we could, leavin’ me to do this.” Merle lifted his arm, presenting the creation that was made to replace his hand. “So I doubt it’ll take long for him to rat where yer keepin’ each other warm at night,” he said through a smile.  

He was alive, that was your confirmation. You didn’t care about their plan, it wasn’t news to you. Daryl had admitted their intention with the group to you during the winter months when you had to travel to different places to find shelter.  

Your head tilted as you hummed in disagreement. “Don’t think so. Daryl isn’t the quiet, obedient follower you knew — that you turned him into. He’s helpful, reliable, strong, smart, a leader, and much more, but most importantly he’s himself — something he masked to please you.” 

Before the older Dixon could retort, a muffled cough came from the other room followed by a voice. The voice of his torturer. He was elated that Daryl was finally awake and ready to resume their previous activities, except physical torture wasn’t on the agenda anymore it seemed. 

“So you and — what’s her name?”

Nothing. 

You could only imagine Daryl’s reaction. He was very protective over you, so you knew he was clamping his jaw shut — trying his hardest not to give in.

“Ah! Y/N, that’s it. You and her a couple?” 

It fell quiet once again, which only encouraged the man to push further. 

“Gotta speak up, Daryl,” his voice boomed. “Cause I’m gonna take your silence as a no and walk in that room. Show her who a real man is.” His voice was taunting and whispery towards the end, making you assume he moved to speak behind the archer, right next to his ear. 

“Don’ ya touch her,” Daryl grunted and you heard the chair scrape against the floor.

You were his weakness and it was a conflicting feeling.

He wouldn’t let anyone hurt you, he would do anything to protect you — he loved you. Daryl didn’t have to say those three words for you to know, he easily did it by his actions or with different words like the ones he just spoke. 

But if the wrong people knew, you were in a great deal of trouble like you were in now. 

The man in charge was going to use your relationship to his advantage, to get what he wanted. Although you didn’t want him to know where your family was, you also didn’t want Daryl to get hurt anymore than he already had — but you’d have to cooperate for that to happen. 

“Just gimme what I want n’ I won’t touch a hair on her pretty lil’ head.” 

You closed your eyes, hoping he wouldn’t reveal the location. Although you had faith in Daryl that he wouldn’t utter a word, there was a chance he would confess so nothing was inflicted upon you. If the roles were reversed, you would do the same, so you didn’t blame him one bit.

When his offer didn’t receive an answer, you let go the breath you were holding and slowly opened your eyes, giving Merle a side-eye when he tsked and shook his head that his brother still wasn’t giving in. 

Before you could make a snide comment towards the one-handed man, you heard the leader tell Daryl that he had enough, he wasn’t going to wait anymore — that he was going to pay you a visit. That had finally gotten a rise out of your boyfriend, he was yelling and violently twisting in his seat, spilling threats. 

“It’s okay, Daryl!” You had screamed over his protests and brutal promises, you couldn’t let him cave because it was your turn. He was strong, he took the physical pain while you dealt with it mentally and emotionally. The roles were going to be flipped, but it didn’t matter, you still weren’t going to say anything.

“Don’t give in, don’t give in for me, please,” you begged, not getting an answer — just silence. It was better that way, he wasn’t stopping it — wasn’t offering his compliance to the leader. 

Merle stood up and turned the chair around to face you before opening the door, finally revealing the face behind the voice that hurt the man you loved. The older Dixon left, leaving you alone and for once in your life, you wanted Merle to stay. 

The man in charge introduced himself as the Governor while he slowly stepped to take a seat in front of you, acting as if he didn’t just come out of the room Daryl was in — the room that he beat and taunted him in. 

Before the so called Governor could continue, you interrupted him, tired of the long game. “I don’t care what you have to say. I’m not going to tell you jackshit, so go ahead and do whatever you gotta do to me.” 

He chuckled with his arms crossed, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Is that what you want?” He curiously asked, getting up and squatting down to your eye level with a smirk still etched on his face.

Smiling sadistically, you leaned forward as much as you could, mere inches from his face. “Can’t let my boyfriend get all the fun, now can I?”

Of course you didn’t want to get tortured, but you weren’t going to let him think he had all the power — he wasn’t going to get anything from hurting you. You were scared, but you weren’t going to show him — you were going to mask it. 

It went on for what felt like hours. The Governor had punched, slapped, and cut while he berated you, your group, your relationship, and Daryl. In the beginning you retorted back to him, but the energy you once had dwindled. 

After a few good hits, blood filled your mouth, making you choke on your own words despite the amount of times you had spit it out. You had heard Daryl shout for him to stop, but your torturer paid no mind to him. His pleas were soon drowned out by the thumping in your ears and the Governor screaming that you were nothing, that the group was better off and weren’t looking for you. 

The Governor stumbled back as he tried to regain his breath, leaving you on the ground still tied to the chair. Once you weakly turned your head to the side to get rid of the liquid that collected in your mouth, you let out a laugh. “Is… is that all you got?” 

He let out a grunt before heading out the door. 

“Nope, I got somethin’ else.” 

You heard the door to the other room open followed by a chuckle. 

“Y/N is something else, I’ll tell you. What I don’t get is why she’s with someone like you?” 

“Shut up,” you muttered under your breath. 

“How come she loves you?” The Governor questioned. “She got tortured ‘cause of you — ‘cause you wouldn’t comply.”

“Shut up!” you weakly defended before coughing up more blood. 

“Something so simple and you couldn’t do it to spare her the pain! It’s all your fault, so why does she love you? Someone who let this happen to her? Someone who’s weak and not worth a damn of her time!” He screamed, getting louder with each sentence he spoke. 

“Don’t listen! Don’t listen to him, Daryl! This isn’t your fault!”

“You’re weak — you’re a coward — you don’t deserve her or the blood she’s spilled for you! Why does she love you, huh?” 

What you didn’t expect was Daryl’s response. 

“I don’ know why!”  

You froze at his answer, not understanding why he would say something like that. Did he really believe that he wasn’t worthy of your love? That he wasn’t good enough? 

Your heart shattered at the insecurities he held. 

“Merle,” you heard the Governor say before silence followed.

Next thing you knew, the older Dixon entered and paused, taking in your state before picking up your chair. He sliced your restraints and gently grabbed onto your arm, dragging you out the room.   

Another door opened and you caught a glimpse of Daryl at the end of a long table. He was tied to a chair with fresh tears streaming down his battered face, he looked so tired and worn, your heart ached at the sight — the same for him seeing what The Governor had done to you. 

Unknownst to you, the Governor gave Merle a look and the redneck reluctantly pushed you onto your knees, making you fumble, but you never tore your eyes off of Daryl. The Governor told Merle to leave as a gun was cocked and you didn’t have to take a peek to know that the weapon was pointed down at your head. 

“No!” Daryl cried out, wide-eyed at the scene in front of him. 

“Tell me where you and your group are staying at or I’ll blow her brains out,” he threatened. 

The hunter slowly connected his teary orbs with yours.

“Don’t tell him. It’s okay,” you put on a smile, despite the tears that wanted to spill. “I love you, Daryl. Don’t you ever forget that.” 

You closed your eyes, waiting for the bastard to pull the trigger, but Daryl hurriedly shouted out the location. 

You let out a breath and cried, trying to muffle your sobs with your hand. 

You weren’t mad at Daryl or disappointed, you would’ve done the same if a gun was pointed at his head. All you felt was relief. Death was far from what you wanted, but if that was the outcome to protect Daryl and the group — so be it.  

“The prison? That place is overrun. How’d you manage to clear that place out? How many people are in your group?” The Governor asked in bewilderment. 

“Eleven,” Daryl replied, not skipping a beat.  

The Governor was amused by that number, not believing eleven people cleared the prison to be suitable to live in. He removed the gun aimed at your head, switching on the safety before placing it back in his holster. 

“Kill them both and don’t tell Merle,” you heard him order someone when he opened the door. 

Although your body screamed at you not to, you pushed yourself up and sprinted towards Daryl, throwing your arms around his neck to clutch onto him. Your fingers were carded in his hair as he buried his face into the spot between your neck and shoulder, apologizing to you over and over again. 

You withdrew and grabbed his face, forcing him to look at you with his guilt-ridden eyes.

“You have nothing to be sorry for, you hear me? You’re the strongest, bravest person I know and I’m lucky to call you mine. I love you,” you assured him before pressing your lips to his. 

Once you rested your forehead on his, a hand snaked around your waist and vigorously pulled you back, making you shout in denial. 

“Let me go!” 

You thrashed against the man that held you while another man cut Daryl free to take him too, but the hunter was quick and punched the guy in the face. 

The man that had you in his grasp hesitated, conflicted on whether he should help with Daryl or continue taking you. You used the opportunity to elbow him in the stomach before grabbing his arm, twisting it back and kicking his leg so he would kneel down. 

Before you knew it, two more men with guns came into the room and pointed it at you, forcing you to let go of the advantage you both had. 

They compelled both of you to your knees next to each other and that was when you knew that you were done for. 

That this was it.

“I love ya,” Daryl whispered and you both instinctively laced your hands together before your vision of each other was blocked by a bag going over your head.

The grip he had on your hand was strong, but eventually they pried your hands apart and you whimpered, instantly missing his touch. Despite the life-threatening predicament you were in, you felt safe by the hunter’s side. Not being able to see him or feel his warmth stripped that security away as they began tying your hands together. 

You could hear Daryl grunt and struggle, not making it easy on your captors as someone guided you forward and you assumed out of the room before something loud went off, making everyone halt their movements and panic. You yanked the bag off your head to see smoke and — Rick?

He grabbed your bounded hands and cut them before quickly taking you out onto the street, sneaking down it with the others close behind to an empty building. 

Once you entered the vacant building, your legs gave out, causing you to make contact with the floor. Daryl was by your side in a matter of seconds, checking you out and making sure you were okay. 

The look on his face made you caress his cheek, his eyes held guilt, so you shook your head, silently communicating with him. It caused him to divert his orbs to Rick who was trying to come up with a plan as he cautiously looked out the window. 

The events of what happened and what could’ve been caught up with you as you stared at Daryl. You choked back a sob at the thought of losing him mere moments ago and wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your head in his neck. 

He wasted no time in securing one arm around your waist and the other to cradle the back of your head. He soothed circles on your back and pressed a lingering kiss on the side of your temple while Rick and the others decided on what to do next.  

You both almost met death and the last thing you wanted to do was to let go of the love of your life, but that was what motivated you to push forward. 

To live and fight for not only yourself, but for Daryl and your family so you would never have to let go. 

TAGLIST:  @jodiereedus22​ @sourwolf-sterek32​ @haleypearce​ @gruffle1​ @lonewolf471​ @dashesoflipstick​ @aristocracy-y​ @harpersmariano​ @maydayfigment​ @yes-sir-hotchner

#daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x you #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x reader insert #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #twd fanfiction #the walking dead fanfiction #twd #twd daryl dixon #the walking dead #amc the walking dead #twd oneshot #twd one shot #f.

[gayenerd]

Another old article saved in a Word document, which I can only find behind a paywall now (but I linked it in case someone does have access to a subscription)

Green Day Rising Metal Mike Saunders, Bam, 28 January 1994 Popcore Ascending? Or Is That Just The First Phase Of 'The Greatest Band In America'?

'We were down in Irvine and Mike was having a pillow fight outside with his girlfriend. He was running away from her, and at the top of his stride he turned around, right into a horizontal beam five feet off the ground – Vhoom...Out cold. So that suggested the concept of ...misery.'– Billie Joe

WHERE IT all it the brick wall for me personally was 11th grade carpool. Four high school boys jammed into a VW bug, or worse, with the AM radio on for about 20 minutes en route to Hall High, Little Rock.

It was the season of the great Bubblegum Wars, that pint in time where the underground FM vs. plastic AM trench wars had reached the point of no return. Kids vs. pigs, rednecks vs. longhairs. Combat was the order of the day, even in music.

In the fall of 1968, the musical lightning rod was 'Chewy Chewy' by the Ohio Express: 'Turn it off' and 'Turn it down' were the majority opinions. I was for sure the only one going 'Turn it up!' The same routine was repeated just a few weeks later with the Archies and the 1910 Fruitgum Co. (the later with the classic top-five hit 'Indian Giver'), and it seems like ever since that point in time 'pop' has been a derogatory term. Something less than…what? 'Rock'?

What does this have to do with Green Day? Well, it’s like this: There’s this real lame tag – 'popcore' (say it once and erase it forever, pul LEEZE) that was kicking around for a while last year and was affixed to the East Bay trio’s style of music. Aw, hell, they’re just a great rock band.

If Santa came and went recently and there’s still no Green Day in your house, here’s a shopping list: 39 Smooth (Lookout!), Kerplunk (Lookout!), and Dookie (Warner Bros./Reprise). Forty-eight killer tracks by this country’s greatest band and, considering that only in the preceding 12 months did its members start to hit drinking age, possibly just the beginning of what could turn out to be an amazing career.

Proof is no farther away than the band’s new album, Dookie, its first for a major label, but proceeded by two LPs and three 7-inch EPs on Berkeley’s Lookout! Records.

Anyone who’s seen the threesome knows they can play like gangbusters; the difference between a tiny indie-label budget (try about $3000 for all 34 Lookout! Tracks combined) and a major-league endeavor is that for the first time you get proof 10 times over on tape. So you get raging guitar sounds and cracking snare rimshots that explode like the early who. Even the band’s chronic shortcoming – weedy studio vocals – has been corrected to an encouraging degree.

"Yeah," volunteers 21-year-old lead singer/guitarist Billie Joe, "for my vocals we used a Beyer microphone, which was used on some of the early Elvis Costello stuff. I’m really happy with the way it came out."

The entire album is a veritable role model for any guitar-heavy rock band. Says producer Rob Cavallo: "In the case of a raw, live-sounding record like this one, what I try to do is capture on the listener’s speakers the whole left-to-right stereo spread – what we heard in preproduction, listening to the band blast away in their practice room. The key to this, in Green Day’s case, is that they have such a focused idea as to what they sound like, and they’re great players in that style."

Specific elements of Dookie’s production style include a live rhythm guitar on every song, singletracked lead vocals only, and all vocal harmonies done by the second-stage voice, 20-year-old bassist Mike Dirnt.

Warner Bros.’ hands-off role, a characteristic of the company in the wake of its Mudhoney "creative control"-type underground signings, was crucial in shaping such a record. "Warner Bros. stayed out of the way and let us do exactly what we wanted to," says 21-year-old drummer Tre Cool. "All I can say is if you can get on Warners, you are one lucky son of a gun!"

The inclination to make a guitar-heavy record was present from the get-go. "I definitely wanted to get a bigger sound," recalls Billie Joe, "something with more meat to it." Which is achieved, in parts thanks to a borrowed vintage 1972 Marshall head hooked up to the same blue Stratocaster Billie Joe’s been battering since he was 11.

The wall of guitar sound was achieved with a live track and just one more rhythm guitar dropped in. "We had experimented a bit on previous records, stacking guitar tracks to try to get a thicker sound," recalls Billie Joe. "But this time with just the two rhythm guitars; we got a better distorted sound."

Like any other trademark-sound band, it’s the deviations on the record that are most interesting. We’ve got three here: 'Pulling Teeth,' 'When I Come Around,' and the album’s first single, 'Longview,' 'Pulling Teeth' leaps out of the album like a K-Tel cut buried in a techno set; it’s the tune Dave Edmunds never had to break his career Stateside. Tight harmony vocals frame a straight guitar-heavy country-rock melody with a conciseness worthy of the masters. Not one wasted word or second.

"We were down in Irvine," recalls Billie Joe of the song’s lyrical genesis, "and Mike was having a pillow fight outside with his girlfriend. He was running away from her, and at the top of this stride he turned ground – vhoom…Out cold. So that suggested the concept of…misery."

'Longview' hits a whole opposite style. It’s something you might imagine as a late’70s FM track, with a loping dumbo beat ("a rumble," suggests Dirnt) not too far off Tom Petty’s 'Breakdown', Lyrics about nothing, really-killing time, punching the cable remote, getting high. A two-chord riff to nowhere, then a basic garden-variety three-chord chorus. The trick is that the whole darn song is a hook. Simultaneously the dumbest and catchiest Van Halen guitar licks panning across the speakers.

"In a way, that song was cheap self-therapy for watching too much TV," recalls Billie Joe. "It was another case of writing about whatever mood I’m in."

Especially near to my heart (I’m from the South, y’all ) is 'When I Come Around,' an unintentional dead-on-evocation of Lynyrd Skynyrd at its top-40 hookiest. With a lazy turnaround beat like 'Sweet Home Alabama', it’s just about five degrees westward of the slightly ‘70s ballads 'Christie Road' and 'No One Knows' from the earlier Kerplunk album.

"On that one, we weren’t thinking country rock, but rather something that had a groove to it, almost like you could imagine having a martini and listening to it at the same time," explains Dirnt.

See, 80 percent of Dookie is in the trademark Green Day raging pop-punk. It’s this deviant 20 percent that makes one suspect they can pull off almost anything they want out of the trash-dump of earlier under appreciated rock styles. A mainstream audience could forge a very, very interesting alliance with this group.

Of the trademark pop-punk onslaught, averaging an airtight two minutes, 30 seconds apiece, 'Basket Case' and 'Sassafras Roots' are two of the strongest numbers. 'Basket Case' was about a friend who’s pretty loopy,' explains Billie Joe, 'but a bit about myself as well – like seeing your own trails in other people where it’s been taken to a total extreme. There are a lot more songs on this record that are about other people’s experiences, even though I might still be singing in the first person.'

The recording of Dookie went fairly fast by industry standards, the music and vocals finished last summer in three and a half weeks (at Berkeley’s Fantasy Studios), followed by an initial mix. The band then headed out on 40-date fall tour with the veteran LA punk band Bad Religion, which enabled them to come back to the project with a clean set of ears. The entire album was remixed with engineering whiz Jerry, Finn who paid special attention to the record’s amazing bottom end. At that point, the band’s 'creative input' reached its most extreme.

"We all three sat there for 10 days straight, 15 hours a day, and listened to every minute of the remixing sessions," recalls Tre Cool. Which is just short of four working-Joe (like me) work weeks without a day off.

Dookie is one of the rawest melodically oriented rock records to show up on a major label in the last zillion years. Usually when bands go from an indie to a major label, the result is a slicker product.

"When I listen to bad rock music occasionally, I just wind up going, ‘What the hell were these guys thinking of?" agrees Billie Joe.

I speculate that there have now been entire generations’ worth of bad drum sounds committed to record. "Huge room sounds on the drum with shitloads of reverb," responds Dirnit. "Flanged drum rolls," adds Billie Joe.

My favorite, rolls across the chromatic-tuned rototoms, comes in a close second.

While most bands with almost 50 tracks into their recording career hit the point of labored songwriting (that old saw about a band’s first album being its best), that hasn’t been the case with Green Day. "Actually, I think I was more comfortable with my songwriting on this record than I ever was before," insists Billie Joe. "I had a real good handle on what kind of melodies and hooks I wanted to come up with. Didn’t rush myself, just let them come out naturally. It was the previous time out, on the songs on Kerplunk, that I was consciously trying to outdo my previous songs."

The variation from Green Day’s uptempo style, now comprising a good one-quarter of the band’s most recent two albums, will continue. "We definitely are going to continue to expand the scope of our material; we don’t want to get into a rut where we rewrite Kerplunk or Dockie over again," explains Billie Joe. "There’s a lot of musical tastes that run through this band."

I did my homework on the band’s "song-about-girls" label (a tag, Dirnt complains, 'we got caught up in') going back to January 1992’s Kerplunk and assigning topics to each song. The tally was girls, four; mortality/meaning of life, three; neurosis/insanity, one; one novelty song; and alienation, motivation, and coming of age, one apiece. Dookie is more of the same, with topics ranging all over the map, the median perhaps being the pissed-off frame of mind of 'Chump' and 'F.O.D.' The girl-songs ratio is down around 30 percent.

The "girl-songs" tag must have sprung from what was the band’s classic 1990 debut, 39 Smooth, written and sung by Billie Joe and Dirnt at the ripe old ages of 17 and 16. A good 70 percent of the album’s songs related to the opposite sex, with the lead off track, 'At the Library', ranking as perhaps the best song ever written by a high-schooler.

One facet of a Green Day performance that’s impossible to capture on paper is the continuous bantering and riposting between the band and the crowd, much of it hysterical.

"It’s all part of making our audience feel like they’re at home, communicating on an eye-label basis," offers Billie Joe.

"See, before a show we’re usually making fun of each other – making a mess by playing baseball with apples or whatever, meeting new people who are funny and have jokes we haven’t heard – so we’re totally stoked by the time we get onstage," elaborates Tre.

It’s safe to say that after two trips to Europe, half a dozen ('at least') full American tours, and over four years of nonstop gigging, performance anxiety does not figure into this band’s equation. "We never have a list, we just make it up as we go," explains Tre.

I offer my theory that no matter how many fans a band has, there are five times as many people who think they stink, and 10 times as many who don’t care.

"I would see it as three different sections: the people who really like you, the people who really hate you, and the vast majority who are totally oblivious," muses Billie Joe.

The vast size of the record industry contributes to making yesterday’s barely gold act today’s 'Who?' (think Britny Fox, Vixen, and a half-dozen gold Loverboy albums). Indeed, if everyone who ever made fun of Motley Crue videos were assembled in one place, we would surely fill the Oakland Coliseum.

Speaking of videos, the world doesn’t faze our subjects – not yet anyway. "We’ve never done a video. They’ve got us scheduled to do one, so for now we think videos are cool," laughs Tre.

"We’re probably shooting the video in our house," adds Billie Joe, the "house" being what appears to be a subterranean Berkeley abode, complete with a tiny band-practice room; it’s not squalid, it’s absolutely slacker). "So…we figure our video concept will be kind of ‘Looks That Kill’ meets ‘Hot for Teachers’ meets 'Rock You Like a Hurricane'," quips Dirnt.

Given the absolutely superb quality of the band’s Warner Bros. debut, the only mystery is that a major label bidding war on Green Day took so long to materialize.

"Warner Bros. was the label initially considering the band," recounts band co-manager Jeff Saltzman. "But it was when Geffen and Sony/CBS jumped in with serious interest that Warners got serious about picking up the band."

Green Day never would have gotten so much done so fast, however, without the astute ears of Lookout! Records’ president and perpetual talent scout, Larry Livermore, who sent the band into the studio two months after first seeing the trio to record an EP called 1000 Hours, which was followed by the 39 Smooth album, which was recorded at the end of 1989 for less than $500.

"I knew Al Sobrante (Green Day’s drummer through mid-1990) from Isocracy, so I knew about his new band, Sweet Children [renamed Green Day six months later]," recalls Livermore. "My band, the Lookouts, were playing a house party up in Mendocino County, February 1989, so I invited Al’s band up to play also. I was so impressed with the band and their attitude, playing just in front of 15 people, that I hooked up with them immediately to record for Lookout! I never had any doubt about their potential, musically. I thought they were great the first time I saw them."

© Metal Mike Saunders, 1994

#all typos are in the article i'm pretty sure #the origin story of pulling teeth never gets old #but also who has a pillow fight OUTSIDE??? #billie talking about outdoing himself even on KERPLUNK #our poor little workaholic #the stats on 'songs about girls' is sending me #green day #BAM #interview #article #articles

[justjessame]

The Deal Chapter 37

Exhaustion, real true exhaustion can make things occur when you finally let your body relax that you wouldn’t do if you’d fallen asleep naturally. That has to be the reason, five nights after returning to the Sanctuary from Alexandria for the second time, that I finally succumbed to my exhaustion and completely ignored my bed-mate. And while you’re unconscious, finally letting the elusive rest take over your entire body, you may wake up in an awkward position. That HAS to be the reason that on the sixth day I woke up wrapped around Negan’s body. It’s the only damn reason that makes any type of fucking sense.

I woke up, feeling the heat of his chest pressed against my cheek, my leg thrown over one of his, and curled so tight against him that I felt the blush burn up my body from my toes to my hairline. Fuck.

His arm was wrapped around my back, holding me as tight against him as I was pressed, and from the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the snoring, I knew he was still asleep. The issue now? How the hell do I extradite myself from him without waking up the mocking asshole?

I couldn’t struggle while I figured it out, that’s the ONLY reason I stayed exactly the same as I woke up. It definitely wasn’t because of how warm he felt. I definitely wasn’t snuggling closer because he smelled strangely wonderful. And I sure as fuck wasn’t pressing tighter against him for comfort. Because that would mean that I was full on fucking insane. Period.

I was locked in my own thoughts of how to remove myself, and NOT about what he must use to shower with to smell the way he did, and missed as his fingers tightened on my hip. I was so entirely inside of my own mind thinking of escape options, really, truly, that I nearly missed feeling his head lower to the top of my head and inhale the scent of ME. I swallowed hard. Shit.

“Morning, sunshine.” Negan’s voice was rough from sleep, making him sound even deeper and darker than usual. “Sleep well?” I was listening for the tone. The one he used when he taunted people. I've learned it well over the past few days. And I couldn’t find it in his question.

I shrugged, but didn’t move. “It was OK.” I sounded so breathy that I wanted to fucking die. Not a suicide, more like could the fucking bed swallow me already, death.

His chuckle vibrated against my cheek. “Just OK?” His face was still pressed into the top of my head, I could tell, since I felt the warmth of his words ruffle my hair.

I propped my chin onto his chest and looked up. “Just your average Tuesday.” I was going for flippant. If I looked and sounded like it didn’t matter, then I took away his ability to tease and mock.

He was smiling. Not a smirk. Not a leer, but an actual smile. “This is what you do on Tuesdays?” His free hand found my cheek and the rough pad of his thumb brushed my skin. “Damn, might have to make every fucking day Tuesday.”

I rolled my eyes and started to pull away, but his arm around me tightened just enough to ask me to stay. It wasn’t restrictive, it wasn’t a demand or command. Just a little pressure letting me know that he didn’t want me to move yet, if I wasn’t against staying. Was I? Against staying?

I lay still as I pondered, letting my head lay back against his chest. His hand was still cradling my face, his thumb still brushing my skin. It was weird. The way he was holding me, touching me, was very different from before. From when Daryl and I first touched. From the first time we made love in the field near the Greene Farm, using the moon as our only guide.

The way Negan had begun casually touching me from almost the first moment we were alone. The way he held my hand in Alexandria during the first visit. The way he found me after killing Dr. Carson to find reassurance, understanding. I’d told myself that when he’d held my wrist and hand during that first time back, it was to remind me of my order not to speak to my people. Or to poke a hole in my dad’s softest spots. Was that the only reason?

“Why did you do it?” I asked, realizing that I wasn’t being nearly clear enough. “Why did you hold on to me when we went back that first time?” I looked back up into his face, feeling that if I held his eyes with mine, I could probably see if he lied.

He was staring into my eyes and I could tell he was weighing my question with his answer. A sigh. “I told myself it was to rub it into Rick. To the redneck. To remind them that they fucking failed you. And failed to do what they’d wanted so badly to do, beat me.” He licked his lip and his thumb brushed under my eye, tracing where the dark circles had been so dark. “That works for the wrist hold, right?”

I watched him and waited. He seemed to be dealing with some inner debate.

“Fuck if I know, but when Carl fired that shot, while your dad and I were trading barbs, I saw it. That look that crossed your face.” His thumb moved lower, over my cheek, down until it was right under my bottom lip. “You looked like you’d failed. That you offered yourself up on a silver platter to die, and they didn’t care. That it wasn’t enough to get them in line and that it was all for nothing.” A brush against my lip. “And damn it, Jessi, I couldn’t fucking stand to see that. To let you think that you weren’t enough. No matter what THEY did, or what THEY think. You’re worth a thousand of each and every one of them.”

I swallowed and nodded, then lay my head back on his chest. I’d asked, and he’d told me. And I could tell, from the short time I’d been his shadow, that he wasn’t bullshitting me. I knew because he looked as fucking confused by it as I was.

We got up not long after that. I couldn’t meet his eyes, not yet. I had too much to think about, about what he’d said. I needed to work through not just what he said, but what it meant. And how I felt about it.

He gave me the bathroom first, and after I’d showered and redressed, I came out to find him standing tense in front of the window I’d stood at days ago. I studied him as I put on my boots. And I waited for him to tell me what today’s schedule looked like.

“I’m gonna need you to come with me to the cells,” he was speaking to the window, not turning to face me. “We had a breach last night.”

I was biting my lip. His tone, it warned of something, but I wasn’t sure what. “I’ll be back in a minute.” He didn’t look at me as he walked into the bathroom to get ready for the day.

As we walked to the cells, a part of the Sanctuary that I didn’t recall visiting on either tour, he wasn’t whistling. He was holding Lucille as tensely as he’d stood at the window. I started to feel a blossom of fear building in my chest. Was this it? Had he finally shown me too much, or lulled me into a false sense of security, and NOW after toying with me like a cat does a mouse, he was leading me to the end? The fear was heavy, suffocating, and building as we walked.

He stopped before we turned down another corridor and looked down at me. I was studying the floor, feeling like my heart was pounding loud enough to hear, to remind me that I wasn’t ready to fucking die. Not yet.

“She came in last night,” his voice was quiet. “They brought her down here, but just told me.” Her? She? Who? “I don’t know if Rick was part of the plan, or if this was a search and destroy mission.” I swallowed, still staring at the floor. “Jessica,” I closed my eyes and waited. When his fingers slid to my chin and tilted my face up to his, they opened. “I’m not doing this to hurt you. If she sees you, it might help her make the right choice.” His thumb, as it had earlier, was tracing my cheek. “Just stand beside me, you don’t have to speak unless you want to.” Freedom to choose, he was giving me the freedom to decide if I wanted to talk to whomever had, once again, refused to just go with the new world order.

I nodded and we continued. I can feel Negan tense beside me and then he’s rushing forward to an open door. And there, on the floor with a disgusting man hovering over her, is Sasha. Her shirt is ripped, I see as Negan draws the man’s attention. Her hands are bound behind her. I can feel the rage rolling off the man beside me as the other man tries to explain. Tries and fails.

My eyes don’t leave Sasha. She’s glaring up at me, as though I did this. I put her in this room. I tied her up and left her to this piece of utter garbage. I’m so focused on the hatred and anger that she’s throwing at me with just her eyes, that when the man falls, knife wound to the neck bleeding fast and furious, I nearly miss it.

One of the others, I don’t know his name, is hovering just behind us. Negan calls for him to get Sasha a new shirt, after asking her her name and complimenting the beauty of it. He kneels, as I stand behind him, and cuts off her bindings. Apologizing for what she’d had to deal with from the attempted rapist. Apologizing for the necessity of the rope. And as she’s still shooting me looks that would stab me as surely as he’d taken down Davey, and a flicker of recognition lights up his face as he stands up, closer to me.

“Oh shit, I remember you. Yeah. You were there.” He makes the motion with Lucille mimicking Abe’s death, a knocking noise. And her glare at me grows hotter. “Hey, that’s unnecessary.” He caught it, and stepped slightly in front of me. He starts to divert her attention from me, mixing compliments about her toughness with questions about whether this was Dad’s idea.

“Rick?” I can hear the derision in her voice. “Your bitch? No.” Great, she’s acting alone, which means that even if Dad doesn’t come for Negan, the others, like Rosita, are going to try on their own.

Negan tells her she has a choice. That he doubts that she thought she’d survive, but since he’s down a man, she can decide. He hands her the knife and I feel myself still. Kill him, take her shot, even though he’s got Lucille to back him up. Slit her own wrists, die on her own terms, even if it would be a damn shame. I don’t hear the same concern in his tone that he’d had with me when he asked if I were suicidal, but maybe I wasn’t listening hard enough. Or, take the knife, kill Rapey Davey when he reanimates, or let him eat her face. If she kills him, she’s joined the cause.

And then he turns, takes my hand in his, and walks us out the cell. Locking the door behind us, Negan waits until we’re down the hall, the back up behind us. “Are you alright?” He’s being quiet, and I nod. “I’m gonna take you back upstairs. I’ll check back on her alone.” Another nod. “These fucking people, Jessi, they-” He stops speaking, but we’re still walking. “They don’t get it. None of them.” And I can’t tell if he means what I’ve done, or what he expects.

#negan x ofc #daryl dixon x ofc #rick grimes daughter #The Walking Dead #alternative universe #dark #mental illness

[nightcoremoon]

here's some controversy that has nothing to do with social issues.

a lot of people hate the band five finger death punch. saying those words provoked a visceral response in half the people reading this, and a "who?" in the other half. they're a groove metal band; similar to slipknot, mudvayne, disturbed, all that remains, system of a down, korn, and killswitch engage. they're one of those really controversial bands that are hated because they're ~not real metal~ by dumbshits who think that NWOBHM is the only valid metal genre. even though england ruined metal and punk but that's a conbfetsation for another day.

now, if you just don't like metal, that's fine. I don't expect everyone to like every genre. so obviously you won't like them, or any band in the genre. obviously. and these are not the people who are being targeted with this post. no, this goes to those who love metallica, ozzy, megadeth, slayer, pantera, testament, opeth, tool, manowar, meshuggah, children of bodom, cannibal corpse, fear factory, mercyful fate: this is to the people who love metal. now, I say this as one of us, but metalheads are one of the most judgmental groups of people in history. and frequently I find that metalheads make the same remarks in regards to their opinions on five finger death punch.

they do nothing but covers. they just yell and cuss. forty year old men with teenage angst. bad musicianship. they look stupid. they fuck their sisters and daughters. they sold out to the military. they're gay. they do too many ballads. they're redneck bait. they're toxic masculinity and macho personified. they rely on guest stars to carry their songs. they're talentless hacks.

these are all complaints I've heard multiple times from multiple people. and frankly I'm sick of it. I'm sick of hearing the bullshit complaints rather than the ACTUAL REASONS why they aren't the best band in the world. which I'll go through now.

they have an overreliance on breakdowns as if they were a post-hardcore band but they're not. breaking benjamin also skirts the line between post-grunge metal and post-hardcore and have many breakdowns, but the difference is that BB's breakdowns have math rock roots and use different patterns that syncopate well. five finger's breakdowns are... eighth notes. it's the difference between, say, black veil brides- who have excellent syncopated breakdowns- and as I lay dying, who have shitty and boring breakdowns. the only difference is that AILD has blast beats (and is fronted by an abusive asshole), and five finger has... ivan growling threats or whatever because they think that it sounds cool to have metal blaring while he says shit like "you wanna disrespect me? I will slap you so fucking hard you'll feel like you kissed a freight train, fuck you," or "if there was ever a time for you to back the fuck up it's right fuckin here and right fuckin now" or "it's not the size of the dog in the fight it's the size of the fight in the dog," or "in the end we're all just chalk lines on the concrete, drawn only to be washed away; in the time that I've been given, I am what I am", etc, all preceding screams. and no these are not exaggerations, these are literally exact quotes. there's also one that plays radio chatter from the military while he goes "hut hut oorah", which is different slightly. and in any case, they have done nearly a hundred different solos over their career, there is NO REASON for them to have such a ridiculous amount of breakdowns. they rival memphis may fire in that regard, but MMF actually has great breakdowns. churko is a metal producer, NOT a hardcore producer, and they sound empty when you strip out the vocals.

sometimes they will overuse a chorus, and hit the pop music pitfalls of having a song that's over half chorus. I'm sure they did this so the label would be happy with singles because the music industry is a commercialized garbage fire and holding it against the artists would be so fucking stupid especially since tool (the best metal band in existence) fucking said it best, "all you know about me is what I sold you, I sold out long before you ever knew my name, I sold my soul to make a record, dipshit, then you bought one; I've got some advice for you little buddy, before you point your finger you should know that I'm the man and if I'm the man then he's he man and you're the man as well so you can take that fucking finger and shove it up your ass". translation; the fact that you know a band at all means that they sold out to even exist in the first place because that's what selling out is. so even this complaint I have that sometimes they have repeated chorus is more of a complaint about a music industry which dumbs things down to sell radioplay to the lowest common denominator, which EVERY SINGLE ARTIST IS GUILTY OF. so moving on.

sometimes they'll have songs which are fairly simple from a harmonic/mechanical standpoint. opening verse chorus verse chorus solo bridge chorus chorus ending. verse goes some mix of eighth and quarter notes and rests in 4:4, solo is just the vocal line of the chorus, bass and drums are nonexistent and only serve to be a melodic backbone, and the music only exists to serve the lyrics... oh wait I can make the exact same arguments about metallica, rage against the machine, pantera, disturbed, and a hundred other bands. those guys aren't hated as much as five finger. hmm. wonder why.

the lyrics are often angsty. namely that they deal with honor, government corruption, mental illness, we live in a society, religious corruption, abandonment issues, recovering from toxic relationships, hey wait a minute these are all just insanely common topics for metal songs!

they usually play in the same key- wait shit every band has a favored key.

they do a lot of covers- wait shit they have literally more ALBUMS than covers.

(yeah that's weird to me too, but they only did a new level by pantera, from out of nowhere by faith no more, bad company by bad company, mama said knock you out by LL cool J, house of the rising sun by the animals, gone away by offspring, and blue on black by kenny wayne shepard... that's 7. they have 8 albums now.)

so shut the fuck up forever about the cover songs. metallica and the deftones and a perfect circle all had fucking cover ALBUMS, van halen only has a career because of the kinks, and every single rock band in the world is just ripping off the beatles, pink floyd, black sabbath, the who, led zeppelin, and cream. pick a legitimate reason to hate on a band, hypocrite.

alright what else...

"they're gay"

I'm not gonna dignify that with a response.

"they suck"

so does your favorite band. boom roasted.

"they're bad at music"

I'd like to see you do better then.

"they sold out to the military"

no they support the veterans and the troops; they fucking hate the military if you pay any attention at all. they believe in the good parts of the military that the government pays half our taxes to make us believe. you're not better than anyone else just because you see through one specific piece of propaganda because odds are you're blinded by another dozen. they write songs about how war is hell and how when vets come home they should be treated better. and anyway when you're in the dog eat dog world of the music industry hey guess what you need a market to sell to or else it's back to baskin robbins. I don't blame them for one second. if I had the option of endorsing cops to pay my bills you bet your ass I'll fly a blue lives matter flag and sell my soul to make money, and then donate shit to the black lives matter movement. flying a flag is worthless if I can do actual good with the money that those dumbasses send in. and name better irony than fighting to abolish a group that pays me to do it go on I'll wait.

"you're just a fanboy"

a) it's fangirl but metal elitists don't give a shit about the LGBTQ and b) just because I like a band doesn't in any way diminish the validity of my statements and any bias I might have is easily countered by whatever bias you might have and c) they're not even my favorite band you idiot I just think there's way worse out there just like I think it's unfair to say nickelback is the worst band in existence when drunk mom rock like hinder buckcherry savingabel and kidrock exists, and limp bizkit is standing right there, and d) they're not even the worst groove metal band, just look at fucking lamb of god, and e) if I was a fangirl I wouldn't have pointed out the flaws you fucking brainless troglodyte, and f) even if they were my favorite band in the world it doesn't matter if you think they suck because music taste is subjective anyway you goddamn moron. those guys write their own music, play their own music, perform their own music, and they love their fanbase more than most other bands. andrew biersack and kellin quinn and pepper keenan and glenn danzig and liam gallagher and axl rose and van halen and ted nugent and kurt cobain HATE their fans, or at least are huge fucking assholes. but not five finger. jeremy played until he literally broke his back; he's as devoted as phil collins, and if he made like atreyu and sang while drumming he'd be singing from a wheelchair, or like dave grohl when he broke his leg right in the middle of a concert, went to the hospital and got set and put in a cast, THEN CAME RIGHT BACK TO THE FUCKING SHOW AND PLAYED GUITAR AND SANG IN A CAST AND WHEELCHAIR. oh but wait, people say phil collins and dave grohl suck too, and turn around and suck mustaine's dick even though he's the biggest asshole in thrash metal behind tom araya and drunk james hetfield. point being, just because x doesn't like y doesn't diminish z's opinion.

"the singer fucked his daughter lol lol his grandchild is his son too lol lol his daughter is his wife lol lol it's funny because rednecks and incest lol lol" he's from colorado not alabama you dumb motherfuckers, and all the lol incest in georgia jokes are rooted in good ol yankee classism. also the guitarist is hungarian so the american redneck jokes don't even fuckin work. shut the hell up, you have all of the intellectual capacity of a common bog leech.

you can dislike the band. you can say you don't like it. you can say that you'd rather listen to different music. that's fine! that's okay! listen to justin bieber if you like him, listen to taylor swift if you like her, listen to new kids on the block if you want! I don't care! but stop expressing your opinions that you stole from someone else as fact. all you're doing is meme bandwagoning so you can find a community because you don't have the social skills necessary to meet people through the things you love so instead you try to pull serotonin out of making other people feel as miserable as you do.

with that being said, fuck all of the annoying dudebro douchebags who listen to the band and show 5FDP next to the confederate flag, blue lives matter flag, don't tread on me flag, punisher skull, trump sticker, and the crossed assault rifles on the back of your truck. you're all shit for reasons other than your music taste.

[seeaddywrite]

overcome by shame, can i ever change?

part 1/6: five times Alex stopped Michael from doing something stupid, & one time Michael returned the favor. 

warnings: for this part -- grief, allusions to depression, unhappy ending (for the moment), alcohol abuse. michael isn’t in a good place & it shows.

part II will be up tomorrow! you can also read/follow on AO3, if you prefer.

The first time Alex stops him from going too far, Michael’s standing over a bleeding redneck in the middle of the Wild Pony, fist raised to land the blow that would cross the line between ‘drunk and disorderly’ and ‘assault.’ It’s a line he’s usually careful to avoid — he’s accepted his role as the town drunk and has no problem throwing a few punches when they’re well-deserved, but Michael has never wanted to end up in a cell for longer than one night.

But less than a week after he’d watched the prison holding his mother explode less than twenty yards in front of him, Michael’s no longer thinking about the consequences of his actions. He’s stuck in that moment, watching it happen over and over, and even the two full bottles of acetone-laced whiskey he’s consumed aren’t enough to end the cycle. Instead, he’s just light-headed as the grief, the guilt, he’s been trying so desperately to suppress begins to morph in his chest. Maybe he would’ve been able to handle it, or at least leave town before he lost his mind, if someone hadn’t bumped into him, splashing a wave of Max’s favorite beer all over the back of his unwashed t-shirt.

Unwanted images flood Michael’s mind, brought on by sense memory he hadn’t even realized existed. Max, shooting beer cans out of the sky with a backwards baseball cap and a wide grin. Max, sitting across from Michael at one of the stupid high school parties Isobel dragged them to, that same beer in his curled fingers, only half-consumed because Max had always been afraid of what would happen if he got too drunk to control himself in public. Max, sitting at the firepit in front of Michael’s trailer, a pyramid of beer cans to one side of his chair and the perpetual tension in his shoulders absent for once as he and Michael stared silently up at the stars, both asking questions the universe refused to answer.

Michael blinks rapidly, determinedly ignoring the sting in his eyes, and gives up on trying to hold himself in check. The surrender is all the impetus Michael’s grief needs to change completely, and the moment he regains his balance, he whirls on the man behind him, ignoring the slurred apologies to shove him, hard. He’s conscious of eyes on him — bystanders and bartenders alike. Maria is by the door, and vaguely, Michael hears her calling his name, telling him to cool off, but her voice just adds to the maelstrom raging inside him. He’s been using Maria, looking to her for distraction and something easy, when everything else in his life is fraught with pain and complication, but it’s not working anymore, and the guilt of knowing that he’s going to hurt her only adds to the weight he labors beneath.

“Man, what the fuck is your problem?” Michael’s victim demands, hitching up his worn Wranglers and squaring his shoulders in challenge. “I said I was sorry!” 

Words are beyond Michael now, and even if he could find them, he wouldn’t waste one on this man. He simply lashes out, kicking the man’s knees out from under him hard enough that his skull strikes the wood floor with an echoing thud. The alcohol makes it hard to maintain his own balance after the sudden movement, but his misdirected fury has burned off the worst of the buzz, and Michael keeps his footing. He lunges again, blind in his determination to make someone else hurt as much as he does in that moment, and his opponent gets to his feet just in time to save his nose from being broken by the heel of Michael’s shoe. He bellows in outrage and lands a punch of his own. Pain sparks along Michael’s cheek, but it’s barely noticeable in comparison to the invisible, gaping wound in his chest and doesn’t slow him down in the slightest. 

His arm draws back, muscles taught, fingers clenched. There’s a voice in the back of his head that sounds painfully like Max’s lectures every time he entered the Sheriff’s office to find Michael waiting for him in a cell. You’re better than this, Michael. One of these days I’m not going to be able to stop you from being sent to a real jail — and we both know you don’t belong there.

Max was right, to an extent. He isn’t here to stop Michael from being sent anywhere now … but any question of whether Michael belonged in a prison died with the mother he failed to save. Prison is the least of what he deserves. 

Voices, some familiar, some not, add to the cacophony of emotional noise in his head, but none of them matter enough to stop him. None of them even register, really, aside from grating on Michael’s ears. 

In the end, it’s one word that stops him -- his name, only his name, said so evenly that Michael shouldn’t have even been able to pick it out of the noise of the crowd. 

“Guerin.” 

A steady hand clamps around Michael’s wrist, familiarity evident in the touch. There’s no hesitation, no tremble or sign of fear -- just the slide of callouses against the sensitive skin of his inner wrist, warm and anchoring in a way Michael’s never quite understood. He allows the hand to push his arm down to his side, to spin him around until he’s looking straight into Alex Manes’ too-solemn face that he can’t mistake, not even drunk on acetone and a surplus of emotion. 

Stunned, Michael stares at his ex … something, because ‘boyfriend’ is never going to be the right word to describe Alex, and ‘lover’ makes their affair sound like something more than it was. It’s the first time they’ve seen each other since the night Max killed Noah, and Michael can’t imagine why Alex is here, stopping him from fucking up again, when he could be literally anywhere else, where he wouldn’t have to deal with Michael and his bullshit. 

The thought, and the guilt that rises like bile in his throat, kickstarts him from staring to action. Michael wrenches out of the hold, but makes no move to advance upon either Alex or his earlier opponent. Any urge to do violence is gone, leaving him feeling hollow and empty. His wrist burns where Alex’s hand had been, not from pain, but from the absence of the touch, and Michael hates himself even more for wishing Alex would reach out again. 

“I think you’ve had enough,” Alex tells him calmly, and nods toward the exit to the bar. He’s wearing a leather jacket, Michael notes distractedly, and his hair’s gotten longer. Just slightly out of regulation parameters, whereas before, it would’ve been cut at least a week ago to avoid that. Alex is getting on with his life, moving away from the military rules and routines impressed upon him for years, and Michael can’t help but resent that Alex couldn’t have made that decision when it was possible for Michael to move on with him. 

But resentment and heartbreak pales in comparison to the grief and anger that have taken root in his chest, so Michael stops trying to think and allows the light-headed, overheated feeling of over-indulgence to lessen it all. But even then, Michael’s not drunk enough to miss the softness in Alex’s eyes where they linger on him, nor the hesitance in his body language as he reaches out to rest a careful hand on Michael’s shoulder. 

“Come on, I’ll drive you home,” he offers, and the kindness is almost unnerving when Michael expects the opposite.  

“I --” Someone’s bound to have called the police, Michael thinks, even as he tries to slow his racing mind in order to answer. He knows he can’t just go home. He’s got to answer for what he’s done — that guy hadn’t even done anything other than make Michael remember things he didn’t want to, he’s got to —

“Kyle’s handling it,” Alex says, interrupting Michael’s painstaking thought process. It takes him a minute to realize that he’s been speaking aloud, and Alex’s grip on his shoulder has tightened in concern. He hadn’t noticed earlier, but Valenti is standing in front of the guy with the bump on his head, arms crossed and a scowl on his face severe enough to keep him from coming at Michael to blacken his other eye. 

“Michael? Are you okay?” 

The laugh in response to such a stupid question is short and bitter, and makes his nose ache where he’d been struck. Michael nods anyway, an automatic, ingrained response from years of pretending that nothing could touch him. He flicks his curls out of his swollen eye with a clumsy  hand, trying to focus on Alex. Apparently, his reaction hadn’t been particularly reassuring. Not if Alex’s wide eyes and thin lips are any indication. 

Great. Now he’s scaring Alex, like standing him up and betraying him hadn’t been enough. Michael inhales sharply, trying to summon the strength to apologize, to tell Alex that he’s fine, that he should go and stop letting Michael trample all over his heart, but Alex speaks first.

“No one’s arresting you tonight, Guerin. Sheriff Valenti knows about what happened to Max,  and —” 

Michael shoves away from Alex abruptly and pretends not to see the flash of hurt that crosses Alex’s face before he schools his expression. He hates seeing it, hates hurting Alex, but that’s all he can do lately, it seems. Hurt the people  he cares about. Maria. Isobel. Alex. Even Liz. He’s pushed them all away and hidden behind the tall, thorny walls of his own pain. And the walls have grown so tall, so labyrinthine, that even Michael himself can’t escape them now.  Hearing his brother’s name is too much on top of everything else, and no matter how his heart screams for him to burrow into Alex’s chest and beg for forgiveness, for comfort, Michael’s not nearly drunk enough to believe he deserves either.  

The crowds part around him as he moves gracelessly toward the bar’s exit. Maria holds the door for him, tries to say something, but Michael just pushes past her and out into the night. 

No one comes after him. 

#my fic #overcome by shame can i ever change

[ellierreads]

Nonfiction Book List

A collection of nonfiction books by Black authors and/or related to intersectional race and gender studies, history, as well as other various topics. The list below is a compilation of various lists I have seen on Instagram, as well as research I’ve done on my own. I am sure I am missing important works, and am happy to add anything that is suggested. This list will be regularly added to and updated. 

Race & Anti-Racism

Diangeo, Robin - White Fragility

Eddo-Lodge, Renni - Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race

Kendi, Ibrahim X. - How to Be Anti-Racist

Mahzarin, Banaji & Greenwald, Anthony - Blindspot

Oluo, Ijeoma - So you want to talk about race

Omi and Winant - Racial Formation in the United States

Rankine, Claudia - Citizen

Roberts, Dorothy - Killing the Black Body

Smith, Andrea - Heteropatriarchy and the Three Pillars of White Supremacy

Sowell, Thomas - Black Rednecks and White Liberals

Waheema & Lubiano - The House that Race Built

Ward, Jesmyn - The Fire This Time

Prison Abolition & the Justice System

Alexander, Michelle - The New Jim Crow

Davis, Angela - Are Prisons Obsolete?

Murakawa, Naomi - The First Civil Right

Stefanic & Delgado - Critical Race Theory: An Introduction

Stevenson, Bryan - Just Mercy

Rothstein, Richard - The Color of Law  

Policing

Vitale, Alex S. - The End of Policing

Intersectional Feminism

Bambara, Toni Cade - The Black Woman, An Anthology

Carruthers, Charlene - Unapologetic: A Black, Queer, and Feminist Mandate for Radical Movements

Cooper, Brittney - Eloquent Rage

Collins, Patricia Hill - Black Feminist Thought

Collins, Patricia Hill - Black Sexual Politics

Cottom, Tressie McMillan - THICK and Other Essays

Crenshaw, Kimberle - On Intersectionality

Davis, Angela - Women, Race, & Class

Davis, Dána-Ain - Reproductive Injustice: Racism, Pregnancy, and Premature Birth

Gay, Roxane - Bad Feminist

Gumbs, Alexis Pauline - Spill: Scenes of Black Feminist Fugivity

Hernandez, Ed. Daisy and Rehman, Bushra - Colonize This! Young Women of Color on Today’s Feminism

hooks, bell - Ain’t I a Woman

hooks, bell - All About Love

hooks, bell - Feminism is for Everybody: Passionate Politics

Jenkins, Morgan - This Will Be My Undoing

Jones-Rogers, Stephanie E. - They Were Her Property: White Women as Slave Owners in the American South

Kendall, Mikki - Hood Feminism

Lorde, Audre - Sister Outsider

Morales, Rosario - This Bridge Called My Back

Morgan, Joan - When Chickenheads Come Home to Roost: A Hip Hop Feminist Breaks it Down

Oyěwùmí, Oyèrónkẹ́ - The Invention of Women: Making an African Sense of Western Gender Discourses

Shakur, Assata - Assata: An Autobiography

Simpson, Leanne Beta - As We Have Always Done

Williamson, Terrion L. - Scandalize My Name: Black Feminist Practice and the Making of Black Social Life

Wilson & Russell - Divided Sisters

Yamahtta-Taylor, Keeanga - How We Get Free

Masculinity

hooks, bell - The Will to Change: Men, Masculinity, and Love

hooks, bell - We Real Cool: Black Men and Masculinity

History

Asante Jr., M.A. - It's Bigger Than Hip Hop: The Rise of the Post-Hip-Hop Generation

Baldwin, James - The Fire Next Time

Berry, Daina Ramey & Gross, Kali Nicole - A Black Women’s History of the United States

Gates Jr., Henry Louis - Stony the Road: Reconstruction, White Supremacy, and the Rise of Jim Crow

Blackmon, Douglas A. - Slavery by Another Name: The Re-Enslavement of Black Americans from the Civil War to World War II

Du Bois, W.E.B. - The Souls of Black Folk

Hartman, Saidiya - Wayward Lives, Beautiful Experiments: Intimate Histories of Social Upheaval

Hurston, Zora Neale - Barracoon: The Story of the Last “Black Cargo”

Johnson, E. Patrick - Black, Queer, Southern Women.: An Oral History

Jones-Rogers, Stephanie E. - They Were Her Property: White Women as Slave Owners in the American South

Kendi, Ibram X. - Stamped from the Beginning: The Definitive History of Racist Ideas in America

Snorton, C. Riley - Black on Both Sides: A Racial History of Trans Identity

Taylor, Candacy A. - Overground Railroad: The Green Book & Roots of Black Travel in America

Washington, Harriet A. - Medical Apartheid

Wilkerson, Isabel - The Warmth of Other Suns

Zinn, Howard - A People’s History of the United States

Politics/Economy

Anderson, Carol - One Person, No Vote: How Voter Suppression Is Destroying Our Democracy

Baptist, Edward E. - The Half Has Never Been Told: Slavery and the Making of American Capitalism

Psychology

Menakem, Resmaa - My Grandmother's Hands: Racialized Trauma and the Mending of Our Bodies and Hearts

Tatum, Beverly Daniel - "Why Are All The Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria?": A Psychologist Explains the Development of Racial Identity

Literary Criticism

Morrison, Toni - Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination

Education

hooks, bell - Teaching to Transgress: Education as the Practice of Freedom

Science & Technology

Benjamin, Ruha - Race After Technology: Abolitionist Tools for the New Jim Code

Skloot, Rebecca - The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks

Shetterly, Margot Lee - Hidden Figures: The American Dream and the Untold Story of the Black Women Mathematicians Who Helped Win the Space Race

Autobiography/Memoir

Angelou, Maya - I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings

Bernard, Emily - Black Is the Body: Stories from My Grandmother's Time, My Mother's Time, and Mine

Broom, Sarah M. - The Yellow House

Brown, Austin Channing - I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made for Whiteness

Coates, Ta-Nehisi - The Beautiful Struggle

Coates, Ta-Nehisi - Between the World and Me

Hinton, Anthony Ray - The Sun Does Shine: How I Found Life and Freedom on Death Row

hooks, bell - Bone Black: Memories of Girlhood

Jones, Saeed - How We Fight For Our Lives

Khan-Kullors, Patrisse and Bandele, Asha - When They Call You a Terrorist: A Black Lives Matter Memoir

Laymon, Kiese - Heavy: An American Memoir

Mock, Janet - Redefining Realness: My Path to Womanhood, Identity, Love & So Much More

Noah, Trevor - Born a Crime

Obama, Barack - Dreams from My Father: A Story of Race and Inheritance

Obama, Michelle - Becoming

Shakur, Assata - Assata: An Autobiography

Welteroth, Elaine - More Than Enough

Wright, Richard - Black Boy

X, Malcolm - The Autobiography of Malcolm X

Comedy

Bell, W. Kamau - The Awkward Thoughts of W. Kamau Bell: Tales of a 6' 4", African American, Heterosexual, Cisgender, Left-Leaning, Asthmatic, Black and Proud Blerd, Mama's Boy, Dad, and Stand-Up Comedian

Haddish, Tiffany - The Last Black Unicorn

Rae, Issa - The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl

Robinson, Phoebe - You Can't Touch My Hair: And Other Things I Still Have to Explain

[clearkoalacollective]

Christmas 2019 Game Giveaway!

Ho ho ho! The Christmas season is upon us, and my annual giveaway of Steam codes (from leftover Humble Bundle games) is set to begin! 

Take a look, pick out ONE game you’d like, send me a private message, and I will send you the key. It’s my gift to you, but first come, first served. If you claim something, I ask that you use the code QUICKLY – I will be editing the post to eliminate claimed games, but if someone else asks for a specific game and the unclaimed key is still in my possession, you may lose out!

Happiness and health to you and yours, no matter what (or even if) you celebrate!

-Aesthete Claus

**THE LIST**

11-11 Memories Retold

Aaero

Aaero

Acceleration of SUGURI 2

Action!

Action Henk

The Adventure Pals

Almost There: The Platformer

Ame no Marginal -Rain Marginal

Ancient Planet

Anna’s Quest

Anno 2205 (uPlay)

ARMA Gold Edition

Ashes of the Singularity: Escalation

Auto Age: Standoff

Avernum 2: Crystal Souls

Avernum 3: Ruined World

Back to Bed

BalanCity

Bastion

Battle Riders

Beckett

Bezier

Bit Blaster XL

Black Mesa

Black the Fall

Blackwake

BlazBlue: Chronophantasma Extend

Bleed 2

Blockstorm

Bomb Defense

Borderlands 2 Ultimate Vault Hunter Upgrade Pack 2

Borderlands: The Pre-Sequel

Bounty Train

Call of Duty: Black Ops 4 Standard Edition

Call of Duty: Black Ops 4 Additional Content

Carcassonne - Inns & Cathedrals

Carcassonne - Tiles & Tactics

Chime Sharp

Chivalry: Medieval Warfare

Chronology

ClusterPuck99

Copoka

Cosmonautica

Crazy Machines 3

Crusader Kings 2: Dynasty Starter Pack

Cthulhu Realms

Cursed Castilla (Maldita Castilla EX)

Dead Island Definitive Edition

Dead Rising 2

Deep Dungeons of Doom

Defend Your Life: TD

Deponia Doomsday

Deponia Doomsday

Deponia: The Complete Journey

Dimension Jump

DiRT Rally

Distance

Distrust

DreadOut

Dreaming Sarah

Duskers

The Dwarves

Emily Is Away Too

Endless Legend - Classic Edition

The Escapists - Alcatraz

The Escapists - Duct Tapes are Forever

The Escapists - Escape Team

The Escapists - Fhurst Peak

Elder Scrolls Online content: Bristlegut Piglet + 15 days of ESO Plus

ETHEREAL

Evergarden

Everything

Everything

FaceRig

FaceRig Pro

The Fall

fault - milestone two side:above

fault milestone one

Fearless Fantasy

F.E.X. (Forced Evolution Experiment)

Fidel - Dungeon Rescue

Fight’N Rage

Figment

Filthy, Stinking, Orcs

Finding Paradise

Flat Heroes

Flinthook

Forged Battalion

Forts

Fortune-499

FreeCell Quest

Full Throttle Remastered

Galactic Civilizations III

Getting Over It with Bennett Foddy

Gloom: Digital Edition

God’s Trigger

GoNNER - Press Jump To Die Edition

Gremlins, Inc.

Grey Goo Definitive Edition

Guacamelee! 2

Guild of Dungeoneering

Guild Wars 2 Heroic Edition

Guns of Icarus Alliance

Gurgamoth

H1Z1

Hacknet

Hard Reset Redux

Headlander

Hearts of Iron III Collection

Her Story

Hexcells Complete Pack

Highway Blossoms

HIVESWAP: Act 1

Holy Potatoes! We’re in Space?!

HoPiKo

Hotline Miami 2: Wrong Number

How to Survive 2

Hurtworld

Husk

Idol Magical Girl Chiru Chiru Michiru Part 1

Idol Magical Girl Chiru Chiru Michiru Part 2

Immortal Redneck

The Incredible Adventures of Van Helsing

The Incredible Adventures of Van Helsing: Final Cut

Infested Planet

Invisible Inc.

The Journey Down: Chapter Three

Jump Stars

Keep Talking and Nobody Explodes

Kentucky Route Zero

Kentucky Route Zero

Kero Blaster

Kimmy

Kingdom: New Lands

Kona

Lakeview Cabin Collection

Lara Croft GO

Laser League

Last Day of June

Layers of Fear: Masterpiece Edition

The Legend of Heroes: Trails in the Sky

Lion Quest

Loot Rascals

Lost Castle

LostWinds

Love is Dead

Love Letter

Macdows 95

Machinarium Collector’s Edition

Magicka

Maize

Majesty 2 Collection

Marooners

Master Spy

Memoria

Memory’s Dogma CODE:01

Metrico+

Mimic Arena

Minecraft: Story Mode

Minion Masters

Mirage: Arcane Warfare

Monstercat Gold 1 Year

Moon Hunters

Moonlighter

MOTHERGUNSHIP

Mr. Shifty

Mysterium - Hidden Signs (expansion)

Mysterium - Secrets and Lies (expansion)

NAIRI: Tower of Shirin

Narcissu 10th Anniversary Anthology Project

NBA Playgrounds

NEKOPARA Vol. 1

Neon Chrome

Neon Drive

NeuroVoider

Nex Machina

No Time To Explain Remastered

Offensive Combat: Redux!

Okhlos

Old Man’s Journey

On Rusty Trails

Outlast 2

Override: Mech City brawl

Oxenfree

Painters Guild

Paradigm

Paratopic

The Park

Passpartout: The Starving Artist

Pirate Pop Plus

Plague Inc: Evolved

Planet Alpha

Pony Island

Pony Island

Pool Panic

Portal Knights

Primal Carnage: Extinction

Project CARS

Project CARS 2

Prototype 2

Purrfect Date - Visual Novel/Dating Simulator

Puss!

Q.U.B.E.: Director’s Cut

Q.U.B.E. 2

Rapture Rejects

Rapture Rejects

Red Orchestra 2: Heroes of Stalingrad

The Red Solstice

Refunct

Resident Evil 5 Gold Edition

Resident Evil Revelations

Restream 1 Year

ReThink

Rivals of Aether

RIVE: Wreck, Hack, Die, Retry

Road Redemption

Rock of Ages 2: Bigger & Boulder

Roombo: First Blood (Justice Sucks)

Running with Rifles

Rusty Lake Hotel

Samorost 3

Sanctum 2

Scanner Sombre

Scanner Sombre

Scrap Garden

Scythe: Digital Edition

Seasons After Fall

Serial Cleaner

SEUM: Speedrunners from Hell

Seven: The Days Long Gone

Shadow Tactics: Blades of the Shogun

Shadowrun: Hong Kong - Extended Edition

She Remembered Caterpillars

Shiness: The Lightning Kingdom

Silence

SimplePlanes

Sleeping Dogs: Definitive Edition

Slime-san

Slipstream

Snake Pass

Sniper Elite

Sniper Elite V2

Sonic Mania

Sorcerer King: Rivals

Soul Axiom

Space Run Galaxy

Spectrum

The Spiral Scouts

Splasher

Squad (early access)

The Stanley Parable

State of Mind

Staxel

Staxel

Steamworld Heist

Steamworld Heist

STRAFE: Millennium Edition

Stronghold Legends: Steam Edition

Styx: Shards of Darkness

Subterrain

Sudden Strike 4

Sundered

Sunrider: Liberation Day - Captain’s Edition

Super Daryl Deluxe

Super Rude Bear Resurrection

SuperLuminauts

The Surge

Swords and Soldiers 2 Shawarmageddon

SYNTHETIK: Legion Rising

Tales of Berseria

Team Racing League

Teslagrad

Thomas Was Alone

THOTH Ticket to Ride: First Journey

Tiltagon

Tiny Echo

TIS-100

Tom Clancy’s The Division + Survival (uPlay)

Tormentor X Punisher

Tower Unite

Toy Odyssey: The Lost and Found

Train Valley

Tricky Towers

Tricky Towers

TumbleSeed

Tumblestone

The Turing Test

Twilight Struggle

Uurnog Uurnlimited

Verdun

Victor Vran

Virginia

Wargame: Red Dragon

Warhammer 40,000: Mechanicus

Wasted Pizza

Wasteland

Wasteland 2: Director’s Cut - Standard Edition

We Were Here Too

Witch It

Wizard of Legend

WORLD END ECONOMiCA episode.01

WORLD END ECONOMiCA episode.02

WORLD END ECONOMiCA episode.03

World to the West

Wurm Unlimited

XSplit Premium 1 Year

XSplit VCAM

Yakuza Kiwami

Yoku’s Island Express

Yume Nikki

YUMENIKKI -DREAM DIARY-

Zero Reflex: Black Eye Edition

Ziggurat

Zombie Army Trilogy

[of-storms-and-sadness]

Of Storms And Sadness 1

There was a girl once in Daryl Dixon’s life. She was his almost, but as life is, it teared her away from him long before she could become more than that. Years later, in the midst of all the chaos of the dead world, Mae Peterson walks right back into Daryl’s life, when he needs her most. Problem is, Mae is now one of Negan’s wives.

Though the girl never faltered in renouncing the life of comfort and safety beside Negan, risking her own life in order to give Daryl his freedom back, will that be enough to bring the two back together?

**

Pairing: none so far (Daryl x OC eventually)

Warnings: Language (Mae does slightly overuse the word fuck and she tends to get quite creative with her insults  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ), violence, drug (ab)use, death mention

Words: 1673

Chapters: 1/?

Notes: I’m keeping Merle alive for this one, ‘cause I kinda miss him (and though he was an asshole, he did deserve better :)

**

The night was silent, as nights here usually were. Nothing but crickets and frogs in the distance, the secluded position of the house both a blessing and a curse. The relaxing sounds brought Mae on the verge of sleep, while the warm summer breeze caressed her skin, but voices from the living room, getting louder, angrier, disturbed the peace.

She should've gotten used to it by now, but she doubted she ever could. The voices were the usual - her brother Les, his friend Merle and Merle's brother, Daryl if she remembered the guy's name right. Mae always thought he was different from the other two, at least for a tiny bit - it was more of a hunch than a fact, but it often had her wondering why he keeps sticking with his brother. Or hers, for that matter. But then again, why was she? Family can cause people to make the funniest of choices sometimes, and she could understand. In a way, she could relate. 

Mae rolled her eyes at the rumble getting louder, her wish for a quiet evening once again ruined by her brother and his redneck friends.

She'd stay out of it, as she usually does. Only this time, the rumbling voices mixed with breaking objects, painful growles following right after. They could kill each other, for all she cared, but they ain't doing it in her damn house. Heels tapped on the tiles, the click-clack sound of it mixing with that of a squealing porch swing, still lazily rocking, as she walked towards the entrance. Silence spread in the room once she entered, two men staring at her, amused smiles on their faces, with the third one on the floor on all fours, gaze blurry, but bright blue eyes still capable of boring holes into her skull. Blood smeared on her brother’s face left her silent for a moment, dumbfounded, her whole body twitching at the sound of his boot slamming Daryl's stomach. 

Mae closed her eyes shut at the sound, both the impact as the low growl of pain coming from the man on the ground.

Seeing Les and Merle laugh it off, leaving Daryl vomiting on their fucking living room carpet - she'd finally had enough. Felt like something inside had finally snapped. But her gentle, caring nature pushed her down to her knees, crouching next to the guy, gently getting his hair off his face. "You alright?" she asked, but no answer came. Not alright, she figured, pulling him up to his feet, half dragging him out to the porch, where she left him on the swing before she stormed back in, that inside snap from moments before now finding its way to surface.

"You fucking brainless pigs," the girl roared, the blue of her eyes drowned by fury, and slamming the door shut, she pointed her finger at Les first - "You, you're a moron but that ain't nothing new-" Then she turned to Merle, releasing all her pilled-up frustration with his sole presence and turning it into words, "-but you, he's your fucking brother, you heartless piece of junkie crap. You, disgusting pile of dog crap, you..."

"Woah there, little one," Merle interrupted her outburst, a smile still plastered on his face, "I know better ways of putting that pretty mouth of yours to good use."

The level of intoxication was pretty obvious from his feral gaze, but Mae shot him a glance back, one of disgust and raging anger, as she replied with a steady voice.

"You do, don't you? Wanna know what I know? If I was a bird, I know who I'd shit on," she spat, turning her back on the two, and walked back towards the porch.

Deep breaths, in and out, she sat on the swing next to Daryl, staring at the sky in silence for a moment before she turned to him. He was quiet, like he always was, eyes closed and breathing slow, shallow. She nudged him gently, elbow to his ribs, sighing in relief as he opened his eyes, giving her a look, before he closed them again. "You okay?" Mae asked, "Need water? Something to eat?"

"M' fine," he mumbled, barely understandable. 

Lifting her eyebrow, she scrutinized him for a second, before she spoke again - "Fine? That what you call fine?" Hands gestured towards him, the state he was in being everything but fucking fine. "You're a fucking moron too, should've just left you there on the fucking floor. M' fine. You ain't fucking fine! You're beaten and drugged and obviously an idiot, just like those two!" 

She crossed her legs and leaned forward, hands covering her face as she released a sigh, one coming from deep under. The corner of her eye caught Daryl staring at her, blushing once he realized he was busted. It made the girl smile slightly, body falling back into the swing's backrest. "I honestly don't know what you're doing with those two," she mumbled, more to herself, not expecting an answer from her intoxicated companion. "Could've died, stupid. What was this even all about?"

The man shifted awkwardly when her shoulder accidentally bumped his, clearing his throat before speaking - "None would care, anyway."

And it caught her wordless, mouth opening to say something, then closing again without a sound. How many times had she felt the same? Countless. Yet, hearing someone else say it - it made the statement feel so fake, so untrue, although she knew it must be the truest thing to him. It was to her, when it came, the feeling of being deep in the water, drowning, with no one there to pull her out. Everyone watching idly, yet no one ready to make an effort and save her. Because even if they cared, they never cared enough. Shit feels like hell.

"Hey don't say that." she managed to mumble, "Ain't true."

"Hmh," Daryl murmured, eyes meeting hers, before he closed them, shifting on the swing, and falling asleep soon after.

The rest of the night was peaceful, Les and Merle having fallen asleep too, one on the couch, while the other on the floor. 

Mae stayed curled up on the swing beside Daryl, staying awake long into the night, worried that, if she closed her eyes for a moment, the man would somehow stop breathing. Eventually, sleep came to claim her too, and she drifted, head falling on Daryl's shoulder. 

It's how the early morning sun found them, Daryl shifting awkwardly, trying to wiggle out without waking Mae up. To no avail, as her eyes blinked open and a lazy yawn disturbed the perfect silence of a waking day.

 The same kind of yawn disturbed the silence now, as Merle grabbed Mae’s shoulders and shook her, in a not-so-gentle attempt to wake her up, the dream fading away, replaced by his smirking face staring right at her.

"Fuck you, asshole," Mae mumbled, still half asleep, already regretting ever offering to help him out when she found him the day before, wandering the streets of Atlanta, leaving a bloody trail behind him. Lots of things changed since she last saw the older Dixon brother, but he remained equally insufferable. Sadly, she needed him to survive, and that was something she was painfully aware of. 

"Rise and shine, doll!" the man mused, causing Mae to roll her eyes, getting up.

Days blurred into one on the road and time flew past the two like a vulture, death lurking on every corner of their way. And Mae grew fond of Merle with time, as annoying and repugnant as he was. They kept each other safe, helped each other, and it was more than enough for her to develop a certain affection for the man, though he still annoyed her equally fierce.

Her thoughts would drift to his brother on rare moments, but she never dared to ask if the younger Dixon was still alive. The possibility of him not being there anymore was not something she was ready to deal with just now, so she chose not to know. She asked about her brother, though, the answer leaving her in the dark, as Merle and Les drifted apart years ago, not long after she left town and made her life here in Atlanta. Funny how life makes people grow apart and then brings them back together, only to separate them once more.

"Mae!" Slap! "Wake the fuck up!" Eyes flew open at the impact, her cheek burning. 

"What the fuck, Merle?!" she mumbled, but as her vision cleared, she hopped to her feet, grabbing the gun tucked to her belt. "Fuck, Merle, where the fuck did they come from?!" There were at least a dozen walkers closing in on them from all sides, every possible escape clogged by walking corpses. She should’ve listened to Merle when he said it ain't safe sleeping in the damn clearing, too open, too exposed, but she was also too tired to walk on, and now...well now it looked like their journey was coming to an end. They fought fiercely, the two, bringing down walker after walker after walker, but the gunshots attracted more, and there seemed to be no end to it. Panic rose as she lost sight of Merle, shouting his name desperately, but no answer came, voices lost in growling crowd. She somehow managed to mingle out of the clearing, the trees now giving her a very much needed hideout. Merle was still nowhere to be seen, but she could hear his muffled voice calling out for her. "Hey princess, where the fuck you at?" 

Mae yelled back to him, but felt a grip on her ankle, and trying to get free of it, she slipped on wet leaves, landing on the floor, head bumping the roots of some ancient oak. Her vision turned blurry, shadows dancing in her head, but she struggled to stay awake, as the rotten smell of a corpse crawling closer made her stomach turn. And then it was gone, both the growling and the smell. She felt a hand slide bellow her waist, and another one bellow her knees, and she felt like floating, while the man ran with her in his arms. "Fuck Merle, thank god," she mumbled, right before her world turned black.

**

Okay! I’ll just crawl to my hole now and wait for any kind of reaction.

If you read it, thank you for reading! If you liked it too, please drop me a comment!

Love u all! :)

#daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl fanfiction #twd fanfiction #merle dixon fanfiction #daryl x oc #daryl dixon imagines #daryl dixon #merle dixon #negan #of storms and sadness

[artemiscalled]

The Morning After the Synagogue Shooting

It was a Sunday, so I went to church.

I drove to the parking lot, thinking wistfully about coffee.

I walked through the sanctuary doors, greeting folks as I walked into the sanctuary.

I found a seat in the pews, and got comfortable before the service began.

At no point was I afraid for my life.

I was allowed to do all of this without one ounce of fear. But why? Christianity is an Abrahamic faith, sharing roots with Judaism and Islam. So why can I worship safely, when others were murdered for doing the same?

It’s because I’m Christian - because I’m white - and this country considers both of those characteristics acceptably mainstream. I have so little to fear when I go to worship God in the place of my choosing. By no virtue of my own, I have been handed a free pass to worship as I please.

If you worship God, any god, this injustice should infuriate you. I’m appalled that I have such easy access to a safe worship space, for no other reason than privilege.

So why is it that myself and other white Christians can be so sure of our safety?

Because antisemites generally identify as Christian. Robert Bowers, the white, antisemitic nationalist terrorist, self-identifies as a Christian.

That should scare the hell outta Christians.

Something is wrong with white culture-Christians. I don’t just mean the folks who wear clothes from the 1850s and live in compounds. I mean every-damn-body. The folks who are in the pews every Sunday. The folks who casually celebrate the holidays to get out of work, but who manage to flip their shit at the first sound of “Happy Holidays!”. The Bible-thumpers who preach damnation. The rednecks who fly confederate flags and shriek that Jesus was white. I’m talking about the conservatives who just abuse free speech to “speak their mind” and the liberals who care more about keeping the peace in their own lives.

There is something horrendously, momentously wrong with the Christian Church if it provides a place for people like Robert Bowers to flourish.

I think we can all agree the problem isn’t God.

It’s the damn people. It’s the systems and attitudes fostered by the damn people.

And yet, white Christians feel safe, so we become complacent. And by doing so, we are complicit.

Well it’s time to stop creating monsters.

Call folks on their ignorance. Call them on their hate. We can’t afford to let them hide behind the dual shields of Christianity and free speech.

Free speech means you have the right to talk back. Christianity means you are obligated to.

���To fear the LORD is to hate evil; I hate pride and arrogance, evil behavior and perverse speech.” - Proverbs 8:13

“Do not hate a fellow Israelite in your heart. Rebuke your neighbor frankly so you will not share in their guilt.” - Leviticus 19:17

“If we claim to have fellowship with him and yet walk in the darkness, we lie and do not live out the truth.” - 1 John 1:6

“Get rid of all bitterness, rage and anger, brawling and slander, along with every form of malice.” - Ephesians 4:31

“Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness. Keep watch on yourself, lest you too be tempted.” - Galatians 6:1

18 When I say to a wicked person, 'You will surely die,' and you do not warn them or speak out to dissuade them from their evil ways in order to save their life, that wicked person will die for their sin, and I will hold you accountable for their blood.

19 But if you do warn the wicked person and they do not turn from their wickedness or from their evil ways, they will die for their sin; but you will have saved yourself.

- Ezekiel 3:18-19

“Who will rise up for me against the evildoers? or who will stand up for me against the workers of iniquity?” - Psalm 94:16

“Remember this: Whoever turns a sinner from the error of their way will save them from death and cover over a multitude of sins.” - James 5:20

Make these people show themselves, and they can face the judgement for their beliefs and actions. They need to be held accountable.

Too many people have already died because someone didn’t say something sooner.

#unpopular opinion #white christians need to get it together #start acting like you have some sense and a moral compass #it is no longer acceptable to let shit slide #stand with your Abrahamic brothers and sisters #stand with others wish to worship in their own way #pray for justice #pray for peace #pray for the strength to quell hate #i have to work on this myself #preserving the peace in your own life does NOT outrank saving someone else’s life #moral compass #christianity #christian mystic #culture christians #white christians #christian culture #words words words #tree of life synagogue #squirrel hill #pittsburgh shooting #em talks #white christian privilege #antisemitism

[livingmybestfictionallife]

As I See It, Yes --Chapter Two

Catch up here 

I walked through the house at what felt like either really late at night or very early in the morning. My blanket was wrapped around my body and I held it so tight my knuckles were white. I made my way through the living room to the bathroom, hoping no one was there. I couldn’t remember why I was headed there I just needed to hurry…maybe I was going to be sick or something, I don’t know. I tried to run past the guys who were hanging around the living room when the blanket snagged on the corner of a table and fell off. Devastated, I stood in front of them almost completely naked. Only a bra and a pair of underwear blocked their eyes from the rest of my body. I watched their eyes trail me as I had seen them do countless other girls. I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks as the tears began to well in my eyes. I watched as the eruption of laughter spread from one person to another. I knew what they were seeing and it wasn’t the beauty anyone thought I should have. It wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough.

I retrieve the blanket and make a dash to the bathroom, locked myself inside, and wrapped myself in the blanket, crying the type of cry that leaves you rocking and heaving while not being able to make any noise. Wrenching back and forth, feeling the hot tears streak down my face, feeling sicker than ever—stomach lurching and twisting into knots—and I knew that regardless of any attempts, the feeling would not go away.

I woke up in a cold sweat too early with the help of thunder. My t-shirt clung to my back, but I didn’t mind. It was a reminder of the fear I held on to; being afraid meant feeling something, and I was at a point where it didn’t matter whether the feeling was bad or good—I hung onto anything that was an emotion. After Mom and Dad died I became too talented at numbing myself from the world. I was already pretty good at it, but Dad always knew something was up and Mom could always get me talking.

Sometimes it didn’t seem like Mom and Dad’s death really affected my brothers the way it affects me daily. I already had problems trusting people, but after I lost them, I couldn’t trust anyone. My secrets, my thoughts, my wishes, fears, ideas, fantasies, everything was something I shared with my Mom. She would smile and tell me how she had thought the same things when she was my age and assure me that I wasn’t being too much of a dreamer or living too high above the earth. She encouraged me that my head could be in the clouds as long as I knew the difference between my perception of life and reality. When she died, the temporary ownership I had in the clouds disappeared. I fell from the sky and crashed into reality; I shut myself off from everything. It’s strange to think their deaths lead me to very slowly accommodating the trust of the biggest delinquent in town. I still couldn’t understand how I’d gotten close to Dallas Winston of all people, but then again, Mom always did like Dallas. I thought she was crazy for trusting him, for letting him stay in our house for a solid eight months rather than have him bounce around. I remember asking her if she were ever scared Dally would pull the wool over her and Dad’s eyes. She only shook her head and looked down at me and said, “If everyone were afraid of you that would be a sad kind of life.” I think it was then that I decided to look past the exterior and try to analyze people to see what they’re really like.

I buried the nightmare in my mind and tried to roll over and get some more sleep but failed. My insomnia was back and I was just as miserable as ever. I could tell the guys had noticed the subtle changes that accompanies my not sleeping: blank stares, dark circles under my eyes, slight twitching, a hollowed expression, and a fiery rage of frustration from being exhausted yet not being able to sleep. For what would no doubt not be the last time, I did my best to shove the exhaustion from my face and pulled the covers off my body. I couldn’t fight the anger that lack of sleep caused me to slip into, and as soon as my feet hit the carpet, I turned to punch the bedframe when I remembered that everyone else was still sleeping. I relaxed my fist but not my anger as I slipped on some of Ponyboy’s track pants and one of Darry’s old football shirts that I cut to not swallow my body so much. After I laced the hand-me-down converse I got from Soda onto my feet, I crept through the house, careful to pace past Dally without waking him and started jogging in the rain.

It had to be around five in the morning and the darkness that covered the sky was beginning to shift from black to a dark grey as the sun began to creep into the sky behind the thick storm clouds that lingered above me. Aside from it being too early for most people to be awake, the rain was another factor protecting me from dealing with Socs, but I couldn’t exactly rule out accidentally running into other greasers, hoods, or whatever white trash rednecks were crawling home right now after being out partying all night. I didn’t intend to run the half-mile down to the vacant lot the gang used to play football in, but that was as far as I made it before I decided to turn around and head home. The rain was letting up and I knew if I kept going I wouldn’t be home in time to stick to my brothers’ rule of the first to wake up cooks breakfast.

The lot seemed empty, but it always appeared that way at first glance. More times than not, a boy with the blackest hair you’ll ever see the tannest skin, and the kindest eyes in the world would be out here, lying under newspapers and leaves to keep warm. During the summer, he’ll lay out his denim jacket to provide comfort as he slept on the pavement, and if he didn’t feel too safe on the ground, he’d tie himself in a tree and sleep. As hard as it is to believe, this boy, Johnny Cade, was much safer out here in the lot than he’d ever be in his own house. I was glad to see he wasn’t there—I would have felt even worse had he stayed out in the storm all night and not come over.

Johnny was apart of our gang and much like Ponyboy he’s awfully quiet. He used to not be as hesitant to join in conversations but after being beaten at home and getting jumped a month or so ago, he’s built up more walls. Everyone in the gang who had the means has offered for him to stay at their place more than once, but poor Johnny doesn’t have the heart to crash on someone’s couch for more than a night or two in a row. I’d always liked Johnny; he and I had a similar understanding with the way the world works.

My run ended a block or two away from my house when I saw the familiar tufts of black hair against the hem of a black t-shirt and rusty sideburns pale arms stretching out from a cut off grey t-shirt. I jogged up to the pair, stopped in the middle of the boys, and draped my arms across each of their shoulders.

“Hey there, Johnny, Two-Bit” I called out as their heads spun to see who was falling on them.

“What are you doing outside so early?” Two-Bit asked.

“I could ask you the same,” I smirked in return.

“Still not sleeping?” Johnny asked and I slipped my arms from their frames. I felt my heart grow warm at the sense of understanding Johnny exhibited. He knew more about dealing with shit like insomnia than I did, apparently he had it pretty bad when he was a kid and even admitted to me he thought there was some sort of psychological link to not sleeping and a traumatic past event.

“Obviously not well enough,” I muttered. “So I decided to go for a run.”

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Two-Bit asked rather obliviously. “Did the storm keep you up?”

“No, I was reading to Pony and Soda, Darry came home real late, then there was another ordeal,” I sighed, “but guess what! Dal’s out of the cooler.”

“Let me guess, good behavior?” Two-Bit snickered. I nodded and it turned into a laugh as we turned and entered my yard through the small, chain-link gate out front.

I left the main door open and closed the screen door, letting in the fresh, rain scented air. Dallas was still asleep with one arm draped over the back of the couch and the other stretched across the coffee table, Soda was walking through the halls in his underwear looking for a towel, and Ponyboy and Darry were still asleep. I knew it would be a matter of time between Steve made his way into the mix, so I trudged into the kitchen only to have Soda follow me.

“You’re here early,” he muttered toward Two-Bit and offered a ‘good morning’ to Johnny before turning to me. “Hey, Austin, where are the towels? Did Darry wash them yet?” I shook my head.

“Just use mine, I used it last night so it should be dry by now,” I said while laying bacon out across the frying pan and getting another frying pan out to start making pancakes. Soda ran back to the bathroom and hollered a ‘thanks’ back to me while I was being popped and scalded by bacon grease. “You’ve got to be kidding me!” I hissed as grease attacked me and stung the skin covering my ribs after I jumped and raised my arms, temporarily exposing my abdomen.

“Thank you for starting breakfast, Austin,” I heard Darry say behind me as he stepped in and started to take over my cooking.

“No problem,” I sighed but managed to pull my older brother aside. “We’re almost out of groceries and we just went shopping; we can’t afford to keep doing this,” I whispered.

“What would Mom and Dad do?” Darry questioned while narrowing his eyes at me. I bit my tongue and kept myself from saying what I was thinking, of telling him the truth: Mom and Dad aren’t here. I noticed Johnny in the corner pouring either milk or juice for everyone and was thankful for his help. Darry wandered out of the kitchen and I heard a thud followed by a groan, which I could only assume was him knocking Dally’s legs from the couch and forcing him to wake up. The screen door opened and closed, signaling Sodapop’s best friend, Steve Randle had arrived, and I watched as Ponyboy dragged himself into the kitchen, obviously as exhausted as I was.

“Come on everyone, breakfast is ready,” Darry called as he walked back into the living room from waking up Ponyboy after watching me flip one of the last batches of pancakes. The boys rushed the kitchen like they hadn’t eaten in weeks and I took this as my only opportunity to get ready for the day. I hurried to my room and grabbed the only clothes I had: a pair of hand-me-down jeans from Sodapop that I had cut into shorts and a plain white t-shirt that used to belong to Ponyboy. With these in my hands, I rushed into the bathroom and took a quick shower to rinse off rainwater that had dried to me. Upon opening the cabinet beneath the sink, I found the fresh towels Sodapop had so poorly been searching for. I dried off quickly, wrapped my hair in the towel, applied minimal make-up, dark lipstick, and tried to get out the front door without anyone seeing me. I failed.

“Hey, Austin, where are you going?” Ponyboy asked as I cut through the living room.

“I’m going to work,” I slurred.

“But the antique shop is closed,” Soda said through a mouthful of food.

“They are, but this is the library,” I said. “They need me to come in today. We got a huge donation and our shipment came in so I have to put a lot of new books into the system and check in what yesterday’s shift didn’t.” I was getting bored of listening to myself drone on and on with pointless and tedious jobs I have to do in the next few hours.

“Oh, well have a good day,” Darry dismissed me, but Ponyboy was up and met me at the door.

“Austin, what are you doing this afternoon?” I shrugged.

“Nothing. I get off at one thirty, how come?”

“Want to go see a movie with me?” Pony loved going to the movies but he hated going with the gang. Soda couldn’t sit still through them, Two-Bit and Steve never seemed to like them, Dallas never paid attention, and Johnny and Darry always found something better to do. I knew he liked going to the movies to me because we were similar—we liked books, movies, and music—and he knew I hated saying ‘no’ to him. He’s my youngest brother and he knows I’d do anything for him.

“What movie?” I asked as he stood beside me at the door, holding a full plate of food in his hands.

“The Hustler,” his voice was becoming softer as the guys started coming into the living room.

“Sure thing, little brother,” I said while hugging him, stealing a pancake from his plate, and then hurrying out the door after saying good-byes only to be stopped on the front porch by Dallas who snatched my keys from my hands.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he interrogated me.

“I already answered that question Dallas,” I snapped while lunging for my keys. “Come on, Dal, give them back!”

“Let me drive you,” he stated and jammed the key into the door to unlock the car.

“Why?” I asked suspiciously while raising an eyebrow.

“Because I’m headed that way anyways.” My keys were twirling around his finger and I made another failed attempt to grab them.

“You’re headed toward the library?” I asked again while folding my arms.

“Yes, I am for your information. There’s a record store down there I was going to check out.” I rolled my eyes and sighed.

“I’ll drive you, just give me the keys,” I offered.

“And what kind of gentleman lets a woman drive for him?” I could hear his dry sarcasm rolling through my ears.

“The kind who understands that if he doesn’t listen to me, he will lose his manhood,” I threatened but all he did was shrug and saunter off to the passenger side door, held it open, and cocked an eyebrow, motioning for me to get in. My shoulders slumped and I dropped my weight from one step to the other dramatically until my feet hit the gravel and grass, and then I dragged my feet all the way to the car so he could fully understand my reluctance of letting him drive.

“Oh boo hoo, you get a free ride to work from a nice guy, what’s so horrible about that,” he groaned.

“Will the nice guy be joining us?” I sneered. He rolled his eyes and put the car in reverse then floored it down the street. The ride was quiet and for the most part, we listened to the tread of the tires on the road. I stuck my hand out the window and felt the air rush past it, feeling free if only for a moment, as I travel from point A to point B, from housework and to real work to help provide for my brothers.

“What are you doing for lunch?” his question was sudden and unexpected.

“Uh, I don’t know, probably nothing,” I said as I pulled my arm inside and cranked up the window. Dallas pulled into the parking lot outside of the town library and switched off the engine before he turned to face me for the first time since leaving the house.

“Well then, I’ll come back around noon or something with some Dairy Queen if that’s alright.” I felt my eyes narrow but my lips curled into a light, genuine smile and I nodded.

“Thanks, Dallas,” I sighed as he tossed me my keys.

“Sure thing, Austin.” I watched him walk off down the covered portion of sidewalk, past all of the shops and around the corner before opening the door to the library.

It was a small building, but size didn’t really matter when I got to work surrounded by books. The stories and adventures that a strange combination of the same twenty-six letters can take you on are beyond incredible and offered everyone who entered the building an escape. I had been working as a volunteer for a year and a half before my parents passed away. The head librarian decided since I was such a great employee she would see if I could be paid for my work. I was extremely grateful for the news after everything happened, but it didn’t keep me from piling more jobs onto my busy schedule.

“Good morning, Austin, I suppose you’ll be finishing up with the inventory,” I heard from behind the desk. Alison McGregor was sitting there with her perfectly curled brown hair, her plump red lips, big brown eyes, and pale blue dress that billowed around her knees as she sat in the chair. I couldn’t stand Alison; she was the type of girl that made other girls feel bad about themselves by just looking at her—as if any average person couldn’t compare to whatever overrated beauty she exuberated. To make matters worse, she acted like some hotshot that knew more than anyone else and knew what was best for everyone else. I opened my mouth to reply with something even snarkier than her comment but quickly shut it when I heard the door ding closed behind me.

“No, she will not. I gave you that task,” I heard while stepping aside and making room for our boss, Karen. “Austin is going to host story time for children while I take care of the women’s book club.” I passed Alison a venomous smirk but let it fade before Karen caught me. She liked me a lot despite knowing I had the tendency to revert into being a sarcastic asshole, but at least I get my work done.

Karen went into her makeshift office: a closet space that was extended by a few feet and had a desk put in. We were welcome to store whatever belongings we brought to work in Karen’s office, but after being around guys for the majority of my life, certain things like carrying purses were too girly and got in the way of doing fun things with my friends—imagine playing tackle football in a skirt. As Alison disappeared with Karen to put her bag away, I tried to make myself busy enough to avoid my annoying co-worker. Apparently it didn’t matter whether I was trying to ignore her or not; upon returning to the front desk, Alison stared disapprovingly at me and I thinned my lips in a dismissive manner while rolling my eyes and looking in the opposite direction. Alison McGregor was a Soc if I ever saw one. I knew it was only fair that the public library sat between greaser and Soc territories, but I hated it because people like her felt the need to waltz in and act like they own the place, like they have a monopoly on books, free thinking, and self expression. More times than I’d like to admit Socs barge in and wander through the shelves for anywhere close to half an hour with no intention of checking a book out. If a greaser did that, we’d be kicked out of the store within a few minutes, but because they’re Socs and they have money, no one would expect them of stealing anything. I knew I was guilty of making generalizations about Socs, but Alison fit the generalized statement that Socs wake up and expect the world to bow at their feet.

For the first few hours of my shift, I’d been able to avoid all contact with Alison, and I was beginning to think it was because of Karen’s firm hand, but when eleven rolled around, a group of Socs I recognized from school came in and I knew this was what Alison was holding out for. The group consisted of a mixture of recent graduates, like me, and in coming seniors, the same as Alison. The pack of teenage boys walked up to the front desk and started talking to Alison, probably just giving her an excuse to stop working for a moment or to and invite her to some pointless party on the river bottom. During the summer months, Socs had nothing better to do than throw parties and get drunk, so it didn’t surprise me they were already planning their evening activities. I looked over to the front desk and could see Alison was falling for the flirtatious bullshit the guys were dishing out but it was clear they didn’t care if she came or not.

I could tell they didn’t really like her and that it wasn’t her attention they were craving. Everyone at school knew Alison McGregor was easy to get and that she’d put out for anyone. It may be a bit hypocritical for me to hate the way guys think, especially considering how aware of the shit boys do to get into a girl’s pants because of who my friends were, but nothing made me sicker than the stupid game guys made girls out to be. It’s either they’re tired of putting in too much effort for a one night stand, of they get tired of not having to chase after a girl to get her to sleep with them.

“Hello? Grease! I’m talking to you,” one of them snapped at me as I sat at a small table, trying to read.

“Don’t waste your time on her, Lawrence,” Alison said softly in a faux, overly feminine tone.

“Sorry,” I hissed while trying to read the same sentence of my book over for the twelfth time, “I didn’t know you were talking to me considering ‘Grease’ isn’t my name.”

“Whatever your name is, what do you think? Beer blast at the river bottom tonight?” He leaned over on the counter, pushing his hips into the side of it.

A few years ago, when I started going through the changes all girls experience, I didn’t understood why my brothers had gotten more protective of me, and especially why they started threatening other people in the gang. As I got older, I became significantly less ignorant to the way heads turned when I showed up. I didn’t see myself as the type to make heads turn, but considering most of my friends and my friends’ friends were guys, after puberty, it was difficult to be seen as one of the guys, and it lead to Pony, Soda, and Darry threatening the gang, and the gang threatening anyone else that looked at me with shifty eyes.

“No,” was all I said in response. I hated being hit on and the fact that it was some douchey Soc didn’t make it any better.

“Come on, just for a couple hours,” one of the guys said in an obviously forced, sweet tone.

“I’ve got better things to do with my life,” I replied astringently and refusing to look either of them in the eye.

“Why do you even want her there?” Alison’s shrill voice piped up as jealousy began to overcome her. “She’s just some greaser.” I didn’t care what she had to say because she doesn’t know me, and if they had to gossip about other people in order to feel better about themselves, then so be it. “She’s hangs around with that Curtis crowd. The older one played football with your brother, Paul right?” Alison asked.

“Sure did, a lousy defender too, couldn’t ever hold anyone away and was the whole reason Paul couldn’t get a scholarship.” I rolled my eyes, knowing full well that Darry had the scholarship the Soc was talking about in spite of the fact that Paul was a shitty receiver and made the team look like garbage.

“Yeah, but she’s real friendly with them all if you know what I mean,” the guy Alison referred to as Lawrence said in return.

“But she’s…” Alison tried to think of something to say to get her male friends to forget about me and focus on her. “Isn’t she Dallas’s girl?”

“Would it matter?” one of the guys asked. “It’s not like anyone’s ever stuck around for that hood.”

“I hooked up with that one broad he’d been seeing a few weeks ago,” the other said.

“Besides, I think the three of us could show her a much better time.”

“But he just got out of jail for battery. Do you really want to risk getting beaten senseless for her?” Alison asked with a grimace on her face as she looked over at me.

“I doubt Winston gives enough of a shit to take on all of us,” Lawrence said and looked over his shoulder at me. “But I guess we won’t know if she’s worth it until we see what all your greaser friend has to offer,” he finished before turning his attention away from Alison and taking and making his way toward where I sat, but I wasn’t paying attention to him. I was pleading that Karen walk out and break up whatever was going on before it went too far. Once I noticed the tall, muscular frame approach me, I tried to remain apathetic in my tone.

“Don’t even think about talking to me,” I muttered. In an attempt to avoid a confrontation, I grabbed my book and rose from the chair. If I walked away, I can’t be held responsible, right? I tried to hurry and place the book I was reading back on its shelf, but a pair of rough, clingy hands grasped at my hips and rage flowed through my veins.

“Slow down there, grease,” he cooed softly against the back of my neck. I could feel my body shudder against his presence and my muscles tighten as my mind went through every possible outcome of this situation.

“Back off or else,” I stated sharply and maintained my rigid composure.

“Feisty, huh?” he sighed, “I guess Winston does have a type, only his other bitch was much more willing.”

“Well Sylvia can’t turn down anything with a pulse,” I stated. “Let’s try this one more time—no more warnings: let go of me.” When his hands started to snake underneath the hem of my shirt, I lost control. My elbow flew back and collided with Lawrence’s nose. I spun on my heel and pushed him away after he lunged toward me again and then felt my fist collide with the curve of his eye socket before I noticed the attention that had been drawn to us. The two patrons in the building who weren’t apart of Lawrence and Alison’s friend group had their eyes locked on me and me alone while Karen finally strolled out of her office, seeing Lawrence bloody and my hands balled into fists.

“Alison, escort your friends out. Austin, my office,” Karen growled as she stood outside of her door with her feet apart and arms crossed over her chest. I took long sharp strides until I stood inside the small room with my eyes locked on a single nail plunged into the wall. “What were you thinking?” she scolded, but I knew better than to respond immediately. “Austin, I’m going to need a damn good answer to not fire you right now!” I kept my mouth shut for another minute to regain my composure and then spoke.

“I tried ignoring him,” I admitted, “but I’m not going to let some rich asshole put his hands up my shirt to save face.” Karen was desperate to maintain a positive reputation for the library and, since it is a local government owned establishment, which meant funding from Socs, which meant turning a blind eye to certain things the more affluent patrons do.

Karen’s silence was both comforting and unsettling. I knew she took pity on me and my situation, which meant she was considering not firing me for beating up that Lawrence character, but the confliction on her face made me nervous. “I should fire you, you know that, right.”

“Even though he was about to assault me?” I gasped in protest.

“I can’t go against protocol, Austin, and even if you wanted to challenge it, you’ll be in school soon and will have had to quit anyway.” Her voice was low and I could tell she didn’t want to be doing this. “I can put you on terminal suspension. You’ll still be paid, but only a portion of your paycheck. I know your family needs the money.” I bit my lip and fought back the tears I could feel tugging at my eyes. I really hated when people took pity on me because of what happened to my parents, but this was a new kind of low.

“I know what you’re doing comes from wanting to do what’s right, but it isn’t right to punish the victim of some entitled asshole. I’m not just some girl whose parents were killed! Right now, I’m your best employee who was almost assaulted by some prick whose dad is probably one of the people making sure this place stays open. I don’t need any charity,” I hissed. “I need respect and that’s something no one in the damn town knows how to give any other human being.” I knew I had screwed up whatever chance of getting a couple more weeks of cash for my brothers, but I’d had enough with the rich dicks I went to high school with, so I stormed out of Karen’s office and the library with only my car keys in hand, without thinking about anything besides having to explain what happened to my brothers and having to convince them and the gang not to beat the shit out of Lawrence and make things worse.

Tags: @fuckitsharam 

#dallas winston #ofc x dallas winston #dallas winston fanfiction #The Outsiders #the outsiders fanfiction #the outsiders fanfic #Johnny Cade #sodapop curtis #ponyboy curtis #darry curtis #steve randle #two bit mathews #Curtis!sister #as i see it yes #matt dillon

[dwestfieldblog]

DOOMSCROLLING

Rocking and doomscrolling in an Eigenstate, the English Variant is here...All virtue signalling wannabe edgelords,  sleepwalking ’woke’ automatons, fake Christians, Faustian Republicans, corrupt Conservatives and retarding neophobes look away now. Little more than domesticated primates, a majority of larval humanity continues to ignore its astral biology...yes really. ‘Those who control symbols control us’.  And Pavlov dogs do love flags eh? Here is a balanced, mostly unpretentious finite rant for breakfast where the opinion arises from triple checked facts rather than mere emotion.  In God we rust.

Straight off...Disgusted to rage by the English government’s March budget which gives  nurses a ‘pay rise’ equivalent to three pounds fifty pence a week, (which doesn’t even begin to cover the cost of their parking at hospitals) the disdain these arrogant swine feel for truly essential workers is revealed in full. The ‘Heath’ minister explained that times were tight due to Covid...yes Matt, fairly sure the nurses working 18 hours a day had already noticed this in their desperately overworked, overcrowded hospitals. Deeply in debt, Britain plans to borrow 355 billion pounds this year, the highest amount in her history. Corporation tax will possibly increase in 2023, a little late to balance wages elsewhere for nurses etc...And given the previous ten years, highly unlikely it would even be used for such. But it might look good to those brainwashed gimps that STILL plan to vote for this bastardly corrupt party in 2024.

A clip taken in March of an exceptionally long queue for a food bank in London brings it all into sharper focus. The 6th richest economy in the world has the most food banks of any democratic country. Over 2000 in the UK. (Over 900 in Germany.) Hate to come across as a Socialist but The Tories have been in power for ten long years, historically destroying the NHS a bit more each time they hold power. Endlessly subcontracting, pouring money into new unneeded tiers of management, slowing operations down with extra paperwork, voting down pay rises, thus expediting a brain drain of doctors, nurses and surgeons to other countries and private practices...and over the last thirteen months, supplying those who stayed, with mountains of  PPE equipment not fit for purpose. A ‘jolly good show’ handclap every evening on doorsteps doesn’t fecking cut it. Neither do all the rainbows drawn by children put into windows. In fact, Boris, it looks like outright damn cynicism. All the more since your dose of the virus (‘I visited the Covid ward and shook hands with everyone’) was healed by excellent work by the NHS. Mr. Boris ‘No government could have done more’. Johnson...a lot of us are keeping score.

Lord Bethell, (‘Parliamentary under secretary of State for Innovation at the Department of Health and Social Care’) said that nurses are ‘well paid’ for the job they do, reiterating that times are hard; ‘There are millions of people out of work on the back of this epidemic’. Well yes there are. And why? A government which dragged its heels many times after salient scientific advice, prognoses/ projections were given, and allowed three massive social gatherings (384,000 people) to take place for superspreading, as well as conflicting advice about masks, herd immunity and confusion over open borders, schools to return for one day, etc...All of which led to the dire need for total lockdowns and the impossibility to sell or go to work (unless working from home) leading in turn to unpaid rent/bills, evictions, bosses laying off those they cannot afford to pay. And to mention again, the Tories have been the ones in power for ten years...with banking scandals (where chiefs were not punished but the public were twice, once by collapses and once for raised taxes to prop up the greed). The expenses scandal of politicians, massive public service cutbacks, corruption, the smug George Osbourne guiding Britain disgracefully to poverty via austerity, a National Health service being encouraged to disintegrate and’ an oven ready’/tramps breakfast scraps Brexit...and LO!... the coffers are indeed a little empty thanks to all the contracts tossed without oversight to the governments mates without due process, including 37 billion pounds spent on a Test and Trace programme which did not function, 252 million AND 6000 pounds a DAY to ‘consultants (for the essential chimera of PR etc).Chumocracy at highly profitable work.

Over to you Boris, ‘...it is thanks to PRUDENT FISCAL MANGEMENT that we have been able to fight this pandemic in the way that we have.’

Well exactly.

A dishevelled adult leader of a country who cannot even brush his hair or dress himself, a ‘leader’ who missed five vital COBRA meetings about the pandemic, never took in the notes from scientists of advance warnings and blustered his pompous comedy horseshite rather than leading from the front. Father of six or perhaps 7 illegitimate children (does he pay child support? No records). But never mind eh, he is a rum sort of cove. No. Churchill would have him horsewhipped naked and tarred and feathered in Trafalgar Square. But still! When questioned on whether there would be an inquiry into the colossal waste without recompense or standard clauses in contracts of taxpayers’ money raped from the Treasury, Mr Johnson replied that it was ‘NOT IN THE PUBLIC INTEREST’. Really. REALLY? Boris, if you were a catheter, you could not extract more urine than you already do. The clown father of the motherland. BJ said he took ‘full responsibility’ for the massive number of fatalities. But hasn’t resigned.127 thousand covid deaths in UK, leading Europe by 33 thousand.  Well played chaps. 545 thousand USA. China 4636. Yeah RIGHT. Sure.

Once knew a guy who, if you told him something factual, most often replied with ‘Well, it’s the first I’ve heard of it’...meaning anything he had not already been told was automatically false. How did he ever learn new information? Neophobes, their insecurities heavy chains to evolving, seem to rule the world; Good news is they don’t. Bad news is, they know it and are getting ever more desperate the rest of us go down with them in righteous conservatism and counter evolution. ‘Perception does not consist of passive reception of signals but of an active interpretation of signals...active, creative trans-actions’...‘The easier you can predict a message, the less information the message contains’. If a media source etc attempt to relay actual news and it does not fit what is already believed, it is disregarded or worse...GIGO...Garbage In=Garbage Out.

The pandemic is doing great things for the further global rise of populist swine...When the mass public mind is aflame with anger and fear, new bastards step up and old governments impose harder laws. Hungary loses her last independent radio station and Orban rejoices. Brazilian bastid Bolsanaro continues to see his people as expendable inhuman statistics. By their hatred he will burn. 301 thousand dead. Totalitarianism creeps apace via populist chancers, Stalinist fascists, nationalist bullshitters who care far more about their ego than their country. (Hello frog eyed Nigel Farage aka Lord Haw Haw the 2nd.) Speaking of which...Lord Mayor of London wannabe Laurence Fox bought a mask exemption badge online because he didn’t want his pretty face to be unrecognised. Narcissist, who as leader of a new party Reclaim, wants to ‘take back’ Britain from the Woke snowflakes (even while speaking like a laidback Establishment version of them) and end up in Parliament. Good for you luvvie. But now with acting career ended and music career failed, he does look a lot like a pretty poster boy who needs to stay adored and recognises (along with his string pulling financial backers) there is a bandwagon to be jumped on. In 8 years time he (or someone similar in insecure need for others approval to give vent to their sadistic impulses) could be a new type of prime minister and the V for Vendetta pre-scenario will be in full swing. ‘Politicians should wear sponsor jackets like Nascar drivers, then we know who owns them’ Robin Williams via Jonathan Pie. No one from Texas should be allowed to be president...and no one from Eton (or Harrow) should ever be allowed to be Prime Minister. Apart from Churchill.

Sometimes it takes a nightmare to wake one up...an authoritarian dystopia coming soon to a land mass near you...a failed state and a divided kingdom of Mediocre Britain with bad laws for her citizens but great if you are a ‘public servant’ or a friend of those that are. Probably a good thing for Euope that we are an island eh? We turned our back on them and they can cast us adrift like an oil tanker filled with toxic waste. Sunak or Patel next? Will the ‘Elite’ (Ha) allow a person of colour to rise to the depths of Prime Minister? The entire cabinet should be sent to a Chinese prison. Avaricious liars. If you don’t stir the cream it turns into scum.

And speaking of destroying your country from inside....

Oh America... just watched the Idaho mask burning clip in Boise, adults encouraging children to pick up discarded masks, pathogens, all with bare hands and drop into the garbage bin flames...inhaling the formaldehyde smoke... Freedom! End lockdown now! Breathe deeply rednecks. So looking forward to having a black woman president over there. Please be better than all these useless white trash MORONS...Q Onan, the ‘storm’ (in a beer can), the ‘plan’, ‘where we go one, we go all’...right down the toilet of history into the sewers of oblivion. Good riddance to foul rubbish, Believers anxious for orders from ‘Christians’ who are actually serving what they would call ‘Satan’. Ironic on the darkest level, no? LOOK at their faces, into their eyes, naught but greed for power. Two thousand years of inverted truths. ‘Religion’ became consumed by ‘the Devil’. Discuss with yourself after watching the majority of preachers.

The Trumps, Hawley, Cruz, Lindsey Graham, Bannon, the Mercers, Paula White, Stella Immanuel and the Gawd awful Marjorie Taylor Greene should be sent alone, foodless to a small island surrounded by sharks. And filmed for our entertainment. And oh...that dumbass disgusting false idol kitsch gold statue (to celebrate his love of golden rain) of Donald, created via Mexico and China in artistic irony. And, and AND the Republican senators against any background checks for those who want to own guns. (Seven mass killings this year already by armed wankers.) Britain, Europe and America, unions encouraged, persuaded to break apart into hexagram 23 while China and Russia grin. Q seems like a new form of right wing bullshite to rally the dumb against what they perceive to be the ‘left wing’ rebellion of Anonymous. I think Q originated in the Kremlin myself. An electronic baobab seed...

Back to my birthland...New powers of arrest looming for ‘Non Crime Hate Incidents’, and a new police bill of up to ten years prison for silent protest. One almost expects this in (arf) lesser countries with pantomime dictators, but on the septic, excuse me, sceptre’d isle of Britain? An obvious Government first shot reaction against what they know might be coming for their dire mishandling of the pandemic, loss of jobs and no real support for the underlings...Governments ARE afraid of their people, that’s why enough laws are passed (with minimum debate or under cover of smokescreen news events) to ensure all those not wealthy and well connected are in daily risk of being arrested for ‘criminality’. So be sure to be obedient to your ‘public servants’.

Ahh.. enough eh? Apolitically incorrect, radical liberal, fundamentalist atheist, remember the Tar Baby idea Dave, the more you attack something, the more you are attached to it. Let it go brother. The difference between being frozen in stasis and empty with Zen calm. But to paraphrase Robert Anton Wilson, (as I am so often wont to do) thanks to our own programming, when we do not frequently examine and cross check our input we become full of Self Hypnotic Ideational Trance. Dogmas must be only transitory, flow river, flow...

Bells Theorem? Pretty good but this is mostly Jameson’s (with Czech spring water) theorem. In confession, I crave your indulgence, Invoke Often, Repeat repeat repeat, ‘How far is it, if you can think of it?’ Transduction of thoughts into chemicals...surfing the neuropeptides and there you stood on the edge of your feather expecting to die, A skeleton breastfeeding a priest, and if that mocking bird don’t sing, daddy’s gonna break off both its wings. Whoops. The optical illusion of a rainbow halo as beautiful as ‘God on drugs’.  Melancholy melophile, melomaniac and melomaniacal, I am an Audiophile in the paralysis of rapture...Ahh...and now I have obtained an elegant sufficiency, multitasking in five time zones. Left frontal lobe digital (manual) moving to Right frontal lobe analogue non Aristotelian (self controlled). Get it? DNA appears to be a cybernetics information/programming system...but anyway...

Bet there will be a massive increase in the birth rate nine months after most of the world is vaccinated, a surge of relieved masses celebrating in the old fashioned way. All those who died will be ‘replaced’ at double pumping speed. The idea that the vaccine contains the ‘Establishment’s’ nanobots seems unlikely...how on Earth would at least ONE person in the know, not spill the (genetically modified) beans? And those wondrous illogical conspiracy theories that Covid was triggered deliberately via 5G mast networks by a satanic paedophile elite will fade for a while. Until the ‘Christian’evangelical (evil angels) right wing restart their crazed rambling about the Illuminati/Freemasons again. For the record, my own feeling is that any group which had Leonardo da Vinci, Goethe, Beethoven, Sir Issac Newton, Washington, Mark Twain, Churchill, Oscar Wilde, Jefferson etc as members, seems like a fairly cool and worthwhile group for humanity to learn from. Is it because Lucifer was the Light Bringer that they conflate illumination with evil? How very aware of them. Arf. Paranoid magicians live longer. Speaking of witch...’Nothing is, nothing becomes, nothing is not’. A.C. The Book of Lies. Be aware, not woke. Look for the hunchback (?) behind the soldier (!)...‘You can empty infinity from it and infinity still remains’.

‘The data may not contain the answer. The combination of some data and an aching desire for an answer does not ensure that a reasonable answer can be extracted from a given body of data.’

Ever see Interstellar? Love that film. Elon Musk should just select 100 people, blast off and leave the rest of us to burn. As psychologists would call it, most of humanity is indeed still at the larval stage. Most of us stay on ‘the fourth circuit’ all life and rip at anyone who goes beyond or tries to. Christ would be murdered again, that’s why Buddha avoided crowds. Release and receive...channel.

‘Truth, truth, truth! crieth the Lord of the Abyss of Hallucinations...’

Paradise in a scientific quantum possibility...A dimension where the ‘soul’/ recorded/imprinted memory continues in  ‘A quite specific electromagnetic-gravitational field in which mind can manifest without organic bodies’. As all ‘reality’ is subjective, and an individual life most likely takes up a mere byte in a terabyte (trillion bytes). Personal Heavens, the way YOU design and chose. Dream and imagine possibilities now...much Love forever from Anon of Ibid