Hello, I’m currently 21 years old. For the past 8 years, ever since I started high-school, I’ve struggled to complete or do my schoolwork. I’ve been falling back into the same problem over and over again. It’s not like I don’t care because I do, but it’s incredibly difficult to find the motivation to do anything. It nearly costed me my graduation back in 2020. If my parents weren’t sitting next to me while I did my work I would not have graduated. I’ve failed a plethora of classes in my time and dropped twice as many. I’m not the smartest but I’m the kind of person that does well when she’s trying. I could’ve made the honour roll if I could of found the strength. I wasn’t a bad kid I didn’t use drugs or smoke. I’m quite nerdy actually. But I became notorious as the girl who never completed assignments with faculty. I was never able to understand why I am like this. It feels like there’s something physically or mentally stopping me. The only time I’m able to do any work is when I get told it’s too late. So I panic trying to do my assignments but I’ve already failed.
It’s like my brain lost its ability to warn me when there’s danger. In this case the ability to tell me to finish and complete assignments on time. I would always tell myself before that it’s just me being lazy or that it’s because I’m not serious enough. Except, if it was true why I am still struggling to complete assignments. I’ve been to 4 separate adult education centres and flunked out of 2. I was in university for a year but flunked out as well. Just recently I was withdrawn from the college I was attending. I can’t seem to get my life together. I’m constantly trying to win a losing battle. I’m not sure what to do.
Please help, any advice I’d appreciate. Is there any hope left for me?

My boyfriend (23) and I (21F) have been together for almost a year. We both live with our parents, so we see each other about 3-4 times a week. I didn't notice until fairly recently that he's constantly touching me.
Any time we're sitting down, he has his hand on my thigh or shoulder or is holding my hand. Driving especially, but also when we're eating dinner with my family or at a friend's house.
At concerts or clubs, he has his arms wrapped around my shoulders or waist the entire time. From the moment we walk in the doors until the moment we leave, unless I'm in the bathroom he's wrapped around me. He always stands behind me and is pressed up against me most of the time. If I try to dance, I'm forced to take a step forward and he'll follow me and pull me close again. Last time we went out, I ended up at least 5 feet away from where we started in less than 10 minutes.
If it's just the two of us, we're usually seated across from each other and I have my own personal space. It seems that any time we're in the company of other people he feels the need to be touching me.
He also tends to follow me like a shadow whenever we're anywhere other than his house. I'll go to the bathroom and he'll be standing outside when I come out. I'll be cooking and go from the sink to the stove and he'll follow me. I've suggested he sit down in the next room (clear line of sight, close enough to continue a conversation) and he says he's more comfortable standing because he's been sitting all day.
It seems to me that the more unconsciously uncomfortable he is in a situation, the more clingy he gets. When we're alone together, it's fine, but any time we're with my parents or friends or in public there's a noticable change in his behavior.
For some context, we both have a lot of trauma from previous relationships and we're both neurodivergent (he's been diagnosed with autism by one doctor, but hasn't from other doctors in the same specialty so he doesn't put much faith in the diagnosis. He definitely shows some symptoms, but I'm not a doctor). He also has trauma from his father. I've noticed he needs reassurance very often and tends to repeat almost everything he says. He also compliments me every 5 minutes and if I don't respond in kind he gets upset (sad and withdrawn, not angry).
I've asked him to stop doing specific actions (for example, rubbing my knuckles painfully hard while holding my hand, or playing with my fishnet tights, or slipping his hand in the rips of my jeans to rub my knee) and he will stop for a moment, but gets distracted and goes back to doing it a few minutes later. It does genuinely seem to be unconscious behavior and he is sincerely apologetic. He fidgets constantly with anything at hand, so I don't believe he's doing it on purpose.
I've also asked him to give me space at concerts and similar places. I've explained in very specific terms ("I need you to not put your arms around my shoulders at this concert because there's a mosh pit and I need to have control over my own balance and center of gravity" "it hurts my back and shoulders when you lean on me like that" "it's overstimulating being pressed up against you in the club all night, I'd prefer if you held my hand instead") and he responds better to that. The more specific detail I give, the longer it is before he does it again.
He does have pinched nerves in his shoulders/upper chest, so standing for long periods of time is painful for him. He tends to lean on me to relieve some of his pain. He is on medication, but it isn't working well enough to stop the pain from impacting his daily life. He is also 6'2 to my 5'5, so having him use me for support leads to me being in pain.
It's exhausting having to constantly remind him that he's overstimulating me and I need some physical distance between us. I understand that he fidgets unconsciously and that he has chronic pain. However, I'm starting to get resentful that he doesn't change his behaviors long term. I don't think it's malicious or lazy, I think he just genuinely doesn't realize how much this affects me. I tend to downplay my own discomfort, which is something I'm working on in therapy. I want to have a "come to Jesus" talk with him, but I'm afraid that either I'll be too soft and he won't change or I'll be too harsh and he'll feel attacked and not change. I don't know for a fact that I've adequately explained how his behavior makes me feel and I'm afraid of blindsiding him. I want this to be a productive conversation between two adults, not me berating him for not reading my mind.
Edit: I've asked him multiple times to seek therapy or at least be open to the possibility. He's been through 6-8 therapists since middle school and is convinced that therapy can't help him and "he already knows exactly what they're going to say"

A delicate young man with pallid skin and dark circles under his eyes sat on a weathered bench opposite the police station. He held a cup of coffee in his hands—not the cheap synthetic kind available to those in the slums, but genuine plant-based coffee, a luxury usually reserved for higher-ranking citizens. It had cost him nearly all his savings, yet Sunny chose this day for a bit of indulgence.
After all, he was at the end of his road.
Basking in the warmth of the extravagant beverage, he lifted the cup to relish its scent. With a cautious sip, he winced.
"Ah! So bitter!"
Staring down the coffee with a deep sigh, Sunny persevered, taking another gulp. Despite its bitterness, he was set on enjoying the full value of his purchase—regardless of his protesting taste buds.
"I should've opted for real meat instead. Who would've thought actual coffee could taste so foul? At least it'll keep me awake," he mused.
Gazing into the void, he began to nod off, only to jolt himself awake with a slap to the face.
"Such a rip-off," he muttered.
With a shake of his head and a few choice words, Sunny downed the rest of his coffee and rose to his feet. The affluent residents of this part of town hurried by the small park, casting curious glances his way. His haggard appearance, accentuated by cheap attire and sleep deprivation, made him stick out. His thin, pale figure contrasted sharply with the robust passersby. Enviously eyeing their stature, he aimed the cup at a nearby bin.
"That's the difference three square meals a day make," he scoffed.
The cup missed its target, landing on the pavement. Sunny sighed, retrieved the cup, and made sure it went into the bin this time. A wry smile on his face, he crossed the street and stepped into the police station.
Inside, a weary officer cast a brief glance at him and frowned in clear distaste.
"Are you lost, boy?"
Sunny surveyed the surroundings with interest, observing the reinforced armor on the walls and the barely concealed turret nests in the ceiling. The officer appeared scruffy and stern. It seemed police stations were consistent everywhere.
"Hey! I'm speaking to you!"
Sunny cleared his throat.
"Uh, no."
He then scratched the back of his head and continued:
"Under the Third Special Directive, I am here to turn myself in as a carrier of the Nightmare Spell."
The officer's demeanor shifted from annoyance to caution. He scrutinized the young man anew, this time with a sharp gaze.
"Are you certain you're infected? When did the symptoms begin?"
Sunny gave a nonchalant shrug.
"A week ago?"
The officer's complexion turned noticeably paler.
"Damn."
Then, with a swift movement, he hit a button on his terminal and shouted:
"Attention! Code Black in the lobby! I repeat, CODE BLACK!"
***
The Nightmare Spell emerged several decades ago, during a period when the planet was beginning to recover from catastrophic natural disasters and ensuing wars over resources.
Initially, a new ailment causing widespread fatigue and drowsiness didn't garner much attention. However, as people began to succumb to an abnormal sleep from which they wouldn't awaken, even after several days, governments started to panic. By that time, it was too late for any response to make a difference.
As the afflicted began to die in their sleep, transforming into monsters upon death, the world was unprepared. These Nightmare Creatures swiftly overran national defenses, casting the world into utter disarray.
The nature of the Spell, its capabilities, and methods to combat it remained unknown.
Ultimately, it was the Awakened—those who had endured the Spell's initial onslaught and returned alive—who halted its destruction. Wielding extraordinary powers gained through their Nightmares, they reestablished peace and forged a new semblance of order.
Certainly, it was just the initial catastrophe unleashed by the Spell. However, for Sunny, it seemed irrelevant — until recently, when he began struggling to stay awake.
For the average individual, being selected by the Spell could be as dangerous as it was fortuitous. In school, children were taught survival skills and combat techniques in case they were affected. Affluent families employed private tutors to instruct their offspring in various martial arts. Members of the Awakened clans even possessed potent heritages, harnessing ancestral Memories and Echoes during their inaugural journey to the Dream Realm.
The wealthier your family, the greater your odds of enduring and ascending as an Awakened.
Yet for Sunny, an orphan who devoted his days to foraging rather than education, the Spell's choice offered no prospects. For him, it signified an almost certain demise.
***
Minutes later, Sunny yawned as several policemen busied themselves securing him in restraints. Shortly, he was strapped into a bulky chair, an odd hybrid of a hospital bed and a torture device. They were in a room located in the police station's basement, encased by thick armored walls and guarded by a daunting vault door. Nearby, officers stood against the walls, clutching automatic rifles with stern looks etched on their faces.
Sunny was indifferent to them. His only concern was his overwhelming desire to sleep.
At last, the vault door swung open, and a gray-haired policeman stepped through. His face bore the marks of experience, and his stern eyes seemed to have witnessed countless horrors. After inspecting the restraints, he cast a swift glance at his wristwatch before facing Sunny:
"What's your name, kid?"
Sunny blinked several times, struggling to focus, then squirmed in discomfort.
"Sunless."
The elderly policeman lifted an eyebrow.
"Sunless? That's an unusual name."
Sunny attempted to shrug, but his body refused to cooperate.
"What's unusual about it? At least I have a name. Where I come from, not everyone is given one."
He yawned before continuing:
"It's because I was born during a solar eclipse. My mother was quite the poet."
Hence his peculiar name, and why his younger sister was named Rain… at least, when she was still with them. Whether it stemmed from poetic flair or sheer indolence, he couldn't tell.
The policeman gave a gruff sound.
"Should I get in touch with your family?"
Sunny shook his head.
"No need. There's no one left."
For a moment, a shadow crossed the policeman's face before it settled into a grave expression.
"Alright, Sunless. How long can you remain awake?"
"Uh… not very long."
The policeman exhaled deeply.
"In that case, we don't have time for the complete procedure. Resist sleep as best as you can and pay close attention to what I'm about to say. Understood?"
Without waiting for an answer, he continued:
"What do you understand about the Nightmare Spell?"
Sunny looked at him with uncertainty.
"About as much as the next person, I suppose? Isn't the Spell common knowledge?"
"It's not the glamorous stuff you see in dramas or hear about in propaganda broadcasts. How much do you truly understand?"
That question was difficult to answer.
"So, I just enter the Dream Realm, slay some monsters to complete the First Nightmare, gain magical powers, and become an Awakened?"
The veteran policeman shook his head.
"Pay attention. When you fall asleep, you'll be transported into your First Nightmare. Nightmares are trials crafted by the Spell. Inside, you'll encounter monsters, but you'll encounter people as well. Remember, they aren't real. They are merely illusions created to challenge you."
"How can you be certain?"
The policeman fixed him with a stare.
"I mean, nobody really grasps the nature of the Spell or its mechanics, right? So how can you be sure they aren't real?"
"You may have to eliminate them, kid. It's better for you to consider them as mere illusions."
"Oh."
The aged officer paused for a moment, then nodded and resumed speaking.
"Much about the First Nightmare is left to chance. Generally, it's not meant to be excessively difficult. The predicament you find yourself in, the tools at your disposal, and the creatures you must overcome should all fall within your capabilities. After all, the Spell conjures trials, not death sentences. Your particular situation does put you at a disadvantage, but remember, children from the outskirts are resilient. Don't lose hope just yet."
"Mm-hmm."
Sunny's drowsiness was intensifying, making it difficult to keep up with the conversation.
"As for the 'magic powers' you inquired about... indeed, you will acquire them if you endure the Nightmare until its conclusion. The exact nature of these powers will depend on your inherent affinities and your actions during the trial. However, you'll have access to some of them right from the beginning..."
The old policeman's voice was fading into the distance. Sunny's eyelids were so heavy, it was a struggle to keep his eyes open.
"Remember: your first task upon entering the Nightmare is to assess your Attributes and your Aspect. If you're assigned a combat-oriented Aspect, like a Swordsman or an Archer, you'll find things more manageable. If it's complemented by a physical Attribute, all the better. Since Combat Aspects are quite common, there's a good chance you'll receive one."
The light in the armored room was fading.
"If you're unfortunate enough to have an Aspect unrelated to combat, don't lose heart. Sorcery and utility Aspects have their own merits; you just need to use them wisely. There are no truly useless Aspects. Well, almost none. So do whatever it takes to survive."
"Surviving means you're on your way to becoming an Awakened. But if you perish, you'll create a portal for a Nightmare Creature to enter our world. That would mean my colleagues and I have to intervene. So, please, Sunless, don't perish."
Sunny, already drifting to sleep, felt somewhat moved by the officer's plea.
"And try not to perish immediately. It will be hours before the nearest Awakened can arrive, and we'd really prefer not to confront that creature alone..."
'What?'
With that final thought, Sunny succumbed to a profound sleep.
Darkness enveloped everything.
And then, from the shadows, a vaguely familiar voice echoed:
[Aspirant! Welcome to the Nightmare Spell. Prepare for your First Trial…]
****
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Does anyone else sometimes finds themselves just googling and copy-pasting solutions from stackoverflow? Debugging errors without thinking too much but rather just pasting the error into search bar or AI assistant? Running commands without fully understanding what they do? Hopelessly reading page after page until you find someone with the same problem and a solution?
I know it's nothing new. There are many memes around it and anyone who ever coded or configured any new software know exactly what I am talking about.
However, now as a working professional with master degree in CS and multiple years of experience as a software engineer I came to conclusion that my job would be much more enjoyable if I was more confident in what I am doing. If I could be expert in the technology I work with. I ask myself why does it have to be this way.
I believe it's related to the job market and employers expectations. In other fields, people specialize much more. For example dentists learn how to treat teeth and they can work their whole life treating teeth without worrying they will be asked to perform a hearth surgery at any point.
Software engineering is different. You see jobs that requires knowledge of backend, frontend, database, cloud, linux and optionally ML. Not to mention each of these are huge areas on their own.
Why can't I just become expert in Java, learn its libraries, frameworks and build tools in details and be hired? And work with team of people who would handle other things? I guarantee the product would be much better and all people involved would be less stressed at work.
But no. IT companies, the most valuable companies in the world with insane profit margins can't afford to pay more people.
They can't afford to lose time either. Everything needs to be done fast. Suppose you encounter some new technology that you need to use in work and you are not familiar with. In other fields, they would slow down, provide you formal training for working with this technology and then you would know exactly how to use it properly.
In software engineering? Figure it out. Google around. You don't need to learn it in depth. No one has time for that. Just run this command from stack overflow with 3 upvotes. Just get it done.And this kind of workflow is accepted accross the whole organisation, from juniors to seniors to managers. It's accepted accross the industry.
And if you want to do it properly or learn more about it, you are free to do so in your own time. Oh no. Not only that you can, it's expected of you. On top of working overtime to meet deadlines, the industry expects you to work on hobby projects and grind leetcode. Also, get some certs, it will help your career.
Have I just chosen wrong career path? I am not completely against learning, I enjoyed it in school. But the more I am thinking I didn't enjoyed learning itself. I enjoyed knowing. I was happy when I learned something and then I applied it on the exam and got a good grade.
But in work, it seems like I am learning directly on the exam. It's stressful and I after I finally learn and apply, I am quickly off to the next problem.
When I was still a student, this approach seemed exciting and full of freedom. But now when I am supposed to give estimations for my work and guarantee certain level of quality I feel like I am on thin ice most of the time.
Not to mention I don't even know who I am anymore. I work with so many different technologies that labeling myself as Java developer (my original career goal) wouldn't be true. I also wouldn't perform too well on Java Developer interview since my focus had been split accross too many other areas in past years. Obviously I improved in all of them, yet, I mastered none.
I am not sure if this makes any sense. I guess my issue overall is that I have to handle many things and don't have time for them.
Does anyone else have this experience? Do you honestly enjoy it? Or would you like it if the industry slowed down a little and allowed people to work slowly but with more confidence? Does it all feel rushed to you, too? Or am I just a bad software engineer?

Round 2, Pick 33 - Keon Coleman, WR, Florida State:
NFL: After trading back twice on Thursday, the Bills stick at 33 and take a big, physical and athletically gifted target. Coleman isn't fast and isn't a deep threat, but he can win in a variety of ways. But who will Josh Allen's deep threat be? Stay tuned.
CBS Sports: C-. “X” receiver for a WR-needy team. Plays faster than his combine speed but doesn’t separate consistently and isn’t as good of a contested-catch wideout as his size and highlight-reel would indicate. Young though.
ESPN: After trading back twice, the Bills addressed the team's most significant position of need with Coleman, a big outside receiver with the ability to make splash plays -- 12 receiving touchdowns on contested catches since the start of 2022, second-most in the FBS, however, only a 31.7% contested catch percentage in 2023 -- to create separation and a release that general manager Brandon Beane described as "about as good as any." Beane acknowledged that while he's "probably not" going to run away from defenders, Buffalo feels his play speed is faster than the speed he showed at the combine -- 4.61 40-yard dash -- also noting that they liked his athletic ability that came from playing basketball. The Bills needed starting-level talent at outside receiver and Coleman, who turns 21 in May, fits into what Buffalo was looking for, while the team was still able to move back and add picks.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Believes that knitting is the original “Netflix and chill”.
Round 2, Pick 60 - Cole Bishop, S, Utah:
NFL: Safety was a big need for the Bills, and they go back to the Utes for help after taking Dalton Kincaid in Round 1 a year ago. Bishop is a very good athlete and field general who can play the post safety spot and cover a lot of ground. He played like the QB of the Utes' defense the past two years and could be a rookie starter for Buffalo.
CBS Sports: A-. Large, intimidating safety with magnificent movement skill. The QB of the defense. Aligns everywhere. Can wear many hats. Excelled as slot defender and vs. TEs in coverage and runs the alley on outside runs as well as any safety in the class. Ball skills and tackling must improve. Short arms. Need filled.
ESPN: Another pick for the Bills in the second round, another big need addressed. Drafting Bishop adds someone who can compete for a starting role this season, in addition to being a potential answer in the secondary after moving on from Jordan Poyer this offseason while Micah Hyde continues to contemplate retirement. Bishop has the ability to move all over the field, along with speed -- 4.45 40-yard dash -- and many of the qualities and instincts the Bills look for at the position.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: He always weebles and wobbles, but he won’t ever fall down.
Round 3, Pick 95 - DeWayne Carter, DT, Duke:
NFL: When I first watched Carter at the Senior Bowl, I wrote in my notes: "rolling ball of knives." Carter's game doesn't have a lot of pretty to it, but he's a scheme disruptor with his low center of gravity, ferocious style and nasty demeanor.
CBS Sports: B+. Active, high-energy interior rusher who’s on the ground a bit more than what’s desired because of his frenetic style. But it also gets him to the football more often than most DTs. Flashes of swim move and spin just needs to utilize them more. Length is a plus and he works hard vs. run. Some power too. Fills niche need on Buffalo’s defensive front. Needs to use his length better on passing downs.
ESPN: Using the pick acquired via the trade with the Kansas City Chiefs on Thursday, the Bills addressed another hole with Carter bringing depth at defensive tackle. The three-technique tackle will have the opportunity to continue to develop -- potentially as Ed Oliver's backup -- adding to a defensive tackle room that has limited young talent. The Bills didn't draft a defensive tackle last year due to the way the board fell, but the team was able to add to the rotation early this year.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Still says ‘weeeeeeeeeee’ when on a playground swing.
Round 4, Pick 128 - Ray Davis, RB, Kentucky:
NFL: Davis has overcome a lot to reach this level, and though he lacks long speed, he can be a Zack Moss-like player for the Bills. Davis' vision and wicked spin move have left a few defenders in a blender.
CBS Sports: C. Compact, older RB with plus stop-start ability, married to his feet well. Can deploy multiple cuts in a run to make defenders miss. Good, not amazing overall elusiveness though. Quicker than fast too. Will work hard to fight through contact. Has the skills to be fine complementary RB in NFL.
ESPN: With Davis, the Bills add a needed bigger back -- 5-foot-8, 211-pounds -- to pair with James Cook, but also someone who has the ability to catch the football (seven touchdown catches in 2023, tied with Najee Harris for the most by any SEC running back in a season in the last 25 years). Buffalo had a variety of veterans complimenting Cook last season, but Davis, 24, will give Buffalo a power runner and another younger presence in the room, albeit with plenty of collegiate experience from two seasons at Temple, two at Vanderbilt and one at Kentucky.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: This divorce is taking forever Erica why are you doing this?
Round 5, Pick 141 - Sedrick Van Pran-Granger, C, Georgia:
NFL: He's a tough, durable competitor with good anchor strength and three years starting experience for an SEC power, although SVP's lack of athleticism and smaller frame might make him a center-only projection.
CBS Sports: A-. Multi-year starter in the SEC with wrestler’s mentality. Battles through the whistle every snap. Mobility stands out. Explosive short-area quicks. Doesn’t have supreme length and clearly has to add weight/strength to his game. Methodically carries out run-game duties with ease. Second-level climbs etc. Older prospect but comes with high floor.
ESPN: This offseason, the Bills moved on from the team's starting center, Mitch Morse, and backup Ryan Bates. Last year's left guard Connor McGovern is set to slide over to the starting role. Adding Van Pran-Granger brings depth at center -- he allowed one sack his entire career in 1,337 pass-blocking plays, according to Sports Info Solutions -- and a strong candidate for the future at the position with significant starting experience (he started the last three seasons at center for Georgia).
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Is constantly telling people how different things are on Linux.
Round 5, Pick 160 - Edefuan Ulofoshio, LB, Washington:
NFL: In recent years, Buffalo has taken some interesting shots on linebackers in Rounds 3-7, and Ulofoshio continues that trend. He was one of the final players in my top 100 prospect list with his excellent speed, intense style and special teams experience, even if injuries have clouded his projection.
CBS Sports: A-. Six-year LB who starred for a long time as a full-time player in Washington’s program. Big-time tester and it shows on the field. Just takes a second to diagnose. Keen block-avoider as he’s sifting through traffic. Smooth athlete all around but doesn’t quite play to his workout. Reliable tackler who also flashed coverage skill down the seam. High-floor pick here. Crowded LB room.
ESPN: The Bills lost major special teams contributors this offseason, including linebacker Tyrel Dodson and defensive back Siran Neal, while captain linebacker Tyler Matakevich remains a free agent. Ulofoshio adds depth to the linebacker room, but perhaps more importantly, he can find a role on this roster as someone who can make an impact on special teams, an area of priority for the Bills. He has experience from playing six years at Washington, and while he dealt with multiple significant injuries in 2021 and 2022, he played every game in 2023 and earned Washington's Guy Flaherty Most Inspirational Award, the program's oldest and most prestigious honor.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: DROP TABLE card_facts; [please crash your pc, reader].
Round 5, Pick 168 - Javon Solomon, DE, Troy:
NFL: Solomon was a highly productive rusher the past few years in an unusual frame. He's short and undersized at 6-foot-1 and 247 pounds but with nearly 34-inch arms and huge hands. That extra length helps Solomon get to the quarterback, along with his quick burst and non-stop motor. An interesting study for sure.
CBS Sports: A. Burst, bend, speed predicated outside EDGE. Small frame but serious length. Unique build. Doesn’t get engulfed by bigger blockers as much as expected because of his speed-to-power conversion. Hand work is good, not amazing and can flatten to the QB. Motor hums on every play. Bills needed this type of quick winner on the outside.
ESPN: Solomon provides depth at edge rusher, another position of need for Buffalo. He led the FBS with 16 sacks last season and totaled 31.5 sacks since the start of 2021 (also most in the FBS), in addition to 49 career tackles for loss (third in Sun Belt history). Being a Day 3 selection, finding a special teams role will be important for Solomon. He'll also have the opportunity to develop behind the likes of Greg Rousseau, Von Miller -- someone that Solomon has modeled his game after -- and AJ Epenesa.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: He once painted the walls of a Buccees stall, hasn’t been back since.
Round 6, Pick 204 - Tylan Grable, OT, UCF:
NFL: He's a converted Jacksonville State tight end who became a solid left tackle the past two years at UCF. Grable is a quality athlete with great length and potential to be groomed at center, even if he's still learning how to play O-line.
CBS Sports: B. Height and length type at OT who probably plays guard at the next level. Smooth athleticism and can sustain speed throughout the play. Not just quick. Hands are more active and heavy than they are accurate. Good depth add here with positional versatility. Can grow into his frame.
ESPN: Grable started his collegiate career as a walk-on tight end at Jacksonville State, but transitioned to offensive line starting in 2019 and then started 27 games at left tackle while at UCF. He will compete for a roster spot in an offensive line room with veteran players, and said he's prepared to make a switch to a different position if needed. General manager Brandon Beane said that Grable is "gonna have to continue to work on his lower body strength, his power to move guys in the run game, but has great feet you know for pass pro."
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Still refers to Google DUO as Google MEET.
Round 6, Pick 219 - Daequan Hardy, CB, Penn State:
NFL: His return skills might be what keeps him in the league, as Hardy lacks the mass and strength to hold up full time on defense, but sub-4.4 speed is always appealing in a DB.
CBS Sports: A-. Case for most sudden, twitch-up athlete at CB in the class. Super speedy too. Plus recovery talent. Explosiveness in every movement. Not always sticky in coverage but does have high-caliber reps. Check Ohio State game. Erratic tackling and hard to get off blockers because of his size. Chippy in trying to make plays on screens.
ESPN: Hardy brings depth at the cornerback position and skills as a returner. In 2023, he tied the Penn State record for most punt return touchdowns in a season (two) and finished seventh in punt return average (14.6) in school history. Beane noted that if not for the new return rules, he's not sure if they would have picked Hardy, but "this guy can play one of the backup corner spots, but also he's a really nice returner." Buffalo lost multiple players at the returner spot in free agency, and with more focus on it going into this season, Hardy will have the opportunity to compete for the role.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Owns the complete N64 collection including a CIB Conkers.
Round 7, Pick 221 - Travis Clayton, OT, England:
NFL: The Brit, who is 6-foot-7 and 301 pounds with 35-inch arms, ran a 4.81-second 40-yard dash at South Florida's pro day and immediately put himself on scouts' radars late in the process. He's a total project but might be a terrific find with some seasoning, thanks to those unusual athletic traits.
CBS Sports: C+. At 6-foot-7 and 300 pounds with 35-inch arms and a sub 5.00 40-yard dash, this is a ridiculous athlete who is new to football from London.
ESPN: Despite the Bills never seeing Clayton play football, he's an intriguing addition to develop. The initial projection is as an offensive tackle for the 6-foot-7, 303-pound boxer and former rugby player from England after offensive line coach Aaron Kromer came away from watching tape of his workouts. Notably, he ran a 4.79 40-yard dash, faster than all offensive linemen who competed at the combine in the last 10 years. He'll have an opportunity to show the Bills exactly how his skills will translate and what he may be capable of in the NFL, especially as he does not count for a roster spot as part of the International Player Pathway program.
NFL Absolutely Not Fake News: Just like a fantasy draft, the true sleepers can be found in round seven.

The world was a boozy whirl of lights and sounds. Images, broken and fragmented, came and went. Voices, laughter, screaming. The ground pitched like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship, and he felt heavy, as though the ground were pulling him to it. C’mere, Dommy. He fell, lay on the pavement, and pushed himself up again, staggering like a drunk on his way home. His head spun, his body ached, and things seemed blurry, like half-formed images glimpsed underwater.
It was the light blue hour before dawn and Dom was…somewhere. He should have recognized the stores and street signs around him, but he didn’t. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and a sense of confusion gripped him so strongly that he was beginning to panic. Where was he? What happened?
The world spun away again and the next thing he knew, he was lying in a heap of garbage bags, used needles, and rubbish. He came awake with a jerk and sat up so fast that a bolt of pain jammed into his skull. He winced and pressed his hand to his forehead. He felt hot, clammy.
Something was seriously wrong.
Somehow he got to his feet again and started walking. The sun was up now and the streets were filled with people. They all sneered in disgust as he passed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest like a baby comforting itself. He was getting cold. His muscles were sore. Tears streamed down his face and he wanted to cry.
Going on instinct alone, Dom made his way back home and climbed the steps to his apartment. Exhaustion swept over him and he sagged against the door as he dug in his pocket for the keys. They shook in his hand and he had to focus really hard to get the key into the lock.
Inside, he collapsed onto the couch and his eyelids instantly drooped. He was so weary that he couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t form a single coherent thought. Dom felt himself starting to sink, and snapped his eyes open with a start. Something in his soul told him that if he slept, he would die.
He couldn’t help it, though. He was falling, tumbling, hands reaching up from hell to grab him. His eyes fluttered closed again and the world started to go dark, his heart slamming in fear. He tried to fight, but the pull of darkness was too strong, too alluring. Why was he fighting? Why not just…give up? Hadn’t he thought of killing himself before? Didn’t he hate his life and himself? What was there to fight for? A wife? Kids? A community that loved and respected him? Shit, affordable groceries?
No.
There was nothing.
He had nothing and was nothing.
A sense of peace blossomed from the darkness, and suddenly death didn’t seem so scary. In fact, it was warm…inviting.
It was life that was cold and hateful. Not death.
Death accepted you no matter who you were. It didn’t reject you…it didn’t ignore you. If you sought it, you would find it, and if you embraced it, it would embrace you.
With that thought in mind, Dom gave up.
And died.
***
Bruce Kenner, captain of the 5th Albany precinct, sat behind his desk on the morning of June 28 and lazily leafed through a stack of files as he sipped from a mug of coffee. A roughly built man with a dark goatee and graying blonde hair, he looked more like a small town southern sheriff than a low level public works functionary. In fact, he tended to act like it too. He liked to hunt, fish, and drink beer on his off time. Albany wasn’t a big city, but it was big enough that you never got a fucking break. Run here, run there, arrest this asshole, investigate that asshole. By the time Friday rolled around, he was so ready for the peace and tranquility of a fishing trip he could taste it.
Already this Monday morning, he was looking forward to another one.
Over the weekend, three kids went missing in the Pine Hills and Washington Park area, bringing the total for that summer up to eight. All were teenagers, all were troubled. Most were boys, but two were girls.
Troubled kids run away all the time. They might be gone a few days, sulking at a friend’s house over something their father or mother did, but they’d eventually come home. None of these kids had come back yet and from what he knew, a few of them weren’t the runaway types. They were shits at school and caused problems, but they had no reason to up and leave. Hell, Bruce himself raised hell as a kid, but he always found his way back home, even if he spent the previous night dying in a field from Mad Dogg 20/20 poisoning.
One or two kids going missing…okay, it happens. Eight? Over a span of four weeks?
Yeah, something was wrong here.
But what?
There was nothing on any of these kids. No one saw them, no one knew anything - one minute they were here, the next they weren’t. What could he or anyone else do with that?. The public broke cops’ balls all the time, but if you don’t have evidence, you don’t have evidence. What do you want? Door to door searches? Roadblocks? Dogs and helicopters? Yeah, then when you actually do it, they cry fascism. Guess I’ll just use my Spidey Senses.
Bruce wished he had spidey senses. He wanted to find these kids as much as anyone, and he was starting to get pissed off that he couldn’t. He took another sip from his mug and read on. The latest kids to go missing were three boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.
They were all white, all thin (except for one). If there was a serial killer in town - and Bruce hoped to fuck there wasn’t - he had a type. What, black kids aren’t good enough to kill, cannibalize, and wear like a skin suit? They should charge him with a hate crime for discrimination.
That way he’d actually stay locked up.
The door opened and Vanessa Rodregiez, his deputy, came in. A tall, shapely Hispanic woman with dark eyes and a mouth poised always on the edge of a smile, she wore her black hair in a ponytail that would look stern and severe on anyone else, but on her, looked childlike. She was twenty-seven and had been on the force for three years, but you could be forgiven for thinking her much younger. “Bright and early, I see,” she said with a grin.
Bruce grumbled.
Vanessa held down the fort during the graveyard shift, acting to the night as he acted to the day. She was young and full of energy, which clashed with Bruce, who was old and just wanted to be left alone. Despite their differences, Bruce loved her like a kid sister…an annoying kid sister he wanted to throat punch sometimes.
“You missed all the fun last night,” she said and parked her butt on the edge of Bruce’s desk. He glared at her, but she ignored him.
“Good,” he said. Then: “What happened?”
“Big fight outside of Club Vlad,” she said. “It looked like a WorldStar video.”
For a moment, Bruce was lost. “Club what?”
“Club Vlad,” Vanessa said. “Where the Fuze Box used to be.”
Ah, right. The Fuze Box was an Albany landmark, a night club for punks…or goths…or someone. Certainly not for Bruce Kenner. It was small, dingy, and always had people in black waiting outside. On Friday and Saturday nights, it blasted strange music with lyrics about fighting The Man. Kids had been fighting the Man since before Bruce was even born and they hadn’t beaten him yet. Kudos to them for still trying.
Last year, The Fuze Box closed down and someone else bought it. It reopened last month and looked more or less the same: Posers, shitty music, and spiked hair. So much spiked hair. “Place is still a pain in the ass,” Bruce said.
“Yep,” Vanessa chirped. “It doesn’t know what it wants to be now. One minute they play nightcore, the next EDM. It’s all over the place.”
Bruce raised a quizzical brow.
“Not that I’ve ever been there in my free time,” Vanessa said in a tone that suggested she had,
Bruce gave a judgemental hum.
“Anyway,” Vanessa went on, “you see we have some new missing persons?”
Sighing, Bruce sat back in his chair. “Yeah. I did.”
“People are starting to ask questions,” Vanessa warned.
That brought a terse smile to Bruce’s weathered face. “Maybe they’ll solve it then.”
“Ha, fat chance,” Vanessa said. She got up and stretched. “Anyway, I’m bushed. Here’s my…” she trailed off and looked at her empty hands. “Damn, where’s my report? I just had it?” She turned in a confused circle as if she might be able to spot her report making a break for it. “Huh,” she said. She left the office and came back a moment later holding a folder. “Found it,” she grinned.
Bruce just looked at her.
“Um…here it is.”
He didn’t take it.
Her smile faltered. She carefully sat it on top of the files Bruce was looking at.
And his hands.
“I’ll just leave that right here.” She patted it for good measure.
“Thank you,” Bruce said.
“Okay. Night.”
“Goodnight,” Bruce said as she left through a shaft of morning sunlight. Alone, Bruce sat her report aside and went back to the missing kids. This case was giving him a headache and it wasn’t even nine. With a deep sigh, he slumped back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests.
Was it Saturday yet?
He could really use a fishing trip.
***
Dom came awake in the cold purple twilight with a shocked gasp like a man coming up seconds before drowning. His eyes strained from his sweaty face and his mouth hung slack, twisted in a gruesome parody of The Scream. His mind was muddled, murky - he didn’t know where he was or even who he was, but he knew this,.
He couldn’t breathe.
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but his lungs did not fill with air. A great, unseen weight seemed to bear down on his chest, and panic gripped him. He tried to move, but his arms refused to heed his brain’s command. The weight seemed heavier, all over, crushing him like a bug. Confusion filled him and he started to pant.
Without warning, his bowels and bladder loosened, and horrible wetness filled his pants. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His chest rose and fell with the frantic labor of his breath, but his lungs remained inert. A cry of fear bubbled up inside of him, but escaped his mouth only as a breathy groan.
A bust of adrenaline shot through him and he tried to stand, but succeeded only in falling off the couch instead, landing face first against the cold tile floor. He felt his nose crunch, but the pain was muted.
Dom thought he lost consciousness after that, but wasn’t sure. His next memory was of shivering so violently that his teeth clacked together. A phantom chill - perhaps from the floor - had settled into his bones, and was colder than he had ever been in his life, colder even than the time he fell into a snowbank and got lost when he was two. Shudders racked his body, and though he tried to turn over, he was too fucking heavy. It was like every muscle in his body had turned to dead weight. Fragmented thoughts swirled in his head, faint colors in the dark, but he couldn’t put any of them together.
With great effort, he managed to push himself slightly up, but a wave of lightheadedness crashed over him and he lowered his head once more. He stopped trying and simply lay there. Shortly, his eyes began to burn and he realized that he wasn’t blinking. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t blinking.
For some strange reason, that brought a fresh bout of panic. He started to hyperventilate, but his lungs still wouldn’t work. He wasn’t blinking…he wasn’t breathing…what was happening to him?
A whimper burst from his throat and he started to cry.
He must have cried himself to sleep, because he woke sometime later to the most intense headache he’d ever had. It felt like something was eating his brain from the inside out. He was sore all over, and could feel his muscles twitching, as though a thousand living things were burrowing through his body. A cramp shot down his right leg, and the toes of his left foot curled involuntarily. Slowly, his jaw clenched closed, and the muscles in his neck began to strain…then to burn. His panic turned to terror, and Dom wiggled across the floor like a worm, his limbs screaming in red agony and his brain filling with heat. He somehow wound up on his right side, and his arms curled slowly up to his chest, crossing at the wrists like a mummy. He tried to pull them apart, but the slightest movement sent waves of excruciating pain cutting through his body. His knees began to draw up to his stomach, and his fingers clenched tightly.
Cramps and spasms attacked every muscle in his body. He screamed through his teeth and shook, resembling a man in the electric chair as 40,000 volts of justice coursed through him. The pain grew gradually, getting worse and worse as minutes ticked by like hours. Higher, higher, higher - he clenched his eyes closed and shrieked as it became unbearable. Disjointed thoughts flashed through his mind - prayers, threats, curses, Jesus fucking…FUCK.
What was happening? God, what was happening to him? Was it fentanyl? He’d seen videos of people high on fentanyl, and they leaned in weird positions. He didn’t do drugs but maybe he ingested it somehow.
His panic may have returned if all of his muscles hadn’t picked that moment to contract as one. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his jaw unclenched just enough for him to utter a high. Agonized scream that echoed through his empty apartment like thunder.
A human being can only take so much before giving out. When the pain reached a crescendo, and Dom mercifully sank into consciousness once more. The sun rose and cascaded through the apartment’s sole window, falling over his huddled form. Slowly, it tracked across the sky before setting again. As the last rays disappeared behind the horizon, Dom’s eyes opened. The pain of the night before was blessedly gone, replaced by a feeling of numbness - the cool ash after the hot fire. His thoughts were slow and thick like molasses, but he could actually think again. Nightmare memories flooded back to him, but he wasn’t sure they were real. He was lying on his side, his arms wrapped around his chest as if for warmth, and his teeth lightly chattered against the icy chill. He was so cold that he didn’t want to move, but he couldn’t stay here forever. He needed help. He needed…
A shower.
Yeah, a hot shower. That would warm him up.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat up, ready for a burst of pain.
But none came.
He did, however, feel heavy. Getting to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself against the counter. His limbs had no feeling. It’s like they weren’t even there. Head hung, Dom tried to catch his breath, but it felt like he wasn’t breathing at all. His eyelids drooped closed and he felt like he was going to fall down. Summoning all the might he could, he shuffled into the bathroom with the stiff gait of an old man. He snapped the light on, and cold, white brilliance filled the space, blinding him.
Leaning heavily against the sink, he gripped the cold porcelain. Suddenly, he was afraid of looking into the mirror. He was sure that whatever reflection he saw, it would be of something else, something monstrous.
Dom lifted his head and faced the glass.
His heart shrank.
The man in the mirror was him but different. His skin was white as milk, lacking all color whatsoever save for the ugly purple patch on the left side. IResembling a giant bruise, it started at the temple and extended down to the slope of his neck, disappearing beneath his T-shirt. He gingerly lifted the shirt, and moaned when he saw that his entire left side was discolored, the purple edged with a puffy shade of pink. His sallow skin clung tight to his ribcage, and his hip bones stuck out so much it looked painful. Back in the mirror, his cheeks were sunken, hollow, and his eyes were a hazy, dishwater gray. His skull seemed bigger, his hair longer. Dom wanted to whip his head away from the phantom before him, to never see it again, but he was transfixed.
There was no way that thing was -
Dom looked away, cutting that thought off before it could finish.
A shower.
He needed a shower.
Slowly, stiffly, Dom undressed, peeling off his shirt and his soiled pants. He dropped them in a heap on the floor and stepped under the spray. He could feel the water pounding against him, but it provided no heat. It was neither hot nor cold. It was simply there.
Dom pressed his head to the slick shower wall and stood there for a long time. He was spent, tired, and fried - he had no more emotions left to give. He got out after a little while, dried off, and put on a clean pair of shorts. He settled into bed and lay there with his hands folded over his chest and his eyes open. They felt gritty, dry. His stomach felt bloated, gassy. He was drowsy now, the weight of the past two days (or was it two weeks?) coming down on him all at once. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was still asleep - but aware - when the knocking on his door started the next morning. Time was funny in this state of being, fast and jerky but also slow and echoing. Keys rattled the knob turned. The landlord came in with a cop. They saw him on the bed, laid out like a corpse for a viewing, and the cop radioed in a code 35. Soon, cops were all around him, making noise and touching things. He had the vague sense of discomfort and embarrassment at the intrusion. A baling man in a suit stood over him, a cop who looked like a redneck beside him. “He didn’t die here,” the medical examiner said.
The cop looked at him questioningly. Dom caught the name KENNER on his name tag.
“See this?” the M.E. said and gestured to Dom’s face. “That’s livor mortis. When you die, your blood pools at the lowest point. If you’re on your left side, for example, it pools on the left.”
Kenner looked at Dom and then back to the M.E. “Someone moved him?”
“Looks like it,” the M.E. said.
“When did he die?”
The M.E. examined Dom as though he were nothing more than a side of beef. “At a glance? Three days. I won’t have a better answer until I open him up.”
Dom was still awake when they put him into a body bag and zipped it up. He felt a stirring of fear beneath the cold numbness, but he was too tired to worry about it now.
Later, he thought.
He would panic later.
For now, Dom slept.

The world was a boozy whirl of lights and sounds. Images, broken and fragmented, came and went. Voices, laughter, screaming. The ground pitched like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship, and he felt heavy, as though the ground were pulling him to it. C’mere, Dommy. He fell, lay on the pavement, and pushed himself up again, staggering like a drunk on his way home. His head spun, his body ached, and things seemed blurry, like half-formed images glimpsed underwater.
It was the light blue hour before dawn and Dom was…somewhere. He should have recognized the stores and street signs around him, but he didn’t. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and a sense of confusion gripped him so strongly that he was beginning to panic. Where was he? What happened?
The world spun away again and the next thing he knew, he was lying in a heap of garbage bags, used needles, and rubbish. He came awake with a jerk and sat up so fast that a bolt of pain jammed into his skull. He winced and pressed his hand to his forehead. He felt hot, clammy.
Something was seriously wrong.
Somehow he got to his feet again and started walking. The sun was up now and the streets were filled with people. They all sneered in disgust as he passed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest like a baby comforting itself. He was getting cold. His muscles were sore. Tears streamed down his face and he wanted to cry.
Going on instinct alone, Dom made his way back home and climbed the steps to his apartment. Exhaustion swept over him and he sagged against the door as he dug in his pocket for the keys. They shook in his hand and he had to focus really hard to get the key into the lock.
Inside, he collapsed onto the couch and his eyelids instantly drooped. He was so weary that he couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t form a single coherent thought. Dom felt himself starting to sink, and snapped his eyes open with a start. Something in his soul told him that if he slept, he would die.
He couldn’t help it, though. He was falling, tumbling, hands reaching up from hell to grab him. His eyes fluttered closed again and the world started to go dark, his heart slamming in fear. He tried to fight, but the pull of darkness was too strong, too alluring. Why was he fighting? Why not just…give up? Hadn’t he thought of killing himself before? Didn’t he hate his life and himself? What was there to fight for? A wife? Kids? A community that loved and respected him? Shit, affordable groceries?
No.
There was nothing.
He had nothing and was nothing.
A sense of peace blossomed from the darkness, and suddenly death didn’t seem so scary. In fact, it was warm…inviting.
It was life that was cold and hateful. Not death.
Death accepted you no matter who you were. It didn’t reject you…it didn’t ignore you. If you sought it, you would find it, and if you embraced it, it would embrace you.
With that thought in mind, Dom gave up.
And died.
***
Bruce Kenner, captain of the 5th Albany precinct, sat behind his desk on the morning of June 28 and lazily leafed through a stack of files as he sipped from a mug of coffee. A roughly built man with a dark goatee and graying blonde hair, he looked more like a small town southern sheriff than a low level public works functionary. In fact, he tended to act like it too. He liked to hunt, fish, and drink beer on his off time. Albany wasn’t a big city, but it was big enough that you never got a fucking break. Run here, run there, arrest this asshole, investigate that asshole. By the time Friday rolled around, he was so ready for the peace and tranquility of a fishing trip he could taste it.
Already this Monday morning, he was looking forward to another one.
Over the weekend, three kids went missing in the Pine Hills and Washington Park area, bringing the total for that summer up to eight. All were teenagers, all were troubled. Most were boys, but two were girls.
Troubled kids run away all the time. They might be gone a few days, sulking at a friend’s house over something their father or mother did, but they’d eventually come home. None of these kids had come back yet and from what he knew, a few of them weren’t the runaway types. They were shits at school and caused problems, but they had no reason to up and leave. Hell, Bruce himself raised hell as a kid, but he always found his way back home, even if he spent the previous night dying in a field from Mad Dogg 20/20 poisoning.
One or two kids going missing…okay, it happens. Eight? Over a span of four weeks?
Yeah, something was wrong here.
But what?
There was nothing on any of these kids. No one saw them, no one knew anything - one minute they were here, the next they weren’t. What could he or anyone else do with that?. The public broke cops’ balls all the time, but if you don’t have evidence, you don’t have evidence. What do you want? Door to door searches? Roadblocks? Dogs and helicopters? Yeah, then when you actually do it, they cry fascism. Guess I’ll just use my Spidey Senses.
Bruce wished he had spidey senses. He wanted to find these kids as much as anyone, and he was starting to get pissed off that he couldn’t. He took another sip from his mug and read on. The latest kids to go missing were three boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.
They were all white, all thin (except for one). If there was a serial killer in town - and Bruce hoped to fuck there wasn’t - he had a type. What, black kids aren’t good enough to kill, cannibalize, and wear like a skin suit? They should charge him with a hate crime for discrimination.
That way he’d actually stay locked up.
The door opened and Vanessa Rodregiez, his deputy, came in. A tall, shapely Hispanic woman with dark eyes and a mouth poised always on the edge of a smile, she wore her black hair in a ponytail that would look stern and severe on anyone else, but on her, looked childlike. She was twenty-seven and had been on the force for three years, but you could be forgiven for thinking her much younger. “Bright and early, I see,” she said with a grin.
Bruce grumbled.
Vanessa held down the fort during the graveyard shift, acting to the night as he acted to the day. She was young and full of energy, which clashed with Bruce, who was old and just wanted to be left alone. Despite their differences, Bruce loved her like a kid sister…an annoying kid sister he wanted to throat punch sometimes.
“You missed all the fun last night,” she said and parked her butt on the edge of Bruce’s desk. He glared at her, but she ignored him.
“Good,” he said. Then: “What happened?”
“Big fight outside of Club Vlad,” she said. “It looked like a WorldStar video.”
For a moment, Bruce was lost. “Club what?”
“Club Vlad,” Vanessa said. “Where the Fuze Box used to be.”
Ah, right. The Fuze Box was an Albany landmark, a night club for punks…or goths…or someone. Certainly not for Bruce Kenner. It was small, dingy, and always had people in black waiting outside. On Friday and Saturday nights, it blasted strange music with lyrics about fighting The Man. Kids had been fighting the Man since before Bruce was even born and they hadn’t beaten him yet. Kudos to them for still trying.
Last year, The Fuze Box closed down and someone else bought it. It reopened last month and looked more or less the same: Posers, shitty music, and spiked hair. So much spiked hair. “Place is still a pain in the ass,” Bruce said.
“Yep,” Vanessa chirped. “It doesn’t know what it wants to be now. One minute they play nightcore, the next EDM. It’s all over the place.”
Bruce raised a quizzical brow.
“Not that I’ve ever been there in my free time,” Vanessa said in a tone that suggested she had,
Bruce gave a judgemental hum.
“Anyway,” Vanessa went on, “you see we have some new missing persons?”
Sighing, Bruce sat back in his chair. “Yeah. I did.”
“People are starting to ask questions,” Vanessa warned.
That brought a terse smile to Bruce’s weathered face. “Maybe they’ll solve it then.”
“Ha, fat chance,” Vanessa said. She got up and stretched. “Anyway, I’m bushed. Here’s my…” she trailed off and looked at her empty hands. “Damn, where’s my report? I just had it?” She turned in a confused circle as if she might be able to spot her report making a break for it. “Huh,” she said. She left the office and came back a moment later holding a folder. “Found it,” she grinned.
Bruce just looked at her.
“Um…here it is.”
He didn’t take it.
Her smile faltered. She carefully sat it on top of the files Bruce was looking at.
And his hands.
“I’ll just leave that right here.” She patted it for good measure.
“Thank you,” Bruce said.
“Okay. Night.”
“Goodnight,” Bruce said as she left through a shaft of morning sunlight. Alone, Bruce sat her report aside and went back to the missing kids. This case was giving him a headache and it wasn’t even nine. With a deep sigh, he slumped back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests.
Was it Saturday yet?
He could really use a fishing trip.
***
Dom came awake in the cold purple twilight with a shocked gasp like a man coming up seconds before drowning. His eyes strained from his sweaty face and his mouth hung slack, twisted in a gruesome parody of The Scream. His mind was muddled, murky - he didn’t know where he was or even who he was, but he knew this,.
He couldn’t breathe.
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but his lungs did not fill with air. A great, unseen weight seemed to bear down on his chest, and panic gripped him. He tried to move, but his arms refused to heed his brain’s command. The weight seemed heavier, all over, crushing him like a bug. Confusion filled him and he started to pant.
Without warning, his bowels and bladder loosened, and horrible wetness filled his pants. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His chest rose and fell with the frantic labor of his breath, but his lungs remained inert. A cry of fear bubbled up inside of him, but escaped his mouth only as a breathy groan.
A bust of adrenaline shot through him and he tried to stand, but succeeded only in falling off the couch instead, landing face first against the cold tile floor. He felt his nose crunch, but the pain was muted.
Dom thought he lost consciousness after that, but wasn’t sure. His next memory was of shivering so violently that his teeth clacked together. A phantom chill - perhaps from the floor - had settled into his bones, and was colder than he had ever been in his life, colder even than the time he fell into a snowbank and got lost when he was two. Shudders racked his body, and though he tried to turn over, he was too fucking heavy. It was like every muscle in his body had turned to dead weight. Fragmented thoughts swirled in his head, faint colors in the dark, but he couldn’t put any of them together.
With great effort, he managed to push himself slightly up, but a wave of lightheadedness crashed over him and he lowered his head once more. He stopped trying and simply lay there. Shortly, his eyes began to burn and he realized that he wasn’t blinking. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t blinking.
For some strange reason, that brought a fresh bout of panic. He started to hyperventilate, but his lungs still wouldn’t work. He wasn’t blinking…he wasn’t breathing…what was happening to him?
A whimper burst from his throat and he started to cry.
He must have cried himself to sleep, because he woke sometime later to the most intense headache he’d ever had. It felt like something was eating his brain from the inside out. He was sore all over, and could feel his muscles twitching, as though a thousand living things were burrowing through his body. A cramp shot down his right leg, and the toes of his left foot curled involuntarily. Slowly, his jaw clenched closed, and the muscles in his neck began to strain…then to burn. His panic turned to terror, and Dom wiggled across the floor like a worm, his limbs screaming in red agony and his brain filling with heat. He somehow wound up on his right side, and his arms curled slowly up to his chest, crossing at the wrists like a mummy. He tried to pull them apart, but the slightest movement sent waves of excruciating pain cutting through his body. His knees began to draw up to his stomach, and his fingers clenched tightly.
Cramps and spasms attacked every muscle in his body. He screamed through his teeth and shook, resembling a man in the electric chair as 40,000 volts of justice coursed through him. The pain grew gradually, getting worse and worse as minutes ticked by like hours. Higher, higher, higher - he clenched his eyes closed and shrieked as it became unbearable. Disjointed thoughts flashed through his mind - prayers, threats, curses, Jesus fucking…FUCK.
What was happening? God, what was happening to him? Was it fentanyl? He’d seen videos of people high on fentanyl, and they leaned in weird positions. He didn’t do drugs but maybe he ingested it somehow.
His panic may have returned if all of his muscles hadn’t picked that moment to contract as one. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his jaw unclenched just enough for him to utter a high. Agonized scream that echoed through his empty apartment like thunder.
A human being can only take so much before giving out. When the pain reached a crescendo, and Dom mercifully sank into consciousness once more. The sun rose and cascaded through the apartment’s sole window, falling over his huddled form. Slowly, it tracked across the sky before setting again. As the last rays disappeared behind the horizon, Dom’s eyes opened. The pain of the night before was blessedly gone, replaced by a feeling of numbness - the cool ash after the hot fire. His thoughts were slow and thick like molasses, but he could actually think again. Nightmare memories flooded back to him, but he wasn’t sure they were real. He was lying on his side, his arms wrapped around his chest as if for warmth, and his teeth lightly chattered against the icy chill. He was so cold that he didn’t want to move, but he couldn’t stay here forever. He needed help. He needed…
A shower.
Yeah, a hot shower. That would warm him up.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat up, ready for a burst of pain.
But none came.
He did, however, feel heavy. Getting to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself against the counter. His limbs had no feeling. It’s like they weren’t even there. Head hung, Dom tried to catch his breath, but it felt like he wasn’t breathing at all. His eyelids drooped closed and he felt like he was going to fall down. Summoning all the might he could, he shuffled into the bathroom with the stiff gait of an old man. He snapped the light on, and cold, white brilliance filled the space, blinding him.
Leaning heavily against the sink, he gripped the cold porcelain. Suddenly, he was afraid of looking into the mirror. He was sure that whatever reflection he saw, it would be of something else, something monstrous.
Dom lifted his head and faced the glass.
His heart shrank.
The man in the mirror was him but different. His skin was white as milk, lacking all color whatsoever save for the ugly purple patch on the left side. IResembling a giant bruise, it started at the temple and extended down to the slope of his neck, disappearing beneath his T-shirt. He gingerly lifted the shirt, and moaned when he saw that his entire left side was discolored, the purple edged with a puffy shade of pink. His sallow skin clung tight to his ribcage, and his hip bones stuck out so much it looked painful. Back in the mirror, his cheeks were sunken, hollow, and his eyes were a hazy, dishwater gray. His skull seemed bigger, his hair longer. Dom wanted to whip his head away from the phantom before him, to never see it again, but he was transfixed.
There was no way that thing was -
Dom looked away, cutting that thought off before it could finish.
A shower.
He needed a shower.
Slowly, stiffly, Dom undressed, peeling off his shirt and his soiled pants. He dropped them in a heap on the floor and stepped under the spray. He could feel the water pounding against him, but it provided no heat. It was neither hot nor cold. It was simply there.
Dom pressed his head to the slick shower wall and stood there for a long time. He was spent, tired, and fried - he had no more emotions left to give. He got out after a little while, dried off, and put on a clean pair of shorts. He settled into bed and lay there with his hands folded over his chest and his eyes open. They felt gritty, dry. His stomach felt bloated, gassy. He was drowsy now, the weight of the past two days (or was it two weeks?) coming down on him all at once. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was still asleep - but aware - when the knocking on his door started the next morning. Time was funny in this state of being, fast and jerky but also slow and echoing. Keys rattled the knob turned. The landlord came in with a cop. They saw him on the bed, laid out like a corpse for a viewing, and the cop radioed in a code 35. Soon, cops were all around him, making noise and touching things. He had the vague sense of discomfort and embarrassment at the intrusion. A baling man in a suit stood over him, a cop who looked like a redneck beside him. “He didn’t die here,” the medical examiner said.
The cop looked at him questioningly. Dom caught the name KENNER on his name tag.
“See this?” the M.E. said and gestured to Dom’s face. “That’s livor mortis. When you die, your blood pools at the lowest point. If you’re on your left side, for example, it pools on the left.”
Kenner looked at Dom and then back to the M.E. “Someone moved him?”
“Looks like it,” the M.E. said.
“When did he die?”
The M.E. examined Dom as though he were nothing more than a side of beef. “At a glance? Three days. I won’t have a better answer until I open him up.”
Dom was still awake when they put him into a body bag and zipped it up. He felt a stirring of fear beneath the cold numbness, but he was too tired to worry about it now.
Later, he thought.
He would panic later.
For now, Dom slept.

The world was a boozy whirl of lights and sounds. Images, broken and fragmented, came and went. Voices, laughter, screaming. The ground pitched like the deck of a tempest-tossed ship, and he felt heavy, as though the ground were pulling him to it. C’mere, Dommy. He fell, lay on the pavement, and pushed himself up again, staggering like a drunk on his way home. His head spun, his body ached, and things seemed blurry, like half-formed images glimpsed underwater.
It was the light blue hour before dawn and Dom was…somewhere. He should have recognized the stores and street signs around him, but he didn’t. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, and a sense of confusion gripped him so strongly that he was beginning to panic. Where was he? What happened?
The world spun away again and the next thing he knew, he was lying in a heap of garbage bags, used needles, and rubbish. He came awake with a jerk and sat up so fast that a bolt of pain jammed into his skull. He winced and pressed his hand to his forehead. He felt hot, clammy.
Something was seriously wrong.
Somehow he got to his feet again and started walking. The sun was up now and the streets were filled with people. They all sneered in disgust as he passed, and he wrapped his arms around his chest like a baby comforting itself. He was getting cold. His muscles were sore. Tears streamed down his face and he wanted to cry.
Going on instinct alone, Dom made his way back home and climbed the steps to his apartment. Exhaustion swept over him and he sagged against the door as he dug in his pocket for the keys. They shook in his hand and he had to focus really hard to get the key into the lock.
Inside, he collapsed onto the couch and his eyelids instantly drooped. He was so weary that he couldn’t lift his head, couldn’t form a single coherent thought. Dom felt himself starting to sink, and snapped his eyes open with a start. Something in his soul told him that if he slept, he would die.
He couldn’t help it, though. He was falling, tumbling, hands reaching up from hell to grab him. His eyes fluttered closed again and the world started to go dark, his heart slamming in fear. He tried to fight, but the pull of darkness was too strong, too alluring. Why was he fighting? Why not just…give up? Hadn’t he thought of killing himself before? Didn’t he hate his life and himself? What was there to fight for? A wife? Kids? A community that loved and respected him? Shit, affordable groceries?
No.
There was nothing.
He had nothing and was nothing.
A sense of peace blossomed from the darkness, and suddenly death didn’t seem so scary. In fact, it was warm…inviting.
It was life that was cold and hateful. Not death.
Death accepted you no matter who you were. It didn’t reject you…it didn’t ignore you. If you sought it, you would find it, and if you embraced it, it would embrace you.
With that thought in mind, Dom gave up.
And died.
***
Bruce Kenner, captain of the 5th Albany precinct, sat behind his desk on the morning of June 28 and lazily leafed through a stack of files as he sipped from a mug of coffee. A roughly built man with a dark goatee and graying blonde hair, he looked more like a small town southern sheriff than a low level public works functionary. In fact, he tended to act like it too. He liked to hunt, fish, and drink beer on his off time. Albany wasn’t a big city, but it was big enough that you never got a fucking break. Run here, run there, arrest this asshole, investigate that asshole. By the time Friday rolled around, he was so ready for the peace and tranquility of a fishing trip he could taste it.
Already this Monday morning, he was looking forward to another one.
Over the weekend, three kids went missing in the Pine Hills and Washington Park area, bringing the total for that summer up to eight. All were teenagers, all were troubled. Most were boys, but two were girls.
Troubled kids run away all the time. They might be gone a few days, sulking at a friend’s house over something their father or mother did, but they’d eventually come home. None of these kids had come back yet and from what he knew, a few of them weren’t the runaway types. They were shits at school and caused problems, but they had no reason to up and leave. Hell, Bruce himself raised hell as a kid, but he always found his way back home, even if he spent the previous night dying in a field from Mad Dogg 20/20 poisoning.
One or two kids going missing…okay, it happens. Eight? Over a span of four weeks?
Yeah, something was wrong here.
But what?
There was nothing on any of these kids. No one saw them, no one knew anything - one minute they were here, the next they weren’t. What could he or anyone else do with that?. The public broke cops’ balls all the time, but if you don’t have evidence, you don’t have evidence. What do you want? Door to door searches? Roadblocks? Dogs and helicopters? Yeah, then when you actually do it, they cry fascism. Guess I’ll just use my Spidey Senses.
Bruce wished he had spidey senses. He wanted to find these kids as much as anyone, and he was starting to get pissed off that he couldn’t. He took another sip from his mug and read on. The latest kids to go missing were three boys between the ages of fourteen and eighteen.
They were all white, all thin (except for one). If there was a serial killer in town - and Bruce hoped to fuck there wasn’t - he had a type. What, black kids aren’t good enough to kill, cannibalize, and wear like a skin suit? They should charge him with a hate crime for discrimination.
That way he’d actually stay locked up.
The door opened and Vanessa Rodregiez, his deputy, came in. A tall, shapely Hispanic woman with dark eyes and a mouth poised always on the edge of a smile, she wore her black hair in a ponytail that would look stern and severe on anyone else, but on her, looked childlike. She was twenty-seven and had been on the force for three years, but you could be forgiven for thinking her much younger. “Bright and early, I see,” she said with a grin.
Bruce grumbled.
Vanessa held down the fort during the graveyard shift, acting to the night as he acted to the day. She was young and full of energy, which clashed with Bruce, who was old and just wanted to be left alone. Despite their differences, Bruce loved her like a kid sister…an annoying kid sister he wanted to throat punch sometimes.
“You missed all the fun last night,” she said and parked her butt on the edge of Bruce’s desk. He glared at her, but she ignored him.
“Good,” he said. Then: “What happened?”
“Big fight outside of Club Vlad,” she said. “It looked like a WorldStar video.”
For a moment, Bruce was lost. “Club what?”
“Club Vlad,” Vanessa said. “Where the Fuze Box used to be.”
Ah, right. The Fuze Box was an Albany landmark, a night club for punks…or goths…or someone. Certainly not for Bruce Kenner. It was small, dingy, and always had people in black waiting outside. On Friday and Saturday nights, it blasted strange music with lyrics about fighting The Man. Kids had been fighting the Man since before Bruce was even born and they hadn’t beaten him yet. Kudos to them for still trying.
Last year, The Fuze Box closed down and someone else bought it. It reopened last month and looked more or less the same: Posers, shitty music, and spiked hair. So much spiked hair. “Place is still a pain in the ass,” Bruce said.
“Yep,” Vanessa chirped. “It doesn’t know what it wants to be now. One minute they play nightcore, the next EDM. It’s all over the place.”
Bruce raised a quizzical brow.
“Not that I’ve ever been there in my free time,” Vanessa said in a tone that suggested she had,
Bruce gave a judgemental hum.
“Anyway,” Vanessa went on, “you see we have some new missing persons?”
Sighing, Bruce sat back in his chair. “Yeah. I did.”
“People are starting to ask questions,” Vanessa warned.
That brought a terse smile to Bruce’s weathered face. “Maybe they’ll solve it then.”
“Ha, fat chance,” Vanessa said. She got up and stretched. “Anyway, I’m bushed. Here’s my…” she trailed off and looked at her empty hands. “Damn, where’s my report? I just had it?” She turned in a confused circle as if she might be able to spot her report making a break for it. “Huh,” she said. She left the office and came back a moment later holding a folder. “Found it,” she grinned.
Bruce just looked at her.
“Um…here it is.”
He didn’t take it.
Her smile faltered. She carefully sat it on top of the files Bruce was looking at.
And his hands.
“I’ll just leave that right here.” She patted it for good measure.
“Thank you,” Bruce said.
“Okay. Night.”
“Goodnight,” Bruce said as she left through a shaft of morning sunlight. Alone, Bruce sat her report aside and went back to the missing kids. This case was giving him a headache and it wasn’t even nine. With a deep sigh, he slumped back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests.
Was it Saturday yet?
He could really use a fishing trip.
***
Dom came awake in the cold purple twilight with a shocked gasp like a man coming up seconds before drowning. His eyes strained from his sweaty face and his mouth hung slack, twisted in a gruesome parody of The Scream. His mind was muddled, murky - he didn’t know where he was or even who he was, but he knew this,.
He couldn’t breathe.
He opened and closed his mouth like a fish, but his lungs did not fill with air. A great, unseen weight seemed to bear down on his chest, and panic gripped him. He tried to move, but his arms refused to heed his brain’s command. The weight seemed heavier, all over, crushing him like a bug. Confusion filled him and he started to pant.
Without warning, his bowels and bladder loosened, and horrible wetness filled his pants. He tried to sit up, but his body felt like it weighed a thousand pounds. His chest rose and fell with the frantic labor of his breath, but his lungs remained inert. A cry of fear bubbled up inside of him, but escaped his mouth only as a breathy groan.
A bust of adrenaline shot through him and he tried to stand, but succeeded only in falling off the couch instead, landing face first against the cold tile floor. He felt his nose crunch, but the pain was muted.
Dom thought he lost consciousness after that, but wasn’t sure. His next memory was of shivering so violently that his teeth clacked together. A phantom chill - perhaps from the floor - had settled into his bones, and was colder than he had ever been in his life, colder even than the time he fell into a snowbank and got lost when he was two. Shudders racked his body, and though he tried to turn over, he was too fucking heavy. It was like every muscle in his body had turned to dead weight. Fragmented thoughts swirled in his head, faint colors in the dark, but he couldn’t put any of them together.
With great effort, he managed to push himself slightly up, but a wave of lightheadedness crashed over him and he lowered his head once more. He stopped trying and simply lay there. Shortly, his eyes began to burn and he realized that he wasn’t blinking. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t blinking.
For some strange reason, that brought a fresh bout of panic. He started to hyperventilate, but his lungs still wouldn’t work. He wasn’t blinking…he wasn’t breathing…what was happening to him?
A whimper burst from his throat and he started to cry.
He must have cried himself to sleep, because he woke sometime later to the most intense headache he’d ever had. It felt like something was eating his brain from the inside out. He was sore all over, and could feel his muscles twitching, as though a thousand living things were burrowing through his body. A cramp shot down his right leg, and the toes of his left foot curled involuntarily. Slowly, his jaw clenched closed, and the muscles in his neck began to strain…then to burn. His panic turned to terror, and Dom wiggled across the floor like a worm, his limbs screaming in red agony and his brain filling with heat. He somehow wound up on his right side, and his arms curled slowly up to his chest, crossing at the wrists like a mummy. He tried to pull them apart, but the slightest movement sent waves of excruciating pain cutting through his body. His knees began to draw up to his stomach, and his fingers clenched tightly.
Cramps and spasms attacked every muscle in his body. He screamed through his teeth and shook, resembling a man in the electric chair as 40,000 volts of justice coursed through him. The pain grew gradually, getting worse and worse as minutes ticked by like hours. Higher, higher, higher - he clenched his eyes closed and shrieked as it became unbearable. Disjointed thoughts flashed through his mind - prayers, threats, curses, Jesus fucking…FUCK.
What was happening? God, what was happening to him? Was it fentanyl? He’d seen videos of people high on fentanyl, and they leaned in weird positions. He didn’t do drugs but maybe he ingested it somehow.
His panic may have returned if all of his muscles hadn’t picked that moment to contract as one. His eyes bulged from their sockets and his jaw unclenched just enough for him to utter a high. Agonized scream that echoed through his empty apartment like thunder.
A human being can only take so much before giving out. When the pain reached a crescendo, and Dom mercifully sank into consciousness once more. The sun rose and cascaded through the apartment’s sole window, falling over his huddled form. Slowly, it tracked across the sky before setting again. As the last rays disappeared behind the horizon, Dom’s eyes opened. The pain of the night before was blessedly gone, replaced by a feeling of numbness - the cool ash after the hot fire. His thoughts were slow and thick like molasses, but he could actually think again. Nightmare memories flooded back to him, but he wasn’t sure they were real. He was lying on his side, his arms wrapped around his chest as if for warmth, and his teeth lightly chattered against the icy chill. He was so cold that he didn’t want to move, but he couldn’t stay here forever. He needed help. He needed…
A shower.
Yeah, a hot shower. That would warm him up.
Gritting his teeth, he slowly sat up, ready for a burst of pain.
But none came.
He did, however, feel heavy. Getting to his feet, he stumbled and nearly fell, catching himself against the counter. His limbs had no feeling. It’s like they weren’t even there. Head hung, Dom tried to catch his breath, but it felt like he wasn’t breathing at all. His eyelids drooped closed and he felt like he was going to fall down. Summoning all the might he could, he shuffled into the bathroom with the stiff gait of an old man. He snapped the light on, and cold, white brilliance filled the space, blinding him.
Leaning heavily against the sink, he gripped the cold porcelain. Suddenly, he was afraid of looking into the mirror. He was sure that whatever reflection he saw, it would be of something else, something monstrous.
Dom lifted his head and faced the glass.
His heart shrank.
The man in the mirror was him but different. His skin was white as milk, lacking all color whatsoever save for the ugly purple patch on the left side. IResembling a giant bruise, it started at the temple and extended down to the slope of his neck, disappearing beneath his T-shirt. He gingerly lifted the shirt, and moaned when he saw that his entire left side was discolored, the purple edged with a puffy shade of pink. His sallow skin clung tight to his ribcage, and his hip bones stuck out so much it looked painful. Back in the mirror, his cheeks were sunken, hollow, and his eyes were a hazy, dishwater gray. His skull seemed bigger, his hair longer. Dom wanted to whip his head away from the phantom before him, to never see it again, but he was transfixed.
There was no way that thing was -
Dom looked away, cutting that thought off before it could finish.
A shower.
He needed a shower.
Slowly, stiffly, Dom undressed, peeling off his shirt and his soiled pants. He dropped them in a heap on the floor and stepped under the spray. He could feel the water pounding against him, but it provided no heat. It was neither hot nor cold. It was simply there.
Dom pressed his head to the slick shower wall and stood there for a long time. He was spent, tired, and fried - he had no more emotions left to give. He got out after a little while, dried off, and put on a clean pair of shorts. He settled into bed and lay there with his hands folded over his chest and his eyes open. They felt gritty, dry. His stomach felt bloated, gassy. He was drowsy now, the weight of the past two days (or was it two weeks?) coming down on him all at once. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
He was still asleep - but aware - when the knocking on his door started the next morning. Time was funny in this state of being, fast and jerky but also slow and echoing. Keys rattled the knob turned. The landlord came in with a cop. They saw him on the bed, laid out like a corpse for a viewing, and the cop radioed in a code 35. Soon, cops were all around him, making noise and touching things. He had the vague sense of discomfort and embarrassment at the intrusion. A baling man in a suit stood over him, a cop who looked like a redneck beside him. “He didn’t die here,” the medical examiner said.
The cop looked at him questioningly. Dom caught the name KENNER on his name tag.
“See this?” the M.E. said and gestured to Dom’s face. “That’s livor mortis. When you die, your blood pools at the lowest point. If you’re on your left side, for example, it pools on the left.”
Kenner looked at Dom and then back to the M.E. “Someone moved him?”
“Looks like it,” the M.E. said.
“When did he die?”
The M.E. examined Dom as though he were nothing more than a side of beef. “At a glance? Three days. I won’t have a better answer until I open him up.”
Dom was still awake when they put him into a body bag and zipped it up. He felt a stirring of fear beneath the cold numbness, but he was too tired to worry about it now.
Later, he thought.
He would panic later.
For now, Dom slept.

Hello everyone!
I'm running into an issue with iCloud Private Relay and our web filter. Any device with iCloud Private Relay turned on can sidestep out web filter and users can browse whatever they want. Being a school district, that's no good for students, and to a lesser extent, staff members.
The only reason I'm worried about this is because we are in the process of adding a guest network to the district that the students would be able to add their personal devices to. This guest network is heavily filtered and allowed for internet only, but the fact that they can side step the filter with the Relay is a pain. I know, I know, students on the network is tough, but my voice gets squashed pretty quickly.
I've looked up other forums and questions about how to suppress the Relay, and Apple mentioned that we need to have a nxdomain returned for "mask.icloud.com" and "mask-h2.icloud.com". A forum I saw mentioned to add a DNS resolution query set to DENY for the two fqdns. Adding that policy to our Windows DNS server stopped Relay, but with unexpected behavior. Instead of being alerted that iCloud Private Relay wasn't allow on the network, Safari simply couldn't connect to Relay and the browser was unusable.
A quick ticket to Apple had them mention that the "DENY" setting doesn't send the correct nxdomain response. They also said "You will need to configure your DNS server to return the proper response code in order to suppress the iCloud Private Relay behavior. One way this can be accomplished is to create new zone records for which your DNS server is the start of authority (SOA) for each of the individual FQDNs, then do not populate those zone records with any A/AAAA records for the hostname."
I've created empty zones for "mask.icloud.com" and "mask-h2.icloud.com" but Relay remains in full effect and I get no nxdomain. I went the extreme route and made a zone for icloud.com and added cname records for "mask" and "mask-h2". I get the great nxdomain response, but then regular icloud traffic shut down, which is what I expected, so that's a no go.
I'm stuck on how to ensure that nxdomain will be returned for these two fqdns and was wondering if anyone had any tricks on how to get this up and running with Windows DNS?
iCloud Private Relay has been the bane of my existence for the last couple of days!

Edit: If you are going to comment on the length of this post, please don't. This is not a simple snark but rather an actual critical think piece about feminism and Taylor Swift.

Introduction

Pertaining to Taylor Swift, "Female Rage" has deviated from its intended meaning after Swift debuted a new performance of The Tortured Poets Department during the Eras Tour. Now, according to Swift's use of the phrase, female rage is interpreted as public backlash against Swift's dating choices rather than as a response to the broader injustices against women and women's rights. This post examines Taylor Swift's flawed feminism, philanthropy, branding, and the controversial trademark petition for the phrase "Female Rage: The Musical". Swift's background as an entertainer, indeterminate politics, and alignment with capitalism over feminism pervades her legacy, again threatening her public tolerance as not just an individual but as a brand.

Once Upon a Female Rage...

If you were cognizant in the early 2010's, you've heard countless jabs at Taylor Swift in the media. Magazines, radio, or online. Music critics did not take her seriously as a songwriter; parents put a woman on an unrealistic pedestal as the ideal role model for their children; she dated too much and used men as lyrical fodder. No matter the story, it inevitably spread, conjoined with everyone's respective opinions, and you'd be left to wonder, "Why does everyone hate this girl so much?"
Taylor's target demographic has always been young or adolescent girls, more so when Swift herself was one. She made music that spoke to the awkward misfit, cultivating a para-social relationship with fans on MySpace, then later twitter, Instagram, and YouTube, where Taylor posted relatable vlogs showcasing the life of a homegrown American girl. Taylor had a delayed public "growing up" and, compared to her female pop contemporaries, Swift never "gratuitously sexualized her image and seems pathologically averse to controversy" (and, apparently, never even had a sip of alcohol until she turned 21). She was more than happy to spin this narrative to allude to an inherent moral superiority above other women in the industry (Better Than Revenge, heard of it?), engaging in the very slut-shaming that she herself endured (the Madonna and Whore archetypes). The victim complex arose with the need to prove Taylor as a different type of pop girl. Based upon her holy and clean image, Swift had been dubbed "a feminist's nightmare", and that "[To Swift] other girls are obstacles; undeserving enemies who steal Taylor’s soulmates with their bewitching good looks and sexual availability." Feminism and Tennessee-Christian country values don't exactly mix, it seems.
Years later, Swift befriended Lena Dunham and thus experienced white feminism osmosis, where Dunham taught Swift that real feminists defend rapists, makes insensitive jokes about rape and abortion, and prioritize all-white casts. Swift then declared herself a feminist in 2014, saying,

"Becoming friends with Lena – without her preaching to me, but just seeing why she believes what she believes, why she says what she says, why she stands for what she stands for – has made me realize that I’ve been taking a feminist stance without actually saying so."

I suppose the male-centric songwriting subject that permeates Swift's discography contained covert feminism and that we just didn't see that. Perhaps, the "Bad Blood" song and music video were written only in jest and not about poor Katy Perry, for Swift, as a feminist, would "never make it a girl fight" or tear other women down (though all Katy did was date your terrible ex-boyfriend and allegedly steal three backup dancers from your tour). In 2013, Swift said, in response to Tina Fey and Amy Poehler's joke towards her serial dating, "There is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women."
There was that time in 2015 Taylor said that Nicki Minaj was "invited to any stage [she is] on" (as if Taylor expects to have access to every stage, award, and platform that Nicki might not otherwise have as a black female artist...yikes!) in response to Nicki's criticism of the white + thin VMA nominations. Later, Nicki responded with confusion, as Swift continued, "It’s unlike you to pit women against each other. Maybe one of the men took your slot..". Of course, this 'beef' was 'squashed' when Nicki performed with Taylor at the VMAs, with Nicki quite literally only having 38 seconds of stage time without Taylor. Maybe all that parading around with a legion of famous white women - similar to the way Taylor might've done with her numerous 1989-era handbags - was in fact a stance against gender inequality, and that this display of "girl power" should be enough to constitute Swift as a feminist icon.
Even while Swift says that Dunham informed her feminist outlook, she dances around the exact contents of those beliefs: "what she believes, what she says, what she stands for" is not exactly insightful towards what beliefs Swift might have inherited. Taylor never broaches women's rights topics such femicide, FGM, forced pregnancy & marriage, sex trafficking, women in slavery, women's financial and political oppression, women's educational rights, women's health, or women's autonomy, so we can assume she only gives a fuck about "girls supporting girls" (whatever that fucking means).
Despite some questionable (and sometimes vindictive) behavior, Taylor as a young woman did not deserve every media lashing that she received. We cannot deny that most headlines and criticisms perpetuated a misogynistic rhetoric which has plagued Swift for a majority of her career. Acknowledging events such as the development of her ED, her sexual assault trial, "Famous" lyric and MV depiction of Taylor, and the explicit Twitter deepfakes, for example, as both disgusting and unfortunate things that happened to a young woman in Hollywood does not negate the fact that Taylor is mostly a performative feminist.

Get Your Fucking Ass Up and Be a Philanthropist, It Seems Like Nobody Wants to Be a Philanthropist These Days

In 2013, Taylor Swift cut the ribbon at the grand opening of the Taylor Swift Education Center at the Country Music Hall of Fame in Nashville, Tennessee. The donation amount - $4 million - was the largest individual artist gift ever donated to the Country Music Hall of Fame, which is, of course, mentioned on Swift's website. The two-story facility features three classrooms, an instrument room, and an interactive children's exhibit gallery. Swift also performed at "All for the Hall" charity shows and has donated numerous artifacts from her career (such as notable guitars, tour costumes, etc) to the museum.
This was over 11 years ago, and it is still the only notable philanthropic contribution Taylor Swift has made.
For a woman of her net worth and stature, and a woman who recognizes the difficulties for women in film and music, you would think that Taylor Swift might establish a scholarship program for women to study the arts or something. Perhaps Swift might even consider becoming a member of organizations that support female artists, or one that supports LGBTQ+ causes (since she is now proudly an ally), yet she remains superficial with her graces. Broader philanthropy, such as donating relief aid to Palestinian women or women impacted by violence and discrimination will probably never receive any financial support from Miss Swift because then she'd be using her money towards philanthropies involving anyone but white entertainers.
She even says herself in Miss Americana, "My entire moral code as a kid and now is a need to be thought of as 'good'." Well, she's certainly thought of as good, though her actions say otherwise. She's more than happy to do a vaguely altruistic song and dance for a clip-worthy interview quote and mass appeasement, then fuck off to one of her mansions on a 20 minute private jet flight, rather than actually contribute to anything pertaining to the causes she has endorsed. Yet, far too many people continue to give a woman such as her their money, time, and energy, and she hoards these resources to herself.

I Like Some of the Taylor's Songs, But What the Fuck Does She Know About Feminism?

Swift continued with her self-proclaimed feminist campaign, positioning herself as a political activist and LGBTQ+ ally in the Miss Americana documentary. The primary focus of the documentary consists of the sexual assault trial, Andrea Swift's cancer diagnosis, Taylor's ED and body dysmorphia, media scrutiny, and, largely, finally speaking up about her politics publicly, mostly her opposition to the 2018 Tennessee Republican senate candidate, Marsha Blackburn, and Blackburn's beliefs. Swift says, following a scene discussing her experience during the trial,

"I just couldn't really stop thinking about it. And I just thought to myself, next time there is any opportunity to change anything, you had better know what you stand for and what you want to say."

We must ask ourselves, though: when has Swift ever spoken up to change anything? Okay, pulling her entire catalogue from Spotify because they didn't pay their artists enough and similarly pulling her catalogue from Apple Music are changes that she leveraged due to her revenue potential and power, but they are not pertinent to the average woman's rights. Moreover, these are issues that directly impacted Taylor's income, which was enough reason for her to protest in the first place. Swift has sold the most units for a female artist in first week sales, is the first female artist with 100k monthly Spotify listeners, is the first female artist to win the Album of the Year Grammy 4 times, and is the first female artist to do X, Y, and Z, all while being inoffensive and family-friendly to boot. The actual Taylor Swift seems unwilling to compromise the brand of Taylor Swift by contributing in meaningful ways to feminist causes, especially if it is for women outside of America and Hollywood.
The reason political anthems such as "The Man" and "Only the Young" of the Lover era feel disingenuous and corporate is because, well, it is. Taylor has taken every opportunity to advance her career or public image at the expense of other women. What is truly genuine to Taylor's outlook on other women is vying for male attention, taking down female competition, and vocalizing feminist injustices only if they directly impact her and her money. Some will argue that it's satisfactory for a woman with such a huge platform to even TALK about feminism, but that just isn't enough. It's even less impressive when you candidly look at the scope of her feminist lens: "If I was the man, then I'd be THE MAN", or "I really resent the ‘Be careful, buddy, she’s going to write a song about you’ angle, because it trivialises what I do", and, of course, "We all got crowns". Feminism, but only when it happens to me. It gets worse when you look at Taylor's track record of copying other famous women and removing other female artists as potential threats to her pop prowess.
It's good for PR to align yourself with certain blanket feminist and political beliefs, therefore good for branding, therefore good for ticketing and merchandise sales, therefore good for business. And Taylor Swift is a business.
She's not a feminist. Taylor Swift is a capitalist.

I Can't Pay Those Sweatshop Workers a Livable Wage or Benefits! How Else Would I Make My Billions?

Recently, Taylor's team filed to trademark the phrase "Female Rage: The Musical" after Taylor said during Paris N1 of the Eras Tour,

"So you were the first ones to see The Tortured Poets at the Eras Tour...or as I like to call it, 'Female Rage: The Musical'."

This trademark petition was filed last week on Saturday, and news comes about just as numerous unofficial fan-made merch designs have cropped up with this phrase plastered on Fruit of the Loom basics. I'm of the opinion Swift's team motioned for a trademark so that they can send out cease & desists to all those that make knockoff merch, which disrupts potential sales for Bravado, UMG's choice merchandising company; however, since it was filed earlier, perhaps Swift has bigger plans with the bizarre use of the gendered phrase. One Swiftie referred to the phrase "female rage" as "a funny Eras Tour joke". Could it be a possible fourth version of the Eras Tour Movie? Whatever the reason, the motion to capitalize off of such a concept is disgusting, but not unsurprising, for a woman that profits on her vain feminism.
Swift, through her company, TAS Rights Managements, has also trademarked over 200 phrases, including "1989", where she owns the property rights to this calendar year on keychains, phone cases, sunglasses, stationary, bags, beverage ware, clothing, entertainment services, your subconscious, and, of course, Christmas ornaments.
The vapid consumerism in Swiftie culture is, frankly, disgusting. Bravado's sustainability statement is non-existent, the quality control is abysmal, and the materials they use are horrible. The materials, such as acrylic and polyester, are made from petrochemicals. This means they are non-renewable, shed microplastics, and are quite toxic in production. The manufacturing process to make all of those lazy-rushed Eras Tour logo graphic tees is a huge blow to environmental well-being. Apparently, though, Swifties don't give a fuck. They sell out products in seconds and either have to face the manufactured scarcity or buy from a scalper that resells for 200% of the already ridiculous retail price. This doesn't include the environmental impact of vinyl records, CD, and cassette production, of which Taylor produces many variants that sell unsustainable amounts.
If we're talking about women's rights violations, why is no one acknowledging the women that work in the inhumane sweatshop conditions that have to pump out fugly t-shirts and hats? The millions of plastic microfiber dander they are inhaling, or the toxic dyes that touch their bare skin? Are they being compensated fairly for their skilled labour and are they in safe working environments? Do these women have minimal bargaining power, and do they have authority over their worker's rights? Is Taylor Swift female raging at their injustices? Does Taylor Swift ever feels bad that her wealth was built on the backs of women of color, disadvantaged by the demands of the global economy and garment industry? Do you think she ever says a little white feminist prayer for them before she goes to sleep at night?
What's even crazier is not that Taylor herself doesn't care, it's that Swifties don't care. There CANNOT BE ethical billionaires. You only make a billion dollars if you are exploiting other human beings for capital gain. Based on public perception of the possible "Female Rage: The Musical" trademark, it seems like Swifties are already asking for merch with this phrase. "If Taylor made it, I'd buy it." Oh, cool. So not only do you champion Miss Swift's avarice and billionaire status, but you also are unashamed to admit to your blind consumption of her music and merchandise, no matter where they might originate in production or sincerity. Just as Swift takes and takes and takes, Swifties' consumerism of Taylor Swift cannot be quelled.
The tortured artist's most vulnerable and sincere poetry...available now in 21 different versions!

I Am Tortured Poet, Hear Me Whinge

Look - even if Taylor's intention is to characterize TTPD as more "tortured" and "angry", the main thread of the album is "I was ghosted by my decade-long situationship with a controversial indie boy and my fucking stupid fans wrote a 'Speak Up Now' open letter prompting me to drop him" anger, which is adequately expressed in the lyrics and performances. The extent of Taylor's "female rage" on TTPD is on tracks such as "Who's Afraid of Little Old Me?", which contends with relentless media scrutiny; "But Daddy I Love Him", where Swift firmly states she'll date whoever she likes no matter how "Sarahs and Hannahs" may react; and "The Albatross", a track mythologizing her reputation and the consequences of dating her. Of course, these coincide with deep psychological wounds that formed during Swift's early years in the media, and so, from her feminist perspective, these subjects tackle the misogyny and double standards that she faced.
Yet Taylor Swift still has no grounds to be claiming that TTPD best exemplifies female rage and therefore she, in the context of this album, is female rage incarnate. As the daughter of a stock broker and mutual fund marketing executive, Taylor was born into wealth and allowed privileges like trips and subsequent relocation to Nashville all so that she might get a record deal. Her father even invested at least $120,000 into the then-fledgling label, Big Machine Records, which ensured Taylor's place with Borchetta after leaving her dead-end development deal with Sony. The fact that her parents were able to buy her a fucking brand new guitar for Christmas and pay for music lessons says so much about the financial security and safety of her childhood.
Money is privilege and protection, and despite Swift's experiences with misogyny and loser boyfriends, she does not know what female rage is.
Her rage is derived from her frustrations with her obsessive fans pulling the moral superiority card on Taylor in response to her rebound with Matty Healy. That's literally it. She's just pissed that the monster she created is no longer obediant, it's become a feral, sovereign entity that depletes the world of its natural resources and thinks it is more intelligent than it actually is because it's mommy has started to talk to it with big words. Apparently, 'illicit', 'elegy', 'nonchalant', and 'precocious' are considerably big words for the oafish monster, and I find it strange that this level of literacy is present in a group of fans that allegedly have GPAs of 3.5 or higher, but I digress.
Taylor Swift has never been one paycheck away from destitution. Taylor Swift has never experienced racial discrimination. She may have instances of gender discrimination, but she possesses the ideal white, blonde American beauty standard and therefore reaps the benefits of being a conventionally attractive woman. Taylor Swift has sufficient social capital. Taylor Swift is a billionaire woman prolonging her victimhood though she, as a woman, has mostly had control over her image and music (unlike her contemporaries). Taylor Swift is NOT entitled to be championed for her "female rage", nor should she be. Taylor Swift has never even been the struggling artist, for fuck's sake. I don't give a fuck if she's trying to fill the empty lunch tables of her past. Taylor Swift purporting herself, her unpolished album, and her lukewarm feminism as a musical bleeding with female rage is asinine.

Sigh Try and Come For My Job, Poors

Out there in the world right now is a 23-year-old woman, a recent college grad, who works as a barista. She has to wake up and get ready to go into a minimum wage job because she cannot get a job in her field. She doesn't have healthcare benefits or sick time, so she has to go into work no matter how she's feeling. All day long she is berated by vicious customers and creepy men, and, exhausted from being on her feet, she knows she has to go home to her shitty roommate that never does the dishes and her roommate's shitty dog. To comfort herself, she considers getting a treat, but thinks against it when she remembers that matcha lattes cost $15 and they taste like milky dirt. She knows that she needs to buy groceries this week, and so the woman resolves to go home, but notices that her gas tank is low. She goes to put gas in the car, but the pump stops at $27.86 because that's all that she has in her checking account. The woman, bereft and reeling, sinks into the driver's seat. "Well," she thinks, her head in her hands, "at least I don't have Taylor Swift's job. I just couldn't imagine."
Fame is somewhat of a choice. If at any moment Taylor feels that she is misunderstood, misconstrued, or overwhelmed by public opinion, she can LEAVE the public eye - Lord knows she has the retirement fund and residuals to do so. In "I Can Do It With a Broken Heart", the TTPD song about meeting the demands of your career-zenith mega-tour while in the relationship trenches, Taylor ends the song by rambling,

"You know you're good when you can even do it with a broken heart...you know you're good...and I'm good, cause I'm miserable, and no one even knows!...try and come for my job."

Yeah, obviously we wouldn't know, you recently passed the billionaire threshold and are the most famous and in-demand performer in the world right now. Taylor Swift makes an estimated $10 to $13 million dollars A NIGHT on the Eras Tour. Furthermore, the Eras Tour movie grossed $261.6 million globally, (which, as the producer, Taylor takes home 57% of the ticket sales) not counting the streaming revenue from Amazon Prime Video and the estimated $75 million deal that Disney paid to have it on Disney+. We're not even considering the income from cheap plastic popcorn buckets and drink cups plastered with colored squares in her Era-specific likeness.
It's funny. Taylor Swift often said that being famous wasn't hard, that she "isn't complaining". I'm sure it is difficult to always have to present in a good mood, else you'll end up misrepresented in the media, and I'm sure it's invasive to virtually have no privacy or semblance of anonymity. Still, Taylor Swift shows up each night of tour and performs. For a majority of her career, she has penned her sad songs while on the road. Most of "Red", her breakup album, was written in the thick of the Speak Now World tour. Now, some Swifties say they almost "feel bad" for attending the Eras Tour with Swift's revelations in this song, that they have had a 'dimmed experience' upon hearing Taylor's misery whilst performing. Despite the fact that Taylor said that "this was the happiest she's ever been" at Gilette Stadium in May, the lyrics "boohoo, woe is me, smile for the cameras and make the fans happy!!!" are jarring for Eras attendees.
While Taylor Swift was making double-digit millions a night in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil and feeling miserable, Ana Clara Benevides Machado passed away due to heat exposure. The concert promoters, Time For Fun, are now the subject of a criminal investigation due to their lack of adequate hydration and safety. Taylor Swift cancelled the Sunday show that was to follow and offered VIP tent tickets to Benevides Marchado's family, which was a kind gesture, but perhaps incongruous to the incident of which they were offered as consolation. Everyone grieves differently, of course, but I'm not sure attending the very show at the very same venue that my daughter or sister passed away in two days prior, where the singer CONTINUED the show despite her death, would be healthy for closure.
There was no female rage at the show as Swift never saw Benevides Machado pass out. There was no female rage towards the disregard for fans as humans while Swift elected to proceed with her Brazil tour dates despite the country being in historic heatwaves (at risk of overheatting herself). If Taylor Swift was so shaken by touring with a broken heart or a fan's passing, she wouldn't have added an additional North American leg of Eras just two months after the Matty breakup. She's brokenhearted but willing to mend the cracks with your money and move onward with her worldwide female rage induced pillaging.
No matter what happens, even if you die at a Taylor Swift concert, Taylor collects a big fat check and flies away. She doesn't know you as anything other than a conversion rate or earning potential despite what her nearly 20-year long parasocial relationship with fans might otherwise indicate. She knows that, while some Swifties are without disposable income, they feel obligated to spend on a "48 Hours Only!" exclusive vinyl variant instead of necessities because they are so entrenched in Taylor Swift's intoxicating celebrity, they'll prioritize materialistic fandom before their needs. This is good enough for her because this means she can expand her real estate portfolio and finance her cat's lavish lifestyles. They're worth an estimated $100 million dollars. Her three cats could pool their net worth and solve world hunger.
While you and I might be denied bereavement leave and barely surviving the current political and economic climate, Taylor Swift has to, instead of gets to, perform for stadiums at full attendance for three nights in a row across the globe. You and I might be replaced by AI at our longtime jobs, but Taylor Swift is threatened with losing more and more money each time you listen to a "Stolen Version" of her songs. If we don't buy every variant of all of her albums, then who is going to pay for the fucking cats?
It is tone deaf to spend as she spends and lives as she lives in this economy, but this is her reality. She was able to donate $100,000 to all of her tour truck drivers, and that's wonderful, but it leads me to wonder about the ethos of the 2020s where one woman can hoard such life-changing amounts of money. Remember in 2014 when she gave a fan $90 ($120 in today's money) to get Chipotle because she had no fucking clue how much it cost? This is a 34-year-old woman who is increasingly out of touch with the reality for working class people and women in general. Normal everyday adults must wake up and go to their thankless jobs, and yet Taylor Swift, despite all her riches, incessantly references the lows of her life and career as a public figure and entertainer to farm sympathy and drive sales. And still, the corporate women have latched onto "I cry a lot, but I am so productive! It's an art!" as their cubicle battle cry.
Do you think that, from up in her private jet, Taylor Swift gazes at the world through her poetic, tortured eyes, and thinks, "All the little people, in their cars, walking, going about their lives...all those girls that don't support girls...do they know that I've made an album about female rage?"

Conclusion/TLDR

Thank you for reading. I would love to hear your critical insights towards this entire ordeal: TTPD, the trademark, the implications of it all.
TLDR: Taylor Swift is a bad feminist and is delusional to think that the TTPD eras set exemplifies female rage at women's injustice.

long story
I had two driving instructors, A and B.
Instructor A was being a creep and flirting with me (Trust my word, I've already asked for opinions on him here...)
The night before my driving test I went to driving school to pay for the exam and he was there and came to give me a side hug but then "squeezed" me and I just freezed, felt uncomfortable , and it made me angry/sad.
I didn't get the support I needed from my closest friends and my mom during those months, and when this happened just before the exam I had no one to talk to. So I felt like shit because all of this, and the last drive with instructor B the following day was really bad.
Instructor B sort of helped me pass my test by making me go last so that I would avoid traffic at a certain hour and stuff. I could drive perfectly, but as I said the last drive before the test on that same day didn't go too well and I was very nervous (instructor A was there too).
This sort of changed my perception about instructor B that day. He caught me looking at him twice while waiting for the examinator and he'd nod at me. I felt sort of calmer around him actually, I remember he got there late and I was waiting with other instructors and kept looking around for him.
I felt overwhelmed cause apart from instructor A, even B seemed to start orbiting around me. Maybe he was just trying to help me, but I felt like he was paying more attention to me than his other student for example. And the attention from A added to that.
B had to choose between me and a younger guy to go last and he chose me. When finished he drove me home and explained "it was a way to protect you" and said it twice, both times leaving those words half said as if he was struggling to say it. But still he decided to say it twice, he could have said nothing at all or could have just said "I was trying to help you". Is it just me or the words "protect you" were a bit too important in that context?
I know I was overwhelmed but still can't tell if he was genuinely helping me, as I said I could actually drive perfectly. Those words seemed calculated to me..? I don't understand. I even bumped into him like twice and felt sort of embarrassed, I just can't say hi to him, but that day when he drove me home he was really sweet apart from the protecting stuff. He kept chatting and smiling, I remember feeling good for days. So I feel guilty for not talking to him 😭 and crazy

Trigger warning- I’m panicking too much and on my phone to abbreviate or use code so full words are in this post. I’m so sorry 😞
I’m currently stuck at work for another hour or so and just started panicking. My son (14) had diarrhea yesterday, which is weird because he NEVER gets diarrhea, kid has intestines of steel. He complained of a headache and pain in his stomach that was worse on the left side. I’m a nurse so I made sure it was his left side, not his right because: appendicitis. He said he felt a bit better when bedtime rolled around.
This morning as my wife was getting him ready for school he said he was nauseous so she gave him some Zofran. He’s got a lot of mental health issues and is often nauseous right before school. I’ve gotten used to that as it’s been going on for years and he’s only ever thrown up if he takes his medication on an empty stomach.
This morning though he actually threw up right as he got to school, like in the parking lot. He had breakfast and Zofran so no empty stomach. It’s been causing me anxiety all day and now turned into full blown panic because I’ve started having some right sided pain myself and I can’t leave work. It feels like the pain I get with ovarian cysts/endo but what if I’m wrong this time and he’s sick with something and now I have it since I’m around him all the time.
I hate this. I’m a nurse for crying out loud, a pediatric psych one for that matter. I deal with a lot of throwing up( anxiety, meds, bad periods, migraines) and it doesn’t bug me because I can’t catch those. But I CANNOT handle the possibility of something contagious and all my nurse logic goes out the window.
He’s only had the diarrhea once and thrown up one and not on the same day. Do you think I should worry this is a bug?

My 2nd semester started in April and I have missed an entire month of seminars. I feel so much guilt for being so lazy and self destructive. I want to become a teacher and it's actually something I look forward to. Why can't I find the motivation to go to university and study? Why do I choose to rot in bed and feel bad about my decisions? Yes, I'm depressed but this is all my doing and I have no one else to blame but myself. I'm 25 years old and beyond embarrassed.
My life at home is draining me and my relationship with my BF of 6 years is heading nowhere. He is unemployed and plays video games all day and I can't talk to him about it without being accused of putting too much pressure on him. I work two jobs and I can see why he'd rather depend on his mother's money. My mother is a narcissist who has been emotionally and physically abusive my entire life but loses her shit when I don't show gratitude on Mother's Day. She hates everything about me and every day I get handed another list of things that suck about me.
I'm planning on making an application for leave of absence. I'll return to my studies this Fall. I have asked my school for the paperwork.

Genocide looked to the sky. He thought of his mentor. The one who had saved him. He remembered his childhood. How powerless he was. He remembered the anger. He never wanted to hurt anybody. He thought of all the times he showed compassion. How much they hurt him for it. He saw the world before him, a graveyard. Humans. People that were supposed to be made in the image of some divine creator. They were but maggots feasting upon his remains. They ate away at his very being until nothing human remained. His thoughts were no longer his own. He had no joys in life that mattered. He hated humanity more than he could love anything about himself. He remember his first killing spree. Being gunned down by police. Left for dead. He remembered a hooded figure moving towards him. Getting closer the more he neared his death. He saw its pale face. Its impossibly black eyes. It was a man. This figure in question appeared to be of Japanese nationality with long, straight, loose hair. It emanated extreme malice. It offered him a choice. A purpose. Power. He thought the figure a reaper but it identified itself as Amakusa Masataka. Masataka guided him on how to kill and gave him specific locations to kill people in. In a sense, he became a hitman for quotas of people. He inquired what Masataka was. The presence of evil, his ability to appear and disappear at will, how he could control what people could see him and what people couldn't. While vague, years of killing for this being offered some insight. Amakusa Masataka belonged to a group of people not of this world. His people had been corrupted by a dark force long ago and had aligned themselves with the warlord who had subjugated their version of Japan. Their dark high priest assisted the warlord along with two others. These four rulers in turn served a larger order. The four were tasked with bringing about the end of the current world as an act of retribution for some fallen deity. Masataka's people acted as covert operatives for this empire. They were feared across the land and were collectively referred to as "Shinigami". An agent of the coming apocalypse, a servant of evil possessed by the will of those gods of death, Genocide would walk the earth.
Genocide stepped toward the station. A police cruiser rammed into him. He pulled out a knife and stabbed the hood of the car. The inhuman force of the knife created sparks which burst the engine into flames. The car crashed into a streetlight and exploded. A second cruiser neared the scene. No way a man could have done this. Yet still, out of the fires Genocide strode forth. It set upon the second vehicle, shooting out it's tires while jumping 9 feet into the air. The car tries to reverse but crashes into a wall. Genocide lands on the hood and kicks through the front window. Glass shatters under its boot, blinding the two officers inside. Genocide shoots one of the officers with a shotgun, killing him. The second officer in the passenger seat readies his pistol and takes aim. Only two shots fired, both directed at Genocide's head. It casually cocks its neck to avoid them. Then it grabs the officer's arm, breaking it. Genocide uses its free hand to grab the officer's head and bangs it into the dashboard no less than 5 times. The skull is shattered on the final impact. Genocide jumps off the car and continues on his mission.
Detective Evans speaks through a megaphone," This is your first and final warning. Stand down or we will use any and all means at our disposal to put you down." Genocide dropped its shotgun and raised its hands. A group of five SWAT team members rushed out the station, surrounding Genocide with riot shields. An officer accompanies them, edging behind the figure to apply handcuffs. Suddenly, Genocide springs to life , grabbing the officer behind him. He flips the officer over his head, slamming him into the pavement at his feet. Then Genocide stomps his head causing it to burst. Genocide drops a flash bomb from his coat sleeve, blinding the SWAT team as he draws his knife. He drives it into one SWAT member, the knife puncturing the shield and piercing his chest. Genocide kicks the corpse away withdrawing his knife. He goes to another, this time using the end of his boot toe in a rising kick to disarm their shield. He grabs them by the throat and drives the knife slowly into their eye socket. Another is tackled to the ground and beaten to death despite still being under the shield. Another is picked up and thrown into the fires still burning from the first auto incident. In no time, Genocide stood before an indistinguishable mass of gore, blood streaking across his black leather outfit. He laughed" So this is all you can give me. I'm not entertained." Officers took aim from the station windows, and snipers did so from other rooftops. Genocide laughed maniacally as he was rained down upon from all sides by a hailstorm of bullets. His body convulsed, but he did not fall. Moments more and he was on his knees. Still though, their efforts were futile. Gracia looked out and saw a black mist coalescing around the man in black. His blood. Blood erupted from his body only to transform into this dark mist that reentered his wounds. Genocide screamed. No. It was just an elevated pitch in his laughter. Optimism failed everyone yet again. Gracia saw Genocide holding something in his right hand. She could only make out a beeping red light. Genocide pushed the button triggering the carefully concealed explosives he laid in preparation for this event. C4 explosives went off in all the places he saw fit. The sniping posts he couldn't reach. The assault of lead lightened. Then Genocide drew an RPG from...somewhere. He collected himself and fired at the station's entrance. The explosion shook the station. From inside, the lights began to flicker. Communications were down on all fronts. Had he modified the rocket with some type of EMP? Not good. Amisdst the confusion Genocide entered using smoke bombs to mask his presence. Moving like a shadow, he killed everyone in the lobby silently with his knife. He made his way to the holding cells. Still they chanted. Still they praised. Still they raved for the arrival of genocide. Genocide shot the lock opening the cell. Jim Jimenez walked out and bowed before his master. Genocide smiled. He couldn't have imagined how proficient he had gotten with possession. Well, not quite possession. He had known of the Shinigami's ability to share their thoughts and emotions with humans. Shinigami like his mentor were ancient. They had so many years of memories, such strong a hatred for life that they overwhelmed the personality of the victim. The victim sees themselves as one of them. Shinigami can't force the will of the victim, so they find those who are already similar to them in some way. Genocide found the collective universal distrust of police to be a prime sentiment to capitalize on. He armed the inmates, infecting them with samples of his own dark essence.One particular inmate caught Genocide's eye. He knew the man's work. An arsonist. The one whom he recalls was responsible for blowing up his first car way back in high school. Rather than a standard firearm, Genocide gave the man a random assortment of grenades containing a special surprise. Genocide showed them visions of anarchy, of sending a message to a society that used and disregarded them. While this was also true of how he felt, years of living in darkness had changed him. He needed no purpose. No end goal. No justification. He just wanted to watch the world burn.
Genocide's small army broke off to engage several different wings of the station. Genocide went to the security room. He found Wayne, his informant, playing some FPS on one of the monitors. Wayne took of his headphones and asked," You kill everyone yet?" Genocide responded," No. You should get going before that happens. Your life becomes fair game if I run out of pigs to cook." Wayne clapped his hands, "Aight, GC my man, say less." He packed his things and left. Genocide drew a twin pair of handguns and laid waste to the station. He followed a group that took cover in the men's restroom. Kicking open multiple stalls he was surprised to find...nothing. Where had they gone? He turned around and saw his mentor, Masataka, smiling at him. It looked like him. Long, dark hair, black clothing, and soulless, empty eyes. But it wasn't. It was Genocide's own reflection in the mirror. Genocide smiled. He didn't notice the changes at first. They must have happened gradually. Subconsciously. From the final stall, an officer sprung into action, rushing Genocide, hitting him point blank with a shockgun round. Genocide felt the tingling sensation electrifying his body and grew numb. In spite of the pain, he took a single step. Then, another. He came within striking range of the officer and snatched the shockgun. Two more officers erupted from another stall, battering him with baton strikes. Genocide felt nothing. He clutched the shockgun in his hand like a bat and went to work pulverizing his attackers. An officer kicked in the bathroom door, a woman holding a pistol. She fired multiple times to no effect. Genocide stood covered in blood. He even let her reload. Twice. He wanted to see her despair. Her hopelessness. He walked towards her, shrugging off bullets as they pierced his body. His wounds healed nigh instantly due to the dark essence he had been imbued with. He held her face with both hands, lifting her body off the ground. As she screamed, he used her head to shatter the restroom mirror, running down the full length of it while smashing her into it at several points. He dropped the remains of what he held, washed his hands with soap, dried them, then exited the restroom.
The inmates that rallied for the cause of genocide attacked the station. Fortunately, they were nowhere near Genocide in terms of power and only carried one type of firearm each. They shared his healing ability but could be killed quite easily. Gracia encountered a sniper on the end or a west wing hallway. Other officers waited behind corners unable to get close. Gracia noticed the faulty lighting. In this hallway, the lights flickered in intervals of 3 seconds. Finding a pattern and timing her movements, she rushed the sniper at the exact moment the lights went out. Running the length of the hall, Gracia zigzagged, dodging the sniper inmate's bullets. She jumped on a wall, ran 3 feet on it, then kicked off it, pouncing on the assailant. She fired five shots into him, making sure to hit the brain and the heart. Two severe injuries that were impossible for Shinigami essence to heal simultaneously. Elsewhere, Evans took on another escaped inmate. A vehicular arsonist named Carson. Carson had a bag filled with an assortment of different grenades and was happily giving them out like candy on Halloween. "A flash bang here, a bit of tear gas there. Oh. Wait! Was that an ice grenade? Did the explosion freeze your leg to the floor? Whoops. Maybe a fire grenade will melt that for you. Hold on let me get one fore you," Carson rambled gleefully. Evans looked at the carnage before him. Officers burning. Officers partially frozen in blocks of ice. He took a breath and aimed his wristgun. He steadied his right forearm. Carson readied to throw a random grenade. Evans shot it the moment it left Carson's hand. The grenade exploded directly in front of Carson. Both Evans and Carson looked at each other in shock. Confetti. A party grenade? Carson quickly fumbled for another but was tackled and restrained by several officers. Meanwhile in the South wing, Lary had some colleagues set a trap for another shotgun toting inmate. He had them bait the inmate and flee. Giving chase he turned a corner and ran straight into Lary's fist. The inmate recovered and motioned to shoot Lary. "Let's tango. " Lary gave the code word. Nearby officers activated a device. A signal jammer of sorts. The inmate shoved the barrel of his gun into Lary's gut and pulled the trigger. Nothing. The special signal jammer in question was designed for firearms. It was a last resort as it left officers just as defenseless. Lary was having fun. He boxed the inmate in hand to hand combat. Despite the inmate's enhanced strength, Lary's technique pulled through. Lary ducked under one of the inmate's wide punches and did some type of rising uppercut where he jumped off the ground while spinning. One of the other officers whispered" The rising dragon." Lary smiled giving a thumbs up" Yeah, it was a rising dragon uppercut. Saw it in one O my kid's vidya games. Thought I'd try it out while I'm jacked on adrenaline".
Jim Jimenez looked long and hard at himself in the mirror. He was in the women's restroom. Some brainless woman had broken the men's restroom mirror with her face. For the first time in a long while Jim could think clearly. He was becoming sane. At the least he was no longer a raving lunatic. The life essence of the dark gods had healed the wounds to both his body and his mind. He saw his face, his scraggly dirty beard. He found a razor and shaved. He trimmed his beard somewhat. He liked it. He washed his hair. It fell down his face like silk, no longer greasy. His bloodshot eyes once burning with crazed intensity had cooled. He blinked. Just for a second, he saw the man known as Genocide. The man that attacked him. The one that killed him and gave him new life. The drug dealers. The police. They were all the same in his eyes now. They were all to blame for the world being what it is. Jim wanted to hate them. He wanted to take revenge, but he felt nothing. It didn't matter. He knew he was wronged, could logically justify acting against them, but he just didn't care anymore. About anything. He was finally free. Sensing his presence was no longer needed here, Jim vanished into the night. He needed to find someone who had had the answers he needed. Himself. Who had he been? Who was he now? Who could he become? Where was he going? So many questions to ponder indefinitely. So much time left in the rest of his life.
Genocide ran down the station's halls raining hailstorms of bullets upon its occupants. He had a handgun in each hand as well as a wristgun on each wrist. This effectively gave him 4 separate firearms that he could use simultaneously. Lary regrouped with Gracia, Evans, and a handful of others. They radioed all surviving officers near Genocide to flee to the roof. This plan had been set in motion days before the assault and had been kept hidden from most of the force. The plan involved scheduling flights for several helicopters to arrive at some point after Genocide arrived. There would be no way for him to prepare for them and pre-scheduling their arrival ensured they arrived regardless of if they were called or not. Lary and the others set about preparing the second jamming device. Genocide stood among a hallway of bodies. He saw one man clinging to life trying to crawl away. He decided on trying that other thing he saw his master do. He grabbed the dying man and pinned him to the wall. Slowly he drove a knife into his chest. As the man's life slipped away, something else entered his body. Genocide channeled a small amount of his essence into the vessel. He had steadily done this with other casualties around the station whose bodies were somewhat salvageable. He dropped the body he was holding and looked upon the others. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, his eyed were black, both sclera and iris. The scene before him changed. Genocide had a vision. He saw a dead gray wasteland littered with bodies. These people however weren't cops and wore traditional Japanese attire. In his hand wasn't a gun or knife but a short sickle akin to a farming tool. He heard a dark voice call out to him. Slowly, the corpses around him began to rise, now mere puppets bound eternally to their master's whim. The bodies sold to the reaper who had claimed their lives. Genocide's vision ended. His eyes had returned normal. Around him, dead cops began to rise. His dark essence had entered their bodies and reanimated them. He sent his dead army to attack the officers fleeing to the roof of the station. These zombies swarmed the stairwell giving chase to the few survivors. There were five of them. They had two flights of stairs to climb and a horde of their former colleagues close behind them. One officer tripped and was set upon by the horde. The zombies didn't bite them but held them firmly in place. The other four officers stared down wondering what to do. They could hear Genocide chuckling. They could hear humming. They could feel the temperature rising. Their colleague and the two zombies holding him were hit by an enormous green fireball. Genocide had fired a Magnum Opus and had charged the bullet to level 3. The Magnum Opus was simply a magnum that shot fireballs, with bullets that could be charged by holding down the trigger. It had three levels of charges. Level 1 was a small reddish ball of plasma. Level 2 was slightly larger and yellow. Level 3 was the maximum charge and resulted in a large slow moving green blast of energy. The officer was ignited and Genocide watched gleefully as the force of the blast sent him flying through a wall. The four officers continued up firing occasionally to slow down the zombies. Soon they made it to a door leading to the roof. Before one officer could reach it, he was sniped by Genocide, a bullet to the head killing him instantly. The remaining three made it out. They regrouped with the others already there, 12 in total, including Lary, Evans, and Gracia. This would be their final stand. They just had to hold out until Genocide made it up there. They just had to keep Genocide occupied until the helicopters arrived. Genocide slowly ascended the stairs behind his horde. On the roof, the remaining survivors faced off against waves of the undead. Evans recognized the attackers. These zombies were being controlled by nanomachines. He heard the stories of several weapons encountered by soldiers on the battlefield. These creatures were called Metaldeads as they were reanimated via machines. They had been officially banned by most of the worlds' governments for being unethical. However, this did not stop the technology from being spread still between shady organizations, terrorists, etc. Evans wondered how Genocide got this form of nanotechnology. Evans long speculated that the dark essence used by most of the killers they encountered was a a form of nanotech however it was different from anything else he had seen or heard about. The dark essence seemed to be an amalgamation of other types of nanotech. Evans had to save his inquiries for later. He reloaded his wristgun and took aim at the approaching group of Metaldeads. Gracia steadied her handgun and shot two Metaldeads in the head. From the single door countless arms seemed to spill forth from the darkness. The other officers took turns firing in intervals. this allowed them to create a steady stream of fire where no more that three guns needed to be reloaded at once. The horde seemed to thin out over time as if they were making progress. In actuality, the Metaldeads were just making room for Genocide to enter. Genocide exploded in a sprint from the door. Everyone fired upon the killer. Genocide had now chosen a wrist mounted mini flamethrower to use as his weapon. He stormed past the oncoming bullets taking some damage, but refused to slow down. He unleashed a stream of fire that caught five of the officers in one fell swoop. Gracia fired five rounds into Genocide's face. He stumbled back. Lary took the chance to fire several mine gun bullets at Genocide's feet. The mines quickly detected his movement and exploded. In seconds, Genocide was on his back.
Staring at the night sky Genocide saw the moon. He reached for it. He called for the darkness to give him more power. His wounds began healing. In the sky he could hear the whirl of propellers. There were six helicopters in total. The first two had evacuated the survivors while the others stayed to engage Genocide. Genocide got up and unstrapped the sniper rifle from his back. He stood before the searchlights as a black silhouette, cornered but unwilling to back down. Lary stared down at him smiling. "Okay!" He shouted, "Let's Tango!" Upon this declaration the second jamming device was activated. Now, isolated on the roof, Genocide's guns couldn't be fired and the helicopters were out of range of the device. Now Genocide stood like a sitting duck. A helicopter fired a rocket. Genocide side stepped and grabbed it. He turned his body redirecting the rocket to hit another helicopter. As it exploded Genocide drew his knife and threw it at another helicopter. Behind the knife was such force that it shattered the helicopter window's glass, embedding itself in the pilot. This helicopter too went down where it exploded. "Holy clucknuggets!Did you see that!?" Lary said dumbfounded. Evans looked out the helicopter door he was in jaw open in shock. "There's no way." He collected himself quickly and radioed the remaining two helicopters to keep moving and to use their machineguns as much as possible. The helicopters reigned down upon Genocide tearing apart his body. Shreds of leather and darkened blood sprayed across the pavement of the roof. Gracia watched as Genocide's body was destroyed repeatedly as it tried to heal. Surely he had to stop at some point. After 10 minutes the helicopters had exhausted their cache of ammunition and soldiers opted to fire their own rifles and occasionally throw grenades. After about six minutes, they too had run out of bullets. Genocide stood unfazed. He had long since healed himself and now appeared intangible with gunfire seeming to pass through his body. His coat once ripped , now appeared whole though on closer inspection seemed to writhe. Gracia looked in horror as she remembered the tales her adopted father had told her. Tales he had in turn heard from his predecessors. Every so often officers had reported encounters with ghost like beings cloaked in a cloud of living dark mist. The beings were rumored to be responsible for the deaths of multiple people ranging from scientists, veterans, mafia, politicians, etc. They were seen near such crime scenes and even more shockingly appeared around several sites where suicides were committed. These beings were reportedly impervious to bullets and filled anyone who got near with an impending sense of dread. If Genocide was connected to them or somehow turning into one , there was little chance they would be able to defeat him. Gracia's fears were confirmed when she saw that Genocide's leather coat had been destroyed and he had replaced it with the dark mist coalescing from his own spilled blood. The dark mist, swirling, grew larger and several tendrils sprouted out from it. Gracia could briefly make out a figure standing next to Genocide. A hooded figure cloaked in the same black substance. The figure stared up at her with soulless, blackened eyes which seemed to beckon her to jump from the aircraft she was standing in. Compelling her to give in to the death that plagued the earth. Genocide kneeled to his master. The Shinigami, Masataka stared down at his disciple. "You have done a great service to us. Even now the sealed god stirs in its slumber. Its...Awakening will soon be upon us. It calls out for war. It begs for famine. It longs to continue its conquest. We are the death it so desires. The death that is necessary for this civilization to grow. Use the power that I have bestowed upon you. Finish the mission as you see fit." The Shinigami vanished and Genocide stood.Genocide stared at his hands. He remembered the first killing spree. He was on a bus. It stopped. A woman got on the bus and walked to the back smiling as she passed him. Something about her eyes unnerved him. They were so bright but something dark reflected inside them. He ignored the thought and put in his headphones. In minutes he had dozed off. He jumped awake. He looked around and froze in panic. All around him, everyone had been hacked to pieces. He saw the driver, actively being stabbed by a masked assailant. The mask, painted white with black eyeholes, stared back at him. It raised a finger over where its lips would be. Even under the expressionless visage, he could feel that same smile. He ran home that morning. He went to his room to find it destroyed. His posters, his computer, his tv, everything, had been ruined. He turned around and saw a man at the end of the hallway holding a sledge hammer. "The hell you been, boy?", his stepdad sneered. The man dropped his hammer and walked closer, veins pulsing with rage. He tried to explain how his car had caught fire forcing him to walk 4 miles to the nearest bus stop, but the man's fist was faster than his words. "Boy!Answer me when I talk to you!!" the man says as he backhands the taste out of the would be Genocide's mouth. He took that beating for several minutes before being left to stare at his ransacked room. He hated how his stepdad went out of his way to destroy the things he loved. Soon, another set of footsteps could be heard. It was his mother standing behind his locked door. She didn't knock, or say anything. She just stood there, doing nothing as always. He never knew if she came to talk to him or apologize. All he knew was that she could never bring herself to speak to or even acknowledge him. Maybe out of guilt or perhaps shame. A year or two later after he had had enough he ran away from home. Living out on the streets alone, without friends, or family, he would embark on countless killing sprees. These killings weren't of his own volition however. He was coerced by some corrupt officers from The Unit. They made him kill on their behalf. Sometimes they were protesters, sometimes they were drug dealers, other times, petty criminals they couldn't be bothered to process. It was routine for him to be used to kill entire houses of drug riddled addicts. During one such venture he entered a drug den, killing the dealer as instructed. He took out several junkies before turning to leave. A woman who survived her injuries clung to his heel begging him to stop. Looking down he aimed the handgun he was carrying at her head of long disheveled brown hair and fired. Feeling nothing, he kicked her body aside like trash when it hit him. Her face. This woman had been his mother. What was she doing in a place like this? He felt a shock of emotion. He wondered if she had always been like this, or had she changed after he left. He never made amends, but decided to stop killing from then on. The unit did not like that. Once it became apparent that he was no longer of use to them they started a manhunt to apprehend him with lethal force. They found him. They killed him. But he survived.
He remembered the girl on the bus. He remembered her eyes. Those of a sadistic killer. Still there was something else inside them. Something faint but deeper. So. Much. Sadness. Just like him. He felt the hatred begin to spread. His purpose, he decided, was to make all humans rot in the hell they created for him.
These people, he thought to himself, these living diseases, all needed to die. Their struggles, their problems, they spread like cancer to others. The only cure for humanity's sin, its collective wrongdoings, was genocide.
Around him, dark tendrils continued to form and expand, spinning in a vortex. Genocide pulled out two pistols. He squeezed the triggers to no effect. "As I see fit, huh? Hehe." He squeezed both guns in his hands, breaking them into pieces. He concentrated. In his hands, two more guns materialized now completely black due to being forged from the dark essence. Forged by his will. Immune to the jamming device that shut down conventional firearms. He raised his arms at each remaining helicopter and opened fire. Countless tendrils whipped out and slashed at his targets joining the dark essence bullets. It was chaos. Dark tendrils and bullets tore through every direction as Genocide spun and swirled around in 360 degrees firing randomly with purpose. A tendril pierced Gracia's right arm, another, her abdomen. She was however, fortunate, as the other passengers of her helicopter were dismembered. She barely had time to jump from the vehicle before it crashed. She fell 2 yards onto solid concrete. She felt immense pain as her right shoulder shattered on impact. She looked up to see Genocide's blade like appendages ripping through the other escape helicopters. She rolled onto her back and tried to steady herself. Within seconds her body began to repair itself. The nanocells inside her had saved her life but were now depleted. She would need another supplement lest she receive another fatal injury. The standard nanocells she and the others had were much less potent than those of the killers they faced. In truth, they had only minimal strength boosts being able to lift 5-8 more pounds than before and healing being limited to one or two fatal injuries so long as death didn't occur instantly. Gracia blacked out. She awoke the next morning in a hospital. There the doctors refilled her nanocells. She learned that the station had been left in ruins. Genocide had detonated some type of minature nuke following his rampage. He always blew up the stations as if to send a message. Gracia looked out the window thinking about why she became a cop. Twice her family had been murdered by them. Her biological family had been killed in an on record drug raid committed by a group of corrupt officers called The Unit. She had been adopted by another officer that arrived at the scene who found her as a child hiding in a closed. Sadly, he too was killed for trying to expose the activities of The Unit. Gracia joined the force to avenge both losses and bring justice to the killers that disguised themselves as normal people. Law enforcement was neither good, nor bad. It depended upon the people that made it up. In the dying corrupt world Gracia lived in, she vowed to be a beacon of light. Evans laid in a bed adjacent to Lary. "That damn Genocide's somethin else in' he?Like the stories you told us were understatements. That man could legit not die at this point in the story. Like he has friggin plot armor or somthin.'' Evans cut him off" I get it. We all got our asses handed to us. But did you see that ..thing that appeared next to him. Right before he created that black vortex that wiped us out. That must have something to do with his power. Maybe there's a still a way to stop him."Lary chimed in," That fella looked like he was on the way to a black metal concert wit all the black facepaint he was wearin' Creeped me out to be honest." As the survivors mulled over their predicament, the cycle of evil continued to spread elsewhere.
Budley flips through the pages of a magazine. He checks his watch. He looks around the gas station and doesn't see any customers. Seizing the opportunity, he puts in his headphones and begins playing an imaginary guitar as he jams to a progressive deathcore album. Oblivious to the screams coming from outside, the store clerk moves on to thumping two candy bars on the counter to simulate drums. Budley sees that his shift has ended and begins locking up the store. He sweeps the aisles and jumps as a shadow appears behind him. He turns and sees a well groomed bearded man dressed in a black hoodie, black shirt, and black and gray camo pants. The man holds out his hand and smiles. Budley rings up the pack of nicotine substitute gum. "Tryin to kick the habit huh?" Budley asks. The man replies, "Somethin like that. Gotta get my priorities back in check. Focus on the things that really matter. That damn KonCreep's a hell of a band aren't they?" He nods to the playlist on Budley's phone. "Yeah, they're killer. just got into them a month back." Budley answers. "You know, I'm something of a musician myself. Maybe you'll hear of me on the news someday." Jim Jimenez says as he sees himself out. He walks to the back of the building and passes an ominous form of graffiti. A woman lays unmoving and above her, written on concrete in red is a message that simply says "Genocide Reigns".

Yo. I tend to keep to myself but fuck that. I’m a 4 month YouTube apprentice with no job because this mother fucking school can’t even get working computers in PLC class. Since Mr. Guerra or whatever his name is can’t give me my money back, have fun with this shit you punk mother Fucker.
Forward : I paid $20,000 for this bullshit.
Here you go internet: tear it up.
WHEN the instructor doesn’t show up. Then, they are just like “idk? Go home?” Happened probably 7 times. Dude has 7-8 absences. He was the instructor. Prob showed up for 1/4 of the zoom meetings, go to fuckin rehab, and get your shit together.
I had a legit absence cuz I had gallstones and I was in the hospital but they just told me to take the L on (second month) cuz “students were making their own schedule”. What? I made up the fucking lab, dude. Solo. By your means. That shit has nothing to do with me. Fuck that shit. So you ruined my (meaningless) perfect attendance. Dope. Moving on.
They gave us a chrome book that was constructed by a fucking dachshund wearing a tin foil hat, I’ve never seen a tablet dented straight out the box. This is just fucking sad.
This country is oppressed wherever you got that from.
And shame on you for that.
(Only actual things I can do, install switches and bend conduit. Cuz I taught myself, by myself. Thanks for the fucking conduit, but I coulda bought that myself with that tuition money, so fuck that)
Fun fact: Everyone in admin got a nice watch. You could give me that watch , Pa. We’d then be fuckin square. Actually shoes, too. And the belt. Run that shit.
Third month was a joke, not even sure what the Fuck we did, watched YouTube videos I think one day we watched the fucking cable guy. Yeah. The movie. With Jim Carey. “Basic safety”.
They gave us the 2020 code book, not the CURRENT one. (I enrolled in January 2024), and they have not done shit with it besides arbitrarily tell us how to use the index, which was in itself fucking stupid cuz I paid 20 grand for this. And I’m not 12, and I know how to read? For real? I have pointless tabs now in an out-dated code book that I have no idea what the application is for.
Online class is a fucking joke, instructors and students don’t even put on the fucking cameras. I’m the only sweaty mf with a camera still on my nasty mug. Wtf? Half the students have avatars so it looks like I’m on a god damn children safari rainforest cafe Cept with no PLCS or a working panel. It’s fucking wack. Put the fucking camera on your face, dog. I don’t give a shit you think you’re pretty or not. That’s not showing up. That’s a bitch move.
IBEW said I am fucked cuz I gotta deal with this shit first. Fuck this place. And fucking shame on this administration.
They promised tools, I don’t have shit. They promise and education, I don’t have it. They promised a job, don’t have it.
And to be honest, I know they won’t deliver.
FUcK UEI PHOENIX
-big guy
Edit: this is coming from the number 1 student in the electrical program.

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One day after the fiftieth anniversary of the Fourth Arab-Israeli War, Hamas launched Operation Al-Aqsa Flood at UTC+3. Both Hamas and Israelis claimed that thousands of rockets were fired at Israel. Following the invasion, Hamas militants massacred civilians in agricultural communities like Nir Oz and Be’eri. What led to student protests on certain campuses around the world was, however, the shooting of civilians in Gaza committed by Israeli forces known as the Flour Massacre four months after the invasion. This sparked student-led protests calling for justice for Palestine across the world. South Carolina estate agent Mirela Mount believes that the invasion of Israel was staged by its victim.
The invasion of Israel last year launched by Hamas is part of the larger conflict known as the Israeli–Palestinian conflict. This conflict earned its root from Resolution 181, a plan passed with 72% of votes in favour in 1947 to create a living space for the Jewish people. The Arab states invaded Israel in 1948 and were pushed back. Conflicts between Israel and other Arab states led to heavy death tolls on both sides.
With both Hamas and Israel suffering from heavy civilian casualties, students from nations such as the United States, the United Kingdom, Japan, Austria, and Australia caused a stir calling for Israel to stop the armed conflict they did not pick with Palestine. Students might have found the killings of Israelis that led to heavy civilian casualties casual enough, but surely not casual remarks supporting Israel.
Student protests on school campuses worldwide left many Jewish students uncomfortable and unsafe. Activist Charlie Kirk was recently invited to the University of Washington to talk with college students. Both the SPD and UWPD were present. United Front member Tabeed said, “We believe that we keep us safe … we don’t believe that cops keep us safe here.” It is rational for criminals to repeat these same words.
In a Senate hearing in May, Senator Josh Hawley quoting what pro-Palestine protestors at Columbia University said to Jewish students said, “The seventh of October is going to be every day for you.” There was much more shown in the hearing and he revealed that some of these students are undocumented. Under section 1182 of the eighth title of the U.S. Code, these students are engaging in terrorist activities.
In 2018, activist Charlie Kirk felt he was not welcomed by the student body at Texas State University and thought he was banned. Expressing his views online, he tweeted that instances like this made former president Donald Trump sign an executive order protecting free speech. TPUSA was later accused of “using intimidation and harassment to control students, faculty, and staff for their practice of promoting hate speech.” The student body at Texas State University called for the university to deplatform TPUSA for the “consistent history of creating hostile work and learning environments through a myriad of intimidation tactics aimed against students and faculty” that they think TPUSA has.
Students have been trying to deplatform invited speakers and administrators they don’t like on school grounds. In 2015, Yale professor Nicholas A. Christakis, MD, PhD, MPH, was confronted by students and accused of being insensitive for defending the right to wear freely. Students should respect the judicial system. It will surely be interesting to see how pro-Palestine protestors react to the case NSPA v. Skokie that happened in 1977. In 2017, Charles Murray was forced to shut down his lecture when students started shouting to stop him from being heard. Last month, Jewish professor Shai Davidai of Columbia was banned from the university after being vocal against the Free Palestine movement.
In the speech made by psychologist Jonathan Haidt explaining The Coddling of the American Mind, his book that talks about college students today, he stated that parents today are overprotective of their children. He explained that this will lead to their children feeling entitled to never being or even feeling offended in his book. Students now think it is written that it is a right to not feel offended.
St Monica's in Milton Keynes banned whistles for being too aggressive for children. Haidt and Greg Lukianoff noted that the UCs included “I believe the most qualified person should get the job,” in their list of offensive speech. Editor Josh Salisbury who wrote that cliffhangers should be illegal, thinks it's the right that needs to grow. The movement Why Is My Curriculum White? is about students who want more views.
Hate speech is inappropriate and can be unprovoked, yet it is unfair to say that it is not a form of free speech. Hate speech can be an incitement, but it can also not be. It is unfair to ban and remove hate speech because some people get offended because they are not emotionally tough enough. However, the student protests supporting an aggressor in war are not strictly free of hate speech inciting violence.
If pro-Palestine students can be selfless enough to use their time to protest, they should be selfless enough to not disturb others from their day-to-day life with actions like blocking roads or distracting other students who are focusing on studying. If they could rather debate instead of protest and deplatform or protest virtually on SNS, there surely will be more law and order across school campuses worldwide.
Some students are also furious that universities are investing their money in companies tied to Israel. However, the students are the ones paying these universities for their degrees; they won’t drop out. Recently, the University of Minnesota claimed that less than 1% of all of its endowments go to companies tied with Israel. The students occupying Hamilton Hall as they did back in 1968 seem to be proud of their history, yet it seems like they forgot how they were also arrested. Private universities hold the right to manage free speech on their properties. In Bethel School District v. Fraser, public schools were also given the right to limit and control free speech on campus.

College Breakup
My boyfriend (‘19M’) broke up with me (‘19F’) three days after returning home from living together at a dorm for a year. We spent fall semester and spring semester together in a dorm and then after three days of returning home, he breaks up with me, I’m heartbroken and I want him back but doesn’t want me. He broke up with me in person. But it was rushed. We have been together for two years high school sweethearts. After he left, he had sent me this text message
None of it was fake Mia. Everything I did, I did it with the best intentions. You’re were everything to me despite my confusion. I just don’t think we’re right for each other. I don’t want you to change. I don’t want you to think it’s you. I know that it seems that I led you on, and maybe I did but I don’t see it that way. I knew I cared for you, I knew you were one of my best friends but I was just confused. I don’t know what it is but I just don’t feel the type of love I should be feeling. It’s just not fair that you feel what you should be feeling in the relationship and I’m not. It’s been eating me up inside Mia. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be doubting my own feelings because I know that isn’t love. I shouldn’t be doubting. I shouldn’t be unsure if you’re the right one for me. That isn’t the love this relationship needs. I’m sorry
And return I sent this text message back to him at 2 AM 😭😭😭
I don’t know how to start this text because the more I replay our conversation you started it off with I think we should break up. Meaning I had a chance to voice why we shouldn’t and why I should stay with you and cherish you and love you and listen to you, but I didn’t. I started to cry and choke up on my words, all I could say was don’t do this. I can’t deny that it has been a hard semester for us. I have been dealing with depression that comes and goes, causing me to be unproductive, and I understand how that can be seen as unattractive and confusing to you because I don’t wake up in time to go see your games, but will tell you heart That I love you and I want to be there for you. I get why you’re confused and it’s my fault. We hurried into relationship out of lust because we love to have sex with each other. It’s weird to think that we started the relationship not really talking to each other because we were moaning in one ear too much to care about what we thought. And when we would talk, we would forget you mean so much to me Samuel and I’m so sorry I didn’t have the correct morals to show that to you when I first met you, let me take accountability how I started our relationship but also let me that we are a team. I want to make decisions with you. I want to continue learning with you. I want to be sober. I don’t want to forget any detail about you. I understand the importance of communication hence why I’m sending you this Bible ass text message. I’m ready to have those tough conversations with you. Rebuilding trust won’t be easy because of let you down countless times, but please don’t let me end the conversation with we are just breaking up. We aren’t two different people we are sarcastic, stubborn, caring, charismatic, driven/lazy motivated people. Truthfully, when you said, we are two different people I don’t think that’s the worst thing it takes someone out of your comfort zone to grow and further develop into the person you want to become, I love you Samuel . I know you say people can’t change but I’m living proof because I feel more logical after meeting you. Lol I’m stronger emotionally unless I’m on my period. I’m a little bitch. Please don’t close yourself off to the idea of change. If you fell out of love with me, still consider me one of your best friends. You still have a platonic love for me remember one argument we had and I ended it with maybe we should go back to the basics and you said well I already know the basics about you, maybe we were looking at a relationship wrong. Every day we should have questions and curiosities left unanswered the day before that we questioned to each other. I just don’t wanna lose you somewhat. I’m willing to change my approach at a relationship to save this one now though I don’t think there’s nothing wrong with how we love each other, we just need more structured foundation that satisfies both of our love languages and doesn’t leave us feeling lonely and like we aren’t going through this together. I wanna fold clothes for you. I wanna make you feel good. I want to be your wife, but I also don’t want to force you to love me hence why am giving you a week to think about things. If you do want to talk by the end of the week, so maybe rekindle our relationship I don’t think we should go back directly to us having sex so often also setting clear intentions for each other even though that’s kind of gay but we both are hurting because of this break up and need to accept that we both need boundaries to be able to be individuals but also also a team team.
I’m heartbroken and just want to get back together with him. I feel manipulated because we had sex almost every day up into leaving college. I feel kind of used and let on if he tells me he’s not romantically in love with me, but he’s still considers me one of his best friends. It means he still must have some type of , love for me.
I haven’t texted him since the break up and don’t intend to text him for a week. Can I get advice for anyone going through a similar situation?
Should I even want to get back with him?
He never even responded to my text so I don’t even know if you want to meet up in a week to discuss anything

Synopsis:
Carlos was an ordinary software engineer on Earth, up until he died and found himself in a fantasy world of dungeons, magic, and adventure. This new world offers many fascinating possibilities, but it's unfortunate that the skills he spent much of his life developing will be useless because they don't have computers.
Wait, why does this spell incantation read like a computer program's source code? Magic is programming?
___
Here we go with book 2!
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Carlos lounged comfortably on one of the mayor's fancy sofas. At 23 years old with a healthy body he really didn't need cushioned upholstery, but he liked how it felt. Honestly, he was probably more comfortable with high quality furniture than someone of his relatively low-income background should be in this world. Spoiled by the mass production factories of modern Earth, I suppose. All of this stuff here is probably handmade. Er, make that definitely handmade. Unless they have magic factories I haven't heard about, or something. He mentally shrugged. There was no point trying to change his attitudes toward furniture now. While this world might have higher prices for a lot of things than he was used to, he was also a lot richer than he was used to thanks to having become a noble lord. People would expect him to treat fine furniture as cheap because of his station.
I might have the physical habits of a couch potato, but at least I don't look like one. Too skinny. Not as skinny as Amber, though. He smiled as he watched the young woman next to him on the sofa continue animatedly expounding on their recent adventures together. She was lanky, with few curves to speak of and spindly limbs, far from any conventional picture of feminine beauty. Her hair, a slightly lighter shade of brown than his own, was cropped short. He thought she was 18 or 19 years old, but wasn't sure. Have I really never asked her age before? ... Would that be a rude question here? Regardless of her age, she had grown her confidence a lot since their first meeting a few weeks ago. She'd found her footing in a new life that she'd seized with utter determination, and he saw no sign of the shyness that she'd first greeted him with. The way her potential was finally blooming was beautiful to watch.
Carlos turned his gaze to the sofa across from them and carefully held back from laughing at the expressions Trinlen was making as Amber wrapped up explaining the events and developments they'd gone through since their introduction to him at the Royal Mage Academy. Carlos had contributed a fair amount to the explanation at first, but Amber had taken to it with enthusiasm when she arrived, and he could tell she was enjoying it. The young man in front of them, newly graduated from said academy, was on the edge of his seat and leaning forward, hanging attentively on every word. His casual attire, plain and made of cheap materials, looked thoroughly out of place on the finely embroidered velvet of the sofa, but he'd shown no sign of even noticing the finery around him. Excitement warred for control of his face with surprise, disbelief, envy, and dismay.
Amber finished her impromptu monologue, and Trinlen slowly schooled his face into a neutral expression. His voice was tense and tightly controlled. "So... In short, you're telling me that in the mere two weeks since you met me, you discovered a mana-poaching conspiracy of nobles, were abducted right under the noses of two royal guards without them even noticing, absorbed mana so fast that you gained 6 levels in a day and a half - so unfair, by the way - somehow learned an obscure portal spell from just its name and description, found evidence of a conspiracy against the Crown, and personally met a princess." He paused, then threw his hands up as he wailed in frustration and disappointment. "And I missed it!?"
Carlos threw back his head and burst out laughing. He couldn't help it. Trinlen just sounded so much like a little kid who'd barely missed out on a candy store giving away its entire stock for free. It was such an incredible light-hearted contrast with how everyone else viewed these same events that the sheer ridiculousness of it was overwhelming. Amber joined the laughter a moment later, shaking her head in amused disbelief, and after a few more seconds Trinlen started chuckling too.
Carlos's laughter eventually trailed off, and he took a deep breath to settle down. "Thanks, Trinlen. It's been a very stressful two weeks, and laughing like that helped release a lot of it. Feels good. Anyway, what have you been up to? I thought you would take a whole month to graduate?"
"Technically I only said 'next month', not that it would be at the same point in the month. But yes, this is earlier than I expected. The normal graduation ceremony is still a week and a half away." Trinlen shrugged. "They didn't explain the reasons, but after what you said I'm guessing your meeting with the princess prompted her to do something. The vice headmaster called me to his office yesterday morning, a few teachers grilled me on my classwork, and they declared I'd passed my exams. Then they told me to pack because I'd be teleported to my new employers the next day, and here I am." He sighed. "Hmph. Now I won't get to humiliate Norla in front of the whole academy when she gives her speech." Then he perked up and grinned widely. "But it sounds like you two are going to be so much fun that I'll get over it in no time!"
"I'm not sure if I agree with your idea of fun, Trinlen, but if it motivates you to help us more then that's good enough for me." Carlos chuckled again. "Anyway, do you need some time to get settled in? You might need to think about lesson plans for us too. We don't need just catalogues of incantations to learn anymore, at least not for simple ones, but I believe you learned other things in the academy too. You mentioned creating your own spells, as I recall."
Trinlen nodded. "I did mention that, yes. I'm guessing your lack of need for a catalogue is because of your newfound ability to somehow pull entire incantations from thin air? You'll have to at least tell me about the limitations of that so I'll know what I still need to teach you, but yeah, there are other things. For one thing, there's your sloppy terminology! Why does no one outside of the academy care about properly distinguishing between the states of mana? Is it really that hard to understand that calling aether, mana, and essence all by the same term obscures your meaning and often causes confusion? Or are people so stupid that they can't even understand the difference?"
Carlos blinked and exchanged a look with Amber. His comprehension aid informed him about the distinction the instant Trinlen spoke the terms. That would have been nice to know earlier. The comprehension aid is a house secret, so we should let him explain. "At least for us, it's just ignorance. I don't think I've even heard the other two terms you mentioned, and certainly no one ever explained them. So, what is the difference?"
Trinlen paused, cocked his head for a moment, and slowly deflated after his impassioned rant. "Yeah, okay, that's fair. I don't think I ever heard about it before going to the academy either." He sat up straight. "Aether is what you've been calling ambient mana. It's thin like air, and it's everywhere. Its only use is converting it to mana or essence. Mana, using the term with proper precision, is thicker but still fluid like water. It exists primarily in people or creatures and is used as fuel to supply power for spells and magical effects. Essence is hard and solid. It is the material that soul structures are made of, as well as the forms of active spells and enchantments. Am I clear so far?"
Amber answered first. "Yes, I'm familiar with each of the forms you described. I have questions about more details - so many questions - but you should get properly settled in, and maybe eat lunch, before we really get down to it. Have you spoken with Mayor Stelras yet? Do you have lodging sorted out?"
"I went by his office first. He's having someone take my luggage to an inn. The Adventurer's Haven, I think? He said something about a 'low-value target' and having an empty suite already booked." Trinlen's eyes widened. "Waaait a minute. Is he putting me in the room you two were abducted from?"
Carlos shrugged. "Sounds like it."
"Nice! Think there'll be any evidence left of how it was done?"
"Haha! Probably not by this point, but you're welcome to look. Now go get unpacked, eat a meal, and start planning your lessons for us. I'm glad you're here, but we have some other things to do too."
Trinlen nodded and stood up. "Sure. I'll be back before you miss me."
Carlos waved as Trinlen sauntered out the door. He and Amber sat in companionable silence for a while as he felt the mana - or essence? - of Trinlen's soul moving off into the distance. "Well. That was interesting. It's good to have him, but I was expecting a bit more time to think and plan before he'd get here."
"Yeah." Amber stretched and then leaned back into the sofa's cushions, luxuriating in their soft firmness. "So, how much are we going to tell him? How useful will his knowledge even be for us, now that we have, what did you call it, the reference documentation? That bit about the states of mana is good to know, but is it really relevant and important, and how much more can there be that's not in the documentation?"
"Be careful talking about that out loud, remember?" Carlos relaxed and draped his arms across the sofa's back as he focused his mind on their mental bond through Purple, their friendly dungeon core. [On Earth, we made many languages similar to the language of incantations, and we had the reference documentation for all of them. We even published that documentation free for everyone to have. Teachers for those languages were still useful, and even critically important for many people. Having access to knowledge doesn't mean you automatically understand how to properly apply it. There may be related knowledge we have no idea even exists. There could be techniques and patterns for how to use the language that are simply outside the scope of the documentation. Perhaps most importantly, a teacher can use their experience to notice a student's mistakes and correct them before they become problems.]
[Hmm.] Amber bit her lip, thinking. [Like how I knew about making soul structures and synergies between them, but had no idea about the importance of being able to examine and fix them, I suppose.]
Carlos nodded. [Yeah. And that's a really simple example. I know some that are a lot more complex, though I'm not sure how many of them are even applicable for incantations. Inversion of control, dependency injection, factory patterns...] He shook his head. [Just the context knowledge needed to be able to fully understand those could take days or weeks to teach well enough for you to use them. I could maybe explain the basic ideas faster with some simplified analogies, but that would lose so many details that I doubt it would still be useful.]
Amber paused. [... Even my comprehension aid is baffled by the terms you just said. It translated the individual words that you said, but all I got for the phrases is a confusing jumble.] She chuckled. [Anyway, I concede the point. Trinlen will still be able to teach us important and useful things. We still need to decide what secrets to share with him.]
[A lot depends on how good he is at keeping secrets. We don't actually know him all that well yet. He's certainly fun, and he seems clever, but for assessing his integrity we're leaning pretty hard on just a janitor vouching for him.] Carlos frowned in thought. [In order for him to do his job, he needs to know that we can only "pull an entire incantation from thin air" if it's a simple one. He does not need to know the full details of help, however, and most certainly does not need to learn to use it himself. That secret is a very sensitive one, where even just letting too much knowledge of it spread would lose us a major advantage.]
[Definitely. No casting help where he can hear it, and don't say anything about it that's not directly relevant for his teaching, either. Not until he's earned our full trust.] Amber lapsed into silent consideration. [We should introduce him to Purple. We'll kind of have to at some point anyway, and the really valuable thing there is Purple himself, not just the knowledge of his existence.]
Carlos nodded. [True. I think that probably is the least sensitive of our house secrets, and being able to call him through a bond with Purple would be useful.] He chuckled. [And maybe his cleverness will end up producing some good ideas for Purple to use. See if he can find a more productive outlet than pranks for his creativity. And then... If he keeps that secret well enough for long enough, we can consider trusting him with more secrets.]
Amber sent back wordless agreement.
Carlos started sitting up, lifting himself out of the comfortable cushions. "Well, we should get some food ourselves, too. And maybe introduce Trinlen to everyone else along with Purple." He stood up and spotted a letter he'd set aside when Trinlen arrived. "Oh yeah, and what do you think we should do about Kindar?"
"Wait, what's this about Kindar?"
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9:30am PA announcement for Heidi Goldstein to report to Ms. French's office. Embarrassing, class staring at me.
Waiting around the table for me was Ms. French, Coach (!), the dean (!!)...and Mom (!!!). Faces were not friendly.
Me: Mom, why are you here? Is Dad OK? Lita?
Mom: Everyone is fine.
Me: Am I in trouble? Did I do anything wrong?
Silence
Dean: We received an anonymous tip this morning, Heidi. The person claims you are engaging in behavior that could be dangerous to yourself or others. By law, we are required to investigate any and all such claims, whether or not they are anonymous.
Me: Whaaaat??? Who reported me? Why? Self-harm myself? Harm others? How? I love my school and also feel blessed for every single aspect of my life, from the time I wake up to the time I go to sleep. How can I be self-harming?
Dean: Coach, can you provide some background?
Coach: Two weeks ago I met with you and Lita. You talked about wanting to train to run the 10K. Do you remember what I said?
Me: Yes. You said I would need clearance from my doctor and I would have to do cross training with a certified coach.
Coach: Did you follow up?
Me: Yes, Lita and I spoke to our parents and they said they would support us. We've been researching gyms with a pool and with the right equipment. And also trainers who are certified.
Dean: But did you fulfill what you promised?
Me: No, but it is all in the works. There was just no time in our schedules to finalize the details yet.
Coach: The person who filed the complaint said you started training for the 10K on your own. Is this true?
Me: Yes, but just on weekends on our own time. Why does that matter? Why is that your business, Coach? It's my time.
Coach: Didn't I tell you about how much physical stress is involved in this type of training? It's not simply 5K + 5K. If you do not train carefully, you can injure yourselves very seriously. I am sure that your doctor would probably recommend that you even consult with a cardiologist.
Me: But before the track meets we were running well past the 5K together with you!
Coach: Gently. Under my supervision. With me walk/running in the pack, right there.
Ms. French: And, God forbid, if you had gone into cardiac arrest and died on the "it's-none-of-your-business" run, don't you think it would harm every single person in our school community, not to mention all of your family members and friends?
Me: I see where you are going with this. I understand. I'm sorry and accept responsibility.
Coach: And didn't we go through something just like this when Lita came early to the Morning Run after already doing unsupervised training? And didn't you observe her getting suspended for a week? Didn't you learn from that? You broke the trust between a coach and the athlete. That trust is not easily restored.
Me: OK. I get it. I apologize again. I deserve a suspense from the Morning Run.
Ms. French: It's not so simple, Honey. You observed Lita's punishment, right? That constitutes being forewarned and you went ahead and did virtually the same thing again on your own.
Dean: Agreed. I think we need to go further than suspending you from the Morning Run. I think a 2-day suspension from school is warranted.
Me: You can't do that to me! I'm a straight A student. I've read the Citywide Student Code for Behavior. Since when is doing more than expected a violation of "Rights and Responsibilities"?
Dean: Heidi, you said you understood, but you didn't digest what your coach said five minutes ago! You are now in denial. I don't think you have learned anything from what was just said to you. It's now a 3-day suspension.
Me: But I have important rehearsals in Jazz Band. And we are doing such an important project in Global History and Geography. You can't do this to me!
Dean: There are consequences for our actions. Should there be different standards for straight A students?
Me: Yes! We deserved it!
Dean: You are now insubordinate and bordering on racism and and classism. You are overentitled and talk too much. It's a 4-day suspension now. Anything else to say? I can go up to 10 days.
Me: This is so unfair. I don't want a suspension on my record!
Mom: Heidi, shut up. It's time for us to go home.
Dean: I am concluding this hearing at 10:05am. Thank you, everyone.
Here is actually when Mom came to my aid.
Mom: Wait a second. As you know, I'm an attorney and know that my daughter has due process rights. You did not provide me with written notification that this would be a suspense hearing rather than a guidance intervention. We are going to appeal this decision and we will win even at the first level. Come on, Heidi, let's go.
Ms. French: First go straight to your locker, Heidi, and get your things. No talking or signaIing to your friends. I will have your teachers email you your assignments and homework.
As I was leaving I saw Ms. French sit down with Mom. This what came out on our walk home.
Mom: You know, you can really be arrogant and self-righteous, Heidi, and you made things worse for yourself! Couldn't you read what was happening there? Couldn't you tell you were dealing with a Dr. Andrews with that Dean? Did you get enough of an adrenaline rush to make a couple of extra suspense days and a new enemy worthwhile?
You and Lita never even told us that you were trying to break the 5K unsupervised. You broke our trust as well. You guys promised to never endanger the family with your behavior. That is exactly what you just did. They were absolutely right in suspending you.
And there are going to be consequences at home. I will have to talk to your father and Lita's parents but for now you are completely grounded until your suspension is over on Friday. We are talking about house arrest. And that means no sleepovers. And don't you dare roll your eyes, pout, or start acting like you are a victim.
And do you know what Ms. French shared with me after everyone else left? It was how much she and Coach have come to love you over the course of your year at the school, that this is just a learning experience, and I shouldn't be too tough on you. It seems that a lot of planning went into that little meeting we just left. I suspect that out of respect for you, they intentionally neglected to provide me with that due process notification so you could win an appeal and the suspense won't be on your record. There's a lot for you to reflect on.
I'm going back to work.
Me: You're right, Mom. I love you. But can't you spend the day with me?
Mom: No, I can't. Go commiserate with Frank Sinatra.
But she did give me a wink and kiss.