Thank you letter to tenant moving out

If you're seeing this: 'Thank you for reaching out to schedule your June 2024 LSAT. If you’re seeing this page, it means that your scheduling window has not yet opened.' then you're in the wrong place. I was v confused as to whether I had gotten my timezones wrong, but instead you have to go to 'status' on the LSAT home page, and then under LSAT administrations click the link under LSAT Eligibility number. I was 1700 in the queue when I clicked it, but it seems to be moving quickly (gone down to 1300 in 4 minutes), but I didn't see that information in any of the emails nor following any of the links so I wanted to let other people know too

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.

This is kind of a long post, so I truly appreciate anyone's help who is patient enough to read through this. I am seeking career advice and suggestions.
I work for a larger to medium sized regional property management company as an assistant property manager. This company has portfolios all over the southeastern US and I am moving from NC to SC. My current home will be about 2 hours from the home we recently closed on. My current site would be about 1.5 hours each way from our new home.
Currently I work on 2 properties that total about 165 units. They are about 15 minutes from eachother. I have expressed interest in a transfer, since the commute would be 90 minutes each way. I am also not moving in to our new home for about a month.
Our regional manager got me connected with a PM in SC who is working on a lease-up. From what I heard, lease-ups can be very challenging and they do not have a very good work-life balance aspect. To me, a work-life balance is very important, especially since the home that my wife and I purchased, will require some work before we can move in in next month.
I did hear that you get a lot of commission at a lease-up property, but I am still contemplating how I feel about the "potential" of good commission vs the certainty of a difficulty of a work life balance. I also head the PM say some things that came across as red flags, such as this position has a lot of turnover and that the previous person left because they wanted a better work-life balance.
Personally, I do not mind, waiting out to see if a more reasonable transfer opportunity is available. I would prefer to be at a property that will allow me to truly grow at my own pace. I also do not want to work multi-sites, since that is what I am dealing with now and I am not a fan. This lease up position being brough to my attention is yet another multi-site job.
I have expressed some concerns about my hesitations of a lease-up and I was also given feedback regarding my performance when I was onsite to help out at this lease up location. I came across nervous or flustered, which is natural when you are not familiar with things.
At this point, I am leaning more towards staying where I am at for another month and then when I am ready to move in to new home, I will bite the bullet on the 90 minute commute until someting better comes up. That is where my thoughts are at now...
Has anyone experienced a similar situation or dealt with lease ups? What do you guys think? Feel free to PM too. Thank you again for your help with this stuff!

My siblings and I were raised by a narcissist father who was abusive physically and emotionally to our mom and us. Our mom is traumatizing to us in her own way - in the way she sticks by our dad and leans on us from a young age to protect her but I feel a lot of sympathy and compassion for her. We moved to the US as kids so we felt a lot of obligation to help out and take care of our parents, into our adulthood. However, in the past 6 years, there were a few incidents that led to our dad shunning our brother, getting into a big spat with my sister and then eventually I also got fed up with him. When we all stopped talking to them, he got desperate. We insisted on family therapy and after a while, he agreed. It wasn't that helpful - he spent the entire time ranting about how he's such a victim and gaslighting everyone about how much he hit or how hard he hit everyone.
Despite that, my siblings and I were willing to move forward. My brother has a wedding coming up and we just wanted to move forward. So people are speaking again and my siblings have both visited home. I'm planning a visit to my sister's around Memorial Day when they are visiting her in the Bay Area. I am also planning a trip for them as a mother's day gift. But when I called during mother's day, my husband and I noticed that he's stone faced and clearly something is brewing. My sister then shared that she thought he was mad at me for something - probably because I haven't gone to visit them yet. I start fuming, thinking how dare he feel so entitled when we are already being so forgiving and letting the past go and trying to move forward. I'm personally only doing this so I can spend time with my mom. Anyway, before long, we realize we are sucked back into the toxic dynamic where we are already dreading his mood and dreading what it'll do during the long weekend visit that I was previously looking forward to. I realize that his classic move is to get everyone in his orbit / under the same roof / in the same physical space as him and then let his moods be known until people have to deal with what it is he wants from everyone.
I've been doing a lot of work on my mental health and wouldn't be interacting with them if I didn't feel like I could handle it. I know there's parts of me that want connection to my mom and to some extent, my dad. My therapist encourages me to try this out since I expressed an interest. She says I should just not receive things that I don't want. "Say no thank you" to his bad energy, attempts to hurt, manipulate, etc. I like that in concept a lot but would love advice. I want to see my mom and worry she'll not be healthy for long. I also want to enjoy my time with my sister and her kids. How do I do that while my dad does his best to be a tyrant/baby who tries to ruin the mood and day of everyone around him? Thank you in advance everyone.

Sorry for the incredibly long post, apparently I’m very descriptive, I blame ADHD. This is a story of my college years when I moved half a country away. I had a couple other creepy encounters in this exact area, so I might make a post of those later on.
I’ll set the stage: I was a 25 year old woman and in my final year of med school, living in an apartment a few blocks from my university’s medical area, with two roomates. I had a long term boyfriend (my now husband), but since he went to college for something else, he’d graduated college a few years before and was working abroad by this point, and my family lived 8 hours away. Most out of state students lived in the surrounding area since medical school requires you to have weird schedules, or you get a couple hours of down time between things, so it was practical. However, this made it known that lots of young people ‘with money’ lived in the area, and it was ripe for some people to take advantage of that. Therefore we were always aware of our surroundings when out of campus.
I lived close to the side that was towards the entrance of the University Hospital. Now this is a tertiary level (most specialized) public hospital, so we saw uninsured low income patients from the whole northeast part of the country. We were such a high volume hospital that every area was always overflowing, as such we had strict visitation hours and family members couldn’t stay inside overnight. As these were very poor people, they were always staying and sleeping in the streets outside the hospital and under the bridge in the avenue outside. While generally safe, this would attract unsavory or unstable characters here and there on occasion. I had to walk through there to get to my apartment. This is a VERY segregated city, so just the next block over it was a way nicer and safer area. Not many students lived on this side since it was comprised mainly of well off old people who owned their houses, so very little places available for rent.
Now to the creepy encounter. One day I was walking to my apartment after a rotation that ended around 2 pm, and I lived roughly three blocks away from the hospital. Since we’re right next to one of the main avenues in the city, and this was a purely residential neighborhood full of old people, we rarely saw movement, everyone stayed in the block right outside the hospital. We only had local traffic, and it’s literally deserted at this time of the day. As I’m walking towards my street, I see a disheveled man coming from it and looking to be in a hurry. This immediately raised a red flag as there’s literally nothing to do there for blocks and he looked out of place.
We both cross the street at the same time, going opposite directions. I reflexively glance to his face as it’s well manners in my country to acknowledge strangers in public with a slight smile or nod. I did neither, because as I looked at him I saw it. He was clearly very much intoxicated, it was a face I was well acquainted with as we saw it a lot in patients at the hospital. Not only that, but I then realized his whole persona screamed long term substance abuse. Not trying to be prejudicial, but as doctors it’s drilled in us to be observant and notice patterns. And he looked like someone who has forwent a lot of things due to addiction, hygiene, food, etc. And so I knew they tend to be a lot more impulsive, aggressive and violent than the general population.
I was trying to tell myself I was being paranoid, and that I interacted with people like him all the time and should try not to judge him. But also, as a woman from a misogynist country where gender violence is a daily thing, being in an isolated area, with a person under the influence, a man… all the alarms were ringing in my head. It’s insane the amount of information I gathered, assessed, and thoughts that ran through my head, because basically no time had passed. So we finished crossing the street in different directions.
I kinda glanced to the side to keep an eye out on him from the corner of my eye without actually looking back at him, the last thing I wanted to do was grab his attention. And out of the corner of my eye I saw him do a U-turn and start walking straight where he had come from, behind me. FUCK. He went to the other sidewalk, but I could see him a few steps behind from the corner of my eye. So this is when I start increasing my pace to put some distance, he did the same. I increased it a bit more, he did it again. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. It dawned on me that this was for real. So as calm as I could I discreetly reached into my handbag and unlatched my key chain pepper spray. Thank you past me, was all that I was thinking. I had it in the hand he couldn’t see, released the lock and was ready to use it.
At this point I’m panicking as we’re like 4 houses away from mine, and we’re approaching fast. I did not know what to do. Calling the police was a no go as they’re both corrupt and lazy in this country. Couldn’t call my boyfriend or family as they didn’t live there. I knew my roommates for sure weren’t at the apartment at that hour either. The house next to mine was abandoned, maybe I could hide there? But if he figured it out I probably would have no way out. I could scream and make a scene, but people here are old, if they were even in their house who knows if they were at home, they’d would’ve even come out, or be able to help me. There’s no way I could outrun him, and it would be blocks before I encountered another human being. While that was looking like a viable option with the pepper spray, it was very risky. And I for sure did not want this guy to know where I lived. There’s no way I could put enough distance for him not to see me, run towards the back or the side of the house (I lived on the top floor of a duplex), run up the stairs, get to the landing, unlock the three bolts in two doors that we had, specially as I would have to fumble with the high security lock’s key, and close both before he saw where I went.
And so I made a quick decision and decided to gamble it. I sprinted to put as much distance between us without outright running, I dashed through our open garage towards the back of the house on one side. I couldn’t access the backward this way, but it’s how you went up the stairs to my apartment. The stairs went from back to front of the house, so you couldn’t see the steps or if someone was on them, if that makes sense. So I climbed halfway up the stairs and hid there, from the distance he was at when I sprinted he couldn’t really see if I dashed towards my apartment of the abandoned house before mine.
I waited for a bit, ready to use the pepper spray and run towards the street if he catched me. That would be my feeble attempt to make him believe I didn’t live there and was just hiding there. So after a bit I carefully peered from the side of the stairs. I saw that asshole stop his sprint right in front of my house. He looked in confusion towards the top floor landing/balcony, peered at the open garage spaces and the houses next to mine. I’m thankfully guessing his deductive skills weren’t that sharp considering the state he was in. He saw nothing, shrugged,did a fucking u-turn once again and walked back to where we just came from.
I waited a bit to make sure he wasn’t near and hurried the fuck up inside my apartment. I was a paranoid for a bit that he would decide to come back again, but thankfully never saw him again.

Hey guys, this is my first ever post so I apologize for any inconveniences or confusion, I’ll be active to answer any questions but it’s pretty straightforward; I’m a 27 year old male(black, I put my colour because it matters as a black man and for those who get it get it) , I am an energy systems tech engineer who is currently working in nuclear energy and I currently live in the east side of Toronto Canada and I would like to move to any walkable city really. I really do love my city but the price of housing especially the closer you get to downtown is quite expensive and I figured if I’m going to pay so much I’d rather go out in the world and try my options first. I’ve danced around the thought of moving to England or new York but after visiting New York I got the same impression of paying more for a place to stay than what it was actual worth and England’s weather was so awful it was depressing but for each of these visits I wasn’t there for over a month. I’m interested in hearing your guys’ opinions and I’m open to suggestions ! Thank you for your time

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.

"Himiko?" Kokichi knocked on the door to Himiko and Tenko's room later that night. Himiko had taken a long nap after such a disappointing day. But, before she fell asleep, she reflected deeply on what Kokichi had told her. She had to admit that he was right, that she needed to a better attitude about herself. But, how to do that, she didn't know. She suddenly remembered his words: You should be smart, confident, and capable of doing things your way. Her way? What was her way, exactly?
"Himiko?" Kokichi whispered a little louder. Himiko opened her eyes, hearing Kokichi calling out to her. She scrambled out of bed and went over to answer the door. Kokichi smiled at her with his usual cheeky grin. "Hey, sleepyhead! Are you still planning on selling cookies?" Himiko took a deep breath and nodded. Kokichi had given her some courage to actually try things and take chances, to try and overcome self-doubt.
"Yeah. I'm ready," she said. There was still a part of her that didn't want to, but she forced that part of her into silence. She lifted her chin and smiled at him. "I'm ready, Kokichi." Kokichi smiled back at her.
"Alright, Monkey Buns!" he cheered, giving her a high five and then a hug. "Same place?"
"Alright," Himiko nodded. Suddenly, a thought occurred to her. She remembered what Kokichi had told her earlier about being smart and confident her way. "But, on the way over there, can we stop by my, um..." She paused to whisper. "...secret lair? "
"Ooooh?" Kokichi murmured with a curious smile. "Yeah, we can stop by." Himiko nodded and retreated back into her room to grab the two tin bowls of cookies she had baked with Three and Ten.
"Nyeh...okay, I'm ready," Himiko said. Kokichi took her hand in his, and the two crept downstairs. Some of the others were still in the dining room eating dinner, so Kokichi and Himiko had to leave through the front door to get to Himiko's secret magic room under the gazebo. Kokichi stood outside to keep watch while Himiko went inside her magic room. Once inside, she went for her magical dream powder bottle and poured some of its purple, sparkly contents into a small vial, hiding it in one of her jacket's pockets. Then, she met back up with Kokichi.
"Now I'm ready," she said.
"Okie-dokie!" Kokichi replied, taking the tin bowls from Himiko to hold them for her. "Let's go, HimikoCocoa Bean!" They then hurried over to D.I.C.E. headquarters.
"Boss!" Four said, jumping up from the couch. "And Boss Lady!"
"Hey, Ichiro," Kokichi and Himiko replied.
"Wanna hear a song that I heard on the radio?" Four asked. He cleared his throat, and began singing without waiting for a response. "If you like piña coladaaaaas, and getting caught in the rai-"
"Okay, Ichiro, that's enough," Kokichi interrupted, wincing from Four's terrible voice.
"Urgh...thank you!" Five exclaimed as she wrapped Kokichi's cape around him. After Three placed Kokichi's hat on his head, she turned to Himiko.
"So, Himiko, did you sell a lot of cookies?" she asked eagerly. Himiko gave her an apologetic look and shook her head. Three's shoulders slumped.
"Oh..." she said softly.
"What? Why?" Ten asked. "Did they not like them? Because I put all my blood, sweat, and tears into those things! Er...well, not literally...duh."
"Yeah, I hope not!" Two exclaimed, sticking his tongue out in disgust. "I bet there are people in this world who actually do stuff like that!"
"Nee-heehee...I know a very horny someone who'd do something like that," Kokichi said.
"The tin bowls are still so full!" Three said, her voice dripping with disappointment.
"It's not really the cookies that people didn't like, Keiko," Himiko said. "It was because of me."
"What exactly do you mean by that?" Nine asked.
"Well, I'm not really popular at school to begin with," Himiko said. "But, I wasn't really trying my best to sell them because I didn't think I could."
"Ouch," Six muttered.
"Oh, well...still!" Three huffed. "They could have at least tried your cookies, anyways! Those...those...clowns! " Then she turned to nobody in particular. "No offense, me," she mumbled to herself before turning back to Himiko.
"Hey, no offense to the rest of us, either!" Four said.
"Should we take offense?" Nine asked. "It's not like we're actual professional clow-"
"We get it, Hideyo!" everyone but Himiko interrupted simultaneously.
"Nyeh, well...anyways, thanks to Kokichi, I've decided to try again," Himiko said, giving Kokichi a shy smile.
"Aww, HimiCocoa Bean, you're making me blush!" Kokichi teased, wrapping his arm around her waist. "But, I only get half the credit. You should give yourself credit, too!"
"And you should give us those cookies," Four said, pointing to the tin bowls in Kokichi's hand.
"Himiko, are you still going to sell these?" Kokichi asked. Himiko thought for a moment. She remembered what Tsumugi said about chocolate chip cookies being plain and boring.
"No," she finally answered. "Actually, I've decided to go with Ten's plan from earlier."
"Right! Um...wait, what plan was that again?" Ten asked.
"The plan to make the snickerdoodles," Himiko said.
"Oh, yeah!" Ten remembered, a grin crossing his face.
"But, I wanna add a secret ingredient of mine," Himiko said.
"I hope it's not blood, sweat, and tears," Two said, shuddering.
"Why not?" Seven asked with a creepy smile. "Don't you like that salty, metallic flavor in your cookies?"
"Ew! Yuck! Kokichi, make her stop!" Five said, covering her ears.
"Tsukiko, don't make me tell Emi to get Mr. Sparkles," Kokichi warned. Seven hid under a blanket.
"No, please. Anything but that accursed pink and plushy unicorn!" she hissed. Five grinned smugly at her.
"Can we help you bake again, Himiko?" Three asked hopefully.
"Nyeh...of course!" Himiko answered.

"Neat-o! Let's get started!" Ten said, rubbing his hands enthusiastically. Kokichi nodded to Himiko encouragingly, and she followed Three and Ten to the kitchen. They soon got started on the batter. Himiko removed the vial of dream powder from her pocket.
"Oooo! What is that stuff?" Three asked, entranced by the purple, glittery powder.
"Hopefully the thing that'll win over any potential customers," Himiko answered before pouring the powder into the mixture. She mixed the batter until it became a shiny, glittering harmony of many colors.
"Holy Constantinople-y!" Ten exclaimed. "What the heck kind of secret ingredient is that?!"
"The batter looks so...pretty!" Three breathed in awe. "It's so...shiny and sparkly!" Then, she lowered her voice. "Is this...some of your magic, Himiko?"
"Nyeh...that's right," Himiko nodded.
"I know this is might sound like a dumb question, but...are you allowed to do that?" Ten asked.
"Nobody at school knows about my magic except for Kokichi," Himiko said. "So, technically, it's not not allowed. And besides, Kokichi said that I need to be smart and confident my way. And magic is my way of doing just that."
Part Eight
Sunday afternoon. Himiko took a deep breath, deeply breathing in the warm air as a gentle breeze flowed around her. Today, she felt lucky. She stood behind her table at the front of the school. Above her was a more colorful, glittery sign she and Three had worked on with the word, "Snoozydoodles," written in swirly letters. Hopefully it would be enough to bring in some customers. Her snickerdoodles were laid out on three large trays in front of her so that the other students could see their colorful and sparkly design.
"Hiya, Himiko!" came a cheerful voice. Himiko looked up and was surprised to see Three.
"Keiko?" she whispered. "Nyeh...what are you doing here?"
"I decided to come and cheer you on...and to make sure the turd buckets here buy your cookies," Three replied. "I put some love and special care into those cookies, and I didn't bust my tail just to have nobody buy them!"
"Nyeh...but...Ten and I worked on them, too," Himiko pointed out. "And I put my 'special ingredient' in them."
"I know," Three said. "But, I feel like if I worked hard on something, either by myself or in a group, I'd like for the world to see it, that's all."
"I understand," Himiko said with a small smile. "Wait...this is supposed to be a competition between me and Kokichi! I don't think he'd appreciate you helping me out, especially since I should be doing this myself."
"Well, I'll just be here for emotional support, then!" Three said. Himiko smiled gratefully and nodded.
"I guess that's okay," she said. " Thanks, Keiko. I like your outfit, by the way." Three scanned her outfit proudly. Instead of her D.I.C.E. uniform, she wore an oversized, cream-colored fluffy sweater over a short, pink ruffled skirt. She wore a pair of white tights with some loose pink socks and a pair of black and white checkered lolita shoes with pink straps. In her hair were pink bows over each pigtail.
"Eeee! Thank you!" she squealed happily. "It's not very often I get to go out in cutesy clothes like this, unless I'm undercover! Well...I guess you might say I'm going undercover right now, but...eh, whatever."
"Speaking of which, why are your shoes checkered?" Himiko asked. "Won't that give you away? Part of the reason why people know your organization is because of the checker pattern scarves...which makes me wonder how people haven't suspected Kokichi being part of...you-know-what."
"Heehee...I call that the 'Sailor Moon Effect,'" Three giggled. "But, anyway, when members of the organization are wearing casual clothes, we have to wear some article of clothing with a black and white checkered pattern to let other members know our affiliation. The beauty of it is that there are people not affiliated with us who wear checker patterned clothing, so it gives us a chance to blend in as if we're just regular people. That's why we have a codeword to tell the difference between members and the 'reggies.'"

"What's the codeword?" Himiko asked. Three leaned in closer to Himiko.

"'Funny business,' " she whispered.
"Nyeh...that's actually really cool," Himiko admitted with a smile.
"Yeah! You should really join, Himiko!" Three said. "I think you'll have lots of fun!"
"Fun with what?" asked Tenko, suddenly appearing with Angie and Tsumugi behind her. She had a frown on her face and marched right up to Three. "Himiko, who's this girl, and what's she trying to get you to join? WAIT!! Is this girl the friend you were talking about?! The one who helped you bake cookies yesterday?!"
"Yeah," Himiko nodded.
"Hey! I recognize you!" Angie said. "You're one of the girls who rescued Himiko from that crazy girl many months ago!" Three brightened.
"Yeah! That's me!" she said.
"Tuh...I could have rescued Himiko, you know," Tenko huffed, crossing her arms and glaring at Three.
"Well...why didn't you?" Three asked.
"Urgh...!" Tenko scoffed. "Who do you think you are?!"
"I'm Michika!" Three lied, using one of her aliases. "I'm here to support Himiko with her cookie sale!"
"She doesn't need your support," Tenko said, stepping in between Three and Himiko. "Himiko already has me! Right, Himiko?"
"Umm..." Himiko mumbled.
"Of course you do!" Tenko interrupted.
"But...you didn't even let her finish," Three said.
"I didn't have to," Tenko said. "I already knew what she was thinking because we're best friends."
"Well...then...if you're her best friend, why dont'cha buy a cookie?" Three suggested craftily.
"Hmph! I will!" Tenko scoffed and turned to Himiko. "How much for a cookie, Himiko?"
"Nyeh...same as before," Himiko answered. Tenko paid ¥500 and grabbed a shimmery, glittering light green snickerdoodle from one of the trays. "Ooo, these are pretty, Himiko! Did you bake them all by yourself?"
"No, um...Michika helped me again," Himiko answered. Tenko glared at Three and flipped her hair at her.
"Well...they're okay, then," she said haughtily. "But, they're extra special because you helped, Himiko!"
"What are these cookies called, Himiko?" Tsumugi asked, scrutinizing a glittering blue cookie.
"Nyeh...they're called 'Snoozydoodles,'" Himiko answered. "They're snickerdoodles, but a special kind of snickerdoodles."
"Oooo! Why are they called 'Snoozydoodles?'" asked Angie.
"You have to eat them right before going to sleep to find out," Himiko answered mysteriously. Tenko hovered her cookie in front of her mouth.
"Oh! So, I have to eat this right before bed?" she asked.
"That's right," Himiko nodded.
"Aw, that's so creative, Himiko!" Tenko cried in adoration. "You're really clever, too! I bet you thought of the name!" Three rolled her eyes in annoyance. Himiko provided a little baggy for Tenko to put her cookie in, and provided some for Angie and Tsumugi, as well, after they had paid for their cookies.
"Thank you, Himiko," Tsumugi said.

"Yes! Yes! Thank you, Himiko!" Angie chirped.
"Well...I guess we'd better try out the other cookies," Tsumugi said. "Everyone else said they'd have different flavors of cookies, too. Although, I don't think I'll try Kokichi's after what happened yesterday. I can plainly still feel the burn on my tongue."
"Hmm...I thought his cookies were divine!" Angie exclaimed. "I have never felt such an intense rush of heat before! Especially in a cookie!"
"Leave it up to a degenerate male to bake something so...horrible! " Tenko spat. Three raised a brow at her.
"Degenerate male?" she repeated. She didn't like hearing her boss being referred to that way.
"Yeah! Males are all scum of the Earth!" Tenko said. "Kind of like...best friend stealers."
"I wasn't trying to steal your best friend," Three said, fed up with Tenko.

"Huh...why did you assume I was talking about you? " Tenko asked. "You know what happens to people who assume things, don't you?"

"They end up knocking all 32 teeth out of the person accusing them of assuming things?" Three replied, trying to keep her cool.
"And you're violent!" Tenko shouted. "You're clearly a bad influence on Himiko!" Three stared at her in disbelief, creating an awkward silence to linger in the air.
"Well, um...I guess we should be going then," Tsumugi said, hurriedly yanking Angie away. "C'mon, Angie. Tenko? Are you coming?"

"No. I think I'll stay right here and help Himiko, since she clearly needs my support," Tenko said, glowering at Three.
"Tenko..." Himiko sighed in exasperation, but Three merely smiled sweetly at Tenko.
"Oh, my gosh! Where'd you get your outfit?" she asked. Tenko looked down quizzically at her outfit.
"W-Why...do you want to know?" she replied with suspicion.
"It's just so pretty!" Three replied. "Are you, like, the Ultimate Princess, or the Ultimate Cheerleader, or something?"
"Um...n-no...I'm the Ultimate Aikido Master," Tenko stammered as a small blush appeared on her face.
"Oh, wow! That's even better!" Three exclaimed. "I bet you give those...degenerate males...what they deserve all the time!" The hardened look on Tenko's face from before disappeared.
"You bet I do!" she said proudly.
"Oh...I wish I could be like you!" Three breathed. "You're, like, my hero! I bet you're a hero to girls everywhere!" Tenko lowered her head bashfully, blushing like crazy.
"N-No...I'm not all that...great," she sputtered.
"I bet you'd do anything for girls, huh?" Three asked.
"Oh, yes!" Tenko answered. "So long as you aren't a degenerate male, you're a friend of mine!"
Says the girl who just accused me of stealing her best friend, Three thought to herself. "Hooray! I'm happy to hear that! But...to tell you the truth, I can't believe you just ditched your other friends. They were girls, after all, and you just let them walk right into the school where they could be potential prey for those boys-er...I mean, degenerate males." Tenko gasped with realization.
"Oh, my gosh! You're so right!" she cried. "But...what about Himiko?"
"I'll look after her," Three said. "You trust me, right? I am a girl after all."
"Ohhh...well, okay," Tenko said. Then, she smiled. "I'll trust you, Michika! Take care of Himiko!"
"Oh, I will!" Three said. "Bye! Goodbye!" Tenko waved goodbye, leaving Himiko and Three alone. Three exhaled. "Finally, she's gone!" Himiko stared at her in amazement.
"Nyeh...that was incredible!" she cried. Three shrugged modestly.
"Yeah, I guess I picked up a little bit of manipulation skills from the boss," she said. "He's way better at it than I am, though! That girl was so annoying, by the way! Is she seriously your best friend?!"
"Well, yeah, I guess," Himiko answered. "She wants to support and protect me all the time."
"Sounds more like she wants to breastfeed you, or wipe your butt after you poop," Three said in disgust. She and Himiko shuddered at the thought. "Well, anyways, now that 'Tin Cup' is gone, let's put you on the cookie map!"
"Right!" Himiko said, and gave Three a high five.

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 folks,
So I recently blind-bought a bottle of Armaf club de nuit intense man limited edition and couldnt be more impressed. Up until now I just wore whatever I had lying around and never thought much of it but since wearing it I am addicted to fragrances but dont exactly know what I am looking for when I want something new. Here is a little back story, just in case it will help. I just moved to a small country town quite a bit outside of Houston. I am 39, single, white guy, and I typically always dress the best I can whenever I go out. This includes Dark dress slacks and a dark and fashionable button-down dress shirt that titers on the edge of club wear, formal black oxford dress shoes, nice jewelry, and a well-shaped stubble beard. So, like, I really like to make the best impression possible. Anyway, I love Intense Man limited edition. I feel like it fits me. It's masculine and mature, but it doesn't smell like a grandpa or a barbershop.
Could you guys please advise me on the following: - What notes should I be looking for when purchasing new fragrances that will keep me in the ballpark of mature but not grandpa, Masculine but not bushy beard lumberjack, and expensive while not being expensive that has moderate to long-lasting longevity and sillage that are compliment getters? I suppose my concern is I dont want to smell too young or old, I want to stand out while being classy, and I like to grab a compliment or 2 from time to time. - Are there current recommendations on what I should blindly buy right now that will complement how I dress and what I am trying to achieve?
My guess is that I want to try to stay in wood, leather, and tobacco(?) notes. But I would LOVE recommendations on blind buys right now that would help educate me further while keeping me in the area that I mentioned.
Last night I was looking at other Armof club de nuit frags, Al Haramain Detour Noir, Afnan Rare Carbon, Alhambra Tobacco Touch, Alhambra Fabulo Intense, Alhambra Amber and Leather, Alhambra toscano leather, Armaf Magnificent (maybe), Lattafa Asad, Afnan supremacy in oud, and lattafa khamrah but I really have no idea what I am doing. They could all be totally wrong for what I am looking for.
I am brand new to this, I am sorry for the long post or if I am asking a stupid question. I am super excited to get more and more fragrances, lol I really really thank you for your time! <3

This was my first experience with sleep paralysis. Before it happened, my friends often talked about their own experiences with it. Some said it was terrifying at first, but you get used to it. Others found it so scary that it made them cry. I never took it seriously because I hadn't experienced it myself. One of my friend, let's call her june, mentioned that sleeping on your back could lead to sleep paralysis. I was curious so, I started sleeping in that position. Months went by with nothing happening, and I got used to sleeping on my back. I even began looking forward to my first sleep paralysis experience, thinking it couldn't be as scary as they said. How I wish they were just joking. One night, I woke up around 12:16 AM, I could see the time on the clock beside my bed. I noticed a large black shadow in front of me, just staring. I was scared and i tried to move, but I couldn't control my body. My head started aching, my vision became blurry, and the shadowy figure kept staring at me. I tried to shout but couldn't open my mouth. I just stared back at the figure, which was almost touching the ceiling.Then, the figure moved closer but stopped about half a meter from my face before returning to its original position at the foot of my bed. I couldn't see its face just a large, dark shadow. I was freaking out because I couldn't move. I realized I could make facial expressions, and in my panic, I smiled at the figure. I know it was a dumb idea, but I couldn't think straight at that moment. After about 5 minutes, the figure moved closer again. This time, my smile was forced and awkward. The figure seemed confused by my reaction, and we just stared at each other. I could see its eyes, which were a reddish-orange color. The figure looked at my door, then back at me, and touched my head quickly, like a pat. The last thing I remembered was a severe headache before passing out and falling back to sleep. When I woke up in the morning, I still had a headache, but it was bearable. This experience taught me a lesson sleep paralysis is no joke. It's terrifying, and I salute those who have gotten used to it. You're incredibly brave. Thanks for reading my story.

This theoretical takes place in Philadelphia County. A landlord has placed a notice to quit on his rental properties door. Staying in the rental property is a new tenant of two months who is still waiting for the lease promised by the landlord and the main roommate when he moved in. The main roommate has since moved out unannounced. The remaining roommate is searching for a place however now finds this notice to quit on the door.
Here's the rub: in Philadelphia county there exists in eviction diversion program which is a mandatory 30-day mediation that is an imperative and occurs between the landlord and tenant before the landlord is able to file a complaint, namely be action of eviction. The landlord here has not completed said eviction diversion program.
What if any consequences could befall the landlord for posting a notice to quit in full legal compliance except for the fact that it is premature as he has not even applied for the eviction diversion program yet.
On top of this he has locked out the tenant, stolen tools during the lockout, as well as turned off or caused his electricity to be turned off for a total of 9 days.
I apologize if that's a little more information that is needed to answer the question however more is usually better than not enough. So the question again is what legal ramifications or consequences or penalties it could be follow the landlord for falsely posting a legal notice on the tenants door when he has no right to at the time of the posting? Thanks in advance for reading this and your answers!

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.

In games that have virtual camera movement/camera zoom (League of Legends, Total War, etc) when I [right-click + move mouse] the camera pans up/down or zooms in out. - This makes LoL unplayable because I can't move my champion unless I absolutely stop my mouse still. - In games like total war I can't [right-click + drag] to spread troops, the game just pans/zooms the camera up and down. This happens both in the trackpad and with my mouse (Logitech G502 SE). Anyone went through this?
Thank you so much in advance

25F here, was 23 when I started treatment with my ex therapist, at the time 35M. I was in treatment for depression and sexual trauma. I'd had a quite abusive childhood, left home at 17, and it took me about seven years to build a life and stabilize on my own to be able to go to therapy and try to start healing. I started treatment in June 2022 and was in treatment for fourteen months total. In the last four months, we'd been dealing with some stuff around erotic transference, but mainly I was just dealing with being attached and fantasized therapy conversation becoming my default internal state. I'd decided before I started treatment to take a year off of dating to really focus on myself. After about a year in treatment, I wanted to start dating again (in part because I was getting uncomfortable with the fact that my therapist was the only man in my life at the time other than one male supervisor at work).
My therapist seemed really shut down about me dating. He said a couple of encouraging words, but the looks and tones were very clearly....not encouraging. He also said it was bittersweet to him that I was starting to see other men. Sex is really complicated for me, and I hadn't had sex with a cis man in a few years when I started dating again, even though that's the demographic I'm most attracted to, so it was important for me to be able to talk to my therapist about what was going on there, but the fear that his regard would change or that his feelings would be hurt was really distracting and upsetting. Around this time, I was processing sexual trauma from when I was six, and then more from when I was twelve to sixteen, memories I'd repressed until I was in treatment. I was having intense flashbacks and panic attacks, and he didn't have any....feedback, advice, anything. He seemed to like that I spent most of my day fantasizing about talking to him, and encouraged that, but didn't lead me toward any other tools or resources, seemingly in the assumption that his presence alone would be healing.
All this came to a head at the end of August 2023. I asked him to take a few weeks off to consult with a female therapist in the hopes that that'd alleviate the sense that there was something wrong with how he was treating me. He fired me, telling me, and this is verbatim, "I seduced you, and then you seduced me, and it got pretty hot, and we should stop," adding "if I could give you that relationship, I would." I was never asking him for a dual relationship. I was attached to him, and had a lot of those types of feelings toward him, but I always knew that those weren't actually about him and was definitely never asking for a dual relationship.
I had brought up repeatedly over the course of treatment that it was a material financial burden. I had out of network benefits through my insurance, but it was still $225/week out of pocket, and I'd only get $140 back per session, and only after waiting at least a month for the claim to process, and only after meeting a $2k out of network deductible. Not the most expensive therapy but for me, it was a lot, and I told him that a number of times, and that I couldn't afford to do twice a week with him (something he recommended a few times in the last couple months of treatment). He's the only man in his practice group, and instead of refer me to one of his colleagues, he gave me the names of two completely unrelated clinicians whose fees were both over $300/session and he once again recommended I see someone twice per week.
About a month later, I emailed him to ask for my progress notes. He took a week to reply, only responding when I followed up, and then only sent me my treatment summary (a few brief sentences just saying when I started treatment, what the treatment was, and when it ended). I emailed his boss and got my notes from her. He'd written in the notes that we'd been dealing with erotic transference in every session for the last four months of treatment, even though that....was not the case, and there were plenty of sessions where I was just there to talk about my past, or what was happening during the week. He really didn't seem to understand the difference between being attached and erotic transference, even though he practices attachment based therapy.
Almost nine months later and I really don't know how to move on. My mental health absolutely tanked in the fall and it's been a long, uphill road to get back to something like normal functioning since. It was highly, highly retraumatizing, both in how I suddenly had zero support while processing the most traumatic events of my childhood and so I was just completely overtaken with the memories for months, all while blaming myself because...he said I seduced him, so it was my fault, so I was asking for it, so I had been asking for it the whole time. I know that's not true, but he really did a number on his way out. I'm doing better on that front at this point, not thanks to therapy, (I've tried with eight practitioners since him but he really poisoned the well), but I still can't let this go, and I don't know if I should make a complaint to the relevant office of professional discipline.
TLDR: 24F psychotherapy client asks 36M therapist who's been treating her for sexual trauma to take a few weeks off and consult with a female therapist about his behavior; therapist fires client, does not refer to any of the female clinicians in his practice group, refers only to clinicians he knew were unaffordable, and said "I seduced you, and you seduced me, and it got pretty hot, and we should stop" and "if I could give you that relationship, I would." Is this a reportable offence?

Warning: very lengthy
Idk if this is the right flair, but I began writing a response to a question I saw posed here about what tornado we found the most fascinating. I began to write my answer about how fascinated I was by Jarrell and its uniqueness, when a realization hit me that ended up turning my response into a miniature essay that transcended just Jarrell. Credit to OP of that post for really getting me to think about Jarrell, a certain similar tornado, an issue in the weather community, and why I think it’s a good thing to see a potentially strong tornado not do enough damage to earn a high rating.
Jarrell is the tornado that brought my passing interest to my rotation of hyper fixations. Everything about it is so completely abnormal and it’s so well documented. Thirteen minutes and ~5 miles is so brief by (E)F5 standards, yet it did some of the most unimaginable damage by a tornado because of how slow it moved. (E)F5 windspeeds are terrifying when the tornado they’re attached to is moving at a normal pace, but when you’re getting potentially 200 mph tornadic winds staying almost stationary, the damage that can be done is frankly nightmarish.
I find it pretty haunting to think about how, if Jarrell was a more normal F5, some of the people who lost their lives may have actually survived. It went from a pretty unassuming rope doing negligible damage to a three quarter mile wide wedge doing unfathomable damage as one of the most unorthodox tornadoes ever recorded. The scary thing is, while I’ve been on an autism fueled rant about its uniqueness, Jarrell’s most defining feature isn’t so unique that a tornado like it happening is out of the question.
The day is April 30th, 2024. As we all well know, the end of April was a pretty notable time in terms of tornadoes. I’d spent most of my time during performances of the musical I’d just designed for almost entirely on my phone monitoring ongoing tornadoes. Westmoreland had happened the same day, Sulphur, Okemah, and Marietta the day before, and multiple EF3s including Harlan just a few days before. It was a weekday, so I was on a four day break between the two performance weekends. On a whim, I check this subreddit and see posts and comments about "Jarrell part 2" and the odd behaviors exhibited by the night’s storms. I hurriedly check the app formerly known as Twitter and see a PDS warning for Hollister, Oklahoma, and comments under that warning saying much the same thing.
Based on all evidence, that tornado was pretty strong, huge, long-tracked, slow-moving, had abnormal path, and had all the makings of a very notable and high rated storm. The only missing ingredient was damage. As I wrote the part of my response that was solely about Jarrell, this tornado came to mind. It could have been really bad, but it didn’t hit anything. After all was said and done, it was rated as an EF1 tornado, much to many weather enthusiasts’ ire. I am very happy about this rating.
When tornado enthusiasts think about worst case scenario tornadoes, I don’t think it’s a stretch to think that Jarrell is a name that pops up pretty often. There was no preparing for a tornado as unorthodox as the one that hit the small town of Jarrell, Texas, in 1997. As the April 30th tornado shows, though, tornadoes like Jarrell do happen. Jarrell’s most defining factor isn’t so rare that we don’t see tornadoes that fit into a similar category happen from time to time. The thing that makes Jarrell unique among these slow moving, strong tornadoes is that it hit a town, whereas many of its ilk do not. Imagine what the Hollister EF1 may have done if it had hit a town. It could have been another worst case scenario.
There are so many tornadoes that could have potentially ruined and ended lives that just did not because they stayed mostly away from places they could do harm to human life and property. There are tornadoes like Hollister that probably could’ve been EF3+ if they only hit the wrong place. I think that we should celebrate those tornadoes and their low ratings instead of finding ire within them. We should be thankful that unless something happens to change that, we’ll have made it eleven years without an EF5 in just six days from now, because there are tornadoes that could’ve possibly ended that drought if they’d only hit a populated area.
I know this was kind of rambly, but I wanted to share all the thoughts that came along when I was writing that original response that, like the tornado it was originally about, went from something small to something very, very big.

25F here, was 23 when I started treatment with my ex therapist, at the time 35M. I was in treatment for depression and sexual trauma. I'd had a quite abusive childhood, left home at 17, and it took me about seven years to build a life and stabilize on my own to be able to go to therapy and try to start healing. I started treatment in June 2022 and was in treatment for fourteen months total. In the last four months, we'd been dealing with some stuff around erotic transference, but mainly I was just dealing with being attached and fantasized therapy conversation becoming my default internal state. I'd decided before I started treatment to take a year off of dating to really focus on myself. After about a year in treatment, I wanted to start dating again (in part because I was getting uncomfortable with the fact that my therapist was the only man in my life at the time other than one male supervisor at work).
My therapist seemed really shut down about me dating. He said a couple of encouraging words, but the looks and tones were very clearly....not encouraging. He also said it was bittersweet to him that I was starting to see other men. Sex is really complicated for me, and I hadn't had sex with a cis man in a few years when I started dating again, even though that's the demographic I'm most attracted to, so it was important for me to be able to talk to my therapist about what was going on there, but the fear that his regard would change or that his feelings would be hurt was really distracting and upsetting. Around this time, I was processing sexual trauma from when I was six, and then more from when I was twelve to sixteen, memories I'd repressed until I was in treatment. I was having intense flashbacks and panic attacks, and he didn't have any....feedback, advice, anything. He seemed to like that I spent most of my day fantasizing about talking to him, and encouraged that, but didn't lead me toward any other tools or resources, seemingly in the assumption that his presence alone would be healing.
All this came to a head at the end of August 2023. I asked him to take a few weeks off to consult with a female therapist in the hopes that that'd alleviate the sense that there was something wrong with how he was treating me. He fired me, telling me, and this is verbatim, "I seduced you, and then you seduced me, and it got pretty hot, and we should stop," adding "if I could give you that relationship, I would." I was never asking him for a dual relationship. I was attached to him, and had a lot of those types of feelings toward him, but I always knew that those weren't actually about him and was definitely never asking for a dual relationship.
I had brought up repeatedly over the course of treatment that it was a material financial burden. I had out of network benefits through my insurance, but it was still $225/week out of pocket, and I'd only get $140 back per session, and only after waiting at least a month for the claim to process, and only after meeting a $2k out of network deductible. Not the most expensive therapy but for me, it was a lot, and I told him that a number of times, and that I couldn't afford to do twice a week with him (something he recommended a few times in the last couple months of treatment). He's the only man in his practice group, and instead of refer me to one of his colleagues, he gave me the names of two completely unrelated clinicians whose fees were both over $300/session and he once again recommended I see someone twice per week.
About a month later, I emailed him to ask for my progress notes. He took a week to reply, only responding when I followed up, and then only sent me my treatment summary (a few brief sentences just saying when I started treatment, what the treatment was, and when it ended). I emailed his boss and got my notes from her. He'd written in the notes that we'd been dealing with erotic transference in every session for the last four months of treatment, even though that....was not the case, and there were plenty of sessions where I was just there to talk about my past, or what was happening during the week. He really didn't seem to understand the difference between being attached and erotic transference, even though he practices attachment based therapy.
Almost nine months later and I really don't know how to move on. My mental health absolutely tanked in the fall and it's been a long, uphill road to get back to something like normal functioning since. It was highly, highly retraumatizing, both in how I suddenly had zero support while processing the most traumatic events of my childhood and so I was just completely overtaken with the memories for months, all while blaming myself because...he said I seduced him, so it was my fault, so I was asking for it, so I had been asking for it the whole time. I know that's not true, but he really did a number on his way out. I'm doing better on that front at this point, not thanks to therapy, (I've tried with eight practitioners since him but he really poisoned the well), but I still can't let this go, and I don't know if I should make a complaint to the relevant office of professional discipline.
TLDR: 24F psychotherapy client asks 36M therapist who's been treating her for sexual trauma to take a few weeks off and consult with a female therapist about his behavior; therapist fires client, does not refer to any of the female clinicians in his practice group, refers only to clinicians he knew were unaffordable, and said "I seduced you, and you seduced me, and it got pretty hot, and we should stop" and "if I could give you that relationship, I would." Is this a reportable offence?

Hey everyone, thank you for reading.
There was originally a much longer version but it became a massive wall of text and perhaps some TMI. Writing it was cathartic though. Anyway:
When I'm single I do lots of great things, want to improve myself so much just to feel alive and good about myself. Solo-mountaineering for example. This came from being 22 and lonely - I developed crushes on girls that were nice to me and I got rejected, or they liked me back but I got overzealous and they realised I was not BF material. One day I just said "Okay I'm never going to have a wife and kids so what do I do instead". But here's the rub, when I work on myself girls do see me as a potential BF. Eventually from 26 onwards I had a few admirers, none of them really stuck long-term. What follows is one common issue among them.
When I'm in a relationship I get put on a pedestal because they see what I've done and think there's more to come. In actuality I end up neglecting what made me attractive to begin with. My happiness derives from her and I become complacent.
My most recent relationship was 5 years, ended a week ago. I wasn't always happy - covid took me out of the mountains for 2 years and I never got back into it. My work stopped and I played video games for 2 years instead. A very disruptive flatmate moved in 6 months ago and driven me crazy since. He doesn't believe in headphones, for example and watches TV/lectures for hours. This area was a new development 6 years ago so the area went from super quiet to a hotbed of noise from families and construction work. I should have moved out, but I thought saving money was a higher priority. I dislocated my shoulder for the second time and I neglected routine rehab. I lost objects I owned from absent mindedness, blamed other people before discovering my dumb mistake. I grew resentful for the distance, and struggled to pay heed to her struggles as it was through a phone/laptop (impersonal) and I felt powerless to help without being physically present.
These factors made me irritable, negative, impatient, accusatory, noise sensitive and overly reactive to anything I perceived as idiotic (and my bar was low). I lost my cool often. The breakup was inevitable, especially as we already had distance hanging over our heads. Once again the usual things were mentioned on top - Lack of ambition, lack of masculinity. Lost respect, can't get it back.
And I'm now approaching 40. I thought I was set when I met this girl, but here we are once again. After doing much reading, I've also come to realise I have avoidant attachment disorder which stifles communication. If I was going through a rough time, or she got angry at me our contact would cease for a few days - My own doing.
There's no doubt that I'll can respond to being single productively, as I've already gone on one trip and many more are planned. Don't me wrong, I am not glad this happened - I am swimming in regrets and feelings of loss, being at home sucks but I will manage. I came to terms with being perpetually single once, therefore I believe I can do it again. But relationships wise? I dread the whole process of meeting someone and then ultimately losing their respect because I didn't fulfil their expectations. I often feel like I can never meet my own, but I live on knowing I'll never be who I was at 18-21. I just wish I was the same person I was at 29-32.
I am moving out by the way. I was very close to moving to her, but she must have seen the writing on the wall and ended it in advance.
Thanks again.

Context: I got to know about Wilderness Union recently, which is a community that's focused on connecting with nature and getting out of city life. They claim their organized trips cost 20-40% below market rates. However, looking at one of their trips, the cost associated comes up to $385 + HST (inlc. transportation).
Does this seem like it's below market rate to you? If I were to go camping in Algonquin, would this cost me more than $385, inclusive of transportation? I must add there's a quarterly membership fee of $75.
Apologies for the benign question, but I'm unsure what current market rates are since I moved here not long ago. Thanks.

Hello I'm Kate marsh and I'm here to give you the rules for the Blake's house. I'm not going to relive my experience by telling y'all what happened but this I guess is my way of helping who ever finds them self there. So here goes nothing.
Rule 1: as you drive it should be a trailer if not then circle around until it is then pull into the drive way.
Rule 2: the key will be underneath the first step of the stairs. After getting it unlock the door and enter. You may feel a weird presence there but don't worry that's normal.
Rule 3: there should be 3 to 4 cats 1 orange 2 or 3 gray cats. They stay in the house except for one that comes in and out she has a pink collar and is light gray. If not in the house make sure it's her when she wants in.
Rule 4: to identify the right cat look at there teeth,eyes,fur color and there size. (Kate here Sense I'm recounting my story there's no picture but if y'all ever find y'all selfs here then y'all will see and better identify the cats)
Rule 5: there is no attic door. Sense our house is a trailer if you see a attic door make sure it's closed if not hurry and hold it close for 15 seconds then close your eyes and say "there's no attic door" 5 times then open your eyes it should be gone. If it's for some reason still there then go and hide in the cats room for 15 minutes then go back to doing the chores.
Rule 6: your chores. You need to feed the cats, make sure they have water, clean there litter boxes (yes 2 of them), vacuum the house, dust the house and make sure everything is "normal"
Rule 7: when going into the parents room make sure you cut the light on before the door shut if you don't just exit the room fast, close the door behind you and wait 15 seconds and try again. If the bed is inmade make it up. The pillows go light to dark and should face either outwards or inwards. Then clean the litter box in there.
Rule 8: make sure there's a crystal in each room of the house if not go back into the parents room a d grab a crystal form the box and place on the crystal holder in the room. If a crystal have turned black and glowing dark smash it with a hammer and replace it and burn the smashed one in the fire place mounted in the wall in the living room.
Rule 9: when I tearing the cat room make sure they haven't pulled out anything form the closest. It's a storage room aswell and they tend to mess with the stuff.
Rule 10: after finishing with the second litter box in the playroom take the bag outside go around back and dumb the stuff into the water hole. Me and the wife been needing to fill it and been using there "stuff" to do it with. Then throw the bag into the trash and head back inside.
Rule 11: there food labeled in the fridge for you to eat or cook. When using the stove make sure it's not smoking. If it start to turn it off and clean it. Then try again. It you fail to clean it make sure the fire is normal if not see rule 12.
Rule 12: fire colors. If the fire is green that's ok it won't hurt you and will actually boost the vitamins and proteins of your meal. If the fire is blue or will make it stay cold and even frost your meal. If the fire red it will cook faster and may even burn Thur the pot or pan. If the fire is yellow or orange it's will act like regular fire. If the fire is clear then get the fire extinguisher and put it out. It may or may not summon the spirit of the anime if your using meat. If the fires black then just leave the house there's no hope for it or our cats.
Rule 13: after eating make sure to put your dishes in the dish water. If the dish washer expands I yo the wall and looks like a mini galaxy underwater is on the other side close the door and wait 30 minutes. If it just expands a few feet then close the door and wait 5 minutes. If normal then just use it regularly (the cascade is on the counter).
Rule 14: if you need a break sit in the recliner. If you feel your being watched just ignore it. If you see a what looks like a flash light shining on the reflection of the TV ignore it. If the room suddenly gets cold just rap your self with one of the blankets on the back of the couch. Of you start to feel scared and or shake try and remain calm and breathe in and out and think of happy stuff the effects will only last around 10 minutes then get back to working.
Rule 15: make sure the vacuum the cat room, the hallway, the living room, the kitchen, the second hallway and the parents room, it should be normal but dobt try to vacuum the rugs cause there get sucked in like a cartoon but if you accidentally do suck one up it's ok it'll just come out your pay.
Rule 16: the kids room. Do.not.go.into.there.room if you hear breathing ignore it. If you hear rattling ignore it. If you hear banging. Ignored it. If you hear faint sounds like a TV on just ignore it. It's not really and not important.
Rule 17: remember to feed and water the cats. There food is in a box with a twist on lid on the kitchen it most twist off left is it twist off right then close it back and go on to giving them water.
Rule 18: there water. Making sure it's not a weird color. If it's blood change it. If it's cyan it's fine its just more purified. If it's yellow it's piss. Change it. If it's briwn take it it's not what you think. It's chocolate just put it in the fridge and replace there bowl (the other blows are on the counter in the kitchen as well). If the water black then dumb it outside in the water hole and toss the bowl in aswell and make sure your hands are clean of the stuff.
Rule 19: make sure each window is showing the same weather if not close each one for 15 seconds and keep trying till they do. Even if it's the wrong weather it only matters that there the same.
The last rule. Rule 20: after leaving the monster will be send by mail if done everything correctly you will receive 700$ and a thank you card. Make sure it's us that returbed home that night if not then I hope you stay say and dint meet another clone. Of you have dreams of our house go seak a thipist just tell them "you house sat for the Blake's" there give you medicine to stop the dreams. If you go back and see our house is gone it's ok we were never hear. If your house start acting like ours did move out and forget your things it's our new house now and we're sorry. With this you are prepared for your job hopefully you enjoy and follow the rules.

Hello all! Looking for ideas on how to protect the wall behind my desk chair in the house that I currently rent. I’m unable to move my desk/desk chair due to size restrictions in the room, and despite my best efforts, I’ve managed to mar the walls within a few weeks of setting everything up.
Normally, I’d just put in a chair rail and be done with it, but given the fact that it’s a rental (and I don’t want to have to fix plaster walls when I move out), I’m looking for alternative solutions instead. I thought about just using some heavy duty command strips to hold up a chair rail, but I worry about longevity because I’ll be here for a couple of years. Any advice or ideas would be greatly appreciated, thank you!

Looking for advice/anecdotes about moving abroad before completing droichead/teacher induction.
I have just finished my PME in English and German and I hope to add Spanish as a subject in the future as I adore teaching languages and just don't have the grá for teaching English as a subject in Ireland. I really want to move abroad both for adventure, experience and improved standard of living (thank you housing crisis). Mostly only interested in moving to the EU and working in a TEFL/English Language School. I have been considering Spain to learn the language so I could add it in the future but open to anywhere.
It has been recommended to me by my college, the TC and many staff to complete droichead before I move. However, I am just itching to go. I have applied for some jobs so far as I thought maybe I could get a maternity contract and stick it out until droichead was done but finishing up in January/March wouldn't give me much hopes for a TEFL job abroad mid academic year. I would love to move in September and stay for one full academic year. I've been a TEFL teacher privately and in summer schools for the last 6 years and I really thrive and am happiest in that role.
I fear if I stay for droichead I could get stuck here in a job or feel "too old" to move later as I ultimately do want to settle down in Ireland. I feel like my life would just be on pause for another year as I would still want to move after droichead so wouldn't be looking at mortgages/moving out (I currently live at home). I also have a very "we only have today, why not now?" attitude and don't want to regret not going now I know that the ideal situation is to do droichead first. But will it really look that bad if I move away for a year or two and complete it later? I'm aware that it needs to be completed within 3 years but that I can also apply for an extension and if I moved to Spain to further my career I would be more likely to get one. The plan was always to come home (from living in Germany) do the PME and move away again. But the constant "do droichead first" that I hear from everyone is really putting me off.
TLDR: Looking for advice or anecdotes on moving abroad before completing droichead. Do I really need to do droichead first?