Okay Ive done a little bit of research on this topic, as I'm about to start potty training my son. I have the gist like maybe having him in no underwear and letting him sit on the toilet at first, etc etc. But do I keep him in pull ups at night? Or diapers? Are pull ups and diapers the same thing? What does a potty schedule look like, meaning u wake up take the pull up off and go to the toilet? Please this is my first born I have no idea how to go about this or what's the most effective way. Ive seen people say how they were able to do it in 3 days (not leaving the house in 3 days) what if I need to leave the house? I'm just so overwhelmed, and I see people recommending books to read, I truly do not have the time to do this as I have a toddler I need to potty train and a 5 month baby that needs attention as well.
Anyways, all tips and tricks will be appreciated. If anyone can share their experiences or share their stories, that will be appreciated too. Thank you!

So Im a fairly new landlord (35M) got a good deal on a property with 4 units on after moving into a tent for four months to help save for it. Now we been here about three years the tenants I inherited from the sale where great but they sadly passed away on a car crash. So after spending more than I can afford on renovations the new family moves in. First they keep on wanting to change the Depost agreement we altered out agreement twice and then still they came and told us they will pay the last of the Deposit when the have the money as it is their money anyway and does not affect us. I was like ,the F*cK it does affect us, so I said no that's not how it works.
If you feel that works for you, then great but not for us and it does not put allot of confidence in you as a tenant if you already cant pay what you agreed to. So This was a whatsapp conversation I think I sent the last part as a voice note. Next I have the guy (45M) saying I will not talk to his wife like that yada yada I said how many times must I talk politely before butting my foot down? Anyway I was able to de escilate it and we went on our business as they then paid the agreed final depost.
Fastwordard a few months. The Toilet pipe of their unit and the small one below is block they are on the same septic. I and. my care taker ended up digging up and unblocking it but low be hold TAMPONS came out. So some one had been flushing and it cause the block.. I address the lady in the smaller unit but she was only there for like a week and the pipe had been blocked pretty bad. So I asked my wife to message the tenants and say the pipe is blocked do to tampons they must not flush those things down the loo. The lady replied "Oh Ok" and That made me think well it was clreary them..
We fixed everything up and cleaned up. Later that night the tenant came down to discuss using my internet that they also agreed and did not pay for so I disconnected them. I mention to him that we unblocked the pipes and it was tampons if it happens again it will be at the cost of you guys as Im not digging through that shit again. Anyway this guy looses it getting in my face "AM I SAYING it WAS THEM" and the more I tell the guy relax let me finish he goes own again you wont speak to me like that and accuse US. When I was saying I hey I had a shit day dining through your SHIT next time its on you and Im the asshole! How do I deal with this tenant Would you Renew?

Dear You,
Love is like a parasite. It latches on to you, infects you, invades you even when you have no idea it's there. It sticks to you when you want it gone, it compromises every part of your life.
I feel like a widow. I think of you, how we don't talk, how it's been almost a year since we broke up, how I should be completely over you, and I feel as though you've died. I feel as though you were my husband who passed away, and who's spirit is embedded into my mind. Even when I love someone else, I think that if you were to come back alive, I'd take you back in an instant.
I don't want to love you that much. I don't want to love you at all. I don't want to feel like I'm trapped, alone with my thoughts and feelings of affection knowing you'll never love me back, and even if you did, I've already moved on with someone new. To get you back, I'd have to hurt my new love.
I'm sick and tired of hurting others. Never intentional, yet unavoidable. I love too hard and I get hurt, or they do. Love is so insane. Why would you give so much of yourself to someone else? Especially someone who feels not an ounce of love towards you. What kind of sane person would do such a thing? Perhaps I'm already hurting him by still loving you. Or maybe I don't even really love you anymore at all. Maybe my mind is just trapped in what has and was supposed to be. Playing tricks on me.
I wish you would block my number. Yell at me and tell me to leave you alone. But you're so confusing. You let me text you, and sometimes you answer back. You unblock me on a single app, knowing we'll stalk each other on it. But then you block me again for a couple more months only to unblock me once more. What is it you feel? What is it you want? For a year of my life, the best year I had, I thought I could read you so well. I thought I knew your every emotion. Turns out I don't know you very well at all. Maybe we've just grown too far apart.
I want to love him more than I love you. I want to not love you at all. I want to never hurt him, to love him forever. Maybe I'm rushing myself.
We both know that "forever" is a cursed word.
-K

KEEP GOING

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This is the list that I wrote for Oklahoma's execution roster since the nationwide reinstatement of capital punishment in the late 1970s. Something that should be mentioned is that given the nature of many death penalty related crimes, many of the descriptions contain very disturbing details. Please read at your own risk.
Florida's list is next, and I'll post my list for Texas once I've completed it. With Texas, I've currently finished 464 entries out of the 587 cases to date. That will probably take 7 or 8 posts for it all to be released, so I'll probably do two posts a day with Texas to avoid spamming the sub. At the end of this year, I'll repost the states that have conducted further executions with the updated information.
As with Missouri and Virginia, Reddit's maximum character count limitations forced me to divide Oklahoma's list into two separate parts. Here is the link to part 2.
The currently 124 executed offenders, cases 1 to 62:
1. Charles Coleman (~1950s-1990, lethal injection): A month after he was released on parole in 1979, Coleman broke into a house. While sacking it for any valuables, the homeowner’s brother and sister in law, 68 year old John and 62 year old Roxie Seward, walked in on him and were both shot dead. Coleman stole Roxie’s purse, several packets of frozen meat, and the homeowner’s watch during the burglary, and was arrested shortly afterwards. However, Coleman managed to escape custody, and went on a rampage that involved several burglaries, auto thefts, slitting the throat of a policeman in a failed murder attempt, the shooting death of 49 year old Russell Lewis Jr. in a carjacking, and the abduction of a deputy. The kidnapped deputy was rescued following an armed standoff with other police officers. Coleman had an extensive history of animal cruelty, armed robberies, assaults, and carrying concealed weapons convictions dating back to when he was 11 years old. He was also heavily suspected in the murder of his teenage girlfriend’s father, but was acquitted by the courts despite the prosecution’s strong belief in his guilt.
2. Robyn Parks (1977-1992, lethal injection): During a gas station robbery, Parks shot and killed Abdullah Ibrahim, a 24 year old Bangladeshi immigrant that worked as the attendant. According to Parks, he murdered Ibrahim for catching him using a stolen credit card.
3. Olan Randle (1980-1992, lethal injection): Randle invaded a home and shot the occupants, 41 year old Robert Swinford, Sinford's fiance 42 year old Averil Bourque, and Bourque's friend 38 year old Julia Lovejoy, dead. He took a pocket knife and several watches from the victims.
4. Thomas Grasso (~1970s(?)-1995, lethal injection): While living in Oklahoma, Grasso strangled 87 year old Hilda Johnson, the best friend of his girlfriend's grandmother, to death with her Christmas lights. He took $8 from her purse, several coins that added up to $4, and a television set that he sold for $125. Grasso then moved to New York, and strangled 81 year old Leslie Holtz for his social security check. The trialing arrangements caused some controversy, as the New York governors at the time were anti death penalty, and tried to prevent Grasso's extradition in favor of giving him a life sentence in their jurisdiction. Grasso had several previous convictions for theft and was fired multiple times for stealing from his jobs.
5. Roger Stafford (~1974(?)-1995, lethal injection): Stafford was condemned for killing at least 9 people in two separate robbery incidents with his brother and ex wife, though his ex wife claimed that he was involved with as many as 34 murders nationwide. The first convicted incident was when he and the ex wife carjacked and fatally shot a couple, 38 year old Melvin and 31 year old Linda Lorenz, and their son, 12 year old Richard. A few weeks after the Lorenz murders, Stafford stormed a restaurant and gunned down 6 employees, 56 year old Isaac Freeman, 43 year old Louis Zacarias, 17 year old Anthony Tew, 17 year old David Lindsey, 16 year old David Salsman, and 15 year old Terri Horst. One of Stafford's additional attributed victims was 20 year old Jimmy Berry, who was killed in the hold up of an Alabaman McDonalds, but he wasn't charged by the state due to his death sentences in Oklahoma.
6. Robert Brecheen (1983-1995, lethal injection): Breechen was involved in a feud over money with 59 year old Mary Stubbs and her husband. In an attempt to take what he perceived was owed to him, Breechen carried out a night time burglary of their home. While rummaging through the house, Breechen stumbled upon old Marie in her living room and shot her to death. The gunshots and screams awoke her husband, and he chased him away with his own gun.
7. Benjamin Brewer (1978-1996, lethal injection): Brewer raped his neighbor, 20 year old Karen Stapleton, in her home and stabbed her to death
8. Steven Hatch (1979-1996, lethal injection): Hatch and another assailant, Glen Ake, forced themselves inside the home that Richard Dougass, a 43 year old reverend, shared with his wife, 36 year old Marilyn, and their two children, 16 year old Brooks and 12 year old Lesile. The pair tied up the family and raped Lesile in front of her parents and brother. All four family members were shot, and Hatch and Ake ran off with $43 and the parents’ wedding rings. Richard and Marilyn were both killed in the shootings, while their children survived the attack. Ake was also initially condemned for the attack, but his sentence was overturned and resentenced to life following mental health concerns, and passed away from undisclosed natural causes in 2011.
9. Scott Carpenter (1994-1997, lethal injection): In a convenience store robbery, Carpenter stabbed the owner, 56 year old A. J. Kelley, in the neck, and hid the body in the minnow room. He filled his truck with $37 worth of gas from the pumps and drove away from the scene. His execution caused some controversy, as it was reported that Carpenter gasped and spasmed for 11 minutes after being injected.
10. Michael Long (1997-1998, lethal injection): Enraged that his coworker, 24 year old Sheryl Graber, refused him sex and started screaming for help, he stabbed her over 31 times. Long also shot and killed her son, 5 year old Andrew, for being a witness.
11. Stephen Wood (1992-1998, lethal injection): While heavily intoxicated, Wood stabbed two other homeless men, 46 year old Charles Stephen and 34 year old Charles Von Johnson, dozens of times each. He was given a life sentence for both of their murders. During his incarceration, Robert Brigden, a 59 year old former minister that was serving a 40 year sentence for molesting several girls between the ages of 4-14 in his congregation, moved into his unit after refusing to go into protective custody. Woods killed Brigden in a stabbing attack, and his sentence was escalated to death by the courts for it.
12. Tuan Anh Nguyen (~1982-1998, lethal injection): By all accounts, Nguyen was jealously possessive over his wife, 21 year old Donna. During one of their arguments over his behavior, he stabbed Donna, her 6 year old nephew Joseph White, and her 3 year old niece Amanda White, in their home and left the bodies to be found by the children’s parents. He fled to Arizona, groomed a 14 year old girl into an illicit “relationship”, and impregnated her. After he convinced her to move in with him, Nguyen physically and sexually abused the girl until she fled and went to the local police for help. Nguyen was then deported back to Oklahoma to face trial for Donna and the White children’s slayings, and was sentenced to death for them.
13. John Duvall (1986-1998, lethal injection): During a fight with his wife, 30 year old Donna, Duvall stabbed and suffocated her to death with a pillow.
14. John Castro Sr. (1983-1999, lethal injection): Castro carjacked Beulah Cox, a 31 year old Oklahoma State University student, after she picked him up hitchhiking and shot her to death. A few months later, Castro held up a restaurant with an empty pistol, and attacked the manger, 29 year old Rhonda Pappan, after forcing her to open the register. During their struggle, Pappan was fatally stabbed, and he took off with her purse. During his mid teens, Castro was allegedly molested by his mother. Castro's attorneys made the argument that his glimpses of Cox's buttocks reminded him of his mother's reported abuse, and he was triggered into attacking her for it.
15. Sean Sellers (1985-1999, lethal injection): In 1985, a then 15 year old Sellers tried to buy beer from a convenience store, but the clerk, 32 year old Robert Bower, denied him due to being underaged at the time. Sellers gunned him down in a fit of rage. A year later, Sellers shot and killed his mother, 32 year old Vonda Bellofatto, and stepfather, 43 year old Paul, in their sleep. Due to being 16 at the time of his conviction, Sellers remains the youngest condemned offender to have his sentence carried out in the post Furman era. He also attracted national media attention for claiming that his crimes were the result of demonic possession.
16. Scotty Moore (1983-1999, lethal injection): Moore was fired from a motel for undisclosed reasons. In retaliation, Moore and a cousin (whom he was dating at the time), assaulted the motel, and gunned down the desk clerk, 42 year old Alex Fernandez. According to court documents, the pair took a total of $97 in the robbery.
17. Norman Newsted (1984-1999, lethal injection): Newsted tricked Lawrence Buckley, a 26 year old cab driver, into picking him up. He shot Buckley dead and took his wallet. In an attempt to cover his tracks, Newsted placed the body inside the cab, and drove it into a creek near a local church. Despite his best efforts, Buckley’s cab and remains were discovered a day later by the church’s pastor.
18. Cornel Cooks (1982-1999, lethal injection): Cooks and his accomplice broke into the home of 87 year old Jennie Ridling. She was gagged, raped, and suffocated to death with gauze wrappings. According to autopsy reports, the pair abused her for over 2 hours. They then sacked the house for any valuables and left with her checkbook.
19. Bobby Ross (1983-1999, lethal injection): While robbing an inn, Ross fatally shot a police officer, 30 year old Steve Mahan, that tried to intervene.
20. Malcolm Johnson (~1970s(?)-2000, lethal injection): Johnson invaded the apartment of 76 year old Ura Thompson and sexually assaulted her. Thompson either died from having her chest compounded during the abuse or was suffocated by Johnson’s hands covering her nose. He seized several possessions such as furs, typewriters, purse, watch, rings, and a hand mirror, which were discovered by police in his residence during an unrelated investigation of a firearms possession charge. Johnson had an extensive criminal history, which included several convictions of rape, armed robberies, and burglaries. The case attracted controversy when it was discovered that the lead chemist in the investigation misconducted several of her other cases, and forged some of the evidence used in the trial. Despite the other overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Johnson’s supporters took the opportunity to push a narrative of his innocence.
21. Gary Walker (~1960s-2000, lethal injection): Walker abducted, raped, and murdered at least 5 women, 36 year old Margaret Lydick, 35 year old Jane Hilburn, 32 year old Janet Jewell, 25 year old Valerie Shaw-Hartzell, and 24 year old DeRonda Roy, and non fatally assaulted several other women and teenage girls. The victims were mostly strangled to death with their bras and panties. Some of them were forced to withdraw hundreds of dollars from ATMs before they were killed. He also strangled a man, 63 year old Eddie Cash, with an electrical cord while robbing his home. Walker had dozens of previous convictions for burglary, carjacking, drug possession, and carrying concealed weapons. Some of his earliest arrests occurred when he was a teenager.
22. Michael Roberts (~1988-2000, lethal injection): A career burglar, Roberts was condemned for murder of 80 year old Lula Brooks. She was raped and her throat was slit by an intruder in her home. Roberts' death sentence and execution has been contested, as he was convicted on his later recounted testimony alone. He claimed that the investigators tricked him into confessing with the promise of a plea deal that was allegedly withheld from him.
23. Kelly Rogers (1990-2000, lethal injection): Rogers’ girlfriend lured 21 year old Karen Lauffenburger into her apartment with a fake pizza order. They accosted her when she arrived with the delivery. After the couple forced Lauffenburger to hand to over the $40 she earned from the night's pizza deliveries and withdraw $175 from an ATM, Rogers raped and stabbed her to death. The body was left in Lauffenburger’s apartment and was found by her boyfriend.
24. Ronald Boyd (1986-2000, lethal injection): During a robbery spree of several gas stations and supermarkets, Boyd engaged in a shootout with the responding officers. A Master Patrolman, 32 year old Richard Riggs, was killed in the exchange.
25. Charles Foster (~1980s(?)-2000, lethal injection): Foster suspected a grocery store owner, 74 year old Claude Wiley, of making sexual advances at his wife. He arranged for her to entice Wiley to their home with an order. When he arrived with the delivery, Foster stabbed and bludgeoned him to death with a baseball bat. He a history of convictions involving threats and violence, though my sources didn’t disclose any specific details.
26. James Robedeaux (1978-2000, lethal injection): In 1978, Robedeaux strangled his first wife, 30 year old Linda, and plead guilty to a second degree murder charges. He was released after serving 6 out of a 25 year sentence despite an escape attempt. In the following year, he began a relationship with 37 year old Nancy McKinney while he married a different woman. During an argument, Robedeaux beat McKinney to death, dismembered her body with a saw and machete, and scattered the remains across the state. While being investigated for McKinney's murder, he was arrested for choking and beating his estranged second wife. The cases were incidental and kept separate by the courts.
27. Roger Berget (~1985-2000, lethal injection): Berget carjacked and abducted 33 year old Rick Patterson with an accomplice, and shot him dead. He also admitted to the beating death of a roommate, 40 year old James Meadows, on the behalf of the man's wife. As a trivial side note, Berget's brother Rodney was executed in 2018 by the state of South Dakota for killing a prison guard [for more information, please see Rodney Berget's entry under the South Dakota section of my states with less then 10 executions post].
28. William Bryson (1988-2000, lethal injection): To collect a $300,000 life insurance policy, Marilyn Plantz recruited her boyfriend Byrson and his friend to kill her husband, 33 year old James. Byrson and his friend ambushed Plantz in his house as he was coming home from work and beat him to death with a baseball bat. With the intentions of staging an accident, Marilyn ordered the pair to burn the body in the couple's pickup truck.
29. Gregg Braun (1989-2000, lethal injection): Across several states, Braun shot and killed 4 women, 48 year old Geraldine Valdez, 31 year old Gwendolyn Miller, 28 year old Mary Rains, 27 year old Barbara Kochendorfer, and one man, 54 year old Pete Spurrier, while robbing stores.
30. George Wallace (~1970s-2000, lethal injection): Known as "the Mad Paddler" due to his habit of spanking abducted preteen and teenage boys with a wooden paddle, Wallace kidnapped his victims by posing as a police officer. After duping his targets into thinking that they were being arrested, Wallace restrained them with handcuffs and leg chains. The captives were then sexually abused and shot or stabbed to death. His crimes were exposed when an 18 year old man he abducted escaped from him despite being shot and stabbed numerous times. By his own admission, Wallace murdered 18 year old Thomas Reed, 15 year old William Domer, 14 year old Mark McLaughlin, 14 year old Jeffrey Foster, and 12 year old Alonzo Cade.
31. Eddie Trice (1987-2001, lethal injection): Trice snuck into the home of 84 year old Ernestine Jones and raped her. After he beat Jones to death with numbchucks, he terrorized and extorted her cognitively disabled son of $500 with threats of killing him if he told anyone of the murder. The son was also assaulted with a hammer, and he received injuries to his right eye, right cheekbone, and his right forearm.
32. Wanda Allen (~1981-2001, lethal injection): In 1981, Allen got into a fight with her live in girlfriend, 21 year old Dedra Pettus, and shot her dead. Despite giving a bungled story about her being accidentally killed in a shootout with Pettus’ ex boyfriend to the investigators, Allen managed to secure a 4 year sentence for manslaughter after pleading guilty to a plea deal, and was released after serving two years. While incarcerated, she started dating a fellow inmate, 29 year old Gloria Leathers, and continued their relationship outside of prison. The couple’s relationship was marred with extreme domestic violence on Allen’s end. In one incident, Allen struck Leathers with a rake. In 1989, while they were arguing in front of a shopping center, Allen shot and killed Leathers. Leathers herself also had history of violence, and had a conviction for stabbing a woman to death. Allen and her defense team tried to use Leathers’ previous convictions to make a self defense argument, but that was shot down by the courts.
33. Floyd Medlock (1990-2001, lethal injection): 7 year old Katherine Busch went to visit her family's old apartment, which Medlock was residing in, by herself. Busch knocked on the door and Medlock let her inside after she begged for food. He then choked and sexually assaulted the girl, dunked her head in a toilet bowl, and stabbed her to death. The body was hidden in a nearby dumpster. Busch's grandmothers were staunch pro capital punishment and anti death penalty activists respectively, and their public feud over Medlock's sentence and execution attracted some media attention. Medlock also had an extensive criminal history despite being only 19 at the time of Busch's murder, and was previously arrested several times for indecent exposure, arson, armed robbery, and marijuana possession.
34. Dion Smallwood (1992-2001, lethal injection): Smallwood walked into the home of his ex girlfriend's adoptive stepmother, 68 year old Lois Frederick, without invitation. He had a tumultuous and often violent relationship with her adopted stepdaughter that she strongly opposed, and they broke up under her pressure. After an argument, Smallwood knocked Frederick unconscious with a croquet mallet, locked her in a car, and burned her alive in it.
35. Mark Fowler (1985-2001, lethal injection): To get back at his ex employers for firing him, Fowler and his partner, Billy Fox, stormed a supermarket that he used to work out. The pair rounded up 3 employees, Chumpon Chaowasin, a 44 year old Thai immigrant, 33 year old Rick Cast, and 27 year old John Barrier, at gun point. Their hostages were shot, clubbed, and stabbed to death, and they took over $2,7000 in cash and checks.
36. Billy Fox (1985-2001, lethal injection): Fox assisted the above mentioned Mark Fowler in robbing a supermarket and murdering 3 of its employees
37. Loyd Lafevers (1985-2001, lethal injection): Lafevers and his accomplice, Randall Cannon, kidnapped 84 year old Addie Hawley from her home. She was raped, trapped in the trunk of a car, and burned alive in it. Although she was rescued, Hawley died from her injuries 6 hours later. The pair stole Hawley's wedding ring and Lafevers gifted it to a stripper. As Hawley's nephew was a Colorado state senator, her murder gained some attention from media outlets.
38. Dorsie Jones Jr. (1979-2001, lethal injection): While drinking at a bar, a barmaid chastised Jones for carrying an unconcealed gun. He shot at her in a fit of rage, but missed and injured his female companion instead. Jones then turned his attention to the other patrons and fired on them. 48 year old Stanley Buck Sr. was killed in front of his 19 year old son, who was also wounded in the shooting.
39. Robert Clayton (~1980s-2001, lethal injection): Clayton attacked 19 year old Rhonda Timmons while she was sunbathing near her apartment. She was raped, stabbed, kicked in the head, and strangled to death with her swimming suit. Her husband found Timmons' body laying next to their infant daughter, who was left unharmed. Clayton had a previous rape conviction in Tennessee and a robbery conviction in Texas.
40. Ronald Fluke (1997-2001, lethal injection): Out of despair that his gambling addiction drove his family to near poverty, Fluke shot and killed his wife, 44 year old Ginger, and their daughters, 13 year old Kathryn and 11 year old Susanne, while they were sleeping in their bedrooms. He initially attacked Ginger with a hatchet, but turned to shooting when she fought back.
41. Marilyn Plantz (1988-2001, lethal injection): The married girlfriend of William Bryson. As mentioned under Bryson's entry, Plantz arranged for him and his friend to kill her husband James to collect his life insurance policy.
42. Terrance James (1983-2001, lethal injection): While awaiting trial for a theft of government property charge, James and two accomplices strangled a fellow inmate, 25 year old Mark Berry, with wire out of their suspicions of him being a snitch. They then hung the body in an attempt to make it look like a suicide. Berry was another party in the theft of government property case, and James and his accomplices believed that it was his testimony that got them arrested.
43. Vincent Johnson (1991-2001, lethal injection): Johnson gunned down 44 year old Shirley Mooneyham in her home. The prosecution believed that Mooneyham's boyfriend arranged the killing to collect a life insurance policy, but he was acquitted at trial.
44. Jerald Harjo (~1980s-2001, lethal injection): Harjo snuck into the bedroom of 64 year old Ruth Porter, raped her, and suffocated her with a pillowcase. He then snatched Porter's car keys and drove off with her van. His past criminal history was extensive, and was in prison numerous times for burglary and autotheft.
45. Jack Walker (1988-2001, lethal injection): Disgruntled with the custody dispute over their then 3 month old son, Walker stabbed his ex girlfriend, 17 year old Shelly Ellison, and her uncle, 30 year old Donald, 32 and 11 times with an ice pick during a confrontation at their home.
46. Alvie Hale Jr. (1983-2001, lethal injection): Hale kidnapped 24 year old William Perry to extort a $350,000 ransom from his banking family. When the negotiations failed, Perry was shot dead, and Hale buried the body on his father's property.
47. Lois Smith (1982-2001, lethal injection): Smith, her son, and a female accomplice abducted her son's ex girlfriend, 21 year old Cindy Baillee, from an airport out of fear her testifying of his involvement in the drug trade. Baillee was taken to Smith's ex husband's house, and stabbed in the throat by her ex boyfriend while driving to their destination. Inside the home, she was taunted by Smith with a gun, and was shot 7 times in the chest and 2 times in the back of the head. While her son was reloading the gun, Smith jumped on and crushed Bailee's throat.
48. Sahib Lateef Al-Mosawi (1992-2001, lethal injection): Following a dispute over their newborn son's name, Al-Mosawi's estranged wife, 26 year old Inaam Al-Nashi, fled to the apartment of her uncle, 45 year old Mohammed. Al-Mosaw attacked the pair in the apartment and stabbed them to death. Inaam's sister was also stabbed, but she managed to escape with her life. The couple and their families were refugees from Iraq that were displaced by the First Persian Gulf War, and they fled into the United States.
49. John Romano (1985-2002, lethal injection): Romano and his accomplice David Woodruff robbed and murdered two of their acquaintances. One of the victims, 63 year old Lloyd Thompson, was attacked in his apartment. Thompson was held down by the pair while they stabbed him 22 times and served his spinal cord. The other victim, 52 year old Roger Sarfaty, was tied up, beaten, stabbed 5 times, and strangled to death in a jewelry store he owned. In the robberies, Romano and Woodruff stole several pieces of jewelry from Sarfaty, and took most of Thompson’s quarter collection.
50. David Woodruff (1985-2002, lethal injection): As mentioned under John Romano's entry, Woodruff took part in the robbery murders of Lloyd Thompson and Roger Sarfaty.
51. Randall Cannon (1985-2002, lethal injection): Cannon assisted Loyd Lafevers in abducting, sexually assaulting, and burning Addie Hawley alive in her car. Although he was acquitted of molesting Hawley, Cannon was still condemned for his part in the kidnapping and murder.
52. Earl Frederick Sr. (~1989-2002, lethal injection): Frederick beat Bradford Beck, a 41 year old veteran that was crippled during his service in the Vietnam war, to death in his home after befriending him. He ransacked the house and dumped Beck's body in a field. A second murder, the robbery and shooting death of a Texan man, 77 year old Shirley Fox, was also tied to him. However, authorities in Texas withheld from prosecuting Fredrick due to his death penalty trial and conviction in Oklahoma. Both Fox and Beck had physical disabilities, which led prosecutors to the conclusion that Frederick intentionally selected and depredated on disabled men.
53. Jerry McCracken (~1980s(?)-2002, lethal injection): McCracken and his accomplice shot up a bar, killed 3 patrons and the bartender, and made off with $350. The victims that lost their lives were 41 year old Carol McDaniels, 37 year old Timothy Sheets, 34 year old Steven Sheets, and 27 year old Tyrrell Boyd. Months before the mass shooting, McCracken was paroled after serving time for stabbing 3 people in a bar fight.
54. Jay Neill (1984-2002, lethal injection): During a bank robbery, Neill disemboweled and nearly decapitated 3 tellers, 42 year old Kay Bruno, 25 year old Joyce Mullenix, and 19 year old Jerri Bowles. A group of 4 customers, consisting of 33 year old Ralph Zeller, a married couple, and their 14 month old daughter, unwittingly walked in on him, and he herded them into a backroom to be shot. Zeller was killed, the couple were wounded, and Neill left the daughter unharmed due to running out of bullets. Neill's boyfriend was given a life sentence for the robbery and murders, despite not being directly involved.
55. Ernest Carter Jr. (~1989-2002, lethal injection): After being fired from an autoshop, Carter robbed it with an accomplice, and fatally shot a security guard, 35 year old Eugene Manowski. The pair stole the shop's tow truck, and later tried to burn it with Carter's girlfriend to destroy any traces of the crime. Carter was also previously accused of burning a friend to death in the previous year, but the charges were dismissed.
56. Daniel Revilla (1987-2003, lethal injection): While babysitting his girlfriend's son, 13 month old Mark Gomez, in their home, Revilla broke the boy’s ribs in a beating and scalded him with boiling water. When he brought the boy to a hospital, Revilla gave a story that he accidentally hit Gomez’s head with a door handle, which was quickly seen through by the staff. According to the accounts of his girlfriend and her family, Revilla was violently abusive to Gomez, and they recounted incidents of him trapping the boy in a kitchen drawer, dunking him in cold water, folding him into a pull up bed, and hanging him by his ankles with duct tape.
57. Bobby Fields (~1990s-2003, lethal injection): Fields shot and killed 77 year old Louise Schem while burglarizing her home. She had tried to shot him with her .25 calibre pistol, but he wrestled the gun away from her, and gunned her down with it. His intentions was to steal Schem's television set to sell for cocaine, but left empty handed after losing his nerves with the struggle and murder. According to court documents, Fields had a previous robbery and assault conviction, and several arrests for drug possession.
58. Walanzo Robinson (1989-2003, lethal injection): A member of the Gangster Bloods street gang, Robinson shot and killed 26 year old Dennis Hill, an affiliate of a rival gang, in a turf war over drug sales.
59. John Hooker (~1971-2003, lethal injection): As a teenager in 1971, Hooker attended a party at a friend's house, and got into an argument. In a fit of anger, he fatally shot 18 year old Alta Lang, and wounded two other partygoers. Due to the witnesses refusing to cooperate with the investigation and being unable to prove any calculated intentions, Hooker was given a manslaughter conviction, and released a few years later. After he was paroled, Hooker started dating Sylvia Stokes, and fathered several children with her. Their troubled relationship lasted for 8 years, and ended when Stokes filed a protection order against him. In retaliation, Hooker lured Stokes and her mother, 53 year old Durcilla Morgan, into his apartment and stabbed them both to death.
60. Scot Hain (~1980s-2003, lethal injection): Hain carjacked and abducted a couple, 27 year old Michael Houghton and 22 year old Laura Sanders. After taking $565 and some bags of clothing, he forced them into the trunk of their car at gunpoint, and burned them alive in it. He had several previous arrests for robbery, and was involved with a number of rapes and attempted kidnappings months before the Houghton and Sanders' murders.
61. Don Hawkins Jr. (1985-2003, lethal injection): Hawkins kidnapped 29 year old Linda Ann Thompson and her two daughters, aged 4 years old and 18 months old, from a mall. Although his original intentions were to ransom off Thompson and her children, Hawkins gang raped the captive woman with his cousin and his girlfriend's teenage nephew, and drowned her in a lake. Thompson's children were spared and simply left with a babysitter. Hawkins and his accomplice then went on a nation wide rampage with his accomplice that involved the abductions and rapes of several grown women and teenage girls, hanging 31 year old David Coupez of Colorado in his home while robbing him, and countless other robberies.
62. Larry Jackson (~1984-2003, lethal injection): In 1984, Jackson shot and killed his girlfriend, 19 year old Freda Washington. He accepted a plea deal that dumbed down the charges to second degree murder, and was given a 30 year sentence for it. During his incarceration, Jackson started a relationship with 29 year old Wendy Cade. Despite her promises of marriage after his release, Cade left him for another man, and they got engaged. When Jackson was assigned to a prison work crew, he snuck out and went to confront Cade. Reportedly, the two had bought alchool, cocaine, and cigerates together and had sex in Cade's apartment. However, they got into an argument, and he slashed Cade's throat and stabbed her 31 times with box cutters. Jackson then left with her jewelry, watch, and the keys to her jeep.

hi, I(single child) and my parents live very far from my hometown where lives my grandpa with the maid/nurse in the neighborhood of pretty helpful people when in need. recently i was done with my important exam and we heard that my grandpa wasn't eating well and has been acting up a lot. So we decided on visit thinking he missed us , he did missed us but that didn't change his bad behaviour. he listens to my uncle who often visit him 2 a week in our absence . but understand my uncle too has life and a lot of responsibility and he's busy. my grandpa hasn't showered for long so somehow my father was able to convice him get him showered and haircut and shaving . but my father can't go any further and is frustrated with his stubborness he's not eating well , he just eats biscuits and a piece of cake that we made or an boiled egg , absolutely no main course food like rice or vegetables causing his stool moment to stop he hasn't used the toilet since 4 days.he even eats on irregular times too. we tried our best to feed him but he's soo stubborn he's clear with his words saying "I. WON'T. EAT." and when today we asked him to come with us to visit the doctor he just hated it saying "I'm fine there's nothing wrong I'm healthy why should I go , i won't". he's refusing to visit a doctor too now.the other day my mum saw long nails he have , she tried clipping them off but he just forcefully took his hand away even when me and the nurse tried . the nurse said that he's bad behavior he once playfully hit her on head when she tried feeding him. he said "if the nails didn't harm him till now it must not in future"he still doesn't obey. is there any psychological trick to make him obey without having the uncle around? we tried explaining a lot why he should eat and our concern we tried listening to his part too but it doesn't add up like "I'm fine i can walk and talk i ate 4 biscuits (it was 1 only) or candy " HELP ME MY Family is frustrated especially my father having no idea what to do and we need to go back to our work place by end of this week.

At 22 years old I was in a severe head-on collision 6 months ago. Had several surgeries including a bowel resection of about 100 cms of intestines. They left the resection site open with a wound vac attached to make sure that it would heal properly. They also gave me a stoma that I had to have for at least 6 months before attempting a reversal. Luckily I healed much quicker than anyone expected, and was able to get the reversal done last Wednesday at the 6 month mark. It’s been an interesting process post-op. Pain hits when breathing deeply, coughing, sneezing, and hiccups just might be the worst. I had my first bowel movement last night, and since then it’s been random bouts of painful diarrhea. I understand it’s great that I’ve had bowel movement, but I’m curious how long I should expect the painful diarrhea to last. I’m on the toilet for 30 minutes at a time trying to make sure it’s all done, but it ends in a nasty mess. The surgeon said this could last for a few months but I’m hoping that isn’t the case. If anyone reading this has gone through this process please let me know tips and tricks to make it easier until my bowel movements are back to “normal” and at least somewhat solid. Thank you very much for any help!

First Part - I play a game they call "Sleep Points". Every night I hide under my blanket (Part 1) : nosleep (reddit.com)
Previous Part - I play a game I call "Sleep Points". Every night I hide under my blanket (Part 19) : nosleep (reddit.com)
I had no idea how to react to any of this. There was a long awkward pause of about 30 or 40 seconds where I just kept my mouth shut and let Anastasia let it all out. My first instinct, though, was to ask probably the dumbest question I could’ve asked at that moment.
“Who’s Wendy Peterson?” I asked. I immediately regretted the question. This was obviously a person ENORMOUSLY important to Anastasia, and here I was, just asking who the hell she was, like she was some nobody. But Anastasia didn’t seem too upset. I guess my question took her mind off the tragedy with her friend, since she seemed to regain her composure a bit after I asked that.
“I –“ she started, then took a few breaths. “I believe I mentioned her in passing during our meeting in the Stairwell a few days ago. When I was a new player, I needed guidance of my own. Wendy was the one who gave it to me,” she explained. “Excuse me for a moment,” she said, leaving the bedroom. I wasn’t entirely sure what she headed out for, but when she came back with a carton of orange juice and a bottle of vodka, it got pretty clear.
“Honestly, I should’ve been expecting this…” she trailed off, somberly, pouring herself a shot from the bottle and promptly downing it. “Her time was nearly up,” she explained. “One cannot play Sleep Points forever, Morgan. You can extend your time with this game all you like, but The Sandman always collects his due,” she said.
“Would you care for any?” she asked, gesturing towards the vodka bottle. On the one hand, she was probably one of the smartest, most athletic, and most all-around most accomplished students in school. She had all the best grades, all the best awards, all the best everything. And yet still, THIS was apparently the person that all those after-school specials had warned me about when they would try and scare me about “peer pressure”.
I had never been offered anything like alcohol or weed or cigarettes or ANYTHING by anyone before. Well scratch that, now and then Ezra would offer me some skunk-weed for like 90 bucks a gram. He used to make a killing heading down to the seedier parts of town buying the cheapest pot he could he get his hands on, and then re-selling it over at College High for a fucking LAUGHABLE mark-up.
Now, I had never smoked before, but even I of all people could tell that whatever Ezra was selling was absolutely NOT worth what he was charging. But a lotta freshmen at College High were so desperate for ANYTHING to get ‘em high and they’re obviously not always the sharpest tools in the shed, so even with his INSANE scalping techniques, he STILL found plenty of willing buyers.
But either way, it was ONE thing when the school edgelord offered you something. That just kinda comes with the territory, and you pretty much know to expect it. But to be offered alcohol – and very STRONG alcohol at that – by my school’s model student was nothing I could’ve ever expected. Although, this was also the same girl who was telling me to steal my parents’ car keys, sneak out in the middle of the night without either one of our parents knowing, and head on over to her place. So maybe encouraging me to break the law wasn’t THAT far out of Anastasia’s wheelhouse, come to think of it.
“Well, I DID have to drive up here. I’m gonna have to drive back, too, y’know. You DO realize that, right?” I said.
“Oh c’mon, one shot won’t kill you,” she said, trying to egg me on a little. “You’ll be sober by the time you leave at 3. And besides. What other cars will be out at THIS time of night? Don’t let Ezra’s hallucination tricks fool you. He can make you see all KINDS of things, Morgan. If you wanna know if he’s REALLY there, just poke him,” she said, downing a second shot. Which was a bit concerning to me, because I had always heard about how you’re supposed to pace yourself with drinking and this second shot came pretty shortly after the first.
“If he’s not, your finger will go right through him. Why, it’s practically a rite of passage for new players to be thoroughly bamboozled by one of Ezra’s visual gags,” she explained. “Some would call it hazing. And I would not find that to be an unfair assessment. Ezra has a rather twisted sense of humor to say the least. Tricking you into thinking that you were about to crash headlong into his vehicle is perfectly consistent to his character,” she said. Had I told her about that? I figured it didn’t really matter, since she would’ve found out either way.
“I tend to prefer my vodka neat, though I suppose you have yet to become acclimated to the taste. It is most off-putting to the inexperienced. That is why I have brought this carton of orange juice, such that the alcoholic flavor of your beverage shall be masked to a comfortable extent,” she said. “Now don’t worry, I will only pour in ONE shot. You would hardly taste it,” she concluded, as she finished pouring out my drink.
I took a sip. I’ll admit, it tasted a little funky, but not enough to gross me out or anything. So, I had a little more. Anastasia seemed quite pleased with this. She then poured herself a THIRD shot. So, just because I feel like keeping score, we were now only about 20 minutes into our meeting and this girl was on shot number THREE. She had only brought the bottle out about 10 minutes before this. Though in her defense, she didn’t have any more after that. Y’know. For about another 20 minutes. Yeah.
“That should be quite enough,” she said, finishing her third shot. She got up, put the bottle and the orange juice away, and we were back to Wendy.
“Now, Wendy is not someone you would be familiar with, because she is from upstate,” she explained. “VERY upstate. She lives in Barrow,” she said. Technically, that little town in the way far north of Alaska changed its name to something else a few years before all this, but I can’t pronounce or spell it, so I’ll just be calling it by it’s old name “Barrow” since that’s easier.
“Well, ‘lived’, perhaps I should say,” she said correcting herself. “I too lived in Barrow until fairly recently. Though my family had moved to Alaska from St. Petersburg when I was 3, we did not move to Fairbanks. Instead, we had moved to Barrow, where we had lived for approximately 10 years from sometime in the spring of 2007 until December 1^st, 2017, just over a year ago now, by now. I recall the date as it was an extremely difficult move. Not least because I had already been playing Sleep Points for over a year by then,” she said.
“Well, what about playing Sleep Points made the move so difficult?” I asked.
“I must remind you that to hide from The Sandman, you must be asleep in your OWN bed,” she explained. “I would not have been capable of escaping the clock by moving. It would follow me throughout my travels, as it ultimately did. And I knew all of this l in advance. For a few dreadful hours, I had truly thought this impromptu move from Barrow to Fairbanks would be the death of me. Surely this would require several nights out of my bed, I had thought,” she explained.
“And I must stress the point that this move was EXTREMELY spontaneous. I had not been told of it even a day in advance. One day my father told me to pack up everything into our RV, and the next, we were on the road. Well, the metaphorical road in any case. Now you see, a particularly complicated facet of my father’s bizarre plan to move us from Barrow to Fairbanks all at once was the fact that there are no roads connecting to Barrow. Typically, when a person leaves town with a great deal of luggage and cargo as we did, given that we had to take all our possessions with us as we would not be returning, it is during the summer, when the oceans have thawed, allowing for various cargo ships to ferry one’s things to one’s desired destination. Given that it was December at the time, this was simply not an option,” she explained.
“And we of course could not use an airplane to fly to Fairbanks given that everything in our old house would never fit on a commercial airliner. The only feasible option was my father’s Recreational Vehicle. It was extraordinarily cramped, but after a few hours when all was said and done, most of our things managed to, in principle, ‘fit’ to some uncomfortable degree or other”, she said. “Though some things did still need to be left behind. Such as my bedframe, for example. Though I had strongly insisted on bringing my mattress.
I did not know for certain if my bedframe was required to stave off The Sandman, but, given the frankly preposterous circumstances in which I had found myself, I had gambled on the notion that all I would need to stay safe would be to sleep in the same mattress. During my first night in the RV, I was entirely unaware of whether or not I would live to see the following day. As midnight approached, I felt my life slipping away from me, as though it were flashing before my eyes, as the old cliché goes. I am forever grateful that my clever loophole successfully warded off my seemingly inevitable demise,” she said.
And again, as a reminder, she’s 3 shots of hard liquor in at this point and still prattling on like a goddamn encyclopedia, just like how she usually would. I gotta admit, I was damn near genuinely impressed with how lucid and intellectual she could still sound, even after all she had had to drink. She didn’t even seem tipsy. Though one thing I will say, is that while she would usually speak in an American accent, the deeper and deeper into her drinking she would get, there would always seem to be more and more bits and pieces of her original Russian accent creeping through. Though at that point, I could hardly notice it. But anyway, back to the story Anastasia was telling me.
“Though I must say, my father was very opposed to me taking my mattress. And I could not, for the life of me, ascertain why. When I asked him, he claimed it was because we needed to conserve as much space as possible, and that, because there was a pullout couch in the RV for me to sleep on, that I should use that instead. But I knew for a fact, for an absolute FACT, that spending even a single night out of my proper bed would end my life most abruptly. And so, I persisted. The rest of the family was already quite opposed to the move initially, and thus I had high hopes of turning them against him, thereby overruling his decision to force me to leave behind my mattress. And, through enough prodding from my mother, my father relented, and I took it with me,” she finished.
“Well, if the rest of your family was so against the move, then how did you guys end up going through with it?” I asked.
Anastasia seemed like she was hesitating a bit to answer the question. For a moment, it looked like she might not have been comfortable answering, but then explained the difficult situation to me as carefully as she could.
“Now that, Morgan, is a rather… complicated question,” she said, slowly. “My father has what one might consider a somewhat… ‘colorful’ past, shall we say,” she explained. “Now, I am not entirely certain of the specifics as he has never been particularly forthcoming about them, but from what I gather, this colorful past of his likely has something or other to do with organized crime or perhaps something else of a similar nature.
In any case, that phase of his life is behind him, and he would most definitely appreciate it remaining that way. That was why we had initially emigrated from Russia in the first place. And why we had moved to Barrow, Alaska in particular. My father wished to make it as challenging as possible for him to be tracked down and, with Barrow being perhaps one of the most remote communities on the face of the earth, he had considered it a strong candidate. But, in late 2017, he unfortunately was tracked down after all. And he had very little time to do anything about it.
As frustrating as it was to have to pick up everything all at once and to travel hundreds of miles through the dense Alaskan forest by RV, we all understood that whatever agents or mafiosos were after him would not spare a single one of us either, thus it was absolutely crucial that we all go into hiding as fast as possible. And so, we acquiesced to my father’s spontaneous decision that we move to Fairbanks as there was a common understanding in the family that he would not be asking any such things of us unless ghosts of his past were coming back to haunt us all. We knew we had no choice but to vacate the premises post-haste.
As it so happened, there was, and continues to be, a certain man in Fairbanks that, through methods unbeknownst to me, allows for my father to hide in plain sight, and to never be tracked down again. That made Fairbanks our new safest option, and it is why my father moved us all to this town specifically. This means that we will thankfully never have to make any such sudden change in residency ever again, “she concluded.
“Would you like another drink?” she asked, noticing I had already finished my orange juice with the shot of vodka she had given it. “In any case, I will be pouring myself another shot,” she added. “And I do hate to drink alone. I find alcohol consumption far more rewarding when drinking in the company of a friend. I am aware that I set a rather poor example by having so much all at once right in front of you, but in my own defense, you should know that I do not drink in such excess when I am alone. I would DEFINITELY never endorse such behavior from anyone else, and it is why I am quite glad to have you around to care for me, should anything go awry,” she said.
“Well, how the hell am I supposed to do THAT if I’m already two drinks in myself?” I asked, trying to be the voice of reason in order to clamp down on all of this, since to me, it looked like things were starting to get out of hand. I wanted to believe she wouldn’t drink like this while alone, and that she was only doing this because she was having a really tough time getting over the death of her best friend Wendy, and just felt safe with me around. Looking back, I think at the time, that was more or less true. Maybe not entirely true, but with the benefit of hindsight, I can confidently say that at this point, having 4 shots in an hour was a bit much, even for Anastasia. But unfortunately for her, it wasn’t about to stay that way in the coming years.
“Morgan, if you are sober enough to ensure that I do not vomit anywhere other than the toilet, you will have done a fine job of caring for me. And I likely will not throw up at all, as I happen to have a rather strong alcohol tolerance as it is,” she said. For a moment, it seemed like there was a hint of pride in her voice, but that quickly went away when she realized what she had just told me, and what it implied about how much she would normally have, even when alone.
“Well, not because of how much I would TYPICALLY have to drink, I should say. This alcohol tolerance of mine is by no means ACQUIRED,” she backtracked. “Rather, it is a simple result of my genetics. My forebearers had a great deal of alcohol tolerance themselves, which it would appear I have inherited,” she explained, defensively. “Well, I’ll pour you out another, in case you would like one, but don’t feel pressure to drink it if you wouldn’t like to. I’ll have it myself, if you are uninterested,” she offered.
On the one hand, I knew I would be scared to death to drive back home if I was two drinks in, but on the other, I really wanted this fourth shot to be her last one of the night and take away any excuse she could have to drink any further. And then there was the fact that I didn’t wanna look ungrateful for her offer. She had already said she considered me a friend, and it seemed really important to her that I just go along with her and have another. This really seemed like her way of reaching out and trying to connect with me, so I just felt bad turning her down.
Though I’ll admit, it may have also been because I had a bit of a buzz going myself and wasn’t gonna say no to a bit more of one. Though I couldn’t let Anastasia know about any of that. If I did, then she’d have an excuse to get me just as wasted as she was, and I seriously could NOT let something like that happen.
“There you are, my good man. Na zdroviye,” she said, clinking her shot glass against my glass of orange juice mixed with a shot of my own.
“I’m sorry?” I asked, not quite getting the last part of what she had said.
“I said ‘na zdroviye’,” she said, a bit more slowly, enunciating the phrase she had said before. “I can’t blame you for being confused. It’s a common Russian saying when sharing a drink with one’s close confidants. It means ‘for good health’,” she explained. “Well, go on. Say it back. Have manners, now,” she said.
“I… don’t think I can pronounce that. I don’t speak any Russian,” I said.
“Understandable. I suppose it’s a somewhat difficult phrase for English speakers. But I would still appreciate your best attempt at it,” she said.
“Well alright, but I won’t promise not to butcher it,” I said, before saying something more along the lines of like “nsdroveh”.
“Meh, close enough,” said Anastasia, before downing her fourth shot of the night.
“This is gonna have to be my last one, though. It’s 1:40, and I’m gonna need to be on the road by about 3, if this meeting is gonna go according to your schedule,” I said.
“What time do your parents wake up on weekends?” she asked. “If they sleep in, you might not have to leave until 4, maybe even 5. I am entering a new stage tonight, and I would not like to go through my first night alone. That, in tandem with the fact that we still have so much more of Sleep Points to go over, is why I am far more concerned with you leaving too early rather than too late,” she said. “We may well need to fit two nights of discussions into one, tonight. Have you met your sleep quota yet?” she asked.
“Well… not quite. But should be able to get 90 minutes in during the day tomorrow. I mean, I’ve been up for 2 days, and it really feels like the new moon has been helping. I’ve already strung together 26 minutes so far, and since tomorrow is Saturday, I’ve got all day tomorrow to get some sleep in,” I explained.
“You cannot afford to risk that. If you still need 90 minutes of sleep within the next 24 hours or so, then it will be far too dangerous for you to risk missing out on it by coming to visit. You must stay at home tomorrow night. I will not let you in if you decide to come anyway,” she said. “26 minutes after two under a waning moon is, I must again say, a rather poor sign. Most by now would have strung together at least a full hour. At least among those only in Stage Two, in any case.
Now, I have no doubt that, with the melatonin I have given you, you will have nothing to worry about this weekend. The new moon will shortly be upon us, and, so long as you have melatonin at your disposal, you will most likely survive the next week or two with relative ease. It is the full moon that concerns me. The full moon on later stages, to be more specific. Not only do I have my reservations about your capacity to survive the upcoming full moon in roughly three weeks’ time, but even if you do, it will still be very worrying when you are confronted with the next full moon, when you are on Stage Three. And there are many more stages beyond that as well, each more sleep depriving than the last.
Even though you sustained 90 minutes of sleep within 72 hours once, it was a rather close call. And not even during a full moon, at that. How much closer of a call will it be when it finally arrives? I don’t see anything happening to you in the immediate future, but when I look to the long-term, I must say that your chances appear quite bleak. Now, since you have only gotten 26 minutes of continuous sleep since your last 90-minute stretch, I suppose that would mean that you have yet utilize any of the melatonin gummies since then, correct?” she asked.
“Oh no, I haven’t had any since then,” I responded. She seemed pretty relieved by that. “Good. Very good. While this does not improve my outlook on your long-term safety, your response thankfully does not worsen my predictions, as I had feared it would. How many melatonin gummies had you taken Wednesday night?” she asked.
“Well, I had taken 10, but that’s not too much, right? I mean, you had said I might need to take up to 10, didn’t you?” I asked.
“While it is true that I had suggested the possibility of requiring up to 10, I had hoped that that amount would not be the amount required of you. I had hoped that you would only need perhaps 5 or 6. While 10 is not entirely beyond the pale, it is still quite unideal. At this rate, you may have even run out of gummies entirely by the time of the full moon. I will provide you with a new container of gummies if I must, but I fear that that will only be putting a band-aid over your issues. How long will that container last? I do not have an endless supply of sleep points to spend on you.
I, myself, shall run out eventually, as my supply of sleep points will not be able to replenish itself if I am so constantly supplying you with increasingly potent sleeping aids. I have plenty of sleeping supplements which I must supply myself if I wish to continue in this new and most challenging stage that I have reached tonight. They are quite expensive, so I will have very little left over in order to cover YOUR insomnia, as well as my own.
You are quite lucky that you did not snoop through my window during this stage. You would have surely died, being that close to The Sandman if I had already graduated to this one by then. That is why, along with being so inappropriate, what you had done was so dangerous. If I had been even one Stage farther along, you would not have come out of that episode alive.
I must now be asleep every hour on the hour from 12AM to 5AM, just I had to be during the previous stage. I must also have been asleep for 5 minutes by the time a new hour is reached, and I must also remain asleep for another 5 minutes beyond that, where before I had only needed to be asleep on the hour, and nothing more.
It is presently 1:50. This means that I now have only 5 minutes to fall asleep, and so I will have to leave things here for now, though I expect to see you back at 2:05, when I may wake up once more. Sit in your truck until then. Do not stand out in the cold. Furthermore, and I cannot stress this enough, do not look through my window. Even after The Sandman is gone. I hope I have made it clear that you should never do any such thing ever again. Now leave. When 2:00 comes, you will not be safe anywhere in the vicinity of my house. I have already wasted another minute explaining the situation to you, so please leave right this instant. Go,” she finished.
She didn’t have to tell me twice. I was already panicking for her, knowing that she had to go from being wide awake to completely past out in just 4 minutes. Maybe the alcohol would help put her to sleep. Maybe that was another reason she had had so much. She needed it in order to help her be asleep on time. Though, granted, it was probably more complicated than that.
Either way, I knew to keep away as she had asked. She quickly turned out the light of her bedroom, and once I had gotten my heavy winter coat back on, I sped out back to my truck as fast as I could. I even pulled out of the driveway and drive up the street a little ways just for good measure. And when 2:00 came, I was glad that I had. Even from up the street, I could see that her entire house was now completely enveloped in a sinister red glow. And I could hear The Sandman all the way from out there. It sounded just as loud as it did when it was right next to me in own room. With how loud it was from where I was sitting, I could only imagine how absolutely deafening it must’ve been from where Anastasia had been laying.
How the hell was she managing to sleep so soundly through all of this? I wasn’t really sure if I wanted to know. In any case, I was way too busy with making sure I was far enough away to keep myself safe, as it was. Because the glowing red light was starting to grow, and it was starting to look like it might just have been heading toward me. I wasn’t entirely certain of what would happen if I DID get caught up in the red glow, but I had enough sense to know that it couldn’t possibly have been anything good.

https://imgur.com/a/MdN6xhy
So, I've seen a few posts struggling with ole' Father Time, and I thought I'd brew up the pause incantation and take some helpful screenshots for those who need it.
Phase 1
Chronos has two basic attacks, a dash and a scythe swing. If you're hit by the scythe, he'll stun you. Each one leaves an afterburn trail behind it that will detonate one second later. Note that this afterburn is unblockable. More on these basic attacks later.
Phase 1 starts with a bunch of Satyrs around. I like to dash back towards the Styx and clear them out before Grandpappy starts busting a move, but if you have some boons that like having adds you might keep them around longer (looking at you, Hitchin' Hera.)
Chronos' next trick is a move I like to call the suck and blow. He'll spin Hrodreptus (his pretentiously-named scythe) and vacuum you into it while charging a big shot.
The only real danger here is if you use a Hex. Because Chronos just ignores all time slowing, what'll happen is you'll get vacuumed in and take a ton of damage. Don't do this.
Just circle around and wail on him, or if you can't, run far and be ready to dodge his moneyshot.
Chronos Phase 1 will phase at 3/4, 1/2, and 1/4 health. Each time he spawns adds and a small bullet hell around himself. Don't stand near him.
After 1/2 health, he'll start to combo his basic moves in a set of three. This can be any combination of dash and scythe. The danger here is if you get stunned by a scythe swing he's going to triple combo you, so don't do that.
Chronos will at some point spawn banners. These pulse, giving barrier to your enemies. They also are made of cloth, having roughly 2-300 hp, so bursting them all down before he gets a single barrier is pretty easy.
Chronos can teleport, and will do so often. He leaves behind a circle that turns into a timefreeze dome, so don't be in that.
Chronos can summon balls that orbit him, which he'll then try to dash into you with. If you can make him dash into a wall, he'll smash his balls.
By far the easiest thing to get hit by in Phase 1 is his scythe throw. It always travels clockwise from him, so try to run in that direction, but I'll be honest it comes out fast and is both big and fast, so you're probably going to get hit a lot before you get the timing on a dodge.
At 1/4 health, the adds he summons have armor. I've seen them be as easy as laser goldbags, and as bad as Satyrs.
So the really tricky part about Chronos is just how many moves he adds to phase 2. He retains all of the above moves except banners while adding an entirely new moveset.
Phase 2 always opens with a full-screen oneshot. There's always one place to stand safely, on one of the 12 hours of the clockface arena.
He will, in my experience, often follow this up with his second one-shot, floating to the middle of the arena which has a donut-shaped safe area around him.
Be careful while standing in the safe spot for both one-shots. Quite a few of your attacks will shift your model just enough to have a toe out of place and get a death defiance slapped out of you for it.
Next new move is a slowly shrinking ring, just dodge through it as it approaches. This can have multiple concentric rings.
He'll time-slow you at random, there's no image of this but it doesn't last long.
He'll summon a red ticking hand on the clock. This does damage and persist, unlike the gold clock hands he summons.
He'll do a bullet hell, this time in the entire arena. This is indicated by three red circles, but the bullets are slow and don't persist too long.
He'll summon a timestop dome in the middle of the clock and at each clockface. This can be tricky to dodge.
At 1/2 health he spawns adds, starting at 12 and sequentially warping in clockwise. These are the annoying torch-special throwing hourglasses that explode in a timefreeze. Mostly they just distract you from the real threat though, which is that now Chronos is mad and will do his three-hit combo, in addition to his second-phase moves.
Last new move is gold clock hands that spawn in and then detonate. These start at spawning 2 and reach full arena saturation once he's low. Combined with everything above they can difficult to dodge.
Above all, the number 1 biggest danger is Chronos himself. Getting hit by the arena is bad, but if he combos you, he can easily take 3 death defiance.
Thanks for coming to my TED talk.
Death to Chronos.

Hi all,
Wanted to know what I can do about this, when I flush the upstairs toilet it fills up and then goes down to the normal level after 2-3 mins. The shower is also draining but very slowly. All other toilets in the house are fine.
I assume it the the drainage run from that one bathroom that is the issue?
I’ve tried drain unblocker and boiling water multiple times.
Thanks

Set during pre-ep65.
Warning: -first time actually making a fanfic -made by a beginner; writer for fun -dialogue seems bad(author's personal opinion) -made in a few hours -probably not true to the characters lol (keyword: probably)
Note: if there are Grammer issues please say so my autocorrect hates me.
.
As the flames of the battlefield slowly dimmed as what kept the fire going slowly turned to ash.
The once chaotic battlefield had slowly but surely gone silent with the occasional random sounds from somewhere near or far away from the battlefield.
The sounds of CameraCopters echoed distantly, on the silent battlefield with various Camera and Speakermen walking around to find survivors of their enemies, hoping to finish the job.
However, amongst the Cameraman and Speakerman, two figures stood still, silently watching the others do their job.
The first figure is named PlungerMan and the second figure is known as DarkSpeaker, ever since the fight ended, they stood still looking around the battlefield often watching the others finishing the occasional surviving toilets.
PlungerMan opened up a private communication within his internal system to talk with DarkSpeaker.
"Say how long do you think that bastard G-toilet has before he dies against our Titans?"
DarkSpeaker looked at him questionably,why would Plunger ask him a question suddenly? He looked to the side thinking of an answer to Plunger's question.
"I doubt that coward would die any sooner."
PlungerMan looked at him confused, after all the Titans were closing in on his position that toilet bastard will die sooner or later.
"But, why wouldn't he die sooner? The Titans get closer to him every hour."
DarkSpeaker slowly shook his head in disagreement, looked at Plunger and sternly replied.
"Because G-toilet is a coward."
Plunger was more confused, what does being a coward constitute to him not dying sooner? Wouldn't being a coward make you die sooner?
"What does being a coward have anything to do with his inevitable death?"
A soft and long sound echoed from DarkSpeaker's head as if imitating a human's sigh.
"Everything, Plunger, everything."
PlungerMan didn't reply and waited for DarkSpeaker to continue his reason.
"G-toilet will do all sorts of tricks and traps to ensure his survival no matter what."
"Even if the Titans were to corner him, he would have something up his sleeves to completely take them by surprise"
"After all, he isn't the toilet's leader for nothing."
PlungerMan slowly processed his words, it would make the most logical sense but his faith in the Titans winning and the war finally ending override his logical side, he looked to the side and replied with.
"I doubt he would have anything up his sleeves, his upgrades are damaged and he's injured as well, he will be easy for the Titans to kiII."
DarkSpeaker looked at him before shaking his head in disappointment.
They were silent momentarily before DarkSpeaker questioned why PlungerMan had asked him the odd question of when g-toilet would die.
"Plunger, why did you ask me how long G-toilet inevitably dies? It is just odd for you to suddenly ask out of nowhere."
PlungerMan replied with—
"Because I'm tired."
DarkSpeaker looked at him a bit surprised, PlungerMan being tired? Unheard of, but tired of what exactly? He has an idea on what it was.
"I'm tired of this endless back and forth, it's all repeating in a loop, we win, the toilets find some way and upgrade themselves and we get defeated and then we find some way, and upgrade ourselves and repeat."
"It's just a stupid f cking loop at this point, I'm tired of seeing my comrades and friends die and I'm tired of constantly fighting, I just want the war to end."
As PlungerMan finished, he looked at the ground with clenched fists, DarkSpeaker silently walked towards him and patted his shoulders to comfort Plunger, both of them stood in silence with DarkSpeaker's hand in Plunger's shoulder.
after some time had passed DarkSpeaker slowly walked away, stopping to take one last look at Plunger before going to help the other Speakermen and Cameramen to kiII off any toilet strugglers.
PlungerMan slowly lifted the lens of his camera head and looked at the sky
The war had to end today, it HAS to end today.
PlungerMan looked at the sky for a few more seconds before joining the others in clearing out the last few toilets who had been hiding.
.
.
Unfortunately, for PlungerMan.
G-toilet did have something for the Titans, and PlungerMan's dream of the war ending did not come true, even in his last moments the war never ended.

Set during pre-ep65.
Warning: -made by a beginner; writer for fun -dialogue seems bad(author's personal opinion) -made in a few hours -probably not true to the characters lol(keyword:probably)
Note:if there are Grammer issues please say so my autocorrect hates me.
.
As the flames of the battlefield slowly became dimmer as the things keeping the fire going had slowly turned to ash.
The once chaotic battlefield had slowly but surely gone silent with the occasional random sounds from somewhere near or far away from the battlefield.
Distant sounds of CameraCopters echoed distantly, on the silent battlefield with the various Cameramen and Speakermen walking around to find any survivors of their enemies, in hopes of finishing the job.
However amongst the Cameraman and Speakerman, two figures stood still, silently watching the others do their job.
The first figure is named PlungerMan and the second figure is known as DarkSpeaker, ever since the fight ended, they stood still looking around the battlefield often watching the others finishing the occasional surviving toilets.
PlungerMan opened up a private communication within his internal system to talk with DarkSpeaker.
"Say how long do you think that bastard G-toilet has before he dies against our Titans?"
DarkSpeaker looked at him questionably,why would Plunger ask him a question sudenly? He looked to the side thinking of an answer to Plunger's question.
"I doubt that coward would die any time sooner."
PlungerMan looked at him confused, after all the Titans are closing in on his position that toilet bastard is going to die sooner or later.
"But, why wouldn't he die sooner? The Titans are getting closer to him every hour."
DarkSpeaker slowly shook his head in disagreement, and looked at Plunger and replied in a serious tone.
"Because, G-toilet is a coward."
Plunger was even more confused, what does being a coward constitutes to him not dying sooner? Wouldn't being a coward make you die sooner?
"What does being a coward have anything to do with his inevitable death?"
A soft and long sound echoed from DarkSpeaker's head as if imitating a human's sigh.
"Everything, Plunger, everything."
PlungerMan didn't reply and waited for DarkSpeaker to continue his reason.
"G-toilet will do all sorts of tricks and traps to ensure his survival no matter what."
"Even if the Titans were to corner him, he would have something up his sleeves to completely take them by surprise"
"After all, he isn't the toilets leader for nothing."
PlungerMan slowly processed his words, it would make the most logical sense but his faith for the titans winning and the war finally ending overrode his logical side, he looked to the side and replied with.
"I doubt he would have anything up his sleeves, his upgrades are damaged and he's injured as well, he will be easy for the titans to kiII."
DarkSpeaker looked at him before shaking his head in disappointment.
They stood in silence for a moment before DarkSpeaker questioned why PlungerMan had asked him the odd question of when g-toilet will die randomly.
"Plunger, why did you ask me the question of how long G-toilet inevitably dies? It is just odd for you to suddenly ask out of nowhere."
PlungerMan replied with—
"Because, I'm tired."
DarkSpeaker looked at him a bit surprised, PlungerMan being tired? Unheard of, but tired of what exactly? He has an idea on what it was.
"I'm tired of this endless back and forth, it's all repeating in a loop, we win, the toilets find some way and upgrade themselves and we get defeated and then we find some way, and upgrade ourselves and repeat."
"It's just a stupid fcking loop at this point, I'm tired of seeing my comrades and friends die and I'm tired of constantly fighting, I just want the war to end."*
As PlungerMan finished, he looked at the ground with clenched fists, DarkSpeaker silently walked towards him and patted his shoulders to comfort Plunger, both of them stood in silence with DarkSpeaker's hand in Plunger's shoulder.
after some time had passed DarkSpeaker slowly walked away, stopping to take one last look at plunger before going to help the other Speakermen and Cameramen to kiII off any toilet strugglers.
PlungerMan, slowly lifted the lens of his camera head and looked at the sky
The war had to end today, it HAS to end today.
PlungerMan, looked at the sky for a few more seconds before joining the others in clearing out the last few toilets who had been hiding.
.
.
Unfortunately, for PlungerMan.
G-toilet did have something for the titans, and PlungerMan's dream of the war ending did not come true, even in his last moments the war never ended.

Day 39. I had a dream that I was in my cousin’s home. My grandma and dad were there. A fire broke out in Xinjiang. They’re telling to hurry and pack my stuff.
But somehow they also need to talk to the embassy to get me checked out? The embassy registration guy told me (in English wtf) that I need to upload a picture of my recreation of a face drawing. I was skeptical but they said I had to, so I did. It turned out pretty alright, but messed up on the proportions. Then my grandma took a video of four different face sketches putting them in as mine, but some were not mine. Maybe they were my cousin’s?
I then had to use the bathroom, so I looked downstairs and the toilet was flooded. So I headed to the second floor instead, where my uncle and aunt lived. It was alright.
I headed down the downstairs, and seeing my grandma and dad kneeling over the papers on the table.
I then remember that my cousin wasn’t alive anymore. Feeling sad because it was a car accident or heat stroke or something.
End of dream.
Edit: when I woke up, I realized that my cousin was indeed alive, but it was another dream I had a month ago that tricked me.
Woke up at around 16:00. It’s may 11th.

So, I’m working on a deck based around [[Volrath, the Shapestealer]]. I’m planning on doing a lot of combat tricks, stuff like making him unblockable before combat is declared, and then changing him to something with infect. Nasty, I know.
I was wondering, if I copied a creature with myriad, say, [[Wizards of Thay]], whether I could circumvent the exiling of the tokens by then changing the token Volraths to a different creature, and thus keep the tokens after combat? Im pretty sure I can’t, but clarification if appreciated. t’s still a very cool interaction regardless, but keeping the tokens would go absolutely wild.

Plumbing people of Reddit, I need some advice. In our laundry room in the basement of our 1940s house, we have this floor drain that will occasionally back up. We’ve had it jetted and it’s fixed it. However, this time is a little different. In past times it’s any water run (shower, sink or toilet) that leads to the backup.
This time, it is just the toilet on the main floor. That one flushes, the basement toilet bubbles up and some water backs up in the basement shower, and that laundry room drain backs up just a little bit. Neither shower causes any issues, and the basement toilet will fill when we try to flush, it drains but doesn’t have the normal “power” of a flush.
We’ve tried the trick of turning on all the water and flushing both toilets to push out a clog that a previous plumber showed us, but that had little, if any, success.
Since the two bathrooms are on top of one another, I’m thinking that there’s a clog somewhere in the line between the two toilets. Is that a plausible theory here? Planning to call a plumber on Monday if this issue doesn’t resolve itself, but I don’t want to pay for “emergency” services so I figured I’d try some DIY solutions first

made this for my narrative essay in american literature, but one of my friends said i should share the story
“But I Still Need You” Throughout my life, I had always fallen easy for girls. The elementary mindset of, “she’s cute, so I have a crush on her,” prevented me from developing a legitimate relationship with any girl I tried to talk to. The few times that my feelings were reciprocated, I had no idea because I was already on to the next girl, and this continued until I was left with a multitude of friend-zone situations and a list of “crushes.” My charisma already lacking, it seemed each year that passed, previous to 3rd grade, I grew in weight and therefore awkwardness. The struggle to interact with women lessened as I grew up, while the fat remained. So, by the 8th grade I was the ideal guy friend; easy to talk to, kinda funny, understanding, and unintimidating. My approachable “funny fat friend” nature had its ups and downs. While guys, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, suspected me to be gay, girls found it intriguing and it made them want to be friends with me more. Back then I didn’t know, but now I know that by being forced to be friends first, after finding out I was in fact not gay, the right woman for me would want to be with me for my personality. In the winter of 2021, I fell hard for a girl named Madeline. Maddie was no different than many of the other girls in that she had a bland personality and I thought she was cute. She had brunette hair with bangs, big glasses, way too much makeup on, and a unique fashion sense. Her sense of fashion was one of the few interesting things about her, yet it was disregarded by the public. Not too many guys found her appealing, but I did, for whatever reason. I was dead set on getting to know her better in hope of becoming more than friends. Unfortunately, she hardly paid attention to me, but I didn’t give up. I merely slowed down because of my interest in her friend, Isabella. Isabella is the Spanish and Italian variation of Elizabeth (derived from the Hebrew name Elisheba). The meaning of Elishiba can be translated to, “God is my oath.” In Arabic, the beginning of Isabella, “Isa,” is the classical Arabic name for Jesus, while in the French language, the shortened version of Isabella, “Belle,” translates to “beautiful.” I had met Isabella in the sixth grade, and grew a tiny crush on her, in the elementary sense, before we all went into hibernation (COVID). I barely knew her though, and she had no idea who I was, so when we interacted in my last two classes, if we did at all, it was like two strangers who kept running into each other. I sat by her in my sixth period, and one seat up and to the right from her in seventh. We only ever made small talk and the occasional joke, but when I spoke with her I felt content. Still barely knowing her, all I could admire was the little things in the way she laughed and spoke. I longed to know more about Isabella, she was mature, intelligent, and very opinionated, but still light-hearted and made time pass at the speed of light. It wasn’t until she was in my group in sixth period one day that she began to open up a little by sharing the details of her current long-distance relationship. The shards of my heart stabbed and crushed my stomach; hope, the oxygen to my mind, depleted faster than the air of a broken space shuttle; palpitation, nausea, asphyxia, and neurosis bombarded me like Persian arrows on the Greeks. Then, all at once, the excruciating tidal wave evaporated, but instead of calm waters, I was left with a drought. Every emotion muted or gone, my body went numb while everything I cared for vanished from my mind. I didn’t speak throughout the rest of that day, and went directly from the bus to decaying in my bed. I was devastated, so I retreated to my pointless crush on Maddie. Unrelated to the rather sad lovelife, my anxiety and depression worsened throughout 8th grade, and while I was going to therapy, most of my issues wouldn’t and still haven’t been worked through. Throughout the school year I had developed a toxic system of self pity, in which I would spend hours a day cycling through the feelings of hope, anger, and despair- never that of joy. I knew what I was doing, gathering enough hope to face the school day just before I reflected on the doubts and grievances going on throughout my life. I’d bring myself up just for a greater fall because honestly, overtime I became numb to the natural pain. If I were going to fall into the pit that is depression, the higher I peaked in terms of optimism the more excruciating the freefall of nausea and the heavy flow of salt water. At that point in my life, I saw no point in getting out of bed to do anything, school or even my own mother’s birthday. By the end of eighth grade I had spent almost a total of six weeks absent, two of which were from me being quarantined. Typically over the span of one or two days, others up to four, I would be in my bed “sick.” During these mini-vacations I would sleep all morning, if my mom let me, and stay up all night, oftentimes listening to Radiohead or Cigarettes After Sex while staring at my ceiling. I wanted to stay up, I wanted to feel the bags grabbing and pulling towards my cheekbone, I wanted to feel empty, emotionally and physically. During the day, my anxiety attacks became panic attacks and I would get sent home for vomiting. I'd throw up to give Mom a reason to let me stay home. I’d throw up to feel something, anything. I’d throw up to keep my stomach empty. I’d throw up because I had to, because the nerves and overthinking forced me to. Every morning, I’d drag my black air force ones across cement, carpet, tiles, and marble, each step leading towards Mrs. Clements’ homeroom. For every step, a different worry or insecurity flashed through my brain. But then, out of the blue, I’m “Lincoln” again. I walk into homeroom with an ear-to-ear grin and dap up “the boys”. I’d spend the morning building up hopes of making Isabella laugh today, or maybe calling her once I got home, but I knew that nine times out of ten my hopes were delusional. To “Lincoln,” this was no problem, he would make a gay joke, join the boys with teasing a cute girl in my class, and laugh until just for a moment, the despair was gone. Finally, the sixth period would come and I’d get to see Isabella. In here I got the least work done out of all my classes as I would find myself strategically planning my next interaction with her, just for said plans to go out the window when I was brought face to face with her. Typically seventh period followed the same pattern except Ms. Shirley Davis could never allow small talk in her classroom. When the last bell rang, I went straight to the buses. I’d sleep on the way home, dreaming of a call that would hardly happen. On the off chance my phone didn’t reach its feared 11th cry, we’d talk for hours at a time. On a weekday or not, it seemed that, when we did call, it was guaranteed to go into the early morning. It’s hard to put my finger on a specific topic, or even general. In our conversations, we discussed anything and everything. Everything, except her own love interest. I admired this, as my inability to keep who I’m thinking about at the time a secret is a major flaw of mine. The more that me and her spoke, the more I grew to love her. Our talks were so honest, so raw, that the secret I held began to eat away at me. My core collapsing like a dying star, each day it felt like the pain got worse. To cope with the feelings I had buried deep inside me, I’d turn to my friends. At first, they said to come forward with my feelings, but I knew that’s what any friend would’ve said. The relief I got from venting the conflicting hurricane within me was brief. Overtime, their words of encouragement turned to annoyance, and understandably so. When people grew sick of the same old sadistic untold love, I turned to Isabella. I wrote a text so full that, to read it, one needed to tap on an arrow at the bottom right corner of my message. The essay was compiled with the confliction I had, developing feelings for a friend, and the sorrow that filled me each day that passed without her. I described the perfect imperfections that I admired about her, how life was complete when I spoke to her, the beauty that paralyzed me every time I saw her in person, and the character that I felt God had curated specifically for me. Sitting there unsure if I should press send, a fear grew within my chest that Isabella would see right through me. I could hear the music that so often triggered tears; the vocals of Thom Yorke or the beats of Kanye West, they faded in and out. What if she didn’t even respond? What if she thought I was a creep? What if- then she responded. Suddenly, the ominous 808s & Heartbreak pounding vanished, my respiratory chaos became paralyzed, and time stood still. I couldn’t breathe until I finished reading, and once I did, my sigh was all but relieving. Isabella explained to me how unhealthy my habits were; even in comparison to the anguish that would follow, I’d suffer far more and far longer should I suppress my emotions. She told me how that level of affection, in the context of the warped concept of romance most men had, was something she had only dreamt of. Isabella said that holding these feelings would eat away at me, exponentially increasing in severity, until I broke. Not only would I be hurting myself, but I would be depriving the person I care about most from the appreciation they deserve. I became bloated with fear of the friendzone, those insecurities, all based upon inference, became a reality with Isabella’s last piece of advice. She said, “If she doesn’t reciprocate those emotions, then don’t worry. I’m sure there’s a girl out there who can appreciate your compassion.” The blame had no other place to go than my shoulders, after all, I got what I asked for, advice on another girl. Isabella, even if she saw the crush I had on her, is far too kind to address it. She cared for everyone, and to her, she was merely boosting up a friend who’s down. For the rest of the night her text echoed through my mind; pain, regret, and admiration caused my mind to sporadically leap from conclusion to conclusion. Two years later, those words still haunt me, reiterations of that phrase torturing me when I least expect them. The school year progressed, but my aspirations with Isabella didn’t. Over time, the frequency of my writings grew to be weekly, at times reaching two a week, and the weight of my confessions depleted. I opened my audience to a mutual friend of Isabella’s, Miley, with the intention of acquiring useful advice. Eventually, my choice to try concealing what I felt for Isabella became too heavy of a burden, weighing down on me in forces I had not endured before. Soon, the love I had for Isabella turned to hatred for myself. I was relentlessly criticizing every aspect of myself and my mind. I hated how fat I was, my smile, my voice, my laugh, and most of all my personality. What I had thought was my greatest strength, was revealed as my worst trait. The gullibility I exhibited when thinking for a second Isabella could possibly like me; the lack of confidence that caused me to chicken out of confessing my feelings to her; my insufferable need to make people laugh; the hyperfixation I would develop for those that I love. Everything about me was wrong. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped caring, and eventually I stopped living. The “Lincoln” my friends had grown to recognize, the only remnant of the joy I felt when I was younger, died, and I was left with only my love for Isabella and resentment for myself. I began testing the limits of what was left of me, praying for relief. At first in the middle of the night, an anaconda would find its way to my throat, wrapping around my neck. Its cold black scales gracefully gliding across my skin before silencing my cries with the swift tug of its metallic USB head. The snake would maintain pressure until I let go of it, the entire time whispering into my ear, begging me to hold on. Some nights it came with what must have been a full stomach for it was drastically wider, it was brown these nights, with leather skin, and a slight warmth, but it behaved the same. Most visits from the snake ended with my vision blurry, my breath short, or my head dizzy. The only consistency of our transactions was Asia’s Death Lake that streamed down my face from start to finish. Eventually, the snake seemed closer and closer to silencing me forever, but I also became used to its visits. I began writing letters to everyone I loved so that, should the snake come out victorious, they’d have a final goodbye. Once I had sorted out my notes, I called the snake to my room. This time it came striped with shades of blue, its skin a soft fabric. For once, I controlled the snake, because our intentions finally aligned. I locked the door, sent out my texts, placed the written notes on my dresser, and joined the snake at my closet door. Holding onto the doorknob, the snake wrapped itself around my neck just as it had done in nights of the past. It whispered to me, “let go,” for I had been on my knees in hesitation. I followed the snake’s order by making a sort of plank with my body, the bottom half resting on a stack of dirty laundry and pillows while the top was supported by my elbows. Pressure swiftly fell down on my neck and didn’t stop. “This is it,” I thought to myself. My eyes seemed to pop out of my skull, and my tears, falling down like summer rain, became blurry dots as my vision went dark. Next thing I know, I’m waking up, snot, saliva, and tears strung between my face and the carpet floor. My head pounding and my eyes burning, I looked up at the “snake” that was the tie my mom had gotten me for Sunday service. Although my mind was more clear, it was not out of revelation, but from a muted sense of the world around me. Other than Isabella, nothing mattered anymore, and the little emotion I felt was squashed by my immortal love. The following day I get called to the counselors office on charges of suicidal thoughts and self harm. I said what I had to in order to escape her grasp, but left infuriated. Not only had my own friends betrayed me, but the lady who was supposed to guide me essentially scolded me for being sad. Throughout the day my anger faded out and my focus became making an excuse as to why my parents got a weird call from my counselor, then I’d find the traitor who sold me out. That afternoon, I lost two friends, and for the first time ever got mad at Isabella. Apparently, Miley, Maddie, and Isabella all reported me to the counselor that morning. They said I had been traumatizing them with what was going on in my life, being normal and messing around at school, then detailing my thoughts and actions to them outside of school. I felt like I had been tricked. I thought they were my friends. I thought they understood me. They asked me if I was okay, they said they wanted, cared, needed to know, but now I had scared them? I addressed what had happened with Miley first. She immediately lashed out at me, saying I should be thanking them, not be mad. While I didn’t want to accept it, I understood the core of her choices. On the other hand, Maddie’s response to my confrontation was disgustingly cruel. She said I had been unfair and just seeking attention, that no thirteen to fourteen year old should hear about what I was going through because it was unnatural. Before she continued, I apologized, that’s all I could think to do, because deep down I believed her. She told me it wasn’t all my fault because my brain was messed up, and that opening up to the girls would only make them not want to be friends with me. The one word that rang through my head then, and still does today, was “creep,” she claimed that what I felt wasn’t love, but I was just mentally unstable and creepy. Any remnants of the sweet kid from elementary school who just wanted a friend and loved everyone were obliterated. Maddie was right, all I had done was hurt and scare them, it didn’t matter what I thought. I told her all I could, that I didn’t know what to say other than I was sorry for the damage I had done, and I would try and get better. Her response, like a branding iron on my mind, was, “It’s not damage, it’s baggage. Imagine if the roles were reversed.” It was only then that I stopped texting back. I wish I could say it was out of frustration or self respect, but the reality of my manipulative traits is what silenced me. Shockingly, the response that hurt the most was from Isabella, yet it somehow meant the most to me too. Isabella told me that she needed me in the world. She told me that if I ever got those thoughts again, to think about her as well; to think about the pain I’d be causing her; to think about the trauma she’d live with for the rest of her life. After repeating the phrase, “I need you in my life,” she acknowledged how selfish it was, but still didn’t care. Isabella continued elaborating, she didn’t care because no label of selfishness outweighed the value of my life. What she said that night has been vivid in my mind since, but my only wish is that she had needed me as I needed her. Tears began to hide my freckled cheeks as I texted her about how much her words meant to me, how much she meant to me, and I apologized to her. I said sorry for the baggage I caused, the “creepy” behavior, and any other ways I had wronged her. I said sorry for loving her, and told her I’d do better. She disregarded my apologies, telling me that I could always talk to her because no matter the baggage she could carry, it’d be worth taking the smallest bit off of me. Her words meant so much to me, yet hurt me just the same. I hated myself for it. I couldn’t see a life without an affection for her, it was pathetic. If I truly loved her, I’d let my feelings go, right? What kind of person did that make me? Summer came and went. Hoping that time would kill the crush I had on Isabella, I prohibited myself from contacting her. Instead I spent time with my family and a few friends, but Isabella never left my head. Even when accompanying my dad to Berry College for the Governor’s Honors Program, she’s what filled my head. At first I felt frustrated because before I had come forward to her, she had known about the feelings I had. I came to the conclusion that she had been dragging me along, but even then I knew how easily that thought would be abandoned. First day of High school, I got in touch with her. For maybe two weeks, I maintained a platonic relationship before free falling into the ominous pit once again. This time felt different though, it felt like what I had thought about everyday, for what seemed eternity, could be more than a daydream. We texted each other throughout the school day and facetimed after her cheer practice and my band practice. Eventually, Isabella was falling asleep on call. Before, we’d talk long into the night, and it began to drain the energy out of the both of us. Now, we were listening to music, playing Roblox, watching Netflix, or just sitting in silence. I had never felt comfortable with silence, but she made it seem better than having a conversation with anyone else. It’s a beautiful thing when words aren’t required to appreciate someone. The moment I had the courage to do so, I asked her out to Steak n’ Shake. It’s just my luck that the restaurant was hardly a shell of what I remembered as a kid. At first the conversation was awkward because we hardly spoke in person, but as time progressed so did we. I still remember the tightness of my cheeks as I failed to suppress my ear-to-ear grin. The euphoric nausea and beating heart that disappeared throughout our conversation. I remember the booth we sat in, the fact that she wanted me to swap seats with her because of her creaky seat, the way she giggled, how I fought tooth and nail to pay for such a small bill, the way she smiled when she said, “next time you’ve gotta let me pay,” and the shared excitement for our next hangout. Even though Isabella and I were still friends, even though the restaurant was a disaster, even though the fries were stale and the milkshakes chunky, that moment is one of the best in my life. With how well things were going, I thought that it was my best chance at making something more out of this friendship. So, I shot my shot. I told her that despite my efforts the summer before, she still held a special place in my heart. Isabella responded with her own struggles with recovering from a past relationship, detailing the trust issues and pain she still felt almost a year later. I was yet again, devastated. Then she added that despite her own feelings, she had to be careful and the risk of losing our friendship scared her. I understood her reasoning, but it made me sick to think of how close I was. In response, I expressed how I could relate to those feelings, and the conflict I had with them. It felt ridiculous having opened myself up once again, to just be friendzoned. Her response struck me with both hope and devastation, “I f*cking love you a ton Lincoln, but I’m struggling to differentiate my admiration as a friend and as something more. I’m terrified of losing you.” Previously I would have seen this as a sign to keep trying, but at that moment, I couldn’t see past the blatant friendzoning. After pursuing her for so long, it felt cruel of her to continue dragging me along like this, even though she was being honest. My reaction to the straw that broke the camel’s back is one of, if not, the biggest regrets in life. Homecoming was a little over a week away and she was going (as friends) with my buddy, Davis, so in a storm of hatred for myself and the situation I was in, I gave up on her. Our conversations grew to be minimal and far apart. Soon, I started to resent her. Each day since then, I have somehow felt more remorse than the last for not asking her to Homecoming. Homecoming night is when I began flirting with Claire, a sweet redhead from gym class. We connected on not going with the person we had hoped for. All it took was me joking that I should’ve spent more time around her, instead of leaving the dance early, for Claire to lose her mind. Over the next month or so, I was becoming closer and closer with Claire, despite her irritable “quirks”. I only spoke to Isabella if she reached out to me first with the only exception being when I would ask her for “advice” about Claire, which was a shameful habit I started as petty revenge on Isabella. Eventually, Isabella blocked me on Snapchat, but it didn’t matter. Things with me and Claire were going great, she made me feel like I didn’t need to starve myself to be good enough for her. She made me feel like I was enough. For the next two and a half months, life was great. After the first couple months of ignorant bliss, I was sick of her. Sure, there were a variety of reasons to find her annoying, most people I knew could list more than they have fingers and toes, but she didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t have gotten into the relationship in the first place not only because of Isabella, but also the speed at which me and Claire started dating. She was still growing out of the elementary relationship phase, so while it was nice to connect with someone so quickly, it was rushed. Another issue being that I was her first real boyfriend, the baggage that followed me was detrimental to her and I couldn’t give her the attention she needed. As me and Claire began our month long drift apart, I was unblocked by Isabella. She and I caught up, and we quickly began to talk trash about Claire while on call. It was unbelievably toxic, and I’m embarrassed of how I handled things to this day. Eventually, with the support of Isabella, I decided it was time to break up. The only issue was the guilt I had in such a terrible choice, I could never do it. So I began to get more distant by the day, ignored texts and calls, and stopped walking her to classes because “I had to pee.” Eventually she caught wind of my plans and called me after school one day. Sobbing, she told me what she had heard and how she knew it wasn’t true, but it still worried her. I began to get ready to break the news, but she was already crying so what's the worst that could happen? I wish I had never asked myself that, because next she told me she’d been cutting herself. My heart sank in remorse for what I knew I would do. If I led her on longer, the aftermath of my cold actions would lead to even more catastrophe. I was scared, but knew the lesser of the two evils I had to pick from. I calmed her down, quickly notified her friends to be keeping an eye on her, and then dumped her. To this day, I am disgusted by my actions. Throughout the past three months, Claire expressed how she had loved and trusted me, yet I threw that all away. There are so many ways I could’ve handled the situation differently, but two stood out the most. Showing respect by speaking to Claire the moment I realized my feelings had fleeted was the bare minimum that I disregarded, but the second was far simpler. I had known from the start that I was still in love with Isabella and that love never faded, but was only suppressed. The entire relationship we developed, while we both enjoyed parts of it (her more than me), was a lie, and essentially a cruel joke played on Claire. There’s no excuse for my actions, and even worse, I could’ve cared less back then. It was only when time had passed that I began to understand the damage I had done. Without Claire holding me back, my newfound freedom led to a closer friendship with Isabella. I dove headfirst into the familiar pit all over again. A friendship was not enough, I appreciated every interaction I had with Isabella, but my life depended on a future with her. It’s likely she felt this as she slowly began to drift away from me. Before I had stayed up speaking to Isabella, but now I couldn’t sleep out of the tormenting absence of her voice. The only path to good health was time; distance was best for the both of us, and I knew it. For the rest of that school year, everything around me was going, but I stood still. It was like my life was just a sitcom, and I was no longer the main character. The summer that followed was just the same, I was living but dead, moving but still, speaking but silent. I was dissociating from my friends and family, but the absence of that violent snake made my depression insignificant. Living a life without her was more punishment than death itself, and I didn’t deserve relief. Even now, I think of that summer and remember almost nothing, for my life isn’t worth remembering without Isabella in it. Sophomore year began, and so did my conversations with Isabella. This go around, I was subtle with my feelings for her. The excitement I had for speaking with her was under control, but it was because the spark inside me had faded, even when it came to Isabella.The years of self pity and depression had left a toll on me that could never be reversed, and it didn’t help that Isabella began to build a relationship with another guy. When we spoke, if we did, Isabella’s concern for my mental state outweighed the friendship we were struggling to preserve. I had come to the conclusion that pursuing Isabella would only make things worse, and I needed to just be her friend. Since I couldn’t lose the feelings I had for her, I just sat in them. While I sat in the pit, Isabella and I had one particular Facetime call in which I brought up how much I regretted dating Claire. To that, Isabella added, “Yeah, she’s so annoying. I can’t remember if you told me why you got together in the first place, what led you to her?” I paused with the thousand-yard stare of an American private fresh out of West Point. “I guess I was just so disappointed with myself for not being able to go to homecoming with you and being stuck on you for so long that I impulsively got with another girl to forget about my shortcomings,” I said with reluctance and stuttering every few words. She told me that she would’ve said yes to homecoming without a second thought, but I knew she meant as friends. Then, to my dismay, Isabella revealed that whenever I got with Claire, she still had feelings for me. It was me talking to Isabella about how great things were with me and Claire that led her to block me and cut contact with me. The piano melody from “No Surprises” by Radiohead began looping through my mind as tears ran down my face. I forget how I ended the call, but once I did, I broke. I lost my breath, my head got light, my eyes became blurry, my stomach was nauseous, and my insides sank as far as they could. Everything I wanted, dreamed of, needed had been so close, and I blew it. Everything was my fault. Later I would ask her why she lost them, and her answer proved how much better she was than me. Isabella answered, “I had been hurt, so I moved on. Just got over it.” We hardly spoke anymore, but one text message has found a permanent home in my mind. After asking me how I was, Isabella wasn’t satisfied with, “it’s complicated.” She asked that I explain it to her so that she could try to understand. I told her about all the issues going on in my life, except the torch I still held for her. She wrote, “I know you’re not religious, so it may not mean anything, but I pray for you every night, Lincoln. Even though it sounds bad, I think that I've known you weren’t in the greatest mental place for a while. I want you to know I'm not judging you, I want you to feel comfortable enough to share that with someone. You have to be able to recognize how you’re feeling in order to even fix it.” These words broke me despite their simplistic appearance. Reading that she prayed for me hit me hard as she had always tried to get me to believe in God again. I’m agnostic, and nothing has come closer to bringing me back to faith as Isabella did. The idea that if God were real and I could see her in heaven was appealing, but should Christianity be the wrong choice, I wanted to be wrong with Isabella. In the following days, Isabella told me about Alex, a guy she had been talking to a lot, and how they were at most a month away from being together. I hated everything about Alex, which is a stupid name in the first place. I hated his choice of friends, I hated how white-washed he was, I hated how he dressed like a conservative cowboy, I hated the underbite that made him look like a pug, I hated his short curly hair, I hated the fact that he was a diehard Trump supporter while people of his race were being oppressed, I hated how he pretended to be someone else when he was around Isabella, I hated how he hid unhealthy habits from her, I hated that a guy like him garnered Isabella’s affection when I couldn’t. I barely knew the guy and I was wasting my energy with hatred for him, when in reality, he was just a mind-numbingly basic douche among the hundreds just like him at our school. Isabella regularly complained about Alex, but hardly did anything. Instead she stopped bringing it up, saying that talking about her issues with others only makes it worse and that she was just wining. The monotone delivery of her reasoning hurt my soul, it was like she was reciting a text from Alex. Each day that passed, I felt the urgency of expressing my feelings one more time rising. Soon Isabella and Alex would be official, and I would lose my chance to try and express how I felt one more time. I reached out to Isabella and asked if she was free to hangout that friday. On November 10, 2023, Isabella picked me up around 5:30 in the evening. She kept the inside of her SUV looking brand new in contrast to the familiarity of her smile. My nerves left me winded after every sentence and shivering in her passenger seat. Quickly our conversation became more natural as I cracked jokes to ease my anxiety, but my shaky breathing never stopped. We went to Publix to grab some snacks and drinks and headed right back to my neighborhood park. At the Grove Point Park, we found a swinging chair to sit in. Due to the time of the year, the sun had already set, but Isabella’s beauty was indifferent under the moonlight. I haven’t the slightest clue how long we sat there together. When I’m with Isabella, even Father Time gives me grace, for he knows that he is as powerless as I am to the frequency of these moments. After a while, I mentioned that it was getting late and she agreed. On the ride back to my place, I mustered the bare minimum of strength it took to confront my feelings. As she drove over the speed bump before entering the roundabout, I began to open up. I briefly told her that I still felt the same way I did two years ago, that I had tried to forget about the feelings I had with no success, and that I was sorry to once again ruin our unstable friendship. She told me it was fine and my feelings were natural, nothing to regret or be ashamed of. Her words meant nothing to me this time because I had already heard them. Defeated, I paused for a moment, then said, “Isabella, you reciprocated my feelings in the past, so after Alex, do you think that maybe we’d have a chance?” She looked at me with pain in her eyes, not for herself, but for me. She quietly said, “I- Lincoln, you know I can’t answer that. I’m with Alex now, it wouldn’t be fair.” All I could get out was, “Oh- I- I’m sorry. Uh yeah no, you’re uh- you’re right.” Everything in me pulled and begged at my lips to say what I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I still look back on that night and wish I had said the few words I never got to tell her. What if saying them could’ve changed something? Realistically, it wouldn’t have, but the regret remains. I doubt Isabella would have even remembered where my word choice stemmed from. Regardless, the words rang in my head then, and never stopped. All I wanted to say at that moment was, “but I still need you.” Today, 1,725 days since I first saw Isabella, 822 days since I first facetimed Isabella, and 178 days since that heartbreakingly beautiful night, I still love her the same. Looking back on my experience with her, I regret many things (oversharing, Claire, the snake, etc.), but the one thing I have never regretted was meeting and loving her. It was only recently that I realized that loving her has been one of the biggest mistakes in my life. For three years, day in and day out, I’ve thought about her. Three years where I could have met other people, worked on myself, enjoyed my friends and family, but instead I’ve loved her and nothing, nobody else. The one lesson that was essential for me to take away from my experience was impossible. In eighth grade I was 5’7 and 215 lbs, today I’m 5’10 and 165 lbs. In eighth grade I spent time with my parents, today I hide in my room. In eighth grade, I told people how I felt, now I’m too scared. In eighth grade, I talked about my depression, now I am left alone to deal with it. In eighth grade, I had many friends, now I rarely speak to them. In eighth grade, I needed Isabella, but the one lesson I should’ve learned never took effect. I still need her.

CALIFORNIA & trustee lives in FLORIDA
My dad died in California. He left a property for me and my two sisters, we decided to sell it and spit it three ways. He made my sister, I'll call her Vicki, the trustee, and my sister happens to live in Florida. I lived with my sister temporarily while waiting for the inheritance to bec monied and disseminated, my sister left me with our inlaw who has violent mental health issues. A few times we were without food and toilet paper I had to turn tricks to pay for them and my sisters very wealthy. I never held that against her but my boyfriend does and pointed out that even tho we had hard economic times he never let me go hungry or without toilet paper. Anyway my sister has been saying lately how fast im burninng thru my inheritance and my boyfriend showed me how to calculate all funds dispenses ob Cashapp and we haven't even gone through a 1/10 of It Like I said my Sister is trustee and bipolar and is now saying I need to put myself under 72 hour hold or she won't dispense anymore of my inheritance. But won't me putting myself under 72 hour hold give the court reason to withhold my inheritance for good? Need advice ASAP and thanks in advance!
Also if I want to ger her removed as trustee is that even possible? Do Florida or California laws apply here? Thanks again!

It just kills me to see the boys doing virtually everything right except two things (well, okay, three things...but let's ignore all of the penalties for the sake of this conversation). Namely, they're still failing to play a full 60 minutes in most games (which is tragic because they usually look stellar when they do so), and they're missing the net in a lot of the high-danger areas while giving me bouts of existential dread every time I see it.
Why does it frustrate me so when the team is 5-2 so far in these playoffs? Because this is the playoffs, and every missed opportunity in said playoffs is an opportunity you give your opponents to find a way to bounce back. With that said, allow me to expand on the topic.
The stats from Natural Stat Trick suggest that we've been a solid team in the possession game, and our solid defense/goaltending on the ice has been reinforced by the notion that we even won all three games in which we were outnumbered in unblocked shot attempts (Games 3, 4, 6).
However, Money Puck is indicating a very interesting trend where all of our forwards who land 45% of more of their attempted shots on net are scoring at an expected rate or better, while everyone else below that threshold is struggling to score. Let's evaluate all of our top 10 forwards' postseason stats (because I wanted to count Blueger as well), in order of highest Goals Above Expected:
Elias Lindholm (3 Goals): 2.2 Goals Above EV, 25 shot attempts, 15 SOG, 4 SA missed net, 6 blocked shots
Dakota Joshua (3 Goals): 0.9 Goals Above EV, 13 shot attempts, 6 SOG, 4 SA missed net, 3 blocked shots
Conor Garland (1 Goal): 0.3 Goals Above EV, 21 shot attempts, 10 SOG, 6 SA missed net, 4 blocked shots
Brock Boeser (4 Goals): 0.2 Goals Above EV, 35 shot attempts, 17 SOG, 9 SA missed net, 9 blocked shots
Teddy Blueger (0 Goals): 0.5 Goals Below EV, 10 shot attempts, 3 SOG, 2 SA missed net, 5 blocked shots
Nils Hoglander (0 Goals): 0.5 Goals Below EV, 5 shot attempts, 2 SOG, 3 SA missed net, 0 blocked shots
J.T. Miller (2 Goals): 0.6 Goals Below EV, 45 shot attempts, 18 SOG, 16 SA missed net, 11 blocked shots
Ilya Mikheyev (0 Goals): 1.1 Goals Below EV, 20 shot attempts, 8 SOG, 8 SA missed net, 4 blocked shots
Pius Suter (2 Goals): 1.2 Goals Below EV, 30 shot attempts, 15 SOG, 10 SA missed net, 5 blocked shots
Elias Pettersson (0 Goals): 1.3 Goals Below EV, 31 shot attempts, 11 SOG, 10 SA missed net, 10 blocked shots
The cumulative total is 235 shot attempts, which resulted in 105 shots on goal, 72 missed shots, and 58 shots which were successfully blocked by the opposition.
To contrast with another playoff team, all 10 of Colorado's "top-10" forwards," including even Brandon Duhaime, are all above EV in goals. This is a big reason why they were able to make life miserable for the least scored-on team this regular season in Winnipeg and also steal Game 1 away from Dallas the other day.
72 missed shots on 235 shot attempts is a lot for a playoff team. 72 shots that could have been game-changing goals but never made it to the net. One of those missed shots could cost us our season in the future, so I feel that it's super important to note now.
In game 1 just the other day, JT had a wide-open shooting lane in his wheelhouse, located right near the left-hand hash marks, and yet he missed the net. That outcome inspired the thread since JT scored right there during the very first shot of the playoffs, even, and yet he hasn't scored in that spot since. Imagine sweeping the Predators instead of grinding through 6 games simply because JT pots more of those wide-open shots in game-changing situations. I know the guys have been working hard, but imagine JT just getting even a couple of those 16 missed shots on the net instead.
If you were to ask me what the most regretful part about this statistic is, it's that JT/Petey/Hogs were all hitting above 50% of their attempted shots on net throughout the regular season, and yet they combined for 21.3 goals above expected on the year. You can't tell me that those 21.3 "unexpected goals" were not a huge reason that the Canucks are where they are today.

This episode will be the finale of the season, so it must be something "big". Also, the next episode backwards is 47. You remember what happened in episode 47?
The infamous battle between TTVM and Gman 2.0. It was pretty much TTVM alone versus Gman and his goons.
Episode 73 seems like a perfect leadup to this theoretical episode. TCM and TSM are in no way or shape ready for another battle. Sure. They are a brave duo but going for another fight in such state is just a peak idiocy, and they aren't idiots.
TTVM might be in flames but he is still the strongest character and his equipment didn't got in any way damaged. So he still has everything he needs to defeat Gman.
Gman might have super duper jetpacks but i still think TTVM can surprise ambush him. He doesn't have enough time to escape for repairs and proper upgrades so i think he will just use whatever is in the remaining containers and this way, give him some chances to defeat TTVM and make the whole fight a fair one.
Also i believe that because Gman won't have enough time. This means that he also wouldn't have time to prepare any 'tricks' or traps. Besides, we haven't seen any other giant toilets which could rival titans so all of this leds me to believe that it will be a 1vs1 with possibly some support for gman.
What do you guys think?

Lawman
A drop of scarlet fell into the dust.
Hauke ignored the bullet hole in his side and kept reloading. There would be time to bleed later.
He sat in a battered wooden chair under an awning, with one leg draped over its arm, eyes staring intently down the dirt road. A rhythmic metal clicking came from the guns he held as he filled their cylinders with fresh shells. But his eyes never left the road. There was no need; his hands worked without thought.
Beyond the awning, the sky was bare, the town was still, and the planet’s twin suns blazed with fury. Heat shimmered off the hard-packed dirt road running through the center of Aeos, and sweat made tracks down Hauke's face through the dust. Gehenna was technically a moon, though larger than most planets, stark and strange, a waterless desert world of jagged black mountains and sunbaked hardpan on the edge of Alliance space—on the edge of nowhere.
Most who worked at Deepcore's mining facility called the moon The Withered Lands. An apt name Hauke thought, for a place of perpetual sunlight and crushing heat. A place barren of life. No where any but a witling would wish to call home.
He was only here because corporate greed put this lonely settlement on a fringe world otherwise deemed uninhabitable; corporate greed and a ready supply of desperate people - the disillusioned and the displaced, the utterly broken. For most, their lives were a legacy of misery, and they left behind a past they hoped to forget. There was never a shortage of such expendables in a galaxy riddled with crime and war. No one would miss them. No one cared. That's why the outlaws chose this shit hole to put down roots. There were vulnerable people here, a flock of sheep placidly going about their daily lives as the wolves circled, and no Alliance security to protect them. Easy pickings.
Hauke shook his head and slid another round into an empty chamber. Shame, really. These are decent folk. Better than the other sewers he’d policed.
Then he shrugged.
Good people they might be, but it didn't matter. It should, but it didn’t. They were expendable. Everyone was, after a fashion, even Hauke.
Every worker who stepped off a Deepcore transit shuttle into the dust and the heat was undeniably corporate fodder, disposable flesh to be used and discarded like soiled toilet paper. Deepcore made no bones about this practice, nor did they bother with any pretense that their workers on Gehenna were anything but company fodder. Why should they? No one with wealth enough to matter was paying attention. Nobody in the Core gave two shits about a bunch of dregs dying on the Fringe. Who would? Alliance authorities? Funny. The money-made politicians in the halls of power wouldn't waste a bucket of piss on what they deemed rats squabbling for the right to live in society's sewers, filthy beggars and low-born rabble best ignored by their betters. Why waste resources cleaning them out when, given enough time, disease and starvation would do the job for them?
Hauke snapped his pistol's cylinder up into its housing and gave it an experimental spin. The smooth, well-oiled clicking that came forth drew a smile across his sun-roughened face. It was a warm and comforting sound, like a fireplace in winter. If you took care of your guns, they would take care of you.
Hauke favored the classics over the garbage that companies were peddling these days, six shooters from an era lost in time. They were reliable, never overheated or shorted, and were effective on anything that ever walked or crawled in the mud - given the proper ammo. The thunder of their song sent even the most hardened criminals fleeing for cover.
He paused his reloading and studied the brass casing he held. It was a Spartan Arms Blacktip, called shatter rounds on the streets. They were expensive, hard to come by, and highly deadly. And illegal. The speed loaders clipped to the tac-belt circling his waist held the same rounds. Even a Treskori's thick armored hide offered little protection against these babies.
Movement caught the corner of his eye and drew his attention to the north.
A small Dazkani woman darted out of a nearby alleyway and across the street, a lavender-skinned child in tow, rushing for a two-room cabin very much like his own. Her tan robes were trimmed in black and embroidered across the shoulders in her house pattern. Each frantic step revealed flashes of light purple flesh on a muscular thigh where the robes were divided down the side.
His eyes followed her progress.
Then the cabin door slammed shut behind them, and she peered out through its only window with jet black eyes full of fear.
Hauke shook his head. Though he didn't blame the people of Aeos. They were afraid, and for a good reason. Outlaws calling themselves The Reapers, with blade and barrel and cruel ways, had taken by force what little joy these people had found and made each day a misery. Then came Hauke and his revolvers, claiming to be the answer, though they only saw another killer here to sink his teeth into their town.
Eyes watched from windows and doorways across Aeos. He could feel their itch upon his skin, too many eyes and wringing hands awaiting the coming confrontation. If the Reapers won today, they would turn their ire upon the people of Aeos. Things would get ugly. Fast. No wonder they were worried. Hauke was just one man against dozens of killers. He smiled. That almost made it an even fight.
Whatever happens today, he thought, absently running an oilcloth over his gun and his eyes over the town. These people would do well to cut their losses and make for the inner systems far from Deepcore and outlaws and the wild lawlessness of The Outer Fringe. They would live longer and be happier for it.
He took up his second pistol, its nickel finish reflecting sharp flashes of silver in the sunlight.
Brass casings fell at his feet.
Deepcore was supposed to be the shining star of the mining industry, a leader among leaders whose policies demanded quality of life for all its employees and family-first values that resonated down to the lowest janitor. A good PR story, Hauke thought. Tall tells for the gullible and chronically stupid.
Anyone with two brain cells fighting for third place should understand it was all a carefully crafted illusion, a shiny veneer overlaying the odious truth, the plots, the lust for profits, treacherous ways corps did business.
Hauke's fingers moved with practiced grace, and the clicking continued. Red dripped from his side.
How many politicians must have been bought over the years to maintain such an elaborate facade? How many innocent people were stuffed into early graves to protect the dark secrets? His frown deepened. Too many.
In his experience, corruption was a disease that most often began at the top and snaked its way down through long-sitting senators and middling managers, black tendrils of rot coiling through the layers of a midden heap. Parasites, all of them. Getting fat and rich off the blood and tears of ordinary folk who want to live in peace and enjoy what few comforts they can afford.
But Hauke knew there was no such thing on the Fringe. Not on Gehenna. Not for the dregs, anyway. His stomach twisted, and he slowly ran the oilcloth over his second gun. Not in this galaxy.
He lifted his eyes and scanned the area. Aeos was a town built with the cheapest fiberplast factory Prefabs Hauke had ever seen. The kind of flimsy boxlike structures meant only for a temporary settlement, never a permanent city. Some buildings still showed faint traces of the original terracotta red from the factory. But most gleamed bone white in the harsh sunlight, pitted and wind-worn like the skeletal remains of some long-dead titan strewn across the sand. When the town died, like those before it, Deepcore would erect another on the sands that held its corpse. Even Gehenna could not stop profits.
Off to the west, the dark silos and rumbling machinery of the vast mining operation loomed over Aeos like a cruel overlord, uncaring of their suffering and singular in its purpose. Columns of thick black smoke rose from its inner workings to stain the sky, and an endless procession of thick-hulled barges—laden with ore until their sides bulged—strained for orbit. Day and night, the Impervium ore flowed from Gehenna's mines to fatten the pockets of Deepcore's elite back in the heart of the Corporate Alliance. Here was a state-of-the-art operation save three things: no drones, no automated equipment, and no modern conveniences; Aeos was built with shithouse parts. Profits again.
Even the barges were operated by organics, with no autopilot or AI-driven software. The moon's electromagnetic something-or-other interfered with guidance systems, so they did everything the old-fashioned way. And then there was Gehenna's powdery dust. It held magnetic particles that worked their way into the delicate inner guts of electronics and advanced machinery, sparing no circuit or wire. That's why they needed flesh and blood workers to do the job—blood sacrifices laid out upon the corporate altar.
As for Aeos itself, there was little else to it. Flat-roofed cabins with tattered awnings shading tiny porches crowded either side of the road. A few dilapidated parts shops and rundown diners, a large closed-air market beside a cluster of tall water tanks beaded with sweat. A sprawling communications array. A small starport built on a nearby plateau just outside town, made hazy by blowing dust. There were no Sky Towers rising from sprawling cityscapes, or manicured parks to bring beauty to this desolate place. No holographic skyways filled the night skies with the endless glittering lights of air traffic. None of the high-tech glitz and glow he was so accustomed to seeing on even the poorest of Alliance worlds. Aeos was sterile and rundown, abandoned by hope.
But today, that changed.
Hauke glanced at the upper edge of his augmented vision. Twenty past eleven local time, Gehenna time. His jaw muscles tensed, and he climbed to his feet, spinning his pistols into their holsters.
Time to settle an old score.
All was quiet as he stepped out into the dust-blown street, the laughter of children at play gone silent and the hustle and bustle of the little mining town strangely absent. Indeed nothing stirred but the wind, which briefly transformed the approaching outlaw into a grainy silhouette etched into the swirling dust.
Threiner.
The name came to him unbidden, a harsh whisper in his thoughts. A sudden surge of heat rose in his chest, an electric quickening of the heart. This was the culmination of a decades-long search and perhaps some small comfort for an old wound that had never fully healed. He'd come here to take the outlaw back to Ryari Prime to face Alliance justice, alive or maybe dead. It didn't matter.
Behind Threiner, a massive cerulean sphere twice the size of Jupiter filled the sky. Layer upon layer of milky clouds and swirling blue eddies drifted across its surface, vibrant hues muted behind a thin white haze. It rose from behind jagged black peaks that cut across the horizon, and he had to tilt his eyes to take it all in; an immense orb haloed in shimmering silver rings spreading wide across the sky. Hyperion was its name, a titanic gas giant and the largest planet in the A-9 system. A trick of its size, or perhaps Gehenna’s atmosphere, made Hyperion appear close enough for him to touch, as though Hauke could reach out and swirl a finger in the layers.
At last!
A voice rose from the stillness of his mind. A familiar voice. Peace for your father. Peace so that we can sleep. The heat in his chest blazed into a blinding thirst for vengeance, a wildfire out of control. It tried to overwhelm him. He shook with the effort of holding it back, teetering on the edge of sanity. His hands trembled as they inched toward his guns, fingertips brushing aged ivory handles—eager to let them sing.
Why do you fight me? The voice said. He is our enemy. An outlaw. A murderous swine who's earned a thousand deaths. That it should be by your hand can only be seen as justice—a just thing for all his victims.
No…I…
Think. The voice was a silken purr, a whisper of falling gossamer across his skin. It caressed him with seduction. Think of all who cry out from the grave. They cry out for vengeance! Who would hear their silent words? Give them justice. Give them peace. Kill Threiner. Kill him now!
No! Hauke's shout was a silent snarl, teeth bared, face twitching. He would not dishonor his father's memory or his badge. It was unthinkable! He was an Alliance Marshal, a man sworn to justice like his father before him. And justice was what he meant to have. Not murder.
Save your twisted words, brother. I'll not hear them.
The voice retreated like the battering waves of a storm that suddenly lost their fury and fell back into the sea. It took all of his strength to stuff the voice back down into the hollows of his mind, where it waited, lambent eyes in the dark. You will see in time that I know you, even if you do not know yourself. We are the same, brother, the voice whispered.
When Hauke was sure he'd mastered himself, he took a step forward. Then another. Another.
There were forty feet between them when he stopped and angled his body toward the outlaw. "Surrender, Threiner," he raised his voice to carry the distance and over the low moan of the wind. It sounded strange coming from his mask, a slightly electronic resonance. "Lay down your weapon. Now."
Their eyes locked, and the outlaw only scowled.
Threiner was Treskori, so he wore no mask over those hideous reptilian features; his species required none. Their robust systems quickly adapted to nearly any environment, something humans did not share.
Without a mask, Hauke would be light-headed in less than a minute, air drunk, it was called. Nausea would rack his gut a short time later. Things would begin to dim, to shut down, starting with his ability to reason. Walking and talking would become a chore. Then he would collapse in the sand, delirious and confused, lungs gasping in the burning air. Darkness would come shortly after, a soulless void to consume his world. In the end, he would have no strength to call for help or the wits to understand what was happening to him. Not a fate to be envied.
Threiner's slitted black-and-yellow eyes bore into Hauke's, and for a tense moment, they held in a silent struggle. Neither moved or blinked, still as statues. Only the wind gave voice, twining its fingers through Hauke's shoulder-length hair and shifting the dust between his boots. Then Threiner's scaled lips slowly peeled back to reveal serrated teeth in a vile show of contempt. It was meant to frighten him and mock him, the cruel smile of a predator toying with its prey.
Hauke wasn't impressed. He'd seen his like before, many times, and they all bled the same with hot lead in their hearts.
Yet an eight-foot Treskori with the speed of a gazelle was nothing to take lightly, a genuine threat. So Hauke remained cautious in case Threiner decided to rush. The outlaw held a heavy plasma cannon at his side in one massive three-clawed fist, tapping it idly against a thick trunk of a leg. One blast from that cannon would leave a basketball-sized hole in Hauke's chest if it left anything at all.
Threiner glared at him with supreme confidence. In Treskori culture, strength and size were the ultimate deciding factors, especially in battle. Yet even with a Treskori's great strength, that weapon—typically found mounted on assault vehicles—would be slow to wield, slow in a fight where speed mattered. Hauke resisted the urge to smile. Speed kills.
Threiner's eyes narrowed into suspicious slits, following Hauke's eyes down to the plasma cannon, then snapping back up. A sneer that would have frozen helium slowly spread across his face. There was no armor or personal shielding that could defend against that weapon. And Threiner knew it.
Speed kills.
Hauke's hands drifted to the weathered leather holsters belted low on his hips and the nickel-plated revolvers waiting within. Immaculate they were, with quick-draw barrels and feather lite triggers for rapid fire. Their song was blood and death, and he had no doubt they would sing it soon. Engraved In fancy script along each barrel were the pistols' names, Justice and Virtue, exquisite artistry by the hand of a master gunsmith. These rare treasures were passed to him by his father with a lineage tracing to the days of his father's great-grandfather and beyond. A time when outlaws roamed the untamed west, and lawmen hunted them wherever they hid.
Threiner turned his head slowly, deliberately keeping one evil eye on Hauke, and spit a huge gob of green-tinged saliva into the dust, then snapped his glare back into place.
"Be smart, Threiner," Hauke said, though every inch of him hummed on the razor's edge of violence, and every fiber hoped Threiner would twitch that cannon in the wrong direction. "And you might live to see the outside of a prison cell again one day." The mouthpieces back in the Core wanted Threiner brought back alive if possible. Alive was better for the holovids the senators wanted to run. But if Threiner even breathed wrong, Hauke would not hesitate.
"No surrender, human," Threiner's deep hiss was full of malice, and vast musculature rippled across his shirtless bulk. "Pain. Much pain for you." From his great height, Raim Threiner glared down at Hauke as though looking at an insect he meant to crush under his boot—a naturally occurring, ever-present scowl that twisted his ugly face beyond hideous.
Threiner turned his head and spat again. "Pain," he said, scraping the sharp tip of an ebon claw across his throat scales. "All pain for you." Threiner's massive plasma rifle still hung idle at his side, barrel pointed at the ground, unmoving. But his free hand clenched into a fist. Sunlight glittered off thousands of small granular scales covering his skin like viridian glass, and a low growl issued deep within his throat, an ominous rumble that would have sent lesser beings running. But Hauke had seen it all before, and he stood firm, his jaw set, hands poised and ready. Whatever was going to happen would happen. Nothing could change that now.
Abruptly Hauke realized that Threiner was doing his best to hide a nervous edge. And rightly so. Confidence was a necessity if you wished to stay alive in this business. But blind arrogance would get you killed.
Most in his business had heard the tales of the human Lawman with lightning in his hands and ice in his veins. Most believed it was nothing more than a fairy tale, something cooked up by the Badges to keep little outlaws awake at night. Yet something must have clicked in Raim's little lizard brain. Perhaps it was the bullet-riddled bodies of his gang strewn about and already rigid in the sunlight, posing as corpses pose, that made him understand the legendary Lawman now stood before him.
"Surrender," Hauke repeated, his tone hard and flat. The icy look in his eyes said there would be no further chances. His hands hovered over his guns. Sweat stained the crown of his wide-brimmed bolero. Red dripped down his side. A sudden wind rippled folds into his shirt, kicking up a dirty haze. Everything went quiet. He could hear his heart, feel its fire surging down to his fingertips. His eyes narrowed, but he willed himself not to blink.
His hands itched to rip the guns from their holsters and let them sing. It would be so easy. Threiner wouldn't have time to process that Hauke had pulled steel before he died. His hands trembled. But he would give the outlaw a chance to lay down his weapon. He always did.
His father once told him that a man's honor was all he truly possessed. All else could be taken away or destroyed. Material possessions and riches would become someone else's when you died. In time, even your spouse. But your honor, your legacy, was yours to keep forever. This was made all the more important in a galaxy rife with treachery. A man's honor was sacred. His father had believed that, and so did Hauke. He had killed outlaws, true, more than a few: humans, Treskori, even Jasei. If they broke the law, killed, raped, or pillaged across The Alliance, he hunted them down. Most had surrendered peacefully.
For those foolish enough to pull on him, things had always ended badly; this he did not deny. He was ruthless and cunning, as one must be to survive hunting the galaxy's worst. He would not waste time with denials. He would not pretend to be righteous. He had never found a sense of pride or pleasure in the violence. He was a professional. He did not kill for joy. He only killed when given no choice. Even Raim Threiner, his father's killer, deserved his day in court. That was justice. That was how the system worked. He would bring this vile creature back alive if he could. The rest was up to Threiner.
"No surrender, human," Threiner repeated, breaking into Hauke's thoughts and rolling his broad angular head atop an even wider neck. Only seconds had passed since he first spoke. A transverse crest of bony spikes connected by a thin membrane of leathery flesh fanned up across the crown of his skull, rattling and bristling with anger. "Much pleasure to kill you, Marshal scum shit."
His response did not surprise Hauke.
The plasma rifle started up, and Hauke's hands flashed. There was thunder and smoke, time slowed.
Threiner lay on his back when the smoke cleared, slitted eyes staring blindly at Gehenna's twin suns. Four massive holes leaked green down his chest and pooled in the sand. Hauke's pistols roared again, and two more holes erupted in Threiner's head. Better to be sure than pay the price of folly.
Guess the senators weren't going to get their holovid back in the Core. Well, piss on them. Hauke was a lawman, and there were no politicians here.
People emerged from their shacks, peering plaintively up and down the streets. Their eyes were still fearful, but something else kindled behind them.
Hauke turned, gleaming pistols still in hand and lifted his voice to carry.
“People of Aeos,” he scanned their faces, and saw hope dawning where before there was only despair. “Raim is dead. The Reapers are dead. You are free.”

So did anyone else know about the Fabuloso trick with potty training? You put the purple Fabuloso in the toilet bowl and when your kid pees it turns clear!!!
I'm potty training my VERY speech delayed toddler AGAIN and this time around she likes her privacy, but that makes it difficult to reward her for going. We can't hear her peeing from outside the bathroom but she doesn't like to go when we're in the bathroom with her. This little hack has helped immensely in rewarding her for using the potty! Plus the added bonus of the "magic purple water!"
I tried looking it up but I didn't see anyone else post something like this
TLDR:Fabuloso turns clear when kid pees. Kid thinks it looks cool and it helps know when your kid actually peed when they sing the whole time they're sitting on the potty!
Edit: don't think it have to say this, but keep cleaning products away from your toddlers!