School sprit t-shirt slogans | | 26[M4M]Texas/USA Femboy nerd looking for a nerdy bf to do voice calls with

Just A femboy looking for a serious ltr , so I’ll get to the point 🤗. I’m not here for the games , or ghosting . I’m here for something long term. Dating apps don’t work for me sadly.
Located: Texas . Willing to move to another state or have my future partner live with me .
Appearance :
A thick black femboy who loves dressing up sometimes . Height : 5’3. I wear glasses to read manga . My style is mostly goth/casual clothes from mostly anime shirts and chokers.
💙My hobbies:

Anime : Some of my favorites animes are Tokyo ghoul , Sword Art Online , Yuri on ice , Future Diary, JJK, MHA, Yaoi(Love stage , Sasaki and Miyano)
Manga : I’ve completed so many mangas from yaoi , Ouran high school host club , berserk , ect .
Cosplay : I’ve done Pokémon & a Tokyo Ghoul cosplay before .
Anime cons: I’ve been to at least 11 anime/Comic cons.
Dueling (Yu-Gi-Oh!)
Pokémon
Yaoi
Pc gaming
Overwatch. I love this game have over 500 hrs .
Marvel/DC
Tv drama : The Vampire Diaries , Supernatural, Buffy The Vampire Slayer, The 100.
Horror- big fan of tv shows , movies like AHS
Consoles I have are : Ps5, Nintendo switch , psp, ps vita, Nintendo 3ds , wii, gameboy , ect .

🩷What im looking for in a Relationship🩷

[ ] Monogamous
[ ] Single
[ ] Loyalty
[ ] Communication
[ ] No kids
[ ] Open-minded
[ ] Common interest : Nerdy (Anime, Games, Star Wars or anything nerdy)
[ ] Sure on what you want
[ ] Mature
[ ] 21+ in age

▶️MY TYPE:
TALL (taller than my own height) , very communicative, masculine(mostly beards and body hair) gamers/anime nerds. These are just preferences not a deal breaker .
✅Ps: for compatibility reasons I’m a 100% bottom.
If you made it this far, please message me an introduction about yourself. This is extremely important as it tells me alot about you and for me to give you a well detailed response. Mostly a name to call you , hobbies, location (state wise) and what you’re looking for . You may send pics in the first message if you may like 😊

This is one of my favorite parts from a Japanese fan novel that I really like. The characters are reincarnated in another world, with some of them retaining memories of their past lives. Mondo is a 32-year-old carpenter, and Celeste is a high school boy recently arrested for certain illegal acts. I really like Celeste's description of the killing game, so I wanted to share it. Here is a translation:
•••
About an hour later, Oowada was visiting a certain place. He took a deep breath through his nose.
"Smells moldy," he muttered under his breath, though he wasn't sure if it was actually mold. He clicked his tongue loudly, causing a staff member in the corner, who was spreading out a notebook to record their conversation, to flinch. Oowada closed his eyes and laughed through his nose, wondering if such a timid person could handle working in a juvenile rehabilitation facility.
This was his first time visiting here as a visitor. A cramped, narrow cage that boxed everything in, isolating the boys from society. It was a place he had been confined to many times before and hated more than anything.
But even so, his safety was guaranteed. There was no way a killing game would happen here.
"It's lukewarm... no, that's how it's supposed to be," he muttered as the door opened with a cheap-sounding clatter. At that sound, he quietly opened his eyes.
Sitting with his legs spread on the hard, leather sofa, arms crossed, he watched as a beautiful boy, dressed simply in a shirt and slacks, entered the room with a straight posture. When the boy saw Oowada, he lightly tilted his head and smiled, causing his neatly trimmed long black hair to sway.
"Hello, uncle. I didn't expect you to come."
Oowada’s eyes twitched at the boy’s words, but seeing the suited facility staff who entered behind the boy, he closed his mouth.
The boy sat down across from Oowada with a low table between them, placing a hand under his chin and deepening his smile.
"It’s been a while."\ "…Yeah."\ "I was just getting bored, so I’m very glad."\ "…Yeah."\ "I thought you were hospitalized… Are you feeling alright?"\ "…Yeah."\ "So, uncle. Why the sudden visit? Did something happen?"\ "…Yeah."
As Oowada grunted in response, he glanced around the room, noting the staff in the corner and the one quietly standing guard by the door, wondering how to begin. The boy, seemingly understanding everything, smiled knowingly.
"...It seems like it might be difficult to talk like this."
Oowada raised an eyebrow suspiciously at the boy who whispered this in a low voice. At the same time, the boy raised one delicate hand, snapping his fingers lightly.
At this signal, the staff in the corner nervously, and the one by the door calmly, exited the room. Their abrupt departure made it seem like they could no longer see Oowada and the boy.
In shock, Oowada stood up from his chair.
"What the...?"
"Well, as they say, money talks," the boy said nonchalantly, brushing aside the troublesome bangs that fell over his forehead with a swift motion of his fingers.
"No matter the means, the assets I’ve accumulated have come in handy. I went through a lot, you know. Selecting useful personnel, seizing opportunities, negotiations, instructions, and so on. The fact that you’re here talking to me now is thanks to my sweat and tears."
"You made it so I could get in here by claiming I'm your family?"
"I just included potential visitors on the list. I asked them to allow visits by making up a connection within three degrees of kinship based on the visitor's age."
"Who the hell are you calling uncle, you..."
"You're my uncle. You should feel honored and act accordingly. Don't make that face like you're some relative mooching off a rich family member."
"Huh!?"
"Well, whatever. In any case, you're my first visitor. Welcome."
Ending the pointless conversation, Oowada, finding himself unsure of how to direct his emotions, clicked his tongue and looked up at the ceiling with a weary expression. Contrary to Oowada’s rough demeanor, the boy elegantly crossed his legs, lightly arching his back, and smiled mysteriously.
"So, once again. It's been a while, Oowada-kun. It's the first time we've talked properly since our past lives. A lot happened the other day, but I won't apologize. So don't expect an apology. With that out of the way... what brings you here today?"
A cramped, narrow cage for boys, cut off from society, where everything was neatly boxed up. It was a place he had been confined to many times before and had hated more than anything.
However, in the hands of Celestia Ludenberg, it seemed even such a cage could transform into a modest mansion with servants. Oowada, leaning back on the sofa and tilting his head back, exhaled deeply in exasperation.
What followed was a strange silence. Even though he had been asked why he was here, Oowada didn’t immediately respond. No, he couldn’t respond.
Torn between the hesitation of how to start the conversation and whether he should even talk, his thoughts bounced back and forth. Watching Oowada intently, Celeste shrugged slightly.
"Well, there’s no use rushing. By the way, Oowada-kun, when it comes to visits, one expects gifts. Did you bring something?"
"Huh? Oh, yeah."
As if he had just remembered, Oowada pulled out something from the pocket of his jacket that he had bought from a vending machine on the way here and placed it on the table. What was scalding hot when he bought it had now cooled to a lukewarm temperature.
"Luxurious Royal Milk Tea. Made with plenty of first-pick Uva tea. The smoothness of Hokkaido cream enhances the flavor. Enjoy a luxurious moment."
Celeste glanced at the so-called luxurious moment that cost 120 yen from a vending machine with a blank expression. Nevertheless, he muttered a thank you in a monotonous voice and reached for the pull tab. The expression on his face clearly read, "Are you kidding me, you piece of shit," but Oowada ignored it.
"Well then, until you're ready to talk, how about listening to what I have to say?"
Taking a sip of the Royal Milk Tea and making a noticeably displeased face, Celeste continued in a calm tone. Oowada didn’t mind. He nodded with just his eyes, and Celeste placed his fingertips on his cheek and looked up at the ceiling.
"At that academy, the mastermind... No, now that I remember, I can say for sure... The detailed and elaborate preparations of that rotten bitch Enoshima created an environment that made killing almost inevitable."
The sudden start of the unexpected topic made Oowada frown, unable to read his intentions.
"For example, the situation was based on several psychological theories. As I explained a few times at that school... no, with that corn-head of yours, you might not remember, so let me explain again."
"Huh? Are you picking a fight with me?"
"The prisoner's dilemma."
Ignoring Oowada's words with a calm expression, Celeste continued without even glancing at him.
"Additionally... the zero-sum game. Moreover, due to unconsciously recognizing a hierarchical relationship between the mastermind and themselves, there might have been effects similar to the results of the Milgram experiment."
"…Could you explain it in a way I can understand?"
"You don’t need to understand the theories themselves. To put it simply, as I said before, 'The mastermind created an environment that made us psychologically prone to committing atrocities.'"
Taking another sip of the Royal Milk Tea and making another dissatisfied face, he placed the half-finished can on the table and looked back at Oowada.
"This is just a psychological theory. But now, let’s bring in a sociological theory and consider this: 'Why don’t people commit crimes?'"
The emphasized words sent a chill down Oowada’s spine, and he rubbed his arms.
"Let’s start with an extreme example. Living beings act according to their desires. A lion would hunt a rabbit if it appeared before it, regardless of hunger. Humans are the same. So, 'Why don’t people commit crimes?' …What do you think?"
"If someone killed every person they passed on the street, they’d just be a lunatic."
"That's not an answer."
"Well, normal people wouldn’t do that. Even if we’re animals, humans are different from beasts."
"Exactly. Simply put, 'People don’t commit crimes because they possess social or psychological self-control.' …Of course, it also depends on their living environment, so it’s not a theory that applies to everyone. For instance, someone like Genocide Jack."
Crossing his legs, Celeste took a breath and said,
"There is a theory called the 'social bond theory' that considers the reasons why humans don't commit crimes."
"Huh?"
Once again, the conversation entered a more specialized field, making Oowada raise his voice in irritation.
"What about it?"
"This theory considers four main aspects as 'bonds,' and when these bonds break, crimes occur."
"So?"
"First, the first one."
Pointing a natural, though unusually long nail at Oowada, he stopped him from interrupting. The sudden action made Oowada freeze, his cheek twitching.
"First, there’s belief… essentially a sense of morality. This bond ties into the psychological aspect I mentioned earlier. In that environment, 'murder was deemed acceptable.' Thus, the feeling that 'murder is absolutely wrong' diminished, whether consciously or unconsciously."
The finger pointed at Oowada increased to two. Moreover, the finger, which had been aimed at his nose, was now directed straight at his eyes, as if ready to poke them.
"Next, the second. Involvement. In other words... let's see. If there was something to be indulged in, especially something healthy like sports, there would be no time to commit crimes. In that space, with few given entertainments and plenty of time to kill each day, who knows when someone might plot something wicked?"
"...You mean yourself."
"There's no guarantee that someone like me wasn't there after I died. Now, the third. Commitment. Risk and reward, let's say. Is it worth committing a crime even at the cost of everything one has built? Rationally thinking, it may be worthless, but in that space, in that situation, it was the ultimate reward. There's no need to explain what that is."
Moving away from Oowada, he leaned back against the uncomfortable chair, slightly waving the three fingers beside his cheek.
"...Graduation, huh."
"Yes. There was a bonus for me, but let's leave that aside. Now, the fourth. This is the main point."
Holding up four fingers in front of his face, Celeste's expression became somber.
"Attachment. It’s about family, friends, and companions. Surrounded by people who act morally, one wouldn’t commit crimes. They wouldn’t. That is, if 'the people in that space were such close individuals.'"
A gulp sounded from Oowada’s throat. His sharp eyes widened.
"...There wouldn’t have been any killing?"
"I can’t say for certain. But if it were me..."
Breathing out faintly, Celeste shook his head gently. Oowada, sharing similar sentiments, lowered his eyes.
By now, talking about "what ifs" and "if onlys" wouldn't grant them forgiveness.
"...Hey, our memories were erased to make the killing game more likely. We understand that, but..."
"...Let's add one more thing. 'What if, after committing murder, we regained our memories?'... What would happen?"
"!"
That was their current situation exactly.
"Impossible, right? Even if Junko Enoshima had planned that far ahead… I don't remember anything like so from 'that world.' There's no way that bitch could control reincarnation or anything so godlike."
"...In other words."
"In other words, this situation is an 'unforeseen despair' even for Enoshima. Realizing the person you killed was a close friend, a dear classmate, a loved one… is a despair beyond imagining."
Celeste suddenly leaned closer to Oowada, their faces inches apart, his crimson irises intense. Overwhelmed by the pressure, Oowada didn't move, captivated, listening intently to his alto voice.
"The person they killed... was someone they had spent two years with, a dear classmate, a friend with whom they laughed together, someone they had feelings for. Isn't that despairing?"
Oowada swallowed loudly.
"...I understand why you're here."
After staring at each other from such a close distance, Celeste slowly moved away and looked down at the seated Oowada.
"It's about Kuwata-kun, isn't it?"

This happened a couple years ago, quite a few, actually, so my memory might nit be exact. So, my friend group of a couple boys, maybe 5 or 6, to go greet a new family who had just moved in, we didn't have anything dangerous, and we were just riding our bikes, when we get to the private drive, almost the second we step on, Karen comes running out, (not her actual name) and screamed at the top of her lungs "OMG THEY'RE GONNA ROB US!", I looked at her, ears hurt, with and obvious face of confusion, she pulled out her phone, and called the police almost immediately, then, the family we were trying to greet comes out of their house, mainly the father and older son, and asks her what in the world she is doing, she then screamed again "THEY'RE TRYING TO ROB THE STREET!", the family looked at us, harmless children, and looked back at her, the older son with confusion, the father with anger, and the father asked "how do you know they're trying to rob the street? They don't have weapons?" And she screamed "JUST LOOK AT THEM! THEY'RE LITTLE JUVENILES!", and, she starts talking to the police, about maybe ten minutes later, the police show up, and one of my friends, we'll call him Jack, not his real name, start having a panic attack on the road, rocking back and forth, crying, and I start getting a little pissed myself, as the police walk up to Karen, and ask her "what's may be the problem, Ma'am?", she told them that we had tried to break into her house with a hammer, the police walked to me, and asked me "is this true, young man?", and I said "I don't even have a hammer, we had walked onto the street, and Karen comes running out, screaming "THEY'RE GONNA ROB ME!", we weren't even close to her house, sir.". And no joke, the police officer started patting ,e down, looking fir said hammer. I was wearing shorts and a t-shirt, i must've had the most dumb-founded expression, because the second officers told his ol' buddy "y'know held wearing shorts and a t-shirt, right [name]?" And the officer immediately stops patting me down, looks me up and down, and says "oh, right." Like he wasn't just patting me down looking for an object i couldn't hide, then walks back to karen, and tells her to screw off, he apologized to me, called the parents of "jack" to pick him up, I greeted the new kid nervously, apologized for the commotion, and we've been friends ever since, and Karen moved out almost the day after, I got told she was evicted, so, karma's a bitch! Thanks for taking the time to read this, I out more work into this than my English essays in high school.

Hey everyone, it's John from Hypeddit! I run one of the largest music promotion platforms in the world, and I've helped tens of thousands of music artists reach millions of listeners, fans, and streams. Today, I want to share how you can make more money from Merch Sales every month of the year!
Why Merch Sales Matter:
Streaming royalties are great, but they only bring in fractions of pennies per stream. On the other hand, merch sales can bring in $10, $15, or $20 from a single purchase, which can significantly fund your music promotion efforts.
Recent Video Breakdown:
I recently posted a video where I break down my entire merch sales strategy, including how much money I'm making and how I'm making it. If this interests you, feel free to check it out. In this post, I want to give you a merch sales calendar to help you make more money from merch sales every month.
Using MailChimp for Easy Offers:
One simple way to boost your merch sales is through email offers. For example, during Black Friday, I offer a 50% discount on all t-shirts for house music fans. The key elements of a successful email offer include:
✅A clear, descriptive subject line (e.g., "50% off on all house music t-shirts").
✅A substantial discount (50% off is more enticing than 5% or 20%).
✅A reason for the discount (e.g., in honor of Black Friday).
✅Creating a Merch Sales Calendar
Here's a calendar to help you plan your sales throughout the year:
✅January: New Year Sale
✅February: Valentine's Day Sale
✅March: St. Patrick's Day Sale
✅April: Easter Sale
✅May: Memorial Day Sale / Mother's Day Sale / Spring Sale
✅June: Summer Kickoff Sale
✅July: Independence Day Sale (Fourth of July)
✅August: Summer Sale / Back to School Sale
✅September: Labor Day Sale
✅October: Halloween Sale
✅November: Black Friday / Cyber Monday Sale
✅December: Holiday Sale / Christmas Sale
Bonus Tip: Birthday Month Sale:
Offer a sale during your birthday month. Fans will feel a personal connection and are more likely to take advantage of the discount. Many will even reply to wish you a happy birthday, increasing engagement.
Make sure your merchandise is priced so that even at discounted rates, you are still profitable. I use Printful for print-on-demand services, which means no inventory hassle. Price your items to cover costs and ensure a profit margin.
Frequent sales can train fans to wait for the next discount, so price your merchandise to ensure profitability year-round. If you want to learn more, check out my mini training on merch sales and watch my latest video for detailed insights.
Click here!
Start boosting your merch sales today and fund your music promotion effortlessly. Cheers to your success!

Nineteen years after Hurricane Katrina made landfall, the storm remains one of the deadliest hurricanes in United States history. Though the death toll remains uncertain, at least 1,300 lives were lost as a result of the tragedy, with dozens more still missing.
One of those lives was an unidentified woman, nicknamed Jane Love by locals, who was found a week after the storm passed between the foundations of two wrecked houses in St. Martin, Mississippi*. She wore a University of Michigan t-shirt over black pants and had pierced ears. Jane Love was determined to be a middle-aged woman, likely Black. In the chaos of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, Jane was unable to be reunited with her family. When the woman, along with another unidentified man, went unclaimed for months after the hurricane, a local funeral home donated caskets for the two to have a dignified burial, side by side in a municipal cemetery. Sheriff's Deputies stood in place of pallbearers, while a Baptist minister recited prayers at their funeral.
Today, almost two decades later, Jane Love has been identified through genetic genealogy as Tonette Waltman Jackson.
Tonette, a forty-five-year-old Black woman living in Biloxi, believed she and her husband could ride out the storm despite their home being only a mile from the Gulf of Mexico. The couple's children took shelter further inland, though Tonette and her husband were determined to remain in their home. After all, Tonette reasoned, the government went door-to-door telling people to evacuate for their safety during past disasters that put them in danger, so if nobody showed up, it was safe to stay.
Their daughter Mary begged and pleaded with her parents to seek refuge in a safer place, knowing that her father couldn't swim. Tonette brushed it off, joking that she would save him if she had to. The pair boarded up their windows and hunkered down until the worst passed.
Unfortunately, despite surviving the hurricane, Tonette and her husband were caught in the storm surge, which dumped tons of water onto the Gulf Coast, wrecking everything in its path. Floodwater rushed into the house and the couple had to break a hole through the ceiling into their attic to escape the rising deluge, which kept on rising. Praying for their safety, they grasped onto the attic's rafters, though those soon broke apart under pressure, soon followed by the entire house giving way, described later as 'breaking in half'. Without solid ground to stand on, Tonette fell into the rushing water, while her husband managed to grab hold of a sturdy tree branch. He grabbed her by the wrist with his other hand, fighting the force of the water. Tonette let go of his hand and told him to take care of their family, before being washed away into Biloxi Bay, never to be seen again.
Her husband Hardy Jackson's heartwrenching testimony of losing her to the storm during a live interview with reporter Jennifer Mayerle was viewed by millions nationwide, encapsulating the death and suffering Hurricane Katrina wrought upon the Gulf Coast. Moved by the video of Jackson, soul musician Frankie Beverly donated a house in Atlanta, Georgia to the family, who had been living with relatives at the time.
Hardy passed away in 2013, though not before seeing their grandsons be the first in their family to graduate high school. It is unclear how Tonette was not matched to Jane Love sooner.

*The Doe Network lists her as having been found in Ocean Springs, a neighboring town, but LeMoyne Boulevard is definitely in St. Martin.

https://www.cbsnews.com/minnesota/news/wccos-jennifer-mayerle-shares-unforgettable-story-of-katrina-survivohttps://dnasolves.com/articles/tonette-waltman-jackson-mississippi/
https://abcnews.go.com/GMA/HurricaneKatrina/story?id=1093853
https://www.usnews.com/news/blogs/data-mine/2015/08/28/no-one-knows-how-many-people-died-in-katrina
https://www.weather.gov/mob/katrina
https://justicebeserved.blogspot.com/2009/09/list-of-victims-of-katrina-may-they-be.html
https://www.doenetwork.org/cases/1256ufms.html
https://www.telegram.com/story/news/state/2006/02/03/two-unidentified-victims-katrina-buried/53133330007/

Before you self harm in any way, you should probably know what you’re getting into. Before you make that cut, please keep in mind that you will find the pain release, and blood, strangely addictive. You may think to yourself that you’ll be able to control it, that you won’t let it get out of hand. You may think that you can just stick to a few small, shallow cuts here and there that won’t be deep and that will heal quickly and easily. But you’re wrong. You can’t control it, it’s impossible to control. It controls you. It’s an addiction. The cuts will get deeper, they’ll scar. They’ll take weeks to months to heal and years for the scars to actually begin to fade. You’ll find that soon, you depend on it. You can’t go more than a few days without cutting. You’ll go crazy as your skin itches and burns, your hands shake, your head pounds, your vision goes blurry as you try to keep your mind off of it, try to hold back from giving in. But you will. If you think you can limit the cuts to just one area of your body, you better think again. It’ll spread slowly but steadily, like a deadly virus. It’ll spread as you run out of skin, from your wrists to arms, past your elbows, up your shoulders down to your stomach, across your hips and waist and soon will cover your every inch of your legs right down to your ankles. I hope you’re prepared to withdraw from others and live in a constant state of shame and guilt. Even if you have been the most honest person to ever live, you will lie to your friends, family members, everyone around you who you care about. You’ll find yourself jerking back from the touch of someone, as if their fingers and hands have been bathed in a toxic, burning poison. You’ll be terrified that they will feel a scar or cut from beneath the fabric of your shirt or because it just plain hurts so much to simply be touched. Be prepared to become your own worst enemy. You’ll fear yourself, your head, the urges that taunt you every minute of every day. You’ll come to fear the next time you cut because you don’t know how bad it’ll be. Wait for the 10 cuts to turn into 20 then 50 then 100. You’ll be covered in scars and cuts. Your entire life will begin to revolve around your addiction. You’ll constantly be thinking about cutting, covering up your cuts, how you’ll hide your blades, scissors, bobby pins and the other objects you use to destroy your body. And then..the first time that you cut “too deep.” The bleeding won’t stop and you’re gasping, shaking, panicking, fear takes over you. You pray and hope that the bleeding will stop. Your purpose wasn’t to die, you won’t ever go that deep again. Right? Wrong. You’ll go there again, and deeper. But don’t worry. You’ll learn how to take care of your cuts so you don’t have to take a trip to the hospital every night. The better you get at treating your wounds, the worse they become. You’ll lie to yourself and try to justify it when you go to the pharmacy and drug store, finding yourself spending 20, 30, 40 dollars on dressings, gauze, alcohol wipes and sterile strips. You’ll tap your foot impatiently, hoping that no one stares and asks you why you’re buying all of these things. But at the same time..you hope someone asks, so you know they care. Be prepared to spend even more money on an entire new wardrobe. Long sleeved shirts, hoodies, long pants, boots, bracelets, wristbands. The list goes on forever. You’ll keep scanning other people’s bodies for signs of self harm, hoping that there is someone else out there who feels the same way you do. Hoping, praying that they will be like you. But that will never happen. You’ll see clean, uncut, unmarred arms and feel even more alone and ashamed than before. You’ll do a lot of things alone, be prepared to kiss your social life goodbye. You’ll always be doing your laundry, always in private so no one sees the blood stained towels and clothes. You’ll be spending hours scrubbing blood from the bathroom floor, and wiping dried blood off of your keyboard. You won’t be able to make it a day without cutting. You’ll carry an emergency kit in your wallet or purse. A key, safety pin, a needle, a paperclip, even a pencil. Everything around you will become a weapon. It doesn’t matter what it is, as long as it gives you that feeling that sends you reeling. Next thing you know, you’re in the bathroom stall at your school or work, picking open the scab of an old cut with a needle. Say goodbye to all of the things you took for granted. Shorts, sandals, tank tops, swimming in the summer, going to the beach. All of these things will be a far off memory. I hope you like itching and scratching non stop. You will itch and itch and itch. It’ll be so much that it’ll look like you have some sort of flesh eating disease. You will become an expert on your body as you carefully destroy it, taking it apart piece by piece. You will dream of cutting, dreaming of getting caught. It will haunt you day and night, in your dreams and when you are awake. Cutting will take over your life. It now has it’s hold over you, it controls you. You’ll hate yourself, hate yourself for making that first cut that threw you into this vicious, neverending cycle. You’ll wish you never made that first cut. You’ll wish you had read something like this, or that someone had told you what would happen. But as much as you hate your addiction and self harm, you love it and can’t live without it. You’d rather die than go just a few weeks without cutting.
Now, I’ll tell you what the title pertains to. How to self harm. Here is where I tell you how to successfully hurt yourself. So put down what you’re about to use Because you are so much better than this. And believe me, you don’t want to get involved with the monster of self harm, it’s not worth it.

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

There is no sex in this episode, and it is more of a filler episode as to what is to be seen. Next week's episode is definitely going to be worth the wait! All characters are 18+
There was no way for me to take my mind off what Alexa and I had talked about before I went and slept with Luca. Sure, in the moment, it was enough to fog my thoughts and fill them with lustful desire, but it didn’t erase the fact that I was going to be dad, and somehow, I had to tell Luca and Travis. We are not all exclusive to one another, but I hope they will say to me if we are in the same shoes. I’m going to be telling them tonight.
I didn’t know how to go about it. Hey, so you know how I was straight before, like a month ago? Yeah? My ex-girlfriend just told me I’m going to be a dad, I thought to myself, but it sounded stupid in my head, and more than likely would sound stupid aloud.
“They’re going to kill me,” I sighed, tossing on my shirt and slumped down on my bed.
“Who’s going to kill you?” my roommate asked. I had forgotten that he was here; he never really said anything. “Your boyfriends?”
“They are not my boyfriends,” I scoffed. “But yes, Luca and Travis.”
“For what?”
“My ex is pregnant and is claiming I’m her baby daddy,” I exclaimed.
“They are so going to kill you,” he laughed at me. “Those boys are like lowkey obsessed with you, you must fuck them real good if they keep coming back.”
My face reddened at his comment, and I didn’t want to admit the truth, so I just went with it. “Not helpful, and I know,” a slight smirk spread across my cheeks. “I just have to sit them down and tell them it doesn’t change anything, I don’t even know if I’m the father, it has been nearly a month since I last slept with Alexa, and the idea now seems even grosser than it was in those moments before Luca and Travis.
“I’ll start planning your funeral,” he said, giving me side-eye and pulling out his notebook. So, who do you want to speak about? Travis and Luca are clearly off the board now.”
“Bro, just stop,” I huffed. “They’re just going to need to understand.” For a long time I was that straight boy, the one that craved the touch of women, to feel their delicate skin, and no inclination of doing anything with my butt. Alexa is the one that changed me, which I think is for the better, but it was her fault; she was the one that left, and she was the one that did this to me. “Any tips?”
“Just rip it off like a bandaid, and then offer them your cock,” he shrugged. “Bro, you must be so lucky; I’d kill to have two chicks go down on me.” I wanted to laugh and tell him the truth because he was stereotyping my position based on the fact that I’m a jock and Luca and Travis are nerds. But I also didn’t want to make it weird. I know he would have if he had known that I was the one getting filled by both of them regularly.
“It’s nice to be able to get some whenever I want, and threesomes are easy to arrange,” I chuckled. “Well, when you’re not here.”
“Fuck, bro my room sees more action than I do,” he groaned. “If they care about you, it won’t matter, man, but I do recommend getting a paternity test done as soon as you can.”
“I was thinking about that,” I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck. “Do you think I might not be the dad?”
“Dude, you’ve been fucking with Luca and Travis for what? Like a month now? And she left you high and dry like six weeks ago. Don’t you think it’s possible she was screwing with someone else?” He spelled out for me his doubts and created even more doubts within me. Alexa wouldn’t do that . . . I also told her not to touch my butt. . . and she did it anyways . . . maybe to expose me to anal bliss . . . to justify her leaving me for her side piece, I wondered, did she even have a side piece? None of it made sense to me. “If I were you, I’d be demanding that paternity test and bounce when you find out it’s not yours. Don’t let that bitch ruin what you have.”
“How did you become so wise, Camden?” I asked, feeling as if some weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
“To be honest, I’ve been jealous of you with those boys. They remind me of the boy I was once more than just friends with,” Camden divulged, “my father is also a lawyer–”
“Wait, a damn minute,” I interjected. “You’ve had a boyfriend before, I thought you said you were not into that gay shit.”
“Maybe I was just trying to hide it; I haven’t thought about him in a long time. Two summers ago, I started to secretly see my best friend's younger brother after he got outed by my best friend,” Camden told me. “High school romance is not bound to last. College is where you make those friendships that never end.”
“It sounds like you have a wonderful best friend,” I laughed. “Are they just not compatible? Or too complicated?”
“Dating your parent's best friend's son is always complicated, especially when you spend nearly every summer together,” Camden chuckled. “It was just too complicated, and we ended things before anyone found out.”
“Dude, I want to know more. But I really need–”
“To go tell that bitch, you want a paternity test, and tell Luca and Travis you might be a Dad in nine months?” he furrowed his brow. “Text them, text them now.”
Nathan: Alexa, I've been thinking, and I want a paternity test.
Alexa: Wow didn't sleep with anyone besides you, you're the slut, but whatever.
Group Chat Travis 🎮🍆 & Luca 📓🍆
Nathan: Guys, we need to talk ASAP, in person.
Luca: I didn't have Travis's #, everything good Nate?
Travis: He probably wants some dick, Luca gonna get mine too, I wanna run a train.
Luca: I'm not a bottom Trav, you won't fit . . .
Nathan: I mean, I'm down, but we need to talk first.
“Do you mind giving me the room for a bit, they’re on their way over,” I told him, “and Alexa is being a cunt about it, but said fine.”
“Dude, I just admitted so much shit to you, it’s the least I could do,” Camden smiled. “Unless you wouldn’t be opposed to sharing those boys with me.”
Fuck, fuck, fuck.

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

A couple of years ago I tried writing my own version of Stones Abbigale. I never got past the first couple scenes, but I'm considering returning to it. I wanted to basically rewrite and change up a lot of things, mainly focusing on Abbi and Davis and changing some elements. Let me know what you think!

1
It's almost four in the morning and Seth is threatening suicide again. Good. Fuck him. I hope he does it. I don't text him that because I read about this girl who told her boyfriend to kill himself. The irony was that when he actually did it she got charged with second degree murder. My life is fucked as it is I don't need to make it worse. I’m shivering under my comforter because we’re halfway through November. I think about the turkey that won't get made this year and the family I won't see. I think that's swell. Seth is still texting.
Its like u dont even care after everything that happened and after everything we did together i saved ur life and i stayed with u when u cried and i hugged u and i did everything for u but that wasn't enough was it? i try so hard and all u ever are is a bitch to me that's not fair u want me to die and u hate me and u dont even care and im sick of it abbi why is is so hard for u to care about me?
I don't respond. I don't like how I feel about this. This should be easy. He won't actually do it. He won't. He’s too self involved to kill himself. I put my phone face down on my bed. The sheets shake around it as he sends message after message. I was sleeping on a ticking bomb so I got off of it. My feet stick to the floor, I struggle to step. I might as well have been standing barefoot on ice. I trudge to my window so I can see my street at night. Winter is really coming. You can't hear as many birds as you used to. They've all gone. They've all flown away. I can see three streetlights from where I’m standing. If you can from right to left you can see the concrete fracture into the sand. I open my window and brace for the chill. I stick my head outside. The ocean is not far away. I hear it hitting the shore over and over. Waves of water splashing incessantly, almost beating out my text notifications. The street lights flicker. I think of last summer. When Seth and I got really high after the news broke that my Mom was cheating on my Dad. I was making out with that bong. Emptying bowl after bowl, clanking the glass on the road to empty it out. Just thinking about it makes me feel the street pole against my back again. I was laughing and crying. Seth leaned in and hugged me. “I’m a sure thing,” he said. “I love you and I always will.” I caught my reflection in his sunglasses. I looked awful. I shiver at the memory. My phone is still buzzing. I try to catch my breath. I shut my window and start to walk back to my bed. A room always looks different in the dark. Maybe you think you know where you are, but there is always something that can jump out at you on the floor. Like a ghostly paper bag or a vengeful shoe. Objects that seem to move on their own with the sole drive of tripping you. I crawl back into bed. There's the phantom of Dad’s snoring . I know he's not sleeping in his room, he fell asleep on the couch after finishing his seventh fifth. Sometimes my brain fills in the gaps so I can hear it everywhere. Funnily, I haven't actually heard him snore since Mom left. That's the one thing I ever heard them fight about. Before she turned out to be a whore, I guess. BZZT.BZZT.BZZT. I can't bring myself to read any of his messages. They're coming so fast all the paragraphs are lost to motion blur. Seth’s arms wrap around me and I think about the beating of his heart and the warmth of his lips against my skin. I open up the texts, ready to respond.
I love you
I text this over and over until I fall asleep.
Davis was the only senior on the bus. Somehow, everyone else had a car or a ride. It’s all right, though. James would probably give him one if he had a car, but he skated to school every morning. That's why he barely ever rode the bus with him. The bus thumped along the under paved roads. Davis forgot his earbuds at home, so the only music that accompanied him was his racing thoughts. Two sophomore girls popped their heads over. “Ohmigod, Davis!” One of them shrieked.. “As I live and breathe,” he smiled. “Nice,” she said. “I’m so excited to see your finished painting.” Davis took the lower level art class for a requirement. Like most things, he's not taking it very seriously. For their pop art unit, he's painting a portrait of the art teacher with a warthog face. It's one of his funny disruptions. He knows Mrs. Stanley is going to have a real field day with it, but it doesn't matter. Artistic liberties, he’d profess. “She's such a bitch, isn't she?” The sophomore girl turns to her compatriot, who only nods in response. “She's just jealous,” Davis says. “It must be depressing to teach art and see the youth soar above her.” “For sure,” the girl doesn't get it. Class clown is a semi-heavy burden. Davis doesn't really feel like talking to these girls, but his position demands it. Comedy informs everything about him. To the giant thrift store jeans, to the loud Hawaiian shirt. He and James are the ultimate combination, at least he likes to think so. Quiet brooding begs for bright distraction. The girl is still trying to talk to him and Davis is saying his preprogrammed lines. The bus stops in front of James’s street. Surprisingly, James is standing there. “Like I’m this close to just filling my hydroflask with vodka, yaknow?” says the chick. Maybe she's just trying to get a rise out of him. “Better be prepared to give me more than a sip,” Davis is watching James grumble towards the bus. The sun is beating down on the forming ice puddles. James stomps through them with small shattering steps. James turns up the bus aisle and plops in the seat next to Davis. Davis’s smile is genuine now, but he fights it from getting too wide. “Crash your vehicle?” Davis asks. “Something like it,” there's something off with him. Davis doesn't want to push it. “Well damn, hope insurance covers it,” Davis wants James to break and laugh. Is it just another mood or did something actually happen this time? “It won't, I got bad credit,” James grins and it's like heaven. “What's the move for you today?” “Surviving art and physics for me,” says Davis. “Those bastards love to keep me down.” “Who doesn't,” James eyes the girls who have since returned to whatever they were doing before. It's the judgement stare, as Davis calls it. James likes to observe his peers like a zoo-goer. Breaking them down to taxonomic types. Davis likes to think that James doesn't do this to him, but he knows he probably does. “It sucks you decided to be bad at school and take baby art,” James is still dissecting the sophomore girls down to their tropes. “We could have done Art II together.” “I wouldn't want to get between you and Alex. I know how you love it when people piss in jars next to you.” “That's disgusting,” James breaks his glare at the girls. “It's performance art, it's beautiful,” Davis gets up out of his seat to yell. “Everyone witness the wonderful work of Alex Madov! Disengage yourself from the shackles of capitalism by shouting with me: Poopy, pee pee, poop!” Davis gets a few chuckles from the other kids on the bus. “Sit down, fatso,” mumbles the bus driver. “I will not be silenced! I’m a messenger of the good word, sir!” “More of this shit and I’m skipping your stop!” “Fine, but I will make Alex remember on the day of judgement,” Davis sits back down. James is full belly laughing. “You're so retarded,” James wheezes. Davis can't even come back with a response. He's high off of it.
The bus pulls into the school lot with a short stop. The mobs get up and begin to race out. Davis follows James down the line. “You know Abbi?” James asks. Davis feels a little pit form in his stomach, but he doesn't change his expression. “Vaguely, what about her?” “She's in my art class,” James begins. “And I think … well you know, I’m going to talk to her.” He walks down the steps and out the door. “Doesn't she have a boyfr-” before Davis can descend the driver's arm blocks him. “I’ve had enough of your shit, kid,” he says. “If you keep being obnoxious, I’m gonna find a way to make you pay for it.” James looks back, but he can't stay. Davis knows that he's gotta get to class. James does a little wave goodbye and Davis salutes him. “Are you even listening to me?” the bus driver seethes. “Yes, sir. Divine retribution, got it.” Davis ducks underneath his arm and exits the bus. James has already disappeared into the crowd.
I pass the bong to Ashley. She starts another bowl. She’s the transport and I provide the material. The little things that keep our friendship afloat. I look at the clock in her car. “It's 8:45,” I pick a piece of bagel out of my teeth. “So that's it, we officially missed first period,” Ashley tops it off. “They won't mark us, you know. It's a study.” “Yeah, but when's the last time we signed in? I heard they're changing the policy again. Do you still have the lighter?” I toss it to her. I don't get it. It's always her idea to pick me up so we can smoke before school, why now is she suddenly caring about attendance? “We're pretty girls, we can get out of it. I’m next,” I tap on the clock. “Are you sure it's not fast?” She shakes her head as she takes a snap. We're parked in the pond area a block or two from the school. It's our designated smoking spot. I like it, even at the end of fall it's pretty. I’m so engrossed that I don't realize her tip out the bowl and put it back in the cup holder. “I don't know if it's wise to keep up the activity, we should probably get going soon,” she starts up her car again. “Okay,” I say. She reverses and swings out of the lot. We lean into the silence and it's super weird. “Seth texted me last night,” I wait for her reaction. “Oh,” she grimaces. “What did you say?” “That I loved him.” Silence again. Ashley's trying to put together something well-meaning while understanding that I’ll probably ignore whatever she has to say. “Abbi, I’m not trying to tell you how to run your life, but …” Her expression is now quizzical. She's said what she is about to say a number of different ways all ready. She thinks and thinks and decides to say nothing. Good call, I would have screamed at her. Not because what she thinks about my situation isn't true, I’m just in a ‘screaming at people mood’ because of it. “I’m going to dye my hair again,” she changes the subject to avoid conflict. Classic Ash. “Oh yeah? What color this time?” “I don't know,” she checks her reflection in the rear view. “The red has faded out, maybe blue or pink this time.” “You should go with a softer pink,” I say. “Since you're a soft spring.” “Yeah, maybe.” We enter the school lot. “Listen, do you want to get together when I do it? Maybe you can dye your hair too.” “I don't know, I might be busy,” I say. “Seth might want to do something,” I pause for her to protest. “Okay,” she says. She parks and we get out.
I barrel into art class. I don't care if I reek, out of all the teachers I can tell Mrs. Stanley smokes the most. It would be hypocritical of her to care. It looks like I’m the first one. Weird. I check my phone. It's 8:45. Well, fuck. Looks like Ashley needs to fix her clock. Mrs. Stanley is at her desk. She looks at me knowingly. “Eager to create today, Abbi?” I just nod and sit at my desk. I’m really feeling it. I open up my precalc notebook and just start sketching. Birds, eyes, trees, whatever. Kids start coming in. Their chatter echoes around me, I try to focus on what I’m doing. Someone bumps into my table. I look up. It's this lanky blonde kid, I think his name is James. He presses his hands underneath the desk as he leans up to talk to me. “Eww!” He shouts. Some kids turn and laugh. I don't. I just stare at him. James goes red and sits next to the kid who pissed in a jar. Once an adequate amount of students are in the room, Mrs. Stanley starts her lesson slideshow. On the screen is a dirty urinal. “How many of you are familiar with this work by Marcel DuChamp?” she asks. At this point, Jason, the designated meathead jock, enters the room. “Sorry I’m late, Mrs. S,” he booms. He looks at the slide. “We building bathrooms today?” Mrs. Stanley glares at him. “Wouldn't you like that? Considering you spend all of your time in there.” “Whatever,” Jason brushes his mullet behind his ears. “No, not whatever. Would you like me to move you into the sophomore class with Davis? Believe it or not he's getting much better marks than you are getting in here.” Jason rolls his eyes and takes his place in the chair next to me. “Up to a little extra curricular activities before art, Abbi?” he motions a joint in his fingers. I scoff and go on my phone. There's another text from Seth.
sorry about last night
and
im reading it all right now that was fucked im sorry
I start to respond, but before I can Mrs. Stanley outstretches her hand. “Give me your phone, Miss Hagerty. I’m sick of giving you warnings.” I don't have the energy to fight, I just give it to her. “You can pick it up at the end of the day.” My jaw actually drops. Jason must have really set her off, she's not usually such a cunt to me. “Anyways, found art. What is it? Well, found art is the use of everyday objects to convey an altered meaning. It can be something you find on the street or something that once held value to you. For example, My Bed by Tracey Elim.” She pulls up a picture of a messy bed that looks suspiciously like my own. “So for your final unit of the semester, you will be making your own found art. I really want you to take this project a little more seriously than most of you have been taking this class. I’m giving you the privilege of picking your own partners, but I’d like to remind you to be thoughtful with your choice. This will be worth more for your grade.” I look around. I don't have any friends here. I toy around with the idea of asking Jason for convenience and he looks like he's about to pull that move. Behind me there's that James guy. He’s sheepishly looking at me. He seems kind of nice. Okay. I don't feel like getting up so I just turn around in my chair. “Hey James, wanna be partners?” He balks a bit and then smiles at me. “Yeah, totally,” He's beaming and it's somewhat endearing. Alex and I switch seats and now I’m next to him. “I’m gonna be real with you …” I begin. He stops and shifts a little. “I have no idea what we're supposed to be doing for this.” He regards me oddly. Like he's trying to piece me together. It doesn't bother me. “She said we have to bring in an object that's special to us and present it artistically basically,” he rubs his chin. Damn, I must be baked to hell. I didn't hear her saying that at all. “So got any stuffed animals we can cut up and make Lovecraftian monstrosities out of?” “I got a hamster cage, hold the hamster,” I say. It comes out kind of weird and I probably sound stupid, but he doesn't seem to care. “Let's make a fucking zoo.” “Perfect!” He’s kind of cute actually. In a way. Something about this feels fun. I realize the bell will ring soon. “So um,” I rip out a page of my precalc notebook, still fresh with my drawings. I scrawl out my number and push it to him. “Call me so we can figure out the project some more.” I pack up all my stuff and start to head out. I can feel him watching me and it's not that bad. “I sure will,” he says. Everything feels really groovy. There's a lightness now. I’m halfway out the door when I remember my phone. I can't believe that I just forgot about Seth. I think about begging for my phone, but I feel too above that. Still, something shakes the good feeling as the bell rings.

Hello. I’m making this post because I am unsure of what to do. I’m 17 and my girlfriend is 16. We’re very close but are long distance. (4 hour drive) Her mother (actually her grandma technically??) has been abusive towards her up until she was 14. The last time she was physically abused her mom grabbed her hair and made her stare at her. It was much worse before that. When she was around 10, she was hit with charger cords and slapped and had dishes thrown at her. She had bruises but always said they were from other things. After being abused, she was bought things to keep her quiet I assume. Such as stuffed animals because her mom felt “bad.” She would also do this thing to her where after hitting her she would sit her down and say “give me your pain.” And hold her head against hers. I assume the only reason she stopped hitting her is because she knows she’d tell people now. I used to stay at her house for a week at a time. She has 2 brothers, I believe 8 and 10, who I would wake up to every morning screaming as they’re getting hit with spoons and slapped. I saw the youngest with a large bruise on his face. They used to do in person school, now they only do online, likely because of their mom hitting them and her not wanting to be caught. I had known about her hitting her brothers for a while but I hadn’t stayed at her house until August. It was seriously every single morning. I also knew about the abuse she received since middle school as she had told me about it then. We were very close friends. This past week, maybe more, her mom has been very rude towards her. She’d call her things like ugly and ignore her when she tried to talk to her. This current fight is about someone in Walmart giving my girlfriend 40 dollars to buy a shirt she wanted. She didn’t ask, it was just a kind person. She ended up getting a cheaper one as the one that was 40 ended up being too big for her. Her mom freaked out on her and said she was misusing his generosity. Saying she was an ugly person. Yesterday, she came into her room and lectured her about the money. She was screaming at her and saying she’s a selfish brat. She also brought up how she didn’t get her a gift for Mother’s Day. I heard all of this because I happened to call her right before her mom walked in. She came in and said something like,” are we going to talk about this?” My girlfriend wasn’t really saying anything as she’s very passive with her mom. After a bit, her mom was going crazy and screaming at her that she loves her no matter how mean she is to her?? Now, before we had called, we had been talking on text and she had been bringing up all the abuse things her mom has done. I assume my girlfriend was checking something on her phone and hung up so her mom didn’t see us on call. I only know what she told me on Xbox as they forgot to take that away—-

I (13F) have 5 siblings (17F, 16M, 15M, 10F, 8F) and 3 step siblings (14M, 11M and 9F) as well as a half brother (4M).
My middle step sibling is my 11 year old stepbrother Bryer. His mom died 7 years ago when he was 4, this is the same year my parents divorced. My mom started dating his dad a year after this happened. They got married in December last year and this is our first Mother’s Day together.
Bryer has been the one who is the most okay with all of this, he never mentions his mom when my other step siblings do. He’s said he was never really that close to her, which makes sense because the only people he’s close to are his friends from school who he plays basketball with. Those boys are the only people who he will allow to hug him and the only people he seems to like talking to. Bryer isn’t close with me or any of his siblings, he’s not close to his dad or my mom either. He will buy birthday gifts and Christmas gift, but even at family parties, he will spend most of his time on his phone taking to his friends. He’s always been like this according to my stepdad. I’ve always thought it was weird.
On Sunday, Breyer and I had some fights over how he was acting on Mother’s Day and I don’t think I did anything wrong, but my mom and stepdad are upset at me.
The first fight happened while we were going to lunch for Mother’s Day, Breyer is a very picky eater and he was getting all nervous over not finding a menu online for the place we went to. I told him to chill out and he could look at the menu when we got there, but he was freaking out about if they had nothing he liked. I told him if they didn’t have anything he knew he liked, he should try something new but he said he was worried he wouldn’t like that either. When we got there, he saw some things he liked on the menu and he was fine, and I told him he shouldn’t have been so dramatic and that I told him so, and my mom told me to knock it off. I tried to explain to her my opinions, but she told me that it’s “ok to be a picky eater” and how she read an article online about young people having “menu anxiety”.
Another fight we had was over the gifts he got her. My mom’s favorite animal are elephants, she thinks they’re cute, but she doesn’t spend all day thinking about them or watching movies about them. Bryer often goes out to the thrift or antique stores with his friends, and he had a bunch of elephant stuff for her, from little figurines to shirts to books and more. He said anytime he saw something with an elephant, he got it for her. He was keeping the collection at a friend’s house and had to bring it in a trash bag because it was so much stuff. Bryer does this with basketball stuff, from shoes to posters to trophies, anything basketball he sees in a store he wants. It’s all he ever talks about and he knows a lot about it. I told Breyer that she didn’t need all of this elephant stuff, but he said he was right for getting it and how he wants her to have a collection of the stuff she loves, we literally need to get a new cabinet for the living room to put all of them in.
We had another fight when he started to have a temper tantrum when our plans changed, we were supposed to see my great grandma’s spot at the cemetery, but my mom decided that it would be too much for her and wanted to do something fun instead, so we decided to go to the donut shop on the way there instead. Breyer was freaking out because he didn’t have plans for what he wanted at the shop and didn’t know what they had. Everyone there’s even a minor change like this, he starts to cry and fidget. My mom and his dad claimed him down, I told him he needed to grow up and know that as an adult, sometimes things change.
Later that night, my mom told me that I was overreacting to Breyer’s behavior and that he’s always been a bit quirky. She told me about a guy she had in her school in elementary school that reminds her of Breyer, she said he would go on about cats and knew everything about them, etc. He moved after elementary school. She said he now owns a cat cafe a few towns over and she wants to visit it now. She said he’s a very happy and successful man, and she was talking to him on Facebook. He told her not to worry about Breyer and how it’s ok to be shy like he was. She said that if I continue to talk about Bryer's quirks that I would get in trouble. She said they love Breyer for just the way he is, that nothing is wrong with him and that “everyone has a bit of weird in them, including you, Breyer is just a bit more weird than average”. AITA?

Ok, I was listening to the pod (I don’t remember exactly which episode bc I’m listening out of order but) Drew and Enya were talking about the person that shit all over the plane and Drew said something like “I don’t understand how they effortlessly shake the turd out of their pant leg like they’ve been doing it their whole life.”
This reminded me of a memory I BURIED yall so here it is
When I was in 1st grade, my teacher went on maternity leave early because she went into premature labor, so they didn’t have subs lined up and for the week, they just combined both of our small 1st grade classes. The other 1st grade teacher, Mrs. Joan (name drop bc she’s probably dead by now), she was old as actual dinosaur jizz like that bitch was taking her last breath basically.
Anyways, picture day happened and we all went in Mrs. Joan’s room and she had our 2 classes line up with each class next to the other. An important part of the story is that I was this week’s line leader. As we were walking down the hallway, that bitch started STANKIN. So all of us little 6 year olds were holding our noses and laughing like “oh this bitch crop dusting the hell out of us.” So like, I turned back to look at the boy that was standing behind me with my shirt held over my nose, and as I do I see his eyes widen and he points at her ass and when I turned there was a booty hole BULGE.
By this time, my class was convinced that Mrs. Joan wore diapers because she was that damn old. So everyone started chattering that she shat in her diaper. And she was also kinda deaf, so if you talked quietly she couldn’t hear you. But the tea was so hot that she turned back to tell us to quiet down. That turn dislodged the booty bulge and before my little 6 year old brain could process that that bulge was traveling, it rolled out the bottom of her pant leg and plopped onto the carpeted hall in front of me, so close that I couldn’t react and I kicked that damn turd. After that, I stepped out of the way but I think I was in such shock that I didn’t say anything and as I stood to the side, I watched the chaos go down as the people behind me stepped in the turd, more smaller turds fell out, and it all just got crushed into the carpet.
And I do wanna say, this was traumatizing to the point that I remember specific details. That shit turd was not a softy. That was not a “I think it’s a fart.” It wasn’t even something that could have slipped if you genuinely couldn’t hold it anymore. It was a solid scat. And BIG. Like the kind of thing that too much fiber builds in you. This bitch was dehydrated. Which means that unless she has been doing an ungodly amount of anal her entire life, that bitch had some force behind it.
The whole 1-3 grade wing got out of school early and got the next 2 days off because it was so squished in the carpets all up and down that hallway that they had to replace them and it was a biohazard.
Anyways, she wasn’t fired, because our town was so tiny there was literally not a single soul within 100 miles to fill her spot that quickly, but she was asked to not come back next year. And with our town being so small, a lot of the staff and teachers were close friends with my parents so not long after my teacher had her baby, they had a lil get together so that everyone could meet the baby and while us kids were playing, I went in the kitchen to eaves drop and my teacher was talking about the shit situation and I guess Mrs. Joan tried to blame one of us students but she had shit stain skid marks on the back of her ankle and cuff of her pants so she did not get away with it🫶

Caution: Long Post
The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. is without doubt and still is to this day one of the most influential, powerful, and iconic figures in American history due to his steadfast and nonviolent commitment in the fight for Civil Rights, Equality, and Justice during Jim Crow Segregation in the United States. The highlight of his career as an activist came in 1963 in which he delivered his famous "I Have a Dream" speech in front of Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. in which he envisioned a nation in which his children will be judged not by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character. This resulted in the Civil Rights Act of 1964 to be passed. Even after his assassination in 1968, his legacy inspired many similar Civil Rights Movements around the world.
Today, Martin Luther King, Jr. is hailed by both sides of the American Political Sphere as a Beacon of Hope on how to fight for Justice and Equality for all during turbulent times. But it's the Conservatives who constantly claim that they truly support him and follow his dream, especially in modern times and they've expressed it in a rather whitewashed and partisan fashion. The most obvious being their use of his "I Have a Dream" speech by quoting the one line that has often been cherry-picked and misinterpreted quite a lot in which they judge people not by skin but by their character. The main reason they do this is to give them the appearance that they are colorblind as their way of opposing racism. And in doing so, they consistently criticize Liberals of trying to divide the country into special interest groups and promote favoritism. As a result, they always claim that Dr. King is a Republican, let alone would've been one in this era given his views, along with the fact that he was a Christian. His niece, Alveda King even emphasized it herself.
Some of the ways that Conservatives try to supposedly live up to Dr. King's "Colorblind" Dream is by opposing supposed "Wokeness", Critical Race Theory, and the practice of Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion everywhere. They also express it by opposing Affirmative Action and the use of Racial Quotas when it comes to applying for schools, universities, and jobs because they believe it causes Reverse Discrimination. In terms of nonviolence, Conservatives express their disapproval of the Black Lives Matter movement. On the basis of Christianity, Conservatives believe that Dr. King supported a fixed moral code as indicated in his Letters from Birmingham Jail since he led with love and not racial hatred by changing the lives of people and not the laws itself, along with the notion of self-sufficiency. Seeing all this, it seems like Conservatives are really desperate to prove how much America has progressed in this post-racial world in order to debunk accusations that it isn't a racist country and that's why they always prop up Dr. King by claiming that they follow his dream and will continue to do so. Well.....up until now.
During this year's Martin Luther King Day, a string of prominent Conservative activists and organizations suddenly turned on him. Starting off with Charlie Kirk of the Youth Conservative Movement Turning Point USA, who launched a blistering anti-MLK campaign in which he supposedly dispelled the alleged myths surrounding his popularity. He accused Dr. King of being a "Bad Person" and that his "Sainthood will cause Black voters to realize it's being used against them to suppress the individual." He even went further by stating that "we made a huge mistake when we passed the Civil Rights Act in the 1960s" accusing it as "a way to get rid of the First Amendment". A while ago, the organization marketed the Conservative image of Dr. King when they sold $55 T-Shirts with his name as well as stickers of him with the words "Let Freedom Ring". Kirk was later joined by the Daily Wire's Matt Walsh who accused him of being a "communist". In fact, he railed against Dr. King a few years ago by accusing him of being a Womanizer, Adulterer, Plagiarizer, etc. Coming after Walsh was Human Events editor, conspiracy theorist, and fellow Turning Point USA alumna Jack Posobiec, who labeled Dr. King "a God of the Left" and stating that "the real legacy of the 1960s was enshrining Racial Discrimination and Race Consciousness into the Federal Bureaucracy." And finally, a popular Conservative Twitter account called "EndWokeness" called Dr. King "a Racial Marxist" because he "did not support a Colorblind Meritocracy" after it cited his quote on Wealth Distribution. What's even worse is that even non-White Conservatives hate him. Two examples include a commentator named Vince Everett Ellison and former football player and sports columnist, Jason Whitlock. The latest editions to the lineup of Black Guilt Conservatives, they railed against Dr. King and the passing of the Civil Rights by stating that they worsened the Black community by drifting them away from God into "Democratic Dependency". They even accused him of the same crimes as Walsh did.
With the sudden change in tone and emphasis from the Right against Dr. King, you have to ask yourself why they're doing this and what caused them to believe this way. And this is not an extremist fringe of the Right that some would expect to hear from. All of these are Mainstream Right-Wing Figures who have direct lineage to the GOP, including the current presidential nominee, Donald Trump. That's as Establishment you can get. Their remarks have been criticized by a lot of people from both sides and surprisingly by some Black Conservatives. One of them was Pastor Darrell Scott, a former faith advisor of Trump, who these days, is one of a few Black Conservatives who has been calling out other Black Conservatives for tearing down their own race in order to elevate their status among others, a very notorious habit of them. He criticized Kirk for inspiring a Hitler Youth. Another was Kimberly Klacik, who in 2020, gained viral for her campaign video stating that Black Lives don't matter to Democrats when she was running for Maryland's 7th Congressional District following the death of Civil Rights Leader, Elijah Cummings, who was the incumbent. She criticized Kirk for his remarks stating that his rhetoric will prevent Blacks from voting Republican. Even with that said, there have been instances in which Conservatives themselves have questioned the Civil Rights Act and many of them have been pretty negative. If you check out other Conservative websites and especially here on Reddit, many of their criticisms echo the same sentiments as those Pundits stating that it was unconstitutional and that in infringed on the First Amendment, particularly the Notion of Freedom of Association.
That being said, there is some silver lining to this. Now, that they exposed themselves for what they really of think Dr. King, I think it's time for them to admit that they never really liked him in the first place, let alone understood who he really was and what he really stood for. In fact, they never really liked him at all. All they did was whitewash him and cherry-pick his ideas and speech for own Partisan Agenda. Dr. King constantly talked about the notion of Black Pride and campaigned about the need for Reparations. He also supported Affirmative Action stating in 1965 that "a Society that has done something special against the Negro for hundreds of years must now do something special for the Negro. Dr. King realized that our society was created in a way that managed to disadvantage the many for the benefit the few, and that America's Racial Hierarchy was connected to its Class Hierarchy. He also had political beliefs that manifested through both Racial Reconciliation and Concrete Policy Changes that could help restructure and benefit a divided and unequal nation. This is the reason why he referred to himself as a Democratic Socialist as he wanted a "Radical Redistribution of Economic and Political Power". In fact, he argued that true Equality can only be achieved, not just through legal rights, but through an equal distribution of resources. This is evident when he said “Call it democracy, or call it democratic socialism, but there must be a better distribution of wealth within this country for all God’s children.” This is the exact vision that Vermont Independent Senator Bernie Sanders believed in. After all, he did participate in the March on Washington in 1963. In regards to Police Brutality, while Dr. King opposed violent protest, he did acknowledge that a Riot is the language of the Unheard and that it came from a place of Desperation. In fact, in his "I Have a Dream" Speech, he stated that Blacks could "never be satisfied as long as the Negro is the Victim of the Unspeakable Horrors of Police Brutality." After all, he was hounded by the FBI, was called a Communist, broke the law in protest of race-based Segregation and Violence, was thrown in jail, advocated Protests and Sit-Ins, opposed White Rule of Society, and was assassinated for his Race and his views on Race. Regarding the quote about the Content of Character from said speech, Dr. King's daughter, Bernice King stated that using solely that quote diminishes the purpose of the entire speech because her father's dream and work included "eradicating Racism, not ignoring it."
If anything, this goes to show that is Dr. King were around today, he would be heavily criticized for being Woke, politically correct, a Communist, a Race Hustler, and a member of the Radical Left. And we all know that the Right hates those ideologies passionately. But here's the thing, he never considered himself a Democrat, let alone a Republican. He was an Independent as he felt that both parties are the same. And reducing his legacy to a single quote diminishes the gains that he fought for and believed in. This especially goes to a lot of Conservatives out there who claim to follow his lead using that quote because they interpret them in a way that benefits them today than how he meant them back then. For you to claim that he didn't care about Skin Color is like saying Susan B. Anthony didn't care about Gender. And to those Conservatives who now hate him, including Black, I hope you're OK with people getting treated unfairly, including your own. Who knew being seen as an Equal is a Negative in your eyes.

Heya! These posts/introduction messages always feel awkward and forced for me 😅 so buckle up 🤪…
Let’s get what I’m looking for out of the way, as no sense in taking up more of your time if it’s obvious that we aren’t a fit.
What I’m seeking:
As of current, my primary interests align most with a FWB situation, but I am open to any form of connection that develops organically between us (including simple friendship). I’m relatively open with regard to availability, though in an ideal world you would be open to seeing each other 1-2+ times a week. I’m attracted to a wide range of personalities and body types, so it can be hard to relay my interests there and is usually best just to connect and see if we click or not. I guess in the end, I’m pretty flexible in my interest and desires.
It’s also important to note that I do not smoke or drink at all. I don’t judge if you do either, but I will say that being around cigarette smoke is likely to be a dealbreaker for me. As for weed, I hate the smell, so I just ask that you please avoid smoking it around me. Vapes are fine, just please don’t blow them in my direction as I personally don’t care to breath that in. Alcohol I have no problem being around in all capacities lol get plastered for all I care.
A bit about myself:
It’s always hard to gauge what to share to the world in “bios” like this..I’ll try to highlight some of my most prominent characteristics and details 🤷‍♂️.
Let’s start physical. I’m 6’7”, definitely a dad bod with a bit of a stomach, 33 years young, long brown curly-ish/wavy hair (admittedly facing some male pattern baldness at my forehead hairline, so doing what I can with what I’ve got while I can 🤷‍♂️), brown eyes, wear glasses (if that matters to you at all), maintain a beard at all times (take the hair where I can, right? 🤪🤷‍♂️), and wear a size 19 shoe (putting that out there as it’s always a shocker 😆). No, I never played basketball for any teams growing up, but did play pickup games often after high school. The weather is just fine “up here” 🤪. As for style, or lack thereof 😆, you’ll likely always see me in some form of graphic or plain T-shirt with likely some form of shorts (I love the cold and hate being hot) year round, though every now and then I’ll change it up with pants and/or pollos 🤷‍♂️. I want to be more stylish tbh, but I don’t have the eye for good style, I’m colorblind, and often don’t feel other styles would suit my looks 🤷‍♂️. Speaking of looks, standard bearded Caucasian nerd looking dude lol, though when people see me, they might be quick to assume I’m the standard white conservative Christian type, when in reality I’m far from such (curse the genetics and looks I was born into 😭).
Kink friendly, so any questions or curiosity around such please feel free to bring up and discuss with me further.
I think that’s a good start on physical attributes, let’s move on to the internal ish…
Gah this section is much tougher to fill out 😅. Look, I just love just about everybody, will generally give everybody the time of day and benefit of doubt, can strike up a convo with just about anyone (though sometimes I need the other person to engage the start of that convo 😅), and would do my best to help and protect anyone around. I just want the best for everyone, ya know? I’d say i lean more extroverted, but do battle a moderate amount of social anxiety that im sure you’ve picked up on by now..you’d likely think im more introverted with how often I stay home and how little I randomly reach out to friends/others. It’s not that I don’t love getting out and about and don’t care to talk to my friends, I just get so caught up in my day to day life that it just doesn’t cross my mind, OR I get social anxiety (especially if I haven’t spoken to someone in a long time, I always worry they think I don’t care about them and our friendship).
Beyond this, it’s hard to list my other qualities, so I’ll just move on to interests and maybe that’ll help highlight more?
My Interests:
Can’t help but feel kind of boring and basic when filling out this section 😅. I feel like it’s a lot of what most people list as their interests and that my list is small/limited/boring. Travel Culture/language Food Music (very large and eclectic taste in music) Gaming of any form (video, board, etc) Puzzles/challenges/sports (I love a good challenge, so huge kudos if you are competitive) Technology (always fascinating what we are making in this world) I’d like to learn to dance but right now I’m very self conscious about my terrible dancing (I feel awkward 😔)
Disinterests: Low hanging ceiling fans and light fixtures 🤪
Details regarding my current Poly configuration:
I’m happily married with one child. If I do take on any new partners I never expect you to take on any form of relationship or responsibility for the rest of my family beyond just maintaining a safe space through proxy. My wife and I practice kitchen table Poly, so we are completely open to everyone happily interacting together, but if you aren’t comfortable interacting with the rest of my family no problem! Ask if you have any further questions on how we Poly ethically, happy to answer any questions!
Anyways, I’ve made this long enough…if you’ve made it this far, thank you so much for taking the time to read my post to entirety! Even if we aren’t meant to connect, you and your time are greatly appreciated! Sending my warmest regards and a friendly virtual hug ❤️.

I work in a public school, so obviously political t-shirts are supposed to be off-limits. It's coded to be about Palestine, and I live in a pretty rural area where there doesn't seem to be a lot of awareness or discussion about Israel and Hamas. I think I'm one of the few people (perhaps the only one) in the building who actually knows what the shirt is referencing.
I've seen this person with other things that indicate support for Palestine, which I've either had no problem with or gave some generous leeway that she might not have understood the implications of things, but I draw an absolute hard line on anything that drops the word "resistance," for reasons I'm sure I don't have to explain.
I've confidently and directly confronted co-workers over antisemitism in the past, but I haven't said anything here because, again, most people don't know what it means (so I question that there's any real impact), and I know that it gives people like her a great deal of satisfaction to feel "persecuted" for their "activism." Add to that that I'm the only Jew in the building, and it feels the opportunity for a perfect storm of bullshit and a raging victim complex on her part that I don't care to deal with.
People might disagree with my approach, but I've decided that every time I see her wearing it (including the previous four times), I'm going to donate to a charity supporting Israeli medical or mental health services, like Magen David Adom or Sahar. It's given me a great deal of private satisfaction knowing that her actions more than likely aren't influencing anyone and are in fact contributing to supporting the health and wellness of Israelis.

I’m a senior in high school. My parents buy all my clothes and stuff. (I did have a part time job but I quit it because my A-level exams are going on - and I have saved all my money.) But I don’t ask for a lot of clothes and I usually just wear T-shirts and the same few jeans. I have a couple nice outfits but anyways I’m not really into shopping, and my parents have never said anything about me potentially buying my own clothes.
Anyways so last night I was tired from studying so I said I was going to go for a walk. We live in a very safe neighborhood, we’ve lived there for six years and never heard of anything happening - but obviously nothing is 100 percent. I was wearing short shorts and an oversized tshirt because I was just in my room studying all evening. My dad was sitting on the couch and I said I’m going for a walk, he told me I should change first. And I said why, what’s wrong with this. He said it’s not very decent. I pointed out that he was literally wearing shorts and a tshirt too. He said but you’re going out. I said he walked the dogs today in those shorts and I was literally walking down my own street. (Not very far either, literally just like a 5 min walk.) In the dark and not meeting anyone else.
Then he said it’s not safe. I said how is it any less safe than wearing jeans. He said I’m pretending to be stupid. I said sure, but please tell me exactly how it’s more unsafe or less decent to wear shorts for me than for him. My mom heard us arguing and came down. She told me I should just drop it and change, because my dad buys my clothes and I should listen to him. I said well my dad bought the shorts too. He said he assumed I would just wear them in the house like a normal person. Then my parents ended up arguing because my dad thinks it’s my mom’s fault that I “think like this”. I feel guilty. Should I have just dropped it?
Also - short shorts means basically normal women’s cotton shorts. The kind you can get at target. Also it is 85 degrees outside where we live.
edit: https://neoloungewear.com/cdn/shop/products/NeoLaunchxGoodDay-0315_grande.jpg?v=1663181858 the shorts were basically like what the woman model is wearing in this. not purposefully short, just the kind of shorts you wear to watch tv in bed lol. I normally wouldn't wear something like this to visit people or anything, just thought no one would see me anyway because it was late. I don't usually wear revealing clothes, but I do get pretty pissed off when I feel like I can't do the same things guys can. Like for ex. two of my friends and I were planning a trip after graduation and we had to basically bribe our mutual guy friend to come along (he didn't mind, but it wasn't something that really interested him) because we didn't feel safe alone. drives me crazy, so I can see why my parents might be worried I might do something unsafe. I just think it's possible to think about being safe while also being angry that we have to.

As If It Were Kismet: Prologue
Matt tore through the brush, blind in the dark. He didn’t care where he was going. He only knew he needed to be elsewhere. Far from here.
Behind him a creature howled that shocked his mind. It’s form was cruel and dangerous, though female. Nothing like the young woman she had once been. Nothing but a girl, a small and slight female.
It’s guttural growls and howls only grew closer as Matt tried to pick between seeing where he was going and getting away. The few times he looked he caught sight of the creature behind him. Hopping through the air with a speed that told him he was being toyed with. As if he were a mouse being played with by a cat.
But the reflex in him to run kept him going. His adrenaline going as hard as it could. The tightness and burning in his core tensing and locking up as his legs felt like there were being burned from within while taking on more of a heaviness.
His lungs were starting to betray him as he tried to gulp big breaths of air but only rapid and shallow breaths were all that he could manage. His brain was starting to burn….and then he was falling.
Falling down the side of a hill he saw the creature dart in a spring towards him, imperceivably fast almost. Catching him in mid air it seemed.
Managing to wrap its body around him and cushion his impact against the ground as they rolled. His mind barely took in what was happening during the roll. Only starting to understand what was happening once they were still.
The creature's triple D-cup breasts were unmistakably pressed hard against his back as he laid facing up at the night sky.
For a few seconds the world stilled and the needle light pain hitting the center of his brain took over for the cooking heat his brain had felt. His whole body felt heavy and reluctant to move.
Even if he could have really moved, a dull ache came over his limbs making them feel stilled and trapped as if by immeasurable amounts of sand that had engulfed him.
Slowly the arms holding him started to move. Moving so the creature's hands could start exploring him. Causing Matt to unstoppably let out a pathetic moan that made him go cold inside as hands lifted up his shirt and started to touch his exposed stomach and then his chest.
He would have whimpered so pathetically had he not still been in the depths of terror.
As its hands felt and groped his pecs he tried to situp as if to get away. For his efforts, his reward was a hand around his throat and a collection snarls and growls against his ear. A beastly, guttural voice spat words at him while somehow holding a feminine tone.
“Don’t move….I don’t know if I can calm down…”
Her words were not helped by her moans in his ear and the subsequent kissing of his ear. The flesh of his ear going between her lips as she moaned and seemed to pant. Releasing it and licking the side of his face with a moist warmth. He could feel its spittle, viscous and coating his flesh where the tongue touched. He could smell something in his saliva. Something that subtly entranced him.
Matt went stock still with fear and the confusion of mixed arousal. He barely perceived her right hand traveling lower on his body. A surprised moan and shudder echoed in the night from Matt’s lips as she took ahold of him. Her hand above his pants but still….stimulating him.
A light squeezing and almost probing of her digits kept him aroused and confused within her grasp. Resigning himself to the strange fate, Matt looked up at the stars as his mind tried not to shatter under the strange maelstrom of events and sensation that had started mere minutes ago.
His mind was only more confused as a slight figure, feminine in build, how it seemed to thunk the ground audibly as she landed on her feet out nowhere. Her knees barely bending under the pressure of the landing. Yet dirt was kicked up anyways and some of it onto Matt. Feeling it pepper his shirt and pants as it fell.
The figure, lit only faintly by moonlight, roared some dark tone Matt could only perceive as a demon as her eyes went bright with a crimson light. A light in the darkness that should not have been. “Let him go you bitch.” Was its words following the roar. Spittle escaping its mouth with faint droplets hit Matt's face.
The creature holding him by his throat and crotch seemed to tighten the grasp of both hands as it roared back. “HE IS MINE!”
The figure paused with a moment's hesitation. He was also her quarry. She had felt his fear without him knowing. His confused arousal. His fear. His terror.
And now he laid at the center of a struggle between two monsters. Unsure of who he wanted to win.
As If It Was Kismet Ch. 1
Matthew Berkshire hadn’t seen his mom in two years. Not that he had seen her much over the last six years.
A messy divorce between messy people and mom’s chaotic want for a life in Alaska had been one of the most…upsetting times in life. Setting him up for so much of what had defined his life thus far but then that had really started two years before he ever turned.
His ear buds were basic and simple. A part of cheap five pack, common for his life as he was known to lose little things. Small things. They had a mix of metal and hard rock playing in them. Some classics, some alternative. Whatever made him feel something, anything. Even if it was hate. Anger. Rage. It was better than feeling numb. Not belonging.
The escalator down to his lone bag to go with his lone carry on showed his mom waiting for him. His had a type, that’s for damn sure. Not that it helped him in the genetics department as he was stuck at 5’9” to go along with his mother’s five foot even as his dad stood six foot. Forever leaving him to feel small, to pale, under his dad’s shadow. Did he ever stand a chance?
The guy next to her with the unkempt former seventies porn stache was “Dave.” He’d met him twice when his mother came and visited him in Florida. To his credit the guy didn’t look annoyed. Kind of concerned kind of which made Matthew want to break his frozen look but he was well practiced. Having removed any note of sadness from his face through much…tribulation.
His mother’s look on her face betrayed a hint of worry as the bruises on his face lightly showed up close. Saying his name was his like a distant echo that belonged to someone else.
Dave cut in and pulled out his right headphone. “What the hell bud, they knock you hard enough to hurt hearing? Your mom’s asking how you are doing.”
Matthew pulled out the other bud and grunted an empty “sorry.”
“You still have bruises after two week? What did they do to you?” His mom’s voice was full of worry. Something he hadn’t heard in….too long. Too long to make him feel anything. To ever make him believe there was any sincerity to her words. To not think her voice and mannerisms were an act. An act by someone who…wasn’t really there.
“It’s only fair. I took a nose. Fractured a couple orbital bones. Left one with having to get his jaw wired shut. And one will never walk right again for what I did to his knee cap.” Matthew said it all with a bored and disinterested tone. Perhaps well rehearsed.
“My man, handing out ass kickings, not bothering to take names.” Dave was quick to be the typical man’s man about it. Matthew wasn’t quite done yet. Lifting up his shirt to expose the right side near his kidney. Revealing a nasty scar from a six inch blade. “Luckily they gave me this first so they could rule it all in self-defense. The fuck didn’t get it in more than inch before I ruined his knee cap and then I took the nose of one of the fucks holding me.” Now he chose to smile keeping the well practiced dead look in his eyes.
No retorts. No questions. Just horrified looks on their faces. As he liked. As he preferred. They could hate him. They could be disgusted by him. But by God they would fear him.
“Well the doc did a good job sewing you up.” Dave commented uncomfortably. “Dissolving sutures. Ain’t they grand.” He smiled again and let it abruptly fall off his face and started walking to the carousel for the baggage claim.
Waiting and making small talk with Dave as his mother stood in silence. He was not the little boy she abandoned. The little boy she left with an angry man. While never hitting him. Left him in constant fear till he turned twelve and just didn’t care anymore. Something snapped. Broke. And he didn’t care if he died. Didn’t care if he stole. Didn’t even care if he killed. He just knew not to get caught. Something left over from his grandfather’s wisdom which came to make more and more sense with each passing year of life since that thing inside him broke.
Finally his bag came around and Dave went to try first to grab it but Dave practically leapt ahead of him. “Is that your grandfather’s rucksack bag?” his mother asked in a perplexed voice.
“Figured it’s been around since Viet Nam. So it’d serve me better than any of the worthless stuff they called luggage.” Dave commented after Matthew’s words. “Well hell yeah I still got mine from Desert Storm. You know the first one.” Dave laughed and Matthew eyed him oddly. Be it in the south or whether it was Alaska, country boys are country boys he guessed.
The car ride to the two people’s house, as Matthew thought of them. Was uneventful and full of vistas he imagined metropolitan types wetting themselves over. At most they meant isolation to him. Furtherness from the world as there were no mountains in Florida. And what mountains he had last seen in another state had been when he was eight. Another life, to Matthew it felt like. A life alien to him.
As If It Was Kismet Ch 2
Dave and his mom’s place was some two story type tucked into a tree line far up an elevated point. It was by no means the highest point in the mountain but it certainly felt up there.
Rocks were where the driveway should have been Matthew thought. Grabbing his backpack and rucksack from Dave’s jeep was no hard thing for him. Matthew was in formidable shape for someone his age, maybe even five years older. He had gotten a mix of fairly big shoulders and arms along with the chest to go for it when compared to most kids his age. A side effect of working out at least twice a day. First thing in the morning, some time in the evening, and the school’s gym when had had a good semester in school before he had to leave Florida.
Dave tried to come up and help him but Matthew walked past him towards the house. His mom was not sure what to make of his demeanor. Matthew was not the sweet kind boy he had once been. But she had been gone from his life essentially for a long time.
Ushering him into the house she cracked some joke he did not hear. He was too busy looking about and seeing a mix of old outdated decorating mixed with the strange and odd flair of his mother. Color contrasting against drab and dated. Like brightly painting over an old home that was falling apart he thought.
“Your room is this way Mattie.” His mom brightly intoned.
Without expressing any interest he followed his mother. Still faced and nonplussed. Just going along with the current. Pushed and pulled with its roll like a piece of driftwood.
The room was simple. A single small bed. A set of rubber weights with a curl bar and barbells. “Your dad said you were into weight lifting so we got you a bunch of stuff. Dave says it looks like his department’s gym almost. The woman’s smile felt very alien to him.
“Thank you. I appreciate it. I’ve got most of my stuff from home.” Matthew starting unpacking his rucksack and pulled out cables of repetitive and mixed colors. A single plastic barbell handle. The ruck sack could be filled with water bottles for added weight during pushups he figured. Remembering a Michael Keaton movie he watched with his dad post-Batman movies where he played a convicted killer using plastic bags filled with water for weights.
Matthew caught movement outside his lone fairly large window that could let him step out onto the roof of the house given its layout.
He saw a number of people running together through what he guessed was the backyard of the property, not that it had any fences to mark boundaries
They wore clothes that looked similar yet different from each other at the same time.”Oh those are the Johnston’s. Really nice bunch of people. Been on the mountain for a long time Dave tells me.”
Matthew looked at the group of people running and noticed the lack of resemblance. “They are related?” Matthew quizzically asked. Seeing a black and possibly a hispanic person amongst the bland looking white people.
“Oh well they are all adopted but for one or two of them…besides the parents of course. The family has a long tradition of taking in orphans they say. Real nice of them to do that don’t you think.”
Matthew looked at his mother and the hosier accent made no sense to him as he arched his left eye brow. Her and his dad were both from Florida. Born and raised. Sure her parents were from New York city but…
Matthew shook his lightly without turning to look at his mother as his vision was grabbed by one of the runners in particular. A girl of moderate height. Soft brunette. A plain beauty he figured with a slim build….and lack of remarkable breasts and rear to make any note of but….girls in general were his type at his age.
She was pretty enough. He couldn’t deny that but he found himself transfixed by her visage.
But the way she turned and looked at him, especially at that distance felt very disconcerting to him. Even if she was smiling like…she was a taste of a bright shiny day. Somehow.
Matthew’s mom noticed the exchange and smiled to herself with closed lips. “Oh that’s Vicky. She’s your age I think. Very sweet girl, who does the charity functions. You know bake sales, blood drives, car washes and the like. I think you should get to know her. Might be good for you.”
A truck horn sounded a couple of beeps in rather succession. “Oh that must be Mack, he said he might come by later this evening but he seems early.”
Matthew’s mother turned and left his room. Leaving Matthew to exchange a few looks with the alluring Vicky as she turned her head away from him to talk to the others in her group and look back at him.
Still Matthew’s left eyebrow was arched. In a way that reminded him of Spock from Star Trek that he and his grandpa used to watch on some streaming service or another.
As he heard ambient chatter elsewhere outside the house he figured to check it out as the alluring sight of Vicky would be around he figured. It was dull to stare at artwork. He was a boy who preferred jet skis and the like. Something he could ride and enjoy immensely. Even if at times it got him stabbed.
As If It Was Kismet Ch 3
Matthew sauntered out of the house and down the rockway that stood in for a driveway.
A few new people had come over from what he could first surmise of the situation. As he got closer it was obvious they were indigenous people. A couple of grown men…and a girl?
She was mousey. Maybe five foot. Hiding behind glasses and a big camo jacket that was far too big for her. It looked made for a grown man and the backwards trucker hat on her head kept her long black a beautiful mess of sorts.
She was cute in a way. A little androgynous but she had a cute energy to her. She reminded him of the more tomboyish Puerto Rican girls he had gotten into back in Florida. Given the deer corpses in the back of the truck….probably more dangerous to play with given the men in her family.
Small chatter passed between the adults when the girl noticed but turned away, trying to hide the tiny hint of a smile.
“Oh Mattie, this is Mack. He works with Dave at the sheriff’s department and John, he’s with fish and wildlife.” Matthew nodded at his mom’s words with some blankness as he looked at the deer the in the back of the pickup truck.
“Gale tells us you hunted with your dad some in Florida and Georgia.” Mack offered with a light hearted laugh camouflaged by his big simple and cheery but husky way he spoke.
Looking in the back of the truck he spoke. “We used lever action thirty-thirties and Mosin Nagants in seven-six-two-fifty-four-rimmed.” Mack and John whistled in an exaggerated fashion. Leaving Matthew to wonder if they were mocking him.
Mack spoke. “Well we just used thirty-odd-six in a custom gussied Garand.” That caught Matthew’s attention. “You have a Garand…” Matthew finally demonstrated interest in anything. “My dad has an SVT-40 and a Hakim 8mm but he always wanted a Garand but was too cheap to buy one.”
Gale, his mother, chimed in loudly. “Oh his Dad loved his guns but was such an odd duck about how he bought or why he bought them. Never made sense to me how he wasn’t a collector but he didn’t get the latest and greatest.” Gale laughed uncomfortably. At least it seemed that way to Matthew.
Matthew pointed to the girl with an underhanded pointing hand. “And who is this? A cute little mute mouse or does she have a name?” Dave and the other men laughed.
Mack again spoke. “Well you people call her Rebecca, she’s my adopted daughter.” Matthew was taken aback by what he heard. “You people?”
Rebecca kindly spoke with a soft but almost melodic voice as she struggled to maintain eye contact. “White people or rather not members of our tribe. It’s just easier to appease the colonizer kind of thing. Borrowed from when the Jesuit missionaries chased us up here.”
Mack stepped in. “It’s just easier to have white people names than have them try to say our tribal names. And we don’t want them shortening or Anglicising our names kind of thing.” Rebecca stepped back into the conversation cutting off her adopted father. “It’s an insult to our history basically.”
Matthew cocked his head sideways raising his eyebrows shortly before letting them drop. “Well as soon as I’m eighteen I’m out of here and back to Florida so I’m a sort of involuntary colonizer of sorts. So I won’t be taking any of your land from you. The Seminoles on the other hand are still shit out of luck.”
Rebecca’s smile caused Matthew to reflexively smile. Mack made the moment more awkward. “See Becca, I told you someone off the reservation would like you some. You just have to be creative.” Mack laughed in a chiding manner…Matthew presumed. He sensed that he was the butt of some kind of cultural joke. Like marrying a white guy was some sort of insult or mark of shame. That kind of thing.
Rebecca turning away from him was not something he had been expecting. Her then getting in the truck in a huff left the group in a silence for a moment.
Dave spoke to break the awkward silence. “Well just bring the truck to work on Monday and leave it for me to grab up.” Mack acknowledged Dave and they started to get off as Rebecca looked at Matthew for another instance. Matthew couldn’t look away for some reason as the two seemed to lock eyes for an instance.
Till Vicky and family seemed to come jogging down the road. While Matthew’s eyes diverted from Rebecca’s. Hers did not till she realized he was looking elsewhere. And her vision found Vicky and what had been a hint of smile on her face turned glum and disappointed.
Matthew did not look away from the vision of Vicky but instead of a starry eyed fool looking longingly. It was a baffled look. Well baffled for him, with his eyes drawn narrow and night with a focus.
There was something about her…he couldn’t quite put a name too. The way she appeared to him. One second brunette. The next second blonde or blonde like. As if the color appeared in her air and disappeared in fractions of seconds. Much the same way her body almost seemed to…shift…very subtly…smoothly. A nicer bum. Larger breasts. And then back to a simple and plain form. Feminine no doubt. Attractive. But not so…remarkable.
As If It Was Kismet Ch 4
The next two days passed without incident. Nothing of any real substance or challenge to note.
Matthew got settled somewhat and started working out almost immediately. Exploring around the woods but Dave told him not to go far. Especially without a hunting rifle. Dave had left a simple semi-auto Winchester out for him. His bear gun as Dave referred to it with its four round magazine. But Matt figured till he got some practice with the rifle to leave it alone. He made a hiking stick like his grandpa taught him and treated it over a low fire. He would take some electrical tape for the end his hand would grip around. Plenty enough to ward off anything smaller than a bear he figured.
The ride to school was a pain in the neck but simple enough. Dave would let him use a clunker pickup truck he had laying around. It wasn’t pretty but it would get him to and from. Even if it was from the eighties and still backfired on occasion. But for now Dave and his mom took him on their way to the sheriff’s department.
It wasn’t much of a school. It wanted to be modern but its fifties original construction was very obvious. It serviced the pipeline families and familys’ of fisherman who worked the seasons in between their time at the pipeline.
Matt was to report to the principal for some reason Dave and his mom wouldn’t share. Which annoyed him but he figured it was to read him the law of land. Small towns with their big views of the outside world and like.
Dressed in jeans, a grey sweatshirt under a light jacket with steel toed boots set him more apart then he expected. His buzzed head didn’t help matters. Already he was feeling like a stranger in a strange land but he was quite strange after all. And he liked it that way. Normal people were so pathetically disappointing to him.
A secretary or assistant or some such led him to the principal’s office. Where it reeked of real wood that was old and fabric and upholstery that needed to be updated for the last twenty years, Matt figured.
“This is Matthew Berkshire, Principal Andrews.” The man was turned with his back to the door and he was quick to wave her off as he turned her around.
He was an older man. Fat and large. Tall with a body built like he had once been fit and a demeanour of annoyed and irate already as he fixed Matt with a scowl and look of disgust. Another worthless government whore. Matt thought to himself. His father and his grandfather had bestowed unto him a natural disrespect for government workers and the figures that wore unjustified authority as a shield but pretended the weight of the state was not at their back ready to crush all who resisted. Little figures of valor pretending to be mighty and alone but acting with the tyranny of the state and all the backing.
“Mr. Berkshire, please sit down.” His tone wasn’t unusually hostile, just gruff. As if he had better things to do.
Matt complied and took a seat in the chair while maintaining a friendly facade. Not everyone was an enemy. And not everyone needed to be an enemy. Even if anybody could be any enemy. There was no reason to make enemies you didn’t have to. Another of his grandfather’s bastardised wisdoms.
“Well I looked over you file and you have quite the history Mr. Berkshire.” Matt resisted qiuping back a joke. Instead he waited for Principal Andrews to continue as he remained nonplussed and looking as if he felt no need to respond. A simple head tilt with dead eyes looking back at the principle as if he was not even there would suffice.
Matt’s reaction or lack of a reaction rather made Principal Andrews only narrow his eyes with examination. He was not used to a kid not responding to him. Especially with his gruff and hard act going on.
“Well by all accounts you moved here after some problems at your last school. A fight broke out and you did some real harm to your fellow students it appears.” Of course, he would take the side of the perpetrators. School administrators always did. Especially when they weren’t white. Just a fact of the times. Cowardice and pathetic mediocrity was the way they leaned, like good government workers sucking the dick of Big Daddy government. Worthless whores.
Matt chose to reply. “Oh you mean the criminals that stabbed me. Got arrested at the hospital and then pled to felonies. Yeah Florida, with the American counties are good like that.” Principal Andrews went real still. No shame. No fear. No penitence. He didn’t like that.
“Well be it as it may Mr. Berkshire we don’t tolerate that kind of behaviour here…” Matt cut him off responding with a deadpan tone. “You mean self-defense meant to save one’s own life while the cowardly and pathetic school workers look on with zero interest but to keep their money rolling in and will allow known gang members with records of violent acts and crimes that should have them expelled many times over, where in certain Democrat counties such cowardice and idiocy empowered a couple school shooters?”
Principal Andrews looked at the Matt with a note of disgust. “Look here Mr. Berkshire, your beliefs matter not one bit here. This isn’t Florida. We don’t like our way of life being disrupted by outside agitators who have problems with authority.”
Matt did his best not to roll his eyes and let the older fat man drone own as he dead-stared him. Lifeless and without emotion.
The man came to a finish and Matt spoke up without having listened to him or paid him any attention. “Great now that’s taken care of. Can I please get to class and finish my sentence of two years at your wonderful school?”
Principal Andrews huffed and snorted before calling in Vicky. Vicky stood in the corner after entering with a quiet and seamless presence. Matt felt disturbed and tried not betray his feelings as the young Vicky was perceived and not perceived to be moving.
Principal Andrews made the introductions and Matt nodded back. She was to be his chaperone for the day. They had the same classes and she was to show him the ropes so to speak. The ins and outs of the school. The locations of their classes.
He recognized her. It was hard not to. The way her appearance seemed to shift fluidly almost. The petite and skinny brunette ever so lightly had a big bust and blonde hair with curves added when she seemed to shift before his eyes. Like watching a film but each frame had a different person.
Matt didn’t say anything about it. Even if he did he would only be acknowledging his crazed state, if he had one. If.
Unlike an obedient puppy dog he got up in a slow and awkward fashion and followed behind her as his oddly disproportionate frame allowed. Causing her a note of concern for some reason. As if she was seeing something she shouldn’t have been….Or he was just weird. And Matt could admit to himself he was just weird. Part of his charm, he would jest about it at times. Not that he had many people to jest to now.
As If It Were Kismet Ch. 5
Following Vicky into the hall off to their first class was simple. She exchanged small talk and he slightly smiled as if to obviously suggest he was just being polite.
Inside his head, Matt was trying to figure out if he was having a psychotic break. The way Vicky looked kept changing and he looked at the other people around him and they stayed the same.
He was searching his mind as they were walking. And thus he wasn’t paying attention to where he was looking and so fell to his face forward over his feet seemingly out of nowhere.
A series of laughs erupted as it sunk in that he was obviously tripped. Like in prison this was a challenge to his superiority. If he let this pass he would be mocked and sneered at by this same group of boys. He wouldn’t walk to them like he was going to do nothing like a little bitch.
In a rage he turned and punched the stomach of the first face he saw. Some typical blonde haired wannabe jock. He knew from experience not to aim for the ribs. Instead he needed to aim for where he thought the belly button was.
Yells and screams blindly echoed around him as his after the punch he followed up his elbow of the opposite arm slamming into the face of the jock. Harder than a fist, the elbow struck the jock’s jaw and seemingly dropped him against a locker. Just in time to catch an errant and soft punch to the nose that sure enough hurt but did little to slow him down as his dad had taught him to fight through the pain. Blood and scars happened. They were a natural consequence of life to a man.
Taking the punch and falling further into his red state Matt headbutted the punch thrower before another guy arm bared his throat from behind. Which he managed to get his grip on the arm over a letterman jacked and jerk the unprepared boy to the side with him still latched on.
A few feet away from the lockers Matt knew his only chance was to jump and push off the lockers and knock the boy to the ground and so he did. He heard a thunk of the boy’s skull bouncing off the ground and he turned to pull out of the grapple.
The beatings he had taken from his father, the grapples, being choked unconscious. Had prepared him for fighting little bitches who didn’t know what a fight was. It wasn’t gay porn with rabbit punch fists flying.
Blood was running down his face and the pain started to hit him as the threats had been eliminated. Only then did he remember to breathe. Taking breathes as Vicky came up to him with tissues and took a hold of his nose.
“Owww owww owww what the fuck my nose could be broken.” He said to Vicky as she pulled his head up and back.
“It’s ok Carl. It’s done.” Matt tried to look to see who Vicky was talking to. It was a boy taller than his 5’9” by more than a small margin. The boy eyed him bored and annoyed before speaking. “What happened here?” An unoriginal line but one Matt couldn’t be a smart aleck about. “Well you see there was an outbreak of tripping and we all tripped over my dick. It happens.” Matt was about to laugh when Vicky seemed to pull up while still gripping his nose causing Matt no small amount of pain which he audibly evidenced.
Vicky spoke in a tone he wasn’t expecting. As if she was accustomed to issuing orders. “Keep Iris away from the hall till we sanitize the site. We have blood from at least three people contaminating the site. And have Jake bring me a spare jacket and shirt for this moron.”
Carl seemed to acknowledge her orders and seemed to blink away. Maybe the punch hit harder than he expected. He had no time to wonder as Vick took her hand away from his and pushed him against the lockers. With ease he had not been expecting from her form and stature.
Before he could respond Vicky licked his blood covered chin and then his lips and spoke to him. “Focus on me you little blood bag.” Her tone had an annoyed yet feminine sneer.
“Look into my eyes. Look at me. You belong to me. You are just another food source in a collection of food sources.” Her eyes were a beautiful hazel Matt thought. Almost green. Pretty like jewels in some old treasure collections. The eyes he could get lost in before kissing her. Finally Vicky was just a slight and petite brunette and he thought she was beautiful.
She would make a hell of a girlfriend. Some cute thing he could see laying on the beach in Florida on their sides laughing and smiling before trading light kisses while hands wandered innocently. Before his mind could drift further he felt her lips on his. It took him a second to mentally grasp the kiss but his arms were around her back as her hands were at his sides. His eyes reflexively closed as he saw hers close.
It was ineffable to Matt. Beyond words, what was happening. The kiss, the moments beforehand. The way his brain tickled with electricity and gentle warmth. He had never had a kiss like this and he had traded more than a few kisses with at least a few girls.
The kiss was like a warm bath with his consciousness slipping beneath the surface. Their lips only parted to try new angles and approaches as Matt struggled to take in breath. It was a moment he could have stayed trapped in for….he didn’t know. But a curt throat clearing by another girl pulled them out of the moment.
The girl was taller than Vicky. Blonde. With slight curves. Vicky addressed her bewildered and gobsmacked, and perhaps a bit embarrassed. “Tina?”

So ever since I’ve started running, I have saved every pair of of running shoes I’ve used from 8th grade, through high school and college, all the way to today. More pairs than I care to count. I always thought I’d do something cool with them, what that is I don’t know. I know people have taken their old team & meet shirts and made a quilt, but not really possible with 30 pairs of shoes lol.
Well, I’m moving out at the end of the week and don’t really have a good way to store them at my new place, so if anyone has any good ideas as to what they did with their old trainers, I’d love to hear it. Can be as creative or simple as possible. I’ll probably just end up throwing them out, but it pains me just writing that thought down, tens of thousands of miles of memories are stored in these shoes. I’d hate to lose them.