Women groped on buses
[BOATS] Tale of a train journey
2024.05.14 13:29 Nostalgia_town [BOATS] Tale of a train journey
It was a winter morning, and I was standing on the railway station of Adityapur, one of Asia’s largest industrial hubs in the outskirts of Jamshedpur, formally known as TATANAGAR, the city known for TATAs & their steel. I updated my current whereabouts to my mother just before boarding the Tata-Gua passenger train, sounding her on my expected time to reach home. I was visiting home after 2 months, the longest interval in the 3.5 years at NIT Jamshedpur due to my business around hosting the first alumni meet of NIT Jamshedpur and a 15-day train travel across India through Jagriti Yatra. I was just carrying my laptop bag as it was a usual 2/3-day trip and I just had my Compaq laptop, a change of clothes & charger to be precise beside my small blue denim wallet & a Samsung smart phone. In 2012, smart phones were just stepping in and my brother-in law was generous enough to lend it to me to take pictures of the places I visit & the events I attend during Jagriti Yatra. Jagriti Yatra is a train ride across India with 600 yatris from different countries, different walks of life who embark on this journey to learn about various social & business enterprise. In that day’s train journey, I was travelling with a batchmate who would get down 2 stations before mine. We’d travel together many times during the four years, and we’d always take the morning train instead of the evening one. It was a passenger train which was always very crowded, and it passed through many small stations in that belt which were dimly lit, these stations were primarily existing to connect industries to the mining towns of Noamundi, Barbil, Jhinkpani and had goods trains plying with iron ore, limestone, cement, so evening trains seemed unsafe for girls travelling alone. Jhinkpani was a small town in that belt with a cement factory, ACC Cements, and a residential township for it. My dad had booked the station trip which was a Maruti Van to ply the resident of the colony from station to the colony which was around 3 kms away & there was no public transport available in this route. I was waiting to board the train all excited to show my parents the pictures of the Yatra clicked on the borrowed smart phone, I’d also met my sister and niece at Visakhapatnam while we visited Akshaya Patra mega kitchen and I remember getting clicked a cute photo of me holding my niece at the station but my excitement was short lived as soon as I kept the phone in the small zipper pocket of my laptop bag. I was modestly dressed in a kurta and leggings, without pockets of-course, pockets are a recent phenomenon in women’s Indian clothing. So, my phone and wallet were always kept in the bag.
As I boarded the train along with around 20 other people from that gate, I felt a sudden force pulling me back, but I managed to steer my way inside but with an eerie feeling, I quickly reached out to check the tiny pocket immediately only to find that both the wallet & the borrowed phone were gone. A shiver ran up my spine and I started to feel numb. There was Rs 200 in cash in that wallet which was a month of pocket money, my SBI ATM card and college i-card. Now, having zero cash, no phone I went about near the gate to see if I can find it, I spoke to couple of people but barely anyone knew Hindi, and it struck me real hard that reaching home was my single motto now. Although scared that I would be scolded by parents for being reckless, I had a sinking feeling as to how would I break this news to my sister & my brother-in-law whose smart phone I’d lost, what would I do about all the lost contacts that I’d woven so meticulously while organizing the alumni meet, what of the memories that I’d captured during the Yatra. My brain started to fizzle with all these entrapping thoughts when my friend shook me to bring me back to the dreaded train which was my reality then and I started planning my next course of action. I first called my mother from my friend’s phone to tell her about the loss, she comforted me and then she informed my dad to arrange a vehicle from the station, the trip was booked but it’d sometimes leave passengers if there are more people than capacity or not turn up due to technical glitch in the age old van that was used. My friend got down at Chaibasa and my heart started racing more as people around me in the train knew my situation and vulnerability and I tried to pose a strong and confident front. The train took more than 20 minutes to travel 17 kms but for me it seemed like ages, the sight of Jhinkpani station never made me so relieved. I quickly deboarded the train, holding on to my bag tightly this time and found a friend waiting there in his Maruti 800. He happened to have met my dad while coming to the station for a personal work and my dad asked him to pick me as well. I finally reached home travelling without a phone and a penny in pocket, my mom was so glad to see me safe and sound. I was taken aback a little to see her overtly calm demeanor at the face of such an adversary and having no concern whatsoever for my lost phone or the wallet. She prayed and thanked God for my safe return and narrated about her dream which she saw about me the previous night. She was very disturbed by it, and she’d been praying from dawn that day for my well-being as the dream was a very bad omen for me. She felt relieved that it was only few items that were lost, and I was completely unharmed. Mother’s love manifests in mysterious ways I thought while gobbling on my favorite sambar, rice that afternoon. Meanwhile, my dad deactivated my ATM card and arranged an old makeshift phone for me to be used in the remaining two months of college. When I sit back to think, I always think about my mother’s reaction and feel relieved that it happened, may be a way to appease myself of the guilt of not thinking through that somebody must have noticed me putting the phone in the small pocket and chanced upon it in the crowd while boarding. To compensate for the loss of phone, I gifted my sister with a digital camera after I started earning 4 months down from this incident. From then on, I never kept anything valuable in such obvious places in public while I maneuvered my ways in Delhi’s metro or the local trains of Mumbai, in the buses of Visakhapatnam or in the streets of Paris. I hold my wallet tight and my phone close.
submitted by Nostalgia_town to story [link] [comments]
As I boarded the train along with around 20 other people from that gate, I felt a sudden force pulling me back, but I managed to steer my way inside but with an eerie feeling, I quickly reached out to check the tiny pocket immediately only to find that both the wallet & the borrowed phone were gone. A shiver ran up my spine and I started to feel numb. There was Rs 200 in cash in that wallet which was a month of pocket money, my SBI ATM card and college i-card. Now, having zero cash, no phone I went about near the gate to see if I can find it, I spoke to couple of people but barely anyone knew Hindi, and it struck me real hard that reaching home was my single motto now. Although scared that I would be scolded by parents for being reckless, I had a sinking feeling as to how would I break this news to my sister & my brother-in-law whose smart phone I’d lost, what would I do about all the lost contacts that I’d woven so meticulously while organizing the alumni meet, what of the memories that I’d captured during the Yatra. My brain started to fizzle with all these entrapping thoughts when my friend shook me to bring me back to the dreaded train which was my reality then and I started planning my next course of action. I first called my mother from my friend’s phone to tell her about the loss, she comforted me and then she informed my dad to arrange a vehicle from the station, the trip was booked but it’d sometimes leave passengers if there are more people than capacity or not turn up due to technical glitch in the age old van that was used. My friend got down at Chaibasa and my heart started racing more as people around me in the train knew my situation and vulnerability and I tried to pose a strong and confident front. The train took more than 20 minutes to travel 17 kms but for me it seemed like ages, the sight of Jhinkpani station never made me so relieved. I quickly deboarded the train, holding on to my bag tightly this time and found a friend waiting there in his Maruti 800. He happened to have met my dad while coming to the station for a personal work and my dad asked him to pick me as well. I finally reached home travelling without a phone and a penny in pocket, my mom was so glad to see me safe and sound. I was taken aback a little to see her overtly calm demeanor at the face of such an adversary and having no concern whatsoever for my lost phone or the wallet. She prayed and thanked God for my safe return and narrated about her dream which she saw about me the previous night. She was very disturbed by it, and she’d been praying from dawn that day for my well-being as the dream was a very bad omen for me. She felt relieved that it was only few items that were lost, and I was completely unharmed. Mother’s love manifests in mysterious ways I thought while gobbling on my favorite sambar, rice that afternoon. Meanwhile, my dad deactivated my ATM card and arranged an old makeshift phone for me to be used in the remaining two months of college. When I sit back to think, I always think about my mother’s reaction and feel relieved that it happened, may be a way to appease myself of the guilt of not thinking through that somebody must have noticed me putting the phone in the small pocket and chanced upon it in the crowd while boarding. To compensate for the loss of phone, I gifted my sister with a digital camera after I started earning 4 months down from this incident. From then on, I never kept anything valuable in such obvious places in public while I maneuvered my ways in Delhi’s metro or the local trains of Mumbai, in the buses of Visakhapatnam or in the streets of Paris. I hold my wallet tight and my phone close.
2024.05.14 13:28 Nostalgia_town [BOATS] Tale of a train journey
It was a winter morning, and I was standing on the railway station of Adityapur, one of Asia’s largest industrial hubs in the outskirts of Jamshedpur, formally known as TATANAGAR, the city known for TATAs & their steel. I updated my current whereabouts to my mother just before boarding the Tata-Gua passenger train, sounding her on my expected time to reach home. I was visiting home after 2 months, the longest interval in the 3.5 years at NIT Jamshedpur due to my business around hosting the first alumni meet of NIT Jamshedpur and a 15-day train travel across India through Jagriti Yatra. I was just carrying my laptop bag as it was a usual 2/3-day trip and I just had my Compaq laptop, a change of clothes & charger to be precise beside my small blue denim wallet & a Samsung smart phone. In 2012, smart phones were just stepping in and my brother-in law was generous enough to lend it to me to take pictures of the places I visit & the events I attend during Jagriti Yatra. Jagriti Yatra is a train ride across India with 600 yatris from different countries, different walks of life who embark on this journey to learn about various social & business enterprise. In that day’s train journey, I was travelling with a batchmate who would get down 2 stations before mine. We’d travel together many times during the four years, and we’d always take the morning train instead of the evening one. It was a passenger train which was always very crowded, and it passed through many small stations in that belt which were dimly lit, these stations were primarily existing to connect industries to the mining towns of Noamundi, Barbil, Jhinkpani and had goods trains plying with iron ore, limestone, cement, so evening trains seemed unsafe for girls travelling alone. Jhinkpani was a small town in that belt with a cement factory, ACC Cements, and a residential township for it. My dad had booked the station trip which was a Maruti Van to ply the resident of the colony from station to the colony which was around 3 kms away & there was no public transport available in this route. I was waiting to board the train all excited to show my parents the pictures of the Yatra clicked on the borrowed smart phone, I’d also met my sister and niece at Visakhapatnam while we visited Akshaya Patra mega kitchen and I remember getting clicked a cute photo of me holding my niece at the station but my excitement was short lived as soon as I kept the phone in the small zipper pocket of my laptop bag. I was modestly dressed in a kurta and leggings, without pockets of-course, pockets are a recent phenomenon in women’s Indian clothing. So, my phone and wallet were always kept in the bag.
As I boarded the train along with around 20 other people from that gate, I felt a sudden force pulling me back, but I managed to steer my way inside but with an eerie feeling, I quickly reached out to check the tiny pocket immediately only to find that both the wallet & the borrowed phone were gone. A shiver ran up my spine and I started to feel numb. There was Rs 200 in cash in that wallet which was a month of pocket money, my SBI ATM card and college i-card. Now, having zero cash, no phone I went about near the gate to see if I can find it, I spoke to couple of people but barely anyone knew Hindi, and it struck me real hard that reaching home was my single motto now. Although scared that I would be scolded by parents for being reckless, I had a sinking feeling as to how would I break this news to my sister & my brother-in-law whose smart phone I’d lost, what would I do about all the lost contacts that I’d woven so meticulously while organizing the alumni meet, what of the memories that I’d captured during the Yatra. My brain started to fizzle with all these entrapping thoughts when my friend shook me to bring me back to the dreaded train which was my reality then and I started planning my next course of action. I first called my mother from my friend’s phone to tell her about the loss, she comforted me and then she informed my dad to arrange a vehicle from the station, the trip was booked but it’d sometimes leave passengers if there are more people than capacity or not turn up due to technical glitch in the age old van that was used. My friend got down at Chaibasa and my heart started racing more as people around me in the train knew my situation and vulnerability and I tried to pose a strong and confident front. The train took more than 20 minutes to travel 17 kms but for me it seemed like ages, the sight of Jhinkpani station never made me so relieved. I quickly deboarded the train, holding on to my bag tightly this time and found a friend waiting there in his Maruti 800. He happened to have met my dad while coming to the station for a personal work and my dad asked him to pick me as well. I finally reached home travelling without a phone and a penny in pocket, my mom was so glad to see me safe and sound. I was taken aback a little to see her overtly calm demeanor at the face of such an adversary and having no concern whatsoever for my lost phone or the wallet. She prayed and thanked God for my safe return and narrated about her dream which she saw about me the previous night. She was very disturbed by it, and she’d been praying from dawn that day for my well-being as the dream was a very bad omen for me. She felt relieved that it was only few items that were lost, and I was completely unharmed. Mother’s love manifests in mysterious ways I thought while gobbling on my favorite sambar, rice that afternoon. Meanwhile, my dad deactivated my ATM card and arranged an old makeshift phone for me to be used in the remaining two months of college. When I sit back to think, I always think about my mother’s reaction and feel relieved that it happened, may be a way to appease myself of the guilt of not thinking through that somebody must have noticed me putting the phone in the small pocket and chanced upon it in the crowd while boarding. To compensate for the loss of phone, I gifted my sister with a digital camera after I started earning 4 months down from this incident. From then on, I never kept anything valuable in such obvious places in public while I maneuvered my ways in Delhi’s metro or the local trains of Mumbai, in the buses of Visakhapatnam or in the streets of Paris. I hold my wallet tight and my phone close.
submitted by Nostalgia_town to u/Nostalgia_town [link] [comments]
As I boarded the train along with around 20 other people from that gate, I felt a sudden force pulling me back, but I managed to steer my way inside but with an eerie feeling, I quickly reached out to check the tiny pocket immediately only to find that both the wallet & the borrowed phone were gone. A shiver ran up my spine and I started to feel numb. There was Rs 200 in cash in that wallet which was a month of pocket money, my SBI ATM card and college i-card. Now, having zero cash, no phone I went about near the gate to see if I can find it, I spoke to couple of people but barely anyone knew Hindi, and it struck me real hard that reaching home was my single motto now. Although scared that I would be scolded by parents for being reckless, I had a sinking feeling as to how would I break this news to my sister & my brother-in-law whose smart phone I’d lost, what would I do about all the lost contacts that I’d woven so meticulously while organizing the alumni meet, what of the memories that I’d captured during the Yatra. My brain started to fizzle with all these entrapping thoughts when my friend shook me to bring me back to the dreaded train which was my reality then and I started planning my next course of action. I first called my mother from my friend’s phone to tell her about the loss, she comforted me and then she informed my dad to arrange a vehicle from the station, the trip was booked but it’d sometimes leave passengers if there are more people than capacity or not turn up due to technical glitch in the age old van that was used. My friend got down at Chaibasa and my heart started racing more as people around me in the train knew my situation and vulnerability and I tried to pose a strong and confident front. The train took more than 20 minutes to travel 17 kms but for me it seemed like ages, the sight of Jhinkpani station never made me so relieved. I quickly deboarded the train, holding on to my bag tightly this time and found a friend waiting there in his Maruti 800. He happened to have met my dad while coming to the station for a personal work and my dad asked him to pick me as well. I finally reached home travelling without a phone and a penny in pocket, my mom was so glad to see me safe and sound. I was taken aback a little to see her overtly calm demeanor at the face of such an adversary and having no concern whatsoever for my lost phone or the wallet. She prayed and thanked God for my safe return and narrated about her dream which she saw about me the previous night. She was very disturbed by it, and she’d been praying from dawn that day for my well-being as the dream was a very bad omen for me. She felt relieved that it was only few items that were lost, and I was completely unharmed. Mother’s love manifests in mysterious ways I thought while gobbling on my favorite sambar, rice that afternoon. Meanwhile, my dad deactivated my ATM card and arranged an old makeshift phone for me to be used in the remaining two months of college. When I sit back to think, I always think about my mother’s reaction and feel relieved that it happened, may be a way to appease myself of the guilt of not thinking through that somebody must have noticed me putting the phone in the small pocket and chanced upon it in the crowd while boarding. To compensate for the loss of phone, I gifted my sister with a digital camera after I started earning 4 months down from this incident. From then on, I never kept anything valuable in such obvious places in public while I maneuvered my ways in Delhi’s metro or the local trains of Mumbai, in the buses of Visakhapatnam or in the streets of Paris. I hold my wallet tight and my phone close.
2024.05.14 08:30 ImaginationSweet3840 frick my stupid baka life….
uhh should i do the gender and age thing lol (23n) well.. like everyone else here i’m extremely suicidal. it’s like i’m in a constant state of planning my death.. it’s been this way since the year started. i mean i’ve been suicidal for as long as i can remember but never to this extent. i’ve planned to kill myself tonight lol but i’ve planned many times before, written MANYY notes.. but then i usually just sleep it off and go about my life like “normal”. this time feels different. i feel like i’ve been falling into a black hole and am finally reaching the singularity. the point of no return. no hope. no will to live or change. well ig i’ll list my reasons for doing this. 1. i’m a stinker… sounds silly but i’m being so fr 😭 randomly in eighth grade i started to stink?? it took me awhile to realize it was ME stankin up the school w my chemical warfare.. i think it’s some form of tmau??? well whatever this condition is.. it’s made my life a fucking nightmare. halfway through 10th grade i dropped out. genuinely couldnt handle the bullying anymore and i would get panic attacks constantly… not a good time for me… well i mean its not like it ever any got better lol.
Naturally if one smells like a dumpster fire constantly no one would want to be around you.. so of course i no longer had any friends. and i probably would’ve still had some friends if i didn’t completely turn my back to the whole world. after dropping out in 2016 i wouldn’t go back into society until 2023 when i got my first job. i still stink.. my family says i don’t to my face but i hear them say i stink when they think i can’t hear em… not sure why they lie but i digress.. doctors and therapist also can’t seem smell anything. but when i’m out in public or at work i’ll hear people in passing talk abt how bad i smell… my mom is convinced i have schizophrenia LMAOOO like i KNOWWW i didn’t imagine allll those kids bullying me in middle school and high school LIKE YOU DONT UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH I FUCKING WISHHHHHHH IT WAS ALL JUST IN MY HEAD!!!!! also i should note… this condition has absolutely NOTHINGGG to do with my hygiene.. I PROMISE!!!! i always make sure i’m extremely clean and well groomed.. im sure everyone who passes me thinks im some disgusting person who doesn’t bathe or wipe properly but that’s never been the case so pls don’t tell me to “just shower”… it’s not that simple though i really wish it was.
moving along.. 2. i have really bad intrusive thoughts and a problem with starring at things i shouldn’t be looking at… so the intrusive thoughts started like a year into my self isolation.. i don’t really want to say what type but they cause immense distress.. after every intrusive thought i contemplate suicide like that’s how bad they are. as for the starring thing.. 😞 i think its also ocd related. but i stare at boobs, butts, privates, and feet.. i’m not sure how to explain this coherently.. but it’s like I KNOWW i’m NOT supposed to look but then my body just decides to look anyways. it feels like i have ZERO control over my own fucking eyes. and i promise there’s no sexual intention?? behind my stares.. but no one on the receiving end would think that. and unfortunately my eyes look at everyone including family, kids, men, women, literally everyone. AND I FUCKIBG HATE IT I WISH I WAS BLIND. my sisters think i’m some pervert and how can i live with myself knowing i’m causing them to feel unsafe and uncomfortable??? i’m not doing it on purpose. i just want to stab my fucking eyes out. this is honestly one of the main reasons for wanting to kill myself. i don’t even know when it started or fucking how?????? OR WHYY?? why do i struggle with the rarest fucking things?? like is there genuinely someone else out there who unintentionally stares at inappropriate things??? FRICK MY STUPID BAKA LIFE!!!!!!!!
oh i just remembered something… when i was in second or first grade my FULL sized dresser and box tv pretty much the size of me both fell on me.. tv hit the back of my head and by the will of god or something i managed to crawl out from underneath them.. now i went to hospital and had an x-ray done and it showed nothing but what ifffffff i had some sort of concussion that’s caused me to be this way????? i’m just talkin out my ass. but seriously why am i this way??? was i born this strange?? sigh.
i so desperately want to live a normal life. have friends. not stink. not stare unintentionally. but fuck i just don’t think that will ever be my reality. i’ve been stuck in this same cycle for 9 years. i’ve wasted NINE fucking years of my life. sometimes it feels like my brain never finished developing past the age of 13.. i’m already 23 and i’ve done absolutely nothing. no accomplishments no goals no dreams. it feels like im permanently stuck. so it often feels like death is the only way to escape my reality. im so lonely. but i don’t know how to be a friend. im lost. i want to go to college but like I STINK??? so i’ll just get bullied and outcasted again. y’all im stumped. i see no way out aside from death. but at the same time i’m scared there’s nothing after dying. so i live my whole life wasting away and finally decide to do something and kill myself but all that greets me after i’m dead is nothing. it all seems so bleak.
what if i’m just a bad egg?
i’ll be rlly surprised if anyone has read this far 💀 sorry any grammatical errors hehe i never graduated 🤓 this life fucking sucks so maybe in my next life i can be born as a cutieful pampered house cat… for now i think i’m just gonna go to sleep and let the cycle repeat. maybe one day i’ll find my way out of this hell. through death or something else. who knows. good night…
submitted by ImaginationSweet3840 to SuicideWatch [link] [comments]
Naturally if one smells like a dumpster fire constantly no one would want to be around you.. so of course i no longer had any friends. and i probably would’ve still had some friends if i didn’t completely turn my back to the whole world. after dropping out in 2016 i wouldn’t go back into society until 2023 when i got my first job. i still stink.. my family says i don’t to my face but i hear them say i stink when they think i can’t hear em… not sure why they lie but i digress.. doctors and therapist also can’t seem smell anything. but when i’m out in public or at work i’ll hear people in passing talk abt how bad i smell… my mom is convinced i have schizophrenia LMAOOO like i KNOWWW i didn’t imagine allll those kids bullying me in middle school and high school LIKE YOU DONT UNDERSTAND HOW MUCH I FUCKING WISHHHHHHH IT WAS ALL JUST IN MY HEAD!!!!! also i should note… this condition has absolutely NOTHINGGG to do with my hygiene.. I PROMISE!!!! i always make sure i’m extremely clean and well groomed.. im sure everyone who passes me thinks im some disgusting person who doesn’t bathe or wipe properly but that’s never been the case so pls don’t tell me to “just shower”… it’s not that simple though i really wish it was.
moving along.. 2. i have really bad intrusive thoughts and a problem with starring at things i shouldn’t be looking at… so the intrusive thoughts started like a year into my self isolation.. i don’t really want to say what type but they cause immense distress.. after every intrusive thought i contemplate suicide like that’s how bad they are. as for the starring thing.. 😞 i think its also ocd related. but i stare at boobs, butts, privates, and feet.. i’m not sure how to explain this coherently.. but it’s like I KNOWW i’m NOT supposed to look but then my body just decides to look anyways. it feels like i have ZERO control over my own fucking eyes. and i promise there’s no sexual intention?? behind my stares.. but no one on the receiving end would think that. and unfortunately my eyes look at everyone including family, kids, men, women, literally everyone. AND I FUCKIBG HATE IT I WISH I WAS BLIND. my sisters think i’m some pervert and how can i live with myself knowing i’m causing them to feel unsafe and uncomfortable??? i’m not doing it on purpose. i just want to stab my fucking eyes out. this is honestly one of the main reasons for wanting to kill myself. i don’t even know when it started or fucking how?????? OR WHYY?? why do i struggle with the rarest fucking things?? like is there genuinely someone else out there who unintentionally stares at inappropriate things??? FRICK MY STUPID BAKA LIFE!!!!!!!!
- i’ve been molested at pretty much every age and have always been “sexual” from a reallly early age ☹️ started w my cousin doing things to me i didn’t understand.. then my sisters uncle would grope me and make me kiss him. and he would like lick???? my neck??? idk there’s also this memory of someone on top of me while i sleep… yknow… doing things.. i was 13 or so and for a long time i thought the shadow hovering over me raping me was like a demon… 😭😭😭 i deadass thought i was raped by a demon LOL but recently i’ve going through my memories and yeah… that was definitely a person.. no clue who it could’ve been ☹️ i was too drowsy to do anything and i woke up in a panic and checked my underwear but didn’t see anything so ig my kid brain came to the conclusion that it was a demon.. sorry for the run on sentences 😞
oh i just remembered something… when i was in second or first grade my FULL sized dresser and box tv pretty much the size of me both fell on me.. tv hit the back of my head and by the will of god or something i managed to crawl out from underneath them.. now i went to hospital and had an x-ray done and it showed nothing but what ifffffff i had some sort of concussion that’s caused me to be this way????? i’m just talkin out my ass. but seriously why am i this way??? was i born this strange?? sigh.
i so desperately want to live a normal life. have friends. not stink. not stare unintentionally. but fuck i just don’t think that will ever be my reality. i’ve been stuck in this same cycle for 9 years. i’ve wasted NINE fucking years of my life. sometimes it feels like my brain never finished developing past the age of 13.. i’m already 23 and i’ve done absolutely nothing. no accomplishments no goals no dreams. it feels like im permanently stuck. so it often feels like death is the only way to escape my reality. im so lonely. but i don’t know how to be a friend. im lost. i want to go to college but like I STINK??? so i’ll just get bullied and outcasted again. y’all im stumped. i see no way out aside from death. but at the same time i’m scared there’s nothing after dying. so i live my whole life wasting away and finally decide to do something and kill myself but all that greets me after i’m dead is nothing. it all seems so bleak.
what if i’m just a bad egg?
i’ll be rlly surprised if anyone has read this far 💀 sorry any grammatical errors hehe i never graduated 🤓 this life fucking sucks so maybe in my next life i can be born as a cutieful pampered house cat… for now i think i’m just gonna go to sleep and let the cycle repeat. maybe one day i’ll find my way out of this hell. through death or something else. who knows. good night…
2024.05.14 00:55 Tight_Condition7059 Trip Advice for 5 days in Italy
Hi everyone,
I'll be in Europe for just a little over a week in August, and am looking for travel tips and suggestions for an itinerary for Italy. I will have to spend a lot of my trip traveling, so I am, unfortunately, limited in the time I will have. I know it's ideal to get to spend more time in each city, but I would really like to see a few places and I know I can come back for longer in the future. My thoughts so far:
(Also, I know Copenhagen is not the most convenient place for me to fly into given the other countries I'm planning on, but even factoring in the cost of budget airline flights/trains/buses between cities, it was far less expensive to fly into there than anywhere else that would be more convenient).
All other tips or recommendations are also welcome as this will be my first time solo traveling (info on hostels in these or other suggested cities that are known to be safe for women especially appreciated!) :)
submitted by Tight_Condition7059 to solotravel [link] [comments]
I'll be in Europe for just a little over a week in August, and am looking for travel tips and suggestions for an itinerary for Italy. I will have to spend a lot of my trip traveling, so I am, unfortunately, limited in the time I will have. I know it's ideal to get to spend more time in each city, but I would really like to see a few places and I know I can come back for longer in the future. My thoughts so far:
- I fly into Copenhagen on a Thursday morning, then will make my way down to Vienna and arrive either late that night or early Friday.
- I'll stay one day in Vienna, and then leave to Rome early Saturday morning.
- Saturday-Monday morning in Rome
- Monday-Wednesday morning in Florence
- Wednesday in Milan, potentially leave that evening
- Thursday, arrive back in Copenhagen and leave Friday morning
(Also, I know Copenhagen is not the most convenient place for me to fly into given the other countries I'm planning on, but even factoring in the cost of budget airline flights/trains/buses between cities, it was far less expensive to fly into there than anywhere else that would be more convenient).
All other tips or recommendations are also welcome as this will be my first time solo traveling (info on hostels in these or other suggested cities that are known to be safe for women especially appreciated!) :)
2024.05.14 00:53 bobrewer_ LONGING LETTERS
Red brick castles stacked the suburban streets. Divided by side yards and dogs barking. The sun laid crisp over the spliced horizon, spilling yolk over the withering lawns.
Henry waited in his lawn chair beside the mailbox. As his body had taken recent liberties, he'd remained fit from his army training. His throat rumbled as he checked his silver watch. Finally, the postman flushed the corner, and stumbled to Henry's curb, to his bag, then to his letter.
"...you're late, Lenny," Henry pulled his readers.
Lenny, the paperboy, regained his choppy breath. Coke-bottle glasses stored his tortoise eyes. They surveyed the concrete corridor they called Gerben Street, "I'm sorry, Mr. Bronson, I really am. I never meant to keep you waiting... I'm sorry, Henry."
Henry didn't answer the boy, tore the envelope with ape's elegance. Pranced the script of his lover's ink. The letter had traveled from Paris, France, skidded the black waves of the Atlantic Ocean, hitched buses, bikes, and buggies, all to kiss the smooth of Henry's palms.
The words were from his lover, Amélie, he'd met at war in an escapade to Bordeaux. It was here he'd kissed her cherry cheeks, and they'd made love only a year before.
Amélie talked of finer things, life and love and silver tastes. She yearned for Henry, and hadn't taken a lover since. Sleeping all alone, cold as the sleepy ocean in between them.
Love,
Amélie
Those four letters, strung together. Followed by that name, that haunted, horrible, beautiful name. The music of Henry's life, a distant harp in a sway of windy trees.
Henry spent all night beneath a dancing candle. Scribbling, nixing, finding the perfect words. Rifling through Shakespeare, and Plath, and Wilde. It was at the page's end, Henry wrote, what he knew he'd write in the weeks and weeks before:
"Oh, Amélie, won't you visit me? Here in the States? I know you don't like the food. I don't either, but with each other, me with you, and you with me, we'll ever, never notice."
He entered the post office that morning, and his reply was off to France. The weeks and weeks had passed again, crawling to November's end. Henry waited by that same mailbox, and waited, and waited, but nothing arrived in the days after.
He entered the post office that cold evening, and met the clerk, who's eyes tired with crescent glints. Henry demanded his mail be delivered to him, scolding the patient clerk, providing his address thereafter.
The clerk, a powdered, faded beauty of a woman, "we had a change in paperboys. We're putting a new employee on that route by Gerben Street."
"Oh no, that's a shame," Henry dampened. He enjoyed the paperboy, Lenny, and his weekly company. He'd felt shame for their final, frustrated exchange. The clerk retreated to a backroom, and returned with a letter from France.
Henry couldn't help himself. He ripped and ripped the note naked. Read the first and fourth and tens of lines.
"There isn't a night I don't think of you. I wander stars wondering if you do too. Your touch, your breath, your arms. I receive the memory fondly in a summer's dream, and I don't forget a word you've said along the way. I love you, Henry Bronson. And this ocean, though far and wide, won't stop the heart from sailing. Because our children will know silver dreams too, and what parents we'd be to not make them true. You are the love of my life. The music of my night.
I'll arrive in Savannah on the evening of Christmas Eve.
Love,
Amélie"
The words strummed his chest. Henry rose his eyes to the world anew, because Amélie, his beloved Amélie——was coming to visit at last.
Henry was paralyzed in weeks to come. His lawn, unattended, his sink, stacked with dishes. He stared his only photo of Amélie, smiling at her blushed eyes for hours and hours and hours. In this love he'd been born again, a new meaning in every little thing.
It was finally time——Christmas Eve. Snow peppered the sheets of the crystal tarmac. Henry entered the airport, propelled by the stride of anxious confidence. He coursed the halls, until he'd arrived at the final gate:
PARIS, FRANCE [ARRIVING IN 4 MINUTES]
Minutes became years, years decades. He walked to the bar and asked for a glass of water. Flushed his throat with fretting sips, and noticed the custodian who mopped spilled coffee. A familiar face, though, Henry couldn't pin him. He approached, and to his surprise, it was the old paperboy, Lenny.
They shared a laugh and began to catch up. Henry's eyes flirting with the gate:
[ARRIVING IN 2 MINUTES]
Lenny rambled, "they canned me without warning, right before the holidays. I've struggled to make due, but——I guess it's all worked out okay," he paused, "funny enough——I was en route to deliver on your street before I got the call. Gerben Street, right?"
[ARRIVING IN 1 MINUTE]
Henry's heart thumped like a derby horse. He glanced the snow that flaked the window.
"Yeah, Gerben."
"Gerben, yeah, I thought I remembered," Lenny nodded, "you know, Mr. Bronson, I think I left your letter in my backpack, actually. Would you like me to check?"
"Sure."
Lenny was off, and as he left, Frenchmen, women, and decadent Americans flooded the gate's entrance. Pulling luggage, sighing stretches, lending hugs. Henry watched carefully for his cherry, silver dream. To each face, he paid his attention. Lenny nudged Henry, handed over the envelope.
"Thanks," Henry took the note, "Merry Christmas... I'll see you around, I hope."
"Sure," Lenny shuddered in embarrassment. His somber step parted from Henry, he replied with a mumbled, "Merry Christmas."
In the later minutes, Henry didn't see Amélie, or even a confused resemblance. He waited till the plane was empty, till the Spain-bound passengers began to board. He even checked the desk, where a pretty-faced lady exclaimed, "no Amélie here, I'm sorry." With great disappointment, Henry exited the airport, never leaving the sight of his fluttered feet.
Even for Henry, a man of hope and perseverance, it was too hard not to cry. He hailed a taxi, directed the driver with snotty tremble, and soon enough, he was home in his red brick house, at home where the houses stacked the streets, and the streets tickled with frost.
In that dark room, where Henry wrote Amélie, was where the music died. Where the wind had swallowed the galloped harp. Henry cried, cursed himself a fool. A fool, a fool, a fool. He'd hoped as a child, now damned a hopeless recluse. His sorrow turned to confusion, confusion to frustration, frustration to rage anew.
He leapt from his chair, struck a match, lit a wick, plucked a pen, placed his paper, and before the ink would paint the page, before he'd damn Amélie to Hell, her and her cherry cheeks, he remembered the letter the paperboy had given him.
Henry removed the crumpled letter from his coat, peeled the stick of the envelope. Slipped the letter from its sleeve, pulled his readers, and began to prance the ink in reading.
Amélie, again, talked of finer things. Gifts, and gods, and golden fountains.
She couldn't wait any longer, to meet her beloved Henry.
She couldn't sleep another night, with this space between.
The black waves, the buses, bikes and buggies. All the things from her to he.
It should not wait. No, it could not wait any longer.
Henry dabbed his eyes clear and clean, as he read the final words:
"Henry, oh, Henry, I never meant to keep you waiting. You never quite knew what you meant to me."
Henry lowered his eyes to the page's end, to the bottom of the longing letter:
Love,
Yours Truly,
Lenny
submitted by bobrewer_ to scarystories [link] [comments]
Henry waited in his lawn chair beside the mailbox. As his body had taken recent liberties, he'd remained fit from his army training. His throat rumbled as he checked his silver watch. Finally, the postman flushed the corner, and stumbled to Henry's curb, to his bag, then to his letter.
"...you're late, Lenny," Henry pulled his readers.
Lenny, the paperboy, regained his choppy breath. Coke-bottle glasses stored his tortoise eyes. They surveyed the concrete corridor they called Gerben Street, "I'm sorry, Mr. Bronson, I really am. I never meant to keep you waiting... I'm sorry, Henry."
Henry didn't answer the boy, tore the envelope with ape's elegance. Pranced the script of his lover's ink. The letter had traveled from Paris, France, skidded the black waves of the Atlantic Ocean, hitched buses, bikes, and buggies, all to kiss the smooth of Henry's palms.
The words were from his lover, Amélie, he'd met at war in an escapade to Bordeaux. It was here he'd kissed her cherry cheeks, and they'd made love only a year before.
Amélie talked of finer things, life and love and silver tastes. She yearned for Henry, and hadn't taken a lover since. Sleeping all alone, cold as the sleepy ocean in between them.
Love,
Amélie
Those four letters, strung together. Followed by that name, that haunted, horrible, beautiful name. The music of Henry's life, a distant harp in a sway of windy trees.
Henry spent all night beneath a dancing candle. Scribbling, nixing, finding the perfect words. Rifling through Shakespeare, and Plath, and Wilde. It was at the page's end, Henry wrote, what he knew he'd write in the weeks and weeks before:
"Oh, Amélie, won't you visit me? Here in the States? I know you don't like the food. I don't either, but with each other, me with you, and you with me, we'll ever, never notice."
He entered the post office that morning, and his reply was off to France. The weeks and weeks had passed again, crawling to November's end. Henry waited by that same mailbox, and waited, and waited, but nothing arrived in the days after.
He entered the post office that cold evening, and met the clerk, who's eyes tired with crescent glints. Henry demanded his mail be delivered to him, scolding the patient clerk, providing his address thereafter.
The clerk, a powdered, faded beauty of a woman, "we had a change in paperboys. We're putting a new employee on that route by Gerben Street."
"Oh no, that's a shame," Henry dampened. He enjoyed the paperboy, Lenny, and his weekly company. He'd felt shame for their final, frustrated exchange. The clerk retreated to a backroom, and returned with a letter from France.
Henry couldn't help himself. He ripped and ripped the note naked. Read the first and fourth and tens of lines.
"There isn't a night I don't think of you. I wander stars wondering if you do too. Your touch, your breath, your arms. I receive the memory fondly in a summer's dream, and I don't forget a word you've said along the way. I love you, Henry Bronson. And this ocean, though far and wide, won't stop the heart from sailing. Because our children will know silver dreams too, and what parents we'd be to not make them true. You are the love of my life. The music of my night.
I'll arrive in Savannah on the evening of Christmas Eve.
Love,
Amélie"
The words strummed his chest. Henry rose his eyes to the world anew, because Amélie, his beloved Amélie——was coming to visit at last.
Henry was paralyzed in weeks to come. His lawn, unattended, his sink, stacked with dishes. He stared his only photo of Amélie, smiling at her blushed eyes for hours and hours and hours. In this love he'd been born again, a new meaning in every little thing.
It was finally time——Christmas Eve. Snow peppered the sheets of the crystal tarmac. Henry entered the airport, propelled by the stride of anxious confidence. He coursed the halls, until he'd arrived at the final gate:
PARIS, FRANCE [ARRIVING IN 4 MINUTES]
Minutes became years, years decades. He walked to the bar and asked for a glass of water. Flushed his throat with fretting sips, and noticed the custodian who mopped spilled coffee. A familiar face, though, Henry couldn't pin him. He approached, and to his surprise, it was the old paperboy, Lenny.
They shared a laugh and began to catch up. Henry's eyes flirting with the gate:
[ARRIVING IN 2 MINUTES]
Lenny rambled, "they canned me without warning, right before the holidays. I've struggled to make due, but——I guess it's all worked out okay," he paused, "funny enough——I was en route to deliver on your street before I got the call. Gerben Street, right?"
[ARRIVING IN 1 MINUTE]
Henry's heart thumped like a derby horse. He glanced the snow that flaked the window.
"Yeah, Gerben."
"Gerben, yeah, I thought I remembered," Lenny nodded, "you know, Mr. Bronson, I think I left your letter in my backpack, actually. Would you like me to check?"
"Sure."
Lenny was off, and as he left, Frenchmen, women, and decadent Americans flooded the gate's entrance. Pulling luggage, sighing stretches, lending hugs. Henry watched carefully for his cherry, silver dream. To each face, he paid his attention. Lenny nudged Henry, handed over the envelope.
"Thanks," Henry took the note, "Merry Christmas... I'll see you around, I hope."
"Sure," Lenny shuddered in embarrassment. His somber step parted from Henry, he replied with a mumbled, "Merry Christmas."
In the later minutes, Henry didn't see Amélie, or even a confused resemblance. He waited till the plane was empty, till the Spain-bound passengers began to board. He even checked the desk, where a pretty-faced lady exclaimed, "no Amélie here, I'm sorry." With great disappointment, Henry exited the airport, never leaving the sight of his fluttered feet.
Even for Henry, a man of hope and perseverance, it was too hard not to cry. He hailed a taxi, directed the driver with snotty tremble, and soon enough, he was home in his red brick house, at home where the houses stacked the streets, and the streets tickled with frost.
In that dark room, where Henry wrote Amélie, was where the music died. Where the wind had swallowed the galloped harp. Henry cried, cursed himself a fool. A fool, a fool, a fool. He'd hoped as a child, now damned a hopeless recluse. His sorrow turned to confusion, confusion to frustration, frustration to rage anew.
He leapt from his chair, struck a match, lit a wick, plucked a pen, placed his paper, and before the ink would paint the page, before he'd damn Amélie to Hell, her and her cherry cheeks, he remembered the letter the paperboy had given him.
Henry removed the crumpled letter from his coat, peeled the stick of the envelope. Slipped the letter from its sleeve, pulled his readers, and began to prance the ink in reading.
Amélie, again, talked of finer things. Gifts, and gods, and golden fountains.
She couldn't wait any longer, to meet her beloved Henry.
She couldn't sleep another night, with this space between.
The black waves, the buses, bikes and buggies. All the things from her to he.
It should not wait. No, it could not wait any longer.
Henry dabbed his eyes clear and clean, as he read the final words:
"Henry, oh, Henry, I never meant to keep you waiting. You never quite knew what you meant to me."
Henry lowered his eyes to the page's end, to the bottom of the longing letter:
Love,
Yours Truly,
Lenny
2024.05.13 15:27 georgecscott_2022 "Is 'Amazing Japan' just a facade now? As inbound tourism rapidly expands, here's what foreigners dislike about Japan, as told by them."
According to statistics from the government tourism bureau, the number of foreign visitors to Japan exceeded 3 million for the first time in a single month in March 2024. Against the backdrop of a weakening yen, which is driving up demand for affordable Japan among inbound tourists, what is the impression of Japan among foreigners?
First, I asked a straightforward question to an American man who has lived in Japan for over 30 years: "What do you dislike about Japan?"
He began by praising aspects of living in Japan, highlighting the sense of security and tranquility that comes with it, mentioning the rarity of serious crimes and the freedom from worrying about entering unsafe areas late at night. He also appreciated the relaxed atmosphere that allows leaving a laptop unattended at a café when going to place an order. However, he pointed out a significant downside of living in Japan: becoming accustomed to life there may lead to naivety and excessive trust in human goodness when returning or visiting foreign countries, potentially making one overly passive.
Another American man echoed similar sentiments when asked the same question. He pointed out unique sexual crimes such as groping and the scandalous behavior of certain politicians, like the panty thief lawmaker (such as Takeru Ōgi, a member of the Liberal Democratic Party). These, he stated, clearly constitute negative aspects of life in Japan.
Furthermore, this American expressed dissatisfaction with the quality of housing in Japan, noting the common lack of proper insulation, resulting in uncomfortably cold conditions inside apartments during winter. He also criticized Japan's work culture, stating that his tolerance for the oppressive labor culture has diminished over the years. He emphasized the superficial nature of Japan's corporate culture, where appearances are prioritized over genuine integrity and where the process of decision-making tends to be slow.
In summary, it's often said that Japan's corporate culture is formalistic, emphasizing surface appearances and preserving decorum. This American man appears exhausted by Japan's business culture, highlighting its rigidity and the time-consuming nature of decision-making processes.
A French woman who has been living in Japan for three years remarked, "The cute, anime-like outfits worn by young Japanese women are amusing and certainly characteristic of Japan... However, I've noticed a lot of foreign 'otaku'-like men visiting Japan recently, and they uncomfortably stare at these cute-looking Japanese women on trains and such. Because the women appear so passive, it makes me want to say, 'Be careful!'"
Regarding Japan's business culture, she expressed confusion, stating, "You have to read between the lines, and that's bothersome. Because people who can't express themselves directly make it difficult to gauge whether I've said or done something wrong or offended them."
Furthermore, when asked the same question, another American man responded, "What I dislike most is that in Japan, you can't just live. In reality, while living in Japan, you're always expected to speak positively about life in Japan, and you realize that Japanese people expect you to say, 'Japan is wonderful!' It feels like being trapped in a cult."
Additionally, it has been observed that many foreigners have felt a sense of discrimination in the way they are treated or handled by the police, and some foreign residents in Japan have expressed a belief that Japanese people tend to discriminate based on race or skin color.
ALL About News
submitted by georgecscott_2022 to JapanNow [link] [comments]
First, I asked a straightforward question to an American man who has lived in Japan for over 30 years: "What do you dislike about Japan?"
He began by praising aspects of living in Japan, highlighting the sense of security and tranquility that comes with it, mentioning the rarity of serious crimes and the freedom from worrying about entering unsafe areas late at night. He also appreciated the relaxed atmosphere that allows leaving a laptop unattended at a café when going to place an order. However, he pointed out a significant downside of living in Japan: becoming accustomed to life there may lead to naivety and excessive trust in human goodness when returning or visiting foreign countries, potentially making one overly passive.
Another American man echoed similar sentiments when asked the same question. He pointed out unique sexual crimes such as groping and the scandalous behavior of certain politicians, like the panty thief lawmaker (such as Takeru Ōgi, a member of the Liberal Democratic Party). These, he stated, clearly constitute negative aspects of life in Japan.
Furthermore, this American expressed dissatisfaction with the quality of housing in Japan, noting the common lack of proper insulation, resulting in uncomfortably cold conditions inside apartments during winter. He also criticized Japan's work culture, stating that his tolerance for the oppressive labor culture has diminished over the years. He emphasized the superficial nature of Japan's corporate culture, where appearances are prioritized over genuine integrity and where the process of decision-making tends to be slow.
In summary, it's often said that Japan's corporate culture is formalistic, emphasizing surface appearances and preserving decorum. This American man appears exhausted by Japan's business culture, highlighting its rigidity and the time-consuming nature of decision-making processes.
A French woman who has been living in Japan for three years remarked, "The cute, anime-like outfits worn by young Japanese women are amusing and certainly characteristic of Japan... However, I've noticed a lot of foreign 'otaku'-like men visiting Japan recently, and they uncomfortably stare at these cute-looking Japanese women on trains and such. Because the women appear so passive, it makes me want to say, 'Be careful!'"
Regarding Japan's business culture, she expressed confusion, stating, "You have to read between the lines, and that's bothersome. Because people who can't express themselves directly make it difficult to gauge whether I've said or done something wrong or offended them."
Furthermore, when asked the same question, another American man responded, "What I dislike most is that in Japan, you can't just live. In reality, while living in Japan, you're always expected to speak positively about life in Japan, and you realize that Japanese people expect you to say, 'Japan is wonderful!' It feels like being trapped in a cult."
Additionally, it has been observed that many foreigners have felt a sense of discrimination in the way they are treated or handled by the police, and some foreign residents in Japan have expressed a belief that Japanese people tend to discriminate based on race or skin color.
ALL About News
2024.05.13 09:13 Atlas_Bear104 Men, Bears, Horror, and the Unknown
The question being posed is structured in a way that invokes the most emotional response from anyone who engages with it, which I feel is intentional.
Generally, I’ve seen the question posed as, ”If you were alone in the woods, would you rather encounter a man or a bear?”
If we break the question down into the information that we know, we can determine the following:
• We are alone in the woods,
…and that’s it. We don’t actually have any other information to go off of. We don’t have any idea of how the encounter takes place, the distance between the man/bear and the woman that is encountering them, if the woman has anything to defend herself typically carried when alone in the woods such as a firearm or some sort of blade or hatchet, or the surroundings at all. And that is exactly why people feel so strongly one way or the other.
Even just the concept of “a forest” looks vastly different from person to person. For me, a forest looks similar to the way they do in the southeastern United States, which is a temperate coniferous forest characterized by lots of pine and thick undergrowth. For others, it may more closely resemble a temperate broadleaf forest, which is the vast majority of the continental U.S.. The actual forest type is probably one of the least important pieces of the puzzle, but the point is that we use our own lived experiences to fill in the blanks of what we expect the scenario to look like.
We see this trope of “The Unknown” used very effectively in the horror genre, as it is entirely up to us to come up with the perceived reality of the situation. All we know is that the protagonist of the story is in a bad position and is currently under threat. With that, our brains come up with the worst thing that we could plausibly believe if we were in the same position. This phenomenon, while powerful, also leads to difficulties for the horror genre if the threat ever becomes tangible. If you’ve ever seen a scary movie and the monster turns out to be a weird goofy looking puppet that is obviously not real, you’ll end up feeling disappointed, as you had a perception in your mind that the threat was far more frightening than it actually is.
For most women, they have zero experience with bears, especially in the context of seeing them up close with no barrier to separate them from you. However, there is an innumerable amount of interactions between women and men. While logically, encountering a bear is probably more dangerous from an outward perspective, lived experience forces people to fill in the blanks. I’ve been with my wife since we were in high school, and she was groped by a man that she knew at a college party I was not able to attend. That experience will live with her for the rest of her life and I regret every day that I was not there to do anything about it. She would be correct to pick the bear, as she has grown up in a society where things like this are not treated as harshly as they should be. We could get into the specifics of how and why it is this way, but that is the way it is.
The disconnect comes from the way this is perceived by others who view it as a way to dogpile men as a collective without taking into consideration that they are nothing like the men that women typically fear. Based on the lived experience of many men, the level of distrust the average woman has for an average man can be genuinely damaging to the mental perception they have of themselves. This is why they feel defensive, not that they are jumping at the chance to run into a woman who is alone in the woods. When I first heard the question, my immediate reaction was to feel defensive because I know that I would never do something to a woman in that scenario. Every day I strive to make the women in my life feel as safe as possible. I only realized later that the image of a man in this imagined scenario will always be the worst version possible. It required me to chew on it a lot before gathering my thoughts and realizing that the answer is not obvious despite what people say.
submitted by Atlas_Bear104 to PaymoneyWubby [link] [comments]
Generally, I’ve seen the question posed as, ”If you were alone in the woods, would you rather encounter a man or a bear?”
If we break the question down into the information that we know, we can determine the following:
• We are alone in the woods,
…and that’s it. We don’t actually have any other information to go off of. We don’t have any idea of how the encounter takes place, the distance between the man/bear and the woman that is encountering them, if the woman has anything to defend herself typically carried when alone in the woods such as a firearm or some sort of blade or hatchet, or the surroundings at all. And that is exactly why people feel so strongly one way or the other.
Even just the concept of “a forest” looks vastly different from person to person. For me, a forest looks similar to the way they do in the southeastern United States, which is a temperate coniferous forest characterized by lots of pine and thick undergrowth. For others, it may more closely resemble a temperate broadleaf forest, which is the vast majority of the continental U.S.. The actual forest type is probably one of the least important pieces of the puzzle, but the point is that we use our own lived experiences to fill in the blanks of what we expect the scenario to look like.
We see this trope of “The Unknown” used very effectively in the horror genre, as it is entirely up to us to come up with the perceived reality of the situation. All we know is that the protagonist of the story is in a bad position and is currently under threat. With that, our brains come up with the worst thing that we could plausibly believe if we were in the same position. This phenomenon, while powerful, also leads to difficulties for the horror genre if the threat ever becomes tangible. If you’ve ever seen a scary movie and the monster turns out to be a weird goofy looking puppet that is obviously not real, you’ll end up feeling disappointed, as you had a perception in your mind that the threat was far more frightening than it actually is.
For most women, they have zero experience with bears, especially in the context of seeing them up close with no barrier to separate them from you. However, there is an innumerable amount of interactions between women and men. While logically, encountering a bear is probably more dangerous from an outward perspective, lived experience forces people to fill in the blanks. I’ve been with my wife since we were in high school, and she was groped by a man that she knew at a college party I was not able to attend. That experience will live with her for the rest of her life and I regret every day that I was not there to do anything about it. She would be correct to pick the bear, as she has grown up in a society where things like this are not treated as harshly as they should be. We could get into the specifics of how and why it is this way, but that is the way it is.
The disconnect comes from the way this is perceived by others who view it as a way to dogpile men as a collective without taking into consideration that they are nothing like the men that women typically fear. Based on the lived experience of many men, the level of distrust the average woman has for an average man can be genuinely damaging to the mental perception they have of themselves. This is why they feel defensive, not that they are jumping at the chance to run into a woman who is alone in the woods. When I first heard the question, my immediate reaction was to feel defensive because I know that I would never do something to a woman in that scenario. Every day I strive to make the women in my life feel as safe as possible. I only realized later that the image of a man in this imagined scenario will always be the worst version possible. It required me to chew on it a lot before gathering my thoughts and realizing that the answer is not obvious despite what people say.
TL;DR: The question is worded as vaguely as possible to ensure that people will paint a mental picture that is the worst thing they could imagine, rather than what is likely. This tactic is used commonly in the horror genre. Men need to be more empathetic towards women who pick the bear, but men should also not be ridiculed for initially feeling hurt by the perception that being in the woods with a literal bear, apex predators of the forest, is preferable to being in the woods with them. We need more empathy on the whole, and this question requires an introspective understanding that many people have not regularly trained. Go to therapy you filthy animals!
2024.05.13 09:07 slutishh Trip to Lucknow Part III
PART 3 – THE CONFERENCE
As soon as we checked in the hotel, it was a lavish 5 star property and sir booked a city view room. which excited me more as in our last trip to chandigarh, sir literally fucked me on the window for 2 hours at night keeping me exposed to the city. i immediatly got goosebumps thinking about the incidence and could foresee what would happen in evening. i kneeled down as we entered the room, i thought this would definately keep him happy. As i kneel he grabbed me from behind and pulled me toward the toilet pushing my head into the pot seat. He shouted "haramzadi chinaal teri jagah yaha hai aur tera kaam ise saaf rakhna hai mere istamaal karne ke bad". He told me stay still and i was wondering what he was going to do next. soon after i felt his pee on my face, opening my mouth i started sucking and licking his pee as he continued doing it. kissing my shoulders, he lifted my ass up sliding his hand on the ass slit. pulling down my pants, exposed my ass and spanked my ass for 10 times. i could feel my ass being red and hot with the spanks.keeping me still there, he went away to get the condom. ordered me to don the condom on his dick , while doing that i could feel his hard dick in my hands. it instantly made me drool all i wanted was his majestic dick in my hole. he dragged me to bed and held my legs, shoved his amazing dick into my cunt fucking me brutally. all i could do was moan and feel his dick in my cunt.
After using my cunt and he came inside my cunt, after which he always keep his used condom on my face to suck his cum out. HE took a quick shower and left me in the room like a used and thrown slut and went to his conference.
I was waiting for him naked on the bed. From the conference, sir messaged me to get cleaned up and dressed and wait for his orders. After i got dressed for him, i waited until his next order. I was thinking of all the ways in which i could please master when he gets back. Apart from being his slut, he pampars me like his princess as well. he already ordered some food and there was a hot bath with some amazing aroma oil to rejuvenate myself. i was checking my phone every 10 min so that i dont miss his msg.
Master pinged that he wants me to come out to meet his friends. My heart was pounding thinking about our fantasies of sharing me with master's friends. We have been swinging mostly with stranger couples but swinging outside delhi with his friends definitely makes my heart skip a beat. I took a good relaxing shower and pampered my self with some sleep and good Spa. I got dressed up which was a single piece and I was instructed not to wear panties on this trip. He sent me the location where I had to reach.
I went out and found them (a couple – AMAN / KIM ) having drinks. I greeted them like master's good girl and we all had drinks together along with some nice conversation which were getting kinky as the glasses were being refilled.
Before giving them a final heads up he asked me in non verbal manner to go ahead (he has given me a right to be comfortable and deny if I am not comfortable, and I said yes) Master told me that we would be going to their room, I nodded my head on master's order to follow them to their room. On our way to the room, we picked up some food and drinks to continue the after party as it was already midnight. The place was their Flat in a society which was not very crowded and we had to climb 6 floors up.
After we got in the room, we started talking again. A few minutes later, master held me and started making out with me. Suddenly I felt aman,s hands on boobs, he groped my boobs and started pinching them which made me moan as I was kissing sir. Upon seeing his friend aman enjoying playing with me, master stepped back to enjoy the view of his slut getting used. As a good girl, I let aman play with my boobs and pussy. As I took my gaze back to sir, he was making out with kim, instantly I was wet feeling amans finger in my cunt while i kept looking at sir making out with another girl. Seeing him with someone else makes me more horny and craving for him always. I was a wet dripping slut at that point.
While he was playing with kim, he cant take his eyes off me. He was kissing kim and playing with her boobs the way he likes it. He loves to inflict a little pain, make her wince and eat her out. I just love the way he uses a women body taking control, using the pain and pleasure at the same time. I have witnessed this so many times the way he dominates and make a women drip is amazing. Seeing him with kim and his eyes on me, FUCK I edged instantly. We realised soon that AMAN and KIM are not our types and we need to wrap soon. So sir made KIM orgasm soon with his brilliant tongue technique and me made aman finish his load on my boobs. But we were still craving for each other. We wrapped up soon and went back to our hotel.
submitted by slutishh to delhiflashers [link] [comments]
As soon as we checked in the hotel, it was a lavish 5 star property and sir booked a city view room. which excited me more as in our last trip to chandigarh, sir literally fucked me on the window for 2 hours at night keeping me exposed to the city. i immediatly got goosebumps thinking about the incidence and could foresee what would happen in evening. i kneeled down as we entered the room, i thought this would definately keep him happy. As i kneel he grabbed me from behind and pulled me toward the toilet pushing my head into the pot seat. He shouted "haramzadi chinaal teri jagah yaha hai aur tera kaam ise saaf rakhna hai mere istamaal karne ke bad". He told me stay still and i was wondering what he was going to do next. soon after i felt his pee on my face, opening my mouth i started sucking and licking his pee as he continued doing it. kissing my shoulders, he lifted my ass up sliding his hand on the ass slit. pulling down my pants, exposed my ass and spanked my ass for 10 times. i could feel my ass being red and hot with the spanks.keeping me still there, he went away to get the condom. ordered me to don the condom on his dick , while doing that i could feel his hard dick in my hands. it instantly made me drool all i wanted was his majestic dick in my hole. he dragged me to bed and held my legs, shoved his amazing dick into my cunt fucking me brutally. all i could do was moan and feel his dick in my cunt.
After using my cunt and he came inside my cunt, after which he always keep his used condom on my face to suck his cum out. HE took a quick shower and left me in the room like a used and thrown slut and went to his conference.
I was waiting for him naked on the bed. From the conference, sir messaged me to get cleaned up and dressed and wait for his orders. After i got dressed for him, i waited until his next order. I was thinking of all the ways in which i could please master when he gets back. Apart from being his slut, he pampars me like his princess as well. he already ordered some food and there was a hot bath with some amazing aroma oil to rejuvenate myself. i was checking my phone every 10 min so that i dont miss his msg.
Master pinged that he wants me to come out to meet his friends. My heart was pounding thinking about our fantasies of sharing me with master's friends. We have been swinging mostly with stranger couples but swinging outside delhi with his friends definitely makes my heart skip a beat. I took a good relaxing shower and pampered my self with some sleep and good Spa. I got dressed up which was a single piece and I was instructed not to wear panties on this trip. He sent me the location where I had to reach.
I went out and found them (a couple – AMAN / KIM ) having drinks. I greeted them like master's good girl and we all had drinks together along with some nice conversation which were getting kinky as the glasses were being refilled.
Before giving them a final heads up he asked me in non verbal manner to go ahead (he has given me a right to be comfortable and deny if I am not comfortable, and I said yes) Master told me that we would be going to their room, I nodded my head on master's order to follow them to their room. On our way to the room, we picked up some food and drinks to continue the after party as it was already midnight. The place was their Flat in a society which was not very crowded and we had to climb 6 floors up.
After we got in the room, we started talking again. A few minutes later, master held me and started making out with me. Suddenly I felt aman,s hands on boobs, he groped my boobs and started pinching them which made me moan as I was kissing sir. Upon seeing his friend aman enjoying playing with me, master stepped back to enjoy the view of his slut getting used. As a good girl, I let aman play with my boobs and pussy. As I took my gaze back to sir, he was making out with kim, instantly I was wet feeling amans finger in my cunt while i kept looking at sir making out with another girl. Seeing him with someone else makes me more horny and craving for him always. I was a wet dripping slut at that point.
While he was playing with kim, he cant take his eyes off me. He was kissing kim and playing with her boobs the way he likes it. He loves to inflict a little pain, make her wince and eat her out. I just love the way he uses a women body taking control, using the pain and pleasure at the same time. I have witnessed this so many times the way he dominates and make a women drip is amazing. Seeing him with kim and his eyes on me, FUCK I edged instantly. We realised soon that AMAN and KIM are not our types and we need to wrap soon. So sir made KIM orgasm soon with his brilliant tongue technique and me made aman finish his load on my boobs. But we were still craving for each other. We wrapped up soon and went back to our hotel.
2024.05.13 02:53 med3shamstede women of manchester, what are your experiences of getting catcalled?
just looking for people of shared experiences and gather insight from the women of our communities about their experiences w catcalling, i feel like it's an issue not really talked enough about
i'm relatively new to manchester bc of uni and not really an alcohol/club person but this friday i thought fuck it am queening out with my mate, didn't wear anything provocative and in this one night had instances of: • being groped even after telling this man no (10-15 times) and saying i have a boyfriend • group of lads shouting for me & my mate to stop walking so they can ''get our snaps'' but chile i was NOT gonna stop - i'm trans and looks wise i pass but my voice does sound like a trans girls and i am not getting clocked, especially not by drunk lads • groups of men whistling at us at PG (i know its pg, but still) as we walk past • 3 separate instances of men coming up to us as we was chinwagging on the bench and asking for us to go back to the hotel with them • (not me, i was on the other side of oxford rd) but i saw a car drive past a group of teen girls, beep and shout stuff at them
is there anything better i can tell them so they fuck off? the ''i have a bf'' doesn't work and they just say ''he doesn't have to know'', have also tried ''im lesbian'' and they offer to turn me bi - cba
on a lighter note - even with drunkards everywhere i had not one transphobic experience (not even stares) even after people heard my voice...and i was queening out for like 16 hours, don't know if mcr is super trans friendly or i have passing privilege but yeh love mcr for that xx
but yeah, just curious with how you gals respond with it or if you have any really bad experiences.
submitted by med3shamstede to manchester [link] [comments]
i'm relatively new to manchester bc of uni and not really an alcohol/club person but this friday i thought fuck it am queening out with my mate, didn't wear anything provocative and in this one night had instances of: • being groped even after telling this man no (10-15 times) and saying i have a boyfriend • group of lads shouting for me & my mate to stop walking so they can ''get our snaps'' but chile i was NOT gonna stop - i'm trans and looks wise i pass but my voice does sound like a trans girls and i am not getting clocked, especially not by drunk lads • groups of men whistling at us at PG (i know its pg, but still) as we walk past • 3 separate instances of men coming up to us as we was chinwagging on the bench and asking for us to go back to the hotel with them • (not me, i was on the other side of oxford rd) but i saw a car drive past a group of teen girls, beep and shout stuff at them
is there anything better i can tell them so they fuck off? the ''i have a bf'' doesn't work and they just say ''he doesn't have to know'', have also tried ''im lesbian'' and they offer to turn me bi - cba
on a lighter note - even with drunkards everywhere i had not one transphobic experience (not even stares) even after people heard my voice...and i was queening out for like 16 hours, don't know if mcr is super trans friendly or i have passing privilege but yeh love mcr for that xx
but yeah, just curious with how you gals respond with it or if you have any really bad experiences.
2024.05.13 00:05 Disco_Inferno_NJ Race Reports: Boston and London, or "local Redditor doesn't take his own advice"
Buckle in, guys - this is going to be a long one. Also, I come out of the closet...as a Swiftie. HMU if you want me to bring friendship bracelets to Brooklyn.
Any resemblance to real people is...not coincidental, actually.
(Boston does intermediate splits late-race starting 35k (35K, 23M, 24M, 40K, 1 mile out), so so the last two splits are aggregates.)
(London's app shows aggregate splits, so if you look at my official times it'll look like I was perfectly even throughout.)
Okay, OP. Why did you do this to yourself?
tl;dr: I'm basic.
Like a lot of people, one of my goals is to be asix-star seven-star finisher (thanks Sydney). Boston and New York were relatively easy to check off, and they've both kind of become my "regulars." I did Chicago last fall after a long delay - originally I was planning on doing it in 2020, but you know what happened. You might have heard about it!
For London, I applied to the lottery - or as they say across the pond, the ballot - last year and got rejected like everyone else does. I had a backup plan, though - I was going to apply to be a pacer. Two of my friends (David and Jazmin) had paced London last year and had a good experience, and they asked me to throw my hat in the ring this year.
...Okay, but OP, HOW did you do this to yourself? I want the deets.
Step 1: qualify for Boston again. (You can do it at Boston, but I don't recommend it because that is absolutely stressful. On the other hand, the one thing worse than trying to BQ at Boston without one in hand is trying to BQ in New York when it's 75 degrees.)
Step 2: apply to be a pacer and pray. London has open pacer applications, although I think they preference returning pacers. Also pacers that have actually paced marathons before. Neither of which applied to me at the time (I had signed up to pace Philly, but applications opened around NYC for this year). However, one thing I don't value is my bodily integrity so I just put down the fastest times I felt comfortable doing.
David, Jazmin, and I got the acceptance emails about a week later. David would be pacing 3:25, Jazmin would be pacing 3:40, and I...would be pacing 3:10, or the fastest group I put down. I remember being at work and listening to "Cornelia Street" by Taylor Swift when I read my email. The only way it could have been more on-the-nose is if it had been "London Boy."
(Also, justice for "Lover.")
Since I'd never internationally traveled before, I applied for a passport in November (just before Thanksgiving). Keep that in mind.
...ooh boy.
General training (or what SHOULD have happened)
My friend David coaches a group of us, adapting the training program that our club coach used. We're fairly heavy on the MP work, and surprisingly not so much on threshold. A typical week looks like this:
What ACTUALLY happened
Post-Chicago, I was pretty much unstructured, but ran a couple of more races:
Suffice to say, my training was disorganized as hell. I think I got a couple of 70-mile weeks in back in February, but kind of fell off in March when I was still dealing with some niggles of my own and also work things. Somehow, I managed to do a couple of races:
This was the less stressful event - on Saturday, I went up with my friend Joe who was spectating. Did the standard Boston race weekend stuff (shout out to Puma for their Sunday shakeout, the amazing panel, and for actually feeding us), met up with our other friends running Boston Sunday, and had dinner with our friends Jazmin and Janna (who were running) and Janna's husband Mark (who was not).
Also, I got my bib signed by Jenny Simpson on Saturday.
Monday, I just did my usual race prep - which is absolutely no prep whatsoever. (To wit, breakfast was "coffee and a banana loaf from Dunkin'.") I met up with Jazmin - who was planning to leave that night - and caught a shuttle to the Common with her. Funny enough, on the bus to Hopkinton we met up with our friend Cole who was getting his sixth star at Boston.
Race Day
I figured I'd go for an "easy 2:55" because Chicago gave me way too much confidence. I started from corral 3 and caught up with Cole (in corral 2) within the first mile. We mostly ran together for about 6 or 7 miles and then I lost track of him. I just assumed he'd dropped me because he's much faster than me. (The guy's currently a 2:30s marathoner. I say that because his lifetime PR is in the 2:20s.)
Gradually, it got warmer and warmer, but I was still feeling relatively good through the first half. I kissed one of the Wellesley students in the Scream Tunnel (to be fair, I was going to mind my own business, but she was standing on top of the fence holding a sign saying "Kiss me if you can reach," and I'm 6'5" and do not back down from challenges), but I mostly maintained pace into Newton.
And then I realized a few things:
Anyway, so, long story short:
Post-Race
I managed to get myself back to our hotel (also, ended up taking a selfie with an older gentleman on the Silver Line), and waited for Jazmin. And waited. Opening the tracker was pretty worrisome, as she'd slowed down a ton.
Finally, she finished, but she had a rough time. Thankfully, her coach found her at the finish and drove her over to our hotel. And one of her friends picked her up and drove her home. I'm not going to lie, I was pretty worried about her for London six days later.
(I'm intentionally being vague here, but...yeah, it was rough.)
I also found out that Cole finished about 15 minutes behind me (he said he'd been sick the week before, which I didn't know until after the race). Janna did pretty much the same thing that I did, in jogging in the back half. She still ended up on the Fast Women Instagram page (as she should).
Anyway, Janna, Mark, Joe, and I had a rather interesting dinner, and then it was back home on Tuesday. For most of us, anyway.
I did the math and - yeah - it was actually less expensive for me to go back home than to just stay an extra night. Welcome to marathon weekend. Paid through the nose for an expedited passport ($225), but...hey, I managed to get it. Shout out to FlixBus for the hook-up. Honestly, I recommend the 6:30 AM buses.
London (for real this time)
To Taylor Alison Swift: Why would you drop a double album on London Marathon weekend. Not only that, while I was taking a red-eye trans-Atlantic flight. Joe Alwyn wasn't even running it (and I'm not even sure Matty Healy could run 26.2 feet), so you don't even have that excuse. Janna suggested I buy the in-flight WiFi. I opted not to, and in retrospect that was the correct decision. (FWIW, TTPD is okay, but not worth $8 to United. That said, "So Long, London" into "But Daddy, I Love Him" is a hell of a choice.)
Anyway, for London, I flew in with Jazmin and my dad (who was also flying trans-Atlantic for the first time), and meeting David and another one of our friends (who is also named Joe) in London. If you are keeping count, we're up to three Joes in this recap already. Due to an opportune seat swap (shout out to the lady who wanted to sit with her husband, I don't care if you were telling the truth or if you just felt sorry for me), I managed to get a couple of hours of sleep on the flight.
We landed mid-day Friday at Heathrow, got into London, and my dad and I checked in to our hotel. (Right next to Waterloo Station, actually, which was nice!) Or we would have checked in, if everyone wasn't evacuating the hotel because of a fire alarm.
We did manage to get checked in after everything was sorted out, and then it was off to the expo (or the show, as London puts it). When we signed up, we had to volunteer for a 2-hour shift at the expo - and in our infinite wisdom, we chose the 3:30-5:30 shift. I spent most of that shift trying to explain why we ran out of 3:20, 3:25, 3:50, and 3:55 pace bands (god speed to the pacers for those groups).
Also, I picked up my gear for pacing - including the uniform (excuse me, kit), pacer flag, and the shoes. In my case, because I have clown feet (14 US/13.5 UK), they ended up being 1080s. And since London strongly encourages us to wear NB, I did not bring my usual shoes (Endorphin Elites).
"OP, it seems like you make a lot of poor planning decisions," you might be saying if you're still reading this. And...yes, yes, I agree. (Technically, I could wear whatever shoe, I'd just need to cover the logos. But I figured I'd be running 22 minutes slower than my PR so I'd be fine regardless.) I will say the 1080s are comfortable, though. Very loud - it's the London colorway, so imagine my size shoe in highlighter yellow, orange, and hot pink - but comfy.
Got back to the hotel, had dinner, argued with my dad about English electrical ports (despite what they look like, they are not USB ports), and tucked in for the night.
Saturday was mostly sightseeing - David, Jazmin, and I did a shakeout run around Westminster and caught the start of the Mini Marathon, and then my dad and I walked around a bit. Also did a night bus tour - shout out to Emma and Julie from Golden Tours - and had the standard pasta dinner. I went to bed around 9...only to get woken up at 10 by yet another fire alarm. After stumbling outside in 5-degree weather and back to our hotel, I somehow managed to get back to sleep.
Race Morning
Whoever labeled Waterloo East on literally every map by the platform instead of the entrance: your mum.
After having a surprisingly leisurely breakfast and a surprisingly hard time finding the entrance for the train station, I managed to hop the train out to the start of the race. Met up with David and Jazmin (apparently they were in the last car and I was in the middle of the train), and then we went out to the pacer meetup in the basement of the Clarendon Inn.
Imagine a small basement room with 140 people speaking multiple languages crammed in together, and that kind of approaches the chaos we were dealing with. You also have to add in a very assertive British guy with a whistle (shout out to Akram, the London coordinator). From past experience, David and Jazmin decided to leave for the corrals (or waves - I feel like London has its own language) around 9, and I went with them to our starts (blue for me and Jazmin, green for David).
I put on my flag (which I've never run with before - every other race has been with a hand-held sign) and immediately became one of the most popular people at the London Marathon. Most of my time was spent going, "uh I guess I'm running even 🤷🏿♂️," which I am sure boosted everyone's confidence in me.
The Race
London is similar to NYC where there are three separate starts that merge into one course. London's merges are a bit earlier than NYC's - Blue and Green merge in the first mile or so, and then Yellow/Red merge in around mile 3. (Not sure why they use two colors for that start!) The major difference is that there isn't one unified starting gun - in fact, the starts are pretty spread out, and it feels more like a rolling start. From big-race experience, I knew my GPS would be off, so I'd have to rely on my elapsed time and my pace band. I tried to yell out splits every mile and every 5k (so yes, I was the annoying American with the especially annoying New Jersey accent yelling out random numbers).
The first mile was relatively easy and uncongested - in fact, I was a bit concerned because I was a little fast (7:11 by my reckoning). And then we came up behind the Green 3:15 pace group. Famously, Comrades Marathon (at least - I'm not sure if this is a South Africa thing, or specific to that race) refers to their pace groups as "buses." I can see the comparison, as trying to maneuver safely around the pace group while knowing I had my own group felt like trying to parallel park a double-decker bus.
Somehow, we managed to pass them relatively safely...and then we came up behind the Yellow 3:15 group. I was pretty stressed, I'll admit. (The next largest race I've been a pacer for is Philadelphia, which is at most 1/4 the field size.) Somehow, I managed to keep people with me, although I admittedly didn't look too much.
That said, it says something when Cutty Sark feels like one of the more open places on the course.
We crossed Tower Bridge and got to halfway in 1:34:55 by my watch. Okay...but a little bit slow. My preference is to be 15 seconds under at halfway, and 30 seconds under at the finish. But hey, I was well within the window, right? The halfway window was 90 seconds under to 30 seconds over, which I was within.
Heading out to Canary Wharf, we actually got a good look at the pro men coming back - Munyao, Tola, and AdvancedRunning favorites Bekele and Cairess. I don't think I've ever been that close to the pros at a major before, so that was pretty cool. If Bekele is reading this, hi, I was the weird tall guy from London. (The one with the flag.) Please continue wrecking my age grading.
Meanwhile the chaos on the course shifted from fighting through slower groups in other starts to wading through the carnage of people blowing up. I don't know if it was especially bad, but - again - it kind of hits different when you know people are following you and also you're on English roads in a world major.
As I was going, I was keeping track of the splits. I knew it was going to be close...but when I saw 3:01:16 at 25 and checked my band (which said 3:01:10 for a 3:10 bang-on), I knew things were close. For reference, pacers' flags at London actually say "Sub [pace]" because they're expected to come in up to a minute under their time. My target was 3:09:00 to 3:09:59. We could make it, but it'd take a bit of a push.
Coming around Buckingham Palace, I was checking my watch and checking the time. I thought I'd make it. And then I crossed the line and stopped my watch.
3:10:00.
Fuck.
Post-Race
But hey, some people managed to hang with me. (Shout out to Nathan on the PR!) I gave (and got) congrats, took a couple of photos, picked up my stuff, and handed in my gear. Like hundreds of other people (my god like hundreds of us), I stopped by Waterstone's, went up to the cafe, and got a tea and scone. (Very good post-race fueling, I must admit.) Got back to the hotel, showered, and went out for pints and dinner post-race with the gang and my dad.
Also, I checked my official time. 3:09:57. I made it, but just barely. It was a bit slower than I'd like, but hey - not too shabby for doing this in 1080s.
Jazmin made it through a bit off target (like 19 seconds, I think), although it was a bit of a struggle, she said.
David...had a rougher go of it. He himself was injured going into the race, so he had to take his flag down around mile 22. He still managed to finish, though.
As for me: Got home that Tuesday. Told myself that I wouldn't do this again next year as we were going through Newark passport control (aka: Satan's butthole). Changed my mind after I got back on Eastern time, went back to work, and realized what I'd missed. Ran a trail 10k (Leatherman's Loop) the week after because (again) I do not value my bodily integrity. (Also, it was an impromptu midlife crisis.)
It took me a while to gather my thoughts - and even longer to edit this down somewhat. And yes, this is actually edited a bit from where it was.
Finally, one thing I've kept coming back to is the Boston Globe article about 26.TRUE that came out around the same time as the Boston Marathon. I highly suggest you read it - I couldn't decide whether to lead or to end with this, but at any rate it's worth it.
Made with a new race report generator created by u/herumph.
submitted by Disco_Inferno_NJ to AdvancedRunning [link] [comments]
Any resemblance to real people is...not coincidental, actually.
Race Information
- Name: Boston Marathon
- Date: April 15, 2024
- Distance: 26.2 miles
- Location: Boston, MA
- Website: https://www.baa.org/
- Strava: https://www.strava.com/activities/11188906240/overview
- Time: 3:04:31
Goals
| Goal | Description | Completed? |
|---|---|---|
| A | Don't totally kill my legs | Sorta |
| B | Get the finish | Yes |
| C | 2:55 | No |
| D | 3:00 | No |
Splits
| Kilometer | Time | Pace (min/mi) |
|---|---|---|
| 5 | 20:25 | 6:35 |
| 10 | 20:50 (41:15) | 6:43 |
| 15 | 20:39 (1:01:54) | 6:40 |
| 20 | 20:44 (1:22:38) | 6:41 |
| Half | 4:31 (1:27:09) | 6:38 |
| 25 | 16:20/20:51 (1:43:29) | 6:45 |
| 30 | 21:43 (2:05:16) | 7:01 |
| Heartbreak Start (20M/32K) | 10:03 (2:15:19) | 7:24 |
| Heartbreak End (21M/33.6K) | 6:56 (2:22:15) | 6:57 (lmao) |
| 35 | 5:30/22:29 (2:27:45) | 7:22 |
| 40 | 27:03 (2:54:48) | 8:42* |
| Finish | 9:43 | 7:08* |
Race Information
- Name: London Marathon
- Date: April 21, 2024
- Distance: 26.2 miles
- Location: London, UK
- Website: http://www.tcslondonmarathon.com
- Strava: https://www.strava.com/activities/11231697234/overview
- Time: 3:09:57
Goals
| Goal | Description | Completed? |
|---|---|---|
| A | 3:09:30 | No |
| B | 3:09:59 | Yes |
Splits
| Kilometer | Time | Pace (min/mi) |
|---|---|---|
| 5 | 22:25 | 7:12 |
| 10 | 22:36 (45:01) | 7:16 |
| 15 | 22:31 (1:07:32) | 7:15 |
| 20 | 22:23 (1:29:55) | 7:13 |
| Half | 4:58 (1:34:53) | 7:16 |
| 25 | 17:45/22:43 (1:52:38) | 7:19 |
| 30 | 22:27 (2:14:59) | 7:13 |
| 35 | 22:42 (2:37:41) | 7:19 |
| 40 | 22:34 (3:00:15) | 7:16 |
| Finish | 9:42 | 7:08 |
Opening
Some people overthink their training programs. I overthink my race recaps.Okay, OP. Why did you do this to yourself?
tl;dr: I'm basic.
Like a lot of people, one of my goals is to be a
For London, I applied to the lottery - or as they say across the pond, the ballot - last year and got rejected like everyone else does. I had a backup plan, though - I was going to apply to be a pacer. Two of my friends (David and Jazmin) had paced London last year and had a good experience, and they asked me to throw my hat in the ring this year.
...Okay, but OP, HOW did you do this to yourself? I want the deets.
Step 1: qualify for Boston again. (You can do it at Boston, but I don't recommend it because that is absolutely stressful. On the other hand, the one thing worse than trying to BQ at Boston without one in hand is trying to BQ in New York when it's 75 degrees.)
Step 2: apply to be a pacer and pray. London has open pacer applications, although I think they preference returning pacers. Also pacers that have actually paced marathons before. Neither of which applied to me at the time (I had signed up to pace Philly, but applications opened around NYC for this year). However, one thing I don't value is my bodily integrity so I just put down the fastest times I felt comfortable doing.
David, Jazmin, and I got the acceptance emails about a week later. David would be pacing 3:25, Jazmin would be pacing 3:40, and I...would be pacing 3:10, or the fastest group I put down. I remember being at work and listening to "Cornelia Street" by Taylor Swift when I read my email. The only way it could have been more on-the-nose is if it had been "London Boy."
(Also, justice for "Lover.")
Since I'd never internationally traveled before, I applied for a passport in November (just before Thanksgiving). Keep that in mind.
Training/Preparation
*starts laughing with a seamless transition into sobbing*...ooh boy.
General training (or what SHOULD have happened)
My friend David coaches a group of us, adapting the training program that our club coach used. We're fairly heavy on the MP work, and surprisingly not so much on threshold. A typical week looks like this:
- Monday - easy 60m. Normally, this is about 7 miles.
- Tuesday - track workout; ~2 miles up, ~3 miles total on (at 5KP or faster), ~1-2 miles down
- Wednesday - easy 60m
- Thursday - tempo/MP work (because I know I'm gonna get yelled at). 1-2 miles up, up to 90 total minutes at ~MP down to ~HMP (for me, ~6:30 to ~6:00, roughly), couple of miles down.
- Friday - easy 60m
- Saturday/Sunday - easy one day, LR the other day. LR's normally easy (~8:00 pace or so), but sometimes includes MP chunks. We go up to 23 miles (or 3 hours).
- (Bonus) Doubles whenever I can fit them in during marathon blocks...and strangely enough, I'll usually double on Wednesdays regardless because our local Fleet Feet has a 3-mile group run Wednesday evenings. And yes, I know this is insane but apparently I'd rather be crazy than be alone.
What ACTUALLY happened
Post-Chicago, I was pretty much unstructured, but ran a couple of more races:
- I paced a HM two weeks post-Chicago (0/10 do not recommend pacing a 1:30 HM on a course with 800 feet of elevation two weeks after your goal marathon, those first few miles hurt).
- I ran with a friend at NYC to help him get a BQ (which he ran 5 minutes under - he's 47, so we did just under 3:15).
- Philly went surprisingly well, considering I had done like two marathons in the previous month and a half.
- On the plus side, we ended up splitting 1:34:30/1:35:20ish. So a bit hot at the start, but not overly so.
- On the downside, I ended up taking two bathroom stops. Shout out to my co-pacer Mu for...you know...not having his bladder decide to be embarrassing. Shout out to Liz (the Philly coordinator) for having the good sense to give me adult supervision.
- My primary training partner from last fall tore his meniscus and still can't run.
- Jazmin decided to get a private coach, but still asked me to do some of her workouts with her.
- Another one of my friends made his comeback after being hurt last year - and he's following Daniels and his own schedule, and also asked me to run with him on occasion.
- Meanwhile, the rest of the group stuck to the same schedule I posted before.
- Also, I should mention I'm a terminal people pleaser and hate making decisions.
Suffice to say, my training was disorganized as hell. I think I got a couple of 70-mile weeks in back in February, but kind of fell off in March when I was still dealing with some niggles of my own and also work things. Somehow, I managed to do a couple of races:
- I ran 1:19:5x at NYC Half (like half of this sub apparently).
- Also, I ran a sub-36 10k. A week before Boston. In retrospect, this might have been a mistake.
Boston
Pre-RaceThis was the less stressful event - on Saturday, I went up with my friend Joe who was spectating. Did the standard Boston race weekend stuff (shout out to Puma for their Sunday shakeout, the amazing panel, and for actually feeding us), met up with our other friends running Boston Sunday, and had dinner with our friends Jazmin and Janna (who were running) and Janna's husband Mark (who was not).
Also, I got my bib signed by Jenny Simpson on Saturday.
Monday, I just did my usual race prep - which is absolutely no prep whatsoever. (To wit, breakfast was "coffee and a banana loaf from Dunkin'.") I met up with Jazmin - who was planning to leave that night - and caught a shuttle to the Common with her. Funny enough, on the bus to Hopkinton we met up with our friend Cole who was getting his sixth star at Boston.
Race Day
I figured I'd go for an "easy 2:55" because Chicago gave me way too much confidence. I started from corral 3 and caught up with Cole (in corral 2) within the first mile. We mostly ran together for about 6 or 7 miles and then I lost track of him. I just assumed he'd dropped me because he's much faster than me. (The guy's currently a 2:30s marathoner. I say that because his lifetime PR is in the 2:20s.)
Gradually, it got warmer and warmer, but I was still feeling relatively good through the first half. I kissed one of the Wellesley students in the Scream Tunnel (to be fair, I was going to mind my own business, but she was standing on top of the fence holding a sign saying "Kiss me if you can reach," and I'm 6'5" and do not back down from challenges), but I mostly maintained pace into Newton.
And then I realized a few things:
- While the temperature may have been approved by Rob Gronkowski, it was definitely not approved by me.
- I ran a 2:47 last fall, so I had exactly zero reason to continue to try for a 2:55.
- I also had to do this again in six days. And that was the deciding factor to just throw in the towel.
Anyway, so, long story short:
- Around mile 18, I actually ended up running with a guy that I'd recognized from NYC 2022 - that day, he went down on the side of the course. At Boston, we ran together for about half a mile going back and forth...and then I just let him leave me.
- Somehow, still managed to set a Heartbreak PR. I think.
- I totally missed Joe, Mark, and the three blondes Joe and Mark recruited to cheer for me around mile 25. (I regret to inform all of them that three hot women are not quite as good at getting my attention as three hot men are. 💅🏿)
Post-Race
I managed to get myself back to our hotel (also, ended up taking a selfie with an older gentleman on the Silver Line), and waited for Jazmin. And waited. Opening the tracker was pretty worrisome, as she'd slowed down a ton.
Finally, she finished, but she had a rough time. Thankfully, her coach found her at the finish and drove her over to our hotel. And one of her friends picked her up and drove her home. I'm not going to lie, I was pretty worried about her for London six days later.
(I'm intentionally being vague here, but...yeah, it was rough.)
I also found out that Cole finished about 15 minutes behind me (he said he'd been sick the week before, which I didn't know until after the race). Janna did pretty much the same thing that I did, in jogging in the back half. She still ended up on the Fast Women Instagram page (as she should).
Anyway, Janna, Mark, Joe, and I had a rather interesting dinner, and then it was back home on Tuesday. For most of us, anyway.
London
But first, Boston (again)I did the math and - yeah - it was actually less expensive for me to go back home than to just stay an extra night. Welcome to marathon weekend. Paid through the nose for an expedited passport ($225), but...hey, I managed to get it. Shout out to FlixBus for the hook-up. Honestly, I recommend the 6:30 AM buses.
London (for real this time)
To Taylor Alison Swift: Why would you drop a double album on London Marathon weekend. Not only that, while I was taking a red-eye trans-Atlantic flight. Joe Alwyn wasn't even running it (and I'm not even sure Matty Healy could run 26.2 feet), so you don't even have that excuse. Janna suggested I buy the in-flight WiFi. I opted not to, and in retrospect that was the correct decision. (FWIW, TTPD is okay, but not worth $8 to United. That said, "So Long, London" into "But Daddy, I Love Him" is a hell of a choice.)
Anyway, for London, I flew in with Jazmin and my dad (who was also flying trans-Atlantic for the first time), and meeting David and another one of our friends (who is also named Joe) in London. If you are keeping count, we're up to three Joes in this recap already. Due to an opportune seat swap (shout out to the lady who wanted to sit with her husband, I don't care if you were telling the truth or if you just felt sorry for me), I managed to get a couple of hours of sleep on the flight.
We landed mid-day Friday at Heathrow, got into London, and my dad and I checked in to our hotel. (Right next to Waterloo Station, actually, which was nice!) Or we would have checked in, if everyone wasn't evacuating the hotel because of a fire alarm.
We did manage to get checked in after everything was sorted out, and then it was off to the expo (or the show, as London puts it). When we signed up, we had to volunteer for a 2-hour shift at the expo - and in our infinite wisdom, we chose the 3:30-5:30 shift. I spent most of that shift trying to explain why we ran out of 3:20, 3:25, 3:50, and 3:55 pace bands (god speed to the pacers for those groups).
Also, I picked up my gear for pacing - including the uniform (excuse me, kit), pacer flag, and the shoes. In my case, because I have clown feet (14 US/13.5 UK), they ended up being 1080s. And since London strongly encourages us to wear NB, I did not bring my usual shoes (Endorphin Elites).
"OP, it seems like you make a lot of poor planning decisions," you might be saying if you're still reading this. And...yes, yes, I agree. (Technically, I could wear whatever shoe, I'd just need to cover the logos. But I figured I'd be running 22 minutes slower than my PR so I'd be fine regardless.) I will say the 1080s are comfortable, though. Very loud - it's the London colorway, so imagine my size shoe in highlighter yellow, orange, and hot pink - but comfy.
Got back to the hotel, had dinner, argued with my dad about English electrical ports (despite what they look like, they are not USB ports), and tucked in for the night.
Saturday was mostly sightseeing - David, Jazmin, and I did a shakeout run around Westminster and caught the start of the Mini Marathon, and then my dad and I walked around a bit. Also did a night bus tour - shout out to Emma and Julie from Golden Tours - and had the standard pasta dinner. I went to bed around 9...only to get woken up at 10 by yet another fire alarm. After stumbling outside in 5-degree weather and back to our hotel, I somehow managed to get back to sleep.
Race Morning
Whoever labeled Waterloo East on literally every map by the platform instead of the entrance: your mum.
After having a surprisingly leisurely breakfast and a surprisingly hard time finding the entrance for the train station, I managed to hop the train out to the start of the race. Met up with David and Jazmin (apparently they were in the last car and I was in the middle of the train), and then we went out to the pacer meetup in the basement of the Clarendon Inn.
Imagine a small basement room with 140 people speaking multiple languages crammed in together, and that kind of approaches the chaos we were dealing with. You also have to add in a very assertive British guy with a whistle (shout out to Akram, the London coordinator). From past experience, David and Jazmin decided to leave for the corrals (or waves - I feel like London has its own language) around 9, and I went with them to our starts (blue for me and Jazmin, green for David).
I put on my flag (which I've never run with before - every other race has been with a hand-held sign) and immediately became one of the most popular people at the London Marathon. Most of my time was spent going, "uh I guess I'm running even 🤷🏿♂️," which I am sure boosted everyone's confidence in me.
The Race
London is similar to NYC where there are three separate starts that merge into one course. London's merges are a bit earlier than NYC's - Blue and Green merge in the first mile or so, and then Yellow/Red merge in around mile 3. (Not sure why they use two colors for that start!) The major difference is that there isn't one unified starting gun - in fact, the starts are pretty spread out, and it feels more like a rolling start. From big-race experience, I knew my GPS would be off, so I'd have to rely on my elapsed time and my pace band. I tried to yell out splits every mile and every 5k (so yes, I was the annoying American with the especially annoying New Jersey accent yelling out random numbers).
The first mile was relatively easy and uncongested - in fact, I was a bit concerned because I was a little fast (7:11 by my reckoning). And then we came up behind the Green 3:15 pace group. Famously, Comrades Marathon (at least - I'm not sure if this is a South Africa thing, or specific to that race) refers to their pace groups as "buses." I can see the comparison, as trying to maneuver safely around the pace group while knowing I had my own group felt like trying to parallel park a double-decker bus.
Somehow, we managed to pass them relatively safely...and then we came up behind the Yellow 3:15 group. I was pretty stressed, I'll admit. (The next largest race I've been a pacer for is Philadelphia, which is at most 1/4 the field size.) Somehow, I managed to keep people with me, although I admittedly didn't look too much.
That said, it says something when Cutty Sark feels like one of the more open places on the course.
We crossed Tower Bridge and got to halfway in 1:34:55 by my watch. Okay...but a little bit slow. My preference is to be 15 seconds under at halfway, and 30 seconds under at the finish. But hey, I was well within the window, right? The halfway window was 90 seconds under to 30 seconds over, which I was within.
Heading out to Canary Wharf, we actually got a good look at the pro men coming back - Munyao, Tola, and AdvancedRunning favorites Bekele and Cairess. I don't think I've ever been that close to the pros at a major before, so that was pretty cool. If Bekele is reading this, hi, I was the weird tall guy from London. (The one with the flag.) Please continue wrecking my age grading.
Meanwhile the chaos on the course shifted from fighting through slower groups in other starts to wading through the carnage of people blowing up. I don't know if it was especially bad, but - again - it kind of hits different when you know people are following you and also you're on English roads in a world major.
As I was going, I was keeping track of the splits. I knew it was going to be close...but when I saw 3:01:16 at 25 and checked my band (which said 3:01:10 for a 3:10 bang-on), I knew things were close. For reference, pacers' flags at London actually say "Sub [pace]" because they're expected to come in up to a minute under their time. My target was 3:09:00 to 3:09:59. We could make it, but it'd take a bit of a push.
Coming around Buckingham Palace, I was checking my watch and checking the time. I thought I'd make it. And then I crossed the line and stopped my watch.
3:10:00.
Fuck.
Post-Race
But hey, some people managed to hang with me. (Shout out to Nathan on the PR!) I gave (and got) congrats, took a couple of photos, picked up my stuff, and handed in my gear. Like hundreds of other people (my god like hundreds of us), I stopped by Waterstone's, went up to the cafe, and got a tea and scone. (Very good post-race fueling, I must admit.) Got back to the hotel, showered, and went out for pints and dinner post-race with the gang and my dad.
Also, I checked my official time. 3:09:57. I made it, but just barely. It was a bit slower than I'd like, but hey - not too shabby for doing this in 1080s.
Epilogue
So Long, LondonJazmin made it through a bit off target (like 19 seconds, I think), although it was a bit of a struggle, she said.
David...had a rougher go of it. He himself was injured going into the race, so he had to take his flag down around mile 22. He still managed to finish, though.
As for me: Got home that Tuesday. Told myself that I wouldn't do this again next year as we were going through Newark passport control (aka: Satan's butthole). Changed my mind after I got back on Eastern time, went back to work, and realized what I'd missed. Ran a trail 10k (Leatherman's Loop) the week after because (again) I do not value my bodily integrity. (Also, it was an impromptu midlife crisis.)
It took me a while to gather my thoughts - and even longer to edit this down somewhat. And yes, this is actually edited a bit from where it was.
Finally, one thing I've kept coming back to is the Boston Globe article about 26.TRUE that came out around the same time as the Boston Marathon. I highly suggest you read it - I couldn't decide whether to lead or to end with this, but at any rate it's worth it.
Made with a new race report generator created by u/herumph.
2024.05.12 14:26 Sourcrouts How to handle cruel and jealous women?
Maybe I will get a lot of hate for this post, as some people say its arrogant to complain about good looks, but I need to vent some and it's nice to do it anonymously.
I know pretty previlige exists, but I think many people don't realize that it's a double edged sword, and that attractive people will get a lot of hate as well because people feel the need to put them down to make themselves feel better (especially women).
Now I know many women are not like this, but I have gotten so much hate from them thoughtout my entire life (I'm in my late twenties).
I have been descbribed by many as a beautiful woman with a nice body, and i have recieved a lot of hate for it even though i would say im a kind person.
My stepmother would beat me everyday, call me ugly, too skinny and growse, humiliate me in front of others and constantly make digs at my appearance and the fact that I'm slim, she is on the larger side so she took out all her insecurities on me, a child. My father didn't do anything about it, but he told me "she treats you this way because she is jealous of you" jee thanks dad.
It has continuted through school, university, jobs I have had, even just walking by random women who give nasty looks or mean comments.
Recently I was at the grocery store and heard a woman laugh when I walked by, I heard a friend of hers tell her don't laugh or something and then she said "she is really pretty but just too skinny". Maybe some people think this is a compliment but it's bullying and disrespectful to say someone is too skinny and laugh at them.
Today I went for a walk, I walked by a house in my neighborhood and some woman sitting outside said "what is this whore doing here", sure it could be about someone else but to say it just when I walk by while looking at me?
I also recently quit my job due to bullying, mostly from women and I even had colleagues tell me those women were jealous beacause you were good at your job and liked by many.
At a party recently a girl gave me a very nasty look, she seemed super angry and then she told me "you are so pretty that I want to kill you" which was VERY creepy.
I have lost "friendships" because the women would put my looks down, give me backhanded compliments, try to embarass me infront of others and enjoy when bad things happen to me.
Not to mention harassment from men and men who can't take a no, I have also been negged by men when out to bars and also put down by men who were very rude. Stalked, groped and had rumors spread about me.
When I walk past couples minding my own bussiness, often the women will give me nasty looks and then put their hand on their man and move him out of my way, like trying to mark her territory, even though I didn't look at him or try to flirt.
I have met some very kind women, and men, I also have some good friends im really thankful for but it really is hard to ignore all the hate especially since many people say they find me very kind, and i still get hated on anyway.
I know all people can get hate, but I think many people bully others because of jealousy and its really hurtful.
I also dress very modestly in long dresses and skirts, not anything too tight and have tried to dress down but it didn't help that much.
Sometimes I see incredibly beautiful women outside, I notice how they get stared at and how they get nasty looks from women, they also seem so lonely, sad and barely have any friends and it breaks my heart. Next time I will try to compliment them and be kind.
How do you handle this kind of behavior? How to not let it affect us and make us sad?
TL;DR How to handle recieving hate and jealosy from other women?
submitted by Sourcrouts to TwoXChromosomes [link] [comments]
I know pretty previlige exists, but I think many people don't realize that it's a double edged sword, and that attractive people will get a lot of hate as well because people feel the need to put them down to make themselves feel better (especially women).
Now I know many women are not like this, but I have gotten so much hate from them thoughtout my entire life (I'm in my late twenties).
I have been descbribed by many as a beautiful woman with a nice body, and i have recieved a lot of hate for it even though i would say im a kind person.
My stepmother would beat me everyday, call me ugly, too skinny and growse, humiliate me in front of others and constantly make digs at my appearance and the fact that I'm slim, she is on the larger side so she took out all her insecurities on me, a child. My father didn't do anything about it, but he told me "she treats you this way because she is jealous of you" jee thanks dad.
It has continuted through school, university, jobs I have had, even just walking by random women who give nasty looks or mean comments.
Recently I was at the grocery store and heard a woman laugh when I walked by, I heard a friend of hers tell her don't laugh or something and then she said "she is really pretty but just too skinny". Maybe some people think this is a compliment but it's bullying and disrespectful to say someone is too skinny and laugh at them.
Today I went for a walk, I walked by a house in my neighborhood and some woman sitting outside said "what is this whore doing here", sure it could be about someone else but to say it just when I walk by while looking at me?
I also recently quit my job due to bullying, mostly from women and I even had colleagues tell me those women were jealous beacause you were good at your job and liked by many.
At a party recently a girl gave me a very nasty look, she seemed super angry and then she told me "you are so pretty that I want to kill you" which was VERY creepy.
I have lost "friendships" because the women would put my looks down, give me backhanded compliments, try to embarass me infront of others and enjoy when bad things happen to me.
Not to mention harassment from men and men who can't take a no, I have also been negged by men when out to bars and also put down by men who were very rude. Stalked, groped and had rumors spread about me.
When I walk past couples minding my own bussiness, often the women will give me nasty looks and then put their hand on their man and move him out of my way, like trying to mark her territory, even though I didn't look at him or try to flirt.
I have met some very kind women, and men, I also have some good friends im really thankful for but it really is hard to ignore all the hate especially since many people say they find me very kind, and i still get hated on anyway.
I know all people can get hate, but I think many people bully others because of jealousy and its really hurtful.
I also dress very modestly in long dresses and skirts, not anything too tight and have tried to dress down but it didn't help that much.
Sometimes I see incredibly beautiful women outside, I notice how they get stared at and how they get nasty looks from women, they also seem so lonely, sad and barely have any friends and it breaks my heart. Next time I will try to compliment them and be kind.
How do you handle this kind of behavior? How to not let it affect us and make us sad?
TL;DR How to handle recieving hate and jealosy from other women?
2024.05.12 12:45 Yurii_S_Kh The Assurance of the Apostle Thomas. Sermon on Thomas Sunday
 | https://preview.redd.it/bj7d0yvp5zzc1.png?width=700&format=png&auto=webp&s=82ba79d8d499c9c862bef854d244f0e06ad0b6e4 submitted by Yurii_S_Kh to SophiaWisdomOfGod [link] [comments] In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit! Christ is Risen! Dear brothers and sisters, the Church calls this day “Antipascha”—that is, “in place of Pascha”. We all rejoiced in Pascha of Christ; the Lord vouchsafed many to celebrate it at services in churches and partake of the Body and Blood of Christ. Some of you were able to attend services of Bright Week, to rejoice in such easy, joyful, festive and short (as compared to Lenten) services and cross processions, and this Sunday is like the renewal of Pascha. One of the reasons for the existence of this service is historical. The celebration of Antipascha appeared because many pilgrims who came to the Holy Land, to Jerusalem to celebrate Pascha were late for the feast of the Holy Resurrection of Christ. For various reasons, not everyone arrived in time. And that is understandable, since there were neither airplanes, nor buses, nor modern ships at that time. And so, this service on the first Sunday after Pascha was compiled for them. Although it is a Sunday service, its composition resembles that of the twelve great feasts, and thus it is really the renewal of Pascha. Today we also remember the event from the Gospel called “the assurance of the holy Apostle Thomas”, because it was the Sunday after the Resurrection of the Savior. We know that on the first day of His Resurrection the Lord appeared to His disciples (and Thomas was absent at that moment), taught them peace and blessed them to spread the Gospel, the Good News. He said, As My Father hath sent Me, even so send I you (Jn. 20:21); then He breathed on them (Jn. 20:22) and gave them the Holy Spirit. We know that later, at Pentecost, these gifts of the Holy Spirit would increase, and give the Apostles the power to preach. When the Apostle Thomas learned the news of the Resurrection of Christ, he said that he would not believe it until he put his hands into His wounds. But there is nothing surprising in this “unbelief”, because we know that when in the morning the Myrrh-Bearing Women had brought them the news that Christ was risen from the dead, many of the Apostles did not believe either, and after His Resurrection, Christ had to some extent to assure those who saw Him. There is the detail—He ate in front of the disciples, ate the honeycomb, among other things. Why did He eat honey? At that time the Jews believed that honey chased away evil spirits. Since His transformed body no longer needed food, the Lord showed, including by eating honey, that He was not a spirit, let alone an evil spirit or a ghost. Therefore, against this background, the Apostle Thomas’ unbelief, or rather, his distrust of this news, sounded quite natural. And when the Lord appeared to the disciples on the following Sunday, where St. Thomas was present, we see how the Lord assured him. The Apostle Thomas was, like all the apostles, a human being with his own character. We know the Apostle Peter as a rather impulsive and impetuous man; we also know that the young Apostle John the Evangelist was calmer; we know the other Apostles too. And St. Thomas was no exception—he had his own personality traits. Firstly, if you remember, St. Thomas is called “the Twin” in the Gospel. Why? Because, according to tradition, St. Thomas was very much like Christ in appearance. Of course, Christ was recognized by His preaching, but the physical resemblance was so striking that the nickname “the Twin” stuck to St. Thomas for a long time. The assurance of the Apostle Thomas Secondly, we know his determination. When the Savior went to Bethany to resurrect Lazarus, we remember that the Apostles did not want to go with Him, as they were aware that the Jews sought to slay Him (Jn. 5:16). And when the Savior first said indirectly that Lazarus was asleep, and then said clearly that Lazarus was dead, the Apostle Thomas, if you remember, uttered these words: Let us also go, that we may die with him (Jn. 11:16). What do they mean? That there was no point in going there, since Lazarus was already dead, and it was extremely dangerous to go there. But with these words he expressed his faithfulness to the Savior: Let us also go, that we may die with him. And we know the destiny of this apostle—he preached in countries far away from the Holy Land: in India and in Mesopotamia. There is even a legend that he passed through the lands of what is now China, and like most of the Apostles, he was killed for preaching the Word of God. There is a very important question of faith in today’s Gospel. Of course, we realize that believers are standing at the Liturgy now. But even among us believers, faith changes and wavers. Sometimes it is strong, sometimes it is weak, sometimes doubts arise not only in faith in God, but in faith in His Providence and in the meaning of our lives. And people who do not have faith in the Lord are the opposite people in some ways—they do not want, or sometimes do not know, what a deep, beautiful and unknown world of faith opens up to a person who comes to the faith. But faith depends on you and me. The Lord says in Revelations, Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear My voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with Me (Rev. 3:20). And, of course, there are many different ways of acquiring faith. Sometimes it is present throughout your life, from childhood, sometimes it comes at a young or mature age, and sometimes it comes during an illness. We remember the story of the ever-memorable Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh, about how he came to the faith. In fact, he was a protesting teenager who was not just annoyed, but even angry when others told him something about the Lord, about Christ, about the Orthodox faith, about Christian traditions, customs, and about his adolescence. Overnight, after reading a short passage from the Gospel, he suddenly converted, and the path of his life opened up before him. We know Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh as a physician, as a monk, as a bishop, and as a wonderful spiritual father who spread the Word of God not only in the Western world, where he lived, but also to what was then Soviet Russia. Metropolitan Anthony of Sourozh There are, in a sense, two ways of acquiring faith in your life. The first is when you come to the faith on your own. But this still requires some kind of search, doubt, interest—even with a negative sign, as was the case with the future Metropolitan Anthony. Your search matters. The second is a personal example of someone who is near you or far from you, but an example that is known. And in this sense, the words of today’s Gospel spring to mind again: As My Father hath sent Me, even so send I you. How important it is, brothers and sisters, for you and me, a little flock (cf. Lk. 12:32), to go and preach to others! How do we preach? With words? Usually not, although there are people who are interested in hearing words. We preach with our deeds, lives and prayers. Realizing that at this moment God loves a non-believer no less than He loves me, who am now standing here on the ambo and delivering a sermon on this Sunday. Do not despair, do not be discouraged, pray for your loved ones, and do not withdraw into your shell. But a personal example is not always reliable, because it can vary. There are two well-known stories. The first one is as follows. An elderly woman said: “You know, my grandmother was very religious.” Why? She was born before the Revolution, and a priest in their family on St. Elias Day or during the summer drought went to the field to do a prayer service to ask God to send rain. And according to her, the priest was always so sure that the Lord would help that he always took an umbrella with him when he went to the field to do a prayer service, in very hot weather, when the sky was absolutely cloudless. “And we children remembered that there was never a time when it did not rain after his prayer service,” she related. And here is the second story. Another elderly woman said that her grandmother did not go to church and was not very religious. Why? Because once in her childhood she remembered a priest living next door to them. Once two or three weeks after Pascha she saw that priest through the fence feeding the dried up kulichi (Paschal cakes) that had been given to him in large quantities by his parishioners to pigs in his farm. And it so confused her that it left a negative impression on her soul for the rest of her life. Therefore, brothers and sisters, on the one hand, personal example is not always reliable, and on the other hand, how important it is, how important our behavior is, our adherence to our faith, especially if people know that we go to church. As soon as we something wrong, they will say to us, “You go to church, but you do such things!” https://preview.redd.it/n24jvjoz5zzc1.png?width=700&format=png&auto=webp&s=0dae90423b3a6bcf276f94869f72b6628d55ff5e And here is the last thing I would like to say today. The words of today’s Gospel, which St. Thomas uttered when he saw the Savior, are very important. When Thomas saw His wounds, he exclaimed, My Lord and my God! (Jn. 20:28). So let this phrase be with us in different circumstances of our lives, whether happy or sad. We can put a lot into it. My Lord and my God! Christ is risen! Igumen Pavel (Polukov) |
2024.05.12 04:08 watermelon4487 In honor of Mother's Day, what was a ridiculous rule your nmom had?
For me it was:
submitted by watermelon4487 to raisedbynarcissists [link] [comments]
- Don't say "fart" or "sucks" (she doesn't like those words)
- Don't drive with open toed shoes (if I get in an accident my foot will get sliced off)
- Don't drive with the windows open (someone could pull a gun on me while I'm at a red light)
- Don't shower when I'm home alone (someone could break into the house and try to hurt me)
- Don't hang out with black people ("what will the neighbors think?")
- Don't date black men (black women will be angry at me because I'm "stealing their men")
- Don't curse (you'll get a reputation of having a "sailor's mouth" or "potty mouth")
- Don't paint my nails in my room with the door closed (she doesn't like the smell)
- Don't go out with friends (the house will be "so empty" if it's just her and my ndad at home)
- Don't date until I'm 16 (at 17 she caught me kissing a boy who walked me home and yelled at me)
- Don't wear tight skirts (boys will think I'm a slut)
- Don't wear Livestrong bracelets (she thought they were sex bracelets)
- Don't get social media (creepy men will kidnap me)
- Don't go out in public with a shirt with the name of my elementary school on it (a creepy man will see it and try to kidnap me)
- Don't go to my first high school dance (the senior boys will try to dance with me and grope me)
- Don't withhold information about my job or address from her (she's entitled to know)
- Don't be a picky eater (boys won't want to date someone who only eats off the kid's menu)
- Don't park in the driveway (she will have to park on the street and someone will side swipe her car and she won't be able to go to work)
- Don't dye my hair (I won't be able to get a job)
- Don't have sex (if I get pregnant my life will be over)
- Don't get birth control (she tried it and didn't like it)
- Don't walk around the house in a sports bra (men in the house will see me)
- Don't spend time hanging out with friends (I should do something productive like volunteer)
- Don't hang out with friends if you need a ride (she's tired of being the pick up/drop off parent)
- Don't buy bras that aren't black or beige (colorful bras are for "fun times")
- Don't get changed in front of windows in my bedroom (the boy who lives next door might try to look at me)
- Don't invite friends over to the house (the house is a mess)
- Don't set boundaries (it's "unhealthy" not to talk to people)
2024.05.11 22:01 ProfessorHawkinsJr hopeless love story
made this for my narrative essay in american literature, but one of my friends said i should share the story
“But I Still Need You” Throughout my life, I had always fallen easy for girls. The elementary mindset of, “she’s cute, so I have a crush on her,” prevented me from developing a legitimate relationship with any girl I tried to talk to. The few times that my feelings were reciprocated, I had no idea because I was already on to the next girl, and this continued until I was left with a multitude of friend-zone situations and a list of “crushes.” My charisma already lacking, it seemed each year that passed, previous to 3rd grade, I grew in weight and therefore awkwardness. The struggle to interact with women lessened as I grew up, while the fat remained. So, by the 8th grade I was the ideal guy friend; easy to talk to, kinda funny, understanding, and unintimidating. My approachable “funny fat friend” nature had its ups and downs. While guys, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, suspected me to be gay, girls found it intriguing and it made them want to be friends with me more. Back then I didn’t know, but now I know that by being forced to be friends first, after finding out I was in fact not gay, the right woman for me would want to be with me for my personality. In the winter of 2021, I fell hard for a girl named Madeline. Maddie was no different than many of the other girls in that she had a bland personality and I thought she was cute. She had brunette hair with bangs, big glasses, way too much makeup on, and a unique fashion sense. Her sense of fashion was one of the few interesting things about her, yet it was disregarded by the public. Not too many guys found her appealing, but I did, for whatever reason. I was dead set on getting to know her better in hope of becoming more than friends. Unfortunately, she hardly paid attention to me, but I didn’t give up. I merely slowed down because of my interest in her friend, Isabella. Isabella is the Spanish and Italian variation of Elizabeth (derived from the Hebrew name Elisheba). The meaning of Elishiba can be translated to, “God is my oath.” In Arabic, the beginning of Isabella, “Isa,” is the classical Arabic name for Jesus, while in the French language, the shortened version of Isabella, “Belle,” translates to “beautiful.” I had met Isabella in the sixth grade, and grew a tiny crush on her, in the elementary sense, before we all went into hibernation (COVID). I barely knew her though, and she had no idea who I was, so when we interacted in my last two classes, if we did at all, it was like two strangers who kept running into each other. I sat by her in my sixth period, and one seat up and to the right from her in seventh. We only ever made small talk and the occasional joke, but when I spoke with her I felt content. Still barely knowing her, all I could admire was the little things in the way she laughed and spoke. I longed to know more about Isabella, she was mature, intelligent, and very opinionated, but still light-hearted and made time pass at the speed of light. It wasn’t until she was in my group in sixth period one day that she began to open up a little by sharing the details of her current long-distance relationship. The shards of my heart stabbed and crushed my stomach; hope, the oxygen to my mind, depleted faster than the air of a broken space shuttle; palpitation, nausea, asphyxia, and neurosis bombarded me like Persian arrows on the Greeks. Then, all at once, the excruciating tidal wave evaporated, but instead of calm waters, I was left with a drought. Every emotion muted or gone, my body went numb while everything I cared for vanished from my mind. I didn’t speak throughout the rest of that day, and went directly from the bus to decaying in my bed. I was devastated, so I retreated to my pointless crush on Maddie. Unrelated to the rather sad lovelife, my anxiety and depression worsened throughout 8th grade, and while I was going to therapy, most of my issues wouldn’t and still haven’t been worked through. Throughout the school year I had developed a toxic system of self pity, in which I would spend hours a day cycling through the feelings of hope, anger, and despair- never that of joy. I knew what I was doing, gathering enough hope to face the school day just before I reflected on the doubts and grievances going on throughout my life. I’d bring myself up just for a greater fall because honestly, overtime I became numb to the natural pain. If I were going to fall into the pit that is depression, the higher I peaked in terms of optimism the more excruciating the freefall of nausea and the heavy flow of salt water. At that point in my life, I saw no point in getting out of bed to do anything, school or even my own mother’s birthday. By the end of eighth grade I had spent almost a total of six weeks absent, two of which were from me being quarantined. Typically over the span of one or two days, others up to four, I would be in my bed “sick.” During these mini-vacations I would sleep all morning, if my mom let me, and stay up all night, oftentimes listening to Radiohead or Cigarettes After Sex while staring at my ceiling. I wanted to stay up, I wanted to feel the bags grabbing and pulling towards my cheekbone, I wanted to feel empty, emotionally and physically. During the day, my anxiety attacks became panic attacks and I would get sent home for vomiting. I'd throw up to give Mom a reason to let me stay home. I’d throw up to feel something, anything. I’d throw up to keep my stomach empty. I’d throw up because I had to, because the nerves and overthinking forced me to. Every morning, I’d drag my black air force ones across cement, carpet, tiles, and marble, each step leading towards Mrs. Clements’ homeroom. For every step, a different worry or insecurity flashed through my brain. But then, out of the blue, I’m “Lincoln” again. I walk into homeroom with an ear-to-ear grin and dap up “the boys”. I’d spend the morning building up hopes of making Isabella laugh today, or maybe calling her once I got home, but I knew that nine times out of ten my hopes were delusional. To “Lincoln,” this was no problem, he would make a gay joke, join the boys with teasing a cute girl in my class, and laugh until just for a moment, the despair was gone. Finally, the sixth period would come and I’d get to see Isabella. In here I got the least work done out of all my classes as I would find myself strategically planning my next interaction with her, just for said plans to go out the window when I was brought face to face with her. Typically seventh period followed the same pattern except Ms. Shirley Davis could never allow small talk in her classroom. When the last bell rang, I went straight to the buses. I’d sleep on the way home, dreaming of a call that would hardly happen. On the off chance my phone didn’t reach its feared 11th cry, we’d talk for hours at a time. On a weekday or not, it seemed that, when we did call, it was guaranteed to go into the early morning. It’s hard to put my finger on a specific topic, or even general. In our conversations, we discussed anything and everything. Everything, except her own love interest. I admired this, as my inability to keep who I’m thinking about at the time a secret is a major flaw of mine. The more that me and her spoke, the more I grew to love her. Our talks were so honest, so raw, that the secret I held began to eat away at me. My core collapsing like a dying star, each day it felt like the pain got worse. To cope with the feelings I had buried deep inside me, I’d turn to my friends. At first, they said to come forward with my feelings, but I knew that’s what any friend would’ve said. The relief I got from venting the conflicting hurricane within me was brief. Overtime, their words of encouragement turned to annoyance, and understandably so. When people grew sick of the same old sadistic untold love, I turned to Isabella. I wrote a text so full that, to read it, one needed to tap on an arrow at the bottom right corner of my message. The essay was compiled with the confliction I had, developing feelings for a friend, and the sorrow that filled me each day that passed without her. I described the perfect imperfections that I admired about her, how life was complete when I spoke to her, the beauty that paralyzed me every time I saw her in person, and the character that I felt God had curated specifically for me. Sitting there unsure if I should press send, a fear grew within my chest that Isabella would see right through me. I could hear the music that so often triggered tears; the vocals of Thom Yorke or the beats of Kanye West, they faded in and out. What if she didn’t even respond? What if she thought I was a creep? What if- then she responded. Suddenly, the ominous 808s & Heartbreak pounding vanished, my respiratory chaos became paralyzed, and time stood still. I couldn’t breathe until I finished reading, and once I did, my sigh was all but relieving. Isabella explained to me how unhealthy my habits were; even in comparison to the anguish that would follow, I’d suffer far more and far longer should I suppress my emotions. She told me how that level of affection, in the context of the warped concept of romance most men had, was something she had only dreamt of. Isabella said that holding these feelings would eat away at me, exponentially increasing in severity, until I broke. Not only would I be hurting myself, but I would be depriving the person I care about most from the appreciation they deserve. I became bloated with fear of the friendzone, those insecurities, all based upon inference, became a reality with Isabella’s last piece of advice. She said, “If she doesn’t reciprocate those emotions, then don’t worry. I’m sure there’s a girl out there who can appreciate your compassion.” The blame had no other place to go than my shoulders, after all, I got what I asked for, advice on another girl. Isabella, even if she saw the crush I had on her, is far too kind to address it. She cared for everyone, and to her, she was merely boosting up a friend who’s down. For the rest of the night her text echoed through my mind; pain, regret, and admiration caused my mind to sporadically leap from conclusion to conclusion. Two years later, those words still haunt me, reiterations of that phrase torturing me when I least expect them. The school year progressed, but my aspirations with Isabella didn’t. Over time, the frequency of my writings grew to be weekly, at times reaching two a week, and the weight of my confessions depleted. I opened my audience to a mutual friend of Isabella’s, Miley, with the intention of acquiring useful advice. Eventually, my choice to try concealing what I felt for Isabella became too heavy of a burden, weighing down on me in forces I had not endured before. Soon, the love I had for Isabella turned to hatred for myself. I was relentlessly criticizing every aspect of myself and my mind. I hated how fat I was, my smile, my voice, my laugh, and most of all my personality. What I had thought was my greatest strength, was revealed as my worst trait. The gullibility I exhibited when thinking for a second Isabella could possibly like me; the lack of confidence that caused me to chicken out of confessing my feelings to her; my insufferable need to make people laugh; the hyperfixation I would develop for those that I love. Everything about me was wrong. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped caring, and eventually I stopped living. The “Lincoln” my friends had grown to recognize, the only remnant of the joy I felt when I was younger, died, and I was left with only my love for Isabella and resentment for myself. I began testing the limits of what was left of me, praying for relief. At first in the middle of the night, an anaconda would find its way to my throat, wrapping around my neck. Its cold black scales gracefully gliding across my skin before silencing my cries with the swift tug of its metallic USB head. The snake would maintain pressure until I let go of it, the entire time whispering into my ear, begging me to hold on. Some nights it came with what must have been a full stomach for it was drastically wider, it was brown these nights, with leather skin, and a slight warmth, but it behaved the same. Most visits from the snake ended with my vision blurry, my breath short, or my head dizzy. The only consistency of our transactions was Asia’s Death Lake that streamed down my face from start to finish. Eventually, the snake seemed closer and closer to silencing me forever, but I also became used to its visits. I began writing letters to everyone I loved so that, should the snake come out victorious, they’d have a final goodbye. Once I had sorted out my notes, I called the snake to my room. This time it came striped with shades of blue, its skin a soft fabric. For once, I controlled the snake, because our intentions finally aligned. I locked the door, sent out my texts, placed the written notes on my dresser, and joined the snake at my closet door. Holding onto the doorknob, the snake wrapped itself around my neck just as it had done in nights of the past. It whispered to me, “let go,” for I had been on my knees in hesitation. I followed the snake’s order by making a sort of plank with my body, the bottom half resting on a stack of dirty laundry and pillows while the top was supported by my elbows. Pressure swiftly fell down on my neck and didn’t stop. “This is it,” I thought to myself. My eyes seemed to pop out of my skull, and my tears, falling down like summer rain, became blurry dots as my vision went dark. Next thing I know, I’m waking up, snot, saliva, and tears strung between my face and the carpet floor. My head pounding and my eyes burning, I looked up at the “snake” that was the tie my mom had gotten me for Sunday service. Although my mind was more clear, it was not out of revelation, but from a muted sense of the world around me. Other than Isabella, nothing mattered anymore, and the little emotion I felt was squashed by my immortal love. The following day I get called to the counselors office on charges of suicidal thoughts and self harm. I said what I had to in order to escape her grasp, but left infuriated. Not only had my own friends betrayed me, but the lady who was supposed to guide me essentially scolded me for being sad. Throughout the day my anger faded out and my focus became making an excuse as to why my parents got a weird call from my counselor, then I’d find the traitor who sold me out. That afternoon, I lost two friends, and for the first time ever got mad at Isabella. Apparently, Miley, Maddie, and Isabella all reported me to the counselor that morning. They said I had been traumatizing them with what was going on in my life, being normal and messing around at school, then detailing my thoughts and actions to them outside of school. I felt like I had been tricked. I thought they were my friends. I thought they understood me. They asked me if I was okay, they said they wanted, cared, needed to know, but now I had scared them? I addressed what had happened with Miley first. She immediately lashed out at me, saying I should be thanking them, not be mad. While I didn’t want to accept it, I understood the core of her choices. On the other hand, Maddie’s response to my confrontation was disgustingly cruel. She said I had been unfair and just seeking attention, that no thirteen to fourteen year old should hear about what I was going through because it was unnatural. Before she continued, I apologized, that’s all I could think to do, because deep down I believed her. She told me it wasn’t all my fault because my brain was messed up, and that opening up to the girls would only make them not want to be friends with me. The one word that rang through my head then, and still does today, was “creep,” she claimed that what I felt wasn’t love, but I was just mentally unstable and creepy. Any remnants of the sweet kid from elementary school who just wanted a friend and loved everyone were obliterated. Maddie was right, all I had done was hurt and scare them, it didn’t matter what I thought. I told her all I could, that I didn’t know what to say other than I was sorry for the damage I had done, and I would try and get better. Her response, like a branding iron on my mind, was, “It’s not damage, it’s baggage. Imagine if the roles were reversed.” It was only then that I stopped texting back. I wish I could say it was out of frustration or self respect, but the reality of my manipulative traits is what silenced me. Shockingly, the response that hurt the most was from Isabella, yet it somehow meant the most to me too. Isabella told me that she needed me in the world. She told me that if I ever got those thoughts again, to think about her as well; to think about the pain I’d be causing her; to think about the trauma she’d live with for the rest of her life. After repeating the phrase, “I need you in my life,” she acknowledged how selfish it was, but still didn’t care. Isabella continued elaborating, she didn’t care because no label of selfishness outweighed the value of my life. What she said that night has been vivid in my mind since, but my only wish is that she had needed me as I needed her. Tears began to hide my freckled cheeks as I texted her about how much her words meant to me, how much she meant to me, and I apologized to her. I said sorry for the baggage I caused, the “creepy” behavior, and any other ways I had wronged her. I said sorry for loving her, and told her I’d do better. She disregarded my apologies, telling me that I could always talk to her because no matter the baggage she could carry, it’d be worth taking the smallest bit off of me. Her words meant so much to me, yet hurt me just the same. I hated myself for it. I couldn’t see a life without an affection for her, it was pathetic. If I truly loved her, I’d let my feelings go, right? What kind of person did that make me? Summer came and went. Hoping that time would kill the crush I had on Isabella, I prohibited myself from contacting her. Instead I spent time with my family and a few friends, but Isabella never left my head. Even when accompanying my dad to Berry College for the Governor’s Honors Program, she’s what filled my head. At first I felt frustrated because before I had come forward to her, she had known about the feelings I had. I came to the conclusion that she had been dragging me along, but even then I knew how easily that thought would be abandoned. First day of High school, I got in touch with her. For maybe two weeks, I maintained a platonic relationship before free falling into the ominous pit once again. This time felt different though, it felt like what I had thought about everyday, for what seemed eternity, could be more than a daydream. We texted each other throughout the school day and facetimed after her cheer practice and my band practice. Eventually, Isabella was falling asleep on call. Before, we’d talk long into the night, and it began to drain the energy out of the both of us. Now, we were listening to music, playing Roblox, watching Netflix, or just sitting in silence. I had never felt comfortable with silence, but she made it seem better than having a conversation with anyone else. It’s a beautiful thing when words aren’t required to appreciate someone. The moment I had the courage to do so, I asked her out to Steak n’ Shake. It’s just my luck that the restaurant was hardly a shell of what I remembered as a kid. At first the conversation was awkward because we hardly spoke in person, but as time progressed so did we. I still remember the tightness of my cheeks as I failed to suppress my ear-to-ear grin. The euphoric nausea and beating heart that disappeared throughout our conversation. I remember the booth we sat in, the fact that she wanted me to swap seats with her because of her creaky seat, the way she giggled, how I fought tooth and nail to pay for such a small bill, the way she smiled when she said, “next time you’ve gotta let me pay,” and the shared excitement for our next hangout. Even though Isabella and I were still friends, even though the restaurant was a disaster, even though the fries were stale and the milkshakes chunky, that moment is one of the best in my life. With how well things were going, I thought that it was my best chance at making something more out of this friendship. So, I shot my shot. I told her that despite my efforts the summer before, she still held a special place in my heart. Isabella responded with her own struggles with recovering from a past relationship, detailing the trust issues and pain she still felt almost a year later. I was yet again, devastated. Then she added that despite her own feelings, she had to be careful and the risk of losing our friendship scared her. I understood her reasoning, but it made me sick to think of how close I was. In response, I expressed how I could relate to those feelings, and the conflict I had with them. It felt ridiculous having opened myself up once again, to just be friendzoned. Her response struck me with both hope and devastation, “I f*cking love you a ton Lincoln, but I’m struggling to differentiate my admiration as a friend and as something more. I’m terrified of losing you.” Previously I would have seen this as a sign to keep trying, but at that moment, I couldn’t see past the blatant friendzoning. After pursuing her for so long, it felt cruel of her to continue dragging me along like this, even though she was being honest. My reaction to the straw that broke the camel’s back is one of, if not, the biggest regrets in life. Homecoming was a little over a week away and she was going (as friends) with my buddy, Davis, so in a storm of hatred for myself and the situation I was in, I gave up on her. Our conversations grew to be minimal and far apart. Soon, I started to resent her. Each day since then, I have somehow felt more remorse than the last for not asking her to Homecoming. Homecoming night is when I began flirting with Claire, a sweet redhead from gym class. We connected on not going with the person we had hoped for. All it took was me joking that I should’ve spent more time around her, instead of leaving the dance early, for Claire to lose her mind. Over the next month or so, I was becoming closer and closer with Claire, despite her irritable “quirks”. I only spoke to Isabella if she reached out to me first with the only exception being when I would ask her for “advice” about Claire, which was a shameful habit I started as petty revenge on Isabella. Eventually, Isabella blocked me on Snapchat, but it didn’t matter. Things with me and Claire were going great, she made me feel like I didn’t need to starve myself to be good enough for her. She made me feel like I was enough. For the next two and a half months, life was great. After the first couple months of ignorant bliss, I was sick of her. Sure, there were a variety of reasons to find her annoying, most people I knew could list more than they have fingers and toes, but she didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t have gotten into the relationship in the first place not only because of Isabella, but also the speed at which me and Claire started dating. She was still growing out of the elementary relationship phase, so while it was nice to connect with someone so quickly, it was rushed. Another issue being that I was her first real boyfriend, the baggage that followed me was detrimental to her and I couldn’t give her the attention she needed. As me and Claire began our month long drift apart, I was unblocked by Isabella. She and I caught up, and we quickly began to talk trash about Claire while on call. It was unbelievably toxic, and I’m embarrassed of how I handled things to this day. Eventually, with the support of Isabella, I decided it was time to break up. The only issue was the guilt I had in such a terrible choice, I could never do it. So I began to get more distant by the day, ignored texts and calls, and stopped walking her to classes because “I had to pee.” Eventually she caught wind of my plans and called me after school one day. Sobbing, she told me what she had heard and how she knew it wasn’t true, but it still worried her. I began to get ready to break the news, but she was already crying so what's the worst that could happen? I wish I had never asked myself that, because next she told me she’d been cutting herself. My heart sank in remorse for what I knew I would do. If I led her on longer, the aftermath of my cold actions would lead to even more catastrophe. I was scared, but knew the lesser of the two evils I had to pick from. I calmed her down, quickly notified her friends to be keeping an eye on her, and then dumped her. To this day, I am disgusted by my actions. Throughout the past three months, Claire expressed how she had loved and trusted me, yet I threw that all away. There are so many ways I could’ve handled the situation differently, but two stood out the most. Showing respect by speaking to Claire the moment I realized my feelings had fleeted was the bare minimum that I disregarded, but the second was far simpler. I had known from the start that I was still in love with Isabella and that love never faded, but was only suppressed. The entire relationship we developed, while we both enjoyed parts of it (her more than me), was a lie, and essentially a cruel joke played on Claire. There’s no excuse for my actions, and even worse, I could’ve cared less back then. It was only when time had passed that I began to understand the damage I had done. Without Claire holding me back, my newfound freedom led to a closer friendship with Isabella. I dove headfirst into the familiar pit all over again. A friendship was not enough, I appreciated every interaction I had with Isabella, but my life depended on a future with her. It’s likely she felt this as she slowly began to drift away from me. Before I had stayed up speaking to Isabella, but now I couldn’t sleep out of the tormenting absence of her voice. The only path to good health was time; distance was best for the both of us, and I knew it. For the rest of that school year, everything around me was going, but I stood still. It was like my life was just a sitcom, and I was no longer the main character. The summer that followed was just the same, I was living but dead, moving but still, speaking but silent. I was dissociating from my friends and family, but the absence of that violent snake made my depression insignificant. Living a life without her was more punishment than death itself, and I didn’t deserve relief. Even now, I think of that summer and remember almost nothing, for my life isn’t worth remembering without Isabella in it. Sophomore year began, and so did my conversations with Isabella. This go around, I was subtle with my feelings for her. The excitement I had for speaking with her was under control, but it was because the spark inside me had faded, even when it came to Isabella.The years of self pity and depression had left a toll on me that could never be reversed, and it didn’t help that Isabella began to build a relationship with another guy. When we spoke, if we did, Isabella’s concern for my mental state outweighed the friendship we were struggling to preserve. I had come to the conclusion that pursuing Isabella would only make things worse, and I needed to just be her friend. Since I couldn’t lose the feelings I had for her, I just sat in them. While I sat in the pit, Isabella and I had one particular Facetime call in which I brought up how much I regretted dating Claire. To that, Isabella added, “Yeah, she’s so annoying. I can’t remember if you told me why you got together in the first place, what led you to her?” I paused with the thousand-yard stare of an American private fresh out of West Point. “I guess I was just so disappointed with myself for not being able to go to homecoming with you and being stuck on you for so long that I impulsively got with another girl to forget about my shortcomings,” I said with reluctance and stuttering every few words. She told me that she would’ve said yes to homecoming without a second thought, but I knew she meant as friends. Then, to my dismay, Isabella revealed that whenever I got with Claire, she still had feelings for me. It was me talking to Isabella about how great things were with me and Claire that led her to block me and cut contact with me. The piano melody from “No Surprises” by Radiohead began looping through my mind as tears ran down my face. I forget how I ended the call, but once I did, I broke. I lost my breath, my head got light, my eyes became blurry, my stomach was nauseous, and my insides sank as far as they could. Everything I wanted, dreamed of, needed had been so close, and I blew it. Everything was my fault. Later I would ask her why she lost them, and her answer proved how much better she was than me. Isabella answered, “I had been hurt, so I moved on. Just got over it.” We hardly spoke anymore, but one text message has found a permanent home in my mind. After asking me how I was, Isabella wasn’t satisfied with, “it’s complicated.” She asked that I explain it to her so that she could try to understand. I told her about all the issues going on in my life, except the torch I still held for her. She wrote, “I know you’re not religious, so it may not mean anything, but I pray for you every night, Lincoln. Even though it sounds bad, I think that I've known you weren’t in the greatest mental place for a while. I want you to know I'm not judging you, I want you to feel comfortable enough to share that with someone. You have to be able to recognize how you’re feeling in order to even fix it.” These words broke me despite their simplistic appearance. Reading that she prayed for me hit me hard as she had always tried to get me to believe in God again. I’m agnostic, and nothing has come closer to bringing me back to faith as Isabella did. The idea that if God were real and I could see her in heaven was appealing, but should Christianity be the wrong choice, I wanted to be wrong with Isabella. In the following days, Isabella told me about Alex, a guy she had been talking to a lot, and how they were at most a month away from being together. I hated everything about Alex, which is a stupid name in the first place. I hated his choice of friends, I hated how white-washed he was, I hated how he dressed like a conservative cowboy, I hated the underbite that made him look like a pug, I hated his short curly hair, I hated the fact that he was a diehard Trump supporter while people of his race were being oppressed, I hated how he pretended to be someone else when he was around Isabella, I hated how he hid unhealthy habits from her, I hated that a guy like him garnered Isabella’s affection when I couldn’t. I barely knew the guy and I was wasting my energy with hatred for him, when in reality, he was just a mind-numbingly basic douche among the hundreds just like him at our school. Isabella regularly complained about Alex, but hardly did anything. Instead she stopped bringing it up, saying that talking about her issues with others only makes it worse and that she was just wining. The monotone delivery of her reasoning hurt my soul, it was like she was reciting a text from Alex. Each day that passed, I felt the urgency of expressing my feelings one more time rising. Soon Isabella and Alex would be official, and I would lose my chance to try and express how I felt one more time. I reached out to Isabella and asked if she was free to hangout that friday. On November 10, 2023, Isabella picked me up around 5:30 in the evening. She kept the inside of her SUV looking brand new in contrast to the familiarity of her smile. My nerves left me winded after every sentence and shivering in her passenger seat. Quickly our conversation became more natural as I cracked jokes to ease my anxiety, but my shaky breathing never stopped. We went to Publix to grab some snacks and drinks and headed right back to my neighborhood park. At the Grove Point Park, we found a swinging chair to sit in. Due to the time of the year, the sun had already set, but Isabella’s beauty was indifferent under the moonlight. I haven’t the slightest clue how long we sat there together. When I’m with Isabella, even Father Time gives me grace, for he knows that he is as powerless as I am to the frequency of these moments. After a while, I mentioned that it was getting late and she agreed. On the ride back to my place, I mustered the bare minimum of strength it took to confront my feelings. As she drove over the speed bump before entering the roundabout, I began to open up. I briefly told her that I still felt the same way I did two years ago, that I had tried to forget about the feelings I had with no success, and that I was sorry to once again ruin our unstable friendship. She told me it was fine and my feelings were natural, nothing to regret or be ashamed of. Her words meant nothing to me this time because I had already heard them. Defeated, I paused for a moment, then said, “Isabella, you reciprocated my feelings in the past, so after Alex, do you think that maybe we’d have a chance?” She looked at me with pain in her eyes, not for herself, but for me. She quietly said, “I- Lincoln, you know I can’t answer that. I’m with Alex now, it wouldn’t be fair.” All I could get out was, “Oh- I- I’m sorry. Uh yeah no, you’re uh- you’re right.” Everything in me pulled and begged at my lips to say what I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I still look back on that night and wish I had said the few words I never got to tell her. What if saying them could’ve changed something? Realistically, it wouldn’t have, but the regret remains. I doubt Isabella would have even remembered where my word choice stemmed from. Regardless, the words rang in my head then, and never stopped. All I wanted to say at that moment was, “but I still need you.” Today, 1,725 days since I first saw Isabella, 822 days since I first facetimed Isabella, and 178 days since that heartbreakingly beautiful night, I still love her the same. Looking back on my experience with her, I regret many things (oversharing, Claire, the snake, etc.), but the one thing I have never regretted was meeting and loving her. It was only recently that I realized that loving her has been one of the biggest mistakes in my life. For three years, day in and day out, I’ve thought about her. Three years where I could have met other people, worked on myself, enjoyed my friends and family, but instead I’ve loved her and nothing, nobody else. The one lesson that was essential for me to take away from my experience was impossible. In eighth grade I was 5’7 and 215 lbs, today I’m 5’10 and 165 lbs. In eighth grade I spent time with my parents, today I hide in my room. In eighth grade, I told people how I felt, now I’m too scared. In eighth grade, I talked about my depression, now I am left alone to deal with it. In eighth grade, I had many friends, now I rarely speak to them. In eighth grade, I needed Isabella, but the one lesson I should’ve learned never took effect. I still need her.
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“But I Still Need You” Throughout my life, I had always fallen easy for girls. The elementary mindset of, “she’s cute, so I have a crush on her,” prevented me from developing a legitimate relationship with any girl I tried to talk to. The few times that my feelings were reciprocated, I had no idea because I was already on to the next girl, and this continued until I was left with a multitude of friend-zone situations and a list of “crushes.” My charisma already lacking, it seemed each year that passed, previous to 3rd grade, I grew in weight and therefore awkwardness. The struggle to interact with women lessened as I grew up, while the fat remained. So, by the 8th grade I was the ideal guy friend; easy to talk to, kinda funny, understanding, and unintimidating. My approachable “funny fat friend” nature had its ups and downs. While guys, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, suspected me to be gay, girls found it intriguing and it made them want to be friends with me more. Back then I didn’t know, but now I know that by being forced to be friends first, after finding out I was in fact not gay, the right woman for me would want to be with me for my personality. In the winter of 2021, I fell hard for a girl named Madeline. Maddie was no different than many of the other girls in that she had a bland personality and I thought she was cute. She had brunette hair with bangs, big glasses, way too much makeup on, and a unique fashion sense. Her sense of fashion was one of the few interesting things about her, yet it was disregarded by the public. Not too many guys found her appealing, but I did, for whatever reason. I was dead set on getting to know her better in hope of becoming more than friends. Unfortunately, she hardly paid attention to me, but I didn’t give up. I merely slowed down because of my interest in her friend, Isabella. Isabella is the Spanish and Italian variation of Elizabeth (derived from the Hebrew name Elisheba). The meaning of Elishiba can be translated to, “God is my oath.” In Arabic, the beginning of Isabella, “Isa,” is the classical Arabic name for Jesus, while in the French language, the shortened version of Isabella, “Belle,” translates to “beautiful.” I had met Isabella in the sixth grade, and grew a tiny crush on her, in the elementary sense, before we all went into hibernation (COVID). I barely knew her though, and she had no idea who I was, so when we interacted in my last two classes, if we did at all, it was like two strangers who kept running into each other. I sat by her in my sixth period, and one seat up and to the right from her in seventh. We only ever made small talk and the occasional joke, but when I spoke with her I felt content. Still barely knowing her, all I could admire was the little things in the way she laughed and spoke. I longed to know more about Isabella, she was mature, intelligent, and very opinionated, but still light-hearted and made time pass at the speed of light. It wasn’t until she was in my group in sixth period one day that she began to open up a little by sharing the details of her current long-distance relationship. The shards of my heart stabbed and crushed my stomach; hope, the oxygen to my mind, depleted faster than the air of a broken space shuttle; palpitation, nausea, asphyxia, and neurosis bombarded me like Persian arrows on the Greeks. Then, all at once, the excruciating tidal wave evaporated, but instead of calm waters, I was left with a drought. Every emotion muted or gone, my body went numb while everything I cared for vanished from my mind. I didn’t speak throughout the rest of that day, and went directly from the bus to decaying in my bed. I was devastated, so I retreated to my pointless crush on Maddie. Unrelated to the rather sad lovelife, my anxiety and depression worsened throughout 8th grade, and while I was going to therapy, most of my issues wouldn’t and still haven’t been worked through. Throughout the school year I had developed a toxic system of self pity, in which I would spend hours a day cycling through the feelings of hope, anger, and despair- never that of joy. I knew what I was doing, gathering enough hope to face the school day just before I reflected on the doubts and grievances going on throughout my life. I’d bring myself up just for a greater fall because honestly, overtime I became numb to the natural pain. If I were going to fall into the pit that is depression, the higher I peaked in terms of optimism the more excruciating the freefall of nausea and the heavy flow of salt water. At that point in my life, I saw no point in getting out of bed to do anything, school or even my own mother’s birthday. By the end of eighth grade I had spent almost a total of six weeks absent, two of which were from me being quarantined. Typically over the span of one or two days, others up to four, I would be in my bed “sick.” During these mini-vacations I would sleep all morning, if my mom let me, and stay up all night, oftentimes listening to Radiohead or Cigarettes After Sex while staring at my ceiling. I wanted to stay up, I wanted to feel the bags grabbing and pulling towards my cheekbone, I wanted to feel empty, emotionally and physically. During the day, my anxiety attacks became panic attacks and I would get sent home for vomiting. I'd throw up to give Mom a reason to let me stay home. I’d throw up to feel something, anything. I’d throw up to keep my stomach empty. I’d throw up because I had to, because the nerves and overthinking forced me to. Every morning, I’d drag my black air force ones across cement, carpet, tiles, and marble, each step leading towards Mrs. Clements’ homeroom. For every step, a different worry or insecurity flashed through my brain. But then, out of the blue, I’m “Lincoln” again. I walk into homeroom with an ear-to-ear grin and dap up “the boys”. I’d spend the morning building up hopes of making Isabella laugh today, or maybe calling her once I got home, but I knew that nine times out of ten my hopes were delusional. To “Lincoln,” this was no problem, he would make a gay joke, join the boys with teasing a cute girl in my class, and laugh until just for a moment, the despair was gone. Finally, the sixth period would come and I’d get to see Isabella. In here I got the least work done out of all my classes as I would find myself strategically planning my next interaction with her, just for said plans to go out the window when I was brought face to face with her. Typically seventh period followed the same pattern except Ms. Shirley Davis could never allow small talk in her classroom. When the last bell rang, I went straight to the buses. I’d sleep on the way home, dreaming of a call that would hardly happen. On the off chance my phone didn’t reach its feared 11th cry, we’d talk for hours at a time. On a weekday or not, it seemed that, when we did call, it was guaranteed to go into the early morning. It’s hard to put my finger on a specific topic, or even general. In our conversations, we discussed anything and everything. Everything, except her own love interest. I admired this, as my inability to keep who I’m thinking about at the time a secret is a major flaw of mine. The more that me and her spoke, the more I grew to love her. Our talks were so honest, so raw, that the secret I held began to eat away at me. My core collapsing like a dying star, each day it felt like the pain got worse. To cope with the feelings I had buried deep inside me, I’d turn to my friends. At first, they said to come forward with my feelings, but I knew that’s what any friend would’ve said. The relief I got from venting the conflicting hurricane within me was brief. Overtime, their words of encouragement turned to annoyance, and understandably so. When people grew sick of the same old sadistic untold love, I turned to Isabella. I wrote a text so full that, to read it, one needed to tap on an arrow at the bottom right corner of my message. The essay was compiled with the confliction I had, developing feelings for a friend, and the sorrow that filled me each day that passed without her. I described the perfect imperfections that I admired about her, how life was complete when I spoke to her, the beauty that paralyzed me every time I saw her in person, and the character that I felt God had curated specifically for me. Sitting there unsure if I should press send, a fear grew within my chest that Isabella would see right through me. I could hear the music that so often triggered tears; the vocals of Thom Yorke or the beats of Kanye West, they faded in and out. What if she didn’t even respond? What if she thought I was a creep? What if- then she responded. Suddenly, the ominous 808s & Heartbreak pounding vanished, my respiratory chaos became paralyzed, and time stood still. I couldn’t breathe until I finished reading, and once I did, my sigh was all but relieving. Isabella explained to me how unhealthy my habits were; even in comparison to the anguish that would follow, I’d suffer far more and far longer should I suppress my emotions. She told me how that level of affection, in the context of the warped concept of romance most men had, was something she had only dreamt of. Isabella said that holding these feelings would eat away at me, exponentially increasing in severity, until I broke. Not only would I be hurting myself, but I would be depriving the person I care about most from the appreciation they deserve. I became bloated with fear of the friendzone, those insecurities, all based upon inference, became a reality with Isabella’s last piece of advice. She said, “If she doesn’t reciprocate those emotions, then don’t worry. I’m sure there’s a girl out there who can appreciate your compassion.” The blame had no other place to go than my shoulders, after all, I got what I asked for, advice on another girl. Isabella, even if she saw the crush I had on her, is far too kind to address it. She cared for everyone, and to her, she was merely boosting up a friend who’s down. For the rest of the night her text echoed through my mind; pain, regret, and admiration caused my mind to sporadically leap from conclusion to conclusion. Two years later, those words still haunt me, reiterations of that phrase torturing me when I least expect them. The school year progressed, but my aspirations with Isabella didn’t. Over time, the frequency of my writings grew to be weekly, at times reaching two a week, and the weight of my confessions depleted. I opened my audience to a mutual friend of Isabella’s, Miley, with the intention of acquiring useful advice. Eventually, my choice to try concealing what I felt for Isabella became too heavy of a burden, weighing down on me in forces I had not endured before. Soon, the love I had for Isabella turned to hatred for myself. I was relentlessly criticizing every aspect of myself and my mind. I hated how fat I was, my smile, my voice, my laugh, and most of all my personality. What I had thought was my greatest strength, was revealed as my worst trait. The gullibility I exhibited when thinking for a second Isabella could possibly like me; the lack of confidence that caused me to chicken out of confessing my feelings to her; my insufferable need to make people laugh; the hyperfixation I would develop for those that I love. Everything about me was wrong. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped caring, and eventually I stopped living. The “Lincoln” my friends had grown to recognize, the only remnant of the joy I felt when I was younger, died, and I was left with only my love for Isabella and resentment for myself. I began testing the limits of what was left of me, praying for relief. At first in the middle of the night, an anaconda would find its way to my throat, wrapping around my neck. Its cold black scales gracefully gliding across my skin before silencing my cries with the swift tug of its metallic USB head. The snake would maintain pressure until I let go of it, the entire time whispering into my ear, begging me to hold on. Some nights it came with what must have been a full stomach for it was drastically wider, it was brown these nights, with leather skin, and a slight warmth, but it behaved the same. Most visits from the snake ended with my vision blurry, my breath short, or my head dizzy. The only consistency of our transactions was Asia’s Death Lake that streamed down my face from start to finish. Eventually, the snake seemed closer and closer to silencing me forever, but I also became used to its visits. I began writing letters to everyone I loved so that, should the snake come out victorious, they’d have a final goodbye. Once I had sorted out my notes, I called the snake to my room. This time it came striped with shades of blue, its skin a soft fabric. For once, I controlled the snake, because our intentions finally aligned. I locked the door, sent out my texts, placed the written notes on my dresser, and joined the snake at my closet door. Holding onto the doorknob, the snake wrapped itself around my neck just as it had done in nights of the past. It whispered to me, “let go,” for I had been on my knees in hesitation. I followed the snake’s order by making a sort of plank with my body, the bottom half resting on a stack of dirty laundry and pillows while the top was supported by my elbows. Pressure swiftly fell down on my neck and didn’t stop. “This is it,” I thought to myself. My eyes seemed to pop out of my skull, and my tears, falling down like summer rain, became blurry dots as my vision went dark. Next thing I know, I’m waking up, snot, saliva, and tears strung between my face and the carpet floor. My head pounding and my eyes burning, I looked up at the “snake” that was the tie my mom had gotten me for Sunday service. Although my mind was more clear, it was not out of revelation, but from a muted sense of the world around me. Other than Isabella, nothing mattered anymore, and the little emotion I felt was squashed by my immortal love. The following day I get called to the counselors office on charges of suicidal thoughts and self harm. I said what I had to in order to escape her grasp, but left infuriated. Not only had my own friends betrayed me, but the lady who was supposed to guide me essentially scolded me for being sad. Throughout the day my anger faded out and my focus became making an excuse as to why my parents got a weird call from my counselor, then I’d find the traitor who sold me out. That afternoon, I lost two friends, and for the first time ever got mad at Isabella. Apparently, Miley, Maddie, and Isabella all reported me to the counselor that morning. They said I had been traumatizing them with what was going on in my life, being normal and messing around at school, then detailing my thoughts and actions to them outside of school. I felt like I had been tricked. I thought they were my friends. I thought they understood me. They asked me if I was okay, they said they wanted, cared, needed to know, but now I had scared them? I addressed what had happened with Miley first. She immediately lashed out at me, saying I should be thanking them, not be mad. While I didn’t want to accept it, I understood the core of her choices. On the other hand, Maddie’s response to my confrontation was disgustingly cruel. She said I had been unfair and just seeking attention, that no thirteen to fourteen year old should hear about what I was going through because it was unnatural. Before she continued, I apologized, that’s all I could think to do, because deep down I believed her. She told me it wasn’t all my fault because my brain was messed up, and that opening up to the girls would only make them not want to be friends with me. The one word that rang through my head then, and still does today, was “creep,” she claimed that what I felt wasn’t love, but I was just mentally unstable and creepy. Any remnants of the sweet kid from elementary school who just wanted a friend and loved everyone were obliterated. Maddie was right, all I had done was hurt and scare them, it didn’t matter what I thought. I told her all I could, that I didn’t know what to say other than I was sorry for the damage I had done, and I would try and get better. Her response, like a branding iron on my mind, was, “It’s not damage, it’s baggage. Imagine if the roles were reversed.” It was only then that I stopped texting back. I wish I could say it was out of frustration or self respect, but the reality of my manipulative traits is what silenced me. Shockingly, the response that hurt the most was from Isabella, yet it somehow meant the most to me too. Isabella told me that she needed me in the world. She told me that if I ever got those thoughts again, to think about her as well; to think about the pain I’d be causing her; to think about the trauma she’d live with for the rest of her life. After repeating the phrase, “I need you in my life,” she acknowledged how selfish it was, but still didn’t care. Isabella continued elaborating, she didn’t care because no label of selfishness outweighed the value of my life. What she said that night has been vivid in my mind since, but my only wish is that she had needed me as I needed her. Tears began to hide my freckled cheeks as I texted her about how much her words meant to me, how much she meant to me, and I apologized to her. I said sorry for the baggage I caused, the “creepy” behavior, and any other ways I had wronged her. I said sorry for loving her, and told her I’d do better. She disregarded my apologies, telling me that I could always talk to her because no matter the baggage she could carry, it’d be worth taking the smallest bit off of me. Her words meant so much to me, yet hurt me just the same. I hated myself for it. I couldn’t see a life without an affection for her, it was pathetic. If I truly loved her, I’d let my feelings go, right? What kind of person did that make me? Summer came and went. Hoping that time would kill the crush I had on Isabella, I prohibited myself from contacting her. Instead I spent time with my family and a few friends, but Isabella never left my head. Even when accompanying my dad to Berry College for the Governor’s Honors Program, she’s what filled my head. At first I felt frustrated because before I had come forward to her, she had known about the feelings I had. I came to the conclusion that she had been dragging me along, but even then I knew how easily that thought would be abandoned. First day of High school, I got in touch with her. For maybe two weeks, I maintained a platonic relationship before free falling into the ominous pit once again. This time felt different though, it felt like what I had thought about everyday, for what seemed eternity, could be more than a daydream. We texted each other throughout the school day and facetimed after her cheer practice and my band practice. Eventually, Isabella was falling asleep on call. Before, we’d talk long into the night, and it began to drain the energy out of the both of us. Now, we were listening to music, playing Roblox, watching Netflix, or just sitting in silence. I had never felt comfortable with silence, but she made it seem better than having a conversation with anyone else. It’s a beautiful thing when words aren’t required to appreciate someone. The moment I had the courage to do so, I asked her out to Steak n’ Shake. It’s just my luck that the restaurant was hardly a shell of what I remembered as a kid. At first the conversation was awkward because we hardly spoke in person, but as time progressed so did we. I still remember the tightness of my cheeks as I failed to suppress my ear-to-ear grin. The euphoric nausea and beating heart that disappeared throughout our conversation. I remember the booth we sat in, the fact that she wanted me to swap seats with her because of her creaky seat, the way she giggled, how I fought tooth and nail to pay for such a small bill, the way she smiled when she said, “next time you’ve gotta let me pay,” and the shared excitement for our next hangout. Even though Isabella and I were still friends, even though the restaurant was a disaster, even though the fries were stale and the milkshakes chunky, that moment is one of the best in my life. With how well things were going, I thought that it was my best chance at making something more out of this friendship. So, I shot my shot. I told her that despite my efforts the summer before, she still held a special place in my heart. Isabella responded with her own struggles with recovering from a past relationship, detailing the trust issues and pain she still felt almost a year later. I was yet again, devastated. Then she added that despite her own feelings, she had to be careful and the risk of losing our friendship scared her. I understood her reasoning, but it made me sick to think of how close I was. In response, I expressed how I could relate to those feelings, and the conflict I had with them. It felt ridiculous having opened myself up once again, to just be friendzoned. Her response struck me with both hope and devastation, “I f*cking love you a ton Lincoln, but I’m struggling to differentiate my admiration as a friend and as something more. I’m terrified of losing you.” Previously I would have seen this as a sign to keep trying, but at that moment, I couldn’t see past the blatant friendzoning. After pursuing her for so long, it felt cruel of her to continue dragging me along like this, even though she was being honest. My reaction to the straw that broke the camel’s back is one of, if not, the biggest regrets in life. Homecoming was a little over a week away and she was going (as friends) with my buddy, Davis, so in a storm of hatred for myself and the situation I was in, I gave up on her. Our conversations grew to be minimal and far apart. Soon, I started to resent her. Each day since then, I have somehow felt more remorse than the last for not asking her to Homecoming. Homecoming night is when I began flirting with Claire, a sweet redhead from gym class. We connected on not going with the person we had hoped for. All it took was me joking that I should’ve spent more time around her, instead of leaving the dance early, for Claire to lose her mind. Over the next month or so, I was becoming closer and closer with Claire, despite her irritable “quirks”. I only spoke to Isabella if she reached out to me first with the only exception being when I would ask her for “advice” about Claire, which was a shameful habit I started as petty revenge on Isabella. Eventually, Isabella blocked me on Snapchat, but it didn’t matter. Things with me and Claire were going great, she made me feel like I didn’t need to starve myself to be good enough for her. She made me feel like I was enough. For the next two and a half months, life was great. After the first couple months of ignorant bliss, I was sick of her. Sure, there were a variety of reasons to find her annoying, most people I knew could list more than they have fingers and toes, but she didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t have gotten into the relationship in the first place not only because of Isabella, but also the speed at which me and Claire started dating. She was still growing out of the elementary relationship phase, so while it was nice to connect with someone so quickly, it was rushed. Another issue being that I was her first real boyfriend, the baggage that followed me was detrimental to her and I couldn’t give her the attention she needed. As me and Claire began our month long drift apart, I was unblocked by Isabella. She and I caught up, and we quickly began to talk trash about Claire while on call. It was unbelievably toxic, and I’m embarrassed of how I handled things to this day. Eventually, with the support of Isabella, I decided it was time to break up. The only issue was the guilt I had in such a terrible choice, I could never do it. So I began to get more distant by the day, ignored texts and calls, and stopped walking her to classes because “I had to pee.” Eventually she caught wind of my plans and called me after school one day. Sobbing, she told me what she had heard and how she knew it wasn’t true, but it still worried her. I began to get ready to break the news, but she was already crying so what's the worst that could happen? I wish I had never asked myself that, because next she told me she’d been cutting herself. My heart sank in remorse for what I knew I would do. If I led her on longer, the aftermath of my cold actions would lead to even more catastrophe. I was scared, but knew the lesser of the two evils I had to pick from. I calmed her down, quickly notified her friends to be keeping an eye on her, and then dumped her. To this day, I am disgusted by my actions. Throughout the past three months, Claire expressed how she had loved and trusted me, yet I threw that all away. There are so many ways I could’ve handled the situation differently, but two stood out the most. Showing respect by speaking to Claire the moment I realized my feelings had fleeted was the bare minimum that I disregarded, but the second was far simpler. I had known from the start that I was still in love with Isabella and that love never faded, but was only suppressed. The entire relationship we developed, while we both enjoyed parts of it (her more than me), was a lie, and essentially a cruel joke played on Claire. There’s no excuse for my actions, and even worse, I could’ve cared less back then. It was only when time had passed that I began to understand the damage I had done. Without Claire holding me back, my newfound freedom led to a closer friendship with Isabella. I dove headfirst into the familiar pit all over again. A friendship was not enough, I appreciated every interaction I had with Isabella, but my life depended on a future with her. It’s likely she felt this as she slowly began to drift away from me. Before I had stayed up speaking to Isabella, but now I couldn’t sleep out of the tormenting absence of her voice. The only path to good health was time; distance was best for the both of us, and I knew it. For the rest of that school year, everything around me was going, but I stood still. It was like my life was just a sitcom, and I was no longer the main character. The summer that followed was just the same, I was living but dead, moving but still, speaking but silent. I was dissociating from my friends and family, but the absence of that violent snake made my depression insignificant. Living a life without her was more punishment than death itself, and I didn’t deserve relief. Even now, I think of that summer and remember almost nothing, for my life isn’t worth remembering without Isabella in it. Sophomore year began, and so did my conversations with Isabella. This go around, I was subtle with my feelings for her. The excitement I had for speaking with her was under control, but it was because the spark inside me had faded, even when it came to Isabella.The years of self pity and depression had left a toll on me that could never be reversed, and it didn’t help that Isabella began to build a relationship with another guy. When we spoke, if we did, Isabella’s concern for my mental state outweighed the friendship we were struggling to preserve. I had come to the conclusion that pursuing Isabella would only make things worse, and I needed to just be her friend. Since I couldn’t lose the feelings I had for her, I just sat in them. While I sat in the pit, Isabella and I had one particular Facetime call in which I brought up how much I regretted dating Claire. To that, Isabella added, “Yeah, she’s so annoying. I can’t remember if you told me why you got together in the first place, what led you to her?” I paused with the thousand-yard stare of an American private fresh out of West Point. “I guess I was just so disappointed with myself for not being able to go to homecoming with you and being stuck on you for so long that I impulsively got with another girl to forget about my shortcomings,” I said with reluctance and stuttering every few words. She told me that she would’ve said yes to homecoming without a second thought, but I knew she meant as friends. Then, to my dismay, Isabella revealed that whenever I got with Claire, she still had feelings for me. It was me talking to Isabella about how great things were with me and Claire that led her to block me and cut contact with me. The piano melody from “No Surprises” by Radiohead began looping through my mind as tears ran down my face. I forget how I ended the call, but once I did, I broke. I lost my breath, my head got light, my eyes became blurry, my stomach was nauseous, and my insides sank as far as they could. Everything I wanted, dreamed of, needed had been so close, and I blew it. Everything was my fault. Later I would ask her why she lost them, and her answer proved how much better she was than me. Isabella answered, “I had been hurt, so I moved on. Just got over it.” We hardly spoke anymore, but one text message has found a permanent home in my mind. After asking me how I was, Isabella wasn’t satisfied with, “it’s complicated.” She asked that I explain it to her so that she could try to understand. I told her about all the issues going on in my life, except the torch I still held for her. She wrote, “I know you’re not religious, so it may not mean anything, but I pray for you every night, Lincoln. Even though it sounds bad, I think that I've known you weren’t in the greatest mental place for a while. I want you to know I'm not judging you, I want you to feel comfortable enough to share that with someone. You have to be able to recognize how you’re feeling in order to even fix it.” These words broke me despite their simplistic appearance. Reading that she prayed for me hit me hard as she had always tried to get me to believe in God again. I’m agnostic, and nothing has come closer to bringing me back to faith as Isabella did. The idea that if God were real and I could see her in heaven was appealing, but should Christianity be the wrong choice, I wanted to be wrong with Isabella. In the following days, Isabella told me about Alex, a guy she had been talking to a lot, and how they were at most a month away from being together. I hated everything about Alex, which is a stupid name in the first place. I hated his choice of friends, I hated how white-washed he was, I hated how he dressed like a conservative cowboy, I hated the underbite that made him look like a pug, I hated his short curly hair, I hated the fact that he was a diehard Trump supporter while people of his race were being oppressed, I hated how he pretended to be someone else when he was around Isabella, I hated how he hid unhealthy habits from her, I hated that a guy like him garnered Isabella’s affection when I couldn’t. I barely knew the guy and I was wasting my energy with hatred for him, when in reality, he was just a mind-numbingly basic douche among the hundreds just like him at our school. Isabella regularly complained about Alex, but hardly did anything. Instead she stopped bringing it up, saying that talking about her issues with others only makes it worse and that she was just wining. The monotone delivery of her reasoning hurt my soul, it was like she was reciting a text from Alex. Each day that passed, I felt the urgency of expressing my feelings one more time rising. Soon Isabella and Alex would be official, and I would lose my chance to try and express how I felt one more time. I reached out to Isabella and asked if she was free to hangout that friday. On November 10, 2023, Isabella picked me up around 5:30 in the evening. She kept the inside of her SUV looking brand new in contrast to the familiarity of her smile. My nerves left me winded after every sentence and shivering in her passenger seat. Quickly our conversation became more natural as I cracked jokes to ease my anxiety, but my shaky breathing never stopped. We went to Publix to grab some snacks and drinks and headed right back to my neighborhood park. At the Grove Point Park, we found a swinging chair to sit in. Due to the time of the year, the sun had already set, but Isabella’s beauty was indifferent under the moonlight. I haven’t the slightest clue how long we sat there together. When I’m with Isabella, even Father Time gives me grace, for he knows that he is as powerless as I am to the frequency of these moments. After a while, I mentioned that it was getting late and she agreed. On the ride back to my place, I mustered the bare minimum of strength it took to confront my feelings. As she drove over the speed bump before entering the roundabout, I began to open up. I briefly told her that I still felt the same way I did two years ago, that I had tried to forget about the feelings I had with no success, and that I was sorry to once again ruin our unstable friendship. She told me it was fine and my feelings were natural, nothing to regret or be ashamed of. Her words meant nothing to me this time because I had already heard them. Defeated, I paused for a moment, then said, “Isabella, you reciprocated my feelings in the past, so after Alex, do you think that maybe we’d have a chance?” She looked at me with pain in her eyes, not for herself, but for me. She quietly said, “I- Lincoln, you know I can’t answer that. I’m with Alex now, it wouldn’t be fair.” All I could get out was, “Oh- I- I’m sorry. Uh yeah no, you’re uh- you’re right.” Everything in me pulled and begged at my lips to say what I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I still look back on that night and wish I had said the few words I never got to tell her. What if saying them could’ve changed something? Realistically, it wouldn’t have, but the regret remains. I doubt Isabella would have even remembered where my word choice stemmed from. Regardless, the words rang in my head then, and never stopped. All I wanted to say at that moment was, “but I still need you.” Today, 1,725 days since I first saw Isabella, 822 days since I first facetimed Isabella, and 178 days since that heartbreakingly beautiful night, I still love her the same. Looking back on my experience with her, I regret many things (oversharing, Claire, the snake, etc.), but the one thing I have never regretted was meeting and loving her. It was only recently that I realized that loving her has been one of the biggest mistakes in my life. For three years, day in and day out, I’ve thought about her. Three years where I could have met other people, worked on myself, enjoyed my friends and family, but instead I’ve loved her and nothing, nobody else. The one lesson that was essential for me to take away from my experience was impossible. In eighth grade I was 5’7 and 215 lbs, today I’m 5’10 and 165 lbs. In eighth grade I spent time with my parents, today I hide in my room. In eighth grade, I told people how I felt, now I’m too scared. In eighth grade, I talked about my depression, now I am left alone to deal with it. In eighth grade, I had many friends, now I rarely speak to them. In eighth grade, I needed Isabella, but the one lesson I should’ve learned never took effect. I still need her.
2024.05.11 09:33 SearchForLove 28[M4F] #chandigarh / #online - tall fit nerdy ambiverted creative guy who works in finance / programming.
What I'm looking for -
Anything goes really. We can spend quality time online or we can meet in real in a few weeks if you are closer to haryana or punjab or chandigarh or delhi . (I also visit mumbai sometimes )
(If you are from outside India, that's also fine since I don't care which part of the world I live in if I can be with someone I love.)
Then we can go for long walks, go on a date/outing. While I love physical affection like cuddles, hugs, kisses , I love a nice company too and will respect your boundaries if you don't want to be touched in the first meeting.
Ideally, I'm looking for a meaningful medium term relationship but which has a potential to turn into something everlasting in future. But I'm open to casual setups too in case you feel you aren't ready for serious commitment.
I don't understand people who go through traditional route of arrange marriages. How can they bypass this dating phase and jump into the nuptials directly. Also, if you don't test out the compatibility beforehand, you could very well end up in a deadbedroom situation, which is big cause of divorce.
Personality type :
Physically, I'm tall ( 6'0" ), cute, neither the most handsome nor ugly, average built and medium wheatish complexion.
I am a semi-introvert. - I don't have social anxiety or anything but I am avoidant of certain people, yet find it easy to talk to strangers. Although I can't approach women in real life. I'm pretty blunt by nature. I can speak well in stage and on public , get into conversations with Co-passengers in trains, buses etc. Yet, I feel intimidated/uncomfortable talking to my relatives, immediate neighbors, school friends. I'm fluent in English and Hindi.
I'm more the thinking type than feeling. But I do feel bad for hurting someone. I fall In love fast but do not get attached too fast.
I'm super blunt and straightforward. Sometimes chill, sometimes intense. I have great anger control, a friendly amicable temperament.
I prefer voice chat because although time is not an issue for me, we can express emotions clearly and I can explain myself more elaborately than text where I have to cut down. But texting is good too and has its own advantages. Or alternatively, if you are not comfortable speaking, you can just listen. I can sing you a song on call.
Hobbies and passions :
I love watching crime, thrillers and inspirational movies. I love reading books especially non fiction books and web articles, forums, blogs.
I like puzzle games / board games. . I don't play much video games anymore. But I can play to give you company. MOBA, FPS, anything .
I used to play all kinds of sports in my college days but now it's just football & badminton
submitted by SearchForLove to r4r [link] [comments]
Anything goes really. We can spend quality time online or we can meet in real in a few weeks if you are closer to haryana or punjab or chandigarh or delhi . (I also visit mumbai sometimes )
(If you are from outside India, that's also fine since I don't care which part of the world I live in if I can be with someone I love.)
Then we can go for long walks, go on a date/outing. While I love physical affection like cuddles, hugs, kisses , I love a nice company too and will respect your boundaries if you don't want to be touched in the first meeting.
Ideally, I'm looking for a meaningful medium term relationship but which has a potential to turn into something everlasting in future. But I'm open to casual setups too in case you feel you aren't ready for serious commitment.
I don't understand people who go through traditional route of arrange marriages. How can they bypass this dating phase and jump into the nuptials directly. Also, if you don't test out the compatibility beforehand, you could very well end up in a deadbedroom situation, which is big cause of divorce.
Personality type :
Physically, I'm tall ( 6'0" ), cute, neither the most handsome nor ugly, average built and medium wheatish complexion.
I am a semi-introvert. - I don't have social anxiety or anything but I am avoidant of certain people, yet find it easy to talk to strangers. Although I can't approach women in real life. I'm pretty blunt by nature. I can speak well in stage and on public , get into conversations with Co-passengers in trains, buses etc. Yet, I feel intimidated/uncomfortable talking to my relatives, immediate neighbors, school friends. I'm fluent in English and Hindi.
I'm more the thinking type than feeling. But I do feel bad for hurting someone. I fall In love fast but do not get attached too fast.
I'm super blunt and straightforward. Sometimes chill, sometimes intense. I have great anger control, a friendly amicable temperament.
I prefer voice chat because although time is not an issue for me, we can express emotions clearly and I can explain myself more elaborately than text where I have to cut down. But texting is good too and has its own advantages. Or alternatively, if you are not comfortable speaking, you can just listen. I can sing you a song on call.
Hobbies and passions :
I love watching crime, thrillers and inspirational movies. I love reading books especially non fiction books and web articles, forums, blogs.
I like puzzle games / board games. . I don't play much video games anymore. But I can play to give you company. MOBA, FPS, anything .
I used to play all kinds of sports in my college days but now it's just football & badminton
2024.05.11 09:31 isocuda The Duality of DGG as always...
 | submitted by isocuda to Destiny [link] [comments] |
2024.05.11 08:33 Honest-Cellist-6455 Exhausted and don’t know how to deal with pervert gross coworkers for several more months.
For the first 2 months this stuff was constant. I was afraid of losing my job but I finally spoke up and my manager made him stop but she said ”it’s just jokes”. I stayed cause this was a really good job. I don’t trust him cause of other things, he’s a liar, but for 7 months he hasn’t said weird stuff, at least.
He’s been here 17 years and they fought to keep him and are friendly with him.
-——
It’s just me, the manager and him in one small office.
For the first 2 months he’d find any excuse to say “porn” or “pussy”.
Like, he downloaded an excel sheet while showing me how to do something, and he said, "oop, downloaded into the porn stash.” This started like week 1 into the job and he said it on multiple occasions.
Mentioned a random name and told us two women in the office, “you know who that is? He opened a porn academy. HARD school.”
Mentioned randomly some scandal about a priest with a porn addiction.
Referred to hand lotion as lube and asked us if we want lube cause i mentioned having dry hands. Then he said "the women don't want lube but the only guy needs it! Haha.”
He’d tell the manager "Do you want me to water your bush?" And she’d also say it back in reference to watering the office plants. Then he‘d say "I like wet bushes.”
He was showing the manager some work on his PC and pretended to read from a popup, "you are caught watching gay porn!" She laughed.
I mentioned that my coworker's mug was cute (it has a cat on it). He said his daughter chose it as her christmas gift, "mug with the PUSSY".
Another time, we were talking about pet cats and he said “I get distracted when we talk about pussies!”
He mentioned some new law in Italy that made groping legal if it lasted less than 10 seconds. But he said it in a disapproving way trying to appear the good guy.
He played the song "insomnia" by faithless and only sang along to the "TEARING OFF TIGHTS WITH MY TEETH" part so we both could hear him.
He was talking to a young male colleague in front of me and told him (i have to translate) to find some "dirty woman" now to take her with him travelling.
He told the manager "i'm gonna show it to you. No not **that**. ;) i'll show that when we're alone together heheh" “stop sending dirty pics at night hahah”
He was speaking with his wife on the phone (who he tells ILY everyday), and out of nowhere mentioned how stressed he was and that "there's 2 women here i'm gonna start beating them" i waited for the call to end and told him half-jokingly, "did you forget ur outnumbered?" What a weird thing to say.
After another lame joke which I ignored, he said "Fuck you ladies! :D" and i said "right back at you".
He made a dumb ”ur mum” joke - made a weird sound and said "That's how ur mum sounded yesterday".
—
I have a text where I gave my manager examples of things he said and she somehow admitted to being complicit, she replied that it’s just jokes, “in fact even i go along with it.“ said he’s a respectful guy. ”But if you’re uncomfortable i’ll tell him to stop.”
—
Recently I made a big mistake due to him not giving me good info and he lied in front of my manager and kept saying he did tell me and that i went against an agreement. He’s trying to make me look bad. So from now on I’ll ask for stuff to be communicated by email until I leave.
—
Now recently a few other things. They continued, the dumb shits: she showed him how to use piratebay and they repeated like 3 times how sometimes “naughty pictures” come up.
They were ordering pizza and she said “this is sexual.”
She offered some protein balls and I took one and said it’s good, a little dopamine hit. He jumped in and said he needs an aphrodisiac not dopamine.
Then she started singing some eurovision song that goes “aphrodisiac”.
On 10/5 today i was alone with him. He was calling his wife and at a point he said “is it bigger or smaller than mine? Hehe” in an obvious weird way.
—
Usually they’re normal and friendly and obviously I MUST make conversation and laugh if it’s an appropriate joke. But then they do this weird shit.
submitted by Honest-Cellist-6455 to TwoXChromosomes [link] [comments]
He’s been here 17 years and they fought to keep him and are friendly with him.
-——
It’s just me, the manager and him in one small office.
For the first 2 months he’d find any excuse to say “porn” or “pussy”.
Like, he downloaded an excel sheet while showing me how to do something, and he said, "oop, downloaded into the porn stash.” This started like week 1 into the job and he said it on multiple occasions.
Mentioned a random name and told us two women in the office, “you know who that is? He opened a porn academy. HARD school.”
Mentioned randomly some scandal about a priest with a porn addiction.
Referred to hand lotion as lube and asked us if we want lube cause i mentioned having dry hands. Then he said "the women don't want lube but the only guy needs it! Haha.”
He’d tell the manager "Do you want me to water your bush?" And she’d also say it back in reference to watering the office plants. Then he‘d say "I like wet bushes.”
He was showing the manager some work on his PC and pretended to read from a popup, "you are caught watching gay porn!" She laughed.
Like recently he told her “hey dirty woman.” They’re both married.
At a point he was next to her while she explained something. He said "can i touch you?" And she was like jokingly "aaaah get away from me".
He read out his shopping list to us and said "condoms!" at the end.I mentioned that my coworker's mug was cute (it has a cat on it). He said his daughter chose it as her christmas gift, "mug with the PUSSY".
Another time, we were talking about pet cats and he said “I get distracted when we talk about pussies!”
He mentioned some new law in Italy that made groping legal if it lasted less than 10 seconds. But he said it in a disapproving way trying to appear the good guy.
He played the song "insomnia" by faithless and only sang along to the "TEARING OFF TIGHTS WITH MY TEETH" part so we both could hear him.
He was talking to a young male colleague in front of me and told him (i have to translate) to find some "dirty woman" now to take her with him travelling.
He told the manager "i'm gonna show it to you. No not **that**. ;) i'll show that when we're alone together heheh" “stop sending dirty pics at night hahah”
He was speaking with his wife on the phone (who he tells ILY everyday), and out of nowhere mentioned how stressed he was and that "there's 2 women here i'm gonna start beating them" i waited for the call to end and told him half-jokingly, "did you forget ur outnumbered?" What a weird thing to say.
After another lame joke which I ignored, he said "Fuck you ladies! :D" and i said "right back at you".
He made a dumb ”ur mum” joke - made a weird sound and said "That's how ur mum sounded yesterday".
—
I have a text where I gave my manager examples of things he said and she somehow admitted to being complicit, she replied that it’s just jokes, “in fact even i go along with it.“ said he’s a respectful guy. ”But if you’re uncomfortable i’ll tell him to stop.”
—
Recently I made a big mistake due to him not giving me good info and he lied in front of my manager and kept saying he did tell me and that i went against an agreement. He’s trying to make me look bad. So from now on I’ll ask for stuff to be communicated by email until I leave.
—
Now recently a few other things. They continued, the dumb shits: she showed him how to use piratebay and they repeated like 3 times how sometimes “naughty pictures” come up.
They were ordering pizza and she said “this is sexual.”
She offered some protein balls and I took one and said it’s good, a little dopamine hit. He jumped in and said he needs an aphrodisiac not dopamine.
Then she started singing some eurovision song that goes “aphrodisiac”.
On 10/5 today i was alone with him. He was calling his wife and at a point he said “is it bigger or smaller than mine? Hehe” in an obvious weird way.
—
Usually they’re normal and friendly and obviously I MUST make conversation and laugh if it’s an appropriate joke. But then they do this weird shit.
2024.05.11 04:02 vividly7 Planning on suicide
Not sure what the rules here are for this type of post but it seems that posting this on a community where people can read my thoughts and reasoning materializes my ruminations and I guess will help me actually commit. Hope everyone is doing well
Suicide for me was a daily urge, something that seemed so justified in context of my hollow being and existence. I’ve never had a genuine attempt, all of the previous ones were pretty much me planning on the idea but right before I come up with some excuse as to live. It’s disgusting that hope is keeping me alive. Not killing my self at one moment in my life seems to make existence more torturous as time progresses. Hope is a disease that only blinds people to their suffering, a revolting idea that has brought more pain than actual evil could ever achieve. Taking this into account when I do continue to live, I further lose self respect for myself as this manipulative idea continues my hell.
Of course, there’s no rational reason I should be feeling this way. Materialistically I have everything given to me from my family. I go to my dream school, with them bearing the burden of my tuition, and being out of state I burden them further because of how much they are paying. I have friends that care about me and people that have put their faith and trust into me. All of this is such a burden. When I realized I did that I have no reason why I should be in this socio-economic position as well as having genuinely good people around me, there’s no justification for it. I continue to lose both appreciation for my life as time goes on and the hollowness in my body expands. It rips me apart with guilt that I can’t be content with these things, and when I do try to change I only become more miserable. I don’t see an end to this because it’s been a constant in my life.
I continue to let the people that have care of me down. Most recently, I was blacked out drunk and groped two girls at a party. Learning of this moment the next day really did reinforce my suicide to me. I became a disgusting thing unworthy of life. The guilt of my existence had left my own ruminations and the abuse I caused to those women caused so so much guilt to me that I can’t continue to burden others. I know it’s selfish to pity myself when I was the one who abused and should be punished and justly lose my existence but I have to convey the burden that my actions caused on me because it was relevant to this decision. I truly hope I rot in a ditch somewhere forgotten or hated by all.
I hope that’s enough to get an idea of why I feel like I should be dead. I don’t hope for an afterlife, in any sort of way. In a perfect universe death is the same as what existence was before I was born, nothing and at the same time complete peace. No burden of existence, a complete loss of space and time. In a funny way it seems like the closest thing to Nirvana, but then again my understanding of the concept comes from the dictionary’s definition, so maybe what I desire is something different.
I plan to use my grandfathers pistol which came into my mom’s possession and is under her bed with bullets. Shoot from the bottom of my chin straight into my cerebrum, as that seems to be the most effective way to kill myself. I couldn’t find the courage to overdose on medications or to hang myself, so I’m going to die in the easiest way possible. I hope the world gets better when I’m gone. I know my family and everyone else will take this as a shock but I have to be selfish and think of my wellbeing before theirs. I’m a truly disgusting person
submitted by vividly7 to SuicideWatch [link] [comments]
Suicide for me was a daily urge, something that seemed so justified in context of my hollow being and existence. I’ve never had a genuine attempt, all of the previous ones were pretty much me planning on the idea but right before I come up with some excuse as to live. It’s disgusting that hope is keeping me alive. Not killing my self at one moment in my life seems to make existence more torturous as time progresses. Hope is a disease that only blinds people to their suffering, a revolting idea that has brought more pain than actual evil could ever achieve. Taking this into account when I do continue to live, I further lose self respect for myself as this manipulative idea continues my hell.
Of course, there’s no rational reason I should be feeling this way. Materialistically I have everything given to me from my family. I go to my dream school, with them bearing the burden of my tuition, and being out of state I burden them further because of how much they are paying. I have friends that care about me and people that have put their faith and trust into me. All of this is such a burden. When I realized I did that I have no reason why I should be in this socio-economic position as well as having genuinely good people around me, there’s no justification for it. I continue to lose both appreciation for my life as time goes on and the hollowness in my body expands. It rips me apart with guilt that I can’t be content with these things, and when I do try to change I only become more miserable. I don’t see an end to this because it’s been a constant in my life.
I continue to let the people that have care of me down. Most recently, I was blacked out drunk and groped two girls at a party. Learning of this moment the next day really did reinforce my suicide to me. I became a disgusting thing unworthy of life. The guilt of my existence had left my own ruminations and the abuse I caused to those women caused so so much guilt to me that I can’t continue to burden others. I know it’s selfish to pity myself when I was the one who abused and should be punished and justly lose my existence but I have to convey the burden that my actions caused on me because it was relevant to this decision. I truly hope I rot in a ditch somewhere forgotten or hated by all.
I hope that’s enough to get an idea of why I feel like I should be dead. I don’t hope for an afterlife, in any sort of way. In a perfect universe death is the same as what existence was before I was born, nothing and at the same time complete peace. No burden of existence, a complete loss of space and time. In a funny way it seems like the closest thing to Nirvana, but then again my understanding of the concept comes from the dictionary’s definition, so maybe what I desire is something different.
I plan to use my grandfathers pistol which came into my mom’s possession and is under her bed with bullets. Shoot from the bottom of my chin straight into my cerebrum, as that seems to be the most effective way to kill myself. I couldn’t find the courage to overdose on medications or to hang myself, so I’m going to die in the easiest way possible. I hope the world gets better when I’m gone. I know my family and everyone else will take this as a shock but I have to be selfish and think of my wellbeing before theirs. I’m a truly disgusting person
2024.05.11 00:21 Buchephalas The Exorcist: Is Pazuzu actually Lamashtu?
I'm sure this has came up here before but i'm curious what the explanation is as i can't find one. Nearly everything about the Demon suggests it's Lamashtu not Pazuzu. I don't believe it was a mistake as Blatty was very well educated and heavily researched The Exorcist, and certain things about the Demon clearly point to Lamashtu which couldn't be a simple mistake.
At the start there's this passage:
Rotted teeth. The Kurd was grinning, waving farewell. The man in khaki groped for a warmth in his pit of his being and came up with a wave and a mustered smile. It dimmed as he looked away. He started the engine, turned in a narrow, eccentric U and headed toward Mosul. The Kurd stood watching, puzzled by a heart-dropping sense of loss as the jeep gathered speed. What was it that was gone? What was it he had felt in the stranger's presence? Something like safety, he remembered; a sense of protection and deep well-being. Now it dwindled in the distance with the fast-moving jeep. He felt strangely alone.
That's talking about the Pazuzu statue leaving the area very clearly, that's the "safety" that's leaving, Merrin is leaving in his Jeep with the Pazuzu statue, that's why he immediately felt uneasy. The very next scene is Merrin (referred to as The Man in Khaki) going through the stuff they excavated and finding the Pazuzu statue.
You could argue it's Merrin who brought that sense of safety. But i can't agree, Blatty researched this stuff too well he's knows what Pazuzu is supposed to be. It's supposed to be a protector of mothers and pregnant women against Lamashtu the Demon that attacks mothers and pregnant women and children/babies. The first direct description of Pazuzu is this too:
It was a green stone head of the demon Pazuzu, personification of the southwest wind. Its dominion was sickness and disease. The head was pierced. The amulet's owner had worn it as a shield.
"Shield" i think seriously suggests protection too. This is seriously suggesting Pazuzu is a protective Deity, which makes no sense for the Demon inside Regan. Its dominion was sickness and disease, is referring to crops right? Or peoples reaction to the havoc he caused to farmers? He caused famine and blight through its destruction of the crops. Exorcist II is a piece of shit and doesn't involve Blatty but i think those researching it clearly realized what Pazuzu actually is as a menacing deity so turned it into a swarm of locusts, that feels more like Pazuzu not the terrorizing mothers part which is diametrically opposed to what it's supposed to be.
It never made sense that Pazuzu was the demon when he's supposed to be the being that protected mothers, the demon in The Exorcist terrorizes Chris. When i first found that out i thought Blatty just didn't really research things and just thought Pazuzu was a creepy statue, but then i found out he seriously did research everything including Mesopotamian Faith.
Isn't it possible that in the Book version at least, Merrin knowingly or unknowingly brought along the statue of Pazuzu (isn't it suggested visually in a scene, with a shadow or something?) and that protected Regan from Lamashtu or another Demon? It would work very well as before Merrin's arrival the demon is clearly winning.
The main thing that suggests it's Pazuzu in the movie is Mercedes McCambridge being credited as the voice of Pazuzu i believe, but was Blatty responsible for the credits or was the studio? I'd guess the latter?
Then everything regarding animals heavily suggests it was Lamashtu.
Lamashtu is depicted as a mythological hybrid, with a hairy body, a lioness' head with donkey's teeth and ears, long fingers and fingernails, and the feet of a bird with sharp talons). She is often shown standing or kneeling on a donkey, nursing a pig and a dog, and holding snakes. She thus bears some functions and resemblance to the demon Lilith\3]) in Jewish mythology.
Regan neighs various times, a neigh i think could be confused with a donkeys bray if coming out of a little girl, plus it's Karras who calls it a "neigh". "nursing a pig and a dog" she oinks and barks various times. "Nursing a pig" is especially interesting, as he calls Regan her "sow" which is the name for a female pig, he says it lovingly also calling her his "pearl and flower". Then during the spiderwalk scene she darts her tongue out like a snake.
Pazuzu doesn't match nearly as well as Lamashtu: Pazuzu is depicted as a combination of diverse animal and human parts. His body of canine form, though scaled not furred,[18] with birds' talons for feet, two pairs of wings, a scorpion's tail and a serpentine penis.[17] He holds his right hand up and his left hand down. His face is striking, with gazelle horns,[19] human ears, a doglike muzzle, bulging eyes, and wrinkles on the cheeks.[19]
The Demon almost always refers to Regan as a Piglet or Sow, and calls Chris "the sow mother".
There's also the problem that the Demon is a compulsive liar and it says there's multiple beings inside Regan, including something it refuses to call a Demon because it's stupid and Demon means "wise one". But i'm just curious for an explanation of the discrepancies between Pazuzu the Mesopotamian Deity and the Demon in the book, especially since Lamashtu matches it much better.
submitted by Buchephalas to horrorlit [link] [comments]
At the start there's this passage:
Rotted teeth. The Kurd was grinning, waving farewell. The man in khaki groped for a warmth in his pit of his being and came up with a wave and a mustered smile. It dimmed as he looked away. He started the engine, turned in a narrow, eccentric U and headed toward Mosul. The Kurd stood watching, puzzled by a heart-dropping sense of loss as the jeep gathered speed. What was it that was gone? What was it he had felt in the stranger's presence? Something like safety, he remembered; a sense of protection and deep well-being. Now it dwindled in the distance with the fast-moving jeep. He felt strangely alone.
That's talking about the Pazuzu statue leaving the area very clearly, that's the "safety" that's leaving, Merrin is leaving in his Jeep with the Pazuzu statue, that's why he immediately felt uneasy. The very next scene is Merrin (referred to as The Man in Khaki) going through the stuff they excavated and finding the Pazuzu statue.
You could argue it's Merrin who brought that sense of safety. But i can't agree, Blatty researched this stuff too well he's knows what Pazuzu is supposed to be. It's supposed to be a protector of mothers and pregnant women against Lamashtu the Demon that attacks mothers and pregnant women and children/babies. The first direct description of Pazuzu is this too:
It was a green stone head of the demon Pazuzu, personification of the southwest wind. Its dominion was sickness and disease. The head was pierced. The amulet's owner had worn it as a shield.
"Shield" i think seriously suggests protection too. This is seriously suggesting Pazuzu is a protective Deity, which makes no sense for the Demon inside Regan. Its dominion was sickness and disease, is referring to crops right? Or peoples reaction to the havoc he caused to farmers? He caused famine and blight through its destruction of the crops. Exorcist II is a piece of shit and doesn't involve Blatty but i think those researching it clearly realized what Pazuzu actually is as a menacing deity so turned it into a swarm of locusts, that feels more like Pazuzu not the terrorizing mothers part which is diametrically opposed to what it's supposed to be.
It never made sense that Pazuzu was the demon when he's supposed to be the being that protected mothers, the demon in The Exorcist terrorizes Chris. When i first found that out i thought Blatty just didn't really research things and just thought Pazuzu was a creepy statue, but then i found out he seriously did research everything including Mesopotamian Faith.
Isn't it possible that in the Book version at least, Merrin knowingly or unknowingly brought along the statue of Pazuzu (isn't it suggested visually in a scene, with a shadow or something?) and that protected Regan from Lamashtu or another Demon? It would work very well as before Merrin's arrival the demon is clearly winning.
The main thing that suggests it's Pazuzu in the movie is Mercedes McCambridge being credited as the voice of Pazuzu i believe, but was Blatty responsible for the credits or was the studio? I'd guess the latter?
Then everything regarding animals heavily suggests it was Lamashtu.
Lamashtu is depicted as a mythological hybrid, with a hairy body, a lioness' head with donkey's teeth and ears, long fingers and fingernails, and the feet of a bird with sharp talons). She is often shown standing or kneeling on a donkey, nursing a pig and a dog, and holding snakes. She thus bears some functions and resemblance to the demon Lilith\3]) in Jewish mythology.
Regan neighs various times, a neigh i think could be confused with a donkeys bray if coming out of a little girl, plus it's Karras who calls it a "neigh". "nursing a pig and a dog" she oinks and barks various times. "Nursing a pig" is especially interesting, as he calls Regan her "sow" which is the name for a female pig, he says it lovingly also calling her his "pearl and flower". Then during the spiderwalk scene she darts her tongue out like a snake.
Pazuzu doesn't match nearly as well as Lamashtu: Pazuzu is depicted as a combination of diverse animal and human parts. His body of canine form, though scaled not furred,[18] with birds' talons for feet, two pairs of wings, a scorpion's tail and a serpentine penis.[17] He holds his right hand up and his left hand down. His face is striking, with gazelle horns,[19] human ears, a doglike muzzle, bulging eyes, and wrinkles on the cheeks.[19]
The Demon almost always refers to Regan as a Piglet or Sow, and calls Chris "the sow mother".
There's also the problem that the Demon is a compulsive liar and it says there's multiple beings inside Regan, including something it refuses to call a Demon because it's stupid and Demon means "wise one". But i'm just curious for an explanation of the discrepancies between Pazuzu the Mesopotamian Deity and the Demon in the book, especially since Lamashtu matches it much better.
2024.05.10 21:39 Thin_Cut2025 Am I non-binary?
Growing up I was always one of the boys and all of my friends were guys. I always ached because I knew I wasn’t “really” one of the guys. When we grew up my friends started developing crushes on me and what had once been a safe place no longer was. I started getting breasts really early on. I was eight or so and was fully developed within a few years. My double d’s have been the source of nonconsensual groping, sexualization and I’ve been objectified by men since age eight. I also noticed how people who were AFAB were treated as less intelligent and strong in school and I definitely didn’t want to be seen as that. I’d go back and forth between being very girly and very much not girly and identified more with guys. I was proud of it actually. Girl seemed to mean weak and icky and unintelligent. As a teenager I started noticing I liked women but more as if I was a guy and liking men but more as a woman. I was worried maybe I was actualky a trans man (nothin wrong with that I just wondered if my whole existence I’d been faking and pretending) but that didn’t quite seek right. I had a gender crisis but much like my bi crisis, I tabled that for years. I am bi, by the way. It’s been six years and I’ve been wearing more androgynous stuff and growing my body hair out. I never understood what gender euphoria was before I grew hair under my arms. I’ve started embracing more feminine stuff as an adult or things I associated with that (the color pink? SO pretty!). But whenever I wear girly stuff these days I definitely don’t feel super comfortable. I’m very aware of my breasts and hips and getting ogled. I think a large reason why as a teen I did get super girly was I wanted attention and didn’t know healthier ways to get it. I don’t quite know what I am maybe a demigirl or non-binary but I definitely don’t think I’m just a girl but idk maybe I am I just like more traditionally masculine stuff. Idk what to think. I just want to be seen as me. I have bound my chest a few times and feel really happy when I do. But some days I love my boobs. I don’t want to be perceived as either a boy or a girl. Just me. Idk! Idk! Idk!! Also of course someone who is a woman can have body hair and still be a woman! So I’m like. What the heck am I and what do I do and what do I think? I think a binary is so dumb but for so long my gender felt affirming but sometimes I feel like I’m eavesdropping when I’m around women. Idk!!! Idk!!
submitted by Thin_Cut2025 to NonBinary [link] [comments]
2024.05.10 18:38 sauravsuman46 Traveling to Afghanistan as a Woman (Safety Advice Needed)
Hi everyone,
I'm helping a friend who is considering a trip to Afghanistan. She's in a long-distance relationship with a man who lives there, and they're hoping to spend some time together. However, we're both very concerned about safety, especially given the current situation in the country.
We'd be incredibly grateful for any insights from Afghan residents or people who have recently traveled there, particularly regarding a woman traveling alone (or with a local companion, but not as a married couple).
Here are some specific questions we have:
Safety:
Thank you so much for your help :)
submitted by sauravsuman46 to TravelTales [link] [comments]
I'm helping a friend who is considering a trip to Afghanistan. She's in a long-distance relationship with a man who lives there, and they're hoping to spend some time together. However, we're both very concerned about safety, especially given the current situation in the country.
We'd be incredibly grateful for any insights from Afghan residents or people who have recently traveled there, particularly regarding a woman traveling alone (or with a local companion, but not as a married couple).
Here are some specific questions we have:
Safety:
- How safe is it for women to travel around Afghanistan, especially unmarried women?
- Are there areas that are considered particularly dangerous or off-limits?
- Is it advisable for my friend to hire a local guide or translator, especially if she doesn't speak Dari or Pashto?
- How reliable is internet and phone access in different parts of the country? Would she be able to stay in contact with friends and family back home?
- Are there any scams or dangers specifically targeted towards foreigners, especially women, that my friend should be aware of?
- What are the visa requirements for Peruvian citizens visiting Afghanistan?
- Are there any special considerations for women traveling alone?
- Is it common for women to travel and shop on their own without wearing a burqa?
- Can you elaborate on appropriate clothing for women beyond just mentioning the burqa? Are there regional variations?
- How freely can women move around in public, especially with a male companion?
- Are there any restrictions on women using public transportation, such as buses or taxis? Is it safe to hail a ride alone?
- Is it acceptable for an unmarried woman to be in a relationship with a man in Afghanistan?
- If my friend does decide to go, how can she best prepare to meet her boyfriend's family, considering the cultural and religious differences?
- Are there any legal or social barriers to a foreign woman and an Afghan man getting married? What would the process be like?
- How easy or difficult is it to travel from different parts of the country to the airport, particularly for a woman alone?
- Would there be any pressure for her to convert to Islam?
- What are the possibilities for a woman to start or run a business in Afghanistan?
- What are the options for safe and reputable accommodation for women, especially those traveling alone?
Thank you so much for your help :)
2024.05.10 16:15 SimbaTheSavage8 Defective
He turned of age last week, a bright young man of twenty-three, hopeful, intelligent, the very epitome of what Society should be. Everything about him shone, from the polish of his shoes to the gleam of his teeth, to the shiny new badge pinned on his lapel. He twisted the bow tie to the stipulated angle and polished his face. Then he smiled at the mirror and took a deep breath.
Brand new. Ready for Society to take him.
“Good afternoon, Peter,” said the attendant. He was four times his age, a wizarding man with wisps of smoky hair hanging down the sides of his head. He was dented with wrinkles, and his gaze was cloudy.
“Good afternoon,” Peter replied, trying to keep his voice even and his revulsion hidden. He looked briskly around the room. Other attendants buzzed around like busy bees, offering coffee or tea, presenting paperwork. Smiling customers walked out with a new woman in hand. Others were hauled back inside the shop. Peter had spent ages drawing and planning her. Saving up to get her. And now he will get her.
“When do we begin?” Impatience was always his greatest weakness. Something he had to remove sooner or later, but he had to focus on the present. The woman. The prestige. Everything.
The attendant snapped back to attention. “Right this way, sir,” he said, his voice struggling to be as brisk as his. Peter nodded, still impatient. That blueprint he spent months on was firmly secured in his brain, struggling to get free.
They left the comfortable air-conditioned lobby, all white walls and stainless steel floors, and continued on to the rougher part of the shop. Here buttons flashed and machines churned and squealed and robotic arms flew everywhere, grabbing parts with their claws and dropping it off at an assembly line. It was more humid, and Peter raised an arm to rub sweat off his face.
“This is where our women are made,” stated the attendant. Peter nodded, not really listening. His eyes wandered to another robotic arm, dutifully picking up an arm and attaching it to a chest. She was already stuffed with the essentials: heart, lungs, stomach, liver. Right now she was a blank canvas, but soon she would be a piece of art. That would be a near guarantee.
Their shoes clinked on the walkway as they continued through the maze of halls in the factory, until they reached a small control booth, a white cube shining through dark metal. The attendant nodded at Peter and opened the door. No words were exchanged; no instructions were said. Peter knew exactly what he had to do.
He stared up at the blank, black screen in front of him, his mind drawing up his blueprint from his memory. Then his arm reached for the flashing buttons and touch screens in front of him.
***
“Is she to your satisfaction, sir?”
She could easily be mistaken for Dracula’s bride. Pale as the moon, with long, thin hair that flowed down from her forehead like corn-silk. Her marble fingers curled around his palm.
“Yes,” said Peter.
“Understood,” said the attendant. “Sign here.”
Peter picked up the pen, his fingers gripping around the plastic, and stared heavily at the paper. After a whole list of terms and conditions was a single sentence that he knew would change his life for good.
Peter B10874 and Leah B22359 will now be pronounced husband and wife.
His new wife smiled thinly at him and gripped his hand tighter. Lowering the pen, Peter scrawled his name across the sheet.
***
Leah’s life was simple. It could even be boiled down to three words, and three words only.
Cook. Clean. Husband.
Her eyes scanned the floorboards for any signs of dust. There were none; she had been meticulous with her broom that afternoon, counting every speck into her dustpan. Now she stood by the doorway and closed her eyes, waiting for her husband to come home.
“Hi, honey,” Peter repeated.
“I love you,” Leah repeated back.
They locked their arms around each other, fingers groping around their waist. Then Leah took Peter by the hand and led him towards the dining table.
Dinner was waiting. A hot succulent brown chicken, bathed with hot succulent brown gravy. They sat down, husband next to wife, divided the chicken into two, stabbed the meat with their forks, put it into their mouths and began to chew. Then swallowed. Chewed, then swallowed.
“How was work today, dear?” Leah asked.
“It was fine,” Peter replied. The standard response.
He wasn’t lying. Nothing truly spectacular happened. Peter sat in the ‘P’ department with all the other Peters chipping away at a stack of legal documents. The work was simple. The contents were unimportant. Peter never bothered to read any of them; his arm went up and over, signed and stamped, and put them neatly in another pile.
Then he brought another one from the pile. And another, and another, until it was six’o’clock and it was time to go home. He marched with hundreds of other gray suits, down roads thick with gravel and asphalt, all the way home before raising his hand to knock.
They finished the meal in silence, just the two of them, then after Leah did the dishes they made love in bed. Yet even though it was all perfect, exactly as Peter had wanted, there was something missing. A screw loose, perhaps. Leah’s hot breath was musty against his cheek, and her fingers around his palm were stiff.
Too stiff. Too rusty. Her head was slack against her neck. She blinked slowly, twice, as she hummed and made breakfast. Her joints were creaking as she carried the omelettes to the table, and her voice monotonic as she wished him a great day at work. Peter was wondering if he had made a mistake. This was not the woman he ordered.
“I’m not going to work today,” he said.
Leah’s eyes rolled against her sockets. “Why not.”
Peter’s head was spinning. A spring wriggled out of her neck and flopped onto her shoulder. Her arms twitched, and then windmilled, and one fell off, leaving behind a plume of smoke.
So instead he grabbed her hand and dragged her out of the door. Giggling, perhaps thinking that Peter would take her out somewhere special, Leah bore a grin. Her teeth dropped out and shattered on the concrete pavement.
***
“So, let us get this straight. Are you looking to return her?”
“Yes,” Peter said impatiently.
The attendant adjusted his glasses and peered at him. “Are you aware of our return policy?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Peter snapped. “Get me a new one!”
”I see.” The attendant coughed politely. His facial expressions didn’t change. “Come with me, please.”
Rachel was everything Leah wasn’t. She had a bigger smile, bigger eyes, bigger everything. Peter had taken great care to choose the eyes. Leah’s eyes were too small for her; therefore it looked like she was always squinting, bordered by thin wrinkles.
He was happier than ever before when he first came in. The jazzy music seemed to be playing louder than before, almost like church-bells. Rachel sat by his side as he counted his cash. Her hand snaked into his lap as he signed the contract for the second time.
If Peter could look back at this moment, he would’ve admitted that Rachel was much more of an improvement. She was faster at her work, quieter, more efficient. Her concentration did not waver as she worked; she barely looked up even. Peter found his days easy, his nights peaceful.
Until she opened her mouth one chicken dinner.
“Do you think I am a good wife?”
Peter jerked upwards. The thought pierced his brain and he did not like it. “I’m sorry?”
“Do you think I am a good wife?” Rachel repeated. Her eyelids opened and shut. Opened and shut.
Peter’s brain was fuzzy. The words came out like static. “I…I…”
“So I am not a good wife?”
Peter did not want to be part of this conversation. He stood up to leave, but Rachel’s gaze bolted him to the floor.
“Am I nothing to you?” Rachel pressed on. “What else am I good for, besides cooking, and cleaning, and making love at night? What else can I do for you?”
‘Enough,” Peter said. His eyes narrowed into slits and his face hardened and smoothed over. For a moment Rachel turned into Leah but his brain flickered and there was Rachel again.
He stood up.
“We are going back tomorrow.”
***
Rachel was screaming as they dragged her back to where she came from, but Peter felt no satisfaction. It was simply a part of Society. She had learned it the hard way. Soon Peter would get her replacement and life would continue as normal.
The attendant stepped up to him, wiping sweat off his glasses.
“Are you Peter? Here for your third wife?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me please.”
The back area stood out like a rogue part compared to the rest of the reception. Crimson streaks crawled up the door made of scrap iron that stood the test of time. As they neared the back area Peter could hear the chaos behind: a symphony of screams and screeches and chomps and clashes of metal upon metal.
His eyes rolled over to the sign. Each letter sunk in like a knife to flesh. For the first time, cold sweat appeared on his palms and rolled down his arm.
The attendant was still talking but Peter was not listening.
“You have violated Society’s return policy by asking for a third wife.”
Peter said nothing.
“Are you well aware of our return policy in your contract?”
A contract. Yes, there was a contract. It was a blur in his brain: black scribbles on a polished white surface. He had carefully printed his name on the paper; Leah had smiled and held his hand at the prospect of going home as a happy married couple.
The attendant flicked the back of Peter’s head and opened the door. Peter walked in without a fuss. If he had looked back, he would have seen a pinprick of a smile on the edges of his lips–the only human emotion they knew–but it was gone almost as quickly.
“Goodbye, Peter B10874,” the attendant said, and then he walked back to serve another customer.
submitted by SimbaTheSavage8 to SimbaKingdom [link] [comments]
Brand new. Ready for Society to take him.
“Good afternoon, Peter,” said the attendant. He was four times his age, a wizarding man with wisps of smoky hair hanging down the sides of his head. He was dented with wrinkles, and his gaze was cloudy.
“Good afternoon,” Peter replied, trying to keep his voice even and his revulsion hidden. He looked briskly around the room. Other attendants buzzed around like busy bees, offering coffee or tea, presenting paperwork. Smiling customers walked out with a new woman in hand. Others were hauled back inside the shop. Peter had spent ages drawing and planning her. Saving up to get her. And now he will get her.
“When do we begin?” Impatience was always his greatest weakness. Something he had to remove sooner or later, but he had to focus on the present. The woman. The prestige. Everything.
The attendant snapped back to attention. “Right this way, sir,” he said, his voice struggling to be as brisk as his. Peter nodded, still impatient. That blueprint he spent months on was firmly secured in his brain, struggling to get free.
They left the comfortable air-conditioned lobby, all white walls and stainless steel floors, and continued on to the rougher part of the shop. Here buttons flashed and machines churned and squealed and robotic arms flew everywhere, grabbing parts with their claws and dropping it off at an assembly line. It was more humid, and Peter raised an arm to rub sweat off his face.
“This is where our women are made,” stated the attendant. Peter nodded, not really listening. His eyes wandered to another robotic arm, dutifully picking up an arm and attaching it to a chest. She was already stuffed with the essentials: heart, lungs, stomach, liver. Right now she was a blank canvas, but soon she would be a piece of art. That would be a near guarantee.
Their shoes clinked on the walkway as they continued through the maze of halls in the factory, until they reached a small control booth, a white cube shining through dark metal. The attendant nodded at Peter and opened the door. No words were exchanged; no instructions were said. Peter knew exactly what he had to do.
He stared up at the blank, black screen in front of him, his mind drawing up his blueprint from his memory. Then his arm reached for the flashing buttons and touch screens in front of him.
***
“Is she to your satisfaction, sir?”
She could easily be mistaken for Dracula’s bride. Pale as the moon, with long, thin hair that flowed down from her forehead like corn-silk. Her marble fingers curled around his palm.
“Yes,” said Peter.
“Understood,” said the attendant. “Sign here.”
Peter picked up the pen, his fingers gripping around the plastic, and stared heavily at the paper. After a whole list of terms and conditions was a single sentence that he knew would change his life for good.
Peter B10874 and Leah B22359 will now be pronounced husband and wife.
His new wife smiled thinly at him and gripped his hand tighter. Lowering the pen, Peter scrawled his name across the sheet.
***
Leah’s life was simple. It could even be boiled down to three words, and three words only.
Cook. Clean. Husband.
Her eyes scanned the floorboards for any signs of dust. There were none; she had been meticulous with her broom that afternoon, counting every speck into her dustpan. Now she stood by the doorway and closed her eyes, waiting for her husband to come home.
“Hi, honey,” Peter repeated.
“I love you,” Leah repeated back.
They locked their arms around each other, fingers groping around their waist. Then Leah took Peter by the hand and led him towards the dining table.
Dinner was waiting. A hot succulent brown chicken, bathed with hot succulent brown gravy. They sat down, husband next to wife, divided the chicken into two, stabbed the meat with their forks, put it into their mouths and began to chew. Then swallowed. Chewed, then swallowed.
“How was work today, dear?” Leah asked.
“It was fine,” Peter replied. The standard response.
He wasn’t lying. Nothing truly spectacular happened. Peter sat in the ‘P’ department with all the other Peters chipping away at a stack of legal documents. The work was simple. The contents were unimportant. Peter never bothered to read any of them; his arm went up and over, signed and stamped, and put them neatly in another pile.
Then he brought another one from the pile. And another, and another, until it was six’o’clock and it was time to go home. He marched with hundreds of other gray suits, down roads thick with gravel and asphalt, all the way home before raising his hand to knock.
They finished the meal in silence, just the two of them, then after Leah did the dishes they made love in bed. Yet even though it was all perfect, exactly as Peter had wanted, there was something missing. A screw loose, perhaps. Leah’s hot breath was musty against his cheek, and her fingers around his palm were stiff.
Too stiff. Too rusty. Her head was slack against her neck. She blinked slowly, twice, as she hummed and made breakfast. Her joints were creaking as she carried the omelettes to the table, and her voice monotonic as she wished him a great day at work. Peter was wondering if he had made a mistake. This was not the woman he ordered.
“I’m not going to work today,” he said.
Leah’s eyes rolled against her sockets. “Why not.”
Peter’s head was spinning. A spring wriggled out of her neck and flopped onto her shoulder. Her arms twitched, and then windmilled, and one fell off, leaving behind a plume of smoke.
So instead he grabbed her hand and dragged her out of the door. Giggling, perhaps thinking that Peter would take her out somewhere special, Leah bore a grin. Her teeth dropped out and shattered on the concrete pavement.
***
“So, let us get this straight. Are you looking to return her?”
“Yes,” Peter said impatiently.
The attendant adjusted his glasses and peered at him. “Are you aware of our return policy?”
“It doesn’t matter!” Peter snapped. “Get me a new one!”
”I see.” The attendant coughed politely. His facial expressions didn’t change. “Come with me, please.”
Rachel was everything Leah wasn’t. She had a bigger smile, bigger eyes, bigger everything. Peter had taken great care to choose the eyes. Leah’s eyes were too small for her; therefore it looked like she was always squinting, bordered by thin wrinkles.
He was happier than ever before when he first came in. The jazzy music seemed to be playing louder than before, almost like church-bells. Rachel sat by his side as he counted his cash. Her hand snaked into his lap as he signed the contract for the second time.
If Peter could look back at this moment, he would’ve admitted that Rachel was much more of an improvement. She was faster at her work, quieter, more efficient. Her concentration did not waver as she worked; she barely looked up even. Peter found his days easy, his nights peaceful.
Until she opened her mouth one chicken dinner.
“Do you think I am a good wife?”
Peter jerked upwards. The thought pierced his brain and he did not like it. “I’m sorry?”
“Do you think I am a good wife?” Rachel repeated. Her eyelids opened and shut. Opened and shut.
Peter’s brain was fuzzy. The words came out like static. “I…I…”
“So I am not a good wife?”
Peter did not want to be part of this conversation. He stood up to leave, but Rachel’s gaze bolted him to the floor.
“Am I nothing to you?” Rachel pressed on. “What else am I good for, besides cooking, and cleaning, and making love at night? What else can I do for you?”
‘Enough,” Peter said. His eyes narrowed into slits and his face hardened and smoothed over. For a moment Rachel turned into Leah but his brain flickered and there was Rachel again.
He stood up.
“We are going back tomorrow.”
***
Rachel was screaming as they dragged her back to where she came from, but Peter felt no satisfaction. It was simply a part of Society. She had learned it the hard way. Soon Peter would get her replacement and life would continue as normal.
The attendant stepped up to him, wiping sweat off his glasses.
“Are you Peter? Here for your third wife?”
“Yes.”
“Come with me please.”
The back area stood out like a rogue part compared to the rest of the reception. Crimson streaks crawled up the door made of scrap iron that stood the test of time. As they neared the back area Peter could hear the chaos behind: a symphony of screams and screeches and chomps and clashes of metal upon metal.
His eyes rolled over to the sign. Each letter sunk in like a knife to flesh. For the first time, cold sweat appeared on his palms and rolled down his arm.
The attendant was still talking but Peter was not listening.
“You have violated Society’s return policy by asking for a third wife.”
Peter said nothing.
“Are you well aware of our return policy in your contract?”
A contract. Yes, there was a contract. It was a blur in his brain: black scribbles on a polished white surface. He had carefully printed his name on the paper; Leah had smiled and held his hand at the prospect of going home as a happy married couple.
The attendant flicked the back of Peter’s head and opened the door. Peter walked in without a fuss. If he had looked back, he would have seen a pinprick of a smile on the edges of his lips–the only human emotion they knew–but it was gone almost as quickly.
“Goodbye, Peter B10874,” the attendant said, and then he walked back to serve another customer.