Stickley recliner sofa

Didn’t know that was a probable in our lifetime but it happened! Everyone is OK but a lot of the electrical equipment is fucked- including a reclining sofa and computer lol One of the outlet covers completely shot off and shattered.
If anyone has any tips, would appreciate. Should we be calling someone lol? Stay safe!

Can Child protective services(CYS) not return a child due to pending criminal investigation? I had my son on June 07, 2023. On July 12, 2023 I took him to the ER, per his pediatrician request, after a phone call reporting that I notice him puking more than half his food after every feed. I also reported that his dad told me he found him on the floor after I sat him on the reclining sofa the day before. The doctors started to take pictures of what they said were bruises on my five week old bi-racial child. CPS was involved and me and his dad was not allowed at the hospital any longer. The cops interviewed me and his dad the same day. It has been almost a year with no criminal charges filed against neither parent. I want my son back, I have complied with everything that they wanted such as: parenting class(finished) I go to therapy. They're saying they cannot return my son back to me even though I have complied with everything they wanted, unless the criminal investigation has been closed. What are my options?

I'll give some preface to this. My GF and I have never made enough to reliably keep a rental house. We have been homeless, and most of the time we live in campers or other small spaces. We scored a massive 3 bed home and my GF decided she could finally have nice furniture. I said it was a bad idea but she loved it.
The actual problem.
We of course lost that house after a year due to everything is stupid expensive, and now live in a small camping trailer. It took 7 trips and a U-Haul rental to move all these large dressers, a giant sectional sofa, recliner, TV stands, TWO armoires, I could go on.
Everything went into a storage unit Tetris style. Floor to ceiling totally packed. It's another bill for me to pay, and it was back breaking to get everything to fit.
She wants to keep it all for "when we get a place of our own someday" and I wanna ditch it all and put the storage money into something productive... Such as a savings plan to ACTUALLY buy a house, or fix the un-liveable place my dad left me.
We obviously must reach a compromise but I'm not sure what it is. Please help.
TLDR: Moved a 3 bed home into a tiny storage unit, I want everything to go and GF wants to keep it all.

Hi y'all. I have posted about our foster cat, Felina, before on here when we got her, asking for some tips as new foster parents. My fiancé and I have had her for 4 months now, and we are wondering how we could be the best parents for her forward.
She is coming along, that's important to preface. She likes to sleep on like a nook above our staircase which is easily reachable for us, so then we can pet her head. As long as I approve the sniff test, I can pet her even though she sometimes pull away a bit at first. I try not to overstep boundaries though, because I've learnt that's very important to cats to show them respect and distance.
She tolerates us being in the kitchen and her sitting in the recliner some meters away for instance. She can be on the floor a bit in hiding observing from a distance, or being in her cat tree looking out and cleaning herself, minding her own business as long as we are not approaching or moving and making a lot of noise.
The thing is, she doesn't quite seem to get past that milestone where she does not immediately go under the recliner and sofa when we walk towards her. Thankfully she doesn't desperately run, she walks away normally or slowly into hiding, and sometimes stop to look at me. I've tried walking normal, hunched over, crawling and having treats and toys while I do so, but she is still too unsure of our intentions I guess and would like to keep distance.
What can we do? How to make her understand that we just want to give her a treat or pet her and be nice? I just wanna snuggle and love this cat so much but she still want nothing to do with us really and I feel defeated! xx

I'm moving out for the first time next week yay! Any good furniture store recommendations in Melbourne for a good quality couch? I don't want to buy a second-hand one. Budget is preferably under $3500.
I''m looking for either a chaise/modular lounge or chaise recliner. I've found some nice ones at Nick Scali and Catalano Interiors but estimated delivery time is 12 weeks. I'm even considering buying online to get an Eva sofa as they have fast delivery.
Please let me know your suggestions/experience with furniture shopping in Melbourne!

I fancy a 3 seater recliner. I've sat on shitty sofas for too long. I just want comfort. Any other recommendations?

Previously
“Is this the way Boss?”
“Yes, you are correct Joseph,” Ola said. “Good…job.” It sounded strange on her tongue. She was not used to giving out compliments, certainly not to a driver on his first day of work. But, she was in a rare good mood today, having just secured a major client for her company. The ink was barely dry on the contract; her lawyer had confirmed the deal via phone only 30 minutes ago.
“Whoo, thank you Lord,” Ola said, taking off her pointed toe pumps and massaging her feet. She could finally breathe as everything was coming together and getting done. The company's demands were under control, and her home renovations were progressing well. The latter was what excited her the most. It had been a month since she hired Howard, and his impact was already evident—new windows already in place, with new tiles and bright white paint on the horizon. Her mansion was on track to becoming the most beautiful on the block.
“Some people just need an opportunity,” Ola thought. As she reclined in the leather backseat of her Range Rover, she felt a sense of pride in trusting her instincts and taking a chance on someone who most would not even look at in their day to day. Trusting her instinct was what made her wealthy, and with Howard on her side, was going to make her even more wealthy.
Ola found herself contemplating grander plans for the homeless man. Beyond her own home, she envisioned a partnership that could revolutionize high-end home renovations all over their country. She knew there was a market there and, in fact, looked forward to seizing it. Once Howard finished her home, she would tell him about her plan and proposal, which she had no doubt that he would accept.
The Range Rover smoothly pulled into the yard, and Ola observed Howard and his crew buzzing with activity. The air was filled with the rhythmic clinks of tiles being carried into the house. Under the scorching sun, Howard, shirtless and with a pencil behind his ear, directed his team like a maestro directing a symphony.
Ola stepped out of the car, and as Howard noticed her approach, he wiped the sweat from his brow. She greeted him warmly. "Howard, it's looking great."
He let out his signature gap smile. "Thank you, Madam."
“Annie!” Ola called out.
A tall dark-skinned girl came running from inside the house. “Yes, Bosslady?”
“Give Howard a nice cold soft drink. This heat is too hot. Orange soda, right?”
Howard nodded.
“Eh, Annie.”
“Yes, Bosslady?” Annie asked, turning around just as she was about to enter the house.
“Bring a soft drink for Joseph too. What do you want?”
A skinny baby-faced man in a crisp black suit with a tie hurried over to Ola and Howard. “Need something Boss?”
“I said, what soft drink do you want to drink? The children have after school activities today, so you won’t be picking them up until quarter past 5. You have some time to relax.”
“Thank you Boss,” Joseph said, bowing his head twice. “Ginger ale. Thank you Boss.”
As Annie ventured into the house to fetch the drinks, Ola motioned towards the trio of patio rocking chairs on her porch, adorned with elegant navy blue and white Victorian floral cushions. "Come Howard, take a break. You have earned it."
Howard hesitated, glancing at his sweaty torso. "Oh…um…I don't want to dirty your chairs, Madam."
Ola chuckled. "Nonsense. I insist. Have a seat. Relax.” She did not offer a seat to Joseph. Such hospitality could only be offered to invited guests and a future business partner.
Despite initial hesitation, Howard nodded appreciatively and joined Ola by the chairs. The work crew continued their diligent efforts; and Annie delivered a refreshing Orange soda to Howard and a glass of club soda with ice to Ola as they settled down to relax in the shade of the porch. She also handed a cold bottle of Ginger ale to Joseph, who eagerly took his beverage and proceeded to lean on one of the porch’s columns.
Howard's parched lips embraced the chilled soda, the effervescent bubbles dancing in the glass bottle. Ola observed with amusement as he gulped down the drink as if he hadn't had water in three days. She found the homeless man fascinating, more captivating than the successful moguls and entrepreneurs she encountered both at home and abroad.
“Howard,” Ola said, breaking the silence. “I've been meaning to ask you. How did you learn to write so well?"
Howard wiped the remnants of Fanta from his lips, a hint of surprise in his eyes. It had been a very long time since anyone had inquired about his education. “Well, Madam…I learned it in Catholic school. The one by the capitol building.”
A subtle realization crossed Ola's face. “The private high school by the capitol building?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“That’s the best private school in the country.”
Howard nodded. "Yes, Madam…It…is.”
Ola's interest deepened. Who was this man who had attended private school with children of the elite class in their country and wealthy expatriates? The kind of school she longed for her children to attend once they were old enough. “You must come from a well off family to afford such education.”
A shadow passed over Howard's eyes. "I did, Madam…My parents…they even paid my way through college…at MIT…Once upon a time."
Ola’s jaw dropped. "MIT in America? You went to one of the best universities in the world?"
Howard sighed, his gaze fixated in the distance. “Yes…But that was a long time ago.”
“So, how did you….sorry I have to ask this…but how did you—”
“How did I end up as a drunk bastard?”
“Howard,” Ola said in a disapproving tone, tutting like a grade school teacher.
“Sorry, Madam…I actually never told anyone this story about how I end up as a drunkard. Not even, my own mother and father.”
It was in 1994. I had finished my first year at MIT and was starting my second year. I was not the best student in my class by any means; but, I was not the worst either. Somewhere in the middle, average as you could call it. Though, if you asked my parents, they would call it on the borderline of failure. Nothing one could do to please them, to be honest. They both had attended and met at Oxford, graduating with First class honors.
Despite my average status, I had already grown accustomed to MIT and its surrounding city, Cambridge. The city was a dream for me, a place where I'd explore on my bicycle during weekends and after classes.
While my parents saw it as playing around, the truth was, I spent the majority of my time studying hard to earn those average marks. MIT was very difficult, especially for someone like me, new to America and grappling with the language barrier and the curriculum. There were times where I cried and thought about calling my parents to send me back home.
My salvation at MIT came in the form of the strong study habits instilled in me during my Catholic school education years back home. Thus, at MIT, I spent my days in intense study sessions, often found in the library for hours on end. However, my favorite place though to study was a small and old-fashioned coffee shop not far from the university. Among the various coffee shops I'd stumbled upon in my city explorations, this one stood out. There was something about it that resonated with me. I couldn't quite explain it, but I found myself studying more efficiently or focusing more and getting a lot more done in that particular coffee shop.
It was also in this coffee shop where I met the reason for all my problems. She was short, had a curve figure with blonde hair and blue eyes. In just three days since she joined the coffee shop, our eyes met for the first time. What drew me in the most was the pinkish birthmark circling her left blue eye; it accentuated her blue eye, resembling a full blue moon against the dark night sky.
Every time I entered the coffee shop, my eyes searched for her, working behind the counter. I was too shy to say anything, not just to her, but to anyone at all, even back at my university. I was always the bookworm, the African student with big bug-eye glasses who kept to himself and always had his nose buried in his books. Striking up a conversation with others was not my strong suit to say the least.
However, fate took an unexpected turn one Friday night. Nearing closing time at the coffee shop, I unintentionally became the last lingering customer, absorbed in my studies for an engineering exam the upcoming week. To my surprise, she approached me.
"Nice Bob Marley shirt," she said with a warm smile, introducing herself. Her name was Alison, but she preferred to go by Al.
“Thank you…that’s my…favorite…shirt,” I said, barely able to get the words out. By this time, I was sweating all over and had to press my arms against my armpits so she could not notice the sweat pouring down.
“What are you studying?”
“Eng-Engineering,” I managed to say, stuttering.
“Where do you study?”
“M-M-MIT.”
She whistled. “Engineering at MIT. That’s hard. You must be a genius.”
“I could only dream,” I said, letting out a nervous laugh. There was something about her voice, so calming and encouraging. I was starting to gain confidence.
She flashed her signature warm smile and pointed at my shirt. “‘Three Little Birds’. That’s my favorite. You heard?”
“Oh yes, I like it very much…I also like ‘Redemption Song’.”
“Ohh, that’s a good one,” she said, snapping her fingers and humming the lyrics. I bopped my head to her humming, feeling that we had a connection.
We continued to talk about our other favorite Bob Marley songs, and the more we spoke, the more comfortable I felt. The conversation started to flow effortlessly, breaking the shell of my shy self. Al's outgoing manner made me feel like I could tell her anything, like talking to a best friend – a feeling I hadn't experienced since immigrating to America.
As the night unfolded, Al extended an invitation that, upon hearing it, made me feel like my heart was going to jump out of my chest. "There's an awesome record shop nearby. They have a nice collection of Bob Marley. How about we check it out tomorrow, Saturday? 12 noon good?"
“Yes, yes, that’s great. I would like that,” I answered a little too eagerly, like a child responding to the offer of ice cream from a parent.
We bidded each other good night, agreeing to rendezvous at the coffee shop before heading off together to the record shop. As I walked to my dorm, the prospect of the upcoming Saturday filled me with newfound excitement. Sleep eluded me that night as I looked forward to a connection I had never ever experienced before in my life: a connection with a girl.
That day, under the noon sun, we convened at the coffee shop and walked together to the record shop. Along the way, we talked. I was so nervous and anxious at the same time that I could barely get out my words without shaking. I am sure Al noticed but she did not say anything. She asked me about my studies at MIT and my upbringing in West Africa. Her kind eyes and friendly smile gave me the confidence to open up, and by the time we reached the record shop, we were laughing and cracking jokes. Her laughter was like sweet music, and I spent the whole day saying all the jokes I knew just for my ears to hear it.
At the record shop, I was treated to a first class education about Mr. Marley. Al’s knowledge about the artist was uncanny. As she riffled through the records, those blue eyes sparkled as she pointed out her favorite albums, sharing anecdotes about Bob Marley's life and the meanings behind each song. She even had a rapport with the shop owner and he allowed her to play the records. I marveled at how she recited the lyrics so effortlessly.
We sat on an old, worn-out sofa in the corner of the shop, enjoying the reggae tunes playing from the speakers. Al told me stories about Bob Marley's journey to stardom, his struggles and his impact on the Rastafarian movement: some of the stories that I had never heard before.
After the record shop, we had lunch at a pizza restaurant across the street. There, we continued our conversation about the Rastafarian movement until sunset. Neither of us wanted the day to end. Thus, I was elated and agreed without hesitation when she invited me to her place, an apartment on the outskirts of the city of Boston.
The apartment felt alive, with its colorful hippie decorations and mix-and-match furnishings that suited Al’s free spirit personality. Al's roommate, a girl with dreadlocks and tattoos covering her arms, greeted us with genuine hospitality. Al and her roommate had a stereo system and we spent the majority of the night listening to reggae, talking and laughing.
Later, Al invited me to her room where she showed me her collection of reggae record albums, and opened up to me about her upbringing: a well-to-do family with strict father or “suit and tie kind of guy” as she described him and quiet homemaker mother who followed her husband every command like “a lapdog.” We had similar parents, though I knew for a fact my parents were much stricter and, frankly, worse than hers.
To lighten the mood, I entertained Al by imitating my strict father and soft-voiced mother: imitating his nasal voice and her brutal sarcasms. That was the loudest I ever heard her laugh that entire day.
Al’s room was where I felt we cemented our bond. It was also a room where I had many first experiences all at once in the same night: alcohol, marijuana, a condom and woman’s business.
Next Part 3 Preview:
“Mister man. I want you to pack your things and take the next plane back home.” It was the clearest I ever heard his voice, without even a hint of nasalness. I could also hear his heavy breaths, like a silverback just before it was about to beat his chest and charge at you.
/The Tragic Tale of Howard. A West African 9-Part Series short story about loss, second chance, betrayal and personal demons. By West African writer Josephine Dean /

Previously
“Is this the way Boss?”
“Yes, you are correct Joseph,” Ola said. “Good…job.” It sounded strange on her tongue. She was not used to giving out compliments, certainly not to a driver on his first day of work. But, she was in a rare good mood today, having just secured a major client for her company. The ink was barely dry on the contract; her lawyer had confirmed the deal via phone only 30 minutes ago.
“Whoo, thank you Lord,” Ola said, taking off her pointed toe pumps and massaging her feet. She could finally breathe as everything was coming together and getting done. The company's demands were under control, and her home renovations were progressing well. The latter was what excited her the most. It had been a month since she hired Howard, and his impact was already evident—new windows already in place, with new tiles and bright white paint on the horizon. Her mansion was on track to becoming the most beautiful on the block.
“Some people just need an opportunity,” Ola thought. As she reclined in the leather backseat of her Range Rover, she felt a sense of pride in trusting her instincts and taking a chance on someone who most would not even look at in their day to day. Trusting her instinct was what made her wealthy, and with Howard on her side, was going to make her even more wealthy.
Ola found herself contemplating grander plans for the homeless man. Beyond her own home, she envisioned a partnership that could revolutionize high-end home renovations all over their country. She knew there was a market there and, in fact, looked forward to seizing it. Once Howard finished her home, she would tell him about her plan and proposal, which she had no doubt that he would accept.
The Range Rover smoothly pulled into the yard, and Ola observed Howard and his crew buzzing with activity. The air was filled with the rhythmic clinks of tiles being carried into the house. Under the scorching sun, Howard, shirtless and with a pencil behind his ear, directed his team like a maestro directing a symphony.
Ola stepped out of the car, and as Howard noticed her approach, he wiped the sweat from his brow. She greeted him warmly. "Howard, it's looking great."
He let out his signature gap smile. "Thank you, Madam."
“Annie!” Ola called out.
A tall dark-skinned girl came running from inside the house. “Yes, Bosslady?”
“Give Howard a nice cold soft drink. This heat is too hot. Orange soda, right?”
Howard nodded.
“Eh, Annie.”
“Yes, Bosslady?” Annie asked, turning around just as she was about to enter the house.
“Bring a soft drink for Joseph too. What do you want?”
A skinny baby-faced man in a crisp black suit with a tie hurried over to Ola and Howard. “Need something Boss?”
“I said, what soft drink do you want to drink? The children have after school activities today, so you won’t be picking them up until quarter past 5. You have some time to relax.”
“Thank you Boss,” Joseph said, bowing his head twice. “Ginger ale. Thank you Boss.”
As Annie ventured into the house to fetch the drinks, Ola motioned towards the trio of patio rocking chairs on her porch, adorned with elegant navy blue and white Victorian floral cushions. "Come Howard, take a break. You have earned it."
Howard hesitated, glancing at his sweaty torso. "Oh…um…I don't want to dirty your chairs, Madam."
Ola chuckled. "Nonsense. I insist. Have a seat. Relax.” She did not offer a seat to Joseph. Such hospitality could only be offered to invited guests and a future business partner.
Despite initial hesitation, Howard nodded appreciatively and joined Ola by the chairs. The work crew continued their diligent efforts; and Annie delivered a refreshing Orange soda to Howard and a glass of club soda with ice to Ola as they settled down to relax in the shade of the porch. She also handed a cold bottle of Ginger ale to Joseph, who eagerly took his beverage and proceeded to lean on one of the porch’s columns.
Howard's parched lips embraced the chilled soda, the effervescent bubbles dancing in the glass bottle. Ola observed with amusement as he gulped down the drink as if he hadn't had water in three days. She found the homeless man fascinating, more captivating than the successful moguls and entrepreneurs she encountered both at home and abroad.
“Howard,” Ola said, breaking the silence. “I've been meaning to ask you. How did you learn to write so well?"
Howard wiped the remnants of Fanta from his lips, a hint of surprise in his eyes. It had been a very long time since anyone had inquired about his education. “Well, Madam…I learned it in Catholic school. The one by the capitol building.”
A subtle realization crossed Ola's face. “The private high school by the capitol building?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“That’s the best private school in the country.”
Howard nodded. "Yes, Madam…It…is.”
Ola's interest deepened. Who was this man who had attended private school with children of the elite class in their country and wealthy expatriates? The kind of school she longed for her children to attend once they were old enough. “You must come from a well off family to afford such education.”
A shadow passed over Howard's eyes. "I did, Madam…My parents…they even paid my way through college…at MIT…Once upon a time."
Ola’s jaw dropped. "MIT in America? You went to one of the best universities in the world?"
Howard sighed, his gaze fixated in the distance. “Yes…But that was a long time ago.”
“So, how did you….sorry I have to ask this…but how did you—”
“How did I end up as a drunk bastard?”
“Howard,” Ola said in a disapproving tone, tutting like a grade school teacher.
“Sorry, Madam…I actually never told anyone this story about how I end up as a drunkard. Not even, my own mother and father.”
It was in 1994. I had finished my first year at MIT and was starting my second year. I was not the best student in my class by any means; but, I was not the worst either. Somewhere in the middle, average as you could call it. Though, if you asked my parents, they would call it on the borderline of failure. Nothing one could do to please them, to be honest. They both had attended and met at Oxford, graduating with First class honors.
Despite my average status, I had already grown accustomed to MIT and its surrounding city, Cambridge. The city was a dream for me, a place where I'd explore on my bicycle during weekends and after classes.
While my parents saw it as playing around, the truth was, I spent the majority of my time studying hard to earn those average marks. MIT was very difficult, especially for someone like me, new to America and grappling with the language barrier and the curriculum. There were times where I cried and thought about calling my parents to send me back home.
My salvation at MIT came in the form of the strong study habits instilled in me during my Catholic school education years back home. Thus, at MIT, I spent my days in intense study sessions, often found in the library for hours on end. However, my favorite place though to study was a small and old-fashioned coffee shop not far from the university. Among the various coffee shops I'd stumbled upon in my city explorations, this one stood out. There was something about it that resonated with me. I couldn't quite explain it, but I found myself studying more efficiently or focusing more and getting a lot more done in that particular coffee shop.
It was also in this coffee shop where I met the reason for all my problems. She was short, had a curve figure with blonde hair and blue eyes. In just three days since she joined the coffee shop, our eyes met for the first time. What drew me in the most was the pinkish birthmark circling her left blue eye; it accentuated her blue eye, resembling a full blue moon against the dark night sky.
Every time I entered the coffee shop, my eyes searched for her, working behind the counter. I was too shy to say anything, not just to her, but to anyone at all, even back at my university. I was always the bookworm, the African student with big bug-eye glasses who kept to himself and always had his nose buried in his books. Striking up a conversation with others was not my strong suit to say the least.
However, fate took an unexpected turn one Friday night. Nearing closing time at the coffee shop, I unintentionally became the last lingering customer, absorbed in my studies for an engineering exam the upcoming week. To my surprise, she approached me.
"Nice Bob Marley shirt," she said with a warm smile, introducing herself. Her name was Alison, but she preferred to go by Al.
“Thank you…that’s my…favorite…shirt,” I said, barely able to get the words out. By this time, I was sweating all over and had to press my arms against my armpits so she could not notice the sweat pouring down.
“What are you studying?”
“Eng-Engineering,” I managed to say, stuttering.
“Where do you study?”
“M-M-MIT.”
She whistled. “Engineering at MIT. That’s hard. You must be a genius.”
“I could only dream,” I said, letting out a nervous laugh. There was something about her voice, so calming and encouraging. I was starting to gain confidence.
She flashed her signature warm smile and pointed at my shirt. “‘Three Little Birds’. That’s my favorite. You heard?”
“Oh yes, I like it very much…I also like ‘Redemption Song’.”
“Ohh, that’s a good one,” she said, snapping her fingers and humming the lyrics. I bopped my head to her humming, feeling that we had a connection.
We continued to talk about our other favorite Bob Marley songs, and the more we spoke, the more comfortable I felt. The conversation started to flow effortlessly, breaking the shell of my shy self. Al's outgoing manner made me feel like I could tell her anything, like talking to a best friend – a feeling I hadn't experienced since immigrating to America.
As the night unfolded, Al extended an invitation that, upon hearing it, made me feel like my heart was going to jump out of my chest. "There's an awesome record shop nearby. They have a nice collection of Bob Marley. How about we check it out tomorrow, Saturday? 12 noon good?"
“Yes, yes, that’s great. I would like that,” I answered a little too eagerly, like a child responding to the offer of ice cream from a parent.
We bidded each other good night, agreeing to rendezvous at the coffee shop before heading off together to the record shop. As I walked to my dorm, the prospect of the upcoming Saturday filled me with newfound excitement. Sleep eluded me that night as I looked forward to a connection I had never ever experienced before in my life: a connection with a girl.
That day, under the noon sun, we convened at the coffee shop and walked together to the record shop. Along the way, we talked. I was so nervous and anxious at the same time that I could barely get out my words without shaking. I am sure Al noticed but she did not say anything. She asked me about my studies at MIT and my upbringing in West Africa. Her kind eyes and friendly smile gave me the confidence to open up, and by the time we reached the record shop, we were laughing and cracking jokes. Her laughter was like sweet music, and I spent the whole day saying all the jokes I knew just for my ears to hear it.
At the record shop, I was treated to a first class education about Mr. Marley. Al’s knowledge about the artist was uncanny. As she riffled through the records, those blue eyes sparkled as she pointed out her favorite albums, sharing anecdotes about Bob Marley's life and the meanings behind each song. She even had a rapport with the shop owner and he allowed her to play the records. I marveled at how she recited the lyrics so effortlessly.
We sat on an old, worn-out sofa in the corner of the shop, enjoying the reggae tunes playing from the speakers. Al told me stories about Bob Marley's journey to stardom, his struggles and his impact on the Rastafarian movement: some of the stories that I had never heard before.
After the record shop, we had lunch at a pizza restaurant across the street. There, we continued our conversation about the Rastafarian movement until sunset. Neither of us wanted the day to end. Thus, I was elated and agreed without hesitation when she invited me to her place, an apartment on the outskirts of the city of Boston.
The apartment felt alive, with its colorful hippie decorations and mix-and-match furnishings that suited Al’s free spirit personality. Al's roommate, a girl with dreadlocks and tattoos covering her arms, greeted us with genuine hospitality. Al and her roommate had a stereo system and we spent the majority of the night listening to reggae, talking and laughing.
Later, Al invited me to her room where she showed me her collection of reggae record albums, and opened up to me about her upbringing: a well-to-do family with strict father or “suit and tie kind of guy” as she described him and quiet homemaker mother who followed her husband every command like “a lapdog.” We had similar parents, though I knew for a fact my parents were much stricter and, frankly, worse than hers.
To lighten the mood, I entertained Al by imitating my strict father and soft-voiced mother: imitating his nasal voice and her brutal sarcasms. That was the loudest I ever heard her laugh that entire day.
Al’s room was where I felt we cemented our bond. It was also a room where I had many first experiences all at once in the same night: alcohol, marijuana, a condom and woman’s business.
Next Part 3 Preview:
“Mister man. I want you to pack your things and take the next plane back home.” It was the clearest I ever heard his voice, without even a hint of nasalness. I could also hear his heavy breaths, like a silverback just before it was about to beat his chest and charge at you.
/The Tragic Tale of Howard. A West African 9-Part Series short story about loss, second chance, betrayal and personal demons. By West African writer Josephine Dean /

Previously
“Is this the way Boss?”
“Yes, you are correct Joseph,” Ola said. “Good…job.” It sounded strange on her tongue. She was not used to giving out compliments, certainly not to a driver on his first day of work. But, she was in a rare good mood today, having just secured a major client for her company. The ink was barely dry on the contract; her lawyer had confirmed the deal via phone only 30 minutes ago.
“Whoo, thank you Lord,” Ola said, taking off her pointed toe pumps and massaging her feet. She could finally breathe as everything was coming together and getting done. The company's demands were under control, and her home renovations were progressing well. The latter was what excited her the most. It had been a month since she hired Howard, and his impact was already evident—new windows already in place, with new tiles and bright white paint on the horizon. Her mansion was on track to becoming the most beautiful on the block.
“Some people just need an opportunity,” Ola thought. As she reclined in the leather backseat of her Range Rover, she felt a sense of pride in trusting her instincts and taking a chance on someone who most would not even look at in their day to day. Trusting her instinct was what made her wealthy, and with Howard on her side, was going to make her even more wealthy.
Ola found herself contemplating grander plans for the homeless man. Beyond her own home, she envisioned a partnership that could revolutionize high-end home renovations all over their country. She knew there was a market there and, in fact, looked forward to seizing it. Once Howard finished her home, she would tell him about her plan and proposal, which she had no doubt that he would accept.
The Range Rover smoothly pulled into the yard, and Ola observed Howard and his crew buzzing with activity. The air was filled with the rhythmic clinks of tiles being carried into the house. Under the scorching sun, Howard, shirtless and with a pencil behind his ear, directed his team like a maestro directing a symphony.
Ola stepped out of the car, and as Howard noticed her approach, he wiped the sweat from his brow. She greeted him warmly. "Howard, it's looking great."
He let out his signature gap smile. "Thank you, Madam."
“Annie!” Ola called out.
A tall dark-skinned girl came running from inside the house. “Yes, Bosslady?”
“Give Howard a nice cold soft drink. This heat is too hot. Orange soda, right?”
Howard nodded.
“Eh, Annie.”
“Yes, Bosslady?” Annie asked, turning around just as she was about to enter the house.
“Bring a soft drink for Joseph too. What do you want?”
A skinny baby-faced man in a crisp black suit with a tie hurried over to Ola and Howard. “Need something Boss?”
“I said, what soft drink do you want to drink? The children have after school activities today, so you won’t be picking them up until quarter past 5. You have some time to relax.”
“Thank you Boss,” Joseph said, bowing his head twice. “Ginger ale. Thank you Boss.”
As Annie ventured into the house to fetch the drinks, Ola motioned towards the trio of patio rocking chairs on her porch, adorned with elegant navy blue and white Victorian floral cushions. "Come Howard, take a break. You have earned it."
Howard hesitated, glancing at his sweaty torso. "Oh…um…I don't want to dirty your chairs, Madam."
Ola chuckled. "Nonsense. I insist. Have a seat. Relax.” She did not offer a seat to Joseph. Such hospitality could only be offered to invited guests and a future business partner.
Despite initial hesitation, Howard nodded appreciatively and joined Ola by the chairs. The work crew continued their diligent efforts; and Annie delivered a refreshing Orange soda to Howard and a glass of club soda with ice to Ola as they settled down to relax in the shade of the porch. She also handed a cold bottle of Ginger ale to Joseph, who eagerly took his beverage and proceeded to lean on one of the porch’s columns.
Howard's parched lips embraced the chilled soda, the effervescent bubbles dancing in the glass bottle. Ola observed with amusement as he gulped down the drink as if he hadn't had water in three days. She found the homeless man fascinating, more captivating than the successful moguls and entrepreneurs she encountered both at home and abroad.
“Howard,” Ola said, breaking the silence. “I've been meaning to ask you. How did you learn to write so well?"
Howard wiped the remnants of Fanta from his lips, a hint of surprise in his eyes. It had been a very long time since anyone had inquired about his education. “Well, Madam…I learned it in Catholic school. The one by the capitol building.”
A subtle realization crossed Ola's face. “The private high school by the capitol building?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“That’s the best private school in the country.”
Howard nodded. "Yes, Madam…It…is.”
Ola's interest deepened. Who was this man who had attended private school with children of the elite class in their country and wealthy expatriates? The kind of school she longed for her children to attend once they were old enough. “You must come from a well off family to afford such education.”
A shadow passed over Howard's eyes. "I did, Madam…My parents…they even paid my way through college…at MIT…Once upon a time."
Ola’s jaw dropped. "MIT in America? You went to one of the best universities in the world?"
Howard sighed, his gaze fixated in the distance. “Yes…But that was a long time ago.”
“So, how did you….sorry I have to ask this…but how did you—”
“How did I end up as a drunk bastard?”
“Howard,” Ola said in a disapproving tone, tutting like a grade school teacher.
“Sorry, Madam…I actually never told anyone this story about how I end up as a drunkard. Not even, my own mother and father.”
It was in 1994. I had finished my first year at MIT and was starting my second year. I was not the best student in my class by any means; but, I was not the worst either. Somewhere in the middle, average as you could call it. Though, if you asked my parents, they would call it on the borderline of failure. Nothing one could do to please them, to be honest. They both had attended and met at Oxford, graduating with First class honors.
Despite my average status, I had already grown accustomed to MIT and its surrounding city, Cambridge. The city was a dream for me, a place where I'd explore on my bicycle during weekends and after classes.
While my parents saw it as playing around, the truth was, I spent the majority of my time studying hard to earn those average marks. MIT was very difficult, especially for someone like me, new to America and grappling with the language barrier and the curriculum. There were times where I cried and thought about calling my parents to send me back home.
My salvation at MIT came in the form of the strong study habits instilled in me during my Catholic school education years back home. Thus, at MIT, I spent my days in intense study sessions, often found in the library for hours on end. However, my favorite place though to study was a small and old-fashioned coffee shop not far from the university. Among the various coffee shops I'd stumbled upon in my city explorations, this one stood out. There was something about it that resonated with me. I couldn't quite explain it, but I found myself studying more efficiently or focusing more and getting a lot more done in that particular coffee shop.
It was also in this coffee shop where I met the reason for all my problems. She was short, had a curve figure with blonde hair and blue eyes. In just three days since she joined the coffee shop, our eyes met for the first time. What drew me in the most was the pinkish birthmark circling her left blue eye; it accentuated her blue eye, resembling a full blue moon against the dark night sky.
Every time I entered the coffee shop, my eyes searched for her, working behind the counter. I was too shy to say anything, not just to her, but to anyone at all, even back at my university. I was always the bookworm, the African student with big bug-eye glasses who kept to himself and always had his nose buried in his books. Striking up a conversation with others was not my strong suit to say the least.
However, fate took an unexpected turn one Friday night. Nearing closing time at the coffee shop, I unintentionally became the last lingering customer, absorbed in my studies for an engineering exam the upcoming week. To my surprise, she approached me.
"Nice Bob Marley shirt," she said with a warm smile, introducing herself. Her name was Alison, but she preferred to go by Al.
“Thank you…that’s my…favorite…shirt,” I said, barely able to get the words out. By this time, I was sweating all over and had to press my arms against my armpits so she could not notice the sweat pouring down.
“What are you studying?”
“Eng-Engineering,” I managed to say, stuttering.
“Where do you study?”
“M-M-MIT.”
She whistled. “Engineering at MIT. That’s hard. You must be a genius.”
“I could only dream,” I said, letting out a nervous laugh. There was something about her voice, so calming and encouraging. I was starting to gain confidence.
She flashed her signature warm smile and pointed at my shirt. “‘Three Little Birds’. That’s my favorite. You heard?”
“Oh yes, I like it very much…I also like ‘Redemption Song’.”
“Ohh, that’s a good one,” she said, snapping her fingers and humming the lyrics. I bopped my head to her humming, feeling that we had a connection.
We continued to talk about our other favorite Bob Marley songs, and the more we spoke, the more comfortable I felt. The conversation started to flow effortlessly, breaking the shell of my shy self. Al's outgoing manner made me feel like I could tell her anything, like talking to a best friend – a feeling I hadn't experienced since immigrating to America.
As the night unfolded, Al extended an invitation that, upon hearing it, made me feel like my heart was going to jump out of my chest. "There's an awesome record shop nearby. They have a nice collection of Bob Marley. How about we check it out tomorrow, Saturday? 12 noon good?"
“Yes, yes, that’s great. I would like that,” I answered a little too eagerly, like a child responding to the offer of ice cream from a parent.
We bidded each other good night, agreeing to rendezvous at the coffee shop before heading off together to the record shop. As I walked to my dorm, the prospect of the upcoming Saturday filled me with newfound excitement. Sleep eluded me that night as I looked forward to a connection I had never ever experienced before in my life: a connection with a girl.
That day, under the noon sun, we convened at the coffee shop and walked together to the record shop. Along the way, we talked. I was so nervous and anxious at the same time that I could barely get out my words without shaking. I am sure Al noticed but she did not say anything. She asked me about my studies at MIT and my upbringing in West Africa. Her kind eyes and friendly smile gave me the confidence to open up, and by the time we reached the record shop, we were laughing and cracking jokes. Her laughter was like sweet music, and I spent the whole day saying all the jokes I knew just for my ears to hear it.
At the record shop, I was treated to a first class education about Mr. Marley. Al’s knowledge about the artist was uncanny. As she riffled through the records, those blue eyes sparkled as she pointed out her favorite albums, sharing anecdotes about Bob Marley's life and the meanings behind each song. She even had a rapport with the shop owner and he allowed her to play the records. I marveled at how she recited the lyrics so effortlessly.
We sat on an old, worn-out sofa in the corner of the shop, enjoying the reggae tunes playing from the speakers. Al told me stories about Bob Marley's journey to stardom, his struggles and his impact on the Rastafarian movement: some of the stories that I had never heard before.
After the record shop, we had lunch at a pizza restaurant across the street. There, we continued our conversation about the Rastafarian movement until sunset. Neither of us wanted the day to end. Thus, I was elated and agreed without hesitation when she invited me to her place, an apartment on the outskirts of the city of Boston.
The apartment felt alive, with its colorful hippie decorations and mix-and-match furnishings that suited Al’s free spirit personality. Al's roommate, a girl with dreadlocks and tattoos covering her arms, greeted us with genuine hospitality. Al and her roommate had a stereo system and we spent the majority of the night listening to reggae, talking and laughing.
Later, Al invited me to her room where she showed me her collection of reggae record albums, and opened up to me about her upbringing: a well-to-do family with strict father or “suit and tie kind of guy” as she described him and quiet homemaker mother who followed her husband every command like “a lapdog.” We had similar parents, though I knew for a fact my parents were much stricter and, frankly, worse than hers.
To lighten the mood, I entertained Al by imitating my strict father and soft-voiced mother: imitating his nasal voice and her brutal sarcasms. That was the loudest I ever heard her laugh that entire day.
Al’s room was where I felt we cemented our bond. It was also a room where I had many first experiences all at once in the same night: alcohol, marijuana, a condom and woman’s business.
Next Part 3 Preview:
“Mister man. I want you to pack your things and take the next plane back home.” It was the clearest I ever heard his voice, without even a hint of nasalness. I could also hear his heavy breaths, like a silverback just before it was about to beat his chest and charge at you.
/The Tragic Tale of Howard. A West African 9-Part Series short story about loss, second chance, betrayal and personal demons. By West African writer Josephine Dean /

Here's the facts of the situation:
I paid for four recliner chairs for my garage to use when watching TV. In only a couple uses they are getting damaged and seem to be pretty cheaply made so I put them in the corner of the garage and blocked them off, saving them for when me and my friends watch sports events.
For some reason my sister brought my mum into this telling her to speak to me about putting the chairs away. After my mum spoke to me l texted my sister this word for word:
"I moved the chairs because ive used them 3 times and theres already a rip in one stains on all of them a massage broken and theyre getting deflated im saving them for my mates coming round and theres still a sofa in there to use".
The next message from her:
"ok thats me done w u"
This message was followed by her yet again phoning my mum at work shouting at her about how she's cutting me off and that they should forget about my birthday which is next week. She kept this up until my mum started to cry at work.
Do my actions make me wrong in this situation?

Hi All, I’m moving out of Alpharetta next week so have a couple of items that I’m selling currently on market place, if you seem interested please feel free to reach out to me with any questions. I have put in links for each item below that will redirect to the facebook market place, but here is the list:
Besides the list below, I have a barely used queen bedframe with sealy copper infused memory foam mattress as well that I’m willing to let go for 300 usd.
Vizio Home Theatre:
https://www.facebook.com/marketplace/item/1409652126376427/?mibextid=6ojiHh
Samsung 4K 65 Inch TV:
https://www.facebook.com/marketplace/item/1478102069750889/?mibextid=6ojiHh
Edifier Studio Bookshelf Speakers with sub:
https://www.facebook.com/marketplace/item/727449502646002/?mibextid=6ojiHh
Beautiful modern sofa converts into sleeper futon:
https://www.facebook.com/marketplace/item/465702509315336/?mibextid=6ojiHh
Recliner Chair with ottoman:
https://www.facebook.com/marketplace/item/1186495852513902/?mibextid=6ojiHh

It’s very cold this morning. It was like 4° when I woke up from memory, it’s now 11° and sunny so that’s better. I should probably not have bare feet but oh well. I don’t like wearing socks if I’m walking around as the idea of dust or whatever accumulating on my socks makes me feel gross, and I don’t have any slippers, so… bare feet it is. It’s fine, I don’t mind. I don’t feel negatively about any of this. He said I’m negative so I think I want to try acknowledge when I feel okay, and when I actually feel negative. I feel fine.
He called me a wet blanket last night. I knew he thought of me that way. I knew it I knew it I knew it. See this is what I mean, I may well think negatively but clearly it’s not always inaccurate. This is what I mean, I don’t want to be some deluded idiot who is convinced everyone adores me and thinks I’m great. I know people like that, I always have, and they are never all that great and it makes me feel so filled with second hand embarrassment that I utterly refuse to ever be thought of in that way. To think you’re wanted/great and for people to think the opposite? The idea makes me feel sick to my stomach. I know this links to my fear of rejection which further links to my lack of self worth but whatever. Everything’s linked somewhere, it seems. Anyway. He literally said I’m a wet blanket. I don’t disagree, and his points were valid. I could feel myself starting to get really upset after he said it - I had tears welling up and I was feeling choked up and things. However, I practiced my self control and whatever that I’ve talked about in therapy and I managed to bring myself out of it before it escalated and he noticed. I didn’t actually cry, I hauled all those lil tear drops back inside. It was kind of hard though, to actively work against my emotions when I’m hearing something I’ve been paranoid of for a very, very long time. Anyway I worked through it while still in conversation I might add so I’m quite proud of myself for that, I think that shows definite progress? Maybe? I hope it does. But anyway, he called me a wet blanket because I basically refuse to admit I’m into certain things. I don’t really want to write about it. I just feel like I can be into certain things and not want to be into them, and I think clearheaded me is mindful of that. And once you admit to being into something when clearheaded it sort of cements it in place, whereas I feel like when you’re in the heat of it all it’s kind of whatever and might be hot but it’s not a cemented want. Does that make sense? He explained it well though and I get what he means. But it’s like his friend, not J but his actual best friend, the idea of him gets me so wildly turned on, not because of the guy himself because idk him from a bar of soap and he doesn’t sound like my type either, plus not to be rude but I’m fairly sure he’s the one that always dates strippers and I realise I’m being a judgemental cow but that grosses me out so in reality the idea of him… no. But in my head? It being Andy’s best friend? Or one of them? It makes me go feral. But I do NOT want that to be a thing, I do NOT want to indulge it, I do NOT want it to become a fantasy of mine/ours. I want to meet this guy eventually and hopefully be friends with him and spend time with him and all of that. I do NOT want spicy thoughts clouding my mind when we spend time with someone. Like what, we’re all out for dinner and I keep thinking about him bending me over the table? Absolutely NOT. It’s one thing for it to be a sort of friend, like J, it’s another to be an actual best friend of a long long long time. That’s far too life altering for Andy. And also I just don’t want that to be a thing for me. Except we said all this and then my honey proceeded to get my soaking wet and utterly rabid thinking about how best friend, so that worked out well -_-. Anyway. He thinks I’m a wet blanket and a killjoy. I’m going to choose to not dwell on this, however given I’ve been paranoid of this for quite some time it’s kind of hard to let go of. I feel kind of negative.
I just spent a few minutes with my eyes closed with the sunshine streaming down on me and I listened to all the sounds around me like all the birds, some roadworks several streets over, I heard a ship horn, I heard my laptop humming away - it sounds like of like a carbonated drink fresh out the can, and the creaks of the house. I heard my toe doing little taps on the floor because I sometimes find it hard to sit still, I heard the fridge start doing something. I felt the warmth of the sun on my face, I tried to not think about skin cancer and being a leather bag of an old woman. I felt the coldness of the wooden floor and the softness of my cardigan. I tasted a little hint of strawberry from my strawberry mint earlier because I wanted something sweet but I don’t have anything and it was also 11am. So I just focused on everything for several minutes, as well as controlled breathing in and out like I would when I feel panicked but I can do it when I just want to slow everything down. I feel positive, not negative.
My pretty baby green princess philodendron is still fighting a battle. I just know it’s because I blanked and poured a glass of sprite into it instead of the water. I remember doing it, I poured it in and then I heard the sizzling and I thought oh no oh no oh no but the damage was done. I tried to dilute it with water so hopefully that helped but I potentially just spread the sprite around. Ever since then the leaves are kind of spotted with yellow… yellow like lemonade :’( I’ve had her for a few years now, she was just a little bubba with a couple of leaves and now she’s a blimmin queen not princess but I’ve maybe ruined her. I need to repot her, get some plant food or something and I think she’ll come back to me. It’s very hard to find an aesthetically pleasing pot though, I mean I can but not a big pot and my girl needs a BIG pot because she’s a voluptuous lil lady with big leaves everywhere. I mentioned it to M the other week and she said “why not just get rid of it” and didn’t even joke and I took offence. I jokingly said omg what no way but I actually kind of felt offended. She has this hideous terrarium she got some her cousin, it’s just sludge inside at this point and the jar is butt ugly, but I don’t say anything and I’ve tidied it up for her. Same with her little parsley plant - she asked me to take over and now it’s thriving whereas it was near death when she did it. Same with the succulent on the kitchen window - another one I saved of hers and is now thriving with so much new growth. I hate her taste, I mean she doesn’t even have taste if you ask me. I think she’s amazing in SO SO SO many ways, but her taste in style and all that is abysmal. She’s basically someone who says lounge and will furnish said lounge with leather recliners, old office furniture and bulk made souvenirs from whatever holiday. And I’m all for things from holiday, I think it’s the best time to find pieces for your home, but there’s a difference between a little painting or ceramic by some local artist at a market or a funny little whatever like if I go to Hawaii I know I’m getting a lil dancing hula girl figure thing, but idk, I think there’s a difference between little things like that and just buying straight up tat. I’m being way too harsh. I feel bad. I’m just upset about my plant, stressed about work and taking it out on her. That’s not fair. But I still stand by what I said. I just didn’t need to say it. But as always, it’s her home too and I have no issues with that - she has things on the wall I hate, she has her sofa that I hate etc etc - I mean we have a goddamn chest freezer in the living room, I think I’m being a good flatmate and entirely accommodating?! I also know I can be a control freak with things and I find it difficult to accept things I don’t like in terms of design etc. And I can be very opinionated about it. I try keep my trap shut and I do, but I know it’s a flaw of mine. I know it’s something I will need to keep in check when creating a home with Andy, I know I will often have different opinions to him because sometimes I don’t like his taste, on the whole we’re mostly similar I think, and I like things he has ie his bedding, I think his bedding colours look really nice, but I don’t want them for ME, y’know? But compromise is the word and I will not be a typical only child about it because I can be a very spoiled only child brat sometimes, it just slips out. I can also be a VERY VERY VERY judgmental person and I can think quite mean things. Like yesterday, he showed me a keyboard and I managed to shut my mouth before I said it but he knew I held back so I had to tell him the colour way reminded me of a rotting corpse. I didn’t want to say that. It’s why I closed my mouth as soon as I knew I didn’t want to say it but it was a fraction too late. And I hated having to say it because I just felt like such a raging bitch. I can be like that with a lot of things. I mostly internalise it, like 90% of the time I will internalise it but sometimes things slip out. Like dad was trying on a jacket in one time that he really liked and he asked my opinion and I said it “looked like he borrowed it from someone”. That’s not so bad but it’s the only example I can think of, also he likes to be told things straight up. Like with the house he shows me things he likes and I’ll say I don’t but I back it up with why I don’t and suggest alternatives and he’s said he likes that and he takes my suggestions on board too, like he was talking about a breakfast bar and I said I like the idea in theory but given the space you have and the fact you want it because of an image you have in your head about having breakfast together at it or whatever isn’t realistic - they will have a large dining table right across from it and the breakfast bar thing will just get covered in clutter. So I like the idea of them but I said no for X Y and Z reasons and he scrapped the idea. Same with paint colours, placement of the fireplace etc. So it works with dad, I can be critical but he makes me feel valued - but we also have quite similar taste and we think quite similarly in many ways… God help my mother. I can be more critical of mum, hyper critical even. About every little thing. Even when we were out to dinner last week I didn’t like how she was calling the waitress over so I criticised it and other things. I was like that all night, I apologised a couple times though and she understands I get HYPER critical when I’m anxious because I’m on such high alert of how I’m being interpreted by everyone around me and with my mum I just sort of lash out at times. WAY WAY WAY better than I was as a teenageyounger though, but it’s something I’m still working on. It’s quite rare now, it’s just when I’m struggling with moderating my mood really. It also doesn’t help that a symptom of my anxiety is occasionally irritability. It’s hard to explain, but when I’m in a very anxious mood I just have zero tolerance and am sort of in that panic mode even if I appear calm and composed but inside it’s like a train is barrelling towards me, well that’s what my therapist said anyway, that to others I appear and come across as a normal girl feeling normal things, but inside it’s like I’ve just looked to my left and I’m imminently about to be hit by a car. So everyone is on the zebra crossing chatting away but I’m looking yo the left and feeling like I’m about to be splattered all over the road. It sort of makes sense but idk. Anyway. I’m rambling. I’m really quite a horrid horrid girl at the end of the day.
I’m feeling kind of anxy today. Jittery. The back of my throat is now a body part I am very conscious of. I don’t know why, I just am. I don’t always have a specific reason, sometimes it’s down to worry/fear over a specific thing or whatever else, sometimes it just comes out of nowhere and I can’t function properly but I don’t have a reason for it. Or I do, but it’s not something I’ve been actively thinking about. Idk. Whatever. It’s fine. I shall do some more breathing.
He just asked how my day was :)
Sometimes I don’t know what to do. Well I often don’t know what to do. I know I should bring this up with him, but I also feel like I ought to be picking my battles and this isn’t it. I just wish he would acknowledge when I send a lovey message or say something, I’m at the stage now where I do not expect it to be reciprocated whatsoever - I realise we aren’t at that stage and let’s be real, I get giddy when he uses a smiley face - I mean he used a :( last night and I felt lovey. So I mean, I’m clearly not expecting anything back from him and I am making do with the bare minimum and tbh it’s fine, I know this is my own doing and I have created this situation and it’s whatever - it’s fine. But the fact he just ignores it, I find that difficult. He could say something like “that’s cute/sweet” and leave it be, but he just ignores it and I’m left standing here feeling like an absolute idiot. It just hurts, that’s all. It’s not a big deal, and a lot of the time I don’t even bay an eyelash anymore as I’m used to it, but sometimes I just need something. I think I needed it this morning. I think I needed to hear some form of acknowledgment this morning because I find it difficult to grapple with the idea he doesn’t get jealous of me being with someone else. I know we see it differently and I know it doesn’t mean he’s pushing me to date other guys and idk. It’s usually fine, I think I just feel a little delicate about it this morning and then he ignored something I said and it just made me feel not so good. I don’t think this is worth bringing up, I don’t think I’ll dwell on this. If I’m still thinking about it later tonight or tomorrow then I will. He deals with enough of my BS, I don’t need to start giving him every minute detail of my feelings - just the ones that count or impact things. I don’t think this is that. Plus I’ve said this before to him, that it upsets me sometimes and makes me feel ignored/rejected. I can’t remember where we came to with it. Anyway like I said, this is a situation of my own creation - I only have myself to blame for feeling this way. I feel medium negative.
I am so ugly, ugly ugly uglyyyyyy.
Work is getting on my nerves a bit. For example I said I may have capacity to take on a new piece of work later today but couldn’t promise it but it was just chucked into my queue of work despite me saying I CANT DEFINITELY DO IT. But now it’s in my queue I kind of have to.
I cannot deal with the men in these books. They finally profess their love, and he says “even when this world is a forgotten whisper of dust between the stars, I will love you” and I’m sorry but who the hell have anyone the right to put those words into the world. SO DREAMY. Except it kept being mentioned a few chapters earlier how he spent centuries sleeping around and he spent centuries heartbroken over someone and idk, this is my issue - because of that it cheapens the dreamy thing he said. I know it could go the opposite way for others, that he had fully lived and finally found the forever one, also this all happened before she even existed, but even so, this is my issue - the fact he was a total slag ruins it for me. All these men are and it makes me like them less. I just can’t seem to accept it. Even with Andy, the fact he’s slept with 30+ women and undoubtedly hooked up with more in “lesser” ways… it makes me feel sick to my stomach and it makes me want him less when I think about it. It makes me feel like I’m nothing. I know he feels the opposite, he said so himself, but I can’t move past this kind of thinking. It’s a me thing, obviously, it just makes me feel so… inconsequential. It’s like with his friend J, I’m like the third or fourth girl he’s included him with and I hate it. I shouldn’t but I do. It makes me feel like I mean absolutely nothing and I’m no different to anyone else.
I got a sort of shout out thing in our team meeting today that I was NOT expecting. I was half listening and half drafting an email and heard my name and the shock that ripples through me. Well it was somewhat mild but still. But the Head of specifically asked the BL to bring it up, after the Head of had given already given me an inter-company award thing. I honestly did nothing out of the usual and it’s very nice to feel acknowledged, very very nice, but I get so awkward and embarrassed and when he was finished giving my shout out thing I just went off mute and literally squeaked out a “thank you’” and went back on mute. I think I prefer private acknowledgment but it’s also nice to have it shared too. Anyway that was nice.
It’s 8pm and I haven’t written anything more sooooo bye
Actually wait we finished BB last night! I’m still sad about Hank. I’m glad Jesse got away and I think it was a good ending for Walt. I feel bad for Skyler and the kids though :( but at least they’ll get a tonne of money soon enough. Anyway. I’m glad we watched it!

I have a desk with a desk top. one my left side a reclining sofa with a screen for my ps5. Id like to be able to control my desktop from there. Is there like a mini keyboard set up for this kinda thing? Any of you guys have similiar situiation? how do you do?

I know only a few of these planes are around, but they were by far my favorite product. The seat was absolutely amazing, 34 inches of legroom (that's as much as deltas comfort + seats now!) with the thickness of seat almost being like a sofa. On top of that the recline was great, it made those transcon red eye flights comfortable. Although the screens were obviously dated, I did'nt really mind because the free wifi allowed me to stream on my personal device anyways. I really missed this product and I feel like the new products that JetBlue have aren't as appealing as the older ones.