The pain was the worst thing`Dominick Mason had ever known…and he knew what it felt like to die. It felt like his brain was in a blender, being chopped to liquid for a Jeffery Dahmer smoothie and though it seemed melodramatic, he imagined he could feel himself losing brain cells by the minute. The sun, Merrick told him, would not burn him, but it would decay him faster, so sleep or rest during the day. With the sick, throbbing agony in the center of his brain, however, that was impossible. He spent most of the day curled up on his side, hugging his knees, and moaning. He had flashbacks to dying in his apartment, and that made things even worse. The room became too small, too close, the air too stale. His heart, filled with the blood of last night’s meal, pounded in his chest, and he went from slightly chilly to hot and feverish as blood was forced through his circulatory system. It mixed with the embalming fluid and left him feeling full and constipated. He didn’t want to get up, but he also didn’t want to go on lying there. He was the definition of miserable.
Before long, the pain became too great and he got up to pace, pressing his hands to the sides of his head and gritting his teeth. Merrick, who slept very little if at all, sat in his chair and watched, trying his best to talk him through it. “It’ll be over soon,” Merrick said. “The pain receptors in your brain are the first to go. When they burn out, you won’t feel anything.”
“When?” Dom asked, his voice raising with the tide of pain.
“A couple days?”
“A couple days???”
“The pain will lessen gradually,” Merrick said, “this is the worst of it.”
Dom believed that this was, indeed, the worst of it, but he doubted it would lessen gradually. For the rest of the day, the pain got worse and worse until every light blinded him, every sound turned his stomach, and the smell of anything made his gorge rise. The cloying smell of the embalming fluid, the light but unmistakable odor of dead flesh, and the scent of stale blood sitting in decomposing stomachs made him want to vomit, but he was afraid to. He didn’t think he could handle the sight of blood rushing from his mouth and splattering the floor. He still possessed enough of his facilities, he believed, to go insane.
Pain has a way of darkening one’s mood, and by the time the sun began to set, Dom was in the most sour mood possible. Even Merrick’s calm, fatherly voice was beginning to get on his nerves. When he took the oath to him the day before (or was it the day before that?), he turned his faith and trust over to Merrick entirely. He was finally accepted, included, finally had the love and fellowship that, in the pit of his soul, he had always wanted. Merrick understood him, Merrick was kind to him.
But deep down, Dom realized that he didn’t fully trust him. He said that his brain didn’t rot because he was “lucky.” That sounded like some bullshit to Dom. Why wasn’t Joe a blithering idiot too? Was he lucky as well? Did lightning strike in the same place twice? In life, people had done nothing but hurt and lie to Dom. Why would death be any different? He thought back to the strange liquid that always seemed to leak from Merrick’s nose, and Joe’s. He thought it was embalming fluid, but it never leaked from his own nose, or from anyone else’s. He tried to tell himself that it was far too soon to judge, but once he began to doubt something, his mind raced away. He felt a twinge of guilt, as Merrick had done absolutely nothing to deserve his doubt, but goddamn it, his head was on fire and he wanted it to stop. Anything to make it stop.
Just after sundown, the music began as Club Vlad opened for the night. It throbbed in the center of Dom’s head and made him want to claw his eyes out. When it became too much for him, he slipped away and stumbled into the sultry summer night. He came out in the alley running behind the club, clutching his head and breathing through bared teeth. He staggered, bumped into a metal trash can, and roared at the top of his lungs, as if he could purge himself of the pain by screaming.. His voice echoed and came back to him, making the pain worse.
Merrick was lying. He knew it. People always lied to him. His brain was rotting and PEOPLE WERE LYING! Flashing with anger, he slammed his fist into the brick wall of a Chinese restaurant. He barely felt anything so he did it again and again until his hand was lumpy and shaking. He sat heavily on the ground and pressed his hands to his head. It felt like maggots were burrowing into his brain, and he was suddenly terrified that they really were. He needed to stop this awful pain, but how?
An idea came to him.
The funeral home.
Maybe there was something there.
He was on his feet and lumbering there before the thought had even finished reverberating through his mind. It was a long shot, but he was desperate. On the way there, he stuck to the shadows, staying out of the light cast by the streetlamps and avoiding people. When he passed them, he kept his head down. When he reached the funeral home, he went to the back door where he and Jessie had gone the other day. He tried it, and it opened.
Inside, he bounced off the walls like a pinball, knocking over an end table and tearing at the flesh of his head, pulling it away in long, gray strips. He panted like a wild animal, his body a raging tempest of emotions. It was reaching a crescendo, he thought, his brain was about to go supernova. The world dimmed, things got really echoy. The young man he’d picked the embalming fluid up from was there, looking scared.
Flashing, Dom grabbed him by his shirt and slammed him against the wall, knocking a painting of a flowery field to the carpet. Everything seemed to go in slow mo. “How does Merrick keep his brain from rotting?” Dom heard himself demanding from far away. “How does he keep the pain away?”
The man trembled. “I-I-”
Dom slammed him again. “Tell me or I’ll make you like me.”
“No!” the man wailed. He shook his head from side to side, his eyes wet with fear.
“How?”
“He-He uses a solution,” the man stammered. “Some kind of special thing. It preserves his brain. That’s all I know.”
An idea occurred to Dom.
Holding the man by the back of his neck, Dom dragged him into the embalming room and pushed him against the table. His head felt like it was swelling. Hot, screaming, getting ready to explode. He looked around, found the embalming machine, and grabbed the hose. There was a sharp tip on it so that you could jam it into a body. He held it in his hand, hesitating for just a moment before pressing it to his temple. The man watched in horror as Dom slowly shoved the tip into his head. It tore his flesh, broke through his skull, and sank into his brain. He felt no pain, only pressure, but cried out anyway. His eyes rolled up into his head and a shudder went through his body.
“Turn it on!” he yelled.
“That’s not what he -”
“TURN IT ON!”
Starting, the man turned the machine on. Cold embalming fluid squirted directly into Dom’s brain. Almost at once, the pain began to ebb away, replaced only by a fuzzy sense of numbness. His knees buckled and he sank to the floor, looking for all the world like an addict taking a hit of his favorite substance after a long and trying day. Fluid leaked from his nose, ears, and eyes and dripped down the back of his throat.
The man waited for a long time, then turned the machine off.
The pain was gone.
At least for now.
“Tell me again,” Dom said.
The man did. Merrick used a special preserving agent to keep his brain intact. Joe, the man suspected, got it as well. So Merrick had lied to him.
Dom felt betrayed.
And angry.
Leaving the man (Dom realized that he didn’t even know his name), he walked back to Club Vlad, his hands fisted in his pockets. All his life, he had been hurt, lied to, and ignored. All his life, people had done wrong to him. And all those years, he just took it.
He resolved not to be so accepting in death.
At last, he was going to stop being a sniveling little bitch and stand up for himself.
When he reached Club Vlad, he slammed through the back door and took the stairs two at a time. At the top, he called out Merrick’s name. The old man was sitting in his chair, being attended to by Jessie and Matt. He looked startled when Dom came in. “You lied to me,” Dom said, stalking over to his benefactor.
“What are you talking about?” Merrick asked, doing his best to sound innocent.
“You lied to me!” Dom screamed. He bent over and got so close to Merrick’s face that he could have kissed him. “You told me there was no way to save my brain, but that’s not true. You’re pumping your head full of shit and letting the rest of us rot.”
A dark shadow flickered across Merrick’s face. “Watch your tone when you talk to me,” he said. His voice was low, menacing.
“Fuck you,” Dom said. “I should k -”
Suddenly, Dom was being grabbed from behind and yanked back, an arm around his neck. He cried out in alarm as Joe swung him around and slammed him face first into the wall. He heard his nose crunch, felt his teeth shatter. Next, Joe wrestled him to the glitter-sprinkled floor and wedged his knee between his shoulder blades.
Merrick watched with a sneer of disgust, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. He wheeled himself over, Jessie holding his IV stand steady and following behind. “Listen, you son of a bitch,” Merrick said, “you’re lucky to be a part of this family.”
Cold fear filled the pit of Dom’s stomach, yet he wouldn’t back down, couldn’t back down. He had lived his entire life like a mouse in a burrow, he wasn’t about to live his entire death the same way.
“Fuck your family,” he said defiantly. “And fuck you.”
Merrick’s face darkened and he sat back in his chair. He looked at Jessie and nodded. She went away and came back a moment later holding something in her hand. Dom’s eyes widened when he saw what it was.
A wooden stake, one end honed to a razor point.
Why they had one of those lying around, Dom didn’t know; it’d be like Superman keeping a piece of kryptonite on the mantle over the fireplace. Merrick directed Max and Matt to hold Dom’s arms down/ Joe pivoted, kneeling on his head now so that Dom’s back was exposed. Dom’s heart slammed with terror and tremors raced through his body.
“Is this what you want, Dominick?” Merrick asked. “To die? To truly die?”
Dom swallowed hard. No, it wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted to live, to love, to have a family one day. He wanted a happy, normal life, the life TV and social media had been promising him since he was a little boy.
But all of that went out the window the night he died in his little apartment. There was no life anymore, just a grotesque parody of life. What was there for him other than death? Clinging desperately onto life for decades like Merrick? Stuffing himself full of embalming fluid and moth balls? Grinding for one more minute just so he could sit hooked up to a machine?
Dom spoke.
“What?” Merrick asked, not having heard.
Dom licked his lips. “Just fucking do it.”
For a moment, nothing happened. Expectation hung in the air. Finally, breaking the tension, Merrick nodded to Jessie. Kneeling down, she brought the stake up, and Dom closed his eyes.
This was it.
He braced himself for death.
Jessie brought the stake down just as a shot rang out, deafening in the small space. Her head whipped back, embalming fluid, skull fragments, and gray, sickly pieces of brain showering from the back of her head. She flopped back and landed on the floor with a sickening thud.
A woman cop, her black uniform in stark contrast to the burning white light, stood in the doorway to the hall, her gun drawn. Everyone did, indeed, freeze, more out of surprise than respect for authority. They all looked at her, their dead mouths agape, resembling children who’d been caught doing something wrong.
“Everyone on the ground!” she barked.
No one knew what to do. They hadn’t expected to be raided by the police so had not prepared. She jerked her gun and everyone instinctively flinched. “On the ground!” she repeated. To Max: “You too, bone boy.”
The first one to react was Joe. He sprang at her like a big, undead frog. She brought the gun around and fired, but he was already crashing into her. The shot went wild and struck the IV bag next to Merrick; he ducked and let out a sound of fear. The others rushed her, and Dom got quickly to his feet. Jessie lay on the floor, her mouth open in a silent scream and her bony fingers frantically examining the ragged hole in the center of her forehead. For a moment, he was frozen; everything was happening too fast. Then, when Merrick saw him and cried, “Stop him!, he came alive. Jessie tried to grab at his leg, but he kicked her hand away and stomped on it like it was a giant spider. On the other side of the room, Matt, Joe, and Max had forced the cop to the ground. Perhaps excited by all the action, perhaps just hungry, they began to tear her apart. She howled in pain, and the last thing Dom saw before he fled was her open, blood-filled mouth. Her eyes were filled with pain…with terror.
After that, Dom ran.
***
When the interloper was dead, Merrick directed Joe and Matt to dispose of the body. “Get rid of it,” he said wearily and rubbed his temples, “make sure it isn’t found.”
They rolled her into a carpet from the office, and the way her feet stuck out may have been comical under other circumstances.
Goddamn it, this was bad. Merrick’s entire philosophy rested on avoiding detection. He had done well in that regard. Whereas other vampires had attacked their villages and gotten themselves dug from the ground and staked, he had made it four decades. He never shat where he ate, and there is no bigger turd than killing a cop. They might dawdle on all the boys who’d gone missing - taken because their blood was stronger and more robust than the blood of girls - but they would not take a cop dying lightly at all.
Merrick owned various businesses around the country. He and the others would simply move on. Tomorrow night, they would disappear into the night. They had done it before and they would likely do it again. Once things were settled at their new base of operations, he would have Joe killed for all the trouble he’d caused.
And Dom?
Let him go.
The little rat wouldn’t last a month on his own.
“Jessie?”
Jessie sat against the wall, gazing into space.
“Jessi…start packing. We’re leaving tomorrow.”
She didn’t move, didn’t seem to hear. The shot had all but lobotomized her.
Damn it.
Joe backed the van up to the back door of Club Vlad, and then helped Matt carry the carpet-rolled body down the stairs. They loaded it in and closed the back doors. Together, they drove around looking for a place to dump it. Merrick wanted it to go unfound, but Joe doubted there was anywhere isolated enough in the city. On a whim, he drove to Washington Park, a vast expanse of green trees and shadows. There was a large pond there. It seemed the best option. They were leaving tomorrow anyway, so did it really matter?
Joe backed the van to a railing overlooking the dark water and put it in park. He and Matt got out, fetched the body, and carried it to the railing. They lifted and heaved it over. It splashed. Thus, they rid themselves of Vanessa Rodregiez.
***
Bruce sat anxiously up in his easy chair and waited for his cell to ring.
Parked in front of the TV by warm lamplight, a beer wedged between his legs, he’d been watching the 11’o’clock news when the phone rang. He picked it up and it was Vanessa. “Hey,” she said, “I think I found our body?”
“Which one?” Bruce asked and took a drink. “We have a lot of those these days.”
“Dominick Mason.”
Bruce sat forward in his chair. “Dead Dom? Where?”
“He just came out of a funeral home, ironically enough.”
“That sounds about right,” Bruce said. “Where are you now?”
“I’m following him east on Central.”
“Are you sure it’s him?” Bruce asked.
“I think so, but I’m not sure. I’ll call you back when I’m done.”
Bruce sat the phone aside and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
At some point, he fell asleep sitting up, his head lulled to one side and his mouth open. He snorted himself awake, rubbed his eyes, and sat up. He checked his phone and was perturbed to see that it was past 2am.
Vanessa hadn’t called.
He dialed her number and let the phone ring until it went to voicemail. Sighing, he ended the call, then waited a few minutes and called again.
Still no answer.
It was possible she had forgotten. Maybe the guy turned out to not be Dead Dom after all. She followed some random guy around, realized it, and that was that. Hell, she was probably too embarrassed to call and tell him about it.
Something told him that wasn’t right, however.
There was something else going on here.
Something…darker.
Just before 3am, his phone rang. He snatched it off the end table next to the chair and answered it. It was Burt, the night sargent. “Rodriguez is missing,” he said simply.
Bruce’s heart sank. “Missing?”
“Yeah, she hasn’t checked in for hours and she isn’t answering calls.”
“I’m on my way,”
Bruce tore through the house, pulling on his uniform, socks, and shoes in less time than it took a Daytona 500 pit crew to service a car. In ten minutes he was speeding down 787, the Albany skyline rising in the distance. As he hurried to the station, he thought back to his last conversation with Vanessa. She’d found Dom the Dead Man, the “corpse” who’d scared Ed Harris out of a 20 year career. Despite all their talk about vampires and the living dead, Bruce didn’t believe it, not really. Even so, he was sure that Dominick Mason had done something to Vanessa.
He checked in at the station before doing anything else. They had triangulated Vanessa’s last known location via cell towers. Cops were already out searching the streets for her. Bruce went out as well, intending to start from her last known position and work his way east on Central. The closest funeral home was Tebbutt and Frederick on Central. There was also Lasak & Gigliotti on North Allen Street. Bruce didn’t know which one Vanessa had seen Dom come out of, so he checked both.
Both were deserted at this hour.
Undeterred, Bruce drove up and down Central Ave. At one point, he noticed a shape in an alleyway that looked human. He hit the brakes, jumped out, and pointed his gun at it. “Freeze!”
An old wino stepped out of the darkness. “Alright, you got me,” he said, hands up. “I started COVID. It was an accident, I swear.”
Bruce sighed and put his gun away.
For two more hours, Bruce searched the streets of Albany for Vanessa. At 4am, he spotted a squad car abandoned in the rear parking lot of an abandoned gas station on lower Lark Street. He called it in and the desk sergeant confirmed that it was the one Vanessa had signed out that night.
Still there was no sign of Vanessa herself.
Just after dawn, as the city came alive and CDTA buses began lumbering up and down the streets, Bruce got a call on his cell. “A jogger found a body in Washington Park.”
Bruce was in his personal car. He had no bubble light, no siren. Even so, he sped through the streets like he did, blowing through red lights and stop signs with little care to himself or anyone else. When he got to Washington Park, he found an army cops by the pond, the scene cordoned off with yellow crime scene tape. He slammed on the brakes, threw open the door, and jumped out without even turning off the engine.
The body was rolled up in a carpet and lying on the bank. Two beat cops unrolled it at Bruce’s direction. “We should wait for -” one of them started, but Bruce cut him off.
“Do it.”
They compiled, and at the carpet’s center, like a rotten cream filling, was the body of Vanessa Rodregiuez. Her head was tilted to one side, her eyes wide and staring. Her throat had been mangled and ripped away, her head nearly severed. Even in the black and red mess, Bruce could make out the teeth marks and puncture wounds. They may have looked like something else to anyone else who saw them, but he knew, in that moment, what they were dealing with.
A sharp pang of horror sliced through him, and his knees went weak.
“Jesus Christ,” one of the beat cops drew.
Bruce fell to, rather than knelt on, one knee. He bent over the body, a mixture of horror and grief welling his throat. He wanted to reach out, to comfort her in death, but he stayed his hand. Instead, he visually examined the body. She had bruises on her face, defensive wounds on her hands, and her gun was gone. Whoever had attacked her, she put up a fight.
Something glinted on her pants.
“What’s that?” one of the cops asked.
“I dunno,” the other replied, “but it’s all over the carpet.”
Indeed, there were glinty little specks all over it, winking like mocking eyes. Nice work, eh? We really fucked her up, didn’t we? Wink wink.
“It looks like…”
The other cop cut him off. “Glitter.”
Bruce flashed back to his visit to Club Vlad the other day.
There had been glitter everywhere.
Bruce stood up.
He had work to do.
***
Instead of going back to the station to start his shift, Bruce went to Lowes. There, he bought a mallet, a gas can, and a dozen sticks of wood. An employee in a blue vest used a machine to sharpen them to a wicked point and he took his purchases to the car. Next, he drove over to the Mobil station and filled the gas can. He was so hellbent on revenge that he sprang for premium, the good stuff. No expense shall be spared.
His final stop was at a Catholic church. He filled a canteen with holy water from the marble font by the door, then swiped a crucifix from the wall. He stopped by the station, went inside, and grabbed a black duffle bag with POLICE written across the front in yellow. He opened the gun cabinet in his office, took out a shotgun, and loaded it with shells. He grabbed a handful from the box and stuffed them into his pocket.
He was just finishing up when Bertha came in. “There you are,” she spat, “I’ve waited long enough for you to do something. I demand -”
Bruce shoved the duffle bag into her arms. “Make yourself useful.”
“What?” she demanded.
“We’re going to get your granddaughter,” Bruice lied. Kind of.
Bertha’s demeanor changed. “Good. It’s about time. I was starting to think you were a complete incompetent.”
Bruce didn’t answer. Outside, he plucked the bag out of Bertha’s hands and tossed it into the backseat. He slipped behind the wheel and Bertha sat in the passenger seat. “Where are we going?” she asked.
“Club Vlad,” Bruce said and started the engine.
“I want all of them arrested.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bruce said.
She barked orders the entire way there. Bruce was so deep in his thoughts that he barely heard her. The image of Vanessa’s ruined throat and terror-twisted face haunted him, and he felt a lump forming in his throat. Hot tears filled his eyes but he blinked them back and forced himself to calm down.
I’ll cry when I’m done killing, he thought.
A few minutes later, he pulled to the curb in front of Club Vlad. It was a hot and sunny day and the place seemed even more ominous because of it. The windows were black, the front cast in perpetual shadows by the old marquee from when it used to be a theater. The place was surely closed, but Bruce could hear music still playing from inside, some techno dance bullshit. “Alright,” he said, “let’s go.”
Getting out, he slung the dufflebag over his shoulder and carried the shotgun, the canteen full of holy water clasped to his belt. Bertha carried the gas can, looking confused. “Why do we need this?” she asked.
“We’re burning the place down.”
Bertha blinked in surprise…then an evil grin carved across her face. “That’ll show the bastards.”
Unlike last time, the door was locked. Bruce used the butt of the shotgun to break the glass, then reached inside and unlocked the door, being careful not to cut himself. This was the point of no return. What he had in mind would probably get him kicked off the force or even thrown in jail - and we all know how tough jail can be for a former barnaclehead. The memory of Vanessa’s contorted face pushed him on, however.
He’d suffer any consequences he needed to just so long as he got the sons of bitches who did this to her.
Inside, the club was cool and cave-like. Strobe lights flashed, on and off, black and white, dazzling Bruce’s eyes. The bartender was at his station, cleaning up from the night before. When he saw Bruce and Bertha come in, he started. Bruce pointed the shotgun at him. “Don’t fucking move,” he commanded.
The bartender hesitated, then reached for something under the bar.
The shotgun kicked in Bruce’s hands, and the bartender flew back, turning as he crashed into the barback. Bottles, glasses, and mugs crashed to the floor along with the bartender. Bruce racked the gun, and the shell flew out. He moved low and fast now, expecting to be swarmed by vampires, living thugs who worked for vampires, or vampire thugs who worked for themselves.
Though the shot had been like thunder, no one came.
Bruce had no idea where to go, but he imagined that vampires were naturally gravitate to the lowest part of the building. Was there a basement? Shit, he should have looked up the building plans at city hall. Damn, this is what happens when you go off half-cocked. He searched around a bit, opening doors and sweeping the rooms beyond with the shotgun. He found no basement, only stairs leading up. “Stay close,” he said to Bertha.
In the lead, Bruce crept up the stairs, the flashlight on the shotgun providing a cone of clean, white light. At the top of the stairs, he went right, and came to an office and a store room. Backtracking, and bumping into a bungling Bertha, he went into the next room. It was large and open with a vaulted ceiling, almost like a ballroom. Here the same strobe lights throbbed on and off, making him dizzy. Was this to dazzle prospective vampire hunters?
Either way, this was the place. Bodies lay strewn across the floor, some curled up on their sides and others in the classic vampire pose: Flat on their backs with their hands laced over their chests. In the center, like the sun to the planets, Merrick Garvis lay slumped back in his wheelchair, his neck exposed for any potential assassin to come and cut. Not that it would kill him. At least Bruce didn’t think it would.
“They’re all dead,” Bertha whispered. She looked around and gasped. “There’s Jessie.”
Jessie lay on her back, her hands folded on her chest. She had a ragged bullet hole in the center of her forehead. “Oh, God,” Bertha wavered, “someone shot her.”
He hoped it was Vanessa. And he hoped it fucking hurt.
Looking around, Bruce couldn’t find Dominick Mason. Was he the one who killed Vanessa? Was it a group effort? He wanted the little son of a bitch bad, but it looked like he’d have to go on without him. They didn’t have much time.
Unshouldering the duffle bag, he knelt down and rummaged around. “Start splashing that gas on the bodies,” he said.
“But -”
“Just do it,” he snapped.
There must have been a harder edge in his voice than normal, because Bertha jumped and did as she was told. She upended the can and began to splash gasoline onto the sleeping forms, the smell of it acrid and strong.
Taking out a stake and the mallet, Bruce went over to Merrick and knelt down. He gripped the stake in one hand and placed it firmly against Merrick’s chest. He brought the mallet up and hesitated, the gravity of what he was doing finally reaching him. What if he was wrong? What if -
Merrick’s head whipped up and their eyes locked.
Too late.
Bruce brought the mallet down as hard as he could. The stake drove deep into Merrick’s heart, and the vampire let out a howling screech that rang through the chamber like the cry of a banshee. His bony fingers clawed at the stake and his head whipped from side to side, his back arching and his robe coming open. In the quick strobe pattern, Bruce was shocked to see that his body was little more than a wood frame, chicken wire, and cotton balls. His blacked heart was hidden behind a screen of mesh that the stake had easily torn through. It throbbed, seemingly in time with the strobe lights, and Merrick let out another wail.
Bertha screamed, and Bruce jumped to his feet.
The vampires, drawn by their master’s cries of distress, were rising to their feet. Two, four, six of them, pale and ethereal like ghosts in a gothic mansion. They came toward Merrick, and Bruice fell back a step. The old man had gone still and lay slumped to one side, his eyes open and his mouth slack, embalming fluid leaking from the corner of his lips. Jessie bent over him and touched his face. Though she moved like a zombie, with no human emotion, Bruce was crazily sure that it was a touch of tenderness and love. Merrick didn’t stir.
He was dead.
Jessie looked at him. Yellow liquid leaked from her eyes like tears. Instead of attacking him, she turned on her grandmother and slammed her against the wall. Bertha screamed and dropped the can. It landed on its side, its contents sloshing out onto the floor. A man that resembled the pictures Bruce had seen of Joe Rossi only deader rushed him, slamming into him and knocking the shotgun aside. It hit the floor and skidded away. Joe grabbed Bruce around the throat and squeezed. Still the lights flashed, off and on, off and on. The walls thrummed with the mechanized beat of dance music, pierced only by Bertha’s screams as Jessie ripped out her throat.
Joe leaned in, his fangs wicked and glowing in the light. Bruce clawed at the monster’s face, tearing away strips of dead flesh. Joe turned his head to the side, and Bruce kneed him in the groin. Even dead, getting kicked in the balls hurt like hell, apparently. Joe’s grip loosened and Bruce was able to shove him off. Bruce unclasped the canteen and frantically screwed the cap off as Joe recovered. Joe sprang at him again, and Bruce splashed him in the face.
A sound like sizzling meat filled the air, and Joe screamed at the top of his lungs. He pressed his hands to his face and danced around the room, his skin liquifying and oozing between his fingers. The others were coming now, led by a terrible skeletal thing. Bruce scooped the shotgun off the floor, brought it around, and fired. The blast hit the thing dead center, tearing it literally in half. The top half flew back, an all too human look of surprise on its face, and the bottom half fell over with a wet thud. Another vampire came at, and Bruce slammed it across the face with the butt of the gun. He heard its jaw crack, saw teeth flying.
Bertha lay dead on the floor, Jessie bent over her. The smell of Bertha’s blood attracted the others, who seemed to forget about Bruce, Merrick, and everything else. Joe was on his knees, wailing in pain, and the skeletal thing was pulling itself toward Bertha. A feeding frenzy broke out as vampires fought to get a piece of her the way piglets might fight over their mother’s teat. Bruce watched in a mixture of horror and fascination, but recovered himself. He grabbed the gas can from the floor and dumped the rest of its contents on Merrick’s body, the feeding vampires’ backs, and the floor, using the last of it to make a little trail to the door. He tossed the can aside, bent down, and stuck a match.
A huge, fiery whump filled the room, and fire streaked along the trail. The vampires all went up in a huge ball of flames, and fire shot up Merrick’s body, catching his robe, his hair, and the wooden frame that had kept him semi upright for God knows how long. Letting out inhuman screams, the vampires broke from Bertha’s corpse. One stumbled around, bounced off the wall, and fell; another toddled toward Bruce before falling to its knees. The half skeleton kept drinking from Bertha’s neck even as it burned.
The heat was enormous, baking. Bruce backed away, and the last thing he saw before smoke obscured his vision was Merrick Garvis.
He was literally melting.
***
Dominick Mason tried to go home, but he no longer had a home. All of his worldly possessions sat on the sidewalk in front of his building, discarded coldly as easily. His key didn’t work in his door and there was a FOR RENT sign on it. Why would it be any other way? He was dead. Sooner or later, everyone forgets you when you’re dead, and all the things you held so dear wind up in the trash. It was a hard pill to swallow, but most people aren’t around to see it after they die.
He was.
From his building, he walked east toward Washington Park. In the distance, thick, black smoke billowed into the air, and sirens rose. He barely noticed and wouldn’t have cared even if he did. No more rubbernecking for him. That was for the living.
The pain that had plagued him so the previous day came back, only less this time. Maybe he was imagining it, but it was getting harder to think. Not that he cared, really. What was there to think about anyway? How he had no one to mourn or miss him? How he died and not one single person, except for maybe his mother, cared, or even noticed? How he had done nothing with his life? Even to the women he’d slept with, what was he? Just another dating app hookup. They probably didn’t even remember his name.
Merrick had been right about one thing. Death was easy. It was life that was hard…life that hurt.
With that in mind, Dominick made his way to Washington Park. It was a vast and deep place with many small caves and thickets. Kids played on the playground, their cries of laughter scenting the still air. It had grown cloudy and began to rain. Still, smoke poured into the sky in the direction of Club Vlad. Dom didn’t wish ill on Merrick and the others, didn’t hope it was them burning. He didn’t care anymore. Not about them, not about anyone. For better or worse (and he would argue it was worse), his life was over. His time came days ago, he just missed the boat.
Picking out an isolated little area, Dom sat against a tree with his legs splayed out in front of him. He titled his head back and closed his eyes. Yes, thinking was hard now. His mind felt sluggish, cold. He was thirsty…so, so thirsty, but he ignored it.
Slowly, the bugs found him. Flies buzzed around him and laid their eggs in his skin. Beetles scuttled over him, followed by worms.
Next, it was the birds. They ate out his eyes and nibbled at his blue, bloated skin.
The animals came last.
Their appetites were bigger.
And they left little remaining of poor, outcast Dominick Mason.
***
That night, Bruce sat alone in his little trailer, a bottle of whiskey wedged between his legs and unshed tears in his eyes. He stared at his reflection in the darkened TV set and took long swallows from the bottle. He planned to drink until he forgot or passed out, whichever came first. He tried to not think about Vanessa, but in his addled state, he couldn’t control himself, and began to cry. When that storm passed, like the others before it, he chugged from the bottle.
As distant church bells clanged the hour - midnight - a feeble knock came at the door. Bruce took another drink and it came again. Getting up, he stumbled, nearly fell, and gripped the bottle tightly. He didn’t want to lose one precious drop.
Again, the knock.
“I’m coming,” Bruce slurred. He staggered to the door and fought with the lock. He was dizzy and seeing double.
When he got it, he opened the door.
The bottle dropped from his hand and clanked onto the floor.
Vanessa, clad in a puke green hospital gown, stood on the step, her hands pressed to her chest and a look of anguish on her milk white face. Her head tilted to one side, the wounds on her neck cleaned but open, gaping. Her dark eyes shone with tears. “I’m dead,” she said.
Breaking down in tears, she collapsed against him and they sank to the floor. She was cold and smelled. Bruce wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest anyway. “Shhh, it’s alright,” he said drunkenly. “Hey, it’s alright.
“I’m dead,” she repeated, and her voice broke. “I don’t want to die.”
Bruce held her close, trying to warm her icy skin. He didn’t know what to say, so he cried with her.
“You’re safe now,” he said, “it’s going to be okay.”
“I want blood,” she said and sobbed harder, “I want to hurt people.”
“Shhh,” Bruce said again. “It’s okay.”
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a utility knife. He flicked the blade across his wrist and searing pain shot up his arm. “Here,” he said and offered her his blood, “drink this.”
He did this without care and without thought. She needed him, and one barnaclehead always backs up another.
Vanessa hesitated, looking from his face to the oozing blood, unsure.
“Go ahead,” he told her.
Vanessa brought his wrist to her mouth.
And began to drink.

I feel like I need to talk about this.
My Nan just died. I wasn’t there because they’re in England and we’re in Canada. I have a feeling my mum is going to go over there when the funeral happens (at least I hope she does because she’s her mum.)
I’m trying not to get emotional about it but I can’t help it. To imagine all the memories I’ve had with my Nan to them come to the conclusion that she is no longer here any more, it feels empty. I can imagine her in that hospital bed, until she takes that last breath and then she’s no longer there any more. Just empty.
My Nan and grandad came over every summer for a week or two and we would go out and do things even if we’ve already done them before last summer. I remember during one of there visits, my Nan started having problems with her leg, it would swell and she would have trouble walking. Just went downhill from there.
And my mum couldn’t do anything to help because she’s all the way in another country. So I can’t imagine having to keep hearing that certain people involved in the medical field were being assholes, she wasn’t getting right care, she kept falling over, she kept getting worse. And my mum felt like shit not being able to do anything but listen to my grandfather struggle.
I don’t know. I don’t know how I’m going to help mum if I’m emotional myself.
I know this could sound shitty in a way but I am slightly, ever most slightly relieved that she is gone because that’s it. All the pain and suffering is over and it doesn’t string along family for thinking that she’s going to bounce back because that’s what doctors kept trying to do. Whether or not they were being honest, I don’t know. But she wasn’t ever good, wasn’t ever taken seriously from what I was told when she first started having issues just given a drug to see if it would fix it and when it didn’t just put her on another. Until she was taking over 50 tablets a day (maybe even more) and just a few weeks ago the professionals thought to themselves “huh this seems kind of strange, were going to look and see if these medications are effecting one another?” WHEN SHE WAS IN THE HOSPITAL.
Seems so easy to be angry. But anger never lasts and she’s gone now and I won’t have any new memories of her and I curse myself for not having a fantastic memory so that I can remember her more clearly. Just no new memories to have. But she’s gone, she’s resting, all that pain isn’t going to bother her. Maybe if she’s a ghost (something my mum believes) maybe she’ll visit us.
I think I’m scared of confrontation as well, my neighbour died months ago, my mum’s, coworkers husband died months ago and my great grandmother (mum’s side) passed away too. Seems like death is all around us at the moment. I’m not so scared of confronting death but confronting the people it affects. I don’t know the right thing to say, maybe nothing at all but I don’t want to come off that I’m ignoring it because that’s hurtful. Maybe I’ll never find the answer for it. Maybe that’s the point.
Thanks for reading.

Hey everyone, I recently just graduated high school and am planning to study Finance at a non-target school starting August. I want to either break in to IB or consulting after University and am wondering what you guys recommend I do over the summer in order to sort of have a leg up before other students trying to break in. Any advise would be helpful and I would also love to know what you guys did following senior year of HS. Thanks!

To start off this post I understand that it is quite difficult as it is to get into grad programs for physics and I also understand my screwups and mistakes I have made but am working on improving myself and hoping for the best.
That being said I just finished my junior year in physics and have been doing research since the start of last year at our schools accelerator, and aim to work towards a senior thesis for my project. I attended an REU at my university last summer (since im an international student and NSF doesn't fund non-citizens for REU's) and that also resulted in a collaborative publication by the end of the program.
Now the huge problem are my grades which to be quite frank have been mediocre since the start, and my current CGPA is a 2.59 (yikes i know) but I have been working on improving it. In all honesty I have really only been passing my physics/math classes and have only had a total of like 5 A's/B's in them. This spring semester has also however been my best semester so far with all physics courses and A-/B- in them all.
I understand that chances are nigh slim for people even with a 3.0+ GPA and like I might as well be cooked for grad school, but I still want to apply and do my best to showcase myself in my applications and try to explain my journey and the constant messing up along the way. I also believe that my rec letters are going to be from good professors, particularly in the field i wanna go for (experimental nuclear), and so that might help my case a little too. I just wanted advice on the whole issue and know about grad school chances, as well as what else I could do instead after my undergrad that can help my chances to apply for grad school later on.
TL; DR: Horrible GPA, have been showing improvement, been researching since last year and had a collaborative publication last summer through an REU, potential good rec letters, need advice for grad school or other paths to pursue that will help chances.

NAHA—The percentage of senior citizens in Okinawa Prefecture not receiving pensions is about double the national average, a result of the southernmost prefecture long falling under U.S. rule after World War II.
Many of those 65 and older in Okinawa are facing increasingly dire circumstances as the prefecture marks the 52nd anniversary of its return to Japanese sovereignty on May 15.
Okinawa had no pension system under U.S. rule and it was only from around 1970 that one was established. The pension program covering all other Japanese began in 1961.
But even after Okinawa returned to Japanese sovereignty in 1972 many Okinawa residents were unaware of the pension program.
Many also failed to pay the full pension premium, due in part to the low wages in Okinawa, which is highly dependent on the service sector, such as tourism and restaurants.
While close to 220,000 Okinawa residents are now enrolled in the national pension program that covers those not in company pension programs, about 68 percent do not pay the standard premiums.
That means any benefits they receive in the future will be lower.
In 2022, 6.2 percent of those 65 and older in Okinawa were not receiving pensions.
In addition, the average monthly amount received through the national pension program comes to 51,864 yen ($332), the lowest level in Japan.
The lack of a manufacturing sector in Okinawa affects residents of all ages. The per capita income in Okinawa in 2020 was 2.16 million yen, the lowest figure in Japan and about 1 million yen less than the national average.
A major reason for the low figures is the large percentage of those working irregular jobs as well as the large number of women holding down part-time jobs, compared to national trends.
Asahi Shimbun

Had my first clot 10 years ago now (behind my knee) had my second less than a year later while on warfarin, they switched me to clexane injections for a couple of years I hand no end of problems with that, eventually (about two years) I was switched to xarelto I was on that for a long time had just as many problems as injections but no horrible stomach lumps, so I put up with it.. until last year I got a clot in the groin, so I was switched to Apixaban..
Great Apixaban was working I hardly had any swelling of my legs I really thought we’d finally dogs right medication… but now one year later my legs are swelling and one is bright red and I’m in lots of pain..
What’s left? I’m loosing hope in finding a solution I’m only 38 but it’s limiting my social life one of the few things enjoy is travelling/ driving and I’m getting to the point where I’m not able to do it anymore because of the pain I’m in for weeks afterwards..
I try to exercise but if anything it makes it worse

Hello!! I am 50yo. I am 6 days postop. They took everything but ovaries.
I had a hysterectomy because I have had very heavy bleeding for over a year.
Seemingly unrelated, over the last ~6 years, I have been dealing with minor leg swelling, mostly in left leg I think because of a vericose vein. The swelling seemed to mostly affect my ankles and it would sometimes be worse than usual.
One attempt to help the bleeding involved birth control pills (combined) and after 7-8 days the swelling was so bad I could see the tightness in my feet and they hurt to move. I stopped the pills and doc changed me to Norethindrone (progesterone). That worked wonders for the bleeding. Was on it for 4 months before hysterectomy.
(Sorry this is so long!!)
The day after surgery, I look down at my legs and I think, “huh, I look tiny, wtf?” I could (and still can) see the tiny ankle bones that I had forgotten about.
Over the next couple of days, I realize my legs look completely different. I then realize my face isn’t puffy in the morning. My neck looks smaller. My body is completely different. AND, sorry, TMI, but we’re safe here, my hemorrhoids (child birth x 2) are basically not there.
So what I thought was leg/ankle swelling was really all-over swelling.
I messaged my doctor to ask if my uterus could have been blocking blood flow or lymph or causing other issues that can cause so much water retention, edema, whatever.
She does not think my uterus (which was 2 x larger than it should have been) was big enough to block anything, but she is super happy to hear I am feeling better.
My uterus is still with pathology. I had a small fibroid and a polyp. The plan was to biopsy the polyp. I had very little scar tissue from a myomectomy in 2005 (MAJOR surgery, super painful).
So, hoping the results are all good AND I’m hoping the swelling doesn’t come back.
What do you think, ladies? Anyone else experience this?
Thanks for reading this lonnngg post!

Part 1

The official story is that I hit my head. According to the lawyer I wasn't lucid enough to be a reliable witness, and honestly, I'm starting to believe that might be the truth. It's certainly easier to accept that everything was all just some nightmare.
But if my mind wasn't playing tricks on me, and those fuck-heads didn’t have anything to do with my friend’s disappearance, then there truly is no explanation for what happened.
My therapist and parents both agree. The best way to preserve my sanity is to chalk it all up to my imagination. But I see understanding in their eyes when I recount the events. They want to believe me, I know it. That alone is enough to fuel my doubt.
—
School had begun that September with mourning. I only knew the guy who passed away by face and name. It had happened a month after his graduation, and two months before his first year at Cornell.
During the intercom-ordered moment of silence, I looked out through the classroom. Some were bored, some cried. Many shifted in their seats and were glancing around, like myself, counting every second till the awkwardness would end.
It ended sooner than we thought when a kid with sports goggles a size too big bouncing on his face slammed the door open, obliviously clarifying his attendance.
I'm embarrassed to say that this kid, Aiden, was the only friend I had made in high school until this point. I have a hard time introducing myself to others, but being friends with a prepubescent outcast wasn't making that any easier.
After middle school, my family moved to the small village we live in now. It was a brainless choice because my Mom had found better work, my Dad wanted to be closer to his aging parents, and I desperately wanted out of my old school.
Aiden was the first kid to introduce himself when I transferred last year. I realized he was the token 'weird kid' way too late to make it into any social circles. I know it sounds like I'm a shit friend, but that's the way our relationship turned out. Sure, we told our parents and teachers we were friends, but in reality, it was more a tolerance than friendship.
After all, we didn't have anyone else.
For once, I was thankful for Aiden's lack of awareness. It gave me something to focus on instead of the depressing silence strangling the room.
After realizing his mistake, he whispered an apology, sat down, and pulled out an insect encyclopedia from his book bag. What a nerd.
I distracted myself by reading the book from over his shoulder, and before I knew it, lights were turned back on and class began in earnest.
—
I was able to learn what had happened by eavesdropping on hallway gossip between my classes.
Eight kids, six seniors and two juniors, had found a cave in a region of forest known as Skeleton Park. With that discovery, they decided to add spelunking to their pre-graduation bucket list.
Skeleton Park is the setting of countless local ghost stories, which made it a hot spot for rebellious teen antics. Kids would do everything there: party, drink, smoke, fuck, and everything in between. They even crawled around in caves apparently.
When I first moved, I was a skeptic with no intent of exploring the woods. But one creepy phenomenon always unnerved me. For some reason, animals completely avoided the area.
I initially dismissed this as fiction, like all the other folk tales, until I started walking my dog, Paddy, along the town's bike trail.
The trail runs parallel to the remains of a stone wall outlining Skeleton Park. The first couple of times I walked along it, I didn't notice anything peculiar. But after my Dad first told me about the rumors, I became aware that the area was unnaturally silent. No birds chirped in the trees, no flies buzzing, and no rustling from rodents or any other animals.
Even more surreal, on several occasions I saw deer stop at the wall and walk along it instead of passing through the area. It was like there was an invisible border they refused to cross.
With this context, I'm sure you can understand the reaction of the locals when eight kids entered, and only seven escaped two days later, traumatized and bruised.
Honestly, I was surprised to not have heard about the event over the summer, closer to when it happened. Even more strange though, was how unwilling Aiden was to talk about the incident.
He was the kind of kid who had a strong opinion about everything. On top of that, he was constantly bringing up horror movies, or Creepypastas he had found online. But when I asked his opinion on this summer's events during recess, he only shrugged. Despite the nonchalant response, the look on his face told me that it bothered him. So I didn’t press, and let the subject go.
At the time I'd guessed that he might've had some connection to the kid that went missing. In a way, he did.
—
After an exhausting day of attempts from teachers to console their students with speeches, candy, and exceptional lenience, I was ready to go home.
I expected to find Aidan at the usual spot by the bike racks, where we met each day to walk home. Instead, there was an audience next to the bikes, forming a ring around two disheveled figures.
The flying fists and shouting could only mean one thing, so I kept my distance. Then I heard Aidan yell center, “Fucker!’ and saw a glimpse of his face spitting from a bloody mouth onto the other fighter.
Even though his back was to me, I could tell Aidan’s opponent was easily 5 inches, and 60 pounds heavier than my friend.
Teachers didn’t arrive to break up the fight before the two were on the ground, Aidan mounted with arms up, desperately trying to block blows.
A whistle was blown, and people began running away as my math teacher desperately tried to pry the football player off of Aidan.
He fought back the grown man and was finally pulled away when two more adults rushed to help. The boy was screaming at Aiden with carnal rage.
"You're a fucking liar! How dare you, I'm going to fucking kill you if I ever see you again!"
Aidan was still screaming too, but backed away willingly.
"I'm telling the truth dumbass! You were trespassing! You should be lucky we didn't press charges!"
Aiden looked bad but waved the teachers off whenever they asked if he was OK. Blood poured from his forehead, mouth, and nose. He had at least one black eye.
The other guy, I learned from the crowd, was one of the two juniors who had gone to the cave. He didn't have as many cuts or bruises but was supporting his weight on one leg and his friend's shoulder. Multiple teachers forced him into a chair while they waited for a nurse to arrive.
While the crowd control was distracted, Aiden sneaked over to me and whispered that we needed to get out of there. A couple of minutes later, the two of us were walking home like nothing had ever happened.
It took me a while before I dared to ask Aiden for the full story. He didn't even let me finish my question, which let me know he was more or less his usual self.
"My family inherited the property everyone calls Skeleton Park. It's not haunted, it's not toxic, it's not the home of a satanic sex cult; it's just a piece of forest that's been in my family for a couple of generations."
He spat a dribble of red onto the sidewalk, and I realized I'd never seen Aiden get violent before. We had our share of bullying this past year, but he would always shrug it off and laugh. He wouldn't even try to fight back. We would just get pushed around a bit, and he'd make a quip afterward about the guys' weight or smell.
"Every summer, my dad and I drive around the perimeter putting up trespassing signs, and every year they get ripped down. We get police calls once a month during the summer that somebody came limping out of there with a broken arm or leg, and they have the balls to demand we do something about it. It's not our fault nobody follows the law around here. It's the fucking woods, and it's our private property. What the hell are we even supposed to do?"
To be honest, I hadn't even considered Skeleton Park could've been private property. Though I believed everything Aiden said, I had never seen any signs along the border wall. Embarrassed from being one of those trespassers, I looked away and stayed silent as Aiden continued.
"The area is just too big. There are too many places to enter, and there's no way to block it all off. Though it's not like that'll stop anybody. I feel bad that somebody died, but I'm also a little bit thankful. Maybe now, people will think twice before messing around out there."
We walked in silence until reaching the junction where we would have to part ways. I was tired and wanted to head home, but I also was worried that Aiden would be jumped by some of the seniors if he was alone. It had happened before, and his earlier brawl could've been seen as a declaration of war.
Instead of voicing these concerns, however, I asked if he wanted to play video games at his house. He was surprised by the request but agreed.
I was on edge with every passing car, and every blind turn, but thankfully we weren’t attacked. After a couple more minutes of walking, we made it to Aiden’s house. His Dad was outside watering the garden. He turned, noticing our approach in the corner of his eye, but his planned greeting died in his mouth when he saw the dried blood coating Aiden’s face.
"Holy Shit! what did you do this time?" he exclaimed, running over to inspect his son’s injuries. "Oh, hey Brian," he added, smiling briefly at me before returning to his analysis.
Mr. Eriks was cool for a dad. Aiden never had a bad thing to say about him, and the way he handled everything that happened in the following months would only increase my admiration for him. He'd raised Aiden by himself, and I would've considered him a second friend if he wasn't 40 years older than me.
After determining the damage wasn't all that bad: a cut on Aidan's forehead and lip producing most of the blood, the three of us went inside.
Aiden went upstairs to take a shower, and his dad privately thanked me for walking him home. It didn’t take long for me to cave, and ask Mr. Eriks about the park.
"Yeah, we do own it," he answered while preparing snacks for Aiden and me. " My wife, Aiden's mom, inherited it before she passed away, and then it was signed over to me. To be honest, I don't know too much about it, and she didn't either. We just used it to go camping there sometimes, back before Aiden was born. Now we go together because it reminds us of her."
"Did you ever run into people up there, when you're camping?"
"Yeah, though not in the fall and winter when we usually go. I have the police's local number on speed dial for when it happens. Usually, it's just teens though. Kids tend to run away as soon as they see an adult with a flashlight. Paranormal or not, they know they're not supposed to be there- You staying with us for dinner Brian?"
At this point, I was too curious about the truth of Skeleton Park to leave, so I nodded and said I just needed to check with my parents.
After a phone call with my mom, some pizza rolls, and a couple of rounds of Fortnite, the afternoon stress had mostly faded away.
Me and Aidan were sitting in his room, scrolling Netflix for a slasher film to watch, when I finally asked what I'd been dying to know the entire afternoon.
"So, why was that guy saying you're a liar?"
Aiden chuckled at the question.
"He refused to believe my family owned the property his friend died on."
"Why did you even say anything? You know that just makes them want to beat you up more, right?"
"I'm tired of everybody using our land like a public park, I'm tired of picking up condoms left by people I go to school with, and I'm tired of keeping quiet about it. I tried explaining it to people in middle school. Our first project in fifth grade was a presentation about something important to us, I did mine about the park. Nobody believed me, and it got me socially exiled for the next four years. "
I ignored the urge to explain that there was probably more to his social exile than a get-to-know-you presentation from four years ago.
"That's fair I guess," I said instead. "You're dad says you go camping there."
"Yeah, on three-day weekends, and sometimes longer on breaks. Mostly in the fall and winter when there are less trespassers."
"You don't find it creepy camping there? Even without the trespassers?"
"You mean because of the silence?" Aiden smiled and looked over at me. "Yeah, the rumor about the animals is true as far as I can tell. Sure. It's kind of weird, but in winter it's kind of beautiful too. After a blizzard, there's nothing to disturb the snow, and it's kinda like the whole forest has gone to sleep. With the snow and no animals, it can get so quiet that you hear your own heart beating."
He looked off past me with a feeling of nostalgia, but all I felt was chills.
"I can take you if you want," Aiden added. "I'll have to ask my dad, but I think it would be fun to have another person camp with us."
"I'll think about it," was my way of declining without saying no.
Aiden just shrugged. "Suit yourself. Offer still stands if you ever change your mind."
Much to my annoyance, we weren’t even able to finish the movie. My Mom called, saying she was outside to pick me up an hour into our viewing of The Blair Witch Project.
I went to bed wondering how anyone could feel safe camping in a place like that. After contemplating taking Aidan up on his offer, I concluded there could be nothing that would make me spend the night there. Ironically, it would be less than a week before I changed my mind.
—
Three days later, I was walking Paddy along our usual route when she stopped and looked up at something beyond the stone wall, into Skeleton Park. She stood like a statue, eyes wide and fixated on some invisible thing.
I tried tugging the leash, pulling out a treat, begging, and making all kinds of sounds, but she just stood there. Paddy was a six-year-old golden retriever who easily weighed as much as I did, so I couldn't do much more than wait for her to move.
Suddenly, she began barking wildly at the air.
I tried approaching, but she growled at me, a sound I had never heard from her before, and I was forced to back away.
Before I could even process what was happening. She leaped over the wall and ran at full speed into the woods. It all happened so quickly that I had no time to tighten my grip on the leash.
She sprinted straight into the woods, and I chased after her, but I didn't make it far without tripping on a root hidden among the leaves. My knee was split open by something as I fell, and it took all my strength, fighting past the shock, to get back up. After recovering, I looked in all directions, but couldn't see Paddy anymore. I could only hear the tossing of leaves and branches in the distance.
Then there was nothing. Not a single sound. I'm not sure why I didn't question the sudden silence back then. It wasn't the gradual fade into silence you would expect from something running away. It was as if somebody had just hit a mute button on everything but the wind through the trees.
I don't know, maybe I'm misremembering the details.
Patty's disappearance doesn't matter anyway. We never found her, and dogs don’t live for twenty years, so at this point, we never will.
After taking a moment to recover from the shock, I limped home crying and told my parents what had happened. My Dad called the police because it was the only thing we could think of, but all they did was apologize and recommend we put up posters.
They couldn't do anything even if they wanted to. After all, she ran onto private property.
After that, the last thing I could think to do was call Aiden. His dad promised they could search the park that night, and he also offered to take me for an extended search the following weekend in case they didn’t find anything.
Of course, they didn't find her, just half of a leash wrapped around a branch. At least, that's what my parents told me the Eriks had found, they never actually let me see it.
A day before the trip, the Forecast started predicting snow: Saturday night into Sunday, eight inches, wet.
I probably should've given up then. Instead, I told Aiden this would probably be my only chance to find Paddy, insisting she wouldn't survive in the snow. After making sure with his dad, we continued with the plan and headed out after school Friday night.
—
While it hurts keeping this story in, reliving the memories is almost as painful. So I'm going to take a break writing for now and continue in a day or two. If anyone has a scientific explanation for why animals were avoiding that area, or for my dog's behavior, please let me know.
Thanks for reading, B
Part 1

My senior dog has been struggling with his back legs, especially his left one. What supplements do you use for dogs arthritis and any dog leg braces help or recommendations?

Hey Everyone! I am new to this platform so excuse me for my informal tone!
I am very confused right now with respect to my future and would like some guidance here! A little about me I am 25 will be 26 in august currently in a Unified CXM firm :p which pays me around 1.55L per month! I am not sure if I should even brag about it becuase I am just tired within 7months due to intense hustle culture and pathetic WLB which it is famous for. Also I am the youngest of my family so their is a good age gap and my parents are senior citizens now hence would it make sense to do MBA? I might sound philosophical or empathetic here but I can see my aged parents who would have to rely on me for the financials but they are ok with anything I choose!
Now my question considering my CTC should i go for an MBA because I have always wanted to be in Sales and Marketing domain but thanks to my collgee BITS pilani being a pharmacy graduate I am considered as an engineer and all those expectations are pre-set which I face in every firm!!
I feel MBA will close the gaps which my college couldnt due to my degree but I still would genuinely want some guidance and scenarios! I have started preparing for CAT but with such long hours it gets immensly difficult. Also I am not follwing the IIM herd, I want to get into SPJ even if its below IIM trinities, that's a personal choice but all that depends on me getting an admit..
The question i have asked here will decide a lot about my future so please do give a read
#rant

Hey Everyone! I am new to this platform so excuse me for my informal tone!
I am very confused right now with respect to my future and would like some guidance here! A little about me I am 25 will be 26 in august currently in a Unified CXM firm :p which pays me around 1.55L per month! I am not sure if I should even brag about it becuase I am just tired within 7months due to intense hustle culture and pathetic WLB which it is famous for. Also I am the youngest of my family so their is a good age gap and my parents are senior citizens now hence would it make sense to do MBA? I might sound philosophical or empathetic here but I can see my aged parents who would have to rely on me for the financials but they are ok with anything I choose!
Now my question considering my CTC should i go for an MBA because I have always wanted to be in Sales and Marketing domain but thanks to my collgee BITS pilani being a pharmacy graduate I am considered as an engineer and all those expectations are pre-set which I face in every firm!!
I feel MBA will close the gaps which my college couldnt due to my degree but I still would genuinely want some guidance and scenarios! I have started preparing for CAT but with such long hours it gets immensly difficult. Also I am not follwing the IIM herd, I want to get into SPJ even if its below IIM trinities, that's a personal choice but all that depends on me getting an admit..
The question i have asked here will decide a lot about my future so please do give a read

Diagnosed with stage 4 Endo. Labs are perfect and still waiting on an US of the thyroid.
Symptoms: brain fog, vision issues (blurry, more floaters) and Dr said my eyes are extremely dry, memory issues, anxiety and feelings of doom, depression worsened, inflamed gums (floss, brush regularly), I think I have oral lichen planus, sometimes toungue swells and has ridges on the sides, muscle spasms like my eye twitched for 3 days straight a few days ago. Occasionally hair thinning. I gained 10lbs in a few months with no diet change. Boobs seem enlarged, but maybe it's from the weight gain. I don't seem to be ovulating normally (probably Endo or something). Random vein/tissue swelling in my hands and upper legs, gastroparisis, SEVERE fatigue, and days where I feel like I have the flu
Could this really all be from Endo? I've had every test under the sun. Everything is normal. Even if my thyroid is enlarged, would it cause this many issues?

Or is it for basic commodities only? I'm in the construction industry and a tile supplier I asked said they don't provide SC discount.
Would also like to ask if SC discount is applicable on online transactions?
Thank you!

Over the weekend I started experiencing severe calf pain, but chalked it up to a pulled calf muscle. A handful of days later the pain and swelling got worse and I started experiencing pitting edema. I deliberated for a very long time if I should go to the ER or see if it gets better because it has to be a calf strain. However, a part of me knew I needed to get it checked out given my family history of blood clotting and my own factor V diagnosis. Went to the ER last night and the doctor found 3 blood clots in my leg 2 of which were occlusive. I am so thankful I listened to my intuition and got it checked out. Please if you have any feeling something is not right and you may have a clot, go get it checked out. Your symptoms will not perfectly match up to what you see after googling “DVT symptoms” (my own lack of redness/heat was convincing me it wasn’t clots). I hope this helps someone because I was reading through posts on this sub and it really was a factor in helping me decide to go to the ER last night.

Hey guys I wrote two versions of the first fight scene of dumb machop isekai and would like your opinions on which you think is more engaging, more interesting, better written, whatever. Let me know.
Obviously there is prior context to the scene missing, but basically our boy is in the middle of the woods when an Abra walks up to him, generates some weird distortion in the air, and makes it clear its time to throw hands. This is our boys first fight of the story.
I tried making the second draft a little less verbose in areas where I felt it was unnecessary, but you let me know if the missing, added, and rearranged detail makes it better or worse, and in what ways. I also added an injury at the start of the fight and made the ending more violent for emphasis. Not injuring the Abra makes the MC seem crazy, risking himself like that to bask. More understandable without an injury to spur his fear in that first draft, but still, I think a more complete incapacitation seems the way to go either way. Feel free to point out grammar mistakes, they are drafts for a reason. The rewrite divergence point begins at the arrows.
Isekai machop vs abra, drafts 1 and 2.
Draft 1:
I didn't know what that distortion was. Maybe it was a landmine, maybe it was a tripwire that would let Abra attack from two angles if I got between it and them. Maybe it was the beginnings of a battlefield coverage move, or a bomb, or an arbitrary marker in 3D space that would help Abra orientate itself, or the anchor by which it was now pushing itself off the ground and levitating with. But another possibility rested at the back of my mind, a possibility with an obvious path to victory, if it were true. I chose that path.
Fighting types were weak to psychic types, I knew this. I also knew that psychic powers were fucking scary. Strong and invisible and without any startup, in theory. In some fictional stories they didn't even need to see you, and they could do things like directly modify your thoughts. If there weren't strict limitations to a power like that then it would just be unreasonably strong, so strong that psychics should have wiped every other species off the face of the planet. The fact they hadn't, I hoped, meant that I still had a chance. I would make decisions based on the assumption I did.
First things first, testing the waters. If this failed, I would run away. That Abra was walking until it saw me, implying flight took some kind of energy. I probably had more endurance than this thing's flight, and more speed than it did in two legs. I could probably escape if the need arose.
I crouched to pick up a hefty rock, a little larger than my hand, and started to run sideways at top speed, circling my opponent from a distance. Its eyes began to glow as it tracked me in place, like it sat on an invisible swivel chair. I tensed in preparation to be struck with sudden pain, either from a killer headache, twisted muscle, or full body hold. Then I saw it, a faint purple haze snaking its way between us, so faint that I certainly only noticed it because of my enhanced senses, fast as a bullet.
→I dropped to my knees and slid beneath it, before I launched myself behind the nearest tree. My chest thrummed with excitement! I can do this! Psychic energy has travel time! It couldn't just bridge gaps in space arbitrarily, and its speed wasn't like a particle of light or something equally ridiculous. This Abra was nothing more than a glorified turret.
I tore off an impressive chunk of wood from the tree, and crushed a handful into smaller chunks with a squeeze. I darted out and shotgunned them at the floating fox. A middle chunk of the wood seemed to waver and slow, apparently colliding midair with whatever attack it had sent my way. The remaining wood shrapnel flew fast enough and in a cone wide enough that the abra simply couldn't dodge, though its attempt revealed its prodigious speed. Holy shit it could fly. It was hit, and though I half expected a skewered fox, all I got was a disorientated psychic. Good enough, I rushed it down myself, bashing rock still in hand.
As I bore down on its position, stuck choosing between a pressured retreat and close quarters combat with me, it chose a third, less risky option. The instant its body distorted, I turned around and hurled the rock with all my might. The moment Abra appeared at the distortion it placed earlier, it was struck by something nearly its own body weight moving at the speed of a musket ball, directly against its forehead.
Abra was launched away at speed, flipping backwards violently. Abra seemed to try and correct its orientation with its levitation powers, but that proved a mistake, because it only served to toss itself sideways into a tree waist first, eliciting a proper yelp. It flipped like a beyblade now, having hardly killed its initial speed. Soon afterwards, its remaining momentum was focused into another tree to the head. Instead of sending it sprawling, it started to finally stabilize in place. Abra began to float slightly higher while its upper body was pushed over its lower, forcefully orienting itself into a sitting position.
It was from this position that Abra was finally able to see the Machop two strides away, eyes opening wide in reaction. I never drop the follow through. By the time I was airborne in my first stride, Abra was floating up fast. By the time I landed, I had already understood its reactionary choice, and leapt. Though it started earlier, I rose faster. I caught its leg in as iron a grip I could muster. My forward momentum and weight shot us out of the sky before I sledgehammered the thing full body into the dirt.
I shot forward and down to grasp its thin neck just tight enough that I could wring it with a bit more force, and held my other fist ready to pummel. Normally this is the part where I would finish it, but instead I grinned and waited. Fucking do something. Its head was bleeding, though far less than I would have expected, as it looked into my eyes with its own, now wide, peepers. Even across the species barrier its sheer terror was palpable.
It was at this point that the littlest bulbasaur appeared above ground, looking at us with its mouth agape. "You won!?"
Draft 2:
I didn't know what that distortion was. Maybe it was a landmine, maybe it was a tripwire that would let Abra attack from two angles if I got between it and them. Maybe it was the beginnings of a battlefield coverage move, or a bomb, or an arbitrary marker in 3D space that would help Abra orientate itself, or the anchor by which it was now pushing itself off the ground and levitating with. But another possibility rested at the back of my mind, a possibility with an obvious path to victory, if it were true. I chose that path.
Fighting types were weak to psychic types, I knew this. I also knew that psychic powers were fucking scary. Strong and invisible and without any startup, in theory. In some fictional stories they didn't even need to see you, and they could do things like directly modify your thoughts. If there weren't strict limitations to a power like that then it would just be unreasonably strong, so strong that psychics should have wiped every other species off the face of the planet. The fact they hadn't, I hoped, meant that I still had a chance. I would make decisions based on the assumption I did.
First things first, testing the waters. If this failed, I would run away. That Abra was walking until it saw me, implying flight took some kind of energy. I probably had more endurance than this thing's flight, and more speed than it did in two legs. I could probably escape if the need arose.
I crouched to pick up a hefty rock, a little larger than my hand, and started to run sideways at top speed, circling my opponent from a distance. Its eyes began to glow as it tracked me in place, like it sat on an invisible swivel chair. I tensed in preparation to be struck with sudden pain, either from a killer headache, twisted muscle, or full body hold. Then I saw it, a faint purple haze snaking its way between us, so faint that I certainly only noticed it because of my enhanced senses, fast as a bullet.
→It didn't work. I failed to dodge it. I should run. Can I run?
On earth, my body was simply more fragile than my will. It's all too easy to push your body to its end. Humans spend more time working around limitations than they do pushing their limits. And every time you find something worth pushing your will to its fullest for, your body will inevitably fail. Because of this, the greatest combatants use only as much as is necessary, push their bodies as far as they are worth pushing and no more. If that isn't enough, they fill the gap with schemes and techniques. If that too, isn't enough, they can simply escue all their limits, use up everything their flesh will give, and die. Put it all on one moment.
Seems most people never found whatever they'd push that hard for, or at least were never put into a situation where they had to fight for it. I was. Some people think their lives have value beyond what those lives can bring to them. Existence is just a net. Every step is a sway through the waters of experience, to capture it, that moment. You only get one. Because the body can't handle more.
It was only now, as my thigh turned into pulp, ripped to the bone, my body screaming at me, that I was possessed of a revelation so strong it rippled through my whole being.
Now, there's no gaps to fill, now, I can push as hard as I want, now, I can experience that moment as many times as my will can reach it.
Half a moment after I was attacked, I bent my remaining leg and catapulted myself behind the nearest tree. By the time I hit its cover I was laughing. By the instant I left it, I was squeezing a massive wood chunk ready to throw. I chucked it hard, a portion of the shrapnel losing its speed and wobbling midair against the Abras follow up attack. The remaining splinters shotgunned forwards and met flesh.
Instead of a skewered fox, I got a disoriented psychic, but that's fine. I was already galloping forward on a leg and its opposite arm. When my enemy recovered, I was already bearing down. My senses were so close to their peak that I realized Abras next move at the same time they made it. When I bore down on it for long enough that it should have started moving, should have several instances beyond enough time to react with at least something panicked, and it had not, I knew what it was about to do.
The fact that it hadn't tried to create distance or panicked told me that its startup was at least fast enough to save them from the rock I was slamming down upon them right now. So I adjusted my muscles, and burned them to plow right through Abra and around again. As the abras form wavered, it disappeared. Then they reappeared at the distortion they placed when this fight began, and was immediately blasted in the skull by the rock I had cannoned behind my swing.
By the time they'd hit two trees trying to correct with levitation, and beybladed through the air thanks to sheer velocity, I was nearly upon them. As they regained control. Their eyes opened in fear. Without their little fallback, they really couldn't run now. They began to float higher, my foot hit the ground, they created distance, I closed it. Though they began earlier, my leap rose faster, I caught their leg in a grip akin to a garbage compactor and a raccoon that just didn't know any better, let my weight and sheer momentum tear us from the sky, and hammered them into solid bark covered root.
I didn't stop now, everyone knows what you do to zoners who get in range. I struck, though the force was great, there was hardly any damage. I struck, the Abras eyes were alight with panic, it helds its hands towards me. I felt what it was about to do, and let the gravity of my acceptance hold my heart and mind steady for the shock of having my kidneys blown out. It didn't come. I struck, and this one was different.
When I hit it with the wood, it seemed little different from taking a push and some dust in the eye, when I hit with my rock, it bled and flew, but nothing more. When I struck once and twice, with the might of ten men, it seemed to take it as the blows of one. Now, its skull cracked audibly, blood vessels burst out to open air as an eye swelled from hidden pressure. I struck, the other side transformed into something more horrible than the first, Abra engulfed air with a staggered rhythm, like a reverse whoopee cushion, the pitch and tone of the intake close to what a child's sobbing would be.
I gathered its wrists in my hands and destroyed them as easily as making a fist. Its discordant gasps were now constant, burbling and choking on its panic. Not a thought in that head. I smiled. I laughed. I flipped my opponent over and sat on its back, relaxed as my hand descended to grace its neck, ready to crush at the slightest provocation.
Before anything else, I saw that runt of a bulbasaur moving from its shelter with trepidation in its step, and purpose in its eyes. When it saw me, the weight left its gaze, it froze, mouth hanging open. "You won?!"

In George Orwell’s Animal Farm which is on the subject of the existence of a society of animals living on the Manor Farm. One first thinks that this novel is about the animals living in a farm from the title. But as the story goes on, it gradually begins to make the readers understand the depth content of the workings of society in Communist Russia. George has accurately compared the society of human to the animals to the animals living in the Manor Farm. In this novel, author has compared the Russian revolution, where animals represent the significant personage and act as the leaders in the Russian Community. Animals are used to demonstrate the operation of the communist class system and how the citizens(people) respond to this and the effect of the leadership by early Russian leaders such as Stalin on the behavior of the people of Russia. For instance, the Old Major makes the speech to other animals about the idea of revolution. Since he dies before the beginning of the revolution, it could be compared to the Karl Marx, whose ideas set to the Communist revolution in motion. The seven commandments are consider as one of the important step in the revolution which changed by the rulers of the Farm. This paper talks about how the seven commandments were altered during throughout the story and whether it reflects the message of the Communist Manifesto.
After the rebellion took place in Manor Farm, it changed to Animal Farm where the set of laws was introduced to the citizens of the farm by the leaders. The set of laws which are known as The Seven Commandment are said to be “form an unalterable law by which all animals on Animal Farm must live forever after.”(Orwell) These Commandments were so important that they were painted by Snowball and Squealer “in giant white letters that could be read from thirty yards away.”(Orwell) The original Seven Commandments ran as:

1. Whatever goes upon two legs is an enemy.
2. Whatever goes upon four legs or has wings, is a friend.
3. No animal shall sleep in a bed
4. No animal shall drink alcohol.
5. No animal shall kill other animal.
6. No animal shall wear clothes.
7. All animals are equal.

These commandments were to be followed by all the animals living on the farm at all times regardless. As one can think from the reading, the simplest phrase that explains these commandments is “Four legs good, two legs bad.” As time passed by, the commandments were altered by the rulers of the farm. Napoleon (the pig who emerges as the leader of Animal Farm after rebellion) who very cleverly broke the commandment and reintroduced as “four legs good, two legs are better” Even though the first two commandments state that anyone on two legs is bad and should not be allowed in the farm, they were wracked in the first year. Since the pigs started walking on two legs, the first commandment was violated and more over, the hero of the Battle of the Cowshed, Snowball turned into an enemy of the Farm as he was thrown out by Napoleon and allowing trading through Mr. Whymper resulting in violation of commandments .
The pigs moved back in to the farm house which result into alteration of the first commandments. The third commandment restricts animals of the farm to sleep in the bed which was forced to change by Napoleon with the modification of the commandment by adding “with sheets.” After the rebellion took place in the farm, the first commandment overruled which was being “all animals equal.” As we read thru out the story the pigs were keep on changing the “unalterable laws” for their comfort just like we saw above with sleeping in the bed. According to Napoleon, sleeping on beds is not a major change yet it was not allowed earlier since humans lived on the farm slept on the bed. The pigs changed the commandment so wisely that the other animals of the farm didn’t think as the violation of the commandment.
The next commandment to change is “No animal shall kill other animal”. This happens not long after the confessions and executions of animals on the farm that were supposed traitors and in league with Snowball. After these executions, again Muriel, Clover and also Benjamin plus some other animals felt this did not square with this commandment. Once again, the pigs have changed the Commandments in order to justify their actions. The animals read the Commandment they though did not agree, “No animal shall kill other animal without cause”, and then the animals see how really the Commandments had not been violated.
The next commandment to change is when Napoleon abuses his power and made life harder for other animals. The pigs impose more control while reserving privileges for themselves. Squealer justifies every statement Napoleon makes, even the pigs’ alteration of the Seven Commandments of Animalism. “No animal shall drink alcohol” is changed to “No animal shall drink alcohol to excess” when the pigs discover the farmer’s whisky.
One would never think that pigs ever made change to the commandment about the clothes as they were enough powerful to rule other animals. The seventh commandment explains that all animals in the world are treated equally without distinction. Instead of considering the commandments as “unalterable laws,” they were replaced by worthless slogan “All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others,” which is totally opposite to with what they were introduced to other animals.
Orwell has used images to make his argument stronger. He has used events to help readers to understand his thoughts. While reading, we develop a feeling of sadness inside getting attach emotionally to the story. Orwell writes in a way to targets readers emotions because they have the ability to experience and feel the pain suffered by the animals in the farm. The following scene could create a strong sorrow to the readers “So Napoleon, with the help of his dogs, slaughters anyone who is said to be disloyal. The tale of confessions and executions went on, until there was a pile of corpses lying before Napoleon’s feet and the air was heavy with the smell of blood, which had been unknown there since the expulsion of Jones.” To top it off, Napoleon outlaws Beasts of England, which had served as one of the only remaining ties between Animal Farm and old Major?” (Orwell 65).
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In conclusion, it is clear that George Orwell intended his novel to allegorically represent the figures and events of the Russian Revolution, and through the characters of Mr. Jones as Czar Nicholas, Old Major as Karl Marx, and Napoleon as Joseph Stalin, Animal Farm makes a profound statement regarding the abuse of power. The animals began their revolution with the best intentions. However, their noble ideas of a utopian society where “all animals are created equal” gradually deteriorated into a totalitarian state with a cruel and unjust dictator which, of course, mirrors the chain of events that turned Marx’s dream of a classless society into the nightmare of Stalin’s ruthless regime. This evil cycle of rebellion, power, and then corruption is best described by Barbara Tuchman: “Every successful revolution puts on in time the robes of the tyrant it has deposed.”
Work Cited
Orwell, George. George Orwell’s Animal Farm. New York: Nick Hern Books, 2004. Print
Coffin, Judith G., and Robert C. Stacey. Western Civilizations. 16th ed. Vol. 2. 500 Fifth Ave, New York, N.Y. 10110: Norton & Company, 2008. Print.

To start off this post I understand that it is quite difficult as it is to get into grad programs for physics and I also understand my screwups and mistakes I have made but am working on improving myself and hoping for the best.
That being said I just finished my junior year in physics and have been doing research since the start of last year at our schools accelerator, and aim to work towards a senior thesis for my project. I attended an REU at my university last summer (since im an international student and NSF doesn't fund non-citizens for REU's) and that also resulted in a collaborative publication by the end of the program.
Now the huge problem are my grades which to be quite frank have been mediocre since the start, and my current CGPA is a 2.59 (yikes i know) but I have been working on improving it. In all honesty I have really only been passing my physics/math classes and have only had a total of like 5 A's/B's in them. This spring semester has also however been my best semester so far with all physics courses and A-/B- in them all.
I understand that chances are nigh slim for people even with a 3.0+ GPA and like I might as well be cooked for grad school, but I still want to apply and do my best to showcase myself in my applications and try to explain my journey and the constant messing up along the way. I also believe that my rec letters are going to be from good professors, particularly in the field i wanna go for (experimental nuclear), and so that might help my case a little too. I just wanted advice on the whole issue and know about grad school chances, as well as what else I could do instead after my undergrad that can help my chances to apply for grad school later on.
​
TL; DR: Horrible GPA, have been showing improvement, been researching since last year and had a collaborative publication last summer through an REU, potential good rec letters, need advice for grad school or other paths to pursue that will help chances.

Hello guys, I've been trying to typify myself but I always identify with different functions and maybe my compression is not the best in the subject.
I'm a girl and I'm 21 years old, English is not my main language so sorry for any mistakes.
Section 1
How do you work? Why do people go to work? Are there any parameters that determine whether you can do work or not? What are they?
I work because I have no choice, that's how the world I was born is and that's how I'm going to live, I admire those who try to change the course of things like a superhero but I'm a mere citizen.
Because people have dreams and goals and they can't achieve what they want without money unless they're lucky enough to be born into an elite family, if so they won the lucky roulette wheel of life.
I don't work well in heavy environments, I survived only 1 day in a factory because a woman keep screaming at me, everyone tried to convince me to try harder but I was feeling to overwhelmed.
How do you determine the quality of work? How do you determine the quality of a purchase? Do you pay any attention to it
Result.
I'm a bit picky with the quality of my stuff, especially the fabric of my clothes. It's because of comfort but also for aesthetics.
There is a professional next to you. How do you know they are a professional? How do you evaluate their skill?
They get the job done on time and well done. I don't think there's only one way to do things, we are all taught in a certain way but then we also adapt, we end up creating our own way of doing things that work for us.
If you struggle to do something, how do you fix that? Do you know if your performance is better or worse than others?
It depends, I usually learn by trying until it works but I can't always use this technique so I seek tutorials or ask for help.
Definitely, I'm very paranoid about my job, I hate feeling incompetent. If I have the conditions and knowledge to take the initiative to do something at work, I'll do it, but if I'm insecure then I'd rather stay quiet I don't want to mess things up.
How do you measure the success of a job? What standard do you use? Do you pay attention to it? When should you deviate from this standard?
I like easy jobs, constant stress is not for me. Easy, the money, the free time I will have, the responsibilities (few I expect) and the effort.
Section 2
What is a whole? Can you identify its parts? Are the parts equivalent to the whole?
I'm so confused, am I supposed to give a definition or come out with some abstract sentence?
What does "logical" mean? What is your understanding? Do you think that it correlates with the common view? How do you know you are being logical?
Logic to me is something that makes sense, when your actions and words are coherent and when you take into account all the factors to make a correct decision. Contrary to what the Alphas may believe, Logic is not coldness, in fact, to be completely logical you have to take the emotions of others and your own into account, otherwise you are just emotionally unavailable. For example, killing half the population just because someone killed your cat is not logical, you're actually being driven just by emotions.
What is hierarchy? Give examples of hierarchies. Do you need to follow it? Why or why not? Explain how hierarchy is used in a system you are familiar with.
In short, it's when you're on the first floor and need to climb the stairs to get to the second, you may be able to pay someone to build an elevator to get up there faster, or you can't afford it and you have to overcome all the conditions, shortness of breath, pain in your legs, the stairs that are old and falling apart...
Hierarchy is something natural and will always exist, no matter how much you hate it, the world is not a fair place and there will always be someone eating fried chicken in a lamborghini at the expense of a child who makes clothes for shein.
If you're ambitious you have to do it, but if you're like me who just want to have money to live a "basic life", then you don't need to climb so many stairs, just the necessary ones.
What is classification? How does classification work? Why is it needed and where is it applied? Give examples.**
Is when you take a product, tangible or not (e.g. a bread or skills) and give it a certain punctuation/category according to certain requirements.
Obviously, imagine that you built a building made of toothpicks (product) that would collapse 1 minute after being exposed to the wind because no one had the brilliant idea to take into account the meteorological conditions (requirement)
Are your ideas consistent? How do you know they are consistent? How do you spot inconsistency in others' ideas?
I'm usually an introspective person, so even when my ideas are incoherent I think about them at some point and "correct" the incoherence, unless I'm really emotional I think that during those moments no one is coherent.
Yes, but I usually prefer to keep quiet if it's none of my business.
Section 3
Can you press people? What methods do you use? How does it happen?
Usually no, first of all I don't like to force anyone to do anything because I don't like to be forced either, second that I'm not good at forcing people especially strangers and it's the main reason to have been bullied and still have problems with people walking over me.
What I do is that I tell the advantages of doing something the way I want or admit that it would be convenient for me.
What can happen is when I do something for a person over and over again and they never reciprocate, and there is when I can be a manipulative and childish (passive-agressive)
How do you deal with opposition? What methods do you use to defend your interests?
It depends on the situation, I react badly if it's the example I gave earlier. If someone starts trying to control me indirectly, I can react two ways, or I play dumb for the sake of peace or the manipulation goes directly against my interests and in that case I walk away (with strangers) or protest (people close to me).
When do you think it's ok to occupy someone's space? Do you recognize it?
When they occupy yours is the only situation I can think of right now.
Do others think you are a strong-willed person? Do you think you have a strong will?
I don't know what others think.
It depends if it's about something I'm sure I want, for example a lot of people say I'm crazy for wanting to leave the country but I made that choice for myself and that's what I'm going to do, if I don't change my mind until then (which usually doesn't happen). Otherwise I think I can be seen as lazy, I need a very strong motivation that comes from myself.
How do you satisfy your physical senses? What examples can you give? What physical experiences are you drawn to?
I really like hot baths and pleasant smells. I'm a bit paranoid about my own smell, I'm always putting on deodorant for example.
On the other hand I'm not very good with my internal health, I have to force myself to remember to drink water and food is optional, I don't usually eat breakfast and especially at work I only eat salty snacks or soup most time. I tend to eat more when I want to be greedy or have food available, if I have to do it then I don't eat or I make something simple. I have a friend who judges me for it (I think she has strong Si).
I like some extreme activities, for example I've done canoeing which I loved and every summer I go to the scariest carousels at the fair, I feel free.
How do you find harmony with your environment? How do you build a harmonious environment? What happens if this harmony is disturbed?
I like quiet environments where everyone is genuinely fine and not pretending, so if any of my friends are feeling bad I try to help them. I also like to go to beautiful places with friends or alone like organize a picnic, go to a waterfall...
What does comfort mean to you? How do you create it?
Being in a place alone where I don't need to be anxious all the time, where I can let my guard down, eat sushi while listening to the sound of the rain in warm pajamas and under my blanket creating some fake scenario on my head.
How do you express yourself in your hobbies? How do you engage yourself with those things?
When I was a kid I tried to start playing piano but I dind't last long because It requires a long time to get results and I didn't want to practice at home. I prefer simpler hobbies without commitments, for example playing video games, painting, reading books, and trying new hobbies.
I'd really like to start trying to go to craft classes, but short classes to then be able to try another one until maybe I find one that suits me.
Tell us how you'd design any room, house or an office. Do you do it yourself, or trust someone else to do it? Why?
If I had the money I would call someone to take care of the big part, I would tell them exactly what I want, then I would just take care of the details.
Is it acceptable to express emotions in public? Give examples of inappropriate expression of emotions
That's not a question of being acceptable or not, emotions can't always be controlled, you never know what someone is going through behind the scenes.
But I admit that I prefer people who don't show emotions in an dramatic way, for example in my work there are a lot of people who start screaming and who are clearly exaggerating and I have to control myself not to laugh.
I'm mostly touched by people who are more reserved with their emotions because I identify with them.
How do you express your emotions? Can you tell how your expressions affect others in a positive or negative way?
I never had emotional support so I like to deal with my emotions alone.
I don't know if I consider myself a very emotional person , I have my moments where I start crying for many different reasons because I kept a lot of things inside me, I also have days where I'm in a very bad mood without knowing why and I start being mean to close people.
I'm a very private person, I don't like exaggerated demonstrations, a lot of "i love you" and compliments make me bored and seem fake.
Are you able to change your demeanor in order to interact with your environment in a more or less suitable way? How do you determine what is suitable?
These questions make me think that I don't know myself that well.
I think so, I know how to dress up and not talk about inappropriate things even if I make some mistakes, like smiling in the middle of a funeral because my colleague told a joke or showing involuntary annoyance when someone try to do a lot of small talk with me.
In what situations do you feel others' feelings? Can you give examples of when you wanted to improve the mood of others?
I am fickle in many aspects of my life, empathy is one of them, sometimes I have a lot and sometimes I don't have any. It really depends on my relationship with people and how much I like their personality. I'm very suspicious of other people's motives.
My father doesn't usually cry a lot and he's not manipulative at all. I suspect he's a Lse or sli, so when he cries I know it's real and it affects me, in other hand my mother is manipulative and when she starts crying I always think it's fake or that she deserves it (maybe she is a iei).
Section 6
How can you tell how much emotional space there is between yourself and others? How can you affect this space?
Complicated, I wouldn't say I'm completely blind to how others feel about me, but I'm definitely very pessimistic and because of that I like to be reassured about what my loved ones think about me.
I'm very suspicious of others and sometimes I start overthinking that everyone hates me or wants to hurt me. As soon as a friend has a more negative reaction, sometimes because of their own problems that have nothing to do with me, I get hurt or I start trying to guess what they are thinking about me and as you can imagine it's almost always negative. Although now I'm starting to try to be less negative because you never know what others are thinking or feeling.
How do you determine how much you like or dislike someone else? How does this affect your relationships?
By personality, values, way of seeing the world, I like people I identify whit and I can trust. People with character that I consider dubious I try to not interact.
I have a very small group because I have a set pattern, at the same time they are different obviously but what unites us is that we are all very open-minded and we don't like to meddle in other people's lives.
How do you move from a distant relationship to a close one? What are the distinguishing characteristics of a close relationship?
We start talking, I like what they are about and it's that simple. Sometimes it takes me 3 months to consider someone a friend, other times I only see the person 3 times and I already know I can trust them.
It has happened once that I stayed in a "friendship" because I wanted company at school, but I stopped seeing him as a friend and started seeing him as an acquaintance.
How do you know that you are a moral person? Where do you draw your morality from? Do you believe others should share your beliefs on what's moral? Why?
I am a moral person in my own criteria. There are people who follow the morality of religion, others follow the morality of a group... Some of them I consider wrong and stupid, but I just don't make friends with these people and it's as simple as that.
The only thing that everyone should do is to respect others because it made life easier for everyone and it's such a simple thing if everyone does it.
Someone you care about is acting distant to you. How do you know when this attitude is a reflection of your relationship?
I don't know, it depends on the situation.
But I try not to take it personally (don't mean that I don't take it, on the contrary but I try to suppress it). What I do is that I ask what happened or i leave them alone. I don't like is chasing after others so I've ended friendships without knowing why, the person just stops talking to me and I take that as a sign.
Section 7
How can you tell someone has the potential to be a successful person? What qualities make a successful person and why?
I would say that one of the things is to have the ability to always be ahead of others, to have that special touch that some people have.
Where would you start when looking for a new hobby? How do you find new opportunities and how do you choose which would be best?
I already have ideas of hobbys that I want to try, so I would look in my internal library and choose the one that I felt like doing. I like manual and simple activities (I'm not an artist) I've done canoeing and I don't hate extreme activities, but I don't think it's considered a hobby and I don't know if I would do it that often either.
How do you interpret the following statement: "Ideas don't need to be feasible in order to be worthwhile." Do you agree or disagree, and why?
Ideas have to start somewhere, at first they may not make sense, but then when more ideas come up and they are molded, they can become a possibility. Or maybe people just want to come up with crazy ideas and that's okay too.
Describe your thought process when relating the following ideas: swimming, chicken, sciences. Do you think that others would draw the same or different connections?
I didn't make any connection, unlike the guy I took this questionnaire from. I just read the sentences and nothing else.
How would you summarize the qualities that are essential to who you are? What kind of potential in you has yet to be actualized and why?
The part that I fear the most, having to describe myself even more with qualities (gives me the impression that I'm bragging). This is going to feel more like a list than a text, sorry for the disappointment. I'm faithful, I like to make people's lives easier (if they haven't done me wrong), I strive to do what I promised, I hate being in debt.
I definitely have to improve my charisma and try to get along with new people more until I get used to it and don't get so bored.
Section 8
How do people change? Can you describe how various events change people? Can others see those changes?
Everything changes people, the personality you have today was the result of all the moments of your life and also of your brain (parts more or less developed and this also affects).
We're always changing every day, it's just that we're so used to the changes that sometimes we don't even notice it.
Sometimes I go through a similar situation that has happened before and I see how much I have changed in the way I deal with the problem.
How do you feel and experience time? Can time be wasted? How?
I think time is the most powerfyl weapon, you learn to deal with things with time, time brings peace but also chaos, time makes life evolve both positively and negatively, time kills you but also brings life. Time is truly the most important thing there is, when a certain moment passes you can no longer go back and fix things.
It all depends on the point of view, today you can consider it something important but later you see that it was a waste of time, the important thing to keep in mind is to think about the future because what has already happened cannot be changed.

• Don't typify me according to clichés, thank you.

Is there anything that cannot be described with words? What is it? If so, how can we understand what it is if language does not work?
Language is limiting, you can indulge feelings in others through sentences but you are never sure how others will interpret it.
I would say feelings and experience is one of the things, you have to go through them and let others go through too.
How do you anticipate events unfolding? How can you observe such unfoldments in your environment?
I don't really know, I think from what has already happened, from the people involved, from myself.
I sometimes tend to try to predict things and I like to be prepared for all eventualities because it makes me feel safer, but I also know that predictions are not 100% certain. I've missed opportunities because of this.
In what situations is timing important? How do you know the time is right to act? How do you feel about waiting for the right moment ?
It depends on when I've decided it's time to act.
I'll use the example of my driver's license, I started getting my license 1 year before the end of school but then I decided to finish school first to focus on my license after (also out of laziness I admit). My parents bothered me a lot because I needed to get the license but I only did it when I saw that I needed it to work and I couldn't leave it for later anymore (can expire). It was a bad choice, but I needed a reason to have motivation.
I finally finished this, I couldn't take it anymore. Thank you for reading this far ;)

AFAB, 42, type II diabetes, chronic migraines, hypertension, polycystic ovarian syndrome, hyperthyroidism, obese, ADHD, anxiety, depression, PTSD, agoraphobia.
Propranolol, metformin, levothyroxine, methylphenidate, methylphenidate extended release, desvenlafaxine, zomitriptan. No vitamins or supplements.
One pet cat, no lifestyle changes such as a new pet, partner, diet, or move.
I've had huge, red, raised, intensely itchy hives over 90% of my body for weeks, scalp, ears, chin, neck, shoulders, both arms, chest, back , stomach, butt, legs, feet, even the soles of my feet and palms of my hands. It started suddenly, with no history of hives. I've also had my eye randomly swell shut and my lip swell up a couple times.
I've been taking famotidine twice daily and diphenhydramine throughout the day. It mostly controls or at least lessens it but there's no sign of actual improvement. The moment it wears off, the hives come roaring back.
I saw the doctor, who was concerned it could be an autoimmune condition, and had blood work done. They did a bunch of tests because they did my usual thyroid and a1c in there too. I think the relevant ones for the hives were C-reactive protein and anti-nuclear antibody screen.
The C-reactive protein came back as 1.6mg/dL. The antibody screen came back negative.
From what I read, 1.6mg/dL (I think that's 16mg/L?) is associated with autoimmune conditions, and is considered kinda high?
My doctor called it mildly elevated, though, and I guess paired with a negative anti-nuclear antibody test, my doctor says it's not an autoimmune disease.
I'm just a little confused about why it's elevated and why what I read makes it seem more concerning than my doctor's interpretation seemed. Lupus would have kinda made sense, tbh. But I guess I'm in the clear for autoimmune stuff? So what does it mean that it's that high? Or is it really not that high and I read things that weren't accurate?
The only other test that was abnormal was that my thyroid medication does was a little high. My thyroid is never stable, though. It is always too low or too high and my dose always changes.
So my doctor wants me to try a combination of Zyrtec, Allegra, famotidine, and prescription Singulair for a month and see how it goes.
I could include pictures of the hives/swelling, but they look exactly like hives/swelling.